Things I feel I would like to write: a review of my trip to see Clybourne Park at the theatre on Tuesday, a paean to vocabulary, a summary of yesterday's budget, a rousing call for Saturday's march, a record of my dinner at Bob Bob Ricard and a rant about the difficulties of hiring an RV in California in late August. Clearly I can't possibly get into all of those topics, I am far too distracted. Hmmmm. Drums fingers. Adds another line to the epic poem I am co-writing with Kate about the wonders of white wine. Hmmmm. Thinks again. Maybe I will do them all in one sentence. Depending on which ones are popular or generate feedback, I can then expand on them at a later date if necessary.
A play about changing attitudes to race in the Chicago suburbs, Clybourne Park disappointed me while seeming to delight ninety percent of the audience: they thought it was shocking and hilarious, while I felt jaded and unimpressed - the acting was patchy at best, the Big Shock moments weren't shocking, and there was no insight into current race divides that you couldn't find in an episode of The Office.
Partially inspired by this most amazing flowchart, I've realised that, possibly even more than my health, I am grateful for my vocabulary, a gift I received from my word-loving, crossword-solving parents - if you can't express your feelings, if you can't explain why you are thinking something or articulate your motivation, you're effectively rendered mute - I see it in teens who fight, not because they're violent, but because they can't tell the other person what they mean - and I'd argue that an ability to speak about the contents of one's head with precision is the greatest asset we can have.
I haven't really investigated the budget fully yet - my concentration levels are not at their highest at the moment - but it doesn't seem to have said anything too pleasing, and the thing that jumped out at me is that they are now going to tax private jet travel, to which I say, WHY THE FREAKING HECK WASN'T IT BEING TAXED BEFORE?
In the pub after choir on Monday, I became aware that none of my right-leaning singing friends had even heard of this Saturday's March for the Alternative, which a) means that they're not reading my blog (outrageous) and b) means that the right-wing press are not even covering it, even to slag it off - not something that should have surprised me, but since it's been on the front page of The Guardian's website pretty much daily since its announcement, the realisation that huge swathes of the populus don't even know it's happening is slightly frustrating - so for one last time (maybe), please read about it, and please come if you can.
I kind of don't want to tell anyone how much I like Bob Bob Ricard because obviously I am childishly possessive of a popular restaurant in central London and want it to be my place and no one else's except the people who know about it already, but in the spirit of sharing, it really is a gorgeous restaurant in Soho that has only become nicer since I was last there three years ago - the food is reliable, the menu has a good selection of prices and the atmosphere is basically my idea of eat-out perfection; on the downside, the wine list is a bit expensive, the waiting staff sometimes top up your glass even if you haven't taken a sip since thirty seconds ago when they last came round, and if there are celebrities present you can't see them because each table is curtained off, so opportunities for spying are limited - but basically, if I was richer and/or famous I'd go there constantly and if you want to take me out for a romantic meal, you could do worse than choose this place.
Hiring an RV in California in late August is freaking difficult, not just because there is a massive shortage of RVs for hire, but also because all the websites work like this: you type in your dates, they show you a list of possible vehicles that they may or may not have for hire, you are allowed to select one (and only one) of the vehicles that you're interested in (even if you'd be delighted to hire any of the twenty or so results they've found), and a new page loads asking for your details including your credit card number to secure the deposit, which you fill in, and then you get an email saying that they will look to see if the vehicle is available and then get back to you when they can, usually within 48 hours but no promises, and they can legitimately charge your card if the vehicle IS available, so you're loath to give your card details to anyone else, but you also know from experience that it's unlikely that that particular RV is going to be available and time is of the essence and there are possibly only two RVs available for that week on the whole of the West Coast, but you can't request a quote for any others because what if they all are available and your card gets charged twenty times and you end up paying a non-refundable 20% deposit on twenty RVs when you only want one?
