Marinated in a Rich Sauce of Cynicism

Often I find myself becoming so overwhelmed with a new idea/concept that I have to make complete sense of it. I’m like a kettle on the brink of boiling point... busting for release. 'Said' notion seems to have a life-altering effect on my outlook which in turn leads me to completely visceral actions. I have to share this new discovery that has boggled my mind. I have to share my new found knowledge with whoever is willing to lend an ear. Often Facebook seems to be the easiest and most efficient way to communicate these pearls. Upon updating the world I feel smugly satisfied and somewhat of a vigilante... at least for a short while.

Then the unexpected happens and although I say 'unexpected', prior to each respective declaration I have already sub-consciously acknowledged a pattern of rash behaviour which ALWAYS seems to be followed by complete and utter regret. I always think that maybe this time, things will be different. However, if there’s one person you can never argue with, in hope of a successful outcome, it is yourself. Like clockwork something changes within me. I no longer feel as passionate about 'said' discovery and the importance it once bore is leaking quicker than a runny nose after a spicey wonton soup. I regret my hastiness and retrace my footsteps, mop in hand, the soapy water finds total release on the tiled surface of reckless decision-making. My wrist swivels back and forth as I scrub away the detritus of the impetuous journey.

I chastise myself for my impulsiveness; completely self-conscious of how others may now perceive me. In my mind, the salient act conjures up images of vainglory or perhaps ignorance; a pseudo-sage declaration that I wrongly embraced as my own.

These actions are marinated in a rich sauce of cynicism; all of a sudden what I once believed to be the ‘truth’ is kaleidoscope. What is at the root of this fleeting passion?

The only situation that I can liken this to is when you are so hungry that you truly believe you could eat a horse. I couldn't eat a chicken let alone a horse! Yet when the pit of my stomach beckons; begging me to silence its cries my eyes grow so wide that I really do lose sight of reality. Once the pleas have been answered it takes less than 10 minutes to satisfy the beast. During these 10 minutes I have not unhinged my jaw and swallowed the feast whole. On the contrary. During these 10 minutes I've managed to marry fork-to-mouth a maximum of 5 times and thus am surprisingly satisfied. But 10 minutes prior to the fork-to-mouth action I swore I was on the brink of a famine-induced death.

Flippancy comes in all forms.

Spike Watches as Kanye Drowns in a Pool of his Own Egotism

The recent collaboration between ubiquitous director Spike Jonze and rap-star extraordinaire Kanye West has recently found its way to the suffocating glory that is the World Wide Web. This is the second time Jonze and Spike have joined arms, the first being for Kanye’s video clip ‘Flashing Lights’. The eleven minute-short titled 'We Were Once a Fairytale' shows a tuxedo-clad Kanye on a night out after a couple too many. His eyes are glazed over and his attempt at singing along to his own song ‘See You in My Nightmares’ is a dismal failure. Unimpressed club patrons humour the star as he struggles to hold himself up, while simultaneously fondling any pretty girl that enters his blurred vision. Although his determination prevails, or so he thinks, as he ends up making love to a beautiful woman donning a tight leopard-skin mini. However, moments later he awakes; strewn face-down, across a leopard skin couch with his pants around his ankles. It seems Mr West became a little more than acquainted with the wildly-spotted pillows. Dazed he re-enters the party scene and heads straight to the bathroom, only to violently vomit up what seems to be rose-coloured petals. After spotting a dagger on the ground he proceeds to cut open his insides, cue more rose petals, until finally we hear the sound of a blade to an umbilical cord. What’s on the other end? Clasped within West’s grasp is a tiny troll-like creature, who looks despondently at his incubator as he is handed a mini dagger. With a knowing yet sympathetic demeanour West looks on as the creature offs himself. It’s all about killing the demons within? Ya dig?

This mini-film comes riding on the back-tail of the VMA Taylor Swift storm, yet was made in January; almost a year before the loud-mouth antagonist unexpectedly joined the precocious country curl on stage. In West’s defence this episode only propelled Swift into a sphere of mass publicity which only Kanye holds the key to.

