Well well well, look what we have here.
I’ve managed to survive a TORTUROUS (quite bad) WEEK (5 days) without the internet as my craptop went all crazy on my ass. And man, there’s a whole other world out there - a world of books and children and snow and conversations that don’t involve a keyboard. Who knew?
While you were tweeting…
I was back at work this week invigilating the mock GCSE exams at t’school. Most of the other invigilators are in their 60s/70s and stand around discussing their gout and comparing liver spots while I nod along politely. They think being old gives them the supreme right to stand by the heater which is totally not on; just because I’ve not got gout doesn’t mean I don’t get a cold arse. The exam hall is absolutely FREEEEEZING and lately the highlight of my day has been spotting that the heater is free and casually SPRINTING across the hall to practically caress the bloody thing. I can get away with this for approx 37 seconds before the oldies walk past with disapproving glances and witty quips such as “You’ll melt if you stand there much longer”. Sod off, I’m not a Kinder Egg, I’ll be fine.
Wednesday afternoon was good because Amy B was invigilating with me. I went through school with Amy and we were in a lot of the same classes together (read as: got chucked out of a lot of the same classes together). There’s always a laugh when Amy’s about. We passed the two hours by correcting the spelling and grammar on the exam hall posters with a permanent marker. Amy also whispers things like “Look at the girl sat in B12, she has the most squeezable spots I’ve EVER seen” to me, so I have to toddle past to check ‘em out while trying not to laugh, coz we are well mature and profeshnul innit. The first summer we were invigilating one of the parents actually rang up and complained about us; “My little darling couldn’t concentrate on her history exam because two of your invigilators stood GOSSIPING throughout”. We don’t get to work together often, to be honest.
I’ve been spending the thinking time invigilating allows me very wisely. That is, I’ve been eying up potential suitors for my year 11 friend, Amy. (Yes guys, I’ve introduced a THIRD Amy to the equation here. If you need to draw a spider diagram to deal with all this, feel free). This is not because I’m trying to be patronising or think she’s desperate or anything, I just love match making. If I was a Jane Austen character, I’d be Emma Woodhouse. So anyway, I have four potentials with reasons for each, which include:
1) Is very polite.
2) Has a nice coat.
3) Has a cool name.
4) Looks like he could fix a computer.
To be fair, I’ve really realised the importance of number 4 lately, so much so I’m even going to have it written into my marriage vows. “I promise to love, honour, obey, and re-boot your hard drive whenever necessary”.
I shall run these names past her and see what she says.
Jesus. Why I haven’t been sacked by now is beyond me.
Moving swiftly on...
This weekend I stayed with my cousin Emma, her husband Shaun, and their two boys; almost-eight Ellis and three-year-old Finn. They only live just over an hour away on the train but I have to leave Wales to get there which essentially makes it a holiday. IT’S A HOLIDAY GODDAMNIT! I love staying with them, it’s always cosy and welcoming and lovely.
Em and I did a spot of shopping, as usual. It’s great shopping together: we don’t have to hide our shoppers OCD because it’s something we both share. For example, we cannot, under any circumstances, buy the first item off a wrack/shelf. Desired item has to be taken from at least a third of the way back. It’s just how we roll. Don’t question it, embrace it.
Shaun managed to fix my laptop, and my reaction was something along the lines of “OMG! AMAZING! HERO! GENUIS! ALL HAIL GIVER OF LIFE!”, until we went to PC World where I spent a good 20minutes crushing on Apple products and rocking back and forth chanting “Mac Mac Mac Mac”. Obviously then wanted to go home and re-break my laptop so I’d have an excuse to get a smooth and lickable Mac.
Funny things the boys say:
Finn is playing the part of an inn keeper in his nursery school play.
Joseph: Is there any room at the inn?
Finn: Yeah, there’s loads.
*psst, Finn, there’s no room at the inn!*
Finn: But there is though, look!
*No Finn, tell them to go to the stable!*
Finn: Table? What table?
Listing things he likes.
Finn: I like eating and drinking and sucking and playing.
Nursery nurse: Don’t touch that Finn, it’s got germs on it!
Finn: Well why don’t you move it out of my way then?
*they move object*
Finn: That’s more like it.
Ooo he’s his mother’s boy! ;-) Love ‘im big time.
Ellis snuggling up to me while we watch X Factor.
Me: I’ll have to make the most of this, bet you won’t want cuddles off me when you get older will you?
Ellis: No.
Me: Dude! You could’ve at least lied to me!
Ellis: But I won’t though. When I’m about ten I probably won’t.
I HAVE TWO YEARS LEFT PEOPLE! *sobs* Best start getting Finn snuggle ready.
After a few moments quiet contemplation.
Ellis: I haven’t even named my widger yet. Do you want to help me think of names?
I become particularly hysterical when the ‘widger’ became known as ‘Freddie’ and was given a personality, which involved “liking hide and seek”. He was utterly innocent and we were speechless/laughing/shocked.
Ways in which Ellis has woken me up over the years...
1) By playing with my hair.
2) By stroking my leg.
3) By climbing in my bed and slowly inching me out of it.
4) "Amy, it's snowing!"
5) "Amy, I've got a runny nose..."
6) "Do you want to play Mario Kart?"
Love that boy sfm!
Embarrassing things I did:
On returning to the living room after reading a bedtime story to Ellis, I fell down the last 5 or so stairs, ended up flat on my face, stood up thinking “Phew, glad no one saw, hope Em and Shaun didn’t hear that”, then preceded to trip over the guinea pig cage and end up on all fours whispering “Sorry Fudge”. Such grace. Why the Royal Ballet haven't snapped me up by now, God only knows. In hindsight, I should’ve put the light on.
Me: “You know that cruise ship you were working on*?”
Shaun: “Yeah”.
Me: “When you were stood near the edge, did you not feel like you were gonna, just… fall off?”
Shaun: “Erm… there’s a barrier round the edge Aim”.
Me: “Ohh.. Oh right. Good idea that”.
Oh dear. Imagine my idea of a cruise ship? Hold on tight kids! And yes, ladies and gents, I WILL be teaching the next generation. Yay for them!
*Disclaimer: he’s totally not a cruise ship entertainer. It’s some kind of techie job I don’t understand. But yeah, totally not Jane McDonald, honest.
So there we are, that’s my waffle for the night. I’ve got to go and read Sam Shepard plays now. Tally ho! (WTF?) xx
Monday 29 November 2010
Friday 22 October 2010
Stuff and nonsense.
Things that happened on Thursday:
More classroom observation at the school. It’s hard not to be cheered when walking into an environment where the first thing you hear is a group of teenagers gleefully singing “Barbara Streisand! OooOoOoOoooOoOOOOoooo!” - had to smile to myself. One of the things I love about working in a school: if you’re feeling miserable it’s not long before someone says something stupid and makes you laugh.
In a similar vein, there’s always a kid that tugs on your heart strings. The Year 7s were doing presentations today on ‘Someone you admire’. Things had been jolly and light-hearted; mentions of footballers and the like. Until one young girl began: “The person I admire most is my mum. Even though she is dead…”. At this point the whole class started paying attention, while this quietly confident 11 year old began to tell us about her mum who’d had breast cancer, and passed away aged just 37. She told us her mum’s name was Susan, and how she loved wearing jeans, and how she was short with blondey brown hair and “not very skinny”. She told us that before she died her mum had taken the family on special days out, and bought them presents they now treasure. She talked of how she worried that their dad may not be able to look after them properly because “you know what men are like”. She told us that it took her a great deal of time to come to terms with her mum’s death, and for a while she hated leaving the house because all she could see around her was other people having fun with their mums, and she’d have to play a loud noise in her head and concentrate on that to drown everything else out. She finished by saying her dad was doing a pretty good job of taking care of everything, and everyone.
By the end the little lady had tears in her eyes, and she wasn’t the only one. Steph (the teacher) and I just looked at each other open mouthed and glassy eyed. What a brave young girl, able to share something so personal, and talk so honestly about such an emotional topic, without cracking up or losing her focus. Above all, she admired someone worthy of such respect, awe and inspiration. She seemed to be a wise kid, and a credit to her parents.
She got top marks for her presentation.
Later that day…
I got chatting to a lady who was also taking part in classroom observation, but she’s actually on her PGCE. Turns out training as a teacher is a huge career and life change for her; she was born and bred in London, had never been to Wales before, and up until this year was a journalist. For the Daily Mirror. Piers Morgan was her editor for a while. PIERS MORGAN EVERYBODY! Round of applause for that!
So being my usual gossipy self I was all “Ooo tell me more…”. She was a news/features/travel journalist, so no juicy celebrity spillage sadly (total let down) but she DID tell me she was glad to see the back of journalism; she said that, from her experience, it’s a very blood-thirsty business, dog-eat-dog, and a chauvinistic environment to work in. She said even in this day and age women are not treated as equals in the business, especially when it comes to pay.
*clings onto PGCE application for dear life*.
She also said she LOVES Wales - “it’s a different world up here!”. She wants to move her whole family here and is disappointed she hadn’t spent more time here before this, because she definitely would’ve moved here sooner. WIN FOR WALES! *bakes Welsh Cakes, picks daffodils, herds sheep*
Even later than day…
I went for a hair cut, at long flipping last. My resemblance to Morticia Aadams was becoming uncanny. They’re funny creatures, hairdressers; I don’t get this need to just talk and talk and talk. See, I like having my hair done, or my nails, or a massage, or just being faffed with in general (oo-er). It’s relaxing; a time for peace and quiet. Not this:
- Going away anywhere nice?
- Yeah, I’m going to New York in January.
- Ooo! Are you going for Christmas?
- No. In, erm… January.
- Lovely! Have you been before?
- No, first time. Have you?
- Not New York no… I’ve been to Newquay…
But they’re not the same, are they? They just have ‘New’ in the title. I think it’s pretty safe to say similarities stop and end there.
At this she just let me get on with my daydreaming while chopping away. Although, it does make staring at yourself in the mirror almost unavoidable, and this lead me to the shocking realisation that I either have a wonky eye or a wonky eyebrow. Neither are ideal but I’m hoping it is the latter as I imagine it’d be easier to fix.
Things that happened on Friday:
School time. There was a lovely lad in first lesson but he’d just moved over from Spain and could barely speak a word of English. I had great fun playing with flashcards with him though, and he taught me the odd Spanish word/phrase. Made me laugh that when I shown him the flashcard with a picture of a telephone on it he said “iPhone”. Fair enough like.
Bottom set year 9, period 3, are always a pleasure. No really, I’m not being sarcastic. There’s Little Miss Attitude who will only read aloud to me, which makes my heart soar with a certain smugness, not gonna lie. There was another lad who I told to “mind the swearing”. He replied “But it’s my CULTURE, Miss!” He has a point.
I’m trying to cap my swearing in every day life so as to avoid any unfortunate incident of it slipping out when around pupils, so expect a lot of “fluffing hell!” and “what a pile of sugar!”. This is the Minister for Education, you are live in the classroom, please do not say fuck or bugger.
In other news…
Since trying my first ever cherry yogurt on Monday I’ve developed somewhat of a fixation. I’ve eaten at least one a day since then (yes, I said ‘at least’) and today I went to Tesco and bought nothing other than 4 Muller low fat cherry yogurts and squirreled them away like an addict. They won’t see the weekend out. Ooo look at me, I’m somewhat of a maverick. Anyone’d think I was going out scouting for meth. No, just fermented milk products. I may not be cool but I do have strong bones.
Things I think about when I can’t sleep at night…
1) I have so much to do. I should really be reading. Maybe I should get up and read.
2) If I don’t get my finger out I’m going to be stuck with a load of work all over Christmas. Again.
3) I hope I make a good teacher. I need to be a bit more stern though I think. Big loud voices and what not. Hope they don’t walk all over me.
4) I hope it snows when we’re in New York.
5) I do love Russell Brand, I do.
6) I wonder if John and Josie will stay together.
7) I’d quite like a rabbit.
8) Or a hedgehog.
9) I really enjoy the word ‘rhombus’.
Over and out x
More classroom observation at the school. It’s hard not to be cheered when walking into an environment where the first thing you hear is a group of teenagers gleefully singing “Barbara Streisand! OooOoOoOoooOoOOOOoooo!” - had to smile to myself. One of the things I love about working in a school: if you’re feeling miserable it’s not long before someone says something stupid and makes you laugh.
In a similar vein, there’s always a kid that tugs on your heart strings. The Year 7s were doing presentations today on ‘Someone you admire’. Things had been jolly and light-hearted; mentions of footballers and the like. Until one young girl began: “The person I admire most is my mum. Even though she is dead…”. At this point the whole class started paying attention, while this quietly confident 11 year old began to tell us about her mum who’d had breast cancer, and passed away aged just 37. She told us her mum’s name was Susan, and how she loved wearing jeans, and how she was short with blondey brown hair and “not very skinny”. She told us that before she died her mum had taken the family on special days out, and bought them presents they now treasure. She talked of how she worried that their dad may not be able to look after them properly because “you know what men are like”. She told us that it took her a great deal of time to come to terms with her mum’s death, and for a while she hated leaving the house because all she could see around her was other people having fun with their mums, and she’d have to play a loud noise in her head and concentrate on that to drown everything else out. She finished by saying her dad was doing a pretty good job of taking care of everything, and everyone.
By the end the little lady had tears in her eyes, and she wasn’t the only one. Steph (the teacher) and I just looked at each other open mouthed and glassy eyed. What a brave young girl, able to share something so personal, and talk so honestly about such an emotional topic, without cracking up or losing her focus. Above all, she admired someone worthy of such respect, awe and inspiration. She seemed to be a wise kid, and a credit to her parents.
She got top marks for her presentation.
