This one day (yesterday) I felt like a cranky old thunderpant and so I watched Bee Movie thinking that it would remind me of the fruits of nature or something. What it really did was portray bees as smug, stripy oblongs and oh my stars Jerry Seinfeld, guess what? I’m not so wild about bees anymore.

This is the star of the show; Barry Bee Benson. How darling! No. Firstly, he’s a manipulative little bastard. Secondly, close your legs Barry. Ain’t nothing to toot your horn about there.

Basic synopsis; Barry manages to escape his job at Honex, where he makes, at a guess…honey? And goes to NYC where he meets Vanessa, who comfort eats compost and replaces her human boyfriend with the creepiest cross-breed relationship known to man. Barry then goes on to sue the human race for stealing the bees honey. Yes. I know what you’re thinking. This one’s right up there with Anna-Nicole claiming she had sex with a ghost. As dumb as a cow at a country dance.

Here’s something pretty normal. Barry Bee and Vanessa enjoying a post-coital cigarette! Hey Jerry Seinfeld? If you’re going to create a new society for a film, as in, the world of bees, next time…remember laws you crazy bitch! This is as sick as old farm surgery on a Saturday night. At least they’re practising safe sex though*.

*You probably just shouldn’t have sex with bees. Probably.

Look! It’s Sting! The happiest camper at the Senior Citizens’ Day Camp! I love Sting because he is the most wonderful little old man performer and in this film his head looks like something that’s come out of the business end of a chicken. He makes a cameo in Bee Movie because he’s the only kook on the face of the planet whose name sort of relates to insects. My kinda man! But Barry’s boring old bee balls strike again and Sting gets sent down for being a bee imposter. Probably for the best though. Everyone knows he’s the merry murderer of reggae.

Ken, you look a little strir crazy but you just captured a bee in a fucking sweater and put him in a glass jar! Give the guy some credit Vanessa! Ken is so underrated in Bee Movie. Who wouldn’t love a guy that looks like an axe-wielding maniac? With a Bob’s your uncle hack job hair-cut? And that jumbo chin? To die for. Anywho, I think it’s time to set Barry free Ken. Let him fly! Let all the Barrys in the world fly!

Finally, here is something quite nice that almost restores my faith in Bee Movie. Watch it, because it will make you feel like you’ve just had your portion of Strega Nona’s Magic Pasta Pot…if you know what I mean. Over and out

Is it me or did someone just take a bite from the boring end of old wrinkle pie? Yes. I’m talking to you Caleb Followill. The last time I saw you, you were gnawing on a chicken bone. Whilst showering.  Whilst telling me my sex is on fire. Whilst committing GBH on your own sibling. Now look at you! You’re as clean as a Cockfosters whistle! You’re the straightest chimney in the stack!  You’re the shiniest pork sausage in the Kings of Leon bun! What the fuck is going on here?

There are a whole host of things in their new video ‘Radioboreoff’ that just tickle me pink and will help illustrate my point. I took some stills from the video. Yes. Yes I did.

Caleb looks like a compressed elf against those giant doors but who doesn’t love feeling really tiny now and then? One of two things is going to happen here. 1. Bruce Spingsteen is going to burst through the barn doors on a chariot singing Born to Run. Or 2. A group of small children are going to make Caleb emperor of their village. I know what you’re thinking. “Both those scenarios are totally unrealistic Georgie! Just like the tale of Tom Cruise being straight!” but wait….

…LOOK it’s the Pied Piper of Hamelin!

Flat. Out. Creepy. Really. Really creepy Caleb.

Nathan ejected himself from the fun seat and landed here. In the middle of a childrens gospel choir. Man he looks uncomfortable. Come to think of it those kids look pretty fucking bored too. They’ re probably waiting for KOL to get the flying dutchman out of their goddam hood so they can get on and win an academy award for this shit music video. Especially that one in the red. He forgot his uniform.