Director Spike Jonze does an amazing job at portraying the singer as a lost and confused soul. The victim of his own doing, he is drowning in a pool of egotism; the very core of his existence. Ever since his inception as Kanye West ‘the entertainer’ he has never been one to shy away from self-deprecation. In 'We Were Once a Fairytale' West’s believable portrayal of himself, a conceded materialistic ponce, ironically makes him endearing to the viewer. Jonze enables the viewer to feel sorry for the ostentatious star who is so self-aware yet so obliviously unaware of reality, that self-effacement seems to be his only salvation.

**Disclaimer: After the Taylor Swift Affair Kanye suffered an identity crisis and in turn cancelled his tour with Lady Gaga and access to the West/Jonze video.

The Blood Destined for his Brain is Greedily Diverted South

I never really thought I understood guys and then come the end of university, it was only three years, I started collecting a whole bunch of ‘em. Wow that indicates all sorts of sordid behaviour – I mean I began making a lot of guy friends! Anyway, it became this whole learning experience. But do you know what I learned? I learnt that everything that you think about boys before you really know anything about them – is true. Yes, they do think with their (insert appendage here) and the less clothes you wear the more attention you’ll get. Big boobs? Yep, majority of ‘em love them two. It’s pretty simple. I guess you hope for more depth. You yearn for something of substance and so you choose to believe the contrary. If a guy pays you attention, he doesn’t want to be your friend helping you collect daisies from the prairie. He wants to collect your daisy. So with this sage knowledge in tow I continued on my journey.

Last July I went to Germany’s Melt! Festival with a whole bunch of people. I’d been the previous year and decided that this was the festival I would try and attend every single year of my life. Big call I know, but exaggeration helps create the mood – so stick with me. The second time around there was one extra element which was absent the first time; a boy. Boys always make everything more exciting, don’t get me wrong I love my ladies, but boys just add the extra something something.

So I met this guy Flo, Flo was from Switzerland he was 24 and it was his first time at Melt! Festival. Fortunately for him we met on the train ride there; a perfect opportunity for me to cosy up beside him and give him lowdown on the impending musical foray. Flo was very obliging and it was then I knew that this year would be a little bit different to the first. Unfortunately we lost contact while searching for tent territory but soon enough we were back in each other’s tent-icles..get it... sigh. We hung out quite a bit over the three days; he’d leave his friends to come and chill with mine and when the gates opened we’d accompany one another. Come the second day and after consulting my ‘guide to boys’ (a metaphorical guide, obviously) we were sitting on the outside seats in front of the main-stage and it seemed the perfect moment to make a move. So I did.

I made the first move and I was greeted with an open orifice. However, it wasn’t my lips that were fortunate enough to be on the receiving end, it was my ears. He laughed at my open mouth, before requesting that I not be annoyed; the nerve! He explained that he was in love with some girl back in Zurich and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t be with anyone else. But that was before he met me. [He didn’t say that – the voice inside my head said that while he was blabbing on about Julia or Sophie or whatever her name was].

It wasn’t so much the rejection that bothered me it was the mixed signals. Jesus. He wanted to hang out with me, just me and him – what else would he want? My friendship? I thought he just wanted to get in my pants! What the. And it was at this moment that I realised everything I learned from my stupid guy friends was WRONG! Listening to their conversations and explanations as to why guys do the things that they do was a whole load of crock! But to be fair, I will say that there are a large percentage of guys who meet the criteria listed out by my male chums. The blood destined for his brain is greedily diverted south. Meeting Flo made me realise that there are some ‘good’ guys as well; these well-adjusted boys who share my belief that guys and girls CAN just be amigos. However, I guess it only took him a good ten minutes to realise he had the opportunity ‘to pull’ and all of a sudden what’s her face was merely a figment of his, and my, imagination.

Journalist Chuck Klosterman on Michael Jackson as a Collective Memory

Author and Journalist Chuck Klosterman.

A Lacy White Veil of Ambiguity

A funny thing happened on the way to the bathroom. I had a revelation. Why do you look so disappointed? What did you think I was going to say? That I felt a warm sensation? That I had a sudden urge for Shepherd’s Pie? Grow up.

