It's Getting Hot in Here...

So lets all pile into a moving metal box, a couple of hundred feet under the ground and sweat on one another...sexy right?

Summer has well and truly arrived, and Londoners really are making the most of it. Office workers are fighting their way to the nearest patch of grass, stripping off ties and tights as they go. Tourists are descending on Oxford Street in their masses, with every unneccessary picture taken being photobombed by a bedraggled, sweaty commuter. 

The summer has also brought my stressful work load to a slow, as clients and colleagues jet off to various islands all over the world (no really, I'm not jealous at all....) and has given me some time to revamp and get blogging again. It's good to be back! Don't worry you can still catch my old posts here.

So some tips to stop us London dwellers complaining in all this hot weather; don't be that person who blocks the Tube window, it is cramped and boiling, please do not block the only source of air. Certainly don't be the tourist from warmer climates, whose main concern is their imaculate hair is being blown all over the place, and close the window. You don't want to feel the wrath of the London commuter; it's not good at the best of times, but especially not when temperatures are close to boiling point on the train. Get yourself outside and enjoy it, before we have to start complaining about the rain again! 

Heeeey Salty Lady

‘Welcome back’ I hear you cry! Well, realistically the majority of you didn’t even know I was away but yes, I have been jet setting quite a lot recently hence the lack of blog posts, for which I do apologise.

I have ventured North of the Wall (a.k.a Scotland), to the sunny Marrakech in Morocco and then finally back to the Emerald Isle.

When I chose Marrakech as a holiday destination for myself, my sister and my mum, I was quite honestly just looking for somewhere that would inject a bit of Vitamin D into my borderline translucent body (please see featured image on the Home Page). And Marrakech did not disappoint.

Although I just wanted to remain horizontal on a sun lounger for the week, I knew I ought to do some cultural things and was advised that the Old Town, or Medina’s, souks and food stalls were one of the top things to visit. I was well prepared for the haggling that would be needed and knew to wear long trousers, having had to resort to wrapping my scarf around my bare legs last year after realising that I was the only person not in something below the knee in Egypt’s Old Town.  These long pins certainly did cause a frenzy with the stall owners…. (Anyone who knows my leg to body ratio will note the irony of that statement).

As soon as we arrived in the Medina, with our guide La La [please insert appropriate Teletubbies joke here], I realised that I was very thankful for my daily Oxford Street commute. Weaving through tourists, avoiding charity collectors and saying a firm NO to those people giving out ‘free’ bags of makeup put me in good stead.

My twin sister and I, as some of you will know, are not the type to accept being ripped off, so we were fiercely haggling and bartering with every stall owner, much to the mortification of my mum. One particular man tried to sell my sister a unique, one of a kind, never to be seen anywhere else in the world EVER, carpet, for a casual £1,000. Following a swift exit we, unsurprisingly, saw that same unique, one of a kind carpet hanging on a cheaper stall 100m away – the con artist!

We day-tripped to the seaside town of Essaouira where we found out that its Medina was known as the Lucky Square. Much to my horror, Essaouira gained this name due to the copious number of seagulls and their frequent bowel movements. My irrational fear of seagulls was tested to breaking point, and I did come very, very close to being ‘lucky’ at one point, much to the amusement of our tour guide; ‘’Oooh that was a big s**t” – thanks mate, I’m aware.

Our tour guide taught us a lot about the history of Morocco, its political and education systems, but if I am perfectly honest I only took one piece of information away that day. Apparently, in Essaouira, instead of saying someone is sexy, they call them salty – from the expression salt of the earth- which had me singing ‘ Heeey salty lady op op op op oppan Gangnam Style’ for the remainder of the holiday. And although I did get asked out by a Moroccan Peter Andre, sadly no one actually called me Salty Lady.

So despite my mum’s attempts to rid herself of her embarrassing twin daughters, she realised that Ryanair may have charged her just a tiny additional fee to get camels into the hold, so we all arrived safely back in the UK without a Moroccan husband or a caravan of camels. Although my dad did suggest she try a 2 for 1 offer next time. Cheers Dad…

Follow me on Twitter: @HollyJ_Brown

An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman

I honestly wish I could make up a witty joke to follow through with the title of this post, but unfortunately St Patrick's Day celebrations have got the better of me.  I have lost several thousand brain cells, and my stomach and liver are in a fierce battle with the green shots and subsequent KFC consumed last night in honour of the great Saint.

What a weekend its been. The Irish contingent were out in force, and everyone else was claiming Irish ancestry, well not during the Ireland Italy match of course, but apparently our ancestors really got around. The 'power shower' and 'how now brown cow' impressions were being thrown around like nobodies business.

I celebrated St Paddy's a day early in O'Neill's, which was, as you can imagine, covered floor to ceiling in shamrocks and leprechaun hats.  If I am honest, my real celebrations were actually due to the England defeat in the Six Nations. I know we Irish can't exactly talk after our pitiful performance in this year's championship (honestly, losing against Scotland AND Italy. Shameful, just shameful) but after all the abuse I have received over the last few weeks my joy is perfectly justified. 


The England fans didn't seem to understand why the Italians, Scots, Irish and even Aussies were supporting the Welsh. I'm not even sure I can fully explain it myself. It is just simply AOBE- anyone but England. That's just the way it is.

