Late Diner's Sleepy Cat Imprisonment; Commercialising Cruelty.

Three months ago I made reservations for London's first cat café: Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium. After following a similar trend stemming from Japan, I was absurdly excited to be surrounded by my favourite fluffy felines jumping on my lap and licking my face. For months prior to my reservation I was following the progress of the café, checking for planning permission through Facebook, and other social media updates. Before I begin an overdue blog post, I want to state the obvious: I love cats! Not in a way that is mean or sadistic, like the behaviour some people exhibited towards the cats I saw this evening, but in an unconditional way. A way in which the cat's well being is put before my own stroking pleasure, in a manner which is wholly respectful. So this evening arrived, and this evening passed, and the gleeful expectations I had were crushed, turning to loathed disgust and sadness.

Upon arrival at Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium Peter and I were presented with a set of rules:

1. Don't feed the cats café food.
2. Don't pick up the cats.
3. Don't disturb the cats while they are sleeping.
4. No flash photography.

These all seemed simple enough, and the explanations for them more than obvious; how would you like it if strangers started prodding you while you slept? Especially if you needed to sleep for an average of 16 hours per day!

We entered the café expectantly. It seemed simple enough; small but quaint. Moreover, there were cats, CATS EVERYWHERE! This was a dream come true, my own personal East London Disneyland. I nearly fell down the stairs because I was staring at the cats in the hammock sleeping above my head. We made our way to a small table downstairs where there were three seats; one for Peter, one for me, and the other occupied by an adorable semi-tabby cat who lay slumbering. We said a cordial 'hello' to our whiskered friend and observed the menu.

I have two criticisms with the restaurant and I will start with the most subtle of the two, simply because the other bares a longer and more demonic explanation. So there we sat, the menu was minimal, mainly comprised of cakes and cream teas than substantial food. Despite the fact we had made dinner reservations we decided to cut our loses and order the cream tea for two. Placing our order at 19:10, we sat back and took a good look at our surroundings. All the cats were asleep. Not just our own accomplice, but all of them... and they were adorable. We were almost whispering so as not to wake them.

Despite the initial pleasantness there was something sinister stirring in the atmosphere! One woman sat beside me sadistically whipping a cat toy to and fro, while another lady was shaking an adorable black cat awake, before I knew it a fat child had rolled before me following a ginger kitty. It all made sense now, these cats had been enlisted into a petting prison camp. The ginger cat that was chased took refuge under my skirt, wide eyed and frightened. He sat there for a while tense, wired and waiting. In those moments we formed a bond, I, Miep Geis, and the cat, Anne Frank. The tabby who lay next to me was literally sleeping with one eye open too. I looked up at the hammock above the stairs and the tops of the cupboards; most of the cats were hiding on high ground to avoid a fate worse than a dog house.

Time was ticking on and nothing changed. Peter and I sat on one of the six tables in the whole café, yet both two tables surrounding us (including ourselves) had still not received their very basic orders. A shabby dressed hipster came downstairs to tell us there had been a "mix up in the kitchen", but how long could it possibly take to put a scone on a plate and bring it downstairs? Forty minutes apparently. One of the criticisms was the extremely poor service and shabby menu, but hey they have only been open a month. While teething problems are excusable however, animal cruelty isn't. None of the staff were adhering to the rules they had put in place, allowing the cats to be disturbed while sleeping and overlooking the flash photography that was disturbing both felines and me!

After eating I didn't want to leave, although I had barely touched my tabby cat accomplice, I felt deeply over protective over this little kitty. His safety was at stake, if I left then any number of the crazy cat people circling like vultures were a threat to his being. The whole experience caused an intolerable inner pull that could not be ignored, the knocking of my consciousness that was screaming this is wrong! What's worse? No one seemed to understand, it appeared as though they cared more about getting their fair share of 'cat-fun' then caring how much fun the cats were having. I want to commission a film about this place: 12 Month A Slave!

Moreover, why couldn't anyone else see how blatantly cruel the whole establishment is? It almost seems like the café is a premise for some evil Hunger Games-esque dystopia; twelve cats shoved into a tiny arena, facing the elements of sadistic humanity, with only death or escape to end the madness. To be honest, the cat café could work if people actually adhered to the rules given upon entry, and if the rules were successfully monitored. Yet staff seem to be too busy taking half an hour to get a lemonade from the kitchen then to watch out for the animals they swore to protect.