OK that's it for now. I am bored and busy and grumpy and very happy all at once. Also: read Siddhartha, it's amazing. And this is brilliant too. Also, Boots own Skin, Hair & Nails supplements are just as good as Perfectil's and half the price. And I bought Pureology shampoo and conditioner for coloured hair - extra volume version - and it makes my hair really greasy. And I think one of the crayfish in my salad this lunchtime was funny. I spat it out but if I die in the next 12 hours, that's probably why. Also about a month ago, I got my highlights done by a girl and then quite soon after I saw my mum, who was like, 'When are you getting your hair done?' and I was all defensive and like, 'I just HAD it done!' and she was like, 'Oh! Sorry! Aren't they meant to dye the roots so you can't see them any more?' and I was like, 'They DID!' and she said, 'Hmmmm,' which she says quite often, and I said, 'It's HIGHLIGHTS, Mum - they take a section of the hair and then split it in half, and dye half of it and leave the other half undyed - it's meant to make it look more natural rather than just a block of solid colour.' And she nodded and realised she wasn't going to get anywhere with that argument, so she stayed quiet. And then I looked in the mirror, and my mum was right, I think the girl in the salon must have chosen each section, dyed about 10% of it and discarded 90%. And it's freaking annoying but it was too long ago to complain so now I'm going somewhere else to get it done again. Boring boring boring annoying. BYE.
Showing posts with label Current affairs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Current affairs. Show all posts
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Monday, 14 March 2011
Just another sanctimonious Monday...
...woah-oo-woah...
OK, it doesn't scan quite as well as the original, but it does at least warn you that I will be leading my beloved High Horse over to the sizeable mounting block and clambering on board, and then shouting out in my over-privileged plummy voice that you should do something that a) you were going to do anyway or b) you weren't planning on doing and whatever I write here won't manage to change your mind. But I will have TRIED, and that's all that matters, right Mummy?
Hang on, just have to rearrange my jodphurs, getting a bit restrictive there for a minute. OK. Reins in left hand, don't pull the head as you step up, swing the right leg over, and oop-la, there we are, comfortably in the saddle, no discernable groin strain as yet, heels down, walk on.
There is a march in London on Saturday 26th March. A march in March! Reason enough to go, surely? But since I've made all this effort, I'll blunder on for a little bit longer. The march has been organised by the unions to protest against the cuts to education and public services that the Tory government is making. It is called The March For The Alternative and you can show your interest on the official site or via their Facebook group.
My mum was horrified when she found out I was going. "But the cuts are necessary," she wailed. Some cuts are indeed necessary. Our country is in financial trouble and things need to change. But this is not just a UK problem. It is a global problem, and making these local changes will not help things in the long run - the cuts are hugely significant in the short term, but in the long term, our welfare state is being dismantled and the state of our nation will - I guarantee it - suffer. We WILL be worse off.
Probably the most heavily criticised changes are the proposed grimnesses with the privatisation of our beloved NHS. I can't seem to find anyone other than Tory ministers that think these are a good idea. The British Medical Association, the nurses' union, the British Heart Foundation and many other powerful bodies have attacked the plans. And for a detailed explanation of why there is so much cynicism and anger about the bill, you could do worse than take a look at this 15 minute documentary, which highlights the nepotistic world of Westminster policy wonks. Not pleasant viewing.
Even if you're bizarrely convinced that the NHS should be handled by big business, pretty much every other cool thing about the UK seems to be under threat. The UK Film Council is on its knees, as are cultural institutions countrywide - and even overworked and underpaid celebrities have cried out in anger. Our education system is changing radically - for the worse - while private schools remain able to claim charitable status and dodge tax worth £100 million annually. Libraries are going. Our forests were nearly sold off but we moaned loudly enough so it didn't happen.
Clearly protest can work. And it's no surprise that a lot of people are angry - but what is this 'alternative' - what is the other option? There are other ways to generate money: namely tax. Two thirds of UK companies pay no tax. What the heck is that about? Tax havens are a joke. The fat cats in the City are getting fatter - I've seen it first hand these past few days. The cuts are affecting everyone except the richest, and it's not fair.
I'm not going to be throwing fire extinguishers on the day. I probably won't even chant. I'm just going along to march along peacefully and show the powers that be that I'm politely grumpy, that even if I'd voted Tory I'd feel ripped off, that no one predicted this level of cuts, that there has been a shocking amount of dishonesty and secrecy, that there are fairer and better ways to generate cash for the recovery of our country. We're all prepared to make sacrifices, but the neediest of us should make sacrifices last, not first.
You don't have to join for the whole day. Just come for a bit. Show your support. Every body counts. Saturday 26th March.
Woah there, High Horse. Good girl.
OK, it doesn't scan quite as well as the original, but it does at least warn you that I will be leading my beloved High Horse over to the sizeable mounting block and clambering on board, and then shouting out in my over-privileged plummy voice that you should do something that a) you were going to do anyway or b) you weren't planning on doing and whatever I write here won't manage to change your mind. But I will have TRIED, and that's all that matters, right Mummy?