Hey Old Father Time! When did you decide to age 30 years? What happened to that spritely quiff? When did you grow jowls? This face is nothing to write home about anymore and it’s making me chuckle damn hard. But that’s not important right now. First, we need to solve the mystery of the Pied Piper imposter.

MYSTERY SOLVED!

Urrrrrm Caleb? What is that orbiting your six pack? Did you swallow a dumpy calf? Your tummy looks a little puffier than when I saw it at Glastonbury in 2008. And your trousers are all droopy. And even those braces aren’t helping.  It’s a bit of a car crash Caleb. The nail in the coffin. All bets are off.

Hi Happy Campers! Here’s Caleb cooking some chicken with a dominant oven glove. It really adds edge to that train driver look he’s going for.

Finally, here is something to wash your eyes of the comtemporary Kings of leon crisis.

KOL OF CHRISTMAS PAST!!

Precious boys. Night y’all.

I actually wrote that piece as part of my journalism course which you wouldn’t believe I ever took with all the rambling crap that spills out of my brain on to this blog.  Luckily it paid off and now I am given money to write so I can pretty much sack this one off.

JUST KIDDING GANG! I would never do that. I wouldn’t. But I’ll leave you with this: my brain is currently being held in a Reiss vice but will return in due course.  In the mean time…LOOK! I went to Paris with my friend Gail force! And Plan B got us VIP tickets to a festival! But we accidentally missed him! And so we watched LCD Soundsystem!  And we ate frumps! I love Pareeee. It’s Rad.

Dilly dog and Aggie dog.

You know you have certain people in your life that make everything better? The people who when you’re feeling like a total frump, look at you as if you’re Audrey Hepburn, as if you’re Brigitte Bardot, as if you’re the World Cup, as if you’re Beyonce’s left thigh, as if you’re Margaret Thatcher on a cold day. No wait. What? As if you’re wearing a cat on your head and calling it a hat. Basically, as if there is nothing better in the whole world than you. Yes? I know what you’re thinking. Most people would call this person their boyfriend. NOT ME! I get my pint of ego boost from a couple of crazy old gals with a fondness for boiled ham. Hear me now.

I’ve already written about Aggie on this blog more times than I care to remember and quite frankly there’s no mystery there anymore. Chewing is still in. It’s still in vogue. It’s still hip. It’s year round. It’s always in season. Get yourself a ticket on the chew chew train that departs for chew ville in one hour because that’s where this party is headed.  My mum told me that last weekend she chewed through a whole door. Really? Weird. Really weird Aggie. Why would you do that? I don’t know.

Anyway. So. This time I am going to dedicate a post to that grand old dame, Dilly dog.

Just look at this gorgeous antique.

Wrinkles are the best! And make the most of this five minutes of fame Dilly, because I’m pretty sure that you have exceeded the average age of the common Jack Russell and are now playing in extra time. Hear me sister?

I love Dilly because she is this crazy kook who is so old that her teeth rattle when she gets excited.  But she is class.  She is first class. She is Virgin Atlantic Upper Class and deserves a goddam OBE for still trying really hard to be a dog despite actually being more like a puffy barrel with stumps and squidgy skin that you can knead like dough. And I don’t want to knead her skin like dough.  I don’t, but I can’t help imagining what that would feel like. Pretty sick probably.  Anyway, that’s simply not reality. I digress.

The other day, I tried to play fetch with Dilly and caught the whole thing on camera! Love it! Girls on film! The only problem was that she didn’t quite grasp the aim of the game. That. Or perhaps she has just given up trying to entertain a yob with a camera (ME you flipsticks!).

Attempt 1: FAIL. Not even looking in the right direction.

Did a French clown just walk past the door Dilly? Or was it Oprah? Or was it your BRAIN? I don’t know. But unless whoever it was happened to be offering you a dip in the youth fountain while they walked by, there is no reason for you NOT TO BE LOOKING AT THE BALL DURING THIS FUN GAME.

Attempt 2: FAIL. Ball misplaced (Under her own body)

I don’t give a flying fig what you say. Old or not. This is as dumb as stumps.

