Oh, did you see that Ells is back blabbing on the internet again? Yeah, she must have stopped pouring pints down her warbler for long enough to string a sentence together.
Dear Diary, ‘Iya did you miss me?
It has been an excruciatingly extended period of time since I put fingertips to keyboard. Since my last post, which can be read here, I have gotten pregnant, swapped style secrets with Courtney Love, replaced my toes with glasses of wine and have become a compulsive liar. No, all things serious, things are really coming up Millhouse at the moment. Yey for meee.
So let’s start with the basics.
My home-sweet-home away from home-home-sweet-home. Manchester, my first love and my last, it has been so ruddy brilliant to be back inside you again. Since the offset it has been all guns blazing; from catching-up with golden-oldie pals, buzzing around in a full-time job, downing tequila shots at a rate which would put the cast of Geordie Shore to shame and moving flats (more on this soon) there seriously has not been a dull segment of time since I returned to this rainy paradise.
I have had my body taken into captivity by food poisoning the last few days which resulted in me dropping my newly-cracked phone (Saturday night antics you always get the best of me) into a nice bowl of sick. The said phone works and now I am determined to either erase the existence of my barely-there meat intake or insist on cooking everything to a well-done standard. Chewy beef on a Sunday dinner platter at Ella’s, if anyone’s up for it?
Since I have returned to the city of – my – dreams, I have mastered the art of creating the most spectacular banana pancakes (seriously, it is all about the coconut oil to egg ratio), rekindled my love for Harry Potter via the delightfully alluring voice of Stephen Fry, lost shed loads of weight, got drunk more times than I have had hot meals, visited the Warrington IKEA purely for a fresh scoopful of Lingonberry sauce and celebrated my boyfriend’s 21st birthday in true style.
It is sweet to be back, MCR.
If you follow me on any social media or know me away from my words, you will already know that I have moved into a beautifully airy flat with my best friend, brunching partner and platonic boyfriend, Andrew. I haven’t travelled very far, I still live in the same apartment complex but now I have a balcony, red sofas and a Monstera deliciosa, so now I am a smug little kitten. My record player is finally getting the love and attention it deserves, my Velvet Underground ‘Heroin’ poster is the pride of place in my living room and somehow I am managing to actually survive without a chest of draws… For now. These are serious first world problems but they are my problems, okay.
I have Kilner jars coming out of my ears, big plans for expensive Persian rugs and enough incense to really put meaning behind that threat David Byrne made in 1983. I am completely in awe of the possibilities this flat has to develop into my favourite place in Manchester (third to Federal Café and The Oast House) and excited to see the length my bank account can stretch to. Really, I needed those three Diptyque candles that all smell the same… Honestly Halifax, I promise I won’t do it again until next month!
The word ‘housekeeping’ always reminds me of that time I and my old friends went on a weird-yet-strangely wonderful trip to M(Sh)agaluf. We had one official housekeeper, however one of my pals would do all the days dishes when she came home after she’d drank a river of Sex on the Beach and then I would continue to cause havoc by tidying up the balcony by disposing of unnecessary furniture and any plates which had not made it into Caitlin’s grasp. So, what was the point of our housekeeper? Duh, to brush a straight line from the door of the room to the balcony and back. That strip in the hotel room was more attractive than the Maga strip ever will be. Thanks, housekeeper, you really kept the hotel standards as high as ours were in Maga.
Anyways, housekeeping. I begin university again next week. Yes, I am finally making it into the second year of a university course. Refrain from applauding, please. I have essentially just had two gap yah’s where not a great deal of travelling commenced, but this is the year I get serious. I say this every year of my education but this year I MEAN IT. I am getting serious this year.
I’ve been made News Editor of my baby, Gigslutz.co.uk, which is an absolute honour. So, since today marks the first day of the internet in the new flat and the re-birth of myself into the real world, keep your eyes peeled on their news section as me and the team are about to fill it with wonderful, glorious and tasty titbits helping you to sink your teeth into your new favourite band.
The This Feeling Alive 2017 tour kicks off on October 1. I’ll be heading down to the Manchester show, featuring the boys Proletariat alongside The Shimmer Band, Bang Bang Romeo and Blackwaters. The tour itself is promoting the ideologies that the NME Awards Tour used to hold close to its heart, yet on a grittier scale with an intense showcase of much more graft. For more information regarding the tour, please see here.
Basically, to tidy this long-winded ramble up – the blog is back and I hope you missed it because I know I did!
Ciao for now,