Hang on, just have to rearrange my jodphurs, getting a bit restrictive there for a minute. OK. Reins in left hand, don't pull the head as you step up, swing the right leg over, and oop-la, there we are, comfortably in the saddle, no discernable groin strain as yet, heels down, walk on.
There is a march in London on Saturday 26th March. A march in March! Reason enough to go, surely? But since I've made all this effort, I'll blunder on for a little bit longer. The march has been organised by the unions to protest against the cuts to education and public services that the Tory government is making. It is called The March For The Alternative and you can show your interest on the official site or via their Facebook group.
My mum was horrified when she found out I was going. "But the cuts are necessary," she wailed. Some cuts are indeed necessary. Our country is in financial trouble and things need to change. But this is not just a UK problem. It is a global problem, and making these local changes will not help things in the long run - the cuts are hugely significant in the short term, but in the long term, our welfare state is being dismantled and the state of our nation will - I guarantee it - suffer. We WILL be worse off.
Probably the most heavily criticised changes are the proposed grimnesses with the privatisation of our beloved NHS. I can't seem to find anyone other than Tory ministers that think these are a good idea. The British Medical Association, the nurses' union, the British Heart Foundation and many other powerful bodies have attacked the plans. And for a detailed explanation of why there is so much cynicism and anger about the bill, you could do worse than take a look at this 15 minute documentary, which highlights the nepotistic world of Westminster policy wonks. Not pleasant viewing.
Even if you're bizarrely convinced that the NHS should be handled by big business, pretty much every other cool thing about the UK seems to be under threat. The UK Film Council is on its knees, as are cultural institutions countrywide - and even overworked and underpaid celebrities have cried out in anger. Our education system is changing radically - for the worse - while private schools remain able to claim charitable status and dodge tax worth £100 million annually. Libraries are going. Our forests were nearly sold off but we moaned loudly enough so it didn't happen.
Clearly protest can work. And it's no surprise that a lot of people are angry - but what is this 'alternative' - what is the other option? There are other ways to generate money: namely tax. Two thirds of UK companies pay no tax. What the heck is that about? Tax havens are a joke. The fat cats in the City are getting fatter - I've seen it first hand these past few days. The cuts are affecting everyone except the richest, and it's not fair.
I'm not going to be throwing fire extinguishers on the day. I probably won't even chant. I'm just going along to march along peacefully and show the powers that be that I'm politely grumpy, that even if I'd voted Tory I'd feel ripped off, that no one predicted this level of cuts, that there has been a shocking amount of dishonesty and secrecy, that there are fairer and better ways to generate cash for the recovery of our country. We're all prepared to make sacrifices, but the neediest of us should make sacrifices last, not first.
You don't have to join for the whole day. Just come for a bit. Show your support. Every body counts. Saturday 26th March.
Woah there, High Horse. Good girl.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Milo Yiannopoulos: LLFF responds
As every child who's ever been bullied will know, the most effective way to deal with the perpetrators is to ignore them. Don't give them any more airtime than they've already got; they'll soon get bored and go away.
This morning I read an article that made me huff, roll my eyes, toss my head and go, 'Oh for fuck's sake' about six time while I was sitting at my desk. And normally I'd ignore it. Normally I'd think such rubbish is not worth my time. But this article was written by a young man in The Daily Telegraph, the (sole) paper my parents read, and it is so blasély one-sided, so irritatingly and confidently partisan, that if it were your only source of opinion, it would be almost impossible to see the other side. As my parents' only child, I feel it is my duty and my right to stick up for my side of things. Unfortunately, this means engaging with Milo Yiannopoulos, the man described by Nationaltreasurestephenfry as a "cynical, ignorant fucker."
The background: Milo was on last Thursday's Ten O'Clock Live, an unapologetically left-leaning current affairs show that goes out once a week on Channel 4. As a writer for the Telegraph, and one who's no stranger to controversy, he was clearly drafted in to represent the right on a panel that was to discuss the recent spate of public protests in Britain. Following Milo's short appearance on the show, he was subjected to a barrage of angry messages on Twitter and Facebook, and this morning the Telegraph published an article he'd written about this incident.