Needless to say, unless you want to go and see for yourself the sort of mistreatment and sadness that the cats experience most working hours of the day, then I certainly do not recommend Lady Dinah's Cat Café. If people went there and genuinely found entertainment from that establishment then you are either sadistic or oblivious, because the cats do not enjoy being shaken from slumber, or chased through the building, or cameras being constantly shoved in their face! It is rare for me to leave a restaurant with the full intention of creating a petition to shut the place down! Think of the kittys people, the kittys!

Above: One of the cats hiding behind a chair while two tourists seek out his unwanted company.

Still a Better Love Story Than Twilight? (Fifty Shades: A Discussion)

Hello other inhabitants of planet Earth,


Long time no blog post. The truth is nothing particularly interesting has happened to me, the world's karma seemed to be pretty balanced and all was good with life. That is, of course, until the most offensive piece of literature conceivable was published, and I became so outraged I feel it is now time to tell you why a book about vampire sex (without the vampires) has taken over civilisation. There are, to say the least, a few small issues I have with this 'novel' that needs to be voiced. It took me a while to write this blog because it wasn't until I was visited by the ghost of Dickens weeping for the future of literature that I probably thought it best to take a stand.


Let's start with one of my favourite lines shall we...

"My inner goddess is doing the meringue with some salsa moves"

The female protagonist is obsessed with her subconscious and her 'inner goddess'; for the first half of the book I was convinced she had a mild form of split personality disorder. She constantly argues with herself in a manner that must be deemed clinically insane. She refers to her 'inner goddess' 57 times throughout the novel... 57 times... 57 times... 57 FUCKING TIMES. 

"His lips are parted - he's waiting, coiled to strike. Desire - acute, liquid smouldering, combusts deep in my belly."

This sentence has all the literacy of a drunken Sesame Street character. In fact, if someone told me this book was written by Oscar the Grouch I wouldn't be surprised. It took me a few attempts to understand what was trying to be said here. Ana knows very little about human anatomy if she thinks a man ejaculates into a woman's belly! I also find her reference to his sperm as his 'desire' as creepy as that episode of Friends when Monica calls her virginity her 'flower'. She then goes on to say...

"My insides practically contort with potent, needy, liquid desire"

Jeez, steady on. Besides, is she talking about sperm or heroine? She lost her virginity five pages ago and she's already some sort of spermed-up crack whore. 

"It was like having my own Christian-Gray flavoured pop-sickle"

Anastasia Steele, Gold Medal in Deep Throating. 

I suppose most issues that I have with this novel aren't only to do with the collective monkeys using typewriters in Japan who wrote this book, or that it should have been published by Mills & Boons, or that it's Twilight Fan Fiction, or that using the book pages as tools of masturbation is more pleasurable than the content... The real problem I have with this novel is the manner in which it's totally okay for some random masochistic, misogynistic control freak to effectively stalk a pigtailed virgin sacrifice symbol and for no one to blink an eye! 

The thick female protagonist doesn't even care that this guy she only meant once suddenly turns up at her work a day later, installs some sort of tracking device on her phone, and proceeds to adopt immediate jealousy in the face of all her male peers... *Stalker alert*. If I were the main character, Mr Grey would be facing a lengthy court hearing and a very strongly worded letter threatening legal restraint. 

To be honest, I don't know which character is more mental: Edward or Bella? Christian or Anastasia? The best thing about this novel is Ana thinks she can change Christian's distant ways... yea right Hunny, and the Pope doesn't abuse little boys. 

Anastasia, sweet catholic virgin might be fucking a heathen with two penis' because she has nothing to compare it to, and all of a sudden she thinks she deserves a one way ticket to the Playboy Mansion. If I can't achieve it in 19 years, she can't in 500 pages! 

"Still a better love story than Twilight"? Congratulations, E.L. James, you've managed to write the only novel in the whole of history where this doesn't apply. This piece of shit has been selling faster than Harry Potter. At this rate the whole world will be filled with sadistic, sex-craved, illiterate morons using the same descriptive adjectives and verbs over and over and over and over and over again. No longer will the human genitalia be  'Vagina' and 'Penis', but a man's Desire will make love fuck a woman's Sex. Maybe this book will be found in centuries to come as some sort of new religion; "I'm Christian"... "Oh, the Gray sect?". Stand with me those who are literately competent/anyone who can read for I fear for the future of our kind. We must end this madness.... because you've all been very, very bad boys and girls ;). *Brings down the whip*.

@Copyright

Collaborative piece: Mya and Ruby Medina. 

