Sunday, November 02, 2008

Lagos Island Iced Tea

So in a bid to rescue my ailing blog career, I have gone and set up a new blog.

Let's see what happens with this one, shall we?

It's called Lagos Island Iced Tea.

(I should be able to keep it up seeing as all I do in this bloody city is eat, drink and party!)


Thursday, October 23, 2008

This Little Piggy Went To Market

I am distinctly more 'rotund' than the last time I blogged. 'Rotund' is probably too much of a euphemism. I am just plain 'corpulent' i.e. F.A.T.

It was to be expected. Not only am I living at home where there is an excellent 24 hour pancake machine in the form of my cook, I am working in a team with the 4 little piggies. We have our own plantain chips supplier for goodness' sake!

I am doomed.

Oh and did I mention that I'm shelling out 120% of my youth corper salary on a personal trainer who comes twice a week, yet I'm STILL putting on weight?

I am really doomed.

I need to get my teeth wired.


Tuesday, August 05, 2008


I didn't break my resolution! Ok technically I did, but morally I didn't, because I wrote a post, I just didn't publish it. It was a general moan about the weight I have put on over the past few months, and about the relative strangers who had taken it upon their not so tactful selves to point it out to me (not a very engaging read).

I'm suffering from blogger's block. I'm hoping something comes along soon to break this spell!

Friday, July 25, 2008

Let the Healing Begin

For the second time in my blog career, I have changed my blog's URL. Gone is the awkward and impossible to remember etcetera hyphen etceteroo link, and in its place is the original, the one and the only, bitchyinthecity dot blogspot dot com.

Why did I decide to revert to my original URL? I don't know. Perhaps because I've come full circle? I don't think so. I have claimed to have "come full circle" so many times on this blog now, that I no longer know what "coming full circle" really means!

I am a permanent resident of the good city of Lagos now. It's still such a scary thought, that I have trouble saying it out loud. If you are a personal friend of mine, you could be forgiven for thinking me bonkers on reading that last sentence, as all I have done for the past few months is moan and groan about London, how dreary it is, and about how much happier I would be if I were at home.

If you know me however, you also know that I am somewhat schizophrenic, and that I can be in love with something today and despise it tomorrow. This illness is reflected in the number of websites I possess on the world wide web, the bastard children of many business ideas that I threw my whole being into for a period, and then dumped without so much as a backward glance a few weeks later.

I have begun to worry that this schizophrenia is getting in the way of my progress in all respects. The fear of commitment is what I probably really suffer from. That, and getsboredreallyeasily syndrome. My shoddy treatment of my blog is testament enough to this and I am really getting sick of it.

I'm turning over a new leaf. I intend to blog once a week religiously, regardless of whether or not I have something to say. I'm giving myself a royal kick up the bum which, if it works, could cure me of this unbearable inertia.

Hmmm... I wonder what I'll write about during the week? Oh dear. I can feel the panic already beginning to settle.

Friday, July 04, 2008

The Perfect Way to End a Dull Day - 10 Easy, Quick and Pain-Free Steps

It’s Friday afternoon and I’m at my desk in an office somewhere in the City of London sipping an icy mojito from a flourescent orange Winnie the Pooh mug.

How did this happen you might ask?

Well... Let’s just say I got bored at work, very bored in fact, and in the middle of an email exchange with an equally bored friend who was also sat at her desk somewhere not too far from me in the City, decided I needed a drink... a nice summery drink with which to lift my ailing spirits.

For the record, I am not an alcoholic... I am just a very bored intern. Yes... that’s right, I’m interning yet again... and no I’m not thrilled about it. (The last time I filled out a form asking for my ‘Occupation’ I came dangerously close to writing ‘Recurring Intern’ on it!)

Today is my last day at the firm and the mojito is my goodbye present to myself. For anyone who finds themselves in a similar predicament, my advice to you would be as follows:
(1) Grab a long coat, your wallet and security pass (or whatever it is you need to get around the building),
(2) Walk stealthily to the department kitchenette, and grab the largest mug you can find and fill it with a little water,
(3) Whilst sipping slowly so as not to attract attention, head for the stairwell so that it looks like you’re headed to another floor rather than outside,
(4) If no one is in the stairwell, empty the mug and wrap the coat around it so that it’s concealed on all sides,
(5) Make for the exit, smiling at the security guards as you walk past,
(6) Head to the bar next door and place your order,
(7) Grab your drink and find a table in the corner,
(8) Unwrap the mug, tip the drink into the empty mug and wrap the coat back around the mug being careful not to spill it,
(9) Walk back into the office building with your head held high,
(10) Sit at your desk, unwrap your purchase and sip on it to your heart’s content.

Have a lovely weekend bloggies! Xxx

Sunday, June 01, 2008

The Big Q

I have a question for the writers and producers of Sex And The City...