Later that day…
I got chatting to a lady who was also taking part in classroom observation, but she’s actually on her PGCE. Turns out training as a teacher is a huge career and life change for her; she was born and bred in London, had never been to Wales before, and up until this year was a journalist. For the Daily Mirror. Piers Morgan was her editor for a while. PIERS MORGAN EVERYBODY! Round of applause for that!
So being my usual gossipy self I was all “Ooo tell me more…”. She was a news/features/travel journalist, so no juicy celebrity spillage sadly (total let down) but she DID tell me she was glad to see the back of journalism; she said that, from her experience, it’s a very blood-thirsty business, dog-eat-dog, and a chauvinistic environment to work in. She said even in this day and age women are not treated as equals in the business, especially when it comes to pay.
*clings onto PGCE application for dear life*.
She also said she LOVES Wales - “it’s a different world up here!”. She wants to move her whole family here and is disappointed she hadn’t spent more time here before this, because she definitely would’ve moved here sooner. WIN FOR WALES! *bakes Welsh Cakes, picks daffodils, herds sheep*
Even later than day…
I went for a hair cut, at long flipping last. My resemblance to Morticia Aadams was becoming uncanny. They’re funny creatures, hairdressers; I don’t get this need to just talk and talk and talk. See, I like having my hair done, or my nails, or a massage, or just being faffed with in general (oo-er). It’s relaxing; a time for peace and quiet. Not this:
- Going away anywhere nice?
- Yeah, I’m going to New York in January.
- Ooo! Are you going for Christmas?
- No. In, erm… January.
- Lovely! Have you been before?
- No, first time. Have you?
- Not New York no… I’ve been to Newquay…
But they’re not the same, are they? They just have ‘New’ in the title. I think it’s pretty safe to say similarities stop and end there.
At this she just let me get on with my daydreaming while chopping away. Although, it does make staring at yourself in the mirror almost unavoidable, and this lead me to the shocking realisation that I either have a wonky eye or a wonky eyebrow. Neither are ideal but I’m hoping it is the latter as I imagine it’d be easier to fix.
Things that happened on Friday:
School time. There was a lovely lad in first lesson but he’d just moved over from Spain and could barely speak a word of English. I had great fun playing with flashcards with him though, and he taught me the odd Spanish word/phrase. Made me laugh that when I shown him the flashcard with a picture of a telephone on it he said “iPhone”. Fair enough like.
Bottom set year 9, period 3, are always a pleasure. No really, I’m not being sarcastic. There’s Little Miss Attitude who will only read aloud to me, which makes my heart soar with a certain smugness, not gonna lie. There was another lad who I told to “mind the swearing”. He replied “But it’s my CULTURE, Miss!” He has a point.
I’m trying to cap my swearing in every day life so as to avoid any unfortunate incident of it slipping out when around pupils, so expect a lot of “fluffing hell!” and “what a pile of sugar!”. This is the Minister for Education, you are live in the classroom, please do not say fuck or bugger.
In other news…
Since trying my first ever cherry yogurt on Monday I’ve developed somewhat of a fixation. I’ve eaten at least one a day since then (yes, I said ‘at least’) and today I went to Tesco and bought nothing other than 4 Muller low fat cherry yogurts and squirreled them away like an addict. They won’t see the weekend out. Ooo look at me, I’m somewhat of a maverick. Anyone’d think I was going out scouting for meth. No, just fermented milk products. I may not be cool but I do have strong bones.
Things I think about when I can’t sleep at night…
1) I have so much to do. I should really be reading. Maybe I should get up and read.
2) If I don’t get my finger out I’m going to be stuck with a load of work all over Christmas. Again.
3) I hope I make a good teacher. I need to be a bit more stern though I think. Big loud voices and what not. Hope they don’t walk all over me.
4) I hope it snows when we’re in New York.
5) I do love Russell Brand, I do.
6) I wonder if John and Josie will stay together.
7) I’d quite like a rabbit.
8) Or a hedgehog.
9) I really enjoy the word ‘rhombus’.
Over and out x
Wednesday 20 October 2010
I fail at life.
If you know me in real life (or if you’re Orla), you’ll know that it takes a lot to make cry. Sometimes I’ll say “Awww that makes me want to cry!” if I feel really emotional, but no actual human tears will come. I reserve these for the death of a beloved pet, or stubbing my toe.
But right now, I’m crying. In frustration, I think. I just feel like I’m struggling with everything at the moment and I’m not very good at dealing with stress.
When we were Freshers I remember third year students really dwelling on how important it was to enjoy ourselves then, because come final year we wouldn’t be able to see the light of day. Of course we didn’t take a blind bit of notice and just carried on applying our neon eye shadow. But now I see what they mean.
I’m in week 4 of third year now. As well as the usual reading (because with English Literature there’s kind of A LOT of reading. Who knew?) - two plays and lots of poetry per week, along with dissertation novels, and critical reading for all three modules - this is on it’s way:
Week 6 - Dissertation report.
Week 7 - Two 3,500 word essays to be handed in on the same day. One on Modern American Drama (which I love), one on Contemporary Poetry (which makes me want to hack my own head off with a steak knife).
Week 8 - Dissertation oral presentation. Public speaking not my forte. Neither are over head projectors and flippy chart things. And the line “The floor is open for questioning” sets me all aquiver already.
I’ve been trying to go into the school as much as I can to organise myself for the PGCE application. I’m really grateful for this, and the English teacher whose lessons I’m sitting in on is absolutely lovely and has gone above and beyond to help me. It does take up time though.
Plus work starts again in November. I can’t wait for the smell of sweet sweet money (another ma-jah issue; where does it all go?) but again - not enough hours in the day.
And then there’s my driving. I suck at driving. I failed my first mock test because I was watching a squirrel run up someone’s drive and may have possibly (definitely) knocked a stationary car’s wing mirror. I hate driving. "Do you WANT to be able to drive Amy?" - "Yes. But I also WANT to marry Russell Brand. Doesn’t make me Katy Perry, does it?"
I’m having trouble keeping my head above water to be honest. It’s making me really cranky and then I feel bad for getting pissed off at perfectly nice people. I feel like I’m letting people down at every turn, whether it be friends, family, tutors… And I can’t even turn to my beloved chocolate for solace because I’m sick of feeling like Susan facking Boyle and want to shift my cake shelf (like a muffin top but x10) pronto.
I sound like such a self-pitying little knob shite, so I’m sorry. It’s not as if I’m the only person in the world who’s got a lot on. I know there’s people a lot worse off than me. And I know there’s plenty of people who’d give their right arm to go to Uni but can’t now due to Wacko Camo. So again, sorry. Hope no one reads all of this, because I sound like a whimpering little girl. I’m off to grow a pair. And do some shit. Will be back when I’m less of a basket case.
Muchos love x
101 days to New York…. #onlythingkeepingmegoing
But right now, I’m crying. In frustration, I think. I just feel like I’m struggling with everything at the moment and I’m not very good at dealing with stress.
When we were Freshers I remember third year students really dwelling on how important it was to enjoy ourselves then, because come final year we wouldn’t be able to see the light of day. Of course we didn’t take a blind bit of notice and just carried on applying our neon eye shadow. But now I see what they mean.
I’m in week 4 of third year now. As well as the usual reading (because with English Literature there’s kind of A LOT of reading. Who knew?) - two plays and lots of poetry per week, along with dissertation novels, and critical reading for all three modules - this is on it’s way:
Week 6 - Dissertation report.
Week 7 - Two 3,500 word essays to be handed in on the same day. One on Modern American Drama (which I love), one on Contemporary Poetry (which makes me want to hack my own head off with a steak knife).
Week 8 - Dissertation oral presentation. Public speaking not my forte. Neither are over head projectors and flippy chart things. And the line “The floor is open for questioning” sets me all aquiver already.
I’ve been trying to go into the school as much as I can to organise myself for the PGCE application. I’m really grateful for this, and the English teacher whose lessons I’m sitting in on is absolutely lovely and has gone above and beyond to help me. It does take up time though.
Plus work starts again in November. I can’t wait for the smell of sweet sweet money (another ma-jah issue; where does it all go?) but again - not enough hours in the day.
And then there’s my driving. I suck at driving. I failed my first mock test because I was watching a squirrel run up someone’s drive and may have possibly (definitely) knocked a stationary car’s wing mirror. I hate driving. "Do you WANT to be able to drive Amy?" - "Yes. But I also WANT to marry Russell Brand. Doesn’t make me Katy Perry, does it?"
I’m having trouble keeping my head above water to be honest. It’s making me really cranky and then I feel bad for getting pissed off at perfectly nice people. I feel like I’m letting people down at every turn, whether it be friends, family, tutors… And I can’t even turn to my beloved chocolate for solace because I’m sick of feeling like Susan facking Boyle and want to shift my cake shelf (like a muffin top but x10) pronto.
I sound like such a self-pitying little knob shite, so I’m sorry. It’s not as if I’m the only person in the world who’s got a lot on. I know there’s people a lot worse off than me. And I know there’s plenty of people who’d give their right arm to go to Uni but can’t now due to Wacko Camo. So again, sorry. Hope no one reads all of this, because I sound like a whimpering little girl. I’m off to grow a pair. And do some shit. Will be back when I’m less of a basket case.
Muchos love x
101 days to New York…. #onlythingkeepingmegoing
Thursday 14 October 2010
"If you lick his face I'll pay for your Nando's..."
I’ve fancied the pants off Russell Brand since I first saw him on Big Brother’s Big Mouth back in 2005. An odd choice for a 15 year old, considering all my peers were hankering after the likes of Justin Timberlake, David Beckham and just, ya know… non ex-drug addicts. But there was something about the way his hair stood a good 2 feet above his head in a black tangled mess, his random stringing together of words (“Umbongo Jumanji Russell!”), his hilarious but bizarre sense of humour, and his overall unique presence that caught my attention. Back then, I didn’t have a clue people like Russell Brand actually existed. He was a fascinating novelty to me. Also, I liked the way he’d say “Pulled down my trousers and pants” every episode, but I never told anyone that bit.
I continued in my admiration of Russell Brand - while my friends went through their Zac Efron stages, or whatever - throughout his career, which was probably not aimed at a rather virtuous 16 year old; presenting BBBM and the NME awards, Russell Brand on the Road, The Russell Brand Show, Russell Brand’s Ponderland (which I still adore - cannot watch the episode on ‘Childhood’ without laughing so much I literally stop breathing and thus panic). I went to see all his films at the cinema; St Trinians, where he played Flash Harry; then there was Forgetting Sarah Marshall; more recently Get Him To The Greek, which was bloody brilliant (in my strictly unbiased opinion). Then there’s his stand-up shows; Shame, Doing Life: Live, Scandalous: all hilarious, of course. Interviews, podcasts, TV appearances; been there, heard that, taped the other. Okay okay, I’m starting to sound like his Wikipedia page now. Moving on…
It’s only once you’ve read Booky Wook that you can really understand Russell Brand for the person that he is actually is, rather than his stage and media caricature; staggeringly intelligent, beautifully philosophical, sensitive, generous, thoughtful, and strong.
I’m not one to judge people for the person they have once been; your past builds towards the person you are to become, and as long as that person is kind and decent and loving, that’s all I’m interested in. People are quick to accuse others of changing for the worse, but few of us trust that people can change for the better.
We all know that Russell was an addict: heroin, alcohol, sex. Even Penguin biscuits at one point (particularly the blue wrappered variety). At it’s worst, his drug addiction got to the point where he was told he had two choices: quit it all, immediately; or continue, and be met with prison, a mental asylum, or death within the next 6 months. Simple as that.
And, well… he’s still here. (At least I hope he bloody is or I met some crazed impostor last week.) He tore himself from his loved ones, his home country, and the only life he’d ever known, to go to rehab in America where he went completely cold turkey. I don’t think any of us could comprehend the strength, bravery, and pain involved in that. He describes this period in detail in his book - never once looking for sympathy, or in a self-indulgent, pitying manner. Just with brutal honesty. Reading it was painful enough; living it is unimaginable. In December it’ll be 8 years since Russell turned his back on that drink and drug driven lifestyle, and he has never once looked back. My admiration and respect for him because of this is through the roof.
And it's not just because I think he's sexy as hell (which I do), or because I think he's a comedy genius (which I do), but I can identify with a lot of what Russell says. Obviously I’m a bit wishy washy on the whole sex-drugs-rock’n’roll aspect, but the deeper side - his thoughts on life and stuff - I’m totally there on that one. And believe it or not, I’m prone to the odd peculiar thought too.
So when I finished Russell’s Booky Wook I got it into my head that, if he wrote a second, I WOULD be going to his book signing. And I was going to meet him. I informed my best friend Lindsey of my plan, and she said she was well up for this. Lauren and Jen were also beyond keen to meet old Ruster Brand too. Excellent. Sorted.
But this was back in 2008. I just though it was one of those things you talk about, but never actually do. Like going to Pilates, or eating an avocado. Fast forward to Thursday 7th October 2010, and my alarm is going off at 6am, to catch a 7.40am train to Liverpool with Lindsey, Lauren and Jen. We sat outside Waterstone’s for six hours on cushions and blanket’s we’d bought from Primark, reading magazines, eating copious amounts of sweets, and frantically exclaiming “But what will we SAY to him?!!?” at random intervals. It went quite quickly, actually.
At about quarter to 3 things started to get exciting. We were moving! There was about 30 people in front of us in the queue, and around 400 people behind us, so we felt rather lucky. At this point the four of us were very giddy and a bit delirious with excitement. Lindsey was squeezing my hand for moral support and Lauren literally ran through the store: “I can’t believe I just cantered through Waterstone’s!” The place was crawling with security, natch, but they were all lovely chaps. One even looked after my bag for me while I did the actual meeting, which was very sweet. When Russell walked in everyone just went off their faces; screaming, pushing, shoving. At only 4ft 11 a lot of this went over my head (ba dum dum chhhh) and I couldn’t see much, but it was a thrilling atmosphere nevertheless.