But my St Paddy's celebrations didn't end there. We continued the all day drinking into the evening and to a bar that is swiftly becoming one of my favourites. The Underdog in Clapham is free entry, has a great range of music including some timeless classics, and the bar staff even danced Coyote Ugly style on the bar. The serial song requester struck again last night, and it was very nice after requesting One Direction to not have the DJ actually laugh in my face and ask if I'm being serious, which happened to me a few weeks ago (just do your job and play my god-damn song!). Now don't judge me for that, firstly because it's St Patrick's Day so that is definitely racist, and secondly, 1D may be a bunch of little cretins, but their songs are really catchy!

Naturally after midnight, and therefore officially St Patrick's Day, the shots began and well, it just went downhill from there. All in all I have had a thoroughly drunken St Patrick's weekend, and yes, I even ate a heavily potato based meal for breakfast. Irish stereotype well and truly lived up to!

So, I raise my glass to you, well a metaphoric glass, as the thought of alcohol makes me want to retch. Here's to Arthur*. Here's to Saint Patrick. And here is to all those who are, or claim to be, Irish.... so basically everyone then.

Happy St Patrick's Day, and may your hangovers be as mighty tomorrow as mine is today.

*Arthur Guinness - no further explanation needed.

Who runs the world....

Well the last few days have been quite important for the female sex. International Women’s Day on Friday, Mother’s Day on Sunday and yesterday another woman stood up against the sexual predator that is Harry Styles.

(Calm down 1D’ers I have listened to 1D’s ‘Kiss You’ on repeat more times than I would like to admit, so no hating please!)

Now I am not a parent, and as most of my friends will tell you, I am really not the mothering type. I am aware that there are probably mothers, daughters, grandmothers (Hi Nana), fathers and sons (see, not sexist!) reading this, but I have to admit I am that person who strategically chooses a seat as far from a small child as possible on a plane (cheers Easyjet for going back to allocated seating). And I have got off a bus three stops early when a child wouldn’t stop crying, that level of noise in such a confined space was just more than I could bear.

But I am a daughter who sadly couldn’t see her mum this weekend due to ridiculous flight prices back to Belfast (god Easyjet, can you do anything right?!).

My mum and I had the classic ‘no honestly, don’t get me anything’ chat early last week, which of course is code for ‘Thornton’s summer fruits chocolates will be just fine’, but for some reason, this year, I took her request quite literally.

As the guilt started to set in, and the subsequently bought Thornton’s chocolates made a disappearing act, I had to rethink.

I tried to remember some of the great memories over the years, like Mum v Ikea Furniture with incorrect screws, or Mum v Crowbar while laying floorboards. Both great and hilarious moments in my opinion, but my mum swears that neither of these events actually took place (she has obviously repressed those traumatic memories) so maybe best not to dwell on those.

I decided that I was going to attack this Mother’s Day gift DIY style. So I set off into London with my twin sister, a photographer (who was blissfully unaware of this role when agreeing to the day trip) and a handmade I LOVE MUM sign.

The idea was to create a photo/video montage of this sign and us across London. It started with the simple, un-intrusive photos of me with my hairdresser, then with the barman at a pub (cheeky sod then tried to get my number so he could “send the photo to his mum”…I know your game!). Next stop was a casual Tube photo; you can imagine how well that went down with the London commuter beside me…not awkward at all.

We then decided it was time to move on to bigger targets, the London Eye, Big Ben, etc. We were tempted by a large wooden climbing frame on the Southbank, but as ‘big kids’ weren’t allowed, we decided it was best to avoid this photo opportunity, as our mum would definitely not appreciate a phone call from the police on Mother’s Day.

Our final few shots were with the talented Southbank street performers, which I have praised in previous blogs. The man dressed as a chicken and the green Frankenstein were more than accommodating, but one particular performer had a different agenda all together.

A man painted head to toe in gold, floating in mid air; how could you miss that photo op, right? WRONG! He asked for a kiss on the cheek in return for the photo. I naturally obliged, as my thespian sister couldn’t possibly risk contracting tonsillitis, glandular fever or swine flu before a performance…

So as I moved in for the kiss, and yes you’ve guessed it, he pulled the fastest head-turn I have ever witnessed and got me square on the mouth, I swear he tried to get the tongue in too! I’m not going to lie, I felt somewhat violated after my mouth-assault, but it did produce some pretty amusing photos, so Mum, I hope you appreciated it!

Lots of people asked to borrow my sign to send pictures to their mums, (you lazy dogs, know who you are!) so I think I managed to spread a little love, and no doubt facial herpes, around London on Saturday.

Of course I am not suggesting that, next year, you all put yourselves at risk of mouth-assault for Mother’s Day; a perfectly good, and hygienic option for Mother’s Day is afternoon tea. Lots of places around London offer it, with my personal preferences being the Sanderson Hotel Mad Hatter tea party and, for a more traditional affair try Camellia’s Tea House on the top floor of Kingly Court; Carnaby Street- the Red Velvet cake is something else!

So, to my lovely Mum, I thank you for everything you have done for me, and I am thankful everyday that I inherited your deep-seated love of chocolate and list writing. It has created the most perfectly organised route to obesity.

Not under pressure for Father’s Day at all…

Follow me on Twitter @HollyJ_Brown