Sit back! But listen up closely...

Last night's gig was great — I spent most of it staring up at Jean Grae pretending it was me bouncing around with the mic telling everybody how awesome I am.

I've wanted to be a black female rapper since I was 12, when, like all the greatest hip-hop stars, I penned my first rhyme. It was shit. But that didn't stop me and my best friend, the Most Beautiful Girl in the School, going from classroom to classroom performing it for Red Nose Day. Again, like all the greatest hip-hop stars, we were rappers with a conscience, so we performed to raise awareness about, um, homeless people. Presumably because we'd been so affected by the overwhelming homeless problem in our sleepy Snowdonian villages, hey.

Because we rehearsed so often, I can still remember it word for word today — just like everybody else from my school can still parrot the Lord's Prayer in Welsh, for example, and Ice Ice Baby. Being rich white kids ourselves, there was an obvious Vanilla Ice influence in our style, but I like to think our rap had more substance than his waffle about harpoons and poisonous mushrooms.

Sit back!
But listen up closely,
We're rapping our rap,
That's the rap we rap mostly.
Because there's people,
Out on the street,
Shivering all over,
From their heads to their feet.
Do you forget 'em?
Toss 'em away?
It's a worldwide problem,
And it's here to stay.
Unless we make money,
And make it real fast,
Get back to reality,
And bury the past!
Yeah!

When we got to the bit that said "shivering all over" we wrapped our arms around our chests and mimicked being cold. When we got to the bit that said "toss 'em away" the whole class burst into hysterical laughter and missed the important call-to-action at the end.

"It's not funny!" I said, indignantly. "We're raising money for homeless people, it's a serious issue!"

"Oh God," muttered the Most Beautiful Girl in the School. "I can't believe you just made me say 'toss' in front of the whole of 2A."

NB. I'm thinking of starting a new feature on le blonk called "Cringey Thursday", where I publish really embarrassing pieces of writing from my adolescence. If you have anything you want to contribute, send it to me and I will publicly humiliate you.

Something a little less rappy

One of the things I like most about Dublin — which almost makes up for leaving my whole life behind me in Iceland — is being able to see live music every night of the week. Not that I've actually been to see any live music yet, having had no friends here to go with, but it's nice to know the option is there should a gang of people ever turn up on my doorstep and ask me if I want to "hang out".

I'm very excited about tonight, though, because I'm going to see Talib Kweli and Jean Grae — two of my favourite rappers — and Bjarni is coming with me, despite his favourite music being "death mega metal", or whatever it's called. I'm not sure he realises what we're going to see. At least, I haven't mentioned that it was a Talib Kweli record on the stereo that made him ask, "Can we change the music please? At least put on something that's a little less rappy?"

But it's too late now, huzzah, tickets are bought and I'm getting into my tracksuit as I type.

The worst thing about going to the gym

The worst thing about going to the gym, except for actually having to do some exercise, is the music. It's like being at a Polish disco — all We will we will rock you and I am horny horny horny.

But what else should you expect in a room full of women on treadmills trying to make themselves smaller and men lifting weights trying to make themselves taller?

Disappointingly, I don't have a horse

Luckily I found a dress that suits me — plain, raggedy, and completely unfashionable — just in time for the Google summer party this weekend. Yes, the Google summer party: geeks outdoors, lolz.

Of course, it's monsoon season here in Dublin, but that wasn't going to stop me. I quite fancied myself in a wet and clingy dress anyway — rainwater pouring off my Celtic locks and bits of skirt billowing out behind me as I ride my wild horse across the sands.

Disappointingly, I don't have a horse, so I had to get a taxi instead. But first I took Tallulah's advice and smoothed my inner thighs with talcum powder to prevent any "chub chafe". I haven't used talc since I was, I dunno, three months old or something, and God, it felt good. It's a bit messy though, and in my rush I managed to get it all over my face. Unfortunate, then, that I ran out of the door and immediately flagged down a cop car by mistake.

I really must start wearing my glasses every time I leave the house.

Now I understand how Pluto must have felt

The Wikipedia page that my mystery admirer wrote about me has been nominated for deletion. Apparently, "the subject of the article may not satisfy the notability guideline for biographies." In other words, I am not important enough.

Bjarni is unsympathetic. He says it's amazing I ever got a page written about me in the first place — am I sure it wasn't my mum who wrote it? Yes, I'm sure! At least, I think I'm sure. Hmmph. I wish I'd never had a stupid Wikipedia page to begin with. Now I understand how Pluto felt when all of a sudden it wasn't a planet anymore.

On a dancefloor in northern England

"I feel like I'm being unfaithful!"

"You're just having some fun! Bjarni will understand!"

"I don't mean Bjarni, I mean Lily Allen! This is Girls Aloud we're dancing to, right?"

Picturing myself wafting about at festivals

Now that Ireland has heatwaves just like every other place on this latitude, I think I'll buy a summer dress. If you've been paying attention then you'll know that I used to be a boy called Tom, so this isn't quite as simple as it might sound. I don't have much experience of casual dress-wearing, but all of a sudden I like the idea — I can just picture myself wafting about in it at festivals; maybe I'll even tuck a flower behind my ear.