But pretty soon I got to the front of the queue. And I just stood there, staring at Russell Brand sat on the desk, looking at me with a whopping great big grin on his face and his arms out for a hug. “Now then now then!” he says while beckoning me over. It was like going to see Santa, expect about 5000 times better and on a more adult level. *Makes inappropriate joke about sacks. Deletes it* I walked over and he hugged me and I was a bit WTF RUSSELL BRAND JUST TOUCHED ME; then he started signing my book. As I say he was sat on the end of the desk and it felt like I was standing reeeeally close to him and I didn’t really know where to look but AT HIM. Like, inches from me. Again, WTF.
It was at this point I squeaked “I’m so happy to see you!”. Smooth Amy, smooth.
Russell: I’m happy to see you too! Thanks for waiting.
Me: It’s alright. I’m missing lectures for this.
AMY YOU DICK WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?!?!
Russell: What’re you in Uni for?! You won’t learn anything there, fuck it! You’ll get a better education from life!
Me: Haha…ha…
Ooo, maybe I should quit Uni...
Russell: You’re really gorgeous.
Now then. Now then indeed. I’m seriously not making that up; actual Russell Brand looked right into my very own eyes and actually said that to me. Don’t ask me why - I still don’t understand it myself. Perhaps he was taking the piss. Perhaps he felt sorry for me. Perhaps (okay... probably) he's said the same thing to 427,863 other girls. But bloody hell, it was the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.
Me: Tha… thank you!
Russell: That’s alright, it’s true.
Literally speechless. Gone. Soul has left body. Empty shell of a girl.
Russell handed my book to me and gave me another hug and kissed my cheek, and I was really conscious of his stubble all scratchy and lovely on my face. (I love stubble. Especially Russell stubble).
I took a step to leave but turned back as Russell started speaking. He looked right into my face again and said “See you soon, beautiful girl” and winked. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll take him up on that…
Later that day, I realised I'd forgotten to tell Russell I loved him, and was a bit gutted with myself. But then I opened my Booky Wook 2 and saw that he'd written in it "Amy <3 Russell". I think he got the picture... :-)
Favourite Russell Brand quotes
'We all have an essential self, but if you spend every day chopping up meat on a slab, and selling it by the pound, soon you’ll find you’ve become a butcher. And if you don’t want to become a butcher (and why would you?), you’re going to have to cut right through to the bare bones of your own character in the hope of finding out who you really are. Which bloody hurts.'
'For me happiness occurs arbitrarily: a moment of eye contact on a bus, where all at once you fall in love; or a frozen second in a park where it's enough that there are trees in the world.'
'No-one really feels self-confident deep down because it's an artificial idea. Really, people aren't that worried about what you're doing or what you're saying, so you can drift around the world relatively anonymously: you must not feel persecuted and examined. Liberate yourself from that idea that people are watching you.'
'Mum is the nucleus of my being and that’s really somewhere beyond analysis. She’s so far ensconced in my psyche, so deeply encoded, so profoundly ingrained in who I am, that while I’m not usually stuck for words on anything, I find it difficult to use words in this context. She’s just at my very core.’
(That’s exactly how I feel about my mum).
'Part of me is not really over it. There’s a little part of my brain that’s, ‘Russell, where are the opiates?’ - ‘I’m afraid we can’t have any more opiates.’ - ‘Why?’ - ‘You nearly killed me, didn’t you?’ - ‘That was just a joke!’'
'Even as a junkie I stayed true [to vegetarianism] - 'I shall have heroin, but I shan't have a hamburger.' What a sexy little paradox.'
'The only reason I hadn’t made a serious attempt to kill myself was because I just thought, “I’ve not done anything yet”.'
'I didn’t get invited to parties and the like on account of the ol’ oddness.'
'My life is just a series of embarrassing incidents, strung together by telling people about those embarrassing incidents.'
'Nothing is important, expect finding love within yourself and being all honourable and gracious and beautiful.'
'I wish you’d stop attacking me just for the crime of being myself!'
I continued in my admiration of Russell Brand - while my friends went through their Zac Efron stages, or whatever - throughout his career, which was probably not aimed at a rather virtuous 16 year old; presenting BBBM and the NME awards, Russell Brand on the Road, The Russell Brand Show, Russell Brand’s Ponderland (which I still adore - cannot watch the episode on ‘Childhood’ without laughing so much I literally stop breathing and thus panic). I went to see all his films at the cinema; St Trinians, where he played Flash Harry; then there was Forgetting Sarah Marshall; more recently Get Him To The Greek, which was bloody brilliant (in my strictly unbiased opinion). Then there’s his stand-up shows; Shame, Doing Life: Live, Scandalous: all hilarious, of course. Interviews, podcasts, TV appearances; been there, heard that, taped the other. Okay okay, I’m starting to sound like his Wikipedia page now. Moving on…
It’s only once you’ve read Booky Wook that you can really understand Russell Brand for the person that he is actually is, rather than his stage and media caricature; staggeringly intelligent, beautifully philosophical, sensitive, generous, thoughtful, and strong.
I’m not one to judge people for the person they have once been; your past builds towards the person you are to become, and as long as that person is kind and decent and loving, that’s all I’m interested in. People are quick to accuse others of changing for the worse, but few of us trust that people can change for the better.
We all know that Russell was an addict: heroin, alcohol, sex. Even Penguin biscuits at one point (particularly the blue wrappered variety). At it’s worst, his drug addiction got to the point where he was told he had two choices: quit it all, immediately; or continue, and be met with prison, a mental asylum, or death within the next 6 months. Simple as that.
And, well… he’s still here. (At least I hope he bloody is or I met some crazed impostor last week.) He tore himself from his loved ones, his home country, and the only life he’d ever known, to go to rehab in America where he went completely cold turkey. I don’t think any of us could comprehend the strength, bravery, and pain involved in that. He describes this period in detail in his book - never once looking for sympathy, or in a self-indulgent, pitying manner. Just with brutal honesty. Reading it was painful enough; living it is unimaginable. In December it’ll be 8 years since Russell turned his back on that drink and drug driven lifestyle, and he has never once looked back. My admiration and respect for him because of this is through the roof.
And it's not just because I think he's sexy as hell (which I do), or because I think he's a comedy genius (which I do), but I can identify with a lot of what Russell says. Obviously I’m a bit wishy washy on the whole sex-drugs-rock’n’roll aspect, but the deeper side - his thoughts on life and stuff - I’m totally there on that one. And believe it or not, I’m prone to the odd peculiar thought too.
So when I finished Russell’s Booky Wook I got it into my head that, if he wrote a second, I WOULD be going to his book signing. And I was going to meet him. I informed my best friend Lindsey of my plan, and she said she was well up for this. Lauren and Jen were also beyond keen to meet old Ruster Brand too. Excellent. Sorted.
But this was back in 2008. I just though it was one of those things you talk about, but never actually do. Like going to Pilates, or eating an avocado. Fast forward to Thursday 7th October 2010, and my alarm is going off at 6am, to catch a 7.40am train to Liverpool with Lindsey, Lauren and Jen. We sat outside Waterstone’s for six hours on cushions and blanket’s we’d bought from Primark, reading magazines, eating copious amounts of sweets, and frantically exclaiming “But what will we SAY to him?!!?” at random intervals. It went quite quickly, actually.
At about quarter to 3 things started to get exciting. We were moving! There was about 30 people in front of us in the queue, and around 400 people behind us, so we felt rather lucky. At this point the four of us were very giddy and a bit delirious with excitement. Lindsey was squeezing my hand for moral support and Lauren literally ran through the store: “I can’t believe I just cantered through Waterstone’s!” The place was crawling with security, natch, but they were all lovely chaps. One even looked after my bag for me while I did the actual meeting, which was very sweet. When Russell walked in everyone just went off their faces; screaming, pushing, shoving. At only 4ft 11 a lot of this went over my head (ba dum dum chhhh) and I couldn’t see much, but it was a thrilling atmosphere nevertheless.
But pretty soon I got to the front of the queue. And I just stood there, staring at Russell Brand sat on the desk, looking at me with a whopping great big grin on his face and his arms out for a hug. “Now then now then!” he says while beckoning me over. It was like going to see Santa, expect about 5000 times better and on a more adult level. *Makes inappropriate joke about sacks. Deletes it* I walked over and he hugged me and I was a bit WTF RUSSELL BRAND JUST TOUCHED ME; then he started signing my book. As I say he was sat on the end of the desk and it felt like I was standing reeeeally close to him and I didn’t really know where to look but AT HIM. Like, inches from me. Again, WTF.
It was at this point I squeaked “I’m so happy to see you!”. Smooth Amy, smooth.
Russell: I’m happy to see you too! Thanks for waiting.
Me: It’s alright. I’m missing lectures for this.
AMY YOU DICK WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?!?!
Russell: What’re you in Uni for?! You won’t learn anything there, fuck it! You’ll get a better education from life!
Me: Haha…ha…
Ooo, maybe I should quit Uni...
Russell: You’re really gorgeous.
Now then. Now then indeed. I’m seriously not making that up; actual Russell Brand looked right into my very own eyes and actually said that to me. Don’t ask me why - I still don’t understand it myself. Perhaps he was taking the piss. Perhaps he felt sorry for me. Perhaps (okay... probably) he's said the same thing to 427,863 other girls. But bloody hell, it was the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.
Me: Tha… thank you!
Russell: That’s alright, it’s true.
Literally speechless. Gone. Soul has left body. Empty shell of a girl.
Russell handed my book to me and gave me another hug and kissed my cheek, and I was really conscious of his stubble all scratchy and lovely on my face. (I love stubble. Especially Russell stubble).
I took a step to leave but turned back as Russell started speaking. He looked right into my face again and said “See you soon, beautiful girl” and winked. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll take him up on that…
Later that day, I realised I'd forgotten to tell Russell I loved him, and was a bit gutted with myself. But then I opened my Booky Wook 2 and saw that he'd written in it "Amy <3 Russell". I think he got the picture... :-)
Favourite Russell Brand quotes
'We all have an essential self, but if you spend every day chopping up meat on a slab, and selling it by the pound, soon you’ll find you’ve become a butcher. And if you don’t want to become a butcher (and why would you?), you’re going to have to cut right through to the bare bones of your own character in the hope of finding out who you really are. Which bloody hurts.'
'For me happiness occurs arbitrarily: a moment of eye contact on a bus, where all at once you fall in love; or a frozen second in a park where it's enough that there are trees in the world.'
'No-one really feels self-confident deep down because it's an artificial idea. Really, people aren't that worried about what you're doing or what you're saying, so you can drift around the world relatively anonymously: you must not feel persecuted and examined. Liberate yourself from that idea that people are watching you.'
'Mum is the nucleus of my being and that’s really somewhere beyond analysis. She’s so far ensconced in my psyche, so deeply encoded, so profoundly ingrained in who I am, that while I’m not usually stuck for words on anything, I find it difficult to use words in this context. She’s just at my very core.’
(That’s exactly how I feel about my mum).
'Part of me is not really over it. There’s a little part of my brain that’s, ‘Russell, where are the opiates?’ - ‘I’m afraid we can’t have any more opiates.’ - ‘Why?’ - ‘You nearly killed me, didn’t you?’ - ‘That was just a joke!’'
'Even as a junkie I stayed true [to vegetarianism] - 'I shall have heroin, but I shan't have a hamburger.' What a sexy little paradox.'
'The only reason I hadn’t made a serious attempt to kill myself was because I just thought, “I’ve not done anything yet”.'
'I didn’t get invited to parties and the like on account of the ol’ oddness.'
'My life is just a series of embarrassing incidents, strung together by telling people about those embarrassing incidents.'
'Nothing is important, expect finding love within yourself and being all honourable and gracious and beautiful.'
'I wish you’d stop attacking me just for the crime of being myself!'
Tuesday 14 September 2010
I'm getting angry now...
As an English student people often ask me if I want to go into newspaper journalism after I graduate. The answer is always point blank: “No”. “Why not?” they ask.
Well, in all honesty, because I have a heart. Because I value things like truth, honesty, respect, and society in general.
It’s not often that I let the toxic waste produced by the likes of the Daily Star/Mail etc seep into my consciousness, but quoting and retweeting of articles from these rags have been bringing them to my attention lately. Much to my dismay.
It actually ASTOUNDS me how so much fairytale guff can be printed and that some people a) pay to read it; b) believe it; c) feel fulfilled in a career where they spend their days spreading hurtful lies. Magazine and newspaper journalism is disposable, I’ve always said that; the words that are written one week will be erased by whatever the new ‘hot topic’ is the week after; it’s next weeks chip paper, yadda yadda yadda. But not so much when it’s targeting individual people and their feelings; hurtful comments that may mean nothing to the person spewing them can linger with the person they're aimed at for years. And that’s also true in life in general - but most of us are lucky enough to not have to suffer the embarrassment of having these comments printed nationally.
I used to buy Heat religiously, but it was my New Year’s Resolution this year to give it a rest for a bit. Mainly because I’d had about as much as I could take of “The curvy girls vs. skinny girls debate”; “Celeb beach bods!”; “Circle of shame - SHOCK AT CELEB LOOKING NORMAL”.
This was all going swimmingly, until a certain John James and Josie whipped us all into a frenzy and I, like many, have been buying magazines for the first time in ages to feed my addiction. I’ve been practically rubbing OK! Magazine into my gums. And while we’re on the topic - I do think that, overall, OK!’s treatment of JJJ has been lovely; their interviews are reliable, asking the questions we want to know the answers to but not going over the top, and they’ve treated us to some seriously swoon worthy photos. And our beloved, gorgeous little Layla is most definitely one of the good guys: her OK! blogs always speak sense and are like a voice of reason when the rumour mill is going into overdrive.