Moments before my call of nature, I’d logged onto Facebook and engaged in a rather self-slanderous conversation with a friend, via status updates. I’d revealed to all my 460 closest friends, that I thought Shakira was a slag (cryptically conveyed through a rather ingenious garden hoe analogy), that I had an affliction for Beyonce and her hourglass figure, and that sometimes - I was a lesbian. I was a lesbian specifically with ‘said’ friend, and especially because I had failed to buy her a celebratory birthday gift.

So I’m  bi-curious, Beyonce gets me off and if I’m skint I’ll turn lesbo solely to give my ladies a taste of what money can’t buy? Wow I’d like to meet her. What a chameleon.
Oh wait. We were talking about me, weren’t we?

Yes I like Beyonce - but she’s not a boy so I don’t like her that much. And Shakira’s recent foray into the unadulterated world of the Pussy Gentleman’s Club (see She Wolf) probably stems from poor album sales and the limelight-stealing Lady Gaga, K West ‘relationship’ in tow. (By ‘relationship’ I loosely refer to a tour that was cancelled before it even had a chance to inhale our lovely Carbon Monoxide. HA!)

But dear reader, rest assure I do not harbour any disdain for the Latin American lady whose breasts are ‘small and humble’. I honestly believe that Shakira’s record label probably gave her an ultimatum: ‘act like a tart on camera, sticky wet lips et al. or burn in hell’ and her decision mirrors that of any self-respecting artist. Just look at ‘talented’ model/singer Cassie who is a great advocate of burning her soul, and her clothes (see NSFW nude photos) to boost sad sales.

Every fickle announcement that formulates on my Facebook wall is merely a mutation of that clandestine concept known as the ‘truth’. Upon typing in my username and password and eagerly awaiting a successful page load, I am consciously aware of the perils that lie ahead; of the bare-it-all nature of Facebook and the knowledge-enhancing tool it so graciously provides. So in an act of reverse-psychology I take on a persona; a character that is crass and abrasive, while meticulously maintaining correct grammatical structure. I’m not afraid to mislead people but I am afraid to reveal too much and a lacy white veil of ambiguity seems to be the perfect antidote.

A Facebook page is merely a glorified online resume; an account of you, your life and your friends. It allows visitors to gain a perspective of your titular character and from this they are able to deduce A LOT. True photos are an impervious element but just because the words on your page aren’t ‘smoking a bong’ or providing an up-and-close view of the ‘canyon between your breasticles’ doesn’t mean they expose any less. However, you have complete control over what is bequeathed upon the wall of your Face! It’s called selective reality. Facebook is a place where you can create your desired reality. Take on that promiscuous character that lives deep within or feed those narcissistic tendencies by ‘re-touching’ photos prior to the public blood-bath.

Self-effacement allows me to ridicule your sensibility while leading you in the wrong direction. I ain’t providing you with a yellow brick road. If you really wanna know what I’m like come and stand outside my window. It’s a massive motherfucker that lives on the ground floor. The transparent mass is framed with velour curtains that will never know the true meaning of their soulless existence.

The truth is Facebook scares the shit out of me.. I guess Jasmine’s Fool (a pseudo name which further justifies this charade) is my doppelganger. She is better looking, has bigger balls and doesn’t give a fuck what people think.Despite all this nothing can compete with the ‘real’ version because no matter how much we immerse ourselves in social media, 'reality' will be the prevailing factor constantly lingering over you; sticking its wet finger in your ear and gnawing at your subconscious. 'Reality' is handing you a shovel so you can dig your arse out of that crater before exposing that pastry white to the brightest star of all - the sun. So don’t bother flicking through my albums or deciphering my wall - just PICK UP THE PHONE because sarcasm doesn’t transpire so well via text; it falls flat where intonation should take charge.

And let me tell you, I am one sarcastic motherfucker.

Note to Self

People who try hard have less talent but achieve more than those talented few who don’t feel the need to try.

Thus trying hard creates a veil of talent.

Note to self: Must try harder.

Entry 2

Dear Diary,

I was talking about eating cheese with my housemates and the sort of dreams that follow. Apparently they're not only nightmares, just intense dreams. So tonight we're all going to eat a fuckload of cheese and hope for sex dreams. James will probably have better luck than Steph and I. Hopefully our efforts aren't fruitless or I might have to ad-lib.