CHRISTMAS SPECIAL: A 'Special' Christmas

I racked up outside my aunt's house in Hendon this morning, sporting a tacky jumper plastered with a picture of an over-zealous Rudolph the Reindeer. My family are Jewish, but somehow we manage to conveniently meet up every year on the 25th of December, weird right? The gang managed to remove our religious guilt this year by ending the meal with the lighting of the Menorah whilst singing 'on the 8 days of Chunukah'.

Christmas is a huge anti-climax, my extended family gather to discuss the big events of their years in a manner which makes me feel very uncomfortable; "Hmm, fascinating, but I truly couldn't give a shit about your son learning the trombone... why doesn't he learn to jump off a bridge instead?". Fortunately, every year I'm labelled 'resident alchoholic' and instead of engaging in any sort of conceited conversation I resign to the end of the table with my bottle of red and a driedal. I quickly fall into a sort of withdrawn glaze, and begin repeatedly humming "simply having a wonderful Christmas time" under my breath like a deranged elf. 

One of the most surreal moments of the afternoon commences immediately after the meal, we decide it would be a good idea to play 'pass-the-parcel'. I must strongly clarify that all may be fair in love and war, but not in pass-the-parcel. The table simmers into quiet chit-chat as the adults pretend as though they care little whether the music stops while the parcel is in their desperate hands... it's all about the children, isn't it? But even they seem to have more decorum than the elder members of the family. My forty year old aunt-in-law passes this abundant package of gifts suspiciously slowly over her steaming coffee as my sister and I glare at her from across the table. You'd think after experiencing over double the amount of festive afternoons she'd have been a bit more giving: I bet Santa isn't pleased at her lack of cooperation. I found myself getting extremely frustrated as the parcel passed from my fingers onto the next player as they were the one to win the sparkly lip balm. 

The most priceless member of my family is my grandpa. He sits in the corner as me and my sister watch him intensely, and here's why: because when the adults discuss the problems with some "pesky immigrants" he will remain silent until he bursts out with a line of a musical. All of a sudden, "my mummy says I'm a miracle" (from Matilda) or "if I were a rich man" (Fiddler On The Roof) or even "the hills are alive with the sound of music" (guess :|), this causes me and my sister to burst into a crescendo of hysterics, til we're ushered out the room by my mother, causing us to get coal for Christmas. 

Christmas messages are an interesting phenomenon within itself. People I haven't spoken to in a year, exactly a year in fact; since the last time they berated me with fake messages of 'cheer', feel it'd be socially acceptable to pop back into my life. This one guy I slept with three years ago wishes me "festive cheer" and my gynecologist is "thinking" of me this Christmas... creepy.

I think it's about time I roll home and make peace with the ghost of the Turkey I just single-handedly devoured. I hope you all received the materialistic bullshit you ordered off Amazon. A merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

The Art Of Coning

Five nonchalant youths rack up outside the McDonalds 'order' window. The banter in the vehicle is fruitful and pleasant. The evening is humid; light British rain dampens the dashboard, a brisk and purposeful wind explodes into the car as the driver winds down his window. The pungent fumes of minimum wage seep in through the cracks.
They are only here for one thing.
"An ice-cream cone please", the deep voice drifted up.
"With flake?"
"No", the driver allows a quick glance to the teen who sits patiently in the passenger seat. The whole car seems to be smirking. Whether the server has noticed the concealed giggles erupting from the backseat or not is difficult to tell.
The paths of six people, and one child-luring fictional Ronald McDonald were about to collide. Fate, destiny, call it what you will but they were all there in this one moment, this one thread in the large, soon to be unravelled, tapestry of life.
The driver slipped the car back into first as he moved towards the 'collect' box. Twenty yards and twenty seconds later ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wMYwYbMnDRU&feature=autoshare

Friday's Child

She was surveying the university, it was large and she felt so small in comparison to all the bustling students going about their academic business. Violet was passing one of the bigger student residences along the strip; it was early winter and it was already beginning to get dark. Girls and boys lolled over the balconies of different rooms; in one, there seemed to be an array of youths smoking and drinking, having what seemed to be a fun time. She was only a stranger to them - one who yearned to know what went on inside. 

The sun began to fade behind the balcony which secluded the university campus from the outside world and at the last glimmer of light she saw the high street across the river. Then it began to rain. The rain was owned by the night and, having no umbrella, Violet ran into the little coffee shop that sat quaintly opposite the main residences. 

Other students began to take shelter under the overlaying roof, and Violet had to work her way through her elders to find refuge. As she came in she noticed a man noticing her, giving him a quick short smile, not wanting to convey the 'wrong' idea. She ordered a small vanilla coffee as the man behind the counter looked her up and down. He drank in her long, luscious legs barely covered by her formal blue mini skirt and worked his way up to her white blouse slightly unleashing her full youthful breasts. The cleavage alone was enough to drive any man wild. 

