HOLLY MIRANDA SMALE

Writer, photographer, "rapper" and general technophobe takes on the internet in what could be a very, very messy fight. But it's alright: she's harder than she looks, and she's wearing every single ring she could get her hands on.







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Thursday, 2 April 2009

The Final Countdown

DadaDADA, dadaDADADA, dadaDADA, dadaDADADADADA, my friend texted me this morning.
What's that? I texted back sleepily. I've never been very good at working out tunes from 'das'.
The Final Countdown, she messaged back. I sensed a little bit of crossness that I hadn't already worked that out.  
Europe? I asked. I'd say that's more derdleDERDER, derdleDERDERDER, derdleDERDER, derdleDERDERDERDER to be honest.
Disagree. Can't hear any Ls at all. 
Definitely Ls. Can hear Ls. 
Whatever. It's tonight, right?

Yes, it is tonight. I know this, because I couldn't sleep last night, I couldn't eat breakfast this morning, and my hands are actually shaking. It's like A levels all over again: if I knew that I couldn't retake them, that a camera crew would be filming the whole thing, and I didn't have a gap year to look forward to afterwards. I'm a nervous mess, to be honest. In fact, I'm deeply concerned that I'm about to get in a car and drive to Bristol, because - in between vomiting into the drink holder and gripping onto the steering wheel until my fingers are bruised - I might end up hurting somebody. 

The idea is that between 11 and 12 tonight, the winning finalists will be called from Australia. Between 12 and 1, the losers will be rung (presumably with the message: "Hi, loser. You're a loser. Bad luck, loser"). Which means that for an hour I get to sit and stare at my phone, getting increasingly depressed, and then I get to spend another hour not staring at it and drinking a row of shots that I will have lined up especially. All with a camera pointed at me, and "are you going to be sick?" asked every few minutes. It is my idea of hell. (Well, it would be my idea of hell if I was also forced to eat egg and speak in French at the same time.)

Anyway, at least this hell is limited (unlike the real hell, which - if reports are accurate - lasts for quite a long time). So I've got it all planned out. Drinks, no dinner (too nervous), more drinks. Phone call. Cry. More drinks. It's a complicated plan, but I think it's the one that's going to work for me. 

It's been a blast. This blog will remain the same, except that I might take the 'top 50' bit off the top (the bit which, if you remember rightly, I accused a hacker of putting there to start with). And I won't talk about TBJITW. At all. There are some things you just have to let go of, and if the adventure ends here, then the adventure ends here. No point crying over spilt milk. And if it continues? Expect fewer posts about builders, and a lot more posts about colourful fish and the state of my thighs in a bikini.

So, for now, I leave you with goodbye. Whatever the outcome of tonight, and however many times I vomit, I will always be the Write Girl.