XO

Stricken City Interview

Stricken City make ethereal noises that invade your space; romantic but not too sappy with a hint of guitar riff. In 2004 vocalist Rebekah and guitarist Ian met in High School and now five years down the track the duo are now a quartet. They're a true indie band; one that combines hand designed tees and outfits with jingly musical art-pop. On 12 October the London collective, now comprised of Rebekah, Ian, Mike and Kit, is releasing their mini-album Songs About People I know, 'a musical college of the last five years'.

For the interview we met on a sunny Friday afternoon at London's Pure Groove Records. Rebekah was in the midst of cutting out water-colour animals, to use as decoration for the night's show, while Ian quite happily let me evade his personal space with my Sony dictaphone. The banging background tunes competed with our own vocals but with enough persistence, and sly dictaphone poking in Ian's direction, we successfully managed to proceed with our own session.

Check the rest of the interview out at This is Fake DIY

Is there any Justice? Xavier and Gaspard do Coke.

This is the final design for Club Coke 2009, created in collaboration with Justice and Ed Banger Records (specifically SoMe). The red colourway on the left features the well known line from Justice's widely popular and overplayed tune 'D.A.N.C.E'. But the image to the right is the most exciting. Come night-fall the bottle glows in the dark! What the?

From a marketing point of view it's a very innovative idea and the whole Justice, Ed Banger/SoMe inclusion, is well, a money maker and a half.

My question is why?

Why did the Frenchies Xavier and Gaspard succumb? Why did they discredit their image by associating themselves with Coke? Did they need the money? Highly unlikely. Band Justice is more than financially stable and then there's Ed Banger Records, a company which produces Justice, Uffie, SoMe and is owned by Busy P. Ie. Pedro Winter the mogal who managed Daft punk, at least until 08. And although it was solely the Ed Banger Creative Designer 'SoMe' assisting in the design of the alluminium bottle, the record label is still just as tarnished.

Lucky for Justice, they're not just a gimmick and they really do live up to their reputation. Just check out one of their live gigs and you'll understand why. But I feel their rebel spirit has become dampened. I will admit that, this was somewhat dwindling ever since their commercial success and as much as I resent what 'commercial success' does to many artists, if they intend on bringing in the cash, there ain't much that can be done. But selling their 'souls' to the Coke label was definitely something that could have been avoided.



2009 - The advertisement celebrating 5 years of Club Coke.

In 2008, the French duo also partnered with Parisian creative collective Surface 2 Air and designed three leather jackets (150 pieces) alongside two jeans.


Enough with the cross pollination, just concentrate on what you're good at: your god given talent.

S’il vous plaît.

At O Children's Crib

Crispy was the night as we hastily head to east London hot-spot On the Rocks. We were packed to the brim with idealistic expectations, while this particular 'hot-spot' had different ideas. It wasn't so much of a hot-spot as it was a luke-warm bath. Honestly, it was emptier than a Scottish pay toilet. Which by the way is defamation at its best. Who in their right mind would pay for a toilet? Dig a hole for Christ's sake.

So we're at On the Rocks and it's bloody shit, but fortunately it wasn't too long before some added incentives saw us taking charge of the d-floor. And I mean really carving it up, we were literally on fire. No joke.

After hosing off we found ourselves on Kingsland road heading northbound to the ever-seedy ever-open Russian Bar. I remember a tall black guy in a hat, thanks for the drink, and a whole lot of sweaty bodies rubbin' up against me. Almost a minute after accepting said man's gracious offer, the bangin' beats had ceased and my retinas were burning like something else. The bulbous artifice shone down like the almighty eclipse and we bleary-eyed contenders headed for the exit. No sooner had we ventured out had Harry from London's O Children! stopped us in our tracks. He offered us his house and some equally bodacious tunes. We accepted. After a pit-stop at the off-license, thirsty like a camal, we eventually made it to the up-and-coming muso's house. The 15 of us sat in a make-shift circle. In the hope of painting an accurate portrait it is necessary to note that I only knew three of the circle grazers. The rest were decoration, to say the least. Anyway, there was a whole lot of messy business going down and not surprisingly, I am experiencing difficulties verbalising these hazy memories into a legible display. So I won't.

