You can’t be a hot bitch in a car with safety features

(or my not so triumphant return to – read: attempt at – incisive and witty commentary and regular updates)

So spaketh the (real-life Mr Furious on Saturday as the unholy trinity (Tom, former kitschbitch-er and new fridgepoet-er Nick, and myself) mused over the deliciousness that is a drop-dead sexy, totally fox-alicious sports car. And, you see, a sensible car just doesn’t cut it.

How can you maintain your gorgeous, damn-I’m-feeling-fine-just-stepped-out-of-a-shampoo/shaving/tampon-ad-and-look-more-radiant-and-shaggable-than-ever in something which screams airbags, beverage cup-holders, and extra-durable seatbelts? What you need is something shit-hot, that consumes petrol faster than a hormonal woman does chocolate, with bugger-all to prevent you from an untimely rockstar-esque death when you’re careening round hair-pin bends at ridiculous speeds.

You’ll find it all comes down to James Bond. As do many things in my wannabe-international-woman-of-mystery lifestyle. The question to ask may often be ‘What Would Brian Boitano Do?‘, but should always, unfailingly, be ‘What Would James Bond Do?’ Picture Sean Connery (at a push, Pierce Brosnan, but it won’t work with Timothy Dalton) evading the bad guys in a Volvo estate, hurtling down a deep canyon and flipping over seven times, yet unable to make the swift and speedy exit to the bar for a Martini because he’s been trapped in the vehicle by an exploding airbag. It’s all a bit too Leslie Nielsen, dahlings…

The key thing, above all, is ponce-ability. You need to be able to whack on a pair of shades, hang out the car window, and pull off a suave and sophisticated and oh-so-sexy pose, and doing so out of a Ford Cortina doesn’t hack it. Believe me, I know. Oh, how I know. There was a reason why James Bond had an Aston Martin. With go-go-gadget add-ons. Drool.

There was a point somewhere. Ah yes. As you can therefore see, sweeties, it’s an unfortunate fact of life that you can’t be a hot bitch in a car with safety features. *

* And if anyone wants to buy me one without said features, to enable me to achieve the heights of hot-bitch-dom, I will be well pleased…

Newsflash. Am not dead. Though nearly after weekend of hedonism in Amsterdam. Have sadly been neglecting blog. Have lots of fabby newsy-bloggy-linky-gossipy ideas, but no time. Will be a lot more diligent soon. Promise. Yes really.

Paypal goes international. One of the most amazing things about the web is the way in which international barriers can be broken down. And one of the things I most hate about the web is when the americentricity excludes a large number of people. But I am marginalised no longer – I can contribute with the best of them. Should I wish to upgrade to no-branding blogger, I can go right ahead. If Halcyon decided to re-open his porn fund, I could contribute away. There you go – yet another way for me to spend money I haven’t got – woo hoo!

Women ‘getting dangerously drunk’

Quite a sobering article (no pun intended) as it’s so unbelievably true, I can’t quite stress enough how much. Now, as Meg so astutely points out, being at Uni is a time quite like no other, and for most people, is basically a time when your blood goes into alcohol overload. But the thing is, that though almost everything mentioned in the article has happened to someone or other at college, you really don’t give it much of a second thought -which, when you think about it, is pretty damn scary. OK, I’ll never have a drop if I know I’m driving, and everyone I know is good enough to take the keys off someone else who’s been drinking. Yet the fact that you can come to the realisation that the only liquid intake you’ve had in the last 24 hours has been alcoholic, or that you’ve had the recommended weekly allowance in one big night out (and this isn’t necessarily me, it’s just a general trend at Uni), is, well, frightening. Definitely something that made me think whilst browsing the news, anyway…