Category: Blog

My neighbour’s a twat. You can pretty much take my word for that.

Think Mark Ronson with the belting tones of Duffy and a smattering of jungle. But not quirky eclectic music way. This is in a really fucking loud way, at a 4:30 in the morning type of way, a booming up through your floor-boards type of way. Played by some idiot neighbour who doesn’t give a shit about your ongoing insomnia caused by his shit taste in music.

Catch my drift now?

I don’t want to look like the Fun Nazi here (I’ll let you know when I’m being the Fun Nazi) and I’m a big fan of the “each to their own” philosophy of life – but what’s happening here is a real Crime Against Music, exactly when I’m desperately trying to sleep off the one too many gins in cans from the night before. And I probably don’t need to tell you how mardy I get when I’ve had no sleep.

It all started one Thursday evening with a bit of ska. There’s a song he plays quite a lot, but I can never quite put my finger on it. I’ve shazam’ed it, hummed it to my friends and tried to Google what I think the lyrics are. Nada. It gets under my skin just as much as the irritating hours of the morning when he decides to turn it up loud.

One night, moments before my egg-timer patience had even let the sand run out, I snapped, got up and did something about it (I say “night” but we’re clearly talking 5:30 in the morning here.) So down I go. Down the stairs with my carefully selected Winnie the Pooh pyjamas, carefully styled crazy bed-hair and the thick glasses I’d only ever normally wear in the event of a house fire. Perhaps not the perfect power-outfit to back me up here.

After the third attempt of knocking, my neighbour’s door is answered. And my heart sinks… great… it’s a sodding party. There are going to be lots of witnesses to my crimes against slumber-time fashion. I say to the two, slightly bewildered looking, women who stand in front of me:

“Can you turn the music down?”

Off their blank looks, I add, “It’s really loud.”

They look at each other, confused. And I’ll admit, it is slightly awkward. They didn’t plan on dealing with this when they had their first vodka and coke tonight. What they wanted to do was go out, get merry, have a laugh. No one wants to be the one that kills the fun – and yet, here I am, asking them to put a massive knife in their helium balloon of hedonism.

“Please.”

Then, as the red mist starts to cloud my vision, I raise my voice and, in a slightly hysterical hormonal wibble, shout:

“It’s really un-fucking-fair!”

Can we blame the delirium caused by lack of sleep here? Well, yes, lets just blame that – for I am far too embarrassed to admit that the imminent onslaught of hysteria, tears and irrationality is actually an innate part of my character.

I can’t quite remember exactly what I said, all I know is that the phrases, “I have to be up early for work tomorrow morning like a normal person”, “The loudness of this shit music is unbearable” and “And nobody listens to Reef anymore!” were thrown. At some point during this little outrage, the rent-payer of the flat came out. Yes, it’s him. He who plays the music so sodding loudly. And he sort of ushers everyone else away, so that when I finally come out of my frenzy, it’s just me and this guy standing there in the hallway outside his flat.

And he’s just a normal looking bloke. I mean, his pupils are really big, but he’s not the maniac I imagined lived underneath me (ahem, that would actually appear to be me.) Calmly, he waits until I’ve finished… and then he does the worst thing ever…

He starts being rational.

Introducing himself, he shakes my hand and apologies for the noise. He gives me a potted history of how he came to live in that flat, how he moved in with his girlfriend… and how she then left him. Which caused him to go off the rails a little bit.

The fucker has made me feel sorry for him.

And I can’t quite believe what I do next. Through the unadulterated glee of being able to paddy around in someone else’s emotional problems for a change, I start sympathising with him. I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Poor bloke. Well, we’ve all been dumped before. Have you tried taking up a hobby, I ask, because that’s a really good way of taking your mind off it. I mean you don’t have to do a ten-week sewing course where you make a really badly put together dress which you insist on wearing for months afterwards as a symbol of your supposed new-found strength and independence… but there might be something which could equally be a source of release. Try drinking camomile tea before bedtime; it’ll help you sleep. Delete her number; that desperate drunk texting is a good look for no one. And you should totally start writing a diary; it’ll help you get all of your feelings out injustice out of your system and will help you work through what is ultimately a very traumatic period of your life.

