Pirate's Eye

I have "Pirate's Eye", apparantly. In a cinematography lecture yesterday we were told that there's always one student who can't keep their left eye shut when they're trying to look through the camera. Instead they stand there winking like an eejit. Of course, that one student is me. I now have to wear an eye-patch in the studio, rather like Long John Silver, or that Gabrielle chick who sang "Dreams can come true, except that one I had about getting my lazy eye fixed, la la la".

I'm not great with technology at the best of times. I was crap with the camera, zooming when I should be panning and vice versa. I can't get one hand to do one thing while the other hand does another (hence my inability to do That Thing That Men Like).

Anyway, it doesn't matter that I'm not good at some things, because, as it turns out, I am brilliant at other things; like visual storytelling. We all had to pitch a 2 minute film idea today and I won hands-down. Everybody laughed at all the right places (even though my idea came from quite a traumatic public experience I once had on an escalator). On Monday we vote for the film we want to make first. I can feel my competitive streak kicking in, because I dashed home from class to draw up my storyboard without so much as stopping for a pint at The Thirsty Dog.

The carrier pigeon has flown

It is with great regret that this evening I have had to send a carrier-pigeon from London back to the villagers of Dolwyddelan, North Wales.

The pigeon carries the news that, after spending Day One at the London Film Academy, I have come to fear the making of our awesome film may be slightly more complicated than previously anticipated.

From the director of ... nothing.

The trouble with announcing to everybody that you're going to make a film is that once you've started to talk about it, you actually have to go ahead and do it otherwise you sound like a right twat. Rather like the time I declared in the local pub that, "I'm going to move far away from here! Iceland, probably." Of course I didn't really mean it, but the next thing I knew I was being waved off at the village train station, no job, no home, just a rucksack on my back and a one-way ticket to Reykjavik.

So last night in the pub everyone wanted to know what this "film" is going to be about. Well, that's the problem. I still haven't come up with anything decent to write about. Mary wants it to be about an old woman who drowns squirrels in the river, but I told her it can't just all be about her. My friend Samantha from Sex and the City offered to act, so now everyone's expecting a porn flick.

Luckily I start film school in London on Tuesday, so that's giving everyone great hope and backing up our great claims a bit. I have to make four 3-minute films over the month that I'm there, so maybe one weekend I'll pop back to Dolwyddelan with a storyboard and one of those things you clap together when you shout "take two!".

A long time ago, in a village far away...

The first night back at Forest Lodge with my folks is always the best. By the second day the novelty has worn off, by the third we're starting to get on each other's nerves, and by day four alcohol poisoning has kicked in. But the first night is brilliant. My dad cooks my favourite meal, my mother lights the log fire in the living room, and the three of us (and Pablo the dog*) get absolutely hammered on cheap red wine and Icelandic vodka in the evening sunshine.

This time we've come up with a plan. The four of us, and my brother Fergus who doesn't know it yet, are going to make a short film together. I'll write the script, Mary will produce, Bruce will be on cameras, Ferg will write and record the soundtrack, and Pablo will sit around panting and licking his own balls. I have no idea yet what it's going to be about, but it's going to be, um, awesome.

*He was already named when they got him. Fergus and I, however, were not.

Hello England

English football hooligans are such twats, aren't they?

Sitting outside in a rather low-cut top, enjoying the balmy British weather, I heard the approaching group of footie fans call out, "Nice tits love!"

Feeling rather pleased (I mean, "degraded") I lifted my sunglasses to get a better look at them. "Not you darlin'!" one of them laughed, "Yours are 'orrible!"

'Orrible! What? Are they sure? I've always thought my tits are quite nice, actually. Next to my fingernails (strong and healthy) and my ears (delicate and shell-like) I think they're my best feature. They are rather small, admittedly, and white, but they are also pert and firm and I have the pinkest nipples this side of Puppy-dogs-nose-ville.

I thought of tens of incredibly witty and cutting retorts*, but, of course, by that time the louts had sauntered off down the road and were out of ear-shot. So I just sat there with my mouth open and my 'orrible breasts sulking beneath my top.

*Such as: "No they're not! They're quite nice actually!" and "Fuck off, twats".