Attempt 3: FAIL. Two balls? You haven’t even completed level one of this game yet!

Hey Aggie, who invited you? Don’t try and sneak into the back row. You haven’t paid! Get out! Out through that hole you chewed in the door!

Attempt 4: FAIL. Too busy posing for the camera to notice the ball.

BAM. There it is! The look! The look of love! The reason I don’t have a boyfriend! Why would you want one when you have this? Dilly you old fatty, I love you. You are rubbish at fetch but my goodness you would make a great couch cushion.

A Dilly dog, a silly dog

Won’t climb a single hilly dog.

And oh my gosh you need a wash

NO! don’t sit on my lap dog.

-

An Aggie dog, a waggy dog

Stop eating all my eggy dog.

By day you chew, by night you poo

I need a glass of wine dog.

In January, Jemma got sick of saggy old England with its pavements of chicken scraps and pigeon shit and decided to pack her bags and head over the seas to Philadelphia. Rightly so, because this girl had bigger fish to fry. Quite literally! She got a job at the Philadelphia docks fish market, grew a big beard and there she lived happily ever after. The End.

JUST KIDDING!

What she really did was adopt this mega lifestyle where you have to at all times be chilling out maxing relaxing all cool and all shooting some b-ball outside of school and there. That’s it. This is good, because sometimes I pray to the monks in Montenegro that one day, I’ll be state side shooting some b-ball outside of school, and now I feel like I’m one step closer because my good old friend Jemma is out there sending general advice my way about how to live the American way of life. What she has come up with so far has been…actually pretty fucking weird. Her instruction mostly involves recommending I consume certain food or purchase sinister appliances and I can’t help but think that the people of America are feeding her a giant pile of baloney served at a big old yarn party.

Observe.

1. How to stay thin, by America.

Le Whif? Le what? Chocolate air?  I like eating chocolate as much as the next fat person but breathing it in?  That is a barf and a half.  Apparently it’s made with hundreds of milligrams of tiny chocolate particles that land on your tongue when you suck in. Sounds like something that might come out of the business end of a toad if you ask me. Buy Here! No thanks.

Hey! Check out these two cool clams just chilling out with their Le Whif’s. They really do add that special pizzazz to the ordinary man. Oh and that skull motif? LOVE IT. Stunning. Gorgeous. Perfection. Skull and wings. A match made in heaven.

On the website it says that ‘Whiffing chocolate is happening’. Where? WHERE?? I hear you ask.  ‘During a cab ride in New York, standing in a line in Tokyo, and at dinner tables and parties all around the world’!!!!!!!! Why would anyone be standing in a line in Tokyo?  And who’s party exactly? That’s awful. How distasteful. Or just an awful taste perhaps? I don’t know. Yet another mystery to knot the brain pipes.

2. How to have a riot, by America.

Jem rewards herself for scoring some sweet shots in the b-ball hoop with these rapscallions. Uk-ers, Britain-ers, England-ers. Whatever. Shut-Up. This is what REAL chocolate looks like in America. Mmmmmm. I bet you want to know what happens at a sweetriot party now I’ve lured you in this far. Yes? YES! Well apart from being a chocolate covered nib, a sweetriot is ‘a joyful celebration of culture, diversity, and understanding — it is the opposite of a civil riot, which is dangerous, violent, and oppressing’.  Yikes! That is a big old occupation for one nib. Barack Obama, is that you hiding in that tiny tin? It is? Well come out because guess what. You just killed the riot party.

But what happens after the party finishes you ask? DON’T PANIC. This party never ends you crazy bitches. The sweetriot tin is recyclable, reusable and returnable. Yes. Yes it is.

Look at what Ted Ko did with his tins! Tins for gadgets! Tins for earphones! Tins for iPod cords! Man he knows how to mix this party up!

Also, Susie Princess King says, ‘My family uses the empty tin to keep small treats for me when I attend my weekly obedience class and when out for a walk’.

