Wednesday, 18 September 2013

Right in the childhood

Right. So we all know that Simba and Nala had sex, right? I mean, they are all rolling on top of each other and then she licks his cheek and he’s all “Oh, but Nala, I’m a virgin!” and she sends him the most sexed up look of all time.

Oh, she wants it

But… BUT… Have you ever stopped to consider the fact that Jafar kind of actually seriously raped the fuck out of Jasmine?

Just take a moment to consider. Jafar gains ALL the power.

So he dresses Jasmin up in a hot little slave girl outfit.

 And shackles her. And then he uses force-by-shackle to get her all good and close to him.

 And then he LITERALLY bites her apple.

 Bites. Her. Apple.

 And if that’s not enough sexual innuendo for you, after he’s done chewing, this happens:

See that? On her cheek? 

That is Jafar’s apple drool.

 Of love.

Thursday, 1 August 2013

Recap: The Curious Incident of the Doctor in the Theatre

This post is part of my ongoing catch-up. It was first posted on my London-blog Thursday, March 14th.

The curious incident of the Doctor in the theatre

We went to see The Curious Incident of The Dog in the Night-time. It was a good play, but not overwhelming. It seemed to me that more time had been spent on playing around with scenography than on morphing the story into a play. It was a shame. I loved the story, but I did not feel that anyone on that stage did. 

It was shown at the Apollo Theatre, which, in itself, is not all that remarkable. What was remarkable was that we managed to walk in on press night. We did not realise until we were ever so politely asked to step away from the main entrance to allow Matt Smith and Billie Piper to come through.
I half turned to find my friend’s face frozen in an odd mixture of horror and amazement.
“Matt… Smith…” she breathed. “Matt. Smith.”

I regret to say that I do not know what happened after that. I volunteered to queue at the dodgy back entrance (for non-celebrities and other plebs) while she stayed at the front to stare at her hero, suddenly and unexpectedly manifested in front of her.

And so, while the production was expensive and the tickets equally so, the most remarkable thing about our night was the sudden appearance of “you know, the one who has a face like a triangle and no eyebrows, but hot.”

We talked about it afterwards, my friend still shaking violently and me as patient as can be. On one thing we did agree (and it was not on the hotness of a man with a face like a triangle and no eyebrows): This would never, ever, ever have happened at home. Not because you don’t see celebrities in Denmark. You do, constantly, everywhere, and often stealing your seat on the bus. It is just that we don’t really have celebrities. Not the proper kind that you can adore at a distance. Denmark is too small for real celebrities – because everyone is someone’s cousin or maybe you know a guy who saw them vomit at a party. And of course celebrities can be someone’s cousin or vomit at parties – they can vomit to their heart’s content for all I care. It is just that it sort of defies the whole celebrity-thing. 

The only proper celebrity that Denmark can boast of. He wants you for your brains.

Tuesday, 30 July 2013

Recap: The Curse of Suburbia (and cats)

This post is part of my ongoing catch-up. It was first posted on my London-blog Sunday, March 3rd.

The curse of suburbia (and cats)

There is a mouse in my kitchen.

A mouse.

In my kitchen.

Right now.

But don’t worry, it’s not alive. At least, it’s not as alive as it was before Oliver stepped on it. After we had spent two hours chasing it around the living room. And I told him to beware of the carpet making a tunnel and the mouse running in to that tunnel and him stomping around on the carpet as if it could not potentially hide a mouse. I told him. But did he listen? Oh no.

And what is he doing now? Why, he is nursing the mouse back to life. Oh yes, of course he is. He has even scotch taped its intestines to its body, so it will not trip in them. What a saint. What a life saver.

These things do happen. That’s what he told me, when I screamed that I was not going to spend one minute chasing around after a mouse and I was certainly not going to get on my knees and look under the couch to locate the thing. These things happen when you have a cat. In Sevenoaks, anyway. I think cats in Sevenoaks are more vicious than other cats. Maybe they, too, feel the reproachful oppression of all the neat little houses with their picket fences. Or maybe it’s just me, and cats are bitches (no offense to the dogs).

