Tag Archives: London

Do We Have Time For Love?

Posted on February 20, 2012 | 11 Comments

I’ve been thinking about this recently. Someone once said to me, that I’d never find love in London. At the time I scoffed (I was young and naive) and replied that OF COURSE I would, what better place to meet a man than the most overcrowded city in the country? Surely I’d have to strike lucky eventually.

I think I may have to hunt that person down and slap them for being so bloody prophetic. Turns out, London really is a fecking horrendous place to meet boys. But what’s even worse, is that even if by some kind of miracle, we do happen to meet a boy who is not a complete and utter twatbag, we’re so busy that we don’t seem to actually have the time to devote to a proper grown up relationship.

I mused on this on Tuesday, as CTS (of 52 First Dates fame) and I shared a half litre of wine and far too much pizza, putting the world to rights against a backdrop of cheesy Valentine romance.

‘I just don’t know how I’d fit a man into my life at the moment,’ I admitted. ‘At the moment, my life consists of a full on career gal job, press nights and previews galore, an Open University course, excessive gym bunny action (which is doing a proper number on my ass so I’m not giving that up), a heckload of writing, THE BLOG, and my girlfriends. Where exactly does a boy fit in? I know ‘The One’ is supposed to come along when you least expect it, but the downside to that is that you’re so ill-equipped to accommodate him that you’re likely to fuck it up and lose him.

CTS countered with a snippet of wisdom of her own. ‘I’ve spent nine years ‘least expecting it’ and nothing. Speaking as someone who is going for quantity rather than quality at the moment…’

CTS is going on one date a week for a whole year. She’s kissed a LOT of frogs so far. I don’t know if I’d have the energy to sift through all the crap to find something I’m not entirely sure exists in this town.

Maybe I’d become one of those women who forgets her girlfriends when she’s happy in a relationship. Maybe I wouldn’t write as much. Maybe I’d stop blogging. Maybe I’d let myself get fat. Maybe I’d LEAVE LONDON.

None of these options sound particularly preferable to me…

Do we crazy ass Londoners have time in our schedules for love?

I’m not sure we do.

That’s a bloody depressing thought.

RitziCx

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I Survived Slut Walk 2011…

Posted on June 11, 2011 | 1 Comment

Slut walk slogan placard June 11 2011

I should get that on a T-Shirt or something.

My good friend Annie the Scot is a bit of a feminist. She has a slight tendency for bra burning and going on marches, and this weekend she was determined to get her ass down to my neighbourhood for the Slut Walk which (if you have been living under a rock) happened today in central London.

I’ll admit, I was sceptical. I don’t generally go in for these protest type things, as I don’t think they actually do that much good very often, and usually end in violence and graffiti (bloody student fee protests anyone? That was a fun journey home from work wasn’t it?), but since she is rather persuasive and kind of scary, I let her drag me along.

I’m not a rape victim, and as you know I generally have a pretty crass attitude towards sex and debauchery, but I am a woman living in a big scary city and I do walk home at 2am by myself and I have got a pretty impressive amount of cleavage that earns me more than my share of sleazey comments. For anyone (such as that policeman dude in Canada) to imply that a woman should dress like a dowdy frumpster to avoid getting violated by some creep in a dark alley or for politians  (*cough* Ken Clarke *splutter* dickhead) to try to define the specifics of rape as ‘classic’ or ‘serious’ as opposed to, you know un-serious, it would make any woman throw on some fishnets and take to the streets.

“However I dress, wherever I go, yes means yes and no means no”

Pretty fucking straight forward, rapists of the world. One syllable. No.

Marching the slut walk June 2011

This was my first protest – I’m not exactly gonna make a habit of it (cos, you know, I have a job) but it was oddly liberating to march from Hyde Park Corner all the way down to Piccadilly, down Haymarket and into Trafalgar Square, belting out the odd chant and spotting the best slogans with Annie the Scot and her MENTAL mates.