Before I know it, we’re sat side-by-side on the communal hallway stairs and I’m wiping his tears away with the sleeve of my Winnie the Poor pyjama top – whilst being secretly pleased that he’s going through all of this. We sort of make our peace and we swap phone numbers on the understanding that I’ll text him if ever his heartbreak music gets too loud. I traipse upstairs thinking, “Well… he’s quite a nice bloke.”

That’s where I hoped the story would end. But, of course, he doesn’t stop playing his music loudly. He’s still there during the late nights and early mornings belting out sounds through a very loud speaker. The weird texting system doesn’t really work and he flies back up to prime position on my Shit List again. But at least now I can kind of understand the weird juxtaposition of happy hardcore with Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On.

Hell hath no fury like a recently dumped man with a really fucking powerful sound system.

I usually judge a good week by the amount of times I’ve avoided publicly falling over, getting bollocked by my boss or slamming doors after domestic arguments.

But this week I received an email which could not make me feel prouder.

Thanks very much to the Stateside dog lover who felt compelled to message me to tell me that my Sorry Your Dog Is Dead card is mean, stinging me with a “shame on you.”

What I want to know is how can something which was only intended as a specialised sympathy card provoke so much upset?

*sniggers*

ONWARDS!

MMx

1) Girls will flock to H&Ms everywhere to get their standard-issue festival outfits. If you haven’t got denim shorts and a straw twat-hat then you ain’t coming in.

2) There’ll probably be some poor sap at  the gates bawling his eyes out as the sniffer dogs take an interest in his crotch.

3) Once you’re in, you have to spend every single moment taking photos of yourself for your Facebook profile picture. Make sure you have the obligatory “feet in wellies” shot – and watch the next day as your Instagram feed fills up with fake fun-filtered pouts.

4) Watch with interest as you see the apparently casual Walker-Dancers strut across the field. See how many you can spot.

5) Cider just isn’t your drink. It’s way too much liquid to deal with in one glass. So why the fuck do you insist on drinking it today?

6) The friend you don’t really like – you know, the one you have been trying to shake off – becomes obsessed with the waltzers and insists that you all go on them.

7) You twist your knee on the waltzers.

8 ) You see waaaayy too many cocks as you wait for the portaloos and lads unashamedly take advantage of the open-air urinals.

9) At no one point do you accept it’s completely unacceptable to stand in the rain demonstrating a £2 plastic poncho.

10) The most frequently-sent text of the day will be, “Where ru?” as you constantly get split up from your friends.

11) “We’re in the drum and bass tent.” Great, you think, if I actually knew what that meant then maybe I’d be able to come and find you…

12) When you eventually find your friends four hours later, its customary to do a cider-fuelled cry and wail, “I’ve been on my own for four hoooooouuurs!”

13) At some point during the evening – possibly after your wellies have ripped the fuck out of your feet – you’ll have a sudden freak out, be hit with the thought that you’re far too old to be doing this and that, actually, all you want to do now is go home and have a curry.

14) During the last act on main stage, you’ll get hit on the head with a litre bottle of urine which some twat has lobbed across the crowd. You know that a festival is not the place to cry, but somehow you can’t hold the tears back.

15) Be prepared to feel disgusted with yourself the morning after you realise that, in essence, all you did was spend £100 to get drunk in a field.

MMx

BUY FROM HERE

You’ll probably start off with the view-point that you are right and that the other person is wrong. This is a fantastic basis from which to start, offering the potential for a bit of prolonged conflict. So, go you! You’re doing a great job so far.