But as much as the hopeless romantic heart in me has relished all these gratuitous interviews, my sensible head is pleading with John and Josie to just abandon all media stuff altogether now. At least for a while. It’s getting destructive and, frankly, they’re much too good to be used as a selling tool. The good stuff is always accompanied by a whole heap of crap, and I'm sick and tired of it getting so much attention. "John and Josie have 10 hour marathon romp, John and Josie engaged, Josie's 'sex tape', John and Josie love split"... have whoever writes this shit not got some colouring in they could be getting on with? These newspapers are so ridiculous it verges on hilarity. They're like a spiteful little toddler kicking someone repeatedly for attention; in fact, it wouldn't surprise me if that's who the 'writers' actually are. I could rant about them until I'm blue in the face, but they're really not worth any more of my time and effort - or yours. I'll just continue to ignore.
So no, I won’t be entering the world of gossipy celebrity journalism. I’ll leave that to people who really have the know how and are qualified to judge people they have never even met. Like say, ooo, I dunno… Kimberley Walsh.
Oh and ‘The Sun’? Yeah this ones for you;
“Josie, who was dressed in an unflattering red pleated dress…”
Come back to me when you discover what true beauty is. I’ll give you a clue: you won’t find it on page 3.
Well, in all honesty, because I have a heart. Because I value things like truth, honesty, respect, and society in general.
It’s not often that I let the toxic waste produced by the likes of the Daily Star/Mail etc seep into my consciousness, but quoting and retweeting of articles from these rags have been bringing them to my attention lately. Much to my dismay.
It actually ASTOUNDS me how so much fairytale guff can be printed and that some people a) pay to read it; b) believe it; c) feel fulfilled in a career where they spend their days spreading hurtful lies. Magazine and newspaper journalism is disposable, I’ve always said that; the words that are written one week will be erased by whatever the new ‘hot topic’ is the week after; it’s next weeks chip paper, yadda yadda yadda. But not so much when it’s targeting individual people and their feelings; hurtful comments that may mean nothing to the person spewing them can linger with the person they're aimed at for years. And that’s also true in life in general - but most of us are lucky enough to not have to suffer the embarrassment of having these comments printed nationally.
I used to buy Heat religiously, but it was my New Year’s Resolution this year to give it a rest for a bit. Mainly because I’d had about as much as I could take of “The curvy girls vs. skinny girls debate”; “Celeb beach bods!”; “Circle of shame - SHOCK AT CELEB LOOKING NORMAL”.
This was all going swimmingly, until a certain John James and Josie whipped us all into a frenzy and I, like many, have been buying magazines for the first time in ages to feed my addiction. I’ve been practically rubbing OK! Magazine into my gums. And while we’re on the topic - I do think that, overall, OK!’s treatment of JJJ has been lovely; their interviews are reliable, asking the questions we want to know the answers to but not going over the top, and they’ve treated us to some seriously swoon worthy photos. And our beloved, gorgeous little Layla is most definitely one of the good guys: her OK! blogs always speak sense and are like a voice of reason when the rumour mill is going into overdrive.
But as much as the hopeless romantic heart in me has relished all these gratuitous interviews, my sensible head is pleading with John and Josie to just abandon all media stuff altogether now. At least for a while. It’s getting destructive and, frankly, they’re much too good to be used as a selling tool. The good stuff is always accompanied by a whole heap of crap, and I'm sick and tired of it getting so much attention. "John and Josie have 10 hour marathon romp, John and Josie engaged, Josie's 'sex tape', John and Josie love split"... have whoever writes this shit not got some colouring in they could be getting on with? These newspapers are so ridiculous it verges on hilarity. They're like a spiteful little toddler kicking someone repeatedly for attention; in fact, it wouldn't surprise me if that's who the 'writers' actually are. I could rant about them until I'm blue in the face, but they're really not worth any more of my time and effort - or yours. I'll just continue to ignore.
So no, I won’t be entering the world of gossipy celebrity journalism. I’ll leave that to people who really have the know how and are qualified to judge people they have never even met. Like say, ooo, I dunno… Kimberley Walsh.
Oh and ‘The Sun’? Yeah this ones for you;
“Josie, who was dressed in an unflattering red pleated dress…”
Come back to me when you discover what true beauty is. I’ll give you a clue: you won’t find it on page 3.
Tuesday 24 August 2010
The winner of Big Brother 2010 is...
Gotta be honest, I hadn’t planned on watching Big Brother this year. I used to be a massive fan, but gave it a rest the past few years because I couldn’t abide watching a bunch of Playboy-chasing girls and deep-as-a-puddle guys prance around for a few weeks. And if I had to endure another ‘showmance’ (Chiggy, anyone?) I would break my telly. I watched the entrance, and planned on leaving it there.
This all changed when I got in one night and mum squealed at me, as soon as I walked through the door: “Amy! You MUST watch the repeat of tonight’s Big Brother - one of the girls said she’d POOED herself! It was soooo funny!” Of course this girl was Josie. And I must clear up that she didn’t actually poo herself, it was part of the Tree task where she had to collect the shoes.
So I watched that episode, and the other episodes I had missed so far, and ended up becoming more obsessed and involved in BB11 than ever before. For the first time ever I watched live feed. A lot. And by ‘a lot’ I mean pretty much 24/7. I have some very understanding friends and family (and a vitamin D deficiency).
I’m certain I won’t remember the names or faces of all 21 housemates who passed through the doors this time next year, but for me (and many others) there are three people who made Big Brother 11 memorable. Let’s start with…
Sammy Pepper
I wanted to ring his neck for the first couple of days, gotta be said. He seemed like a proper little shit and I was seething when he was saying nasty things about Josie.
But then… well, then he smoothed me RIGHT over.
Sam’s like a mischievous, lovable little kid that you know is being really naughty but is too damn charming for you to stay mad at. He’s absolutely brimming with life and fun, says what he likes and likes what he says - the perfect housemate. On more than one occasion I literally could not breathe for laughing at him; the ninja outfit, the water bombs, the lentils all over the living room, the song he sang to Josie, rocking under the washing stand mumbling “too much coffee” - all legendary. It’s now become one of my dreams to own a piece of original Sam Pepper origami. I dream BIG!
I am willing to sell my left kidney to get him in Ultimate BB. Just putting that out there. I’M NOT READY TO SAY BYE TO PEPPERPOT!
John James
Let’s just get one thing straight: it ain’t always easy being a John James fan. Whilst most of the time we can all see the sooooo handsome super lush guy that Josie loves, sometimes you can’t help but thinking he’d benefit from breathing into a brown paper bag and counting to ten. Perhaps listening to a whale song CD from time to time, too.
But, in all honesty, I couldn’t give a rip what anyone else says. Underneath it all Skippy is lovely, sensitive, sweet, with admirable morals, and he actually doesn’t get enough credit for how funny he is! He often said what needed to be said, and even when “getting angry now”, I still liked him - at least he was honest.
The moment when he changed into his football shirt when JJ entered the house… well, for that I’ll love him forever!
P.S. I quite enjoyed the showers too. Cooooor lovelaaaay etc etc.
Josie Diane Shirley Gibson-Parton... oh sorry, did I slip?!
The nation’s favourite South West sex pest. It’s hard to know where to begin.
I don’t know of one person who hasn’t fallen for the Josie charm. For starters she’s just effortlessly hilarious - I’ll be quoting her one liners for years (don’t worry about piddling your pants love, you’ve made me piss myself laughing more than once). She’s drop dead stunninglicious without having the foggiest idea. She doesn’t sit and pointlessly bad mouth people, because she’d much rather spend her time being positive. She was kind, loving and caring to everyone in the house. Josie is every girl’s ideal number one mucker: she follows the rules of sisterhood to a tee, unlike some of the housemates, not mentioning any names (starts with ‘Cao’ and ends in ‘bitch’). It’s almost indefinable, but there’s just a special Josie glow that draws people in, and is very hard to find.
We love her. That’s all there is to it.
But perhaps the thing that made this Big Brother so special was that, out of no-where, we were suddenly watching two people fall in love. The real stuff, not the ‘I’m ready for my close-up’ stuff. Although in many ways opposites, not least geographically, Triple J just… fit. They truly bring out the best in each other. The emotions they displayed were genuine and tender, and watching them slowly realise that their feelings for one other went beyond just friendship (or, so help me God, ‘brother and sister’ - give it a rest) was rather beautiful; it was quite a privilege for us viewers to be a part of it (if a little voyeuristic at times!). Even when they bickered, we all knew it wouldn’t be long before we witnessed Return of the Doona and we could all put the Prozac down. I really, really hope they hold onto that pure, unspoiled love for one another once they get back in the real world. It’s too hard to find and too good to risk for anything.
Another thing that made Big Brother a barrel of laughs this year: Twitter. As none of my Real Life friends are particularly crazy about BB, it was great to make a whole load of Twitter friends who are. It’s nice to see so many lovely people brought together over a mutual interest like this - typical Josie, she had us all making friends without even realising it. The witty banter between the #BB11 bunch was a lot of fun - so thank you, Twitter family! It’s funny, I’ve only had one bad experience on Twitter, and that was from a male John James hater who called me a “fucking idiotic bitch” for liking someone who was “so disrespectful to women”. The irony still makes me chuckle. ;-)
Tonight is the final of Big Brother 11, and the end of the show as we know it. I know with complete certainty that Josie will win, and I’m thrilled that such an amazing show is ending on a high note.
Pretty soon I’ll have to do all the things I’ve been putting off in the name of live feed. I’ll have to make a start on one of the 837 books I must read in preparation for my final year at Uni. My friends will start getting replies to their texts on the same day they sent them. Hell, my dog might even get a walk.
But for now I’m going to paint my nails lilac, pour a glass of Shloer, and watch BB11 go out with a bang. Am I lovin’ it? You better believe it kid.
Things my BB11 addiction has taught me:
1) It is possible to entertain a group of summer school kids aged 10-11 years old despite averaging on around 3 hours sleep per night. Although by 4pm home time you will want to kill yourself a little bit.
2) There are approximately 297 excuses not to leave the house when Big Brother is on. I have used all of them with vigour.
3) Never, EVER, call someone ‘crab eyes’. It WILL end in tears.
4) First impressions can be very, very wrong. (I owe you an apology Pepperpot).
5) I have very understanding friends. (They do think I’m a bit weird though).
6) Brizzle is, in fact, the shizzle.
7) Tree of Temptation is worth his weight in varnish. *swoons over the Tree*
8) Flash floods look well fun. I want one.
9) There’s a reason why mother warned me about men with monobrows.
10) I better hide the phone bill this month. 09011 323 008. Again and again and again and again and… *repeat to fade*.
This all changed when I got in one night and mum squealed at me, as soon as I walked through the door: “Amy! You MUST watch the repeat of tonight’s Big Brother - one of the girls said she’d POOED herself! It was soooo funny!” Of course this girl was Josie. And I must clear up that she didn’t actually poo herself, it was part of the Tree task where she had to collect the shoes.
So I watched that episode, and the other episodes I had missed so far, and ended up becoming more obsessed and involved in BB11 than ever before. For the first time ever I watched live feed. A lot. And by ‘a lot’ I mean pretty much 24/7. I have some very understanding friends and family (and a vitamin D deficiency).
I’m certain I won’t remember the names or faces of all 21 housemates who passed through the doors this time next year, but for me (and many others) there are three people who made Big Brother 11 memorable. Let’s start with…
Sammy Pepper
I wanted to ring his neck for the first couple of days, gotta be said. He seemed like a proper little shit and I was seething when he was saying nasty things about Josie.
But then… well, then he smoothed me RIGHT over.
Sam’s like a mischievous, lovable little kid that you know is being really naughty but is too damn charming for you to stay mad at. He’s absolutely brimming with life and fun, says what he likes and likes what he says - the perfect housemate. On more than one occasion I literally could not breathe for laughing at him; the ninja outfit, the water bombs, the lentils all over the living room, the song he sang to Josie, rocking under the washing stand mumbling “too much coffee” - all legendary. It’s now become one of my dreams to own a piece of original Sam Pepper origami. I dream BIG!
I am willing to sell my left kidney to get him in Ultimate BB. Just putting that out there. I’M NOT READY TO SAY BYE TO PEPPERPOT!
John James
Let’s just get one thing straight: it ain’t always easy being a John James fan. Whilst most of the time we can all see the sooooo handsome super lush guy that Josie loves, sometimes you can’t help but thinking he’d benefit from breathing into a brown paper bag and counting to ten. Perhaps listening to a whale song CD from time to time, too.
But, in all honesty, I couldn’t give a rip what anyone else says. Underneath it all Skippy is lovely, sensitive, sweet, with admirable morals, and he actually doesn’t get enough credit for how funny he is! He often said what needed to be said, and even when “getting angry now”, I still liked him - at least he was honest.
The moment when he changed into his football shirt when JJ entered the house… well, for that I’ll love him forever!
P.S. I quite enjoyed the showers too. Cooooor lovelaaaay etc etc.
Josie Diane Shirley Gibson-Parton... oh sorry, did I slip?!
The nation’s favourite South West sex pest. It’s hard to know where to begin.
I don’t know of one person who hasn’t fallen for the Josie charm. For starters she’s just effortlessly hilarious - I’ll be quoting her one liners for years (don’t worry about piddling your pants love, you’ve made me piss myself laughing more than once). She’s drop dead stunninglicious without having the foggiest idea. She doesn’t sit and pointlessly bad mouth people, because she’d much rather spend her time being positive. She was kind, loving and caring to everyone in the house. Josie is every girl’s ideal number one mucker: she follows the rules of sisterhood to a tee, unlike some of the housemates, not mentioning any names (starts with ‘Cao’ and ends in ‘bitch’). It’s almost indefinable, but there’s just a special Josie glow that draws people in, and is very hard to find.