The piece starts with Milo claiming that people had decided to hate him because he had said that protesting "has been historically ineffective" in Britain. First mistake. People weren't angry because he said that polling isn't a big deal. People were angry because he was utterly dismissive and patronising to Tamsin Ormond, and because in the few seconds he was on air, he managed to come across like the worst type of privileged know-it-all, utterly unable to engage with the average Joe. His presence on the panel did nothing to change the view that the right in this country is a collection of grandiose bigots who are convinced that They Know Best. The opinion that protesting may be ineffective is a fine and valid one to hold. But if you speak like Hugh Grant, you should know if you decide to go on live TV and laughingly scoff at your opponents as if they're flies on your caviar, you're going to ruffle a lot of viewers' feathers.
My parents won't ever see Milo's performance on Ten O'Clock Live. They'll read his article and think he's right, that he's being unfairly vilified by the naughty Left for holding utterly normal views.
My parents won't know the original context of the Jan Moir incident - Milo empathises with her as she was similarly victimised on Twitter. Poor old Jan, whose article suggested that there was something inherently "sleazy" and unnatural about the death of Stephen Gately, the gay member of Boyzone who died in 2009, and then managed to connect the incident to a paragraph questioning the validity of civil partnerships for gay couples. Yes, poor Jan, victimised so unfairly for such unprejudiced open-mindedness that she eventually won Stonewall's Bigot of the Year award. Now I'm not the brightest bulb on Harrod's, but if you're ever reduced to thinking, "Now I know how Jan Moir must have felt," it might be time to question the validity of your original quest.
Having explained what happened to him, Milo then warms to his theme. How, he asks, can the Left think it is acceptable to publically bully those with whose views they disagree? "How come it always seems to be the Left doing the shouting?" he asks, with staggering blindness. So there are no right wing bigots stirring up hatred online? He's clearly never come across Guido Fawkes or Sarah Palin. And I'm not actually sure that calling users of social media "this congealed clump of morons", as Milo does in his conclusion, shows much generosity of spirit.
Yes, Milo, the left are shouting online. Why? Because the Right are in control. The people who lead our country are rippling with privilege, the people who run our economy are wealthy to the point of immunity, and our current electoral system is fundamentally unfair. The Left is shouting because they're unhappy, and they use social media because, for many, it feels like the first time they've been heard. Like it or not, their voice is valid - but to say that social media is dominated by the Left is a little silly. There are over half a billion people on Facebook: approximately one twelfth of the world's population. Do you think they're all Marx-reading commies? Because they really, really aren't. You can slag them all off as a congealed clump of morons, Milo - or you can try to find the huge and wonderful variety within. But then, I guess that an appreciation of difference isn't one of the Right's special skills.
Milo won't read this blog, but my parents will. Every time I wince at their Telegraph-reading habits, I know they're mentally doing the same, thinking that my Guardian experience is just as biased. They're right - the views I share with my friends, and the newspapers I read, lean further to the left than the tower of Pisa. I'm not trying to persuade my parents to abandon Cameron - I'm afraid I've given up wasting my breath. But I hope they can be aware that there are two sides to every story - and, on this occasion, Milo's version was as wilfully blind as a bat in a backwards balaclava. We didn't scoff at him after Ten O'Clock Live because we disagreed with his opinion. We scoffed because of the patronising way he expressed it, and then we scoffed again about his article this morning because he missed the point so spectacularly. Social media is modernity, and slagging it off is to whine "I do not like reality": unconstructive, anachronistic and guaranteed to make enemies. Which, the cynic within points out, is exactly what sells papers.
I don't think Milo should have a bath with a toaster. I don't wish he were dead and I don't want to cause him physical pain. I don't really even care what he thinks. I just want my parents to know that, on this topic, The Torygraph got it wrong. I'm politically left, and I love social media, but I'm not a moron, mummy, I promise. Please still love me.
This morning I read an article that made me huff, roll my eyes, toss my head and go, 'Oh for fuck's sake' about six time while I was sitting at my desk. And normally I'd ignore it. Normally I'd think such rubbish is not worth my time. But this article was written by a young man in The Daily Telegraph, the (sole) paper my parents read, and it is so blasély one-sided, so irritatingly and confidently partisan, that if it were your only source of opinion, it would be almost impossible to see the other side. As my parents' only child, I feel it is my duty and my right to stick up for my side of things. Unfortunately, this means engaging with Milo Yiannopoulos, the man described by Nationaltreasurestephenfry as a "cynical, ignorant fucker."
