Diary Of A Secretary: This Time She's A Bit Mental

Week One


Here we go. Year three. I have got this secretary thing down to a goddamn tee. Especially after all those shenanigans in year one and then they didn't bother their arses giving my desk any screen time in year two, the jerks. But now look at me! A working laptop, on which I can pretend to be busy while chatting on Gmail, a stapler and my very own pink highlighter. That's right. Everything's coming up Jane.

Week Two


Right. So some joker thought it might be funny to move all my stuff to the other side of my deadly laptop that actually works. Well I'm The Secretary, bitches. Capitals and everything. It's going to take more than a lame trick like this to rattle me. At least nothing's gone missing.

Week Three


Alright Jane, be cool. It's just a highlighter. Just a pink highlighter. Just my fucking pink fucking highlighter that SOMEBODY STOLE. And my stapler.

Week Four


Oh I see you Ciara. Don't think I don't because I most certainly do. And I see what you're doing. Oh sure, yeah, my highlighter is back. AND YOU'RE JUST ACTING LIKE YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT IT? Well that shit is not gonna fly, lady. I will end you.

Week Five


Fine Ciara, take it, you're playing the long game here I see. Well two can play that particular game and I think you'll find that I'm not going anywhere. Unlike YOU. I know who can help me here. I know just the person in fact...Hello? I need to get a number for Frances in Alan Sugar's office. What? Who the hell is Samantha Moon?

Week Six


My highlighter is back and I'm totally winning this staring competition with Nagaite. A good day indeed.

Week Seven


See Ciara? I don't care that you've taken it again. Look, look at me not caring, I've even gone and let my lovely hair down and gotten myself a notepad for reasons I can't quite remember seeing as all I do is chat on Gmail and read blogs. Anyway. I'm bringing the sexy to this office, can't be having that Michelle being the ridey one around here. Check it.

Week Eight


Bringing the sexy may not have been the best course of action here. Barry C. Hunt is getting ideas and calling me 'babes' for some reason. I'd better tone down the hotness. Also, apparently that wasn't my notepad to take. Fine.

Week Nine


Glasses. Yes, glasses, now that should keep C. Hunt off my back. Also, FYI Ciara, I'm so bored with your game right now. Yay it's back, see if I give a fuck.

Week Ten


So fired. I did warn you. Keep walking, bitch.

Week Eleven


I may have been mistaken about Ciara. Either that or she's taken the highlighter with her. I bet her suitcase was filled with stuff from the stationery cupboard. Wagon.

Week Twelve


It's back again! Smallface Niamh. All this time it must have been Smallface Niamh. Look at her there, like butter wouldn't melt in her tiny Keyser Söze mouth. That blondie snake in the grass...oh crap, there's Gavin Duffy. Don't make eye contact, look busy, typey typey, or he'll bring up those photos I submitted for that Tan Organic audition. Scarlet, like.

Quelque Chose #5

Joey: Are you doing what I said? Are you thinking of that reed as a woman's nipple?

Dean: I am. But, I'm a little embarrassed, she's still in school.

Joey: Maybe you should set your sights a little higher? My trumpet was always Gina Lollobrigida.

She's Gonna Shimmy Till Her Garters Break

Earlier this week I attended a screening of Burlesque in order to review it for Culch.ie. In a nutshell it's a delightfully silly and massively camp "a star is born" story, interspersed with laughable dialogue and massive musical numbers. It's the brilliant kind of terrible and the review resides here should you wish to peruse it. The costumes however, merited a post of their very own. As it is, I have something of a weakness for corsets, bustiers and the various other fishnetty twinkly trappings of burlesque style apparel, and ridiculous and all as the film is, I certainly couldn't fault them on the outfits. Eye candy a-go-go it was.

The costume, that is.

Christina and her chorus line sparkled like sexy Christmas trees throughout, bumping and grinding their way around the stage and in one case, and pulling some truly astounding shapes on their chairs. Behold:

I could totally do that. I just don't want to.

So when Christina isn't using her acting or wandering around with her uncontrollable dancer version of Tourettes, she's hamming it up onstage in some serious style. I couldn't decide which pictures to use for this post because I think they're all fucking gorgeous so here they all are. Glittery candy floss for your eyeballs.














It's a big mad cake of deadly. In its own special way.