We love her. That’s all there is to it.
But perhaps the thing that made this Big Brother so special was that, out of no-where, we were suddenly watching two people fall in love. The real stuff, not the ‘I’m ready for my close-up’ stuff. Although in many ways opposites, not least geographically, Triple J just… fit. They truly bring out the best in each other. The emotions they displayed were genuine and tender, and watching them slowly realise that their feelings for one other went beyond just friendship (or, so help me God, ‘brother and sister’ - give it a rest) was rather beautiful; it was quite a privilege for us viewers to be a part of it (if a little voyeuristic at times!). Even when they bickered, we all knew it wouldn’t be long before we witnessed Return of the Doona and we could all put the Prozac down. I really, really hope they hold onto that pure, unspoiled love for one another once they get back in the real world. It’s too hard to find and too good to risk for anything.
Another thing that made Big Brother a barrel of laughs this year: Twitter. As none of my Real Life friends are particularly crazy about BB, it was great to make a whole load of Twitter friends who are. It’s nice to see so many lovely people brought together over a mutual interest like this - typical Josie, she had us all making friends without even realising it. The witty banter between the #BB11 bunch was a lot of fun - so thank you, Twitter family! It’s funny, I’ve only had one bad experience on Twitter, and that was from a male John James hater who called me a “fucking idiotic bitch” for liking someone who was “so disrespectful to women”. The irony still makes me chuckle. ;-)
Tonight is the final of Big Brother 11, and the end of the show as we know it. I know with complete certainty that Josie will win, and I’m thrilled that such an amazing show is ending on a high note.
Pretty soon I’ll have to do all the things I’ve been putting off in the name of live feed. I’ll have to make a start on one of the 837 books I must read in preparation for my final year at Uni. My friends will start getting replies to their texts on the same day they sent them. Hell, my dog might even get a walk.
But for now I’m going to paint my nails lilac, pour a glass of Shloer, and watch BB11 go out with a bang. Am I lovin’ it? You better believe it kid.
Things my BB11 addiction has taught me:
1) It is possible to entertain a group of summer school kids aged 10-11 years old despite averaging on around 3 hours sleep per night. Although by 4pm home time you will want to kill yourself a little bit.
2) There are approximately 297 excuses not to leave the house when Big Brother is on. I have used all of them with vigour.
3) Never, EVER, call someone ‘crab eyes’. It WILL end in tears.
4) First impressions can be very, very wrong. (I owe you an apology Pepperpot).
5) I have very understanding friends. (They do think I’m a bit weird though).
6) Brizzle is, in fact, the shizzle.
7) Tree of Temptation is worth his weight in varnish. *swoons over the Tree*
8) Flash floods look well fun. I want one.
9) There’s a reason why mother warned me about men with monobrows.
10) I better hide the phone bill this month. 09011 323 008. Again and again and again and again and… *repeat to fade*.
Tuesday 3 August 2010
My spirit guide is a unicorn, apparently…
On Saturday afternoon I went to a ‘Mind, Body and Spirit’ convention with Lauren and Lindsey. This automatically sounds infinitely more grand and mythical than in actually was.
On the walk up to the community centre where it was held (which has a large sign proudly proclaiming itself to be a ‘Library, Community Centre and Clinic’. Yes, all three rolled into one. You can return ‘War and Peace’, sign up to a pottery class, and get checked out for gonorrhoea in one fell swoop. Ideal.) there was a completely uninspiring handmade poster for the event with words like ‘Tombola!’, ‘Tarot!’ and ‘Refreshments!’ written on it in felt tip. Still, we continued in our upbeat pursuit of a psychic.
Psychics, mediums and the paranormal in general has fascinated me for a good few years. My interest was fuelled when I heard my mum talk about a really good psychic she went to soon after I was born; this woman had got everything spot on, leading to goosebump galore. Two of my cousins have been to see a medium after losing someone close to them, and both said all good things.
So when I saw a woman in her mid-twenties sat at a rickety table with a few faux gem stones and a chipped crystal ball scattered on it, I tried to remain positive. It was either her or ‘Tarot reading with John’, and Lindsey had quickly poached that hunk of burning love (Phil Mitchell a-like), so I was left with the Addams family pin cushion. This woman had the most facial piercings I had ever seen on a person in real life. Thick stainless steel hoops and spikes emerged from her eyebrows, lips, ears, and a devil’s tail wound from her nose. Her black eyebrows were drawn on so they came down her face in an unusually long manner, and she was wearing psychedelic flowery patterned leggings, a black netted corset dress, and huge black spiked boots.
She told me she had a ‘psychic gift’: I asked how much this gift was going to cost first - mamma didn’t raise no fool. She said it was a tenner; I could live with that.
She was actually quite sweet and softly spoken, despite her metallic outer crust. She asked if she could hold my hand between hers while she did the reading, and told me not to be afraid if she went into a meditative state because she was simply “tuning into my psychic field”. As you do. At this point I was really glad I’d left Lauren and Lindsey occupied with tarot-with-John.
The first thing she said to me was “You need to start studying more and stop watching so much telly.”
Oh my shit, she’s actually psychic! I thought. Anyone who is even vaguely aware of my existence will know that I’ve been obsessed with BB11 for the past couple of months. I would literally sit and watch live feed all day if I could get away with it. This, coupled with the fact I have approx 9782 books to read for my final year of Uni, led me to believe she was right on the money.
In hindsight, I should’ve just left then.
She continued:
“You’re about to start a college course…”
Well, I am at Uni. And I’m about to start a Welsh second language college course in September. I’d let her have it.
“…in fashion design.”
“Umm… no.”
“…hair and beauty?”
Christ, love. I had barely any make-up on and serious bed hair. I am definitely more Beauty School drop out. Welsh, you’re looking for WELSH!
She swiftly moved on.
“You’re after getting a pet…”
“I already have pets.”
“Have you got a guinea pig?”
“No…”
“But you like guinea pigs”
“Well, not really…”
“Because I can see a little ginger guinea pig. It’s really cute. Look out for one coming into your life…”
Seriously. She wasn’t telling me to look out for a chance encounter with Mr Right, but a ginger flaming guinea pig.
“…only, let it have a cage inside the house. It’ll die if you put it outside in the cold.”
It’s August.
But as long as the guinea pig is alright, happy days.
“You’re really excited about something, aren’t you? A holiday…”
Yes, YES! I’m going to New York! Pleeeeeeease say New York!
“… a beach holiday.”
Oh fuck.
“I can see a jelly fish.”
“Actually, I’m going on a winter holiday. It will be snowy.”
“Well, snow equals water, and jelly fish live in water.”
Oh, yeah, of course. Tamato, tomato.
At this point she got a bit of psychic interference (oo-er). Someone was trying to ‘get through’ to me. Amazeballs! Michael Jackson? Princess Di? Shakespeare? Let’s chat! She titled her head and said in a soft voice:
“Do you know anyone who’s passed on to the other side called Sophie?”
“No. I don’t know a Sophie.”
“Oh… well a young girl then?”
“No. Sorry.”
I actually apologised. For her own shitness. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for her. She was dying on her arse, like a woodlouse that’s gone over on its back and can’t get up again, no matter how much it wiggles its legs.
“It’s ok, they do that sometimes… lots of people trying to get through at once, you see…”
Bless.
“Ok here we go… I’ve got a tall man, white hair, bald patch, walks with a stick, smokes a pipe, died age 73. Your granddad!”
Ahh. My granddad. With his bald patch; yes, and a stick; yes, aged seventy-something; yes, and… oh. The small matter that HE’S STILL ALIVE!!
This is probably completely awful of me, but I found myself just going along with it.
“Ahh yes, that’s him. That’s Brian.”
Should I cry? I wondered.
“Did you have eggs for breakfast?”
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
“No. I can’t remember the last time I ate an egg.”
“Well that’s the problem, then. He’s telling me you’re not getting enough protein, so he’s giving you the gift of egg and soldiers.”
To be fair, I thought it was jolly nice of this spirit man who didn’t know me from Adam to be concerned about my egg intake, so I accepted the breakfast.
“You need to drink more milk too.”
“I don’t like milk.”
“How about milkshake?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll like that either, what with it being milk based…”
“You’re not getting enough vitamins and minerals! Maybe take a supplement.”
At this point I was convinced she was working for Holland and Barrett’s.
After that she said a few general things like "you have a lot of love surrounding you, and you have a lot of love in your heart". Well, she wasn't going to tell me I'm a coldhearted cow who was being followed by the grim reaper, was she? She said she can see the colour green around me, which signals education - maybe I can put this in my personal statement when I'm applying for my PGCE. And she also said my spirit guide is a unicorn, that follows me around giving me hope and making sure I'm safe. I like that.
But turns out my psychic didn’t have a ‘gift’ afterall. She was just an average girl, like me, guessing and stumbling and hoping for the best. And, like me, she doesn’t have a clue what’s going to happen in the future. I suppose we’ll just have to live it to find out.
On the walk up to the community centre where it was held (which has a large sign proudly proclaiming itself to be a ‘Library, Community Centre and Clinic’. Yes, all three rolled into one. You can return ‘War and Peace’, sign up to a pottery class, and get checked out for gonorrhoea in one fell swoop. Ideal.) there was a completely uninspiring handmade poster for the event with words like ‘Tombola!’, ‘Tarot!’ and ‘Refreshments!’ written on it in felt tip. Still, we continued in our upbeat pursuit of a psychic.
Psychics, mediums and the paranormal in general has fascinated me for a good few years. My interest was fuelled when I heard my mum talk about a really good psychic she went to soon after I was born; this woman had got everything spot on, leading to goosebump galore. Two of my cousins have been to see a medium after losing someone close to them, and both said all good things.
So when I saw a woman in her mid-twenties sat at a rickety table with a few faux gem stones and a chipped crystal ball scattered on it, I tried to remain positive. It was either her or ‘Tarot reading with John’, and Lindsey had quickly poached that hunk of burning love (Phil Mitchell a-like), so I was left with the Addams family pin cushion. This woman had the most facial piercings I had ever seen on a person in real life. Thick stainless steel hoops and spikes emerged from her eyebrows, lips, ears, and a devil’s tail wound from her nose. Her black eyebrows were drawn on so they came down her face in an unusually long manner, and she was wearing psychedelic flowery patterned leggings, a black netted corset dress, and huge black spiked boots.
She told me she had a ‘psychic gift’: I asked how much this gift was going to cost first - mamma didn’t raise no fool. She said it was a tenner; I could live with that.
She was actually quite sweet and softly spoken, despite her metallic outer crust. She asked if she could hold my hand between hers while she did the reading, and told me not to be afraid if she went into a meditative state because she was simply “tuning into my psychic field”. As you do. At this point I was really glad I’d left Lauren and Lindsey occupied with tarot-with-John.
The first thing she said to me was “You need to start studying more and stop watching so much telly.”
Oh my shit, she’s actually psychic! I thought. Anyone who is even vaguely aware of my existence will know that I’ve been obsessed with BB11 for the past couple of months. I would literally sit and watch live feed all day if I could get away with it. This, coupled with the fact I have approx 9782 books to read for my final year of Uni, led me to believe she was right on the money.
In hindsight, I should’ve just left then.
She continued:
“You’re about to start a college course…”
Well, I am at Uni. And I’m about to start a Welsh second language college course in September. I’d let her have it.
“…in fashion design.”
“Umm… no.”
“…hair and beauty?”
Christ, love. I had barely any make-up on and serious bed hair. I am definitely more Beauty School drop out. Welsh, you’re looking for WELSH!
She swiftly moved on.
“You’re after getting a pet…”
“I already have pets.”
“Have you got a guinea pig?”
“No…”
“But you like guinea pigs”
“Well, not really…”
“Because I can see a little ginger guinea pig. It’s really cute. Look out for one coming into your life…”
Seriously. She wasn’t telling me to look out for a chance encounter with Mr Right, but a ginger flaming guinea pig.
“…only, let it have a cage inside the house. It’ll die if you put it outside in the cold.”
It’s August.
But as long as the guinea pig is alright, happy days.
“You’re really excited about something, aren’t you? A holiday…”
Yes, YES! I’m going to New York! Pleeeeeeease say New York!
“… a beach holiday.”
Oh fuck.
“I can see a jelly fish.”
“Actually, I’m going on a winter holiday. It will be snowy.”
“Well, snow equals water, and jelly fish live in water.”
Oh, yeah, of course. Tamato, tomato.
At this point she got a bit of psychic interference (oo-er). Someone was trying to ‘get through’ to me. Amazeballs! Michael Jackson? Princess Di? Shakespeare? Let’s chat! She titled her head and said in a soft voice:
“Do you know anyone who’s passed on to the other side called Sophie?”
“No. I don’t know a Sophie.”
“Oh… well a young girl then?”
“No. Sorry.”
I actually apologised. For her own shitness. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for her. She was dying on her arse, like a woodlouse that’s gone over on its back and can’t get up again, no matter how much it wiggles its legs.
“It’s ok, they do that sometimes… lots of people trying to get through at once, you see…”
Bless.
“Ok here we go… I’ve got a tall man, white hair, bald patch, walks with a stick, smokes a pipe, died age 73. Your granddad!”
Ahh. My granddad. With his bald patch; yes, and a stick; yes, aged seventy-something; yes, and… oh. The small matter that HE’S STILL ALIVE!!
This is probably completely awful of me, but I found myself just going along with it.
“Ahh yes, that’s him. That’s Brian.”
Should I cry? I wondered.
“Did you have eggs for breakfast?”
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
“No. I can’t remember the last time I ate an egg.”