And did you know? That in England, a pet owner is responsible for the actions of a dog, but not for those of a cat? Because cats cannot be tamed, apparently, or maybe the English just cannot be bothered to try.

I am going downstairs now. To tell Oliver that I will not sleep under the same roof as a dying mouse. He will make a fuss, be sure of it. By the time he was done, that mouse had a nicer room that I have. Personally, I would have let the cats have their way with it. 

Just look at it. The princess and the friggin' pea.

 EDIT: The mouse is dead. I almost feel bad, but not really, because mouse. I have agreed to let it rest in peace in the kitchen for the night, on the condition that it will be gone forever when I make my tea tomorrow morning.

EDIT 2: The mouse was gone alright. All the way out on the first step of the back door. Which is, incidentally, where you put your foot down if you take out the rubbish.

EDIT 3: I miss London.

Saturday, 20 July 2013

Recap: The Quest for Cup (obscure cartoon references and all)

This post is part of my ongoing catch-up. It was originally posted on my London-blog on Tuesday, February 26th. 

The Quest for Cup (obscure cartoon references and all)

Ever since I first came here, I have been obsessed with one thing more than anything else: Finding the perfect cup. Even more so after I took to the habit of drinking morning tea instead of my usual coffee, half cold before I came out of the shower. Obtaining a cup, my very own cup, has played a part in my thoughts from my very first day here, and grown over time until it seemed almost impossible for me to go on without that which I desired: My very own cup.

Is it silly? Perhaps. It did not seem silly at first. The desire for a pretty cup is rather reasonable, and there are very many pretty cups in London, all of them suited for daily tea rituals. Still, I could not find one that I wished to bring home.

It was a small matter at first. I would look for a cup wherever I went, in case I came upon the one that I wanted. I didn’t. Not even close. I looked with jealousy as my friend found cup after cup, effectively creating a whole army of teacups. They were nice, I grant her, but none of them appealed to me. Not really.

Then I grew desperate. I dedicated afternoons to my search for the perfect teacup. I looked everywhere I could think of, and everywhere else as well, but all to no avail. It made me sad. It made me desperate. And so it was that one day, standing amidst the most wonderful selection of cups anyone could imagine, in John Lewis, eyeing every one of them with resentment, that I realised what was wrong.$prod_main$
Picture taken from

I wasn’t looking for a teacup. Not really. I wasn’t looking for a vessel to hold my hot beverage, one that was both pleasing to the eye and kind to the hand. I was looking for the teacup. The one teacup that could somehow make up for my living far from home, without my own kitchen to cook in, my own plates, my own pots and pans and my own fridge to fill with my own food. I was looking for the one cup that could substitute my entire tea cup collection – not as a satisfying addition to the ones I had left behind, an extension of the existing, but as a sort of Über Cup that could emanate all the homeliness that I longed for. 

So I did the only thing I could do. I stopped looking. I went straight to the counter and bought the cup I was currently holding in my hand, even though the colour was wrong and it was too wide at the top. Because I knew that if I did not, I would be back here in a matter of days, feeling just as lonely and misplaced and relying on a mythical cup to substitute everything I had left behind.

I am drinking out of my new cup as I write this. The top is still too wide and it causes the tea to cool faster than I can drink it. But the colours are nice.

Wednesday, 17 July 2013

Recap: A cold mistress

Continuing the catch-up. This was originally posted on my London-blog on Wednesday, Febuary 20th.

A cold mistress

There are about three thousand million bazillion different buses in London. And a hundred lines in the underground, and five million billion gazillion different stops that all change place as they please, like the stairs in Hogwarts. And, more importantly, they all hate me.

I don’t know who ever came up with the idea that living in a different country should be an adventure. Or what demon possessed them to spread the message or what gullible people bought into it and decided that it was a universal truth. 