Inside the Blogger's Studio

It's been quite some time since I took part in a meme, and when Hermia tagged me in her interview post thingamajig, well, I figured it'd be just plain rude not to. So allow me to partake in a bit of fluff as it were.

And so...to the questions!

Why did you create the blog?

Ah. Well, I actually didn't you see. My lovely friend TCup actually started it way back when, as she had been saying we should start a blog because we crack each other up. So Red Lemonade began life as a double act of sorts, with both myself and TCup talking shite. The name came from our initials, as in TK Red Lemonade.

What kind of blogs do you follow?

I actually follow a hape of blogs. (May or may not be the correct collective noun...) Well written personal blogs I suppose. The likes of The Spanish Exposition, Chancing My Arm, The Little Pinch of Salt, Radgery, Jennifer Alice In Wonderland are all entertaining reads. The Demure Lemur is also a brilliant writer but reading her blog in work at times borders on hazardous, as it can get rather sexy and as such distract you from work entirely for far more interesting thoughts. It's funny, smart and deliciously dirty. The Anti Room is a great read too. Oh and sharp, funny fashion blogs like What Will Wear Today? and The Stylebitches would be on the list too. Like I said, a hape.

Favourite make up brand?

Can't say I have one really, I wouldn't be that pushed either way once I'm not getting ripped off.

Favourite clothing brand?

Again, wouldn't have a huge preference but have found some deadly stuff in charity shops over the last while. Other than that, the usual suspects like A Wear, Topshop, Urban Outfitters (normally only when there's a sale on) and Forever 21 is a bit of alright as it happens.

Your indispensable make up product?

Eyeliner.

Favourite colour?

Purple.

Your perfume?

I have a bottle of Mademoiselle by Jean Paul Gaultier which I frequently forget about entirely.

Your favourite film?

As if anyone has just ONE favourite. Amelie, Some Like It Hot, Taken (go Liam Neeson, go!), Pulp Fiction, Elf, Shaun of the Dead, THE ROOM (it so very deserves uppercase), The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Enchanted, Plan 9 From Outer Space, Anchorman, Planet Terror, Death Proof, The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy and as of Monday, Machete.

What country would you like to visit and why?

Vietnam. Just so I could shout "You weren't THERE man!" at people who in fact, weren't.

Write the last question and answer it yourself: Favourite fictional character?

Jessica Beatrice Fletcher. Boom.

I hereby tag Emma of Fluff and Fripperies and The Incredible Mulq. Away with ye, ladies.

One Track Lover

Given my previous enthusiasm about the fantastic Matt Berry on this blog, it was safe to say that I was really rather excited about seeing him live in Crawdaddy last Saturday. Or as Billy Flag put it, CrawFAAAATHERRR! Nice. The gig itself was great fun, in all its folky, funky weirdness and the man himself was sound enough to hang around afterwards to allow the audience members to swarm around him for photos, signings and what have you. The Bear bought the 7" vinyl single above, and had it signed. It now brings his record collection to a grand total of two. While our means of actually playing a vinyl record of any description remains at zero.


Naturally, the queue for a photo with Mr. Matt included The Incredible Mulq and myself, giggling nervously with no clue whatsoever as to what we were going to say when our turn came. When it did and Mulq's iPhone didn't work properly, meaning she had to explain to the girl taking the picture what to do, I was standing there thinking "BALLS! I have to say something now before this gets ridiculous and awkward" which resulted in something along the lines of:

Me: Awesome gig...it was really....eh...awesome! (How smart do I sound right now.)

Matt: Thanks, glad you enjoyed it. Did you think it was going to be a stand-up gig?

Me: No! I have Opium and Witchazel (his albums, nothing drug-related, I assure you) at home.

Matt (impressed): Really!

At this point our picture was taken and I figured I should quit while I was ahead before I made a complete fool of myself, so we thanked him and skittered off back to our respective boyfriends, delighted that we managed to get a decent photo. Deadly. It was up there with the time Russell Brand told me I had nice boobs.