The background: Milo was on last Thursday's Ten O'Clock Live, an unapologetically left-leaning current affairs show that goes out once a week on Channel 4. As a writer for the Telegraph, and one who's no stranger to controversy, he was clearly drafted in to represent the right on a panel that was to discuss the recent spate of public protests in Britain. Following Milo's short appearance on the show, he was subjected to a barrage of angry messages on Twitter and Facebook, and this morning the Telegraph published an article he'd written about this incident.
The piece starts with Milo claiming that people had decided to hate him because he had said that protesting "has been historically ineffective" in Britain. First mistake. People weren't angry because he said that polling isn't a big deal. People were angry because he was utterly dismissive and patronising to Tamsin Ormond, and because in the few seconds he was on air, he managed to come across like the worst type of privileged know-it-all, utterly unable to engage with the average Joe. His presence on the panel did nothing to change the view that the right in this country is a collection of grandiose bigots who are convinced that They Know Best. The opinion that protesting may be ineffective is a fine and valid one to hold. But if you speak like Hugh Grant, you should know if you decide to go on live TV and laughingly scoff at your opponents as if they're flies on your caviar, you're going to ruffle a lot of viewers' feathers.
My parents won't ever see Milo's performance on Ten O'Clock Live. They'll read his article and think he's right, that he's being unfairly vilified by the naughty Left for holding utterly normal views.
My parents won't know the original context of the Jan Moir incident - Milo empathises with her as she was similarly victimised on Twitter. Poor old Jan, whose article suggested that there was something inherently "sleazy" and unnatural about the death of Stephen Gately, the gay member of Boyzone who died in 2009, and then managed to connect the incident to a paragraph questioning the validity of civil partnerships for gay couples. Yes, poor Jan, victimised so unfairly for such unprejudiced open-mindedness that she eventually won Stonewall's Bigot of the Year award. Now I'm not the brightest bulb on Harrod's, but if you're ever reduced to thinking, "Now I know how Jan Moir must have felt," it might be time to question the validity of your original quest.
Having explained what happened to him, Milo then warms to his theme. How, he asks, can the Left think it is acceptable to publically bully those with whose views they disagree? "How come it always seems to be the Left doing the shouting?" he asks, with staggering blindness. So there are no right wing bigots stirring up hatred online? He's clearly never come across Guido Fawkes or Sarah Palin. And I'm not actually sure that calling users of social media "this congealed clump of morons", as Milo does in his conclusion, shows much generosity of spirit.
Yes, Milo, the left are shouting online. Why? Because the Right are in control. The people who lead our country are rippling with privilege, the people who run our economy are wealthy to the point of immunity, and our current electoral system is fundamentally unfair. The Left is shouting because they're unhappy, and they use social media because, for many, it feels like the first time they've been heard. Like it or not, their voice is valid - but to say that social media is dominated by the Left is a little silly. There are over half a billion people on Facebook: approximately one twelfth of the world's population. Do you think they're all Marx-reading commies? Because they really, really aren't. You can slag them all off as a congealed clump of morons, Milo - or you can try to find the huge and wonderful variety within. But then, I guess that an appreciation of difference isn't one of the Right's special skills.
Milo won't read this blog, but my parents will. Every time I wince at their Telegraph-reading habits, I know they're mentally doing the same, thinking that my Guardian experience is just as biased. They're right - the views I share with my friends, and the newspapers I read, lean further to the left than the tower of Pisa. I'm not trying to persuade my parents to abandon Cameron - I'm afraid I've given up wasting my breath. But I hope they can be aware that there are two sides to every story - and, on this occasion, Milo's version was as wilfully blind as a bat in a backwards balaclava. We didn't scoff at him after Ten O'Clock Live because we disagreed with his opinion. We scoffed because of the patronising way he expressed it, and then we scoffed again about his article this morning because he missed the point so spectacularly. Social media is modernity, and slagging it off is to whine "I do not like reality": unconstructive, anachronistic and guaranteed to make enemies. Which, the cynic within points out, is exactly what sells papers.
I don't think Milo should have a bath with a toaster. I don't wish he were dead and I don't want to cause him physical pain. I don't really even care what he thinks. I just want my parents to know that, on this topic, The Torygraph got it wrong. I'm politically left, and I love social media, but I'm not a moron, mummy, I promise. Please still love me.