What do Big and Carrie do when one of them needs to do a really noisy, gassy poo and the other's wide awake in the next room?

It's just a question... I know they definitely didn't think about that when putting the new movie together, and personally, I think they ought to have given it some thought.

If they're going to make every single one of us compare our real life relationships to Big and Carrie's on-screen romance, the least they could do is toss in a few not-so-glamorous scenes for our viewing pleasure.

Surely there must be days when Big's breath forces Carrie to hold hers for an uncomfortably long period of time whilst they're locked in one of their perfectly choreographed smooches?

As a die-hard fan I would like to know these intimate details of their relationship. I think it's only fair.

Friday, April 04, 2008

Biyi Bandeezy in the Heezy for Sheezy

Apologies to Biyi Bandele and Farafina (dear Anwuli too!) for this.

I know it's coming on here soooo late. But folks! I'm in Lagos... AND I have MALARIA yet again!! (Not new malaria... the same friggin one... from the SAME bloody India... which I'm still determined to go back to at least once this year mind you!)

So my forgiveness is required right now from everyone. Lol! Even from the Mister Bloody Fanutastiki himself! :)

P.S. Yes I know I am the luckiest and stupidest dog alive (simultaneously mind you) that you probably know right now.

P.P.S. But shey you understand me a little better for it at least. Not so? Let me know, even if it's just to say you've already met the very famous Mr. Biyi Bandele. He is so unbelievably cool and even Mr. F has the photos to friggin prove it!

P.P.P.S. I haven't even had the time to review his book on this very blog by the way! AND I still think it's so damn amazing, even though I only started AND finished it last week. Okay?

Will try and come back today! But I've gotta go to my very amused/ irritated/ angry doc first!

Tory plenty for this side ooooooh! Xxx

P.P.P.P.S. Okay I tried. The dumb PDF file won't even work. I knew it! I'll come back later.

THE READING IS TOMORROW AT THE BRITISH COUNCIL IN IKOYI IN LAGOS! If you would like to know details for Abuja, Kano etc etceterooo, try Jeremy Weate first and then second!

Friday, March 14, 2008

City of Mugus

In my hotel, it costs $16 to use the internet for 24 hours (mad), $14 for coffee and orange juice if you buy it in the restaurant (shocking), and $30 if you send for it through room service (outrageous!)

The last time I was in New York City, I had a whale of a time. Everything was so new and so fresh and so exciting. The noise, the stench, the mad folk... it all went down pretty well with me. I was a happy bunny.

Now I find myself easily sparked off and ready to bash a cab driver over the head with my handbag whenever he has the audacity to attempt to keep my change. I have also taken to tipping less than 10% if a waiter's service has been satisfactory, and 10% if it has been good (apparently this is an abomination, it should only ever be 15 and above). I have also refused to tip the many doormen and luggage boys I have encountered, and no there ain't been no $2 on my pillow for the turn down maid either.

You may think I am doing this because I am a cheapscate, but that is only half the truth. I am doing this because I am pissed off. Why does every "service provider" or "facilitator" in this place think it my duty to contribute to his financial wellbeing?

Last time I was here, my friends gave me some long shpeel about waiters etc receiving only the minimum wage and being expected to make it up through tips. Now my question was, and still is, is that my business? Did I sign up (when I queued for 30 mins for one bloody stamp at stinky Newark airport) to any agreement that somehow made me responsible for the shafting of all workers in the "Tri-State Area"?

Yesterday, I had lunch. The bill came --> $55. I put down --> $60.

Waiter (who took bloody ages to do anything, talk less of proffer a smile) goes "You're leaving a $5 tip?" in the frostiest tone ever.

I looked him square in the eye and said "Yes" and then I left, to the backing track of his mumbling and muttering.

I ask you... since when did gratuity become compulsory? If they're going to act like you're breaking the law every single time you decide not to tip, or tip less than what they expect, then WHY call it gratuity at all?

Bitchy is angry.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Period Pains, Blocked Noses & Marriage Proposals

I proposed to Mista Fanutastiki yesterday.

And what did he do?

He laughed, gave me a hug and then ignored me.

Now when this happened, I was just a little pissed off. How dare he ignore me, I thought. Should he not be honoured that a super fly chica mohita like me is proposing to his silly self? Instead he laughs it off and says NOTHING?

I began to have flashbacks to all the times in my *cough* youth, when some poor clueless sucker would pour out his feelings of love and deep deep deeeep affection to me (always over the phone, they never seemed to have the balls to do it in person) and then I would respond with a very long and very eery silence (I got a kick out of it you see - yes I'm twisted, and no, I've never been in a mental institution of any kind).

Well I can assure you that it was NOT fun when I received a taste of my own medicine yesterday. In fact, it was mortifying, embarrassing and downright annoying!