I talked to Harry about the work I do with online site Don't Panic. Harry reminisced about being interviewed by a fellow from Don't Panic, a chap whose arrival was ridden with tardiness and the stench of a boozy afternoon. Needless to say Harry's thoughts on the interview were equally as flattering. Firey red-head Sarah requested a preview of the O Children debut album & within minutes (or so it seemed) Harry had burnt a copy and placed it in Sarah's clammy little hands. Prying it from those tenacious digits would be a mission that I was in no state to undertake.

CD-R in tow we bid our farewells and left the premises. Dawn was upon us and the contours of the grimy street paraphernalia were becoming visibly clearer. And then there were the birds... Those damn birds.

Diary of a Freelance Writer

Due to the fickle and unstable nature of freelance writing, it is important to understand a publication’s target audience and adapt your style accordingly. Unlike permanently hired writers freelance writers have to know how to play the game, cause not knowing when you’re going to eat next is a rather daunting concept. This freelance gig is a battlefield. It really is a matter of life or death.

A freelance ‘career’ is less about the ‘skill’ of writing and more about knowing your players. It’s about understanding the game and how and when to roll the dice. Wanna be published in Vice? Well release the demon child within and let go of all those inhibitions. Immerse yourself in everything that’s wrong in the world: fixies, emos, Lady Gaga, boys who wear tighter jeans than you do and finally embrace the jaded monkey within. Then curse and condemn the world and all the fuckwit cretins it insists on breeding. Year after year, after year. It’s called evolution and unfortunately it ain’t going anywhere.

Really let loose. You need to be crass and adopt the reverberation skills of a sailor.  You need to talk openly (with as much detail as possible) about your sex life. Unfortunately in my case, this life is non-existent which therefore has great effect on the grittiness of detail. ‘So I met this boy, he accepted my friend request and now I stalk his wall. A lot’. Talk about juicy!

Be wary of using big words. No one likes a show-off. Big words reek of pretension and your readers can smell it a mile away. No one has the time to read that four-syllable word, let alone look up what it means. Readers don’t want to be patronised by faggots who know how to use a thesaurus. They want a quick and easy explanation with punchy lines that gravitate toward borderline insane. But don’t underestimate your readers. Just cause you're writing like a dumb-fuck doesn’t mean they read like one.

And remember it ain't 'selling your soul' if it pays the bills.

Now go out there and ink that quill!

Entry 1

Dear Diary,

I am having friend issues at the moment and I was telling my mum about it yesterday and you know what she said? 'Wow, you need to get out more'. I was like WTF! She was like 'maybe you're writing too much and maybe you need to make some new friends'. I was like: 'that's completely irrelevant, I'm not saying I don't have any friends'. Anyway she's shit w/ advice + she's got this new boyfriend so she thinks she's bloody Paris Hilton or something.

XO


*Fictitious diary entry

Pretty Baby Causes Uproar

The latch had yet to be lifted but London’s Tate Modern Gallery had already garnered an unduly amount of publicity for its eagerly anticipated exhibition, Pop Life: Art in a Material World. Thanks to a rather questionable piece by American artist Richard Prince the gallery was met with an unexpected visit. Authorities of the Metropolitan Police sparked much controversy after instigating the withdrawal of Prince’s work; which they labelled 'obscene' and a 'magnet' for paedophiles. Spiritual America shows a ten-year-old Brooke Shields glistening, 'bath-damp' and naked. Her tiny body is seductively posed for all to see, while her make-up is the envy of drag-queens the world over. The image in question is in fact an appropriated version of the 1975 original, taken by New York photographer George Gross.

Six years later a regretful Brooke Shields would sue Mr Gross in attempt to prevent further use of the image; which she claimed embarrassed and distressed her. However, a career built on producing a sexually explicit image did little to strengthen Shield’s argument. Her endeavours were met with little success as the court considered the contract signed by her mother, whose intent was to make her daughter a child-star, to be of a lawfully binding nature.