“Well that’s the problem, then. He’s telling me you’re not getting enough protein, so he’s giving you the gift of egg and soldiers.”
To be fair, I thought it was jolly nice of this spirit man who didn’t know me from Adam to be concerned about my egg intake, so I accepted the breakfast.
“You need to drink more milk too.”
“I don’t like milk.”
“How about milkshake?”
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll like that either, what with it being milk based…”
“You’re not getting enough vitamins and minerals! Maybe take a supplement.”
At this point I was convinced she was working for Holland and Barrett’s.
After that she said a few general things like "you have a lot of love surrounding you, and you have a lot of love in your heart". Well, she wasn't going to tell me I'm a coldhearted cow who was being followed by the grim reaper, was she? She said she can see the colour green around me, which signals education - maybe I can put this in my personal statement when I'm applying for my PGCE. And she also said my spirit guide is a unicorn, that follows me around giving me hope and making sure I'm safe. I like that.
But turns out my psychic didn’t have a ‘gift’ afterall. She was just an average girl, like me, guessing and stumbling and hoping for the best. And, like me, she doesn’t have a clue what’s going to happen in the future. I suppose we’ll just have to live it to find out.
Saturday 3 July 2010
Zigga zig ahhh
I’ve been taking a trip down memory lane pop culture wise: I’ve travelled all the way back to the 90s. And it’s been emotional.
I was born on 1st February 1990, which gave me the full span of this glorious decade to enjoy. In my opinion, the 90s was the absolute best era to grow up in; we had revolutionary music, an array of different crazes, and were spoilt for choice when it came to brilliant kids TV shows. Staples of my childhood include:
Barbie dolls - Keep your Bratz. Shove your Cabbage Patch. There was only one girl for me and that was Barbie. I adored Barbie, and Shelley, and all her little pals. I had the Barbie dream house, the school, the veterinary practise, the horse box, the camper van… oh my, one whiff of pink plastic and I was THERE. If allowed, I would play with Barbie all day every day, never ever tiring. Barbie and friends were all assigned different names, personalities, styles; I had even been known to pretend my Barbie’s had nits, just for my own amusement.
SM:TV Live - Undoubtedly the best children’s show of all time. I would not MOVE on a Saturday until I had watched the entirety of the show. It was lively, clever, quirky, and cheek-achingly funny. The chemistry between Ant, Dec and Cat was warm, giggly and genuine, and their sense of fun was catching. Wonkey Donkey was always hilarious, Challenge Ant was edge-of-your-seat stuff, and Chums was nothing short of genius; “Me and Cat, all alone in the flat… a think am gunna kiss ‘er!” I was always rooting for Dec and Cat - even as a pre-teen I was a sucker for a love story.
Sabrina the Teenage Witch - My second favourite TV show. I wanted to be Sabrina, was in love with Harvey, loathed Libby, and wanted a cat like Salem. I was also convinced from the ages of 6 - 10 that The Other Realm was a real place, and I just needed to make room in our airing cupboard to be transported there.
Spice Girls - The Spice Girls came onto the scene and knocked playgrounds full of schoolgirls straight off their feet. Me and my fellow 6 year old girlfriends were completely and utterly in awe; their feminist ‘girl power’ message bubbled between us when pushing the boys off the swings, lyrics to ‘Wannabe’ played on our lips while braiding hair, and entire lunchtimes would be devoted to forming a dance to ‘Spice Up Your Life’, or bickering over which of us was Baby Spice. (EVERYONE wanted to be Baby Spice. No one wanted to be Sporty. Too butch.)
There are LOADS more things I loved in the Nineties, but to describe them all in detail would take me a very long time. I’ll just list a few others here:
Tamagotchi (need I say more?)
Pogs (you got them in packets of Wotsits, Quavers and Monster Munch. So naturally I had millions.)
Space hoppers (amazeballs)
Fresh Prince of Bell Air (every nineties kid knows that theme tune off by heart. Every. Single. One.)
Kenan and Kel (who loves orange soda?)
Steps (Lisa Scott-Lee went to the same high school as me. We got a surprise visit and show in year 7. Trufacts.)
Smiley face BN biscuits (BNBN, do dooo, do do do)
Strawberry Onken yogurts that were round with a toy in the middle.
Re-living all this nineties stuff has brought me close to tears at some points. Happy tears, that is. It’s brought back so many memories of my childhood and, looking back, what a wonderful childhood it was. I was endlessly happy, always carefree, never wanting for anything; perfectly content with my whole life. Just how a child should be. Why can’t life stay like that forever?
I guess it gets a bit harder to make yourself happy as you grow up. The older you get, the more you require to make you feel fulfilled and satisfied with your life. The new ‘Lion King’ video and a tube of Smarties doesn’t cut it any more. We become competitive in our ambitions; are often blind sighted by material wants; start tirelessly searching for the perfect partner; and are always striving for that little bit more than we already have. I’m not saying these features of growing up are altogether bad things -wanting to improve our lives is natural - they just all make things a little more difficult. Things get a bit complicated. If we’re not careful, stress can frequent our senses more than giddiness.
So I think it’s important that if you find something that makes you feel like a kid again (preferably, yano… legal), just let yourself go a bit and act silly from time to time. Sometimes me and my bff Lindsey look around at other people our age with a mortgage and bills and a pair of sophisticated heels for the office and, in the case of some girls who were in our year, a baby and a husband, and we wonder why we’re not that mature and sensible, as though it were a bad thing. It’s hard to separate in our minds us as 14 year old girls sneaking crisps and passing notes in class, and us now as fully grown human adult women - I’m not sure where this transaction took place, or if we were ever consulted. And although it’s great to be of an age were you have all the freedom you want, and while more responsibility is actually a good thing, if being mature and sensible means we can no longer giggle like idiots when lifeguards say hello to us, or get extremely over-excited about going to Alton Towers, or have sleepovers where we watch scary films that prevent us from sleeping and have marshmallow fights, or run around town in Santa hats at Christmas… well, frankly, you can keep it.
I was born on 1st February 1990, which gave me the full span of this glorious decade to enjoy. In my opinion, the 90s was the absolute best era to grow up in; we had revolutionary music, an array of different crazes, and were spoilt for choice when it came to brilliant kids TV shows. Staples of my childhood include:
Barbie dolls - Keep your Bratz. Shove your Cabbage Patch. There was only one girl for me and that was Barbie. I adored Barbie, and Shelley, and all her little pals. I had the Barbie dream house, the school, the veterinary practise, the horse box, the camper van… oh my, one whiff of pink plastic and I was THERE. If allowed, I would play with Barbie all day every day, never ever tiring. Barbie and friends were all assigned different names, personalities, styles; I had even been known to pretend my Barbie’s had nits, just for my own amusement.
SM:TV Live - Undoubtedly the best children’s show of all time. I would not MOVE on a Saturday until I had watched the entirety of the show. It was lively, clever, quirky, and cheek-achingly funny. The chemistry between Ant, Dec and Cat was warm, giggly and genuine, and their sense of fun was catching. Wonkey Donkey was always hilarious, Challenge Ant was edge-of-your-seat stuff, and Chums was nothing short of genius; “Me and Cat, all alone in the flat… a think am gunna kiss ‘er!” I was always rooting for Dec and Cat - even as a pre-teen I was a sucker for a love story.
Sabrina the Teenage Witch - My second favourite TV show. I wanted to be Sabrina, was in love with Harvey, loathed Libby, and wanted a cat like Salem. I was also convinced from the ages of 6 - 10 that The Other Realm was a real place, and I just needed to make room in our airing cupboard to be transported there.
Spice Girls - The Spice Girls came onto the scene and knocked playgrounds full of schoolgirls straight off their feet. Me and my fellow 6 year old girlfriends were completely and utterly in awe; their feminist ‘girl power’ message bubbled between us when pushing the boys off the swings, lyrics to ‘Wannabe’ played on our lips while braiding hair, and entire lunchtimes would be devoted to forming a dance to ‘Spice Up Your Life’, or bickering over which of us was Baby Spice. (EVERYONE wanted to be Baby Spice. No one wanted to be Sporty. Too butch.)
There are LOADS more things I loved in the Nineties, but to describe them all in detail would take me a very long time. I’ll just list a few others here:
Tamagotchi (need I say more?)
Pogs (you got them in packets of Wotsits, Quavers and Monster Munch. So naturally I had millions.)
Space hoppers (amazeballs)
Fresh Prince of Bell Air (every nineties kid knows that theme tune off by heart. Every. Single. One.)
Kenan and Kel (who loves orange soda?)
Steps (Lisa Scott-Lee went to the same high school as me. We got a surprise visit and show in year 7. Trufacts.)
Smiley face BN biscuits (BNBN, do dooo, do do do)
Strawberry Onken yogurts that were round with a toy in the middle.
Re-living all this nineties stuff has brought me close to tears at some points. Happy tears, that is. It’s brought back so many memories of my childhood and, looking back, what a wonderful childhood it was. I was endlessly happy, always carefree, never wanting for anything; perfectly content with my whole life. Just how a child should be. Why can’t life stay like that forever?
I guess it gets a bit harder to make yourself happy as you grow up. The older you get, the more you require to make you feel fulfilled and satisfied with your life. The new ‘Lion King’ video and a tube of Smarties doesn’t cut it any more. We become competitive in our ambitions; are often blind sighted by material wants; start tirelessly searching for the perfect partner; and are always striving for that little bit more than we already have. I’m not saying these features of growing up are altogether bad things -wanting to improve our lives is natural - they just all make things a little more difficult. Things get a bit complicated. If we’re not careful, stress can frequent our senses more than giddiness.
So I think it’s important that if you find something that makes you feel like a kid again (preferably, yano… legal), just let yourself go a bit and act silly from time to time. Sometimes me and my bff Lindsey look around at other people our age with a mortgage and bills and a pair of sophisticated heels for the office and, in the case of some girls who were in our year, a baby and a husband, and we wonder why we’re not that mature and sensible, as though it were a bad thing. It’s hard to separate in our minds us as 14 year old girls sneaking crisps and passing notes in class, and us now as fully grown human adult women - I’m not sure where this transaction took place, or if we were ever consulted. And although it’s great to be of an age were you have all the freedom you want, and while more responsibility is actually a good thing, if being mature and sensible means we can no longer giggle like idiots when lifeguards say hello to us, or get extremely over-excited about going to Alton Towers, or have sleepovers where we watch scary films that prevent us from sleeping and have marshmallow fights, or run around town in Santa hats at Christmas… well, frankly, you can keep it.
Saturday 19 June 2010
Mother Nature will be disappointed in me...
I’ve got a confession to make… I don’t think I want children. Shock! Horror! Outrage! I am aware this is the primary, most heinous sin against womanhood and I fully expect an army of earth mother types to come and whip out my womb at any moment; how DARE I not want to subject myself to the wonder of an episiotomy, the thrills of breast feeding, the unmistakable joy of waking up at 4am to a screeching bundle that will all too often smell of poo and get sick on my shoulder. A child that I will be morally obliged to stay at home and care for full time in the pretence of “being a good mother”. An education that I have worked at for (so far) 16 years will be swept aside, as will my future career, and in its place my days will be filled with blending organic butternut squash and getting friendly with Iggle Piggle. Pretty soon baby brain will set in; I’ll become one of those women who have nothing else to talk about but their children. My tweets will be about teething and colic, and phone conversations with friends will become interjected with cries of “Put that down! Don’t do that! Darling please don’t do your poo-poo on the carpet, mummy has talked to you about this!”
And of COURSE when anyone asks how I like motherhood, I’ll be expected to gaze at my children adoringly (tears are desirable), and gush “Well, they’re just the light of my life, they are the reason for my existence, I’ve never felt such an overwhelming rush of love”, whilst watching them re-pot a hyacinth in my Chanel handbag.
It’s not that I dislike all children; I find some of them lovely. When my cousin’s little boy Finn was born, I loved nothing more than watching him slowly drift off to sleep in my arms, with his little warm hand resting on mine as I fed him his bottle. He’s now 3 years old, and he and his big brother are cute and funny; I enjoy playing with Moonsand and reading them bedtime stories, and I start planning their Christmas presents in August - I love treating them.
But then I leave them with their lovely mummy and daddy and I skip off home. The worry about coughs and colds, healthy packed lunches, choosing the right school etc is not on my shoulders. And as they get older and become teenagers, I won’t have to drive myself crazy every time they go out wondering if they will get drunk/get someone pregnant/break a limb. Instead I’ll get to take them to Alton Towers when they should be at school, which is definitely more where my expertise lie.
I suppose it’s natural to feel like this at only 20, maybe I’ll feel completely different in 10 years time… maybe I won’t. Just, at the moment, the idea of having my own children makes my blood run cold. I like the freedom of going places and buying things without having to consider childcare or feeling selfish for spending money on myself.
And that doesn’t mean I’m not compassionate, caring, tender, and other motherly adjectives… it’s just there’s so much I want to do with my life before I ever get tied down with things like that, more than I could even begin to explain here. I just don’t know if children would ever fit into the equation, and I wouldn’t just have them to adhere to some kind of social expectation of women, but then palm them off on nannies or my mother. But by all means, I will be cool Auntie Amy. One of those Aunties who aren’t actually related to you. Any Godchildren going, send them my way; they will be welcomed with open arms and fed copious amounts of E numbers, until it's time to go home.
Disclaimer: really DO NOT mean to offend anyone with children. Honestly. Just my personal views...
And of COURSE when anyone asks how I like motherhood, I’ll be expected to gaze at my children adoringly (tears are desirable), and gush “Well, they’re just the light of my life, they are the reason for my existence, I’ve never felt such an overwhelming rush of love”, whilst watching them re-pot a hyacinth in my Chanel handbag.