Urrrrm Susie. Are you a dog? Did you type this yourself? Has this party just got a bit too crazy for my liking? I think it has. I’m outta here.

3. How to get fucked up, by America.

I don’t even know you guys, I don’t even know. Jemma gets it. She gets what’s for dinner. She gets us. You can take the girl out of Wales but you can’t take Wales out of the girl. True dat. You crazy wizard.

]]> http://georgiejelly.com/2010/07/28/its-beginning-to-look-a-lot-like/feed/ 0 georgiepie Le whif le whif 2 sweetriot tins_for_gadgets hump day http://georgiejelly.com/2010/07/16/video-of-happiness/ http://georgiejelly.com/2010/07/16/video-of-happiness/#comments Fri, 16 Jul 2010 17:02:25 +0000 Georgie http://lalmondinia.wordpress.com/?p=868 ]]> I know what your thinking. This isn’t a fashion blog. It couldn’t be further from being a fashion blog. But it is my blog and I work in fashion so just roll with this one ok?

Even if wearing orthopedic wedges is your thing, I’m still confident you are only a short way off appreciating this video sneak peek. I can’t high five my boss enough today for creating this little beauty. And you know who’s also a cool man? I do. Jamie Morgan. He did a lot of crazy creative shit before this but I’m pretty sure this venture must be one of his favourites because he gave us a Doberman. Yeah. Yeah he did French Connection.

So there it is. That’s it…Until September. Watch this space.

I’m galloping towards 30 like a frisky stallion. Yikes.

…Just kidding gang!

No really.  It means that we share a God Father, Colin, who is this tough old bag that lives in Fulham.  The other day I visited Colin in Fulham and he told me that the police had found a dead body wrapped in a shower curtain under next door’s patio.  Yes! A murder mystery! Not in Wisteria Lane! In Fulham! Put that in your back pocket Hackney.  Anyway, I digress. Colin, Davina and I, we’re like a sub family.  If anything were to happen to Davina’s or my parents, god forbid, Colin would be in charge of us and we would live off sardines and marmalade until the end of time. Looking at this though, I don’t think Davina eats that much anyway. Look at that for a rejection! She’s pushing away Colin’s sardines and marmalade in disgust.

Because the UK is as boring as an old squash, often there is little to talk about other than the TV.  This is when the conversation turns to Davina. Most people think she’s ‘annoying’ or ‘over the top’ or ‘acts like a small child with ADD has taken residence inside of her and exploded’. That last one’s a little unfair don’t you think?  All I can do when this happens is look at my shoes.  As much as Davina is my goddam sister, at this point, I don’t want to explain the family connection and make the other want to look at their shoes as well.  So I leave it, and take one for team Davina.

BUT. Remember that time when Peter Pan told us that every time a child says they don’t believe in fairies, there’s a little fairy somewhere that falls down dead? Yes? Well. Every time someone calls Davina ‘annoying’ look at what happens to her.  Look. LOOK!!! This is overpowering me right now.

Do you really want to be responsible for this? Do you? When the words are stewing in the big word pot in your brain, remember this image. Tie a knot in your mean pipes and clamp your mouth shut.

I love Davina because she’s pretty darn fun. She used to date Eric Clapton of Clapton-On-Sea when she was 19 and was one of those mad 80’s MTV kids who took so much coke on air, they all (apart from Davina) ended up with faces that look like a gnarled old piece of bark.  Contrary to popular belief, she was not a prozzer. FACT (alright Holly and Dave you pair of pizza orbs??).  Look how much that old pervert Dermot loves her!

I know what you’re thinking. Everyone looks good next to Dermot.  He’s like an overgrown bear chubb.

Once, she wrote me this note on a card that looked something like this:

Is it me, or does she look like an Eastern European car trader? Who wears a polo neck, underneath a leather blazer with lapels THAT POINTY? Who wears a leather blazer full stop? Those things are awful. Honestly Davina.  Anyway, the note said something like ‘I remember when your dad used to call me Shark…’ then I think she said something about how much she liked Jamie Oliver’s cooking…Why would she say that? I don’t know. I remember thinking, ‘who in god’s kitchen is Jamie Oliver? Why does he have two first names? What the fuck is going on here Davi?’