She sat by the window with a good view of the bridge, allowing herself to relax and listen to the symphonic rain hitting the pavement lightly mélanged with the intimate student chatter. The sun had left her behind by now and she was consumed by the dark. The prospect of travelling home seemed long and treacherous; the train didn't leave for a good few hours anyway but she'd have to make her own way to Paddington. She decided to pull out her copy of 'Wuthering Heights' from her satchel and relish in the unconsummated love of Catherine and Heathcliff. 

The window seemed far more tempting than the book after a while and she gazed sleepily out at where she'd be this time next year, hopefully. All of a sudden, there was a cough from behind her. She looked up: over her shoulder there stood the man that had noticed her. "Is someone sitting there?" He pointed at the chair opposite her. His voice was coarse but warm; he was tall and not typically handsome, with a brown thin pencil moustache, high cheek bones and deep set green eyes. Those eyes - she felt penetrated by his very presence. She nodded meekly and gestured towards the seat, implying it was free from company.

He sat and began to stare out of the window. By now Violet was fascinated by this man; he didn't seem like the typical student, his very presence screamed maturity. For a while they sat in this tense moment, locked by the symmetry of their bodies. Her paramour made the first move. He snatched the book which lay in front of her, read the title then let out a small wry chuckle: "Fancy yourself a Catherine, eh?"

"I don't fancy my death will be as romantic." She gave him a look, no ordinary look. Violet could be a little vixen when she wanted to. She felt a hand placed on her knee. Her meekness was extinguished as she felt the familiarity of a man's sensual teasing. Fingers moved higher up her leg until the tiniest nudge more would make her powerless. Instead, he grabbed her hand and squeezed... hard.

"Follow me?" he enquired. He stood up and made for the door. Violet was not hesitant; she had a few hours to kill and they may as well cut out the hunt from this amorous encounter. He led her across the lawn, his hand gently placed on her firm, pert bottom which was accentuated by her tight skirt.

They entered the student residence building, walked steadily through the red corridor and rushed into a lift. As soon as the door closed, he turned to face her, pushing her against one of the walls. Trapped in a box of hot, steamy passion, he held both her hands up. She felt his prisoner as he began kissing her. She strained her body forward so that her torso gently caressed his trousers, feeling something grow hard against her. The doors opened and a group of students that seemingly came from the party Violet had surveyed earlier entered. The few girls joined her in the lift, one beginning to giggle profusely; this laughing stranger leaned over to Violet and whispered in her ear, "He's the English professor - he loves the young ones...like you".

The entire company got off at the penthouse floor, one party going left, Violet and her lover journeying right. He grabbed her hand as they traversed the corridor to the end room. As he pulled the key from his pocket and slowly twisted the door knob, she became aware of the unbearably pleasurable heat and seemingly immeasurable member which grew between them. 

She pushed him down on the bed and pulled out a set of handcuffs from her bag. He was trapped by the bedposts and hers now. Violet felt something stirring inside her. All of a sudden, she slapped him. He was puzzled, initially feeling that this strike was simply a fetish of hers. Then she did it again. "What are you doing‽" he cried. 

"Shut the fuck up!"
She slapped him again. 

"Bitch, stop it!" cried the powerless professor. At this she began to laugh, hysterically and heartily.

She brought her face right up against him as he struggled, just out of her reach. "Do you know who I am?" she shouted. He continued to attempt to break free, but to no avail. She grabbed his chin and made him look at her. "I said, do you know who I am?" 

He shook his head defiantly and at the same time answered her question. She stood up and walked over to the window looking out over the river. Violet placed her hand on her head and pulled off the wig, the black long hair that lay beneath falling down. "I'm Rebecca Black", she whispered, "today is Friday, tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday comes afterwards". With that she placed the CD of her 'hit' single into the boombox and suddenly her lover was subjected to worst song ever. The sick high pitched auto-tuned melody began to play. The song was banned in every country other than Iran and Libya, often being utilised as a weapon to torture the opposers of evil dictators. 

"No, please, no! Have mercy! I voted against banning your song in the 2011 referendum, please!" he cried, his desperation so apparent. She revelled in his fear. 

She laughed, flung her bag over her shoulder and strutted out of the room. The professor knew his death was imminent. He sobbed silently. By morning, he was dead.

Rebecca joined the party downstairs and she sipped on a Martini as she overlooked the river sultrily. The night was hers; the night was Black.