Thursday, 17 February 2011
AV, DF, TT and me
First, a public service announcement. Then a review of the gig I went to last night.
It has been announced that the referendum on voting systems in the UK is being held on 5th May 2011. The Faithful will recall that the main reason I voted Lib Dem at last year's General Election was that I believed that was the best shot we had of getting parliamentary reform. The AV system is not flawless, but I still believe that it is substantially fairer than the existing first past the post (FPTP) way of deciding who leads us. Prominent people have been campaigning for an overhaul of this system for years - check out this video of John Cleese fighting for it over two decades ago:
Sorry if this is patronising, but in case you haven't made up your mind:
I passionately believe that, without a fair, representative voting system, we do not really live in a true democracy, and the lack of engagement among young voters in particular will just get worse. At the moment, over two thirds of MPs are elected when most of their constituents have voted against them. The majority of people in this country are represented in parliament by an MP they did not vote for. Is that fair? Is that democratic? No.
Another problem with the existing FPTP set-up is that a lot of constituencies become 'safe seats', and in these areas, MPs simply don't have to work very hard to get your vote. It's only in the swing constituencies that votes really count, so it's only there that MPs put the effort in to attract votes. Is that fair? No.
There are several weeks between now and the AV referendum on 5th May. I don't want to be too boring about it, but I hope that all my Faithful who are eligible to vote in the UK will vote in favour of the referendum. Whether you're right, left or loony, this is a vote that will make politics more representative for all of us. There are Old Guard members of all three major parties who are scared of it - they fear change and are right to be scared: AV will shake things up - and the electorate will benefit. Whatever your affiliations, it is clear for all to see that the current state of affairs is fundamentally, systemically unfair. Vote for a system upgrade - you deserve it.
That concludes the public service announcement. And now, back to our regular programme of whining and tomfoolery.
Last night I went to a gig at the Barbican - Teddy Thompson, supported by David Ford. I've liked David for several years, and had the rare pleasure of walking into the Barbican gift shop last night to help Grania buy one of his CDs in the interval and asking another customer in my crisp private school English, 'Is that the album with Cheer Up, You Miserable Fuck on it?' His gig was fantastic - heavy use of the loop sampler allowed him to show off his talents on acoustic and lead guitar, piano, harmonica, percussion and vocals, and although at times he was a bit cringingly cod-American during his inter-song banter and the removal of his porkpie hat and subsequent angsty head-stroking felt slightly Chris Martin contrived, his performance was energetic, well-balanced and well-rehearsed, the breadth of his musical talent was clear for all to see, and his voice was confident and emotive. He is clearly an intelligent, wry, funny man and I am more of a fan than I was this time yesterday, so he's doing something right.
Then on came Teddy Thompson, stage right. Oh dear. The first and last time I'd seen him previously was also at the Barbican, for the exceptional Nick Drake tribute concert I went to a year ago. He sang on a couple of numbers and I liked his voice. When I saw that David Ford was supporting him, I took that as a positive endorsement of the rest of his oeuvre. Error. What I saw was a set of drab, disappointing country songs with undiscernable vocals, predictable harmonies and a drummer who could have been replaced by a 1980s Fisher Price keyboard. After two thoroughly conventional tracks, both of which left me weeping for Rufus Wainwright, my mind drifted into a favourite bad gig pastime: working out who the band resemble. It turned out we had Michael Stipe on guitar, Danny Boyle on drums, that lady from Episodes and Green Wing on violin and backing vocals, Osama Bin Laden on bass and Ryan Stiles on lead. The girl particularly offended me, but I'm aware I was being very oversensitive yesterday. She was wearing a cropped, fitted black leather jacket, a black pencil skirt, black opaque tights and ankle boots. From Row B of the balcony, she looked like a Foxton's estate agent. Her violin playing was as subtle as a fat kid at ballet, thumpingly behind the beat throughout, reaching a climax in a song that reminded me of a lazy version of Sting's Desert Rose. The loyal audience had remained polite throughout David Ford's set but lapped up every ounce of Teddy's output, whooping, hollering, laughing and taking photos. Grania and I got restless, started chatting and then left before we got too rude - the first time since The Longpigs supported U2 on the Zoo Tour at Wembley Stadium that I have preferred the support to the main event.
