Attack of the Dinosaur

A stegosaurus in Húnaflói, north-western Iceland, chases an albino tourist (me).

"Packing up all my stuff" loosely translates as spending the day eating Cheerios in my knickers, idly leafing through old notebooks and reading postcards that I never got round to sending.

A list I just found, dated 3rd of June 2003:

Things to do in Iceland before I die
1. Eat a whale
2. Marry a fisherman
3. Meet Björk
4. Visit glaciers
5. See the dinosaur (see pic)

Things to do in Iceland before Tuesday
1. Get new sim card
2. Find a job
3. Find somewhere to live
4. Learn Icelandic
5. Where is internet cafe?

I think learning Icelandic "before Tuesday" was a bit optimistic, hey.

Cosmopolitans

When I decided to have a cocktail party for my leaving bash I didn't really expect to have to make cocktails all night. I don't know who I thought'd do them — the butler, probably. Luckily the beautiful Birna was there to lend a hand, and expertly took over from me while I hugged my guests and nibbled on their ears by mistake.

We stuck to cosmopolitans, because they're easy, right? Apparently not. They just looked so watery, even though we followed the recipe very carefully. Of course, that "watery" look is actually vodka, so everyone was hammered. Sam, picking his words carefully, told me they were "the worst cosmopolitans he'd ever tasted in his life". But I'm still declaring the evening a massive success, if only because by midnight there was a girl crying on my bed. At least, I hope she was crying. She was sitting with her head in her hands anyway. Perhaps she was throwing up.

By 3 o'clock it was me crying on my bed. Not sobbing or lip-wobbling or anything, just taking five minutes to let my eyes get all watery. It took me so long to make all these lovely friends and now I'm saying goodbye. Thank you to everyone who came and thanks for all the lovely presents and ear nibbles — you're the best.

Eight things I have wanted to be

1. a boy
2. Courtney Love
3. black
4. the DJ
5. Mary in the school nativity play
6. skinny
7. a graphic designer
8. a writer

Eight things I have actually been:
1. a girl
2. a door-to-door stone-cladding salesperson in Croydon
3. Welsh
4. a dog groomer in a poodle parlour
5. a shephard with a tea-towel on my head
6. chubby
7. a graphic designer
8. a blonker

Inspired by Tim Footman, who I have a bit of a thing for.

Friends of Iceland

Even though I'm leaving the country I still like to think of myself as a "Friend of Iceland". Unfortunately it seems to be a tag reserved exclusively for the famous people that come here. So I'll just make do with forever being known as a "foreigner" instead.

It's easy for international celebs to be labelled Friends of Iceland. All they have to do is come here on holiday (like Jude did), try to have sex with an Icelandic teenager (like Matt Dillon did), or pretend to own Kaffibarinn (like Damon All-Bran did).

Sometimes all it takes to be a Friend of Iceland is to say something nice about the Icelanders on American television, just like Quentin Tarantino did when he said that Icelandic women are easy and if you want to get one into bed then the trick is to do it before she gets too drunk, rather than try to get her drunk.

Like he had to do back in Tennessee, presumably.

Not very bloggy lately

Huzzah, shortlisted at the Blonk Awards, thanks to everyone who voted. I'm really looking forward to the night in Dublin, seeing all those people whose blonks I read and gazing longingly at them thinking, "please be my friend, please be my friend..."

Sorry for not being very bloggy lately, but the move to Ireland is imminent and some other stuff has been going a bit crazy too. Hopefully I'll be back on track soon, neglecting all my social duties and moral responsibilities to be a proper blonker once again.

Celebrity interview: Jude Law

Jude Law is currently wetting knickers all over Iceland while he holidays here for a week. Luckily for me he's staying in the hotel next-door and very kindly agreed to a quick interview for le blonk.

Hey Jude
(Chuckles politely)

I'm going to have to ask you, how do you like Iceland?
(Laughs) Yeah, I've heard that quite a lot since I got here! It's been really, really nice so far, especially the swimming pools. All that hot water! It's amazing really.

So did you get your kit off in the shower like the rest of us have to?
(Averts eyes) Yes, sure, rules are rules.

Whatevs. Would you like to come to my leaving party?
(Looks bemused) Oh, uh, thanks but I don't think I'll be, er, able to make it...

It's a wife-swapping party.
(Looks uncomfortable) Ah, I see, well in that case! (Laughs nervously at his own little joke).

Do you have a wife anymore?
(Looks around for his agent) Um, no, actually I don't...

Well then you can't come. Sorry.
(Scrambles around for his belongings, makes his excuses, leaves).

So, that was my very short two minutes with the "dashing" Jude Law. But it's more than the nanny ever got, so I suppose I mustn't grumble.