Twitter: myamedina


Author: Mya Medina
Editor: Raph Torrance

I Have Ceased All Joys In Life

This may be an odd thing to start a blog with, but you should know, I'm a quitter. Recently, I've given up drugs, smoking, alcohol, caffeine and bad meats - All in all, I've given up anything that made life worth living. However, I'll have you know that this was in no shape or form an easy task, mainly because all these things are addictive and I'd rather be attacked by a number of Martian tripods from Mars then be seen going into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

However, I am not alone in my plight against the forces of Satan. My sister too recently 'quit' this whole smoking craze, she however lasted 24 hours, which is pretty impressive, compared to my initial 24 minutes. She arrived home this afternoon from the same institution that I had, the thriving cesspit known as school. She had an informative chemistry class where she was subjected to a bias rant about the inevitable death smoking ensures, and how this professor of hers would rather "bath in a tub full of evian and drink bottled water for the rest of his life" (direct quote) than have one puff of a ciggarette. This seemed a bit extreme to me, starving suffering dying children in Africa need that water. But I simply don't understand; isn't smoking like really cool? For the next ten minutes my sister sat in life-prolonging agony as she simply was 'dying' for a ciggarette. Suddenly, and without and warning, the table next to her spontaneously combusted into a pack of Marlborough Lights. She blinked and tried to snap out of it but her friends still remained tall, lanky and pale, with an edge of weakness about them which left a horrible after taste. As this spectacular hallucination occurred she imagined sparking her lighter and waving it about her head... R.I.P Nicotine.

Today we saw our first bought of true sun. This genuine ball of heat in the sky caused me to become parched and my thirst desperately needed to quenched. Times like these can only call upon one thing... the vodka and orange ice-pop. It's the anti-AA, one becomes miraculously drunk whilst still having quit drinking. Baffling, I know. However, my will power prevailed and I watched 'The Weakest Link' sober. Anne Robinson turned from a sassy middle aged fabulous bitch with a humour to evoke my squeaky laugh to an old crony who seemed to be monotonously quizzing the working class whilst remaining beneath them. So unless you've realised, smoking and drinking are out and afternoon interrogation games are in!

So as 'happy hour' slowly approaches and the hood of darkness tempts debauchery, ever closer, I feel compelled to tell you the quote that keeps me going... "a hangover is the wrath of grapes". So maybe a night-cap will do?

Valentine's day

13.02.11

It's that 'special' time of year again. I was made aware of this when two weeks ago I journeyed to my local ASDA to attain some ingredients for breakfast. I was on aisle 12 perusing the different wines with which to enjoy my first meal of the day. After grabbing a rather fruity Cabernet Sauvignon I headed towards the cashiers but what ho? I was smacked in the face by what initially appeared to be a low-flying red Albatross. This encounter, only predicted by Alfred Hitchcock, prompted me to turn and flee. However, I pulled myself together and decided that this story wouldn't be another case of self inflicted embarrassment. After a second of base human logic I realised I was actually smacked in the face by a huge, imposing heart.

I turned to face the adjacent aisle and there it was, everywhere, contrasts of reds and pinks. Murdered bunnies sat on the shelves marked with arrows through their tummies. A huge blue elephant had been mutilated, some sick bastard had inserted a voice recorder into his trunk, which when tightly squeezed spoke "Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you". I had just been fucking rick-rolled by an undersized Loxodanta Africana (Latin for 'Elephant').

...

14.02.11

I asked someone how they'd be spending Valentine's day when I arrived at school this morning. My companion lifted up his right hand and pointed to it, "I'll draw a heart on this then masturbate until it rubs off".
Although his comment was crude and a classic example of the basest teenage humour, he made some sense. A good wank is far cheaper than a table for two at Pizza Express.

Here's an interesting statistic, the major category of people that swap Valentines cards range from 6 - 10 years old. Typical. They literally have no clue! They have no clue that Saint Valentine was a male chauvinist pig who was capitalised upon by men to advance the 'cult of femininity' and secure monogamous relationships, causing safe and sure paternity, meaning male heirs can take over private property. But worry not, because out of it all I got one day to call 'my own' with an added bonus of a lifeless blue elephant that was haunted by the overtly queer soul of Rick Astley!

V-day - where sex is only a box of chocolates away.  Don't forget your entire future depends on how impressive you can be on this single (sense the irony) day. It's also a give-in that you'll love your partner substantially more on this day than all others so be sure to take any shit they throw your way, but don't only take it, take it with a smile because you aren't at all alone in the universe and weeping into a Pot Noodle.