Is it wrong to have a #whatimwearing moment right now? Because I rocked the Slut Walk in double denim and a hot pink bikini, and let me tell you, wedges were not exactly designed for protest marches…

Mind you, when it got to Trafalgar Square, things got a tad… preachy. Amid all the man-hating and occasional mild racism (weird but true) the absolute HIGHLIGHT for me was an amazing poem read (and possibly written?) by Caitlyn (Hayward – I think?) who I believe also blogs and whatnot here. Passionate and clearly a frickin genius for playing what looked like a pretty huge part in the event organisation, she’s the kind of woman who speaks with a voice for all women. Well done lady.

All in all, an electric atmosphere with more than 3000 people (not just women) in varying states of undress marching their fabulous way through London and demanding to be paid some attention. Let’s hope it actually does something. I lasted until about 4pm, but then the glamorous West End called me into action and I had to run away to work. Annie the Scot is still there I believe, determined to start some kind of hippie style sit in. I may stop by later with starbucks…

 Sluts of London – we rocked it. I salute you.

RitziCx

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Christmas With The Orchestra

Posted on December 19, 2010 | Leave a comment

I am so full, I don’t think I can eat another thing before ACTUAL Christmas Dinner.

Last night, despite the snowdrift, I managed to make it up and across town, to the Maestro’s lavish Chiswick pad for a Christmas dinner/partay. Armed with a bottle of red and a stylish ensemble that matched my wellies, I set off, and arrived only about twenty minutes later than I would have done if there was no white stuff.

Take that weather man! Snowed in? As if. Fabulousness doesn’t stop just because there’s a couple of inches of slush on the ground!

I arrived at around 6.30, and was greeted with a ‘Christmas Shot’. I soon deduced that the Maestro and his flatmates had been drinking since around midday. There’s a recipe for a successful meal! One unfortunate individual with a hefty derriere, knocked a champagne flute over and glass shards scattered all over the kitchen floor. A simple task to clean up you say? In this house? In the Maestro’s words…

‘Where the fuck does the cleaner keep the dustpan and brush?!’

Oh dear.

The Matador’s job was the turkey. He took this role very seriously. No one was allowed to even LOOK at the turkey, lest they soak up some of it’s juices through their eyeballs.

The Weasley’s job was everything that went with the turkey. He did very well – amazing veggies, honey roasted parsnips, crispy roast potatoes and a very respectable attempt at a festive risotto for me, the lone and difficult vegetarian in the corner.

The Maestro’s job, after swanning around looking fabulous dressed in a Christmas apron and repeating ‘I wanted to get a chef in, but they wouldn’t let me you know’, was the wine cellar.

There were three of these. One, where you may expect, in the kitchen. Here lived twelve bottles of red and an extensive collection of spirits. Despite actually being a drinks cart in the middle of the kitchen, the Maestro showed remarkable commitment by miming ‘heading downstairs to the cellar’ every single time any one needed a top up.

Now, as the fridge was stuffed with food already, he had needed to be a bit more creative when it came to the mixers, six bottles of white, two bottles of rose and the obligatory bottle of prosecco. The answer? Put them on the window sill of course. One outside the dining room, one outside the bathroom. Three floors up. In West London. In the middle of a blizzard.

Three courses and three Christmas karaoke CD’s later, a fleet of cars show up (lord only knows how the rest of London can’t even manage to hail a cab in the snow and the Maestro books five at once) ready to ferry us back to various parts of the Arctic.

The Maestro leaves me with these – completely irrelevant but hilarious all the same – words of wisdom;

‘Sticks and stones may break my bones… but fuck it. I’ve got BUPA.’

Merry Christmas!

RitziC and the crazies of London Town x

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Maxie’s Back In London… Equilibrium Is Restored

Posted on December 18, 2010 | Leave a comment

Calloo callay, Maxie’s back in Londinium. After a long day of Christmas shopping (during which I found a gift so truly made for the woman that I have no doubt you will find out what it is in her own blog once she opens it) we met at the Tree and polished off several glasses of the red stuff, before heading to the theatre.