In fact Gross was a friend of Shield’s mother, whom in 1976 had been commissioned to take photos of her unwitting prepubescent daughter, for the Playboy publication Sugar 'n' Spice. To Gross’ dismay and despite his success in court, the effects of the trial not only tarnished his reputation but had ruined him financially. Fortunately for Brook Shields, the aftermath of the heavily made-up androgynous shot saw her career flourish; in 1978 she played the daughter of a prostitute in Louis Malle’s Academy-Acclaimed Pretty Baby. Two years later she and Christopher Atkins were teenagers on the path of sexual discovery in Randel Kleiser’s Blue Lagoon, while in that same year a then 14-year-old Shield appeared in Calvin Klein’s controversial jeans campaign. The TV ad included her trumpeting the infamous tagline, "You want to know what comes between me and my Calvins? Nothing."

In 1992, photographer Richard Prince approached Gross with an offer. He acquired the rights of the photograph and made it his own, by taking a photo of the photo and encasing it in a gold-frame. His title Spiritual America references a 1923 Alfred Stieglitz photograph of a gelded workhorse; a piece which shares similar themes of sexual ambiguity. The purpose was to comment on American psyche; on the commodification and premature sexualisation of a Pretty Baby who stares at you with adult-intent. With one click of a button Prince portrayed America’s obsession with fame, his photo symbolised not just the photo itself but the baggage it brought with it; all sparked by a mother treating her daughter like an object.

In 1998 the ‘thought-provoking’ photograph had been on display at Manhattan's American Fine Arts Gallery before being sold at a Christies’ auction for a staggering $151,000 (USD). In 2007, Spiritual America was to be a guest at New York’s Guggenheim Museum in a rather turbulent-free exhibition of the same name.

In 2008 however, Australian contemporary artist Bill Henson, saw New South Wales police and child welfare authorities remove 20 of his photographs depicting nude children, from Sydney’s Roslyn Oxley 9 Gallery. Mirroring Prince’s current debacle, Henson’s case was an earlier reminder of the tenuous affair between art and individual interpretation. Targets of social malaise, Henson and Prince, along with fellow photographers Annie Leibovitz and Nan Goldin, grudgingly continue to fend off claims of ‘lubricious titillation’.

At the time of the original Gary Gross photo, the seventies photographer was working on a project for a publication entitled The Woman in the Child, where he wanted to reveal the femininity of prepubescent girls by comparing them to adult women. Ten years later, appropriator Prince would interpret the image as 'an extremely complicated photo of a naked girl who looks like a boy made up to look like a woman'; however, it seems authorities from the UK’s obscene publications unit do not share his artistic outlook. Art enthusiasts have linked the withdrawal of the image to notions of censorship, condemning the UK authorities for policing a concept founded on subjectivity, where there is no ‘right’ answer, only individual understanding.

Gary Gross' photos of an underage Brooke Shields. Approach with Caution.

Face Hunter

Almost gagged on the opportunity to meet up with Yvan Rodic aka the notorious Face Hunter, luckily I managed to hold down any form of sustenance consumed earlier that morning. Initially the meeting was set up for Lacoste's new project Evolução Francesa; we were meant to take some 'street' shots with me decked out in Lacoste. Unfortunately being one of the later appointments meant I wasn't left with much to choose from. In fact the table of goodies included: 7 pairs of shoes, about twice the size of my own tootsies, a black sleveless polo top and a pair of maroon tennis shorts. 

No prizes for guessing which I opted for. 

After much umming & ahhing we hit the streets, Yvan with his Canon G10 and me with my bounty of questions, fortunately for me Yvan was rather amicable and quite forthcoming. Hooray, it seemed I was right to leave my probing tool at home!

So the 15 minute foray turned into an hour-long impromptu interview; we talked more than we shot and this I had no qualms about. Our formidable session took us through the internet blogging world, under the stagnate air of supposed fashion capitals Paris and Milan and into the impact of climate on style.

However, these are just the crumbs. Stay tuned for the biscuit.

