Why you shouldn’t apply too much fake tan
Tanorexia Nervosa
Tanorexia nervosa is a psychological disorder characterized by obsessive repeated self-tan application. The terms tanorexia and ‘female with self esteem issues’ are often used interchangeably [citation needed], however tanorexia is simply a medical term for spending over 25% of one’s disposable income on tanning products. Tanorexia nervosa has many complicated implications and may be thought of as a lifelong illness that may never be truly cured, but only managed over time.
The average self-tanning application intake of a person with tanorexia nervosa is one 400ML bottle of Le Tan Bronze per day, but extreme cases of complete obsessive tanning are common. A person suffering from this condition is commonly referred to as a fucking mental nut bag [citation needed].
While it can affect men and women of any age, race and socioeconomic and cultural background, anorexia nervosa occurs in the media and advertising industry at an alarming level of 65 times the normal population. It is a serious mental illness most common in countries including Australia, USA, Canada, Britain and New Zealand. Incidences of the condition are relatively low in Africa, sufferers are often labelled ‘Afritans’.
While tanorexia nervosa is quite commonly (in lay circles) believed to be a woman’s illness, it should not be forgotten than 3 per cent of people with anorexia nervosa are male. The rate of the disorder is disproportionally high amongst Aussie Rules players.
There are 4 known common forms of the disorder:
Tanorexia moleski is the most common form of the illness, affecting 83% of all tanorexia sufferers. After excessive self-tanning applciation, sufferers usually resemble the output of a cross pollination experiment between Oprah Winfrey and a butternut pumpkin.
Tanorexia sweatalotakis is a variation of tanorexia moleski and is most commonly found amongst exercise enthusiasts and people with a BMI greater than 30. Perspiration ‘rivers’ often trickle down a sufferer’s neck resulting in a neck that resmbles ridges and valleys on the surface of Mars if it had an atmosphere.
Tanorexia orasian is a form of the disorder common amongst Asian populations. Sufferers often commit the mistake of purchasing self-tan products designed for Anglo-Caucasian skin. A sufferer’s resulting skin appearance closely matches the colour and texture of a valencia orange.
Tanorexia rangatan is a form of the illness suffered by red heads. Let’s face it, ranga’s weren’t designed to sport tans. Just give up already.
What I’ve been up to in the past 901 days
Wow, it’s been exactly 901 days since my last post. I’ve decided to start blogging again due to an overwhelming demand from my regular readers (I’m talking about YOU Nastya in Moldova).
In fact it’s my personal goal in 2012 to increase my blog readership by 20%. I’ve set the stretch goal of 6 readers a year now.
I’m sitting on the couch with a quarter full bottle of ‘white’ wine that I found at the back of my fridge. I suspect the wine has been hidden here for 901 days. Note that ‘white’ is an operative word; Dulux would describe the colour of the furry liquid in my glass as ‘stage II melanoma brown’.
Oh well, surely there should be some alcohol in this glass coexisting amongst the numerous questionable orange-coloured floaties. hmm…it’s certainly having an effect, it feels like I’ve consumed a bloody mary followed by a swig of premium unleaded.
“So Jeffro what have you been up to in the past 901 days” I hear you ask? Well, not much:
I moved to Melbourne. Yes…the land of Mexicans, a unique part of the world where people drink coffee at any time of day or night. No wonder why Shane Warne has so much energy for an elderly man.
Melbourne is also an artsy place. Everywhere you look there’s a fucking art gallery. There’s a growing trend of bored unemployed 20-somethings (i.e. philosophy graduates) to open art gallerys in their houses.
The other day I walked past an art gallery showcasing watercolour paintings of microwave ovens. On the subject of artsy, it’s socially acceptable in suburbs north of the river to wear a beret. Seriously, in Sydney you’d get beaten up for even saying the word ‘beret’. In Melbourne there’s specialist beret-shops.
Shopping in Melbourne is a favourite past-time. Many people develop a painful aching of the wrist known as ‘swipe-itis’ caused by frequent swiping of credit cards using the right hand. It’s most common in women, if a bloke said that he’d get laughed out of the pub.
I’ve visited far away, foreign places such as India, China, Spain, HK and Tasmania. Each of these exotic places taught me something new e.g. how to practice positive visualisation when crouching over a toilet bowl in extreme agony with Bombay-belly, how it’s best not to ask what category of animal you’re eating from a street-stall in China, how to save face when being robbed by two Spanish girls, how the practice of abandoning soiled underwear in a nearby bathroom is not socially acceptable after doing the world’s highest bungee jump in Macau, and how to avoid bogans.
I’ve started an MBA. No, not the ‘Mexican Bogan Academy’, ‘Mindnumbingly Boring Artgallery’ or ‘Mary’s Bloody Arsehole’. I made the decision to go back to uni part-time after my enthusiasm for various other extra-curricular activities waned. I tried my hand at stand-up comedy for a while but mostly got as many chuckles as Tony Abbott addressing a group of assylum seekers. Hosting a community radio show was fun for about a year, however when the ratings came out we finished lower than the Victorian Dyslexic Alpaca Farmers Talkback Show.