It’s not that I dislike all children; I find some of them lovely. When my cousin’s little boy Finn was born, I loved nothing more than watching him slowly drift off to sleep in my arms, with his little warm hand resting on mine as I fed him his bottle. He’s now 3 years old, and he and his big brother are cute and funny; I enjoy playing with Moonsand and reading them bedtime stories, and I start planning their Christmas presents in August - I love treating them.
But then I leave them with their lovely mummy and daddy and I skip off home. The worry about coughs and colds, healthy packed lunches, choosing the right school etc is not on my shoulders. And as they get older and become teenagers, I won’t have to drive myself crazy every time they go out wondering if they will get drunk/get someone pregnant/break a limb. Instead I’ll get to take them to Alton Towers when they should be at school, which is definitely more where my expertise lie.
I suppose it’s natural to feel like this at only 20, maybe I’ll feel completely different in 10 years time… maybe I won’t. Just, at the moment, the idea of having my own children makes my blood run cold. I like the freedom of going places and buying things without having to consider childcare or feeling selfish for spending money on myself.
And that doesn’t mean I’m not compassionate, caring, tender, and other motherly adjectives… it’s just there’s so much I want to do with my life before I ever get tied down with things like that, more than I could even begin to explain here. I just don’t know if children would ever fit into the equation, and I wouldn’t just have them to adhere to some kind of social expectation of women, but then palm them off on nannies or my mother. But by all means, I will be cool Auntie Amy. One of those Aunties who aren’t actually related to you. Any Godchildren going, send them my way; they will be welcomed with open arms and fed copious amounts of E numbers, until it's time to go home.
Disclaimer: really DO NOT mean to offend anyone with children. Honestly. Just my personal views...
Thursday 17 June 2010
Good times
There’s one thing you should know about me and my friend Lindsey; we attract weirdos. Honest to God, if there is a weirdo within a 30 mile radius they will gravitate towards us. There are many, many examples of this but this is the most stand-out:
Manchester, February 2010, Kelly Clarkson gig. Lord in heaven above this was one weird-ass night. We were queuing for HOURS in the bloody freezing cold (of course we had not dressed accordingly) and noticed the middle aged man in front of us - who had come completely alone - was listening to our conversations. We knew this because he sniggered when Lindsey gave me the snog/marry/avoid options of Jedward, Minty in Eastenders and Louis Walsh. Then when I decided to go and get Lindsey and I some chips to warm us up, he was like “oh excuse me, will you get me some chips too please?” and thrusts a fiver in my hand. HE DIDN’T KNOW ME FROM ADAM! I could’ve done anything to those chips! But I didn’t, obv, and off I popped to get the chips.
Comes back and Lindsey, bless her soul, is giving me the look. The Look. The look that says “oh my God get here now don’t leave me with these frigging mentals again”. She was SURROUNDED by a gaggle of girls who’d been stood behind us and Chip Guy, who were all crazycrackalackaHUGE Kelly Clarkson fans: Chip Guy had been to see her 12 times, including flying to American several times especially to see her perform live. On his own. One of the girls behind told us, through drags of spliff, that she’d won a competition to meet Kelly because her bedroom was entirely devoted to her. She then got out her phone and showed us a 360degree span of her room which was - I shit you not - covered to within an inch of it’s LIFE with Kelly Clarkson posters, drawings and memorabilia. All the other girls ooo’d and ahh’d at this. Me and Lindsey just looked at bit scared. They all stared discussing how many times they’d seen her perform, what their favourite songs were, etc etc. Then they turned on us, asking “What’s your favourite song on the My December album?”. PANIC! We had never heard the My December album. We were not aware of one song off the My December album. In fact, we weren’t exactly massive Kelly Clarkson fans, not compared to this lot anyway. We just liked singing ‘My Life You Suck Without You’ really loud in the car and making up our own words to ‘I Do Not Hook Up’ (if you’d like a copy of these parody lyrics, feel free to contact me. I expect to be inundated). We mumbled a bit and shuffled our feet; at this point they knew we were not one of them, and they literally turned their backs on us. We were cast out like a lioness abandons her sickly cubs. It was for the best.
You’d think we’d be safe once we got inside the building. Not so. There was lots of pushing and shoving and we ended up standing behind a group of about 6 teens who all looked like they had asbos. One of them got a little packet out of their back pocket, and then they all bent their heads and started…. snorting. Now admittedly I’ve led a very sheltered life, but I have seen Skins so I’m not daft. Lindsey and I were ALARMED and tried shuffling away while eying them up to see if we could see any gun/knife shaped objects through their jackets.
But then coke-boy spots us. Coke-boy stares at me. I poop myself a little bit. Coke-boy says “You’re tiny, you’re not going to be able to see a thing! Do you want me to get you to the front?”. Right, well, I’m 4ft 11 (shut it) and the room was tightly compact with people well over 5ft and indeed I could not see a thing and, yes, I would like him to get me to the front. But 3 seconds earlier I was pondering whether or not he was carrying a weapon. MORAL DILEMMA.
They literally bulldozed their way through and plonked me at the (almost) front, dragging Lindsey behind. Much to the annoyance of a silly girl in front who jabbed her stiletto heel in my foot and kept twisting it round like a mad woman (OWWW!), I gave her a few jabs in the back and she and her friend started having a good old whinge about me and kept turning round to glare at me. They did look a bit rough/hard and it did cross my mind that I’d be going home with a black eye. Lindsey even planned her mode of attack if they started “Right I was going to punch her in the face, right, then grab you and run out and get in the car and lock the doors!”. Lindsey is ace.
Luckily they got sick of me and just buggered off to the back - so we got right to the front! Kelly Clarkson was brilliant and, aside from Lindsey almost fainting because of how hot and stuffy it was in there, it was a drama-free night after that. We decided when we were in McDonalds at midnight that we wouldn’t go to a standing gig again, it was just far too much hassle, we didn’t want to be in a situation like that again, we’re not violent people and besides, it’d be much better if we waited until the people we liked did stadium tours so we could have a nice sit down.
So yeah, we’re going to see Ellie Goulding in November, in Manchester. It’s a standing gig. Pray for us…
Manchester, February 2010, Kelly Clarkson gig. Lord in heaven above this was one weird-ass night. We were queuing for HOURS in the bloody freezing cold (of course we had not dressed accordingly) and noticed the middle aged man in front of us - who had come completely alone - was listening to our conversations. We knew this because he sniggered when Lindsey gave me the snog/marry/avoid options of Jedward, Minty in Eastenders and Louis Walsh. Then when I decided to go and get Lindsey and I some chips to warm us up, he was like “oh excuse me, will you get me some chips too please?” and thrusts a fiver in my hand. HE DIDN’T KNOW ME FROM ADAM! I could’ve done anything to those chips! But I didn’t, obv, and off I popped to get the chips.
Comes back and Lindsey, bless her soul, is giving me the look. The Look. The look that says “oh my God get here now don’t leave me with these frigging mentals again”. She was SURROUNDED by a gaggle of girls who’d been stood behind us and Chip Guy, who were all crazycrackalackaHUGE Kelly Clarkson fans: Chip Guy had been to see her 12 times, including flying to American several times especially to see her perform live. On his own. One of the girls behind told us, through drags of spliff, that she’d won a competition to meet Kelly because her bedroom was entirely devoted to her. She then got out her phone and showed us a 360degree span of her room which was - I shit you not - covered to within an inch of it’s LIFE with Kelly Clarkson posters, drawings and memorabilia. All the other girls ooo’d and ahh’d at this. Me and Lindsey just looked at bit scared. They all stared discussing how many times they’d seen her perform, what their favourite songs were, etc etc. Then they turned on us, asking “What’s your favourite song on the My December album?”. PANIC! We had never heard the My December album. We were not aware of one song off the My December album. In fact, we weren’t exactly massive Kelly Clarkson fans, not compared to this lot anyway. We just liked singing ‘My Life You Suck Without You’ really loud in the car and making up our own words to ‘I Do Not Hook Up’ (if you’d like a copy of these parody lyrics, feel free to contact me. I expect to be inundated). We mumbled a bit and shuffled our feet; at this point they knew we were not one of them, and they literally turned their backs on us. We were cast out like a lioness abandons her sickly cubs. It was for the best.
You’d think we’d be safe once we got inside the building. Not so. There was lots of pushing and shoving and we ended up standing behind a group of about 6 teens who all looked like they had asbos. One of them got a little packet out of their back pocket, and then they all bent their heads and started…. snorting. Now admittedly I’ve led a very sheltered life, but I have seen Skins so I’m not daft. Lindsey and I were ALARMED and tried shuffling away while eying them up to see if we could see any gun/knife shaped objects through their jackets.
But then coke-boy spots us. Coke-boy stares at me. I poop myself a little bit. Coke-boy says “You’re tiny, you’re not going to be able to see a thing! Do you want me to get you to the front?”. Right, well, I’m 4ft 11 (shut it) and the room was tightly compact with people well over 5ft and indeed I could not see a thing and, yes, I would like him to get me to the front. But 3 seconds earlier I was pondering whether or not he was carrying a weapon. MORAL DILEMMA.
They literally bulldozed their way through and plonked me at the (almost) front, dragging Lindsey behind. Much to the annoyance of a silly girl in front who jabbed her stiletto heel in my foot and kept twisting it round like a mad woman (OWWW!), I gave her a few jabs in the back and she and her friend started having a good old whinge about me and kept turning round to glare at me. They did look a bit rough/hard and it did cross my mind that I’d be going home with a black eye. Lindsey even planned her mode of attack if they started “Right I was going to punch her in the face, right, then grab you and run out and get in the car and lock the doors!”. Lindsey is ace.
Luckily they got sick of me and just buggered off to the back - so we got right to the front! Kelly Clarkson was brilliant and, aside from Lindsey almost fainting because of how hot and stuffy it was in there, it was a drama-free night after that. We decided when we were in McDonalds at midnight that we wouldn’t go to a standing gig again, it was just far too much hassle, we didn’t want to be in a situation like that again, we’re not violent people and besides, it’d be much better if we waited until the people we liked did stadium tours so we could have a nice sit down.
So yeah, we’re going to see Ellie Goulding in November, in Manchester. It’s a standing gig. Pray for us…
Sunday 30 May 2010
Baby got back
Up until quite recently I was constantly thinking/worrying about my weight. I hate to be a cliché, I really sodding do, but it’s just part of being a girl/woman/human to criticise how you look. Admittedly I have been prone to take this self-criticism to the extreme: the thing is, I imagine that everyone, really everyone, looks at my wobbles and rolls and sneaky double chin that continues to escape from my jaw bone, and thinks “God, how can she even think about eating another chocolate bar? Why does she continue to eat crisps? Why is she even still sat in this room right now - get yourself down to the bloody gym you fat lazy bitch!”. But I do eat another chocolate bar, and I do continue to eat crisps, and I’m not down the bloody gym, I’m sat here writing about it, which is doing nothing for my waistline at all. Unless typing burns off, like, 5000 calories an hour, which I’m pretty sure it doesn’t due to said weight issues. It doesn’t help that my friends are all skinny and stylish and lovely, thus when we’re all out together we spend the whole time looking like Pussycat Dolls featuring Lisa Dingle.
But these thoughts are getting a little tiresome now. In fact, I’m bored to fucking tears with it. I yoyo diet so much I don’t know where I am with it all. It’s not as if I’m grossly unhealthy; I don’t need a crane to take me to Asda, and I’ve never been featured in Love It! Magazine talking about how I like to squash men with big flabby boobs (which was a real article, by the way). I very rarely drink (in fact, if I’m honest, I don’t even like alcohol. The appeal of getting drunk is completely lost on me). I’ve never even held a cigarette; fast food is only consumed when in need of food, fast; and the idea of me ever taking drugs is frankly hilarious. So if I want to eat Chinese and chocolate cake on the odd evening, I will. If I want to do an hour on the exercise bike, I’ll do that too. I’m just living; you don’t have to put much thought into it. If being a size 12/14 means that someone like Ed Westwick will never fall in love with me, then that’s fine. I want someone who loves me based on much more than aesthetics. And he probably snores loads, anyway.
For a years and years, I wholeheartedly believed that if I was really skinny and beautiful and looked the spitting image of Cheryl Cole, my life would be truly wonderful. Then I got a sodding grip. I don’t need double D’s, size 6 denim shorts and a spray tan to have a wonderful life. No one does. It’s an illusion leading to delusion, and it’s not fair. So much time is being wasted with people wishing they were something they’re not. I’m not going to waste such large chunks of my life on this frivolous nonsense anymore. My life is wonderful, for many reasons. Here are just a few:
1) Most importantly, I’m healthy. Corny I know, but when you actually sit and think how lucky you are to be healthy, it’s quite overwhelming. Millions of people my age are governed by blood cell counts and organ donation lists and God knows what else. I’m not one of them. And I’m so grateful.
2) My mum is bloody fantastic. We have such a close bond and I love her to bits. Without her support and encouragement I would just be, like, a blob of nothingness. She’s selfless, thoughtful, generous, strong, funny… she’s just the best.
3) My friends. The ones who are like family, the ones who I have nothing in common with yet get on with like a house on fire, the ones I bicker with but secretly wouldn’t be without. They’re all a part of who I am; they’re the ones I can laugh with until I suffer the first stages of a stroke, the ones who know how freaking weird I can be at times but are still hanging around, the ones who know what I’m thinking without me having to say a word. Wonderful.
4) My Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and little diva, Maddie. (Her brother Alfie is a proper lush head too, but technically he’s mums). I only have to leave the house for an hour but when I return she greets me with so much enthusiasm it’s like she’s witnessing the resurrection of Christ. She is so loving and gives the best cuddles in all the land. Animals are beautiful. Particularly Maddie.