Initially the argument will involve a bit of tongue-biting, a few passive-aggressive comments – and then some wildly flung accusations. Once the voice-levels have risen, there’s no denying that you are now properly having a good old fucking argument…. Off you go!

Dragging Things Up From The Past

Whatever you’re arguing the toss over, its inevitable that stuff will be dragged up from the past – and it’s up to you whether you’re the first one to do this or not. If the other person gets there first, it can put you on the back-foot for a while and this means less points scoring for you. And things will always be brought up which you feel you’ve already been paid back in some way and are unfair to mention now.* Where is Even Stevens in his umpire seat when you need him, huh?

Red Mist

In the event of such unfairness, you might find the tongue-biting difficult and you’ll feel yourself teetering on the edge, totally aware that you can either shut this down right now and “Be the Better Person” or you can just snap.

I advise snapping. Hell, why not?

If you’re anything like me, you’ll go from ‘0 to Fuck You’ in ten seconds and then the veil of red mist comes shooting down.

You can pretty much do what you like now because you’ve officially “Lost It”. Shout, swear, aggressively wave your arms around to make a point. Break a mug or a plate (preferably nothing belonging to you), or you could even kick that stupid X-Box in its stupid face.** Almost certainly you’ll be told, “You’re being really irrational.” Yes, my friend, I fucking am – and there’s absolutely no way I’m going back now. This is your moment in the sun. If you’re going to make yourself look like a ridiculous, hormonal, unhinged loony, then this is the only way to do it.

Errr, Actually…

Part way through this highly-charged display of insanity, after you’ve realised that you keep meeting dead-ends in your lines of argument, there’s every possibility you’ll suddenly be hit with the awful thought, “Hang on, they’re actually making more sense than me.” DO NOT BE FOOLED BY THIS INSTINCT. For if you do, what is commonly known as “Losing the Argument” will come in to play. And we’ve come this far; just look at all of the hard work you’ve put in. There should absolutely be no backing out now.

Now, to many this may be known as “Stubbornness” and, to be honest, they can sodding well call it what they like, but the bottom line is WE ARE NOW CONTINUING WITH THE ARGUMENT EVEN THOUGH WE MIGHT NOT BE RIGHT.

“YOU’RE the fucking idiot”

They know you’re not right; you know you’re not right. Intelligent argument [from your side] has gone out of the window, and you’re floundering.

The only thing left is to start on the childish insults. Hey, even start repeating stuff they say in a stupid voice.

It’ll get them all wound up – and to be honest, this is the only point of strength you have at the moment. The conversation will go around in circles, but the amount of times you can say, “No – YOU’RE the fucking idiot” is infinite.

Storming Off

Every good argument should involve some sort of storming off. It’s up to you how dramatic you want to make this, but some door slamming and the surreptitious [albeit still loud enough to be heard] mumbling of, “You’re such a cunt sometimes” always fits the bill quite nicely.

It’s very important to realise that, if you go down this route, you’ve now officially entered the “Sulking” phase – and this carries a lot of responsibility.

If you’ve stormed off in to your bedroom***, that means you shouldn’t come out until the morning because you’re doing what is known as “Making A Point.” If you haven’t eaten dinner, or have forgotten that the latest episode of “Mad Men” is on in 10 minutes and the telly is in the lounge, then that’s  sodding well tough. You have to stay in the bedroom and starve/ make do with reading Mad Men tweets until the morning. A good tip is to always have a 12-pack of Monster Munch in your bedroom as back-up, because you never know when an argument is going to go this far.

Having the Last Word

This solitary period offers time for reflection and obsessing over those clever and witty things you SHOULD have said but didn’t. If you come up with a real belter, then this is the only time you are allowed to come out of the bedroom, storm downstairs and say it anyway – despite it now being entirely out of context. And then you must flounce back upstairs again.

I hope that helps. Now if you’ll excuse me – I’ve got about nine hours until the morning and ten packets of Monster Munch to get through…

MMx

*Warning: Situations such as sleeping with your boyfriend’s best friend are ALWAYS difficult to rectify and will put you on shaky ground during the argument.