We had half a bottle left – so Maxie expertly hid this in her bag and managed to sneak it into the theatre. Epic fail Duchess staff! Wouldn’t have managed that in my day!

Love Story: Lovely songs and pretty people and whatnot, but essentially the story is, boy meets girl, they fall in love, she gives up her life long dream while he gets to keep his, and then she dies.

Inspiring.

Anyhoo, if you’ve read Maxie’s blog today, you will know that we discussed the photographic exploits of the Jockey and his shortcomings in great detail.

I stumbled home at midnight – in the SNOW by the way, what an inconvenience – and sure enough, the snap happy one began his late night textathon again.

Jockey: ‘Did you get bored of our game the other night, or did you just not like my cock?’

I owe my witty response to Maxie in every way, and give credit here to her words of wisdom when examining the evidence earlier that evening.

Ritzi: ‘I believe I sent the last message, thank you very much. And that was not cock, that was pubic hair and half a ball. Come on.’

Jockey: ‘What! There was a full blown one!’ *insert dirty joke here*

Ritzi: ‘Must have slipped my mind…’

Jockey: ‘I hope I didn’t send it to the wrong person!’

Ritzi: ‘How close am I to ‘mum’ in your phone book?’

And then I received the latest photo in his long line of headshots. A photo which I may send to Maxie, should she want a giggle. A photo which I’m sure he thought made him look all manly and hairy and erect, but due to the unfortunate placing of his hand holding the phone so very close to the bathroom mirror, made his cock look pretty much in proportion to his pinky.

Poor foolish Jockey. So lacking in camera skills.

There is a shed load of snow in the world today. I am supposed to be going for a Christmas dinner at the Maestro’s house this evening. I’m supposed to get there at 7.30, maybe I should leave now…

Rest assured, the Jockey’s cock shot will be passed around post dinner, if the bottle of Rioja I’m taking along with me has anything to do with it. I’m sure he’d do the same.

Jolly good job I’m not stupid enough to send anyone a picture of my lady place, isn’t it?

RitziCx

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Sometimes A City Gal Just Needs To Go Strawberry Picking

Posted on July 7, 2010 | Leave a comment

After months of slaving away in my new fabulous – yes impossibly stressful – job, I finally rewarded myself with a little vacation…

…in the midlands.

You’d be surprised how relaxing the great boring British countryside can be compared to the constant sweaty skanky reality that is the West End, and let me tell you I was desperate for it. Friday was pretty much a write off, seeing as we decided it was Pimms o’clock by about 4pm, then had to dash off to the launch of West End Live at 6, followed by some gruelling greek tragedy at the National. The rest of the weekend you’ve heard about, which brings us careering madly to Monday.

Ahhhhh Monday. The day I upped sticks, packed a humungous suitcase and fled the city! I won’t bore you too much with the details, but suffice to say I spent a positively delightful week – mostly horizontal on a sun lounger – tanning, shopping, eating ‘PYO’ strawberries and drinking champagne. By the end of the week I was well and truly convinced that I didn’t need to go back to the city, and could absolutely imagine a life in the country writing books and wandering country lanes.

Then I checked my work emails and the idea exploded in a shower of glitz and glamour. Oh yeah, that’s why I moved to London! Back with my feet on the ground once more, I lasted 6 days and then headed back to the sweatbox on the hottest day of the year so far, back in time for a BBQ on my decking and a few more hours of sunbathing with the roomies.

I don’t want to live in the country… I mean, come on… how am I going to get bingo points in a field?

Ooo… now there’s a mental image…

Back to the moral folks. It’s nice to get away from time to time, especially when it’s to a massive country estate with acres of land and pretty ponies to amuse you, but it’s always good to come back to London.

Because London is where we make the money for such adventures.

That is all.

RitziCx

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