Instead of tutting at Teddy, we went and sat outside in the foyer, worked on Grania's CV and took photographs of ourselves gooning in the empty reception space. I looked for all the world like a young lady fully sure of myself and where I'm going in life, so it's odd that a few hours earlier I was wondering what type of lobotomy it might take to make me stop crying. During the morning, I'd seen a photograph of a girlfriend on Facebook - she is tall and gorgeous, and was standing in shallow sea on some sort of Greek island paradise holiday, looking out to the horizon, brown back, brown slim legs, tiny purple bikini bottoms. And there, at my desk, I started to cry with jealousy at how different my life would have been if I'd felt attractive all these years, rather than blighted by cellulite and fat. Then, on the way to therapy, I saw a photo of a beautiful model in an ad on a bus, and I started crying again. And I know it's ridiculous: it's not as though I'm some sort of gargoyle. So I asked my therapist why, if I'm so convinced that I'd be happier if I was thin that I actually cry with envy at others who are lucky enough to be slim, am I not anorexic - or at least on a permanent diet. And she suggested that it's because I know that deep down it wouldn't make any difference if I was thinner, and that I know that I'm not really that ugly - that it's all just a cover for the real shit, a scapegoat. That was interesting. Our whole session was fascinating, actually. In between sobs of PMT-induced self-pity, I unlocked a major truth about the skewed way I see things. God only knows I've felt like I'm en route to a new me for the past few weeks and months, and it's not a great deal of fun reaching what I thought was a summit and realising it was a foothill. But there's no doubt that I'm making progress.
I'd dearly love to be one of those carefree people, like those well-meaning friends of mine who say 'You're over-thinking this, Jane,' not realising that it makes me want to throw my stapler at their head. In the same way that saying 'Calm down' to someone who thinks they've lost their passport at Stansted doesn't do much to lower their blood pressure, telling me to stop thinking so much doesn't tend to elicit the response, "Oh, OK then, thanks." I don't sit here all day, staring into space, deliberately trying to complicate things. It just happens. I know some people just concentrate on the project in front of them until 5 o'clock and then go out and get pissed with their friends. I hope they know how lucky they are. I sit here doing five different things at work, and still, bubbling away underneath, is the feeling that I should be doing something else, or at least doing what I'm doing but differently. The volume of the Greek chorus has definitely quietened over the past few weeks and months, and I don't beat myself up nearly so much as I used to. I know, Big Picture, how lucky I am. But stuff's been so dark and bad recently that I haven't really been able to vocalise it to anyone else, which for a compulsive truth-teller such as myself has been odd. Anyway. Here's hoping I make it through.
In the meantime, I'll distract myself by playing the ukulele, going to gigs and getting worked up about the AV referendum. Bear with me.
It has been announced that the referendum on voting systems in the UK is being held on 5th May 2011. The Faithful will recall that the main reason I voted Lib Dem at last year's General Election was that I believed that was the best shot we had of getting parliamentary reform. The AV system is not flawless, but I still believe that it is substantially fairer than the existing first past the post (FPTP) way of deciding who leads us. Prominent people have been campaigning for an overhaul of this system for years - check out this video of John Cleese fighting for it over two decades ago:
Sorry if this is patronising, but in case you haven't made up your mind:
I passionately believe that, without a fair, representative voting system, we do not really live in a true democracy, and the lack of engagement among young voters in particular will just get worse. At the moment, over two thirds of MPs are elected when most of their constituents have voted against them. The majority of people in this country are represented in parliament by an MP they did not vote for. Is that fair? Is that democratic? No.
Another problem with the existing FPTP set-up is that a lot of constituencies become 'safe seats', and in these areas, MPs simply don't have to work very hard to get your vote. It's only in the swing constituencies that votes really count, so it's only there that MPs put the effort in to attract votes. Is that fair? No.
There are several weeks between now and the AV referendum on 5th May. I don't want to be too boring about it, but I hope that all my Faithful who are eligible to vote in the UK will vote in favour of the referendum. Whether you're right, left or loony, this is a vote that will make politics more representative for all of us. There are Old Guard members of all three major parties who are scared of it - they fear change and are right to be scared: AV will shake things up - and the electorate will benefit. Whatever your affiliations, it is clear for all to see that the current state of affairs is fundamentally, systemically unfair. Vote for a system upgrade - you deserve it.
That concludes the public service announcement. And now, back to our regular programme of whining and tomfoolery.