Goodbye Iceland

Today is my last day at work for 5 weeks. Tomorrow I leave for the UK, off to spend a month at the London Film Academy. My intention was to develop my communication and screenwriting skills, but right now, with the holidays imminent, all I feel like doing is making really self-indulgent, really pretentious, really "arty" films that nobody will ever want to watch. Probably in black and white.

Can't wait.

Smoking causes aging of the skin

The best thing about giving up smoking is that I look better. I really don't care about cancer, heart disease, having my legs amputated or getting one of those holes cut in my throat. Let's face it: those things will Never Happen To Me.

No, it's the health warning declaring that SMOKING CAUSES AGING OF THE SKIN that worked for me. There is no antidote. Not even drinking 17 pints of water a day. And those Clinique products only work if you've been eating them since you were seven. I am kicking myself for demanding that Swingball when all along I could have gotten repairwear anti-gravity lift.

The worst thing about giving up smoking is that I'm simply Just Not That Cool Anymore. I miss having an air of "I don't care about dying young" about me, a la James Dean. I miss standing outside with the cool (cold) kids at parties (although I tend to do it anyway). I miss looking nonchalant on my own in bars when I'm actually just wondering when the hell my friends are going to show up.

But besides that, I'm six months off them sometime this week and I feel great. Richer, cleaner, more beautiful and more fabulous than before. Just not as cool.

Oh God

Oh god. Why can't I get outrageously, embarrassingly drunk in front of a bar full of strangers? Why does it have to be at The Boyfriend's bosses' Eurovision party at their beautiful home in the suburbs?

I was warned about the punch—that it was probably lethal—but I couldn't believe that something that tasted like Ribena could be alcoholic, so I knocked it back like it was, em, Ribena.

I quickly developed a drunken crush on the only teenager at the party. Was hoping it had gone unnoticed, but The Boyfriend pointed out that not only was I laughing far too loudly at his jokes, letting my hand linger too long on his lower back, but I let him go home with my gorgeous pink Diesel sunglasses. Oh god. Have turned into middle-aged desperate old perv overnight. Should have been wearing leopard-print and drinking gin & tonics.

After hogging the mic on Singstar™ for the best part of an hour (oh god, can't sing at all, especially not Madonna, Cher, Franz Ferdinand or Kylie) I wisely decided, much to everyone's relief, that it was time for bed and went home only to vomit all over my bedroom. The Boyfriend very kindly got me a bucket and held my hair out of my face (even though it's not really long enough to get in my face in the first place). Oh god. Haven't thrown up from drinking since my first night out in Reykjavík, when I fell outside of Bar 11 to puke in the gutter — only to go straight back in and get off with some random English guy by mistake. Oh god. Have regressed back to an unruly teenager overnight. Should have been wearing Doc Martens and drinking super-strength cider.

Am going to try to stay sober now until at least Wednesday, when I leave for London and will have no choice but to get drunk on nasty Asti with old friends.

I hate Big Brother. Yes, really.

Having been declared a "lying bastard" over at Oshiblog (we grew up together, he can call me anything he likes) I feel a need to defend myself.

Yes I hate Big Brother! I hate it I hate it I hate it. What I don't understand is why anybody would even consider applying for it. I mean, if you really feel a need to spill your guts out, demonstrate all your character flaws, and totally humiliate yourself in front of potentially millions of viewers, why not just get a blog?

The World Cup

Why did I go and choose June to live in London? I have little to no interest in football. How I ended up with a sports channel as a client I don't know, but I've spent the best part of three years working on pictures of Thierry Henry. Which has been nice.

I would much rather be here in sunny Iceland for this than in sweaty London desperately trying to find pubs without television sets. Are there any pubs without TVs in Britain? I think that was one of the reasons I left: the crap pubs. And the even crappier wine bars. With the obligatory over-used Oscar Wilde quotes on the walls. And the television sets. In pubs.

Nah, I don't mean to sound so grumpy about London. I do love it really. I just can't believe my timing. I'm only interested in international sports tournaments when at least one of my three teams play. And seems my three teams consist of Wales, Ireland, and Iceland (in that exact order) this competition really isn't going to be that gripping for me.