Unfortunately, the fashion of the moment seems to be swirly-patterned maternity wear. Now, apart from the great camouflage disaster of the 90s, I don't wear patterned clothes — because I already have patterned skin. All you people with smooth tans are welcome to these horrible prints, but if I want to make the most of my gingerness then I need something plain.

As for the maternity cut, well, I guess I could get used to it. Just as long as strangers don't try to rub my belly in that intrusive way that's usually reserved for pregnant women.

Life abroad is just one adventure after another

Having spectacularly failed to make any friends whatsoever on a Friday night out in Dublin, I spent the following day with Bjarni in Phoenix Park — where I discover he doesn't know what stinging nettles are.

"Stinging nettles?" he asks, as I try to avoid them in my bare feet. "What are they?"

I look at him in disbelief. I want to sting him with one! It's not that I want to hurt him — I love him — but I feel he's missed out on something, somehow. And Bjarni loves science experiments. I just want to see him wince, and then quickly find him a dock leaf to rub tenderly over the small white bumps.

Of course, I don't want to sting my own hand in the process. But luckily we have a badminton set with us, and so I spend the rest of the afternoon aiming the shuttlecock into the bushes.

My spectacular friend-making mission

Having spent the past three months as a hermit, I've decided it's about time I got myself out and about in Dublin on my spectacular friend-making mission.

The problem with a plan like this, however, is that just being on a spectacular friend-making mission in the first place tends to scare people off. Friend-hunting is much trickier than man-hunting, because you can't lure them in with the false promise of sex at the end of the night. Well, you could, but somewhere down the line you're going to have to say the words, "I'm sorry, but I just don't like you in that way" and go back to drinking Stella in the park on your own every Saturday afternoon.

Still, I have some secret tactics up my sleeve, and, as soon as I finish my next Cosmopolitan, I'm off to try them out on innocent members of the public. I'll report back.

90% of Americans don't even have passports

Why is it always the British who use this (greatly exaggerated) statistic smugly, as if it somehow proves us to be so much less ignorant than them? Um, it doesn't. We need passports just to get over to France for 40 quid on the Eurostar — otherwise we'd end up camping in our own gardens twice a year.

I realise it's incredibly fashionable to hate America at the moment, but, as you can probably tell by my comfortable jeans, I'm not a very fashionable person. Brits who accuse Americans of xenophobia need to have a long hard think about irony, I reckon. As Chris Cope says, "Most criticisms of the United States can be applied to the United Kingdom. You are also consumer-driven over-eaters who enjoy making fun of Germans."

And before the finger is pointed back at me for generalising about the British, I should remind you that I'm allowed to because I am one. If you don't understand that it's okay to slag off your own country then you're probably Welsh.

Because I'm a little bit afraid of heights

In my quest to be even more fabulous than I already am, I signed up for another class at the gym. Step aerobics — how hard can it be?

Arriving late, I snuck in at the back behind a panting ginger bird who I instantly felt a great affinity with — she was obviously in the same boat as me, having skipped all her PE lessons in school in favour of smoking fags behind the library with Trynette Williams. I noticed that she'd raised her steppy-box-thingy with three stackers, so I, being her long-lost soulmate, did exactly the same thing.

Now, despite very much enjoying stepping up and down on a box for the best part of an hour, I was relieved when the class finally wound down to an end. At which point the instructor yelled that that was the 10 minute warm-up over and done with.

After that I took all three of my stackers off my steppy-box-thingy. Just because I'm a little bit afraid of heights, hey.

Giraffes, Oxford Commas, and Zebras

After much thought I've decided to stop using No Flash Photography as a photo-blog and stick to the far superior Flickr instead. If you clicky-click the linky-link then you can see all my recent pics, including some from a trip at the weekend where we saw giraffes, zebras, Oxford commas, and cheetahs.

It's a wild place, Cork.

More questions answered

Some more answers to the search-terms that have brought new readers to le blonk in the last week or so.

Where can I get an Annie costume in Dublin?
Just come over to my place and I'll kit you out. I have to warn you, though, that my wardrobe is rather limited; I only wear jeans and cowboy boots, short skirts and cowboy boots, or my shiny new tracksuit and white runners.

Should I tell them that he's Welsh?
They're going to find out sooner or later, best get it out of the way as soon as possible. Although, considering where your IP address tells me you're from, perhaps a better question would be, "Should I tell him I'm from Milton Keynes?"

Where did I put my sunglasses?
I don't know, but something tells me you're not going to find them here.

Can I get a boyfriend from a foreign country online?
Yes. Boyfriends from foreign countries are great because you can put all their less attractive qualities down to the language barrier and cultural differences.

How do you pronounce Bono?
See previous post, although nobody ever actually answered the question.

How late is too late to say I love you?
After he finds out you're from Milton Keynes.

Eastenders makes me feel really good about myself!
What an odd thing to search.