January’s last breath

Goodbye January. You were truly awful. It’s time to rip you off the calendar, ritually burn you and welcome better days.

Like an adult nappy, January has been packed full of the most horrendous shit.

I can barely bring myself to think about it it’s so awful.

Falling head over heels in love with someone with all the empathy of a Dalek was certainly the worst part. Having my back rigidly strapped up like Ripley’s power loader in Aliens hasn’t been great either.

No ministry of silly walks jokes please.

Have you seen The Hobbit yet? I embarked on that unexpectedly long journey last night.

My favourite bit was definitely the twelve-hour scene with Gollum and the riddles. If only they’d had the time to squeeze in a few more. The six-hour scenes of songs, washing up and being spit roasted (easy!) by trolls were also magnificent.

The film started at 20:30. I’m sure it was daylight by the time we finally got out. I won’t be able to see parts two and three. Turns out I’m doing ‘anything else’ that day.

So…….there are only a few grains of sand left in the January egg timer. I am sat here by my computer with a lemsip and a bottle of benylin, counting down the minutes to a new month. It can’t come soon enough.

See you in February fuckers
Love Harrison



Innocent dahl vegetable pot? No.



Guilty of smelling like asphyxiating body odour. I couldn’t eat it. It’s gone in the bin, which I’ll have to empty immediately.





The frosty weather we’ve been having has been a great excuse the get out the wellington boots. I love wearing wellies.

Striding through puddles of slush without getting my feet wet makes me feel as invincible as a superhero. Spiderman is my favourite. He’s a scientist and he has the hottest outfit.

I wore wellies every day to work last week as London struggled through a very light dusting of snow. It was frankly no whiter than my parent’s mirrored coffee table after one of their showbiz parties back in the day.

While I’m not at all ashamed to wear wellies, they did deeply embarrass me the other night.

While working on the guns at the gym I noticed a couple of muscle marys laughing and pointing in my general direction. Turns out the tops of my wellington boots had left big red lines on my calves that looked exactly like rope burn. My face soon turned the same burnt red colour.

Rope burn, if only I were that kinky.

In other news. February is just around the corner and I plan to spread the birthday celebrations over three whole weeks. What better time than a birthday to make everything about ‘you’

I really hope it doesn’t turn out to be as much of an emotional rollercoaster as January has been. I am exhausted.

See yaz


Effortlessly cool

Effortlessly cool, puddle proof

The Four Day Hangover

Welcome to my most miserable post yet! Excited? Well grab yourself some Prozac and a Tramadol and we can get started.

Things have gone tits up since my last post ‘The Happiest New Year’

The hangover has kicked in, and it’s persistent. The love thermometer (that’s not a sex toy by the way) rose too quickly. It has blown up in my face (not a euphemism) and now there’s glass everywhere. I’m pretty sure no amount of uhu will be able to fix it.

This is even more disappointing than the Snowcoco Malibu. Even my new 50″ 3D TV telly hasn’t thrilled me as much as I’d hoped it would.

There’s always a plus side though, and here it is….

I had an unexpected surprise this morning.  David Bowie has got a new album coming out. I thought I’d heard the last of him. The single, released today is called ‘Where are we now?’, what a strange coincidence. That’s exactly why I’ve been wondering since Friday morning.

When I was younger I was obsessed with the  Thin White Duke. I bought the coat he wore in the Man who fell to earth. I used to watch Ziggy Stardust the motion picture with my mouth open, my eyes open even wider and my hand pressed against the screen.

I get very enthusiastic about the things I like. I met Adam Ant once and collapsed like a little girl at a beatles concert. I wasn’t a little girl at the time, I was a fully grown man in Scala at Kings Cross.

Right enough whining. I can’t dawdle, I’ve got television to make.