Bitty McClean

Argh where’s Tiernan’s blog today? Well sorry chaps, chapettes, chaplins and chapsticks. There isn’t one. This here, what you’re reading is merely a figment of your imagination. Yes that’s right, your imagination is very verbose and witty in blog form. Well done you. AAAAAAAAA! Got ya. Psyche. You’re not going bonkers (more use of the word bonkers in general vernacular please), this is my blog and sorry it’s late. I am assuming of course that you read these as soon as they’re created. Blog’s are much better fresh of the screen. Otherwise they sit around for a while, the words go stale and get all a bit chewy. If you’re reading this in two days time, apologies if it smells funny. I’ve had a huge Sunday lunch and found it quite hard to move for some time after that. I had 100% been convinced I’d beaten the roast in a battle of guts and yet about 15 minutes after the final mouthful it struck revenge from the inside like the dude in Innerspace or a reverse Trojan horse. I was ultimately rendered paralytic through stomach size and trapped in Camden, where on a Sunday its denizens insist on meandering around like half drunk faux goth zombies that have been rejected by the Halloween fraternity and left without purpose. Ducking and diving between the piercings and dangerously swooshing long leather coats without getting cut up to smithereens (more use of the word smithereens in general vernacular please) requires energy and effort and so it took at least an hour before I was capable of such an escape. But here I am to live to tell the mostly unexciting tale, and here, in turn, is today’s blog entry. It’s in bits today. If it was a 90’s reggae singer, it’d be Bitty McClean (‘when it’s raining, it’s raining’? You don’t say Bitty. More exciting original observations please). If it was an excellent 90’s TV show about computer games where Emily Booth would be in increasingly smaller clothing each episode, it’d be BITS. God I miss that show. Anyway. You get what I’m saying. Let us embark on bitdom:


My face has hugely rebelled against me today. I’m not sure if its because last night I was doing the Krater Comedy Club and my pores took that as hint, but if you joined the dots across my fizzog wth a heavy biro, people would accuse me of doing racist impersonations. I’d really like spots to stop now. I’m nearly thirty and while there are time my diet may be questionable, it seems highly unreasonable that on regular occasion my skin still thinks I’m going through puberty. At least think its doing all the other puberty bits too and let me gain some height, but no, its just the acne. I’ve tried several potions, brews, ointments, pagan rituals, old wives tales, facewashes and even that stupid thing someone once told me about putting toothpaste on them, which only gives me paranoid flashbacks off being 15 at a party, drunk, asleep and covered in toothpaste for a prank. I may have looked stupid but I was still more fresh than anyone else there. And my face had no plaque on it whatsoever. Ultimately the only thing that seems to work is going on holiday and getting a tan. Unfortunately that seems unlikely at the moment so I may just press my face up to my bedside light for a while and see what happens. If it fails I’ll just give in and try and tell people spots are fashionable again and see how it is before people are rubbing chip grease into their cheek bones in a desperate attempts to please peers.


I had a small moment of clarity yesterday where I realised that since being single, I don’t have to watch the X-Factor, Strictly Come Dancing or heaps of other televisual shit anymore and hence, haven’t seen any of the recent series. It struck me in that same exciting way that I wake up sometimes still excited that I don’t have to go to school. Yes I do, and yes its still sometimes the best way to start any day. Try it. Strictly is reasonable as it teaches people about classic dancing but X-Factor I find manages to pollute both the television and music world with its constant derailing of taste and I’m super pleased I know have several hours each weekend not devoted to it. Well done me. I can now add this to a long list of things I don’t do that other people do – church, football – and pretend I have a lot more life to use than everyone else. I will then collate all these hours and use then all at once at some point to freeze time and take over the world. Or something along those lines. You just wait and see. Except you won’t as you’ll be watching X-Factor just so I have no reference points to talk to you about when we meet. Shit.


A few days ago I found my old R2D2 alarm clock from a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. It does this hella cool thing whereby it projects the numbers onto the wall like a small droid hologram. I bloody love it and I was delighted to find it still worked, despite it still having the same batteries it always did. Well, I was delighted, until I put it by my bed and attempted to use it. It only has two buttons and beyond all reason, no combination of pressing these buttons will program the time. However what I have managed to do is ensure it emits a high pitched shrill beep everyday at 8.30am. This is far from reasonable and puts me in the right mind to sell it to the jawas. Its just completely insane that someone would create such a thing, only give it two buttons and then program the control system to be of such complex design that it would make a man angry. Maybe now I know why it had been hidden in a cupboard for the last 6 years.


On leaving the pub today, I spotted a small sign saying ‘Museum of Everything – £3’ and quickly persuaded my friends Jacqui, Matt and Amy to accompany me. Well I say persuaded, I just wandered off like a distracted child and they had to follow me for fear I’d get run over or kidnapped as they are responsible. It was a clear case of curiosity persuading the cat to go into an odd display of Peter Blake’s art collection containing the creepiest Punch and Judy puppets ever, pictures of midgets and stuff squirrels playing poker. It didn’t have ‘everything’ at all. What it did was provide a clear indication that Peter Blake is completely bonkers and allow lots of Primrose Hill residents to walk around saying things like ‘inspirational’ when it really wasn’t. Sometimes I fear I suffer from a cynical complex whereby I can’t enjoy art that appears to just be hugely pretentious wank and maybe I’m missing something other people are intelligent enough to get. Then again, maybe its pretentious wank and I’m not a pretentious wanker. Still, I did like the endless pictures of circus midgets, a big canvas of a man fighting a bear and the funny mirrors made me do a giggle. Art connoisseur I am not.