**OMG I hate that fucking X-Box.

**This only really works if you’re having an argument at home. I doubt the man on the tube who kept shoving his back-pack in your face will really care if you storm off to your bedroom or not.

1) Run up the stairs at the train station in a panicked fashion, making other commuters think the train is coming. Watch smugly and see them bust a gut.

2) Whilst waiting for the train, purposefully edge towards the platform, looking to the right. Yeah there’s no train coming, but it’ll make people anxious

3) When on the train be the twat that shouts, “Can you move down the train please!” at least once every stop.

4) Encourage people from the platform on to a packed train. “Hey mate, you can squeeze on here.” Watch the annoyance around you.

5) When it’s your stop, bull doze through the crowd with a massive fucking bag on your shoulder, making sure you hit as many people as possible.

6) Don’t touch your Oyster card in properly, causing a build up behind you. Pretend you don’t need help and act like you can fix this yourself.

7) Walk next to someone on the way to the office, keeping same pace but just a step in front of them like you’re having a race. Speed up when they do.

8 ) Alternatively play The Straight Line Game. Rule: Walk in a straight line and refuse to move for anyone. This may result in bashing people.

9) When you’re at work ring the intercom and pretend you’re Mickey Mouse / Tina Turner / a pigeon.

10) And to start off the day, turn the ringer down on your colleague’s phone. Watch as their boss get shirty with them for ignoring their calls.

MMx

FROM ME TO YOU… YOU MASSIVE LOSER.

Let Mardy Tweet Your Ex This Valentines Day.

Oh come on we’ve all thought about it. You know, all the things we’d say to that once significant person if we ever saw them again. Yeah, you’ve sat there in traffic on the M60/ on the slow crawling 27C bus to Rottingdean/ stuck on the Northern line for entire afternoon thinking about all of those things you’d actually say to your ex. But you know you never will because you’ve only just managed to perfect the persona of someone who thinks rationally again, and you know that’s quite a hard act for you to put on.

Well fuck it. Let Mardy Mabel say it for you. This valentines day, Mardy will say everything you ever wanted to say to that person you once (probably very stupidly) cared about. Just email your sentiments to mardymabel@me.com and Mardy will tweet dedications to your ex throughout the course of valentines day.

You know, things like “All my friends think you’re a twat “, “I’m glad to see you’re not punching above your weight any more” and “Yes it was me who tagged you as a cunt on Facebook. Quite a few times.”

As if I need to give you any more ideas.

Follow @mardymabel and watch it all unravel throughout the day…

MMx

Oh dear, you’re at work. And you’re about to cry.

What’s probably happened is you just fucked up that presentation because you’re far too hungover to be in the office*, the accounts department have refused another of your wage advance requests and you’re dangerously past your overdraft limit**, or that dickhead “boyfriend” you’ve been seeing for the past four months has just finished with you over instant messenger (twat.) You’re panicking because you can already feel the sting of those bastard tears, the nearest toilets are at least two floors away and there’s a voice in your head hysterically screaming, “You cannot let yourself publically cry at work!”

Calm down. This is the solution.

HOW TO PERFECT THE DESK CRY

1) Rest your head on your hand whilst pretending to read an important document.

2) Let your hair hang over your face, like a pantomime curtain.

3) Do the cry! Just let it all go, but remember not to make a noise and to hold back on the big boo hoos.***

4) Wipe the tears away behind the curtain of hair, being careful not to smudge your mascara.

5) Now you’re ready to put your head up again and answer that phone that’s been ringing for the past 5 minutes.

MMx

______________________________

* Drinking gin the night before to calm your nerves backfired.

** Someone needs to block the Top Shop website from your computer.

*** At this point there is the chance that your boss might come out of their office to ask you a question. It’s awkward, but you have no choice but to answer from behind the curtain of hair.