Tale of a Pharmaceutical Hack

I used to work in a chemist and it was rad. It was the best job I ever had. Seriously I’m not even exaggerating for the sake of making a point; I’m fucking serious. To begin with I worked with my best-friend Buzz, yea her name’s Buzz, and yea occasionally she’d get on it and peeps would be like ‘Buzz are you buzzing’? Ahah hilarious. Not surprisingly it got old very quickly, but that’s beside the point.

Each shift would begin at about five past, solely because I’m a tardy fucker, and I’d stand behind that counter and think about all those shit jobs out there and how good mine really was. How much better can it get than: customers who enter the store with their purchases already in mind? They’d have a list already made and all I had to do was tick ‘em off. Sounds grand doesn’t it?  There was no up-selling, down-selling, over-selling, under-selling or the like. It was as simple as putting on a pair of pants. They’d come in, tell me their drug of choice, I’d pluck it off the shelf and they’d walk out a happy lady or man. I also learned shit. That was very unexpected. I learnt about respective active ingredients and what their roles involved.

I learnt how stupid a lot of people are. As soon as I had that white smock on it was as if people just assumed I was a qualified neurosurgeon and not a failing uni student, who was schlepping as a sales assistant to support her own drug habit. It seemed people just wanted a quick solution and we were the miracle workers who could dish up a whole bag of shit and they’d quite happily unhinge their jaw like a snake feasting on a chicken. People believe medicated supplements will solve all their problems.

This one guy came in and explained to me that the day before he had a really bad cold. ‘Okay and how are you feeling today’? I replied. ‘Yea great’ was his solemn answer. Understandably I was confused so I apologised and asked him to re-iterate the reason for his visit. He told me that ‘yesterday he had a really bad cold’ and ‘today’, I interrupted. ‘Oh today I’m fine’.  Enough said. Safe to say I turned him around and gave him a big kick up the bootskie. He immediately got the message and left empty-handed.

We also had this box in the back-room which held all that was holy. All the shit that was no longer store-worthy became ours for the choosing. They’d be lipsticks, hair pins, a variety of laxatives, band-aids, pills (all the colours of the rainbow) and whole lot of liquidy goodness at our disposal. Sometimes when we were on break we’d assess the contents and then self-diagnose an ailment according to what was available. As if reverting back to childhood we’d treat throat lozenges like coloured candy with an added kick. Once there were these vibrating condoms. They were there for like three weeks and no one dare touch them. I guess everyone knew that if they took them they would eventually be found out. It’s not that we were prudes; it was more that we didn’t really want our manager Bryan thinking about the fact that we occasionally ... copulate. For those who had boyfriends it was automatically assumed and if Bryan bothered to listen to our conversations, in between serving customers, he’d know what those who didn’t have boyfriends were getting up to as well. So the point is he knew we were all sexually active but a missing box of condoms, vibrating ones at that, would only be an unnecessary reminder. No thanks. A friend of a friend of mine told me they’re nothing special... So no loss I guess?

Finally one of the most predictable things about working in a chemist is the questions. As soon as people found out I worked in a chemist their eyes would light up as they began to probe me about Vicodin. Do you sell Vicodin? Do you have access to Vicodin? Could you get me some Vicodin? Like clockwork I’d be faced with the almighty clincher. Vicodin. Every celebrity and his chihuahua have been slapped with a DUI after downing some of these ‘relaxants’. Thugster wigger Eminem sports a Vicodin tattoo on his arm and spent the last four years hooked on the drug. The opiate’s correct name is Hydrocodone and the name Vicodin is merely a brand name used in the United States. Yes that’s right folks, sometimes using American movies as a reliable reference will only make you look like a complete hipster/emo, who likens waking up every morning to being punched in the guts by a baboon.

Aside from providing happy hallucinations of dancing pigs and talking mushrooms, the painkiller contains high doses of Acetaminophen, an ingredient which can cause like, liver failure, or something. Once my eyeballs had done the routine cycle and rolled out of their sockets I’d promptly inform Bambi that his drug of choice was not available in the UK. Fortunately, the closest country that uses Hydrocodone, in its purest form, is Germany. So get your Lederhosen on and remember this name: DICODID by Knoll, 10mg per tablet.

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