Plopp!

I've just back from Stockholm. The land of sea, cinnamon scrolls, 7-Elevens and ridiculously good looking people.

So there is a raging debate going on at the moment - which, by the way, I love. Thank you for contributing. I mean it. I know there are people who read my blog but don't comment. Please do. It gives me warm fuzzies. Like a cup of hot Milo when you can't sleep. Or when you see bunnies in a field. Actually, not bunnies because every time I see an animal I think about eating it, even road kill (sometimes) hmmm. Do I need to substansiate that sentence with some kind of footnote making sure you all don't think I am a freak?*

Ok, so where was I? Ah, Stockholm and the debate. Now this kind of ties in with the general theme of some of the comments of late. So my friend Megs and I were out at a pretty cool club in Stockholm on Saturday night. Think Bohemian decor with a slightly Mozart feel. Lots of gilded mirrors, booths with 'real' champagne and Swedish gangsters (I didn't know they had any, but they looked like the blonde mafia) sitting with barbies on their laps. It was an experience to say the least. Oh, and not as wanky as it sounds. A little, but not a lot.

So this bar/club thing was a weird meat market. As Megs commented, it was like these guys had been reading The Pick Up Artist and were going hell for leather trying to do their 'How to approach 101' weekly exercises. Seriously. Having said that, some were just plain weird. Like Vomit Breath for example;

Let me quickly set the scene. Megs and I are sitting down by ourselves, deep in conversation, probably about Megs' bruises from being constantly shoved by the scary Swedish girls on the dancefloor when Vomit Breath comes and sits down with us. He says nothing. He looks like Albert Bensimon. He stares. He is creepy. Then he talks, earning him the name, Vomit Breath.

Vomit breath: "Hhhhmmmmghfff"

Me: "What?"

(creepy staring)

VB: "Hhhhmmmmghfff"

(more creepy staring)

Me: "I can't understand what you are saying"

VB: "Hhhhmmmmghfff chaiohfiodh asdhio (which can be roughly translated to) Why are you in Stockholm?"

Me: "Just for a holiday".

VB: "Hhhhmmmmghfff chaiohfiodh asdhio (which can be roughly translated to) Why are you in Stockholm?"

Yes, we had this rather repetitive conversation for about 5 more minutes until we tried ignoring him but he continued sitting there, staring. We then got up, and he followed until I glared at him. Die, Vomit Breath, die, or at least go pass out in a gutter - yes, these were my thoughts while I glared. It was movie style chick kicking ass with cat-like evil eyes type of scene.

So this scenario brings me to the point of this post. Why, when males drink, do they think it's charming or acceptable to act like a complete sleazy, weirdo, knob? It's not as if I am the most friendly, approachable person in the history of picking up. Yet whenever I'm out, I get these weird men latch onto me like I'm fucking Mother Friendly Teresa. Why? And without sounding like I have my head up my arse, they usually look like Bill Gates, but probably without the World's Most Richest Man' title. My friend Naomi used to tell me off for being too nice to people if I didn't want to talk to people. I'm a big believer that even if you are inebriated, it takes guts to approach someone, so therefore to shut someone down on the offset is mean. So I talk. I'm polite and don't lead them on and then usually, they act like a sooky child when they realise it's never going to happen. Ugh. I'm sounding all chick lit. I'm going to stop now.

Stockholm has chocolate bars called 'Plopp'. C'mon, say it out loud, it's fun. You know you want too. "Plopp". "Plopp". Haha, it's such a funny word. How's that for changing the subject? OOerrrrrrrrrr, I saw the coolest Vikingesque ship. It was built in the 1600's and sunk on it's maiden voyage - sound familiar? It stayed on the ocean floor for 333 until it was brought to shore and restored. It was truly amazing.

In other news, I had to 'sell' myself to the creative director at work. Apparently I'm annonymous and 'off the radar'. Ah, the good ole advertising radar. The only way to blip is either via kissing arse or being an obnoxious twat sporting the latest Cons. Of course, this observation has been made based on assumption. My emotionless face has let me down again. Apparently I always look 'stern and uninterested', which, to the latter, I kind of am. It's advertising for fucks sake! Anyway, I showed some passion and enthusiasm and I think I am now a weak pulse with my lips and tongue firmly safe from any butt cheeks. Woo-hoo!

*I am not a freak, I just like meat.