Mad As Hell

(Network, 1975) I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression. Everybody's out of work or scared of losing their job, the dollar buys a nickel's worth, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter, punks are running wild in the streets, and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there's no end to it. We know the air's unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat, and we sit and watch our tee-vees while some local newscaster tells us today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes, as if that's the way it's supposed to be. We all know things are bad. Worse than bad. They're crazy. It's like everything's going crazy. So we don't go out any more. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we live in gets smaller, and all we ask is please, at least leave us alone in our own living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my tee-vee and my hair-dryer and my steel- belted radials, and I won't say anything, just leave us alone.

Well, I'm not going to leave you alone. I want you to get mad - I don't want you to riot. I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to write your congressmen. Because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the defense budget and the Russians and crime in the street. All I know is first you got to get mad.

You've got to say: "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this any more. I'm a human being, goddammit. My life has value." So I want you to get up now. I want you to get out of your chairs and go to the window. Right now. I want you to go to the window, open it, and stick your head out and yell. I want you to yell: "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this any more!"

Check the register folks, the deadline to get yo' asses up on it is this Thursday 25th November.

Full Circle: Now With Photos!

The Full Circle launch on Friday night could not have gone better. A great turnout, fuelled by wine and chocolate (circular sweets, of course) and some truly great posters, as the old college gang proved that we can still pull it out of the bag, with sexy results. Fellow Full Circle-er Carolyn was on photography duty for the night, so she's to thank for these great pictures. (More here.)








What compounded the success of the night was the crazy dishevelled drunk man who barged in, fag in mouth, and started trying to pick a fight with a random exhibition-goer. We figured it had to be a good sign if someone tried to gatecrash in such a manner. That or he was so stirred by the artwork on show that it brought about a visceral reaction in him that he felt he had to express to its fullest extent. Probably not though. Either way, he was dealt with swiftly and with minimum drama by the brilliant and burly Bear who switched to bouncer-mode most deftly, escorting him back outside.

This is a detail from my poster, in case you were interested. I drew robots.

A good time was had by all and many thanks to those who attended!

Bagsie

I've been wanting a satchel style bag with a while now, but the only one I really liked happened to be an Urban Outfitters one that The Incredible Mulq was in possession of. So after checking that she wouldn't mind if I followed suit, (I felt like I should ask beforehand, just to avoid any Single White Female type worries) I went and got my satchel on.


It's a deadly little bag and I believe it's going to rescue me from missing myriad phone calls while rooting frantically around the receipts, loose change and random sweets that normally make up the interior of my mála, what with a zippy section and front pockety bit. That's the technical term, you know. At €60 it's a bit saucier than I'd normally shell out for a bag, but then again I do tend to use them until they're quite literally falling apart, so I'll be getting my money's worth out of this bad boy, that's for damn sure.

***

Also, make sure you come check out our kickass graphic design exhibition, Full Circle, should you end up in Temple Bar tomorrow or Saturday. Go on, I drew robots for it and everything.

Full Circle

Ok people. A rather exciting and top secret project I've been working on, is now just like Thunderbirds, i.e. GO. A few months ago, the fantabulous Miss Dizzle had a great idea to organise an exhibition in Temple Bar that would feature the work of our former college graphic design class. Fourteen of us took on the challenge to design an A0 poster based on the first brief we were given in our first year of Visual Communications in CIT, way back in 2002. It was a right bitch of a project, known as the Black Squares Problem.

"Digging deeper into the realm of abstraction, try to communicate one of the following words: BOLD, CONGESTED, INCREASE or PLAYFUL through the arrangement of no more and no less than four black squares."

Yeah. We all just loved that one, as you can imagine. Now that we're eight (!) years on from that first project, I suppose it's actually a bit of a nostalgia buzz to revisit it. However, this time around we've decided that we're either going to reject and react to the brief (read: say balls to that, I'm doing something else entirely), or put our own unique spin on it (read: bate some fun into it) making the process thoroughly more enjoyable. A sort of Black Squares 2: This Time It's Personal, if you will.

Our delicious logo and promotional material was designed by the lovely TCup, who is also taking part. Nice, innit?

Anyway. It's all come to a head, and this Friday sees the opening of our exhibition, Full Circle, at 6pm in FilmBase, Temple Bar (across from The Button Factory). It runs from then until the next day (Saturday, 9.30 - 5.30), admission is free and we're all VERY excited. So should you find yourself knocking around Dublin's city centre this Friday or Saturday, do call in for a look and say hi, won't you?