Snog the DJ

The word "DJ" does to women what the word "sister" does to men. It conjures up visions of a very sexy, very attractive, very cool member of the opposite sex.

My friend Eavan got off with the DJ on Saturday night. I’m impressed.

You were a lesbian once, weren't you darling?

I was at a dinner party at my parents' house one night a few years ago. I had a gay friend with me, so naturally the conversation was centred on sex. How do gays always manage to do that? Centre the conversation on sex, I mean, not "how do gays manage to have sex?".

Just as my father was carving the roast beef, he leaned towards my mother and boomed in his big English accent, "You were a lesbian once, weren't you darling?"

Indignantly, my lapsed Catholic Irish mother exclaimed, "No darling! I was not. Just because I had sex with another woman doesn't make me a lesbian!"

Arrfgh, there's a shark after me

The problem with trying to stay in shape by going to the pool is that I usually end up just sitting in the hot-tub for an hour. Which, not surprisingly, doesn't really seem to be doing much for me as far as muscle-tone is concerned.

I do try swimming 5 million lengths, but the truth is I'm only any good at doggy-paddle. While everyone else effortlessly glides through the water, my arms and legs thrash about wildly as I try to get from one side to the other in under 20 minutes.

A good trick to speed myself up is to play that classic head-game, Arrfgh! There's a shark after me! It's very encouraging — if a little emotionally exhausting.

Stevie Wonder

Every pair of sunglasses I try on make me look 200 x cooler and more attractive. Strangely, regular glasses have the exact opposite effect.

I have to get my eyes tested. If I'm told I have impaired vision then I'm going to get shades with lenses made up. I refuse to walk around looking like a bloody librarian. I would rather look like Stevie Wonder.

When is Bob Dylan going to die?

Q. Why couldn't he have snuffed it at 27 years old like all the other musical geniuses of the world?

A. Because if he had died a premature rock 'n' roll death we'd be subjugated to years upon years worth of tribute albums and memorial concerts.

I really, truly hope he outlives me.

BMX

Bjarni and I have taken to getting up at ridiculous o'clock, cycling down to the BMX track (on our mountain bikes, I hasten to add), and practicing jumps before work.

When I was a kid I lived on a council estate in England for about 5 minutes. There was, of course, the obligatory BMX track at the end of our street, filled with impossibly cool 10 year olds smoking crack and doing wheelies. God, I wished I was one of them. But seems I was only 3 years old on a pink tricycle I never really stood a chance.

So these days I choose to sneak down to the track at dawn, before the other kids come along and steal my dinner money. It's mad fun. I am shit at ramps but I felt fucking cool anyway. Okay, I only did the smallest one, and I went over it so slowly that my wheels barely left the ground, but by next week I'll be flying, I swear.

"I like all music. Except country of course"

Why do people always say that? Philistines.

Films I have never seen

Amelie
Being a snobby and pretentious lover of French Cinema, I'm sure I will adore this film (doesn't everybody?). Although I'm not sure we really need any more foreign language flicks about beautiful yet kooky women*. Anyway, that Tatou bird has gone and ruined herself for me by starring in The Da Vinci Code.

The Da Vinci Code
Is it even out yet? Oh well, I won't be going to see it when it is. But I will probably write a scathing review of it anyway.

Basic Instinct / Fatal Attraction
Not sure which one is which, but I think one is about Sharon Stone boiling a bunny, and the other is about Sharon Stone uncrossing her legs in such a way that we all get to see her flange. (I really must check out the flange one as I have tried doing this in front of a mirror and don't quite get how she does it without her muff hidden by shadow).

The Matrix
I look down on people who say this is their favourite film. I can do that without seeing it simply because I am awesome.

Schindler's List
Thought this film jumped head-first into the plot a bit quickly, starting with this Schindler dude making his list. Also thought it was a bit strange that it only lasted 45 minutes, and that we didn't really see all that much suffering; rather just people being saved from certain doom.

Then I realised it was split onto two disks, and I'd gone and watched the second one first by mistake. Didn't really feel like watching the first half after knowing what happens (spoiler: the war ends), so still haven't seen it from start to finish.

