It's official. I hate The Friday Thing. They launched a campaign to stop either of the Popstars bands from getting to number one. Their plan? Get everyone to buy the Cheeky Girls single. The email they sent out has gone viral in a big way. I've received it from numerous people. It's on MSN. And now I can't get that bloody awful song out of my head.
There's something embarrassing about hearing two women breathily moaning 'touch my bum' - which is odd, given that I probably write the word cunt more in a day than most people do in a year. Apparently, there are already rumours that the email is a ploy by the Cheeky Girls Marketing Department. But it's not.
Today has been as hectic as usual. There were yet more production problems, with photos going missing and typos being spotted (before it went to press, thank God) The schedule's been put back again. You know that bloke (well, a God, I think) who had his liver pecked out by birds all day and every night it would grow back again...
However, good news of the day is that the newspaper I wrote the article for asked me to do another one for them today. I'd been cheeky and mailed the editor saying 'As you liked my last article, want me to do any more?' Cheekiness clearly works cos I got another commission within about 5 hours. But I'm still not going to start breathily moaning 'touch my bum'.
Whilst on the subject of arses, my dress arrived today. It's very short - far shorter than I remember it - and only just skims my arse. Can't wear stockings with it 'cos they show. Sitting down in it is almost illegal. But it fits perfectly and I love it. Which explains why I'm typing my blog while wearing a leather frock (which obviously, you can see through your monitor).
I didn't get the dress till about 6pm because our fuckwit postman did his usual trick of posting a 'you weren't in so trek a million miles to the main sorting branch to get your package' postcard through the door. We're beginning to think that he doesn't actually bring parcels with him at all 'cos he can't be bothered to carry them - he just has a big stack of the postcards that say we weren't in - when we bloody were.
As a result of him being a tosser, I had six parcels to collect, going back to August (it's a total pain getting to the sorting office.) Three had been returned to sender. I know that one was a load of free erotic books and another was a pressie from the Stripper Diaries writer (who's been dropped by The Guardian, which sucks) However, the third one is a mystery. They couldn't give me a return address and said that it had gone to the depot.
"What happens to it there?" I asked.
"They open it to see if there's a return address inside"
"And what if there isn't?
"They destroy the contents."
That sucks. It means that there are lots of perfectly good things being destroyed (yeah, right, the posties don't take them home) Surely they could be given to charity or something? Of they could try to deliver the thing again (yes, you're supposed to call them to get them to deliver it again but that only works if your postie actually bothers to bring parcels with him. And if they ever answered the sodding phone.)
Of course, because I have no idea what the parcel was, it's become far more exciting than it would otherwise be. It was probably a dodgy promo CD or something, but now I'm sure it was diamonds, a Faberge egg, Tiffany's jewellery or something else cool. Cos obviously, I get sent them all the time.
Posted by emilyd at December 18, 2002 09:27 PM