Later in the evening, I asked, very calmly and in my super-cool voice "Did I or did I not propose to you this afternoon?" He laughed again, and then changed the topic. A third time I said, actually yelled, "Are you okay? What the hell is your problem? Didn't I ask you to marry me?"

Mista Fanutastiki yelled back (and I quote), "What kind of rubbish proposal was that? Are you well?"

Leaving me... gobsmacked... and just a little peeved.

Fine, he may have had a point or two. Prior to my utterance of the words "Will you marry me?" I had yelled at him for talking too loudly on the phone, freaked out when one of London's dumbest delivery men ever arrived with a massive box that he expected me to go downstairs and then lug all the way back into my flat with my spectacularly muscle-free arms. I had then proceeded to yell at Mr. F for standing around, and then shoved him downstairs to deal with my very heavy package and the box-bearing buffoon. (Seriously though, what is wrong with this city? How can a company accept your payment for a very heavy item, arrive with it and then tell you at the door oh, not at the online checkout counter, that their delivery is to "doorstep only"?)

Anyway by the time Mista Fanutastiki made it back upstairs with the very heavy box, I was sitting on my bed, the bright red insect biting my brain had departed, and I was beginning to blubber... like a baby. In my defence, it had been a very very stressful day. I had contracted the flu overnight, been working on my flat renovation since I got up at 6am whilst sneezing like a monster, I had a job interview coming up at 2 pm, it was already 1 pm, I was running late, I wasn't even prepared for the interview, and oh... (super huge factor)... all this was happening on the most painful strength-sucking day of my period. Sorry I know I'm supposed to say "lady week" but I think that's just ridiculous. Men need to learn to deal with the fact that every single woman on this planet has a week when blood, yes, blood, not red paint or ribena, seeps out of her. They also need to learn that it can make her very cranky and moody and emotional and downright insane as in my case, and that she can get incredibly pissed off at the fact that she is expected to tread on eggshells for no apparent reason by referring to her PERIOD as her "lady week", "time of the month", "red monster", (insert other annoying cover-up metaphor here) even though SHE is the one suffering the pain and discomfort!

I appear to have digressed, but in the middle of my crying and wailing ("I'm not going to my interview!", "I'm too sick!", "I hate my life!", "The world is over!") Mista Fanutastiki held me, and hugged me, and allowed me to cry for as long as I needed to. (If the shoe was on the other foot, I would probably have slapped him and yelled at him to get a grip.) Then he sat me upright, told me he was going to help me sort things out and that I was going to be just fine at my interview, and then said (the magic words) "You need to eat. What do you want me to get you?"

He left the room and the only thing I could think to say (actually yell, because he'd gone to the kitchen) was "Will you (sneeze, cough, sniff) marry meeeeee?"

Lucky for me though, he didn't say yes. I am in no position to get married anytime soon - I don't even have a car, a decent savings account or a National Insurance number!

But it would've been nice if he had at least played along and said yes, and had allowed me to believe that he wanted to marry me. When I told him this last night, he said, "The only reason you want me to marry you is so that I can be your butler."

So... A word of advice to any young chica looking to blurt out the big question? Wait for him to come to you, and when he does, laugh it off and leave the room, make him wait, make him ask again until he is forced to yell "OI! DID YOU NOT HEAR ME? I SAID MARRY ME, YOU FREAK!"

Mista Fanutastiki may not know it yet but that is sooooo the treatment he is going to get if he ever does propose. I am certainly not asking him a fourth time, that's for sure!

[Feel free to share your own embarrassing, or mushy, proposal stories at this juncture. Or to lament and side with me on the PERIOD (still yelling it) point I raised earlier.]

Friday, February 29, 2008

The Long Overdue Moan About... My Hair!

I went to the hair salon in the ghetto yesterday - the one in which Feline (of Smackdown vs Raw fame) reigns supreme. Feline wasn't there, but another equally feisty Jamaican fatty was, and she provided many a blog-worthy moment. So many in fact that it would be far too tedious to sift through my memory in order to select the most worthy of the blog-worthy.

On a more general note though, what is it about hairdressers in London? Is it because we (black women that is) entrust them with our most prized possessions that the city allows them (on a regular basis) to get away with murder and daylight robbery? Obviously in the ghetto there is no robbery of which to speak, but in posher parts (to which I have been known to take my silly useless head on many an occasion) it is bloody ridiculous! £180 for -N-8,000's worth of hair work! (You do the maths... Ridiculous!)

And do they treat us like royalty? Like the precious (life-giving) gems that we are? NO! They keep us waiting (even when we have appointments), argue with us when we want certain combinations that will take longer to produce (but for which we are ready to pay), and leave us fuming, pissed off, teary and scuttling under the cover of darkness for fear of being seen with the monstrosities they have sealed tight onto our heads.