Last night I went to a gig at the Barbican - Teddy Thompson, supported by David Ford. I've liked David for several years, and had the rare pleasure of walking into the Barbican gift shop last night to help Grania buy one of his CDs in the interval and asking another customer in my crisp private school English, 'Is that the album with Cheer Up, You Miserable Fuck on it?' His gig was fantastic - heavy use of the loop sampler allowed him to show off his talents on acoustic and lead guitar, piano, harmonica, percussion and vocals, and although at times he was a bit cringingly cod-American during his inter-song banter and the removal of his porkpie hat and subsequent angsty head-stroking felt slightly Chris Martin contrived, his performance was energetic, well-balanced and well-rehearsed, the breadth of his musical talent was clear for all to see, and his voice was confident and emotive. He is clearly an intelligent, wry, funny man and I am more of a fan than I was this time yesterday, so he's doing something right.
Then on came Teddy Thompson, stage right. Oh dear. The first and last time I'd seen him previously was also at the Barbican, for the exceptional Nick Drake tribute concert I went to a year ago. He sang on a couple of numbers and I liked his voice. When I saw that David Ford was supporting him, I took that as a positive endorsement of the rest of his oeuvre. Error. What I saw was a set of drab, disappointing country songs with undiscernable vocals, predictable harmonies and a drummer who could have been replaced by a 1980s Fisher Price keyboard. After two thoroughly conventional tracks, both of which left me weeping for Rufus Wainwright, my mind drifted into a favourite bad gig pastime: working out who the band resemble. It turned out we had Michael Stipe on guitar, Danny Boyle on drums, that lady from Episodes and Green Wing on violin and backing vocals, Osama Bin Laden on bass and Ryan Stiles on lead. The girl particularly offended me, but I'm aware I was being very oversensitive yesterday. She was wearing a cropped, fitted black leather jacket, a black pencil skirt, black opaque tights and ankle boots. From Row B of the balcony, she looked like a Foxton's estate agent. Her violin playing was as subtle as a fat kid at ballet, thumpingly behind the beat throughout, reaching a climax in a song that reminded me of a lazy version of Sting's Desert Rose. The loyal audience had remained polite throughout David Ford's set but lapped up every ounce of Teddy's output, whooping, hollering, laughing and taking photos. Grania and I got restless, started chatting and then left before we got too rude - the first time since The Longpigs supported U2 on the Zoo Tour at Wembley Stadium that I have preferred the support to the main event.
Instead of tutting at Teddy, we went and sat outside in the foyer, worked on Grania's CV and took photographs of ourselves gooning in the empty reception space. I looked for all the world like a young lady fully sure of myself and where I'm going in life, so it's odd that a few hours earlier I was wondering what type of lobotomy it might take to make me stop crying. During the morning, I'd seen a photograph of a girlfriend on Facebook - she is tall and gorgeous, and was standing in shallow sea on some sort of Greek island paradise holiday, looking out to the horizon, brown back, brown slim legs, tiny purple bikini bottoms. And there, at my desk, I started to cry with jealousy at how different my life would have been if I'd felt attractive all these years, rather than blighted by cellulite and fat. Then, on the way to therapy, I saw a photo of a beautiful model in an ad on a bus, and I started crying again. And I know it's ridiculous: it's not as though I'm some sort of gargoyle. So I asked my therapist why, if I'm so convinced that I'd be happier if I was thin that I actually cry with envy at others who are lucky enough to be slim, am I not anorexic - or at least on a permanent diet. And she suggested that it's because I know that deep down it wouldn't make any difference if I was thinner, and that I know that I'm not really that ugly - that it's all just a cover for the real shit, a scapegoat. That was interesting. Our whole session was fascinating, actually. In between sobs of PMT-induced self-pity, I unlocked a major truth about the skewed way I see things. God only knows I've felt like I'm en route to a new me for the past few weeks and months, and it's not a great deal of fun reaching what I thought was a summit and realising it was a foothill. But there's no doubt that I'm making progress.
I'd dearly love to be one of those carefree people, like those well-meaning friends of mine who say 'You're over-thinking this, Jane,' not realising that it makes me want to throw my stapler at their head. In the same way that saying 'Calm down' to someone who thinks they've lost their passport at Stansted doesn't do much to lower their blood pressure, telling me to stop thinking so much doesn't tend to elicit the response, "Oh, OK then, thanks." I don't sit here all day, staring into space, deliberately trying to complicate things. It just happens. I know some people just