The French Revolution

Fou la merde.

I love the French Revolution. Now before you decide that I'm tres bizarre and fantasise about beheadings over a plate of snails, hear me out. I have listed a few of my favourite things about this outrageously awesome time in history that will hopefully change your mind.

Sex.
Ah ha, now I've got you captivated! But I kid you not, it seems as though the famine, riots and massacres of the time were a massive turn-on for the general French citizen. The phenomena of 'political pornography' was rife, which included illustrations of King Louis riding a phallic ostrich, and Queen Marie Antoinette engaging in rather erotic lesbian activities.  The heniously ugly Comte de Mirabeau was known as quite the stud, seducing many women for their money, including his sister.  Whilst in jail, he penned the obscene 'Erotica Biblia', a fiction based on sexually frustrated nuns.  And finally, something I personally find both disturbing and interesting; on the King and Queens' wedding night, the couple aged fifteen and fourteen were encouraged to have sex by onlookers in their bedroom. They didn't, but still.

The clothes.
Call me vain, whatever.  But the I find fact that the French were still concerned about being 'a la mode' during one of the bloodiest revolutions in history rather intriguing.  As if for some kind of morbid statement, men began wearing their shirt collars extremely high, suggesting that they were hiding scars inflicted by the guillotine. Women wore a thin scarlet ribbon around their neck for similar reasons.  Even a revolutionary group gained their namesake from their trousers (or lack thereof), deeming themselves the 'sans culottes'.  (This lead me to imagining Australian political parties naming themselves things like 'the Beige Pants' which would be kind of funny).  Also, there were hipsters like Robespierre (who I may have a slight crush on) who wore John Lennon glasses on his head.

The language.
Damn those French could drop an f-bomb or two. I'll let them speak for themselves (but mind my French ;)):
“Tell your fucking president that he can fuck himself and the entire fucking Convention. If the 22 [Girondins] are not here within the hour, we will blow the building to the ground.”Francois Hanriot, National Guard officer
“Robespierre simply can’t fuck and money scares the hide off him.”
Georges Danton
“The more I see of men, the more I like dogs.”
Madame Roland
“I don’t give a fuck for the prisoners, let them fend for themselves.”
Attributed to Georges Danton in September 1792

I think you get the picture.

As far as entertainment value goes, I give the French Revolution 4/5.

Vive la revolution!

The truth about junners

I've had an epiphany.

I have come to realise that the act of wearing runners with jeans has been attached with an unnecessary stigma.  In an act of pure spontaneity, I committed the most grave of crimes in the world of fashion, and wore 'junners' to school today.  Also labelled 'sneaky jeans' or 'sneans', junners are generally thought to be rocked by social misfits, embarrassing parents, and those who just can't let go of the 80s.  

But I think it's time for that mindset to change. Society should be ready to take the epochal step forward of embracing the comfort and timelessness of this look, whilst casting away unfair prejudices. Arm yourselves with your Nike, Adidas, or hell, even New Balance sneakers, because it's time for a revolution of the junners!

If you want, you can wear them ironically for starters.  Tell your friends you're taking the piss out of the local nutjob and they will soon be chuckling in awe of your wit.  Soon however, the humour of your attire will wear off, and like me, you will realise the incredible practicality and true beauty of junners.

I'm not saying this won't be a challenge; I know there will be haters out there that just can't locate the hash-tag-swag in jeans and runners. But I think that if society can pull together in denim unity, we can do this.

We can breathe life back into junners.

Dear Dumpling House

I'm ever so sorry dumpling house, but I can't remember your address or name. I'm terrible with names. I'll just call you DH for now, until fate draws us together again one day.
I must admit DH, I was sceptical upon arriving at your peeling, grimy-glassed doors. My scepticism heightened as I tip-toed up your wonky staircase and laid eyes on your dimly lit, scantily-clad room.
My scepticism almost grew to fear as I placed my derrière on a sticky chair, and was offered not a jug of water, but a Tupperware container of water. Actually on second thoughts, it was probably décor. And then my plastic cup leaked all over my lap.
I was seriously considering abandoning my company in order to escape your grimy clasps, when I was greeted with a nostril-tingling scent. This strange sensation spread to my mouth, resulting in involuntary watering.
Forgotten were the unsavoury surroundings and questionable crockery; I was in a trance. DH, I don't know how many of your otherworldly morsels I consumed, but my level of regret is unashamedly low.
I'm sorry I judged you, I really am. I don't know if we'll ever meet again, but then maybe its best that we don't. That way, you will remain forever in my mind as the perfect unpolished gem.

3.5/5 (because first impressions do count)

"How to poo at work"

This book has the potential to change lives. An issue that is still held taboo in workplaces around the country is addressed in this book in an informative and humorous manner.  It features over fifty different scenarios that one might be faced with in the staff restrooms, including 'the flush does not work' and 'the toilet paper roll escapes from the stall'.  Though the book tackles workplace-related scenarios, the methods presented could be easily applied to friends' houses, public toilets or music festival porta-loos.

A genius compilation of carefully thought-out solutions for the self-conscious toilet-user. I can't wait to try out the 'smoking out the beast' method.

4.5/5

Review 1: 'A plate of soil with engine oil'

‘A plate of soil with engine oil’, More Revolting Recipes, Roald Dahl.

I think Roald Dahl might be looking down at me having a little chuckle, the old devil.  I couldn't think of a more appropriate title for a recipe than this one, because a plate of soil it might as well have been.  The recipe intrigued me, with its lack of eggs, meagre amount of butter, and use of plain rather than self-raising flour.  My trust in Dahl and childish hopes fuelled me on however, and I carried out the recipe, only to be bitterly, soggily, lumpily disappointed with the result.  My family politely declared that the dish was something along the lines of ‘an inedible turd’.

Damn, I should have made the ‘hornets stewed in tar’.

1/5