5) Books. For reals, a good book makes me feel like everything is right with the world.* The best kind of books are the ones that have you so engrossed it’s like you can crawl inside their world and exist on every page, and re-reading them is like going home.
6) Live music makes my life wonderful. As do musicals, theatre and stand-up comedy. All of which I go and see on a regular basis and I love it. I’d spend my money on concert tickets over a manicure any day.
7) Travelling; I’m lucky enough to be going to New York for my 21st birthday with some of my favourite people in the world. If that doesn’t make my life wonderful, there is absolutely no hope.
And you see, I’d still have all of those things no matter what the scales say, or what I look like. That’s good enough for me.
*Equally though, a bad book makes me very angrysmashsmash. See ‘best-selling author Katie Price’.
But these thoughts are getting a little tiresome now. In fact, I’m bored to fucking tears with it. I yoyo diet so much I don’t know where I am with it all. It’s not as if I’m grossly unhealthy; I don’t need a crane to take me to Asda, and I’ve never been featured in Love It! Magazine talking about how I like to squash men with big flabby boobs (which was a real article, by the way). I very rarely drink (in fact, if I’m honest, I don’t even like alcohol. The appeal of getting drunk is completely lost on me). I’ve never even held a cigarette; fast food is only consumed when in need of food, fast; and the idea of me ever taking drugs is frankly hilarious. So if I want to eat Chinese and chocolate cake on the odd evening, I will. If I want to do an hour on the exercise bike, I’ll do that too. I’m just living; you don’t have to put much thought into it. If being a size 12/14 means that someone like Ed Westwick will never fall in love with me, then that’s fine. I want someone who loves me based on much more than aesthetics. And he probably snores loads, anyway.
For a years and years, I wholeheartedly believed that if I was really skinny and beautiful and looked the spitting image of Cheryl Cole, my life would be truly wonderful. Then I got a sodding grip. I don’t need double D’s, size 6 denim shorts and a spray tan to have a wonderful life. No one does. It’s an illusion leading to delusion, and it’s not fair. So much time is being wasted with people wishing they were something they’re not. I’m not going to waste such large chunks of my life on this frivolous nonsense anymore. My life is wonderful, for many reasons. Here are just a few:
1) Most importantly, I’m healthy. Corny I know, but when you actually sit and think how lucky you are to be healthy, it’s quite overwhelming. Millions of people my age are governed by blood cell counts and organ donation lists and God knows what else. I’m not one of them. And I’m so grateful.
2) My mum is bloody fantastic. We have such a close bond and I love her to bits. Without her support and encouragement I would just be, like, a blob of nothingness. She’s selfless, thoughtful, generous, strong, funny… she’s just the best.
3) My friends. The ones who are like family, the ones who I have nothing in common with yet get on with like a house on fire, the ones I bicker with but secretly wouldn’t be without. They’re all a part of who I am; they’re the ones I can laugh with until I suffer the first stages of a stroke, the ones who know how freaking weird I can be at times but are still hanging around, the ones who know what I’m thinking without me having to say a word. Wonderful.
4) My Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and little diva, Maddie. (Her brother Alfie is a proper lush head too, but technically he’s mums). I only have to leave the house for an hour but when I return she greets me with so much enthusiasm it’s like she’s witnessing the resurrection of Christ. She is so loving and gives the best cuddles in all the land. Animals are beautiful. Particularly Maddie.
5) Books. For reals, a good book makes me feel like everything is right with the world.* The best kind of books are the ones that have you so engrossed it’s like you can crawl inside their world and exist on every page, and re-reading them is like going home.
6) Live music makes my life wonderful. As do musicals, theatre and stand-up comedy. All of which I go and see on a regular basis and I love it. I’d spend my money on concert tickets over a manicure any day.
7) Travelling; I’m lucky enough to be going to New York for my 21st birthday with some of my favourite people in the world. If that doesn’t make my life wonderful, there is absolutely no hope.
And you see, I’d still have all of those things no matter what the scales say, or what I look like. That’s good enough for me.
*Equally though, a bad book makes me very angrysmashsmash. See ‘best-selling author Katie Price’.
Thursday 27 May 2010
Dissertation: defining my being for the next year
Ahhh dissertation. Diss-er-ta-tion. What a word. And you better get used to it my friends, because it will be ringing in your ears for the next 11 months (you may want to disown me now. Right now).
I’m swiftly approaching my final year of Uni and preparations are already underway for this literary beast that will be spawned from the joyous union of my brain and Sparknotes. My dissertation is already proving to be a right royal pain in the ass, and I haven’t even started writing it yet. There was a whole palaver over pin-pointing a specific question, followed by a drama over who my supervisor was going to be. It transpired that, little Miss Luckybags that I am, is getting the most intimidating tutor of the lot, whom my peers often fondly refer to as the ‘demented pixie’ (she looks a tad like Tinkerbell crossed with Hook). She is overwhelmingly intelligent, lacking in social staples such as tact, by her own admission has never complimented anyone’s work in her life, and possesses the power to break your soul in just a look.
Personally I think she just needs a big hug. Not from me though, I’m scared of her. Actual, proper, dry-mouth-sweaty-palms scared of her. To be honest she’s probably not best pleased to have been lumbered with a drip like me, so fair’s fair, but I’ve made peace with the fact we’re going to be stuck with each other until the end of April 2011, and so have decided to take on the challenge of thawing her icy heart. Oh no, an 8,000 word literary study, 1,000 word research proposal, and 10 minute presentation in front of the board is not enough for me. I scoff at the students who only have that to worry about. My secondary dissertation mission (and arguably the one I will be showing most commitment to) is turning Lady Macbeth into Mrs Weasley. Or, yano, Snape would be an improvement too. I’ll take what I can get. I just want us all to be friends and get along like we did in middle school, and bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would be happy…
Anyway, my dissertation study area is Feminism in Gothic novels spanning the Romantic and Victorian period. Sounds like the literary equivalent of Disneyland, doesn’t it just. I have a list of over a dozen texts - novels and sage writing - that I need to read over the summer, preferably making any relevant notes as I go along. As well as the dissertation we’re doing four other modules; basically, it boils down to us writing 18,000 words per semester, assuming we stay on target with our dissertation. This is not including the dissertation presentation (which I’m already getting a bit cacked up about; public speaking not my forte), and somewhere in the region of 4782 novels, plays, poems, and critical essays to read. The chances of me becoming a hermit in the next academic year are very, very high. I urge you to remember my face; make an audio recording of my voice, if you must.
I’m easing myself into my mammoth reading list with 'Northanger Abbey' by lovely lovely Jane. I love Jane Austen, to the point where I’ve not entirely ruled out the possibility that I am her much less talented (but adoring) sister Cassandra reincarnated. Next up is ‘The Mysteries of Udolpho’ by Ann Radcliffe. It’s the size of a common house brick.
So this is just a polite warning that tweets/blogs depicting differing levels of dissertation despair (check out the alliteration on that - still got it) are likely, as is a nervous breakdown which I’ve pencilled in my diary for around January, slotting in nicely just after Christmas and just before my 21st birthday. As you were.
I’m swiftly approaching my final year of Uni and preparations are already underway for this literary beast that will be spawned from the joyous union of my brain and Sparknotes. My dissertation is already proving to be a right royal pain in the ass, and I haven’t even started writing it yet. There was a whole palaver over pin-pointing a specific question, followed by a drama over who my supervisor was going to be. It transpired that, little Miss Luckybags that I am, is getting the most intimidating tutor of the lot, whom my peers often fondly refer to as the ‘demented pixie’ (she looks a tad like Tinkerbell crossed with Hook). She is overwhelmingly intelligent, lacking in social staples such as tact, by her own admission has never complimented anyone’s work in her life, and possesses the power to break your soul in just a look.
Personally I think she just needs a big hug. Not from me though, I’m scared of her. Actual, proper, dry-mouth-sweaty-palms scared of her. To be honest she’s probably not best pleased to have been lumbered with a drip like me, so fair’s fair, but I’ve made peace with the fact we’re going to be stuck with each other until the end of April 2011, and so have decided to take on the challenge of thawing her icy heart. Oh no, an 8,000 word literary study, 1,000 word research proposal, and 10 minute presentation in front of the board is not enough for me. I scoff at the students who only have that to worry about. My secondary dissertation mission (and arguably the one I will be showing most commitment to) is turning Lady Macbeth into Mrs Weasley. Or, yano, Snape would be an improvement too. I’ll take what I can get. I just want us all to be friends and get along like we did in middle school, and bake a cake filled with rainbows and smiles and everyone would be happy…
Anyway, my dissertation study area is Feminism in Gothic novels spanning the Romantic and Victorian period. Sounds like the literary equivalent of Disneyland, doesn’t it just. I have a list of over a dozen texts - novels and sage writing - that I need to read over the summer, preferably making any relevant notes as I go along. As well as the dissertation we’re doing four other modules; basically, it boils down to us writing 18,000 words per semester, assuming we stay on target with our dissertation. This is not including the dissertation presentation (which I’m already getting a bit cacked up about; public speaking not my forte), and somewhere in the region of 4782 novels, plays, poems, and critical essays to read. The chances of me becoming a hermit in the next academic year are very, very high. I urge you to remember my face; make an audio recording of my voice, if you must.
I’m easing myself into my mammoth reading list with 'Northanger Abbey' by lovely lovely Jane. I love Jane Austen, to the point where I’ve not entirely ruled out the possibility that I am her much less talented (but adoring) sister Cassandra reincarnated. Next up is ‘The Mysteries of Udolpho’ by Ann Radcliffe. It’s the size of a common house brick.
So this is just a polite warning that tweets/blogs depicting differing levels of dissertation despair (check out the alliteration on that - still got it) are likely, as is a nervous breakdown which I’ve pencilled in my diary for around January, slotting in nicely just after Christmas and just before my 21st birthday. As you were.
Exam invigilating: a people watcher's dream
Okay, I realise the title of this blog may make me sound a bit pervy. I'm not. But I've been invigilating GCSE and A-level exams for a year now, and for a large amount of time all you can do is watch people in the throes of exam terror (or apathy, in some cases). You pick things up. The following has been extremely generalised, so forgive me, but students tend to come in 2 categories:
1) The sweet, polite, hard-working kids who desperately want to do well in their exams and are writing, re-writing, and checking their papers up until the final minute, often pulling at their hair and looking to the ceiling when digging deep for an answer (FYI, looking upwards indicates you know the answer, it's just a case of remembering it. Gazing downwards shows you've got no hope, it ain't happening. That's A level Psychology in a nutshell). They will apologetically ask for a pen if theirs runs out, and flash you a relieved smile as you collect their papers. They are endearing, and if I ever became and English teacher I imagine pupils like these would be a complete joy to have in the class.
2) The students who are obviously more than capable but have chosen to spend their lesson time flirting/texting/perfecting the art of drawing a perfectly symmetrical love heart. Usually finishing the exam at least 30 minutes before the end, frequently asking to go to the toilet, often trying to catch the eye of other students, always in need of stationary of some sort. Last summer a boy put his hand up in an exam and said to me "Miss, I can't answer any of these questions because I bunked every lesson". Not only did I not know what to say, but I got a sinking feeling in my stomach and oddly sympathised with this young lad. He was worried, regretful, and was just beginning to realise how stupid he'd been. I could see it in his eyes. He knew telling me that wasn't going to make any difference, he was just desperate for some kind of reassurance. Of course it was too late for him, or me, to do anything about it. He answered one or two questions and then sat for the next hour or so with his head on the desk. I found it really sad.
It's the category two pupils that inspire me to become an English teacher. I know it's an incredibly naive and optimistic view to have, but I feel an almost maternal need to encourage these young people to do well, and feel like I have something to offer them. I care about the English language, am passionate about literature, and if I could instil that same kind of love for English in other people I'd honestly be thrilled. This is going to sound really daft, but I get all tingly handing out the English papers, and mentally plan the revision classes I would've held for my pupils; I genuinely want them all to do the best they possibly can.
When I was at school my close family, friends, and even two of three of my own teachers, told me that I was going to become an English teacher. I'm not sure why, as they never really justified their predictions, but this was something I was quietly resentful of and fiercely denied. As a teen it was my arrogant and false belief that "those who can't, teach", and I had inflated ideas of the kind of career I wanted. But a combination of growing up and working in a school has made me re-evaluate what type of career would suit me. That phrase now makes me quite angry, as I've come to realise that to teach is to inspire; some do it well, some don't, but teaching is not something to be considered as a last resort. If taken seriously it's a huge responsibility.
I'm not saying I'm definitely going to be a teacher; who knows, this time next year I could be lusting after a job as chief taster at Cadbury's, or realise that it is my calling to rescue and care for injured field mice. I have another year left at Uni, anything could happen. For the moment, all I know is that there is a bubbling passion for teaching within me, and I'm quite happy with it being there.
Hello!
I've been threatening to write a blog for a while, but I get really anxious about people reading anything I write so have always wrote things down but kept it to myself. But I can't be like that forever, and now I've finished my second year of Uni and have a long stretch of summer ahead of me, I thought I'd use this free time to start doing those things I always intended to do, but for one reason or another have put off.
It may be a little odd as I'm only 20, but sometimes I worry I'll never get round to do the things I want to do in life. I have an epic (and rather ambitious) Bucket List, and really don't want to be sat in a nursing home 50-odd years from now and thinking "I wish I'd have done that...". My mum says I'm trying to rush through life, but I'm just young and impatient and excitable.
Anyway, to the three people that I will force to read this blog, I hope I don't bore you too much! And if I occasionally seem a bit of a looney toon, please don't have me committed and/or sever all ties...
P.S. The title of this blog "not tomorrow, but soon" comes from one of my favourite poems: 'The Last Time I Saw Paris' by Tom Disch. Worth a read, if you fancy it :)
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