It is all too much! And in the midst of it all, they have the audacity to be so intimidating!

I've come to discover that a male hairdresser is often the best solution to the problem. He will not shirk you off onto some lesser-trained assistant in the salon, fight with his co-workers over your aching head, scream at you in incomprehensible patois for no apparent reason, or walk out and refuse to do your hair because his choice of tv channel or radio station has been ignored by the rest of the workforce.

Unfortunately though he is only to be found on the (again, RIDICULOUS) posh side of life, he has been known to mess up and leave you teary, and he WILL keep you waiting. At one such posh palace on Wednesday I noticed that the lady to my left (with half a head of braids) was relatively ignored, right from when I arrived, to when I left. I decided that she had to be a self-employed billionaire or a cushy kept-woman, from the calm, unperturbed manner in which she accepted such crap treatment. She sat reading her novel and said nothing to nobody, waiting patiently for her favourite demi-God to find the time to work his magic on her kinky locks.

Why she was willing to sit so patiently, I will never know. What I will say though is that women like her are the reason why hairdressers in this country are such bloody divas, and they are the reason why hairdressers think we have nothing better to do than pass entire days (working days too mind you) in their company. So please, if you are a black women living in or around the London area, kindly huff and puff with impatience during your next visit to "Chez Enrique". It will remind Enrique and all the other little "maestros" in the establishment that your time is precious, even IF you are unemployed, and with nowhere really to go, like Bitchy ;P

Ta! Xxx

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

New Dawn, New Day, Shut Up and Give Me a J.O.B.

I am a looking for a new job. The process has not been as easy as I thought it would be. Not even close! Now I find myself wondering how much the chubby middle-aged women boogieing and doing pointless sign language at the bottom right corner of the screen on 'The Box' get per hour.

I don't think it would be too embarrassing a job. How many people watch 'The Box' for music videos after 11pm anyway? It's only us unemployed folk! But in all sincerity, I really must ask -> What is wrong with those signing women on 'The Box'? Why are they all fat (sorry, chubby)? And why do they all wear tight clothing that sticks to the folds in their tummies? Why do they feel the need to dance so stupidly along to hip hop songs whilst they sign away? And why do they come onscreen only after 11pm? Do people with hearing difficulties only watch music channels after 11pm? Why aren't there young, hot chics and guys in tight clothing jiving on screen and signing with glee at 2pm in the afternoon?

Is Bitchy the only person in London who cares about the welfare of the audibly-challenged?

Sorry about this. I'm sure you were expecting a much more upbeat post, especially as I've been uber lazy this last month. What have I been doing? Well first I was in Lagos, recovering from what turned out to be a very manic and super scary case of malaria. I ended up in hospital on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day. What fun, ey? After that, I was forced to take things slow, not just because the doctor ordered it, but also because I could barely keep up with my grandma! I was so tired out by the illness, that I could do nothing but eat, sleep and moan on the phone to Mr. Fanutastiki who absconded to the UK as soon as the worst was over.

Next came the weekend when I decided to give up (finally, do I hear you say?) the training contract offer I moaned about many a time last year. I said "bye bye" to the hugely successful, massively massive corporate law firm just over 2 weeks ago (8 weeks before the job was due to begin), and did a series of liberation dances in the mirror. (Picture me skipping and pirouetting, singing, then croaking, "I'm free! Free of the Rat Race! Whoopee!")

All this of course was until the "Oh oh what I am going to do now? I'm UN.EM.PLOYED in every sense of the word! CRAP!!" phase hit. This 3rd phase (as I'm sure you expect) brought on many a panic attack, many a crying spell and many a bout of gloom.

Now I am in phase 4 --> "So what if you're unemployed? You are Oluwabitchyola, the one, the only, you reign supreme. Can't nobody take your pride, can't nobody hold you down, oh no, you're gonna keep on mooooving. Yeah baby." So whilst Mr. Fanutastiki eats the lemon cake that my unemployed arse paid for, and fends off clients begging him for work, I sit on the computer next to him in his office googling and researching like a rabbit on Red Bull!

I will get a job soon, be it legal (the kind where you leave the office at 6.30pm and not the kind where you leave at 5am for the same pay) or funky (anyone with a hookup at Conde Nast or The National Magazine Company do holler.)

Till then, I may be silent on this blog, or I may be noisy and whingey as usual, who knows? 2008 was supposed to be a year of regular, fastidious blogging. So far it has brought with it illness, uncertainty and a rather funny (and very blog-worthy) visit to the National Youth Service Corps office in Abuja. Yes, you read right, if Bitchy doesn't get her act together soon, her cute little nyash is going to be encased in those disgusting turd-tinged nylon trousers frog-jumping from one end of the Lagos NYSC camp to the other. Teeheehee! 2008 promises to be an adventure, doesn't it! Xxx