Quelque Chose #4

Robbie the Robot. An indubitable hit with the ladies.

All Fired Up

The ruin of the Hellfire Club that sits atop Montpelier Hill in the Dublin mountains is a curious place indeed. The area bristles with legends and hearsay of the debauched group of 18th century rich boys with nothing better to do than gamble, drink, feck-act about with black magic and allegedly murder the odd prostitute or set fire to a hapless servant to amuse themselves. Regardless of whether the more outrageous stories are true or not, it's quite a spooky place to be. Even the route out to the site is like a map of Dublin hauntings and ghost stories. Our guide spent the bus journey filling us in on the discovery of the 130 year old remains of a girl in a pretty silk dress tied to a chair in a walled up room of Rathfarnham Castle in 1880 and the weird happenings at Killakee House which culminated in an exorcism and the skeleton of a dwarf being unearthed from beneath the kitchen floorboards. Lovely.

It's much creepier at night, I assure you.

Upon reaching the actual building, which was aptly surrounded with eerie mist by now, we were warned that many visitors start to feel nauseous once inside, or are overwhelmed by the negative energy that envelops the ruin and have to get back outside quick smart. Suitably on our collective guard, we ventured into the pitch blackness of the lodge, jitters tempered by camera flashes and torchlight, but not at all helped by the skangers in Halloween masks who crept up to the window to frighten the baby Jesus out of the German tourists in our group.

Once upstairs, and with a vice like grip on the unshakeable Bear's arm throughout, we were told about the various faces and shadows that people have claimed to see, in subsequent photos or otherwise and how previous visitors have had necklaces snatched from their throats while in a particular room. We also came across what appeared, from where I was standing, to be discarded bits of rubbish scattered around a former fireplace, although it transpired that a small dead dog was in amongst the debris. Apparently a tour from earlier on in the week came upon a deer's head there too, as it appears that some people's fuckwittery is just too awful for words.

I was finding myself approaching the point of getting just a little bit freaked out, although in retrospect that may have been because of the much more tangible threat of an impending knack attack, what with the scumbags and their masks lurking outside and all. Either way, I was happier once we were back outside in the night air with the spectacular view of Dublin spread out below. It being actual Halloween night, that particular view was made all the better by fireworks erupting all over the city in random sparkly explosions. On our way back down the hill, the guide informed us that a member of the group had seen a six-foot shadow in one of the rooms and a few people felt the forewarned nausea. Of course, she could also have made it all up and none of us would be any the wiser, but nevertheless it certainly was a fantastic way to spend All Hallows Eve.

The Rocky Horror Contraband Whiskey Show

All kinds of merriment was had at last Saturday night's Halloween jaunt to The Sugar Club. It's always fun when behaviour like trashing a venue with toast, rice and party poppers and screaming lines like "Get your tits off the tank, bitch!" are acceptable, if not encouraged. The crowd was awash with excellent homemade costumes in the forms of Chilean miners, blood soaked nurses, Sweeney Todd and fantastic Dia de los Muertos ladies. Not a Playboy bunny to be had, thank fuck.

My own costume entailed a hip flask filled with whiskey safely stowed in my hold-up tights, just to complete the whole Prohibition era dead-girl-about-town look. It also just so happened to empty itself throughout the course of the night. (I'm classy like that.) Free hot chocolate that was kindly handed around by the organisers as we queued outside beforehand found itself magically Irished up, as did several glasses of soda water and lime. Weird. Delicious too.

Also among the crowd of ne'er-do-wells was one Greg Sestero of The Room...er...fame. Relative fame at least. There was a screening of The Room taking place the night after, you see. Billy Flag gave him a shout as he walked up the steps towards the bar and when he looked over at our table and waved, I dutifully squealed and waved both arms in my drunken zombie excitement, because it would appear that I don't do subdued when it comes to The Room.

This is me when we got home, drunk and hiding behind the Bear's camera having realised I had no photos from the night for the blog.

After the show finished and Midnight Burlectro had kicked off onstage, I met a cousin of mine who had descended upon The Sugar Club, and having figured what was on previously, just knew I'd be found there. The thing is, she was there with people from my work, some of whom I was only introduced to for the first time that night. With crazy blackened eyes and fake blood plastered all over my chin. I make one hell of a first impression.