Nigella, spring-cleaning and cat islands. Tilf and Trick blow the cobwebs out of the corners and our mind.

Like a lot of people from my generation (I was born mid-80’s), I used to collect magazines. Now I collect crockery, cats and grumpiness.

As I was sat down my local a few days ago, a discussion was started about celebrities and how we don’t feel sorry for them at all. That sounds harsh, but I have a point, honest. A whole big thing has been made about Nigella having to downsize to a smaller mansion since her split from spiteful, woman-hating arsehole Charles Saatchi. She’s saddened by this, apparently. This, to anyone else, would be upsetting, but let’s not forget that her ‘downsizing’ is from a £25million mansion to a mansion worth a mere £5million.
Awwwwwwww. Shame.

Any ‘normal’ person would class a devastating downsize as having to go from a 3 bedroom home with a spit of a garden for their kids to play in, to a 2 bedroom flat with no garden and drug-addled neighbours, for whatever reason. Normally downsizing has to happen because either someone has lost their job, the kids have finally got the hint and moved out or the council have decided that mental illness doesn’t count as a disability. Poor Nigella, it must be so hard, oh, pity poor Nigella, she doesn’t have to wake up everyday and beg the universe for a chance to shine, she doesn’t have to decide that it’s so damn cold the family can choose between heating or eating. This is modern day Britain, not that you’d bloody believe it. You know a child died of scurvy a couple of weeks ago in wales. Scurvy. Let that sink in. Scurvy, a disease caused by a lack of vitamin C, cured by eating citrus fruits, which is where the British got the name Limey from. Scurvy.

SCURVY, for gods’ sake.

But, I digress. We were discussing what we would do if we had her kind of money for a year, or we won the lottery, what would we do? I was mildly ashamed when out of my mouth came the words “Oh, wow, I could buy my sofa.” A sofa? Seriously? Yes. A sofa, and a dining table and chairs, then I really pushed the boat out and figured I would pay my debts off, build my dream home. Then we decided if we won £100million or something, something ridiculous. Yve would buy Belize, coating it in more trees and telling the palm oil farmers to fuck off and farm their bollocks elsewhere. We settled on buying a completely uninhabited island, preferable with no rare animals and turning it into a cat sanctuary. We thought about buying a tropical island, but they’d be covered in spiders. Not good. In fairness, it would be hard for Nigella, but only because she’s forgotten what it’s like to be anything but utterly cloistered in cash.

So having spent a relaxed Sunday fighting the crowds at a local green themed cheap supermarket to buy storage boxes , I started the evils of spring cleaning. For those who don’t know, spring cleaning involves going through every single cupboard, bookshelf, box and drawer to find stuff you don’t want anymore and attempting to throw it away, recycle it or donate it to charity. Instead you gather all these mementoes of your life and stare at them blankly as you remember the story behind each thing. Badges, paperwork, gifts from ex’s and random cat toys, which do always end up in random places.

I discovered my Bizarre magazine collection, and I was suddenly struck by how much it annoyed me. I used to devour each edition with fervour; over 150 pages of news on the world of weird, strange museums from around the world, ground-breaking body modifications, amazing tattoos. The whole plethora of what-the-fuckery, all at my fingertips, ready for another month of reading; three weeks of scanned words, re-read articles, admired pictures, followed by a week of desperate impatience, waiting for the next edition.

But by the last edition I could be bothered to buy, there were less than 120 pages, for almost twice the price, half were adverts, a quarter was pointless reviews of games that I could read in any newspaper and the last, sad section was half-naked girls boasting about how alternative they were because they had so many tattoos.

Let me tell you something very important: Being tattooed does not make you alternative. Getting your first tattoo on your face isn’t “amazingly cool” it’s bloody stupid. The only people who can get away with having a tattooed face are those who are so ingrained in the tattoo and bod-mod industry they have no worry about ever leaving it.

I have tattoos, I’m not a freak. When I wasn’t tattooed I didn’t hate people who were. I choose to have tattoos, I have chosen important designs and I have seriously weighed up the options for at least a year before having any of them done.

With that in mind, with Nigellas great life trauma in mind, with every thing we’ve learned over the years of our lives, remember, you are you. No one is like you, you are the best at being you, so don’t ever try to be anybody else. You are beautiful, just the way you are.

Unless you’re a racist, then you’re a misguided derp who needs educating!


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