Category Archives: about smoking and drinking and healthy things

My rolling is better then your rolling. Get your hand off my shoulder.

The other day I was meeting George and I was running late because I had spent far too long in my little sister’s shop looking at pretty clothes that I couldn’t afford to buy but bought anyway.

So I’m walking briskly down Chapel St and I’m at the corner of Chaps and High, happily dragging on some sweet, sweet nicotine and waiting for the lights to change when a man approaches me and asks if he can roll himself a cigarette when we get to the other side.

Well no, I say, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry.

He looks a bit taken aback at my refusal and says, come on man, it’ll only take 3 minutes.

At this point I think to myself, 3 minutes? are you serious? You suck at rolling cigarettes you stupid wannabe roller wanker, I can roll a cigarette in under 20 seconds while walking and a strong wind is blowing and it’s raining and I’m toting an inside out umbrella and I know this because I’ve been TIMED and that’s not even my PB and you’re telling me to hover on the other side of the street while I wait as you dip your grubby who knows where they’ve been fingers in my tobacco for three whole minutes?

Fuck.Off.

But I smile politely, and say, no, look, I’m really sorry, but indeed I am in a big hurry and really have to bolt down this street as soon as the lights change.

He then puts his hand on my shoulder. I barely repress a shudder. In fact I don’t repress it at all and shudder quite obviously. He says, with what I think he believes to be a winning smile, that he would really appreciate it.

I remove his hand and tell him, again politely, that I’m afraid I can’t oblige.

The lights are still red.

It’s at this point I realise how hard it is to look like you’re in a hurry when you’re standing still. So I try to overcompensate with lots of heavy sighing, obsessive pedestrian light button pushing, clicking of my tongue, and shifting my weight from leg to leg and looking, no doubt, like someone who really, really needed to wee and this whole time this man is staring at me with a sulky look on his face.

I’ve realised that if I was a non-smoker, scabby people bothering me would be cut down by half. I would still be accosted by junkies asking for 50c so they can get back to their kids in Frankston though.

Something Wicked This Way Comes at Borsch Vodka & Tears

No matter how many times I go there (a lot) and I’m busting out a texty to a buddy to come and meet me, I always, always manage to misspell ‘Borsch.’ Even then I had to look it up a lot. I say ‘Bortch’, ‘Borcht’, ‘Bortsch’… in fact that damn ‘t’ gets me every time and it doesn’t even HAVE a ‘t’! I just put it there! For fun! For no reason!

Anyway. Borsch (had to look again) Vodka & Tears is a Polish cafe/restaurant/bar that boasts The Best Cocktail List Ever, and Some Of The Nicest Tapas In The World. That’s a pretty combo. Team it with pretty plates that don’t match (I love things that don’t match), knowlegeable and friendly bar staff, and outdoor seating on the awesome end of Chapel Street*, you have yourselves a winner.

Let’s take a moment to look at this cocktail list. Srsly. I am quite a fan of the Words, and the Sentences, and any place that has cocktails with names like this deserves a look in, even if the cocktails are shit. And they’re not. Let’s have some name examples:

Something Wicked This Way Comes; Angel With a Broken Arm; Little Red Riding Hood; Keith Richards; Ninja Love; Furious Hippo; Wanted: Hor Hare – Reward £1000; The Boss’s Daughter; and, my personal favourite: You’re Turning Violet, Violet!

I did not make these names up. These are also just examples. There are more. MORE. And so tasty you can convince yourself that your parents don’t really need the money back that you borrowed to go overseas, so there’s really no point saving it is there? and then you can hand over your credit card with a clear conscience and knock back as many Polish Bitches as you can in one sitting.

I should probably point out that Borsch does boast an impressive beer and wine list also, but when I have the choice between that and ordering something that rolls off the tongue like My Fair Marmalady, I find I don’t really care about beer and wine.

The staff rock. Once upon a time, I was with a friend who ordered a cocktail that had quite a bit of chilli in it. When they made this drink for her, they served it, then proceeded to wait for her to taste it to make sure the chilli element was to her satisfaction. If it wasn’t, they would make it again. Beautiful. They are also just really nice.