My brain boggles as to why people feel the need to talk out of their business ends about Davina.  It’s not cool and it’s not funny. It’s sad. Like I am when I have to listen to that crap. So remember what I said and remember the picture of her bleeding throat.  It’s just a little something for you to stew on. For now.

Bono lives in that flat on the top right. On Saturday afternoon he came out onto his balcony, shirtless, Stella in hand, and gave a touching rendition of ‘Beautiful Day’. When he finished, he smoked a B&H and then spat over the railings.

That was a good day.

And to think people pay to see him live? And to think I pay to live here? And to think Donatella Versace paid to look like that? And to think Sting is an international hero for paying attention to the oil slick? And to think I pay someone to write this blog? And to think Paypal? And to think Obama paid our goal keeper to let one through the net on Saturday?

Ouch. Too soon?

Look at my sick new layout. Jelly in your FACE!

On Saturday mornings I listen to pop music.  I switch between Capital and Kiss and when I’m back at home, a new station that’s on 103.2fm (check it).  When one station plays adverts, I switch and listen to the other, and when that one plays ads, I switch back, and so on and so forth until I die. I do this because I have a sense of loyalty to the former me who used to be so on it with current music that I could probably name every number one single from 1998-2002. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.  I also vowed never to become one of those out of touch losers who just had no idea who B*Witched were.

What? You absolutely know who they are.

Let’s just get one thing straight, pop music is not what it used to be when everything was blamed on the weatherman.  For example, I totally get what Ke$ha is saying: “Stop talk talk talking that blah blah blah/not in the back of my car ah ah”. Seriously, these are pretty good lyrics- she’s just telling her boyfriend to pipe down in the back so she can dance. This whole song is just way too much fun!

But wait a minute, what’s that you say Ke$ha? You wanna dance with no pants on? Don’t be a little bitch with your chit chat, just show me where your dick’s at? Urrr…not in my Ford Mondeo you won’t young lady.  Excuse me if I say holy smoke Johnny Vaughan, why are you playing me this filth while I’m trying to concentrate on eating my porridge?  Not that I’m against this; GOD NO. I’ve had boyfriends that talk shit the whole time, I just don’t authorise shutting them up by piling on the pressure to give me one on the back seat. What the $?

Also, I don’t understand the names of half these modern musicians and quite frankly, I prefer ignorance. I know there is one called Big Boi, whose name I can only assume substitutes the size of his genitalia and then there is Tinie Tempah who got angry because he forgot how to spell.  I have also heard some great tunes by B.O.B and LMFAO but I need a goddamn dictionary to crack these ones.  Seriously though, what in fresh hell does all this mean? Do the letters even stand for anything? Have I become my own worst nightmare not knowing all of this? What the fuck is going on here?

Last night was the first Saturday night that I’ve stayed at home in about 8 years. After watching my neighbour’s BBQ on the pavement, which I thought was a pretty innovative dining; I decided that to make me less of a failure in life, I need to get a new name. As I mentioned above, titles and abbreviations are apparently in, so here are some cool ones that I came up with for myself last night:

Jor.ji

Georgie BOOM!

Oran Gina

O M Georgie

Jelly & Ice Ice Baby

Gee Whiz

Ori-G-nal

G- block

Got Jelly?

Pop a Cap in Yo G- String

Hard to Believe I’m this Great

Get me a Strobe Light

Get Georgie or Get Gone

Shots Fo Sho

Taylor Swift Eat Your Heart Out

Hey Ho, Geo

Wave Goodbye to another Boyfriend

Say Hello to Chardonnay

Not on the Backseat

Tinie Brayn

G.A.S.H (remember?)

Yo Gabba Gabba

Any more suggestions are welcome…