Whoever it was, they have clearly never tried running around Vauxhall for two hours, trying to find anyone, anything, that will bring them back home.

 Or underneath the streets, trying to communicate with the whore that is Euston station. I do not know who put up the signs at Euston station either, but if you do know, please tell them that they missed some.

London is a cold mistress indeed.
Hello, nice to meet you. I am here to ruin your life.

Recap: The Lonely Londoners

Continuing the catch-up. This was posted on my London-blog on Wednesday, January 30th.

The Lonely Londoners

I’ve been thinking about something lately. In class we talk a lot about London (of course) and especially our view of London. How we are affected by it, how we perceive the spirit of the city. It seems to me that the other students are all very excited about being here, very positive about everything they experience. Their stories are full of lovely little moments, happy characters and a general amazement with their surroundings, even in the most dire plotlines.
I do not share their optimism.
It isn’t that I don’t like the city. I do, very much. I am happy that I am here and excited to explore and experience and learn… But I am not amazed. Not really.
I think I am struck by the loneliness of it all. There are so many people here that we cannot really seeeach other. I find that every story I write revolves around this loneliness, around horrors blatantly displayed in public. They can be displayed in public. It is safe, because no one is really present.
I am not sure where this gloom has come from. I am not a gloomy person. Not happy and energetic, perhaps, but not gloomy either. It is something about this place. I was struck by it the other day, sitting alone in a café and nursing my coffee. I thought, “No one here knows who I am. I can do anything I want and no one will remember.”
For a moment I felt elated. Free. Then I realised that no one there knew who I was. That I could do anything I wanted and no one would remember. I do not think that I have ever been as alone as I was in that instant. A lonely Londoner, one might say.
I wonder if we are all as lonely. I think perhaps we are. Maybe my fellow students are as well, and their stories a way of managing it. Or perhaps I have PMS and this is all just about hormones.
Cover art for The Lonely Londoners - Longman Caribbean Writer Series

Sunday, 14 July 2013

Recap: In Medias Res

This was posted on my London-blog on Thursday, January 24th.

He was, in every way, proper. You know the kind. Newly pressed suit, dark blue with pinstripes. White shirt, blue tie. The shoes were black and polished to a shine, as was the narrow suitcase. No surprises. He sat down across from me in the train. Suitcase on the table, phone next to it. It was a Blackberry. It is always a Blackberry with these men, isn’t it?

I glanced up quickly from my book. Oronooko – the first one I had been assigned at my new university. It was a difficult read, and so even the pinstripes seemed a distraction. He gave me the faintest of smiles. Opened his suitcase and procured three folders. Dark blue, as the tie. He placed them neatly in front of him, perfectly aligned with the phone. Then a fountain pen – the fancy kind, straight black, not the ones that makes every romantic writer-at-heart sigh and moan. 

I was just about ready to submit myself to the romance monster that is Oronooko, when it happened. With the same air of efficiency as when he had set up his little tableau, the man reached inside the breast pocket of his suit and fetched a chocolate bar. Not any chocolate bar, no. A Double Decker. Possibly the most vulgar chocolate bar Britain can muster, challenged only by the Lion bar. He put it down next to the fountain pen. Perfectly aligned, of course. If you had put a ruler to the setup, you would find that every item was placed with exactly one centimetre between them.
The Cadbury Double Decker. You cannot eat that ironically.

I smiled and shook my head. Then I gaped, as he dipped into his pocket, the same pocket, took out another Double Decker and placed it next to the first one. He caught my eye and winked conspiratorially before reaching inside his jacket to some secret chocolate stash. 

Five bars later – four Double Deckers and one KitKat – he went to work. I did not. I simply sat and stared at him for the rest of the trip.

And that - sitting across from the sternest businessman of all the stern businessmen, with his fountain pen and his chocolate – that was the moment when I realised that I was not home anymore.  That this was something completely different.

Oh, and did I mention that he did not eat a single bite of chocolate? ‘Cause he didn’t.