And lastly, the fooooood. Oh em gee. So good. My personal favourite are the Potato Blintzes, panfried potato pancakes served with sour cream. Have that with a Little Red Riding Hood if you like creamy things, or a Compendium if you like apple. I like cream and apple so I usually have one of each.

Which brings me to my Consumer Warning. While Borsch is very reasonably priced, you can blow your entire pay packet in one evening. This is entirely their fault, and not yours. If they insist on having such a more-ish menu, then they have to accept the pointed fingers. I like to keep ordering cocktails because I like the names. And then you have to order more food to go with your cocktails. And then those damned friendly bartenders make professional recommendations. So what started off as a drink after work turns into a rollicking evening of Eastern European amazingness. By the end of it you think you’re Polish.

So next time you’re in Prahran and slash or Windsor (I thought they were in Prahran but the website says Windsor. Corner of Chapel and High Streets anyway so you can make your own geographical call on that) pop in for a taster. I reccomend checking it out with a couple of friends, or as a spot for an impressive first date. What’s more, with a couple of Diminished Responsibility’s under your belt, a first date at Borsch Vodka & Tears could be all you need. Wins had by all.

173 Chapel St, Windsor, Melbourne, Australia

9530 2694

http://www.borschvodkaandtears.com

*Everyone knows the awesome end is the Windsor end.

How seriously should you take the warnings on the box?

I am taking many, many drugs.

These include:

Champix. As noted, this helps with my nicotine cravings. Which it is. I have only had three cigarettes today and they all tasted like I was licking an ashtray. I am aiming to quit completely to impress a boy. Yes, that’s right. I started smoking to be cool (anyone who says different is lying) and I’m quitting smoking to be cool. It is very hard.

Advil: It turns out I have ‘something something disorder’. Wait, I don’t really know what it is. Hang on. Okay, it’s Temporomandibular Joint Disorder. This means my jaw hurts All The Time and it feels like I’ve been punched in the face. Hence the Advil. I’ve been popping these babies like tic tacs and they’re working a treat, however I have never been so excited to see a dentist in my life which is happening on Monday and they better fix me.

and the pill. But that doesn’t count. I’m convinced taking them all at the same time is doing shocking things to my liver so I’ve been self diagnosing on the internet so of course I now think I’m dying of cancer or at least have a benign tumour. Wikipedia does that to you.

Day One – fucked that up already

Well that sucked. I had a cigarette. It wasn’t even very nice. I must get my Magic Book.

Champix makes you stop the nicotine cravings but that’s easy. The hard part is quitting the blessed action of smoking. Today in this infernal Dante-esque heat, smoking is kinda gross, but as soon as the sun goes down and it’s all nice and summer night like and etc it is super hard.

So I’m going to pop a pill now. I have had a break from them so I don’t know how this is going to work. Cos initially you take one a day and then after awhile you take a stronger one, then two a day and etc, but I’m just going in for the big ones again cos that’s all I have left.

Pfffffffffffffffft.

Some interesting things to note:

When you have no fly spray, deodorant works better then hairspray.

Sophie Was A Dog

Sophie was a dog. She was a Lassie and wimpy as shit. Shit isn’t exactly wimpy but it’s an expression.

Tomorrow I’m quitting smoking for the second time. I fell off the bandwagon recently. And when I say ‘fell’ I really mean I lost my balance a little bit and thought fuck it and just jumped off.

I am going back on the druuuugs which is Champix which makes you crazy but it didn’t make me too crazy just made me a little light headed, headachey and cigarettes completely unsatisfying. Then I stopped the drugs and hence bandwagon jumpidge. So I’m going to read the Magic Book. The Magic Book being ‘The Easy Way to Stop Smoking’ by Allen Carr. Apparently it’s magic. I’ll go for that.

So here goes it. But as it’s not tomorrow yet (well… it’s 12.04 at night but let’s not quibble) I’m going to have a cigarette. I’ll say goodbye like it’s a friend* moving to Eastern Europe**.

* I am aware I should not think of cigarettes as ‘friends’.

** They still smoke a lot in Eastern Europe.