Valentine

The first time I ever got anything for Valentine's Day was back in '91 when I was "going out with" Marvin Pedrick. We got together by default at the Christmas disco when we were the only ones left without a partner for the last dance. He was skinny and bespectacled and I was ginger and, well, ginger. We shuffled together awkwardly for the entirety of Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You while all the other kids snogged each other expertly in pairs around us.

We didn't speak to each other for the next two months (despite our friends insisting that we were "going out together") until Valentine's Day, when he gave me a string of pearls via his friend George. Real pearls. I thought this was a bit extreme for an eleven year-old boy who had never spoken to me. I dumped him immediately and didn't get anything else for Valentine's Day for another 15 years.

That'll learn me.

Spennan magnast...

I've got just over two weeks left in Iceland and I'm getting nostalgic. I've really loved it here. In the past few years I've met so many fantastic people and seen some truly jaw-dropping sights. Glaciers, northern lights, black sand deserts, the midnight sun, and Icelandic X-Factor, to name just a few.

I've learnt a lot from the Icelanders. Not Icelandic, unfortunately, but plenty of other useful things that I can take with me when I leave. For example, that there's nothing wrong with being naked. And if you want to do something then you should just go ahead and do it. And that you should never moan about things; just fix things. And, as a general rule, everything always works out okay. And that pizza and strawberry jam taste really, really good together.

In return, here are some tips of my own:

1. Cheerios are not the only breakfast cereal.
2. You don't need a 4x4 to get to Kopavogur.
3. Or a knife & fork to eat a burger.
4. There is no W in "Victoria's Secret".
5. Megas lyrics don't translate.
6. U2 are shit.
7. So is Prins Polo.
8. Nobody else remembers the Cod War.
9. I was only messing about the Kókómjólk.

It's been a wonderful three and a half years. I'll be back one day. And I'll learn Icelandic properly then, I promise. I at least want to be able to hold down one conversation that doesn't include any advertising headlines.

Spennan magnast!

Blonk Awards

Huzzah, I'm long-listed for two spots at the Irish Blonk Awards. Don't worry, any guilt I might've felt about not being a genuine Irish person is long since overshadowed by joy and wonder at the possibility of winning a shiny trophy. Are there actual shiny trophies? Or is it just some kind of PDF attachment?

Whatever, I'm due to start my new life in Dublin a couple of days before the awards night, so I'll be going along. I'm expecting it to be just like the Oscars and am already practising a convincingly delighted expression for when blogchum Sweary* scoops the lots.

Thank you to the people who nominated me, for Best Personal Blog and Best Blog Post.** Now you can vote for me too, if you like, and I'll practise putting your name in my imaginary acceptance speech.

EDIT: Please don't vote more than once! It'll just be regarded as spam and be dismissed. Takk!

*I voted for her anyway, and for my other favourites Twenty, Hangar Queen and Kav, too.

**The Best Post nomination is a bit of a surprise really because it was something I nearly deleted straight away, clutching my head thinking what have I said, what have I said?

Pobol y Cwm

Pobol y Cwm (or "People of the Valley") is the world's greatest soap-opera. Only it's in Welsh, so only three people have ever watched it.

It also happens to be the name of my funky new blonkroll, which I've rearranged to give more space to Blonks of the Week, of which there are now three. I'll update these every Thursday at 8.34, or as soon as I read something interesting — whichever comes first.

Complicated Underwear

"Every woman in the world thinks she's a 34C."

Who blogged that? I can't remember now, but it sprang to mind at the weekend when Bjarni offered to buy me some complicated underwear. Silky-lacy things with clips and straps that just don't look like they'd join up properly underneath my old jeans and hoodie.

"What bra-size are you?" asked the orange La Senza lady, eyeing me up and down suspiciously.

"Erm... 34C?" I guessed, randomly, not wanting to admit that I don't wear a bra at all. She squinted at my chest. Dubiously. Then she suggested I get measured up properly before trying anything on.

She was dubious, it turns out, not because she thought I was exaggerating (which I never, ever do) but because I'm actually a 32F. Thirty-two F?! How is that even possible? That's as big as Jordan, isn't it? And when I say "Jordan" I mean the Middle-Eastern country, not the English glamour model. My tits* are massive!

Next time I'm home I'm going to reliable old Marks & Spencers for a second opinion. And an uncomplicated, supportive bra.

*"It's okay for girls to say tits, it sounds all liberated and stuff. It's just a bit grubby when blokes say it. Like black people using the N word." — King Lance

Liars and Lunatics

No post this weekend, I'm on a romantic mini-break. With Rabbit.

Plenty of fun to be had over at Liars and Lunatics though, where I'm proud to be LC's first choice in his series of interviews with his favourite blonkers.

Uh, I mean bloggers.