Finding Nemo / Shrek / The Lion King etc
The last children's film I saw was Roger Rabbit in 1988: when I was a child.

Dirty Dancing / Grease
Does this make me a lesbian?

*Which is a shame, really, seems the only screenplay I've managed to start writing so far is a foreign language flick about a beautiful yet kooky woman.

The Ultimate Comfort Food

Feeling much better now, thanks. Nothing cheers a girl up more than 7 episodes of Cold Feet and 2 kilos of plokkfiskur.

Plokkfiskur is one of the Icelanders' greatest inventions. Really; it's right up there with Björk, geothermal water, and those funny little horses (don't call them ponies).

It's basically just mashed up fish all mushed together with mashed potato; but there's no potential crisis that it can't give comfort to: periods; being cheated on; being cheated on while you're on your period; hearing that your dog is dead; hearing that your dog is dead while you're on your period; hearing that your dog isn't quite dead and could somebody please back the car up etc.

Yes, mashy fish, a box-set of mediocre British "dromedy" and I'm adamant there'll be no more pen-dropping in the boardroom today.

Oh dear

You know those days when you just want to cry all the time?

In the boardroom today, during a client meeting, I was forced to "accidentally" drop my pen on the floor just so I could steal 5 minutes to hide under the table.

Luckily I had my eyelashes dyed recently so I wasn't sporting dead-giveaway mascara-cheeks when I finally resurfaced.

Words that I have never been able to spell

I was a champion speller when I was a little kid. It’s a pity being an annoying swot wasn’t fashionable back then like it is now. I would have loved the chance to have starred in the BBC's Hard Spell — despite running the risk of being beaten up in the playground afterwards.

I wouldn't have made it very far, however, had they quizzed me on any of the following:

Accross
If somebody else spelt it like this I’d think they were a right twat.

Restaraunt
Being a lady wot likes to lunch, I should know this one. But I just can’t get the U in the right place. Ever.

Definitley
According to Dictionary.com this is one of the most looked-up words of last year. This only makes me feel all the more common.

Eachother
As far as I’m concerned this is one word and always has been. So why does my spell-check insist I put a space in it?

Meditteraenean
Yeah well, whatever.

Another post about The Rabbit

The Rabbit has a long bit sticking out of the base of the penis, with two funny ears on top.

It's just like having a real man in your bed.

Paris Hilton is late.

Why does every single celebrity interview in every single women's magazine have to fill the first two columns with an anecdote about the interviewee's timekeeping skills?

Paris Hilton is late. Sarah Jessica Parker is late. Renée Zellweger is bang on time*. Angelina; Brad; Jen: they're all late.

I really don't care.

*Well, she has to have something going for her.

Trúnó

Trúnó is when you drink a few too many beers at the annual work party and suddenly realise that guy from marketing is your best friend. Oh yes. He's going to hear all about your broken relationship / embarrassing itch / dead dog / how much you respect him even though you’ve never spoken to him in your life (delete as appropriate).

I will never forget my first Icelandic trúnó. It was the night our agency won 58 Ímark awards. Being rather new to advertising—and to Iceland for that matter—I guess I got a bit over-excited. Somehow I ended up spending the best part of the evening sobbing on the shoulder of Hilmar, the finance director. He was very nice to me, if a little confused.

Now it’s time for our annual party again, although Hilmar has since left (thank God). We’re all heading up north on Saturday to go snow-mobiling on a glacier, staying at a remote hotel on Snæfellsnes peninsula.

I am certain it will end in tears: the free bar will see to that. But this year they won’t be mine. I hope, I hope.

1976 – The Golden Year of Porn

Bjarni turned 30 on Saturday. This didn't phase me at all as, bizarrely, he'd already told me he was 30 when I met him 5 months ago. He had a party at his place to celebrate; a theme of 1976.

I was responsible for the punch. Now, I may be an extremely responsible person but I do not want to be responsible for any post-party fall-out. So while I am tempted to write up a really gossipy report (who was fingering who in the kitchen etc), I fear for my Icelandic friends. Jobs would be lost; marriages would fall apart; the Sheriff would be called out.

Great stuff.