A couple of numbers from the past 901 days:
901 = number of days I’ve thought about sex
3 = number of Christmases I’ve been disappointed by my present-haul
1 = number of times I’ve been robbed by two girls in Madrid
Our forefathers fought for this
5 Things I Miss About London
OK, so I’m getting sentimental here, but I really do miss living in London.
The Brits have it good, although though they do love a good moan about the weather, the tube, their cricket team, the price of mince meat, newspapers with ink that rubs off in your hands, the fact that a weird-looking Australian tried to encourage fellow passengers on the 214 bus to get involved in a GreenDay sing-a-long at 7pm on a Friday evening on the way home from Sainsburys.
In fact, I frequently tell all my Brit mates that the UK is so great, that I consider it the second-best country in the world. For some reason, they’ve never appreciated this compliment. Ungrateful bastards.
So, in no particular order, here’s my list of the 5 things I miss the most about London.
1. Dunnyman. A uniquely British creation, Dunnyman (or the female equivalent – Dunnymole) is the lovable ‘attendent’ that dispenses handroll, after-shave, condoms, women-advice and philosphical mantras in the pub toilet. He is well dressed, welcomes everyone with the stock-standard ‘Freshen up boss!’ greeting, and is almost always from a war-torn or famine-afflicted nation. Despite working in barely-tolerable, unhygienic conditions and copping daily abuse from drunk arrogant punters, Dunnyman is always smiling. I thought Sydney taxi-drivers copped a handful taking my mates home on a Saturday night….I’ve finally found someone with a thicker skin – Dunnyman.
2. Fried Chicken Joints. On every street corner in London, there is a fried chicken joint selling £1 fried chicken pieces, deep-fried in month-old vegetable oil. They’re a cornerstone of the British diet, and have been around for centuries. During the Victorian era, London town-planners laid out the city in such a way that every pub would be no more than a 50m stagger from a FCJ. However, the typical modern-British male is ashamed to frequent a FCJ, often waiting until his friends are on their way home in a cab before checking over his shoulder. In fact they’re sometimes so discreet, a casual observer would believe he’s entering an adult shop.
3. The Church. Every Sunday afternoon between 12-4pm, a “nightclub” in Kentish Town holds a massive piss-up called The Church. Completely dominated by Aussies and Kiwis, it’s a perfect excuse to end the weekend much the same way it started – drinking beer, being loud and obnoxious, eating 5 chicken pieces and a kilo of fries from a FCJ, then passing out in a cab.
4. English Accents. Don’t get me started here, I love English accents. OK, let me distinguish for a minute – I’m not talking about the chav accents from South Ruislip that sound rather like down-syndrome strawberry farmers. “O’ight geezer, giv’us one of ya fags love… innit”. Instead, I’m referring to the educated public-school London accents that you hear everywhere. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit (and please don’t tell my mum) – posh female English accents give me the horn. Often I’d re-check my voice-messages just to hear the lovely Buckinghamshire Vodafone lady tell me that I have no new messages.
5. Apathy Towards Terrorism. While the rest of the world is cowering in fear at the thought of mass-murder on their public transport systems, the Brits simply don’t care. During my first week in London in mid-2005, bombs went off on buses and trains all around central London. The locals simply carried on their day-to-day business without even blinking. I thought what a crazy place to live, no one seems to mind!
Vehicles manufactured in Korea are often of inferior quality.
Me: How was your day mate?
English Friend: Yeah was fine old chap, but the tube was delayed because a bomb went off on the Piccadilly Line…I wish the London Underground would just get their act together and stop making excuses.
Me: So you honestly don’t mind all these bombs going off. What would you do if a suicide bomber sat opposite you on the tube?
English Friend: I wouldn’t care. Well, as long as he doesn’t try and start a conversation with me.
My 3am Blog Post
It’s 3am in Sydney and I can’t sleep.
Predictable really, considering that I’ve touched more timezones than the swine-flu in the last 24 hours.
Apologies in advance, as this will probably be my dullest post ever. I’m using you (the reader) as a selfish means to get to sleep. I’m hoping the act of blogging will exhaust me to slumber, rather like the midnight quickie.
Hey, at least I’m being up-front an honest.
Although I must admit, blogging does engage the creative juices a lot more – sorry to all the romanticists out there.
And you have to use your fingers a lot more when you type.
When trying to sleep earlier tonight, I attempted all the usual. Unfortunately, all made my mind more active and alert.
1. Counting sheep – but then I thought of lamb kebabs and became hungry.
2. Counting backwards from 100 – but once I reached 0, I had a crisis. What now? Do I go back up to 100? Or do I go into the minus numbers? Or should I do it again but count backwards in roman numerals?
3. Staring up at the black ceiling until my eyes fell drowsy – but my hyper-active mind started visualising dark shapes moving around on the ceiling and I freaked out. Were they cockroaches? Or a weird alien blob life-form that breeds on the ceilings of Bondi apartments?
4. Writing down my thoughts – which is what I’m currently doing, electronically. Hence, the reason for this post.
Well, I’m going to give it another crack, after all I have to be in the office in 5 hours to read my expected 300 new emails from the past 2 weeks. I’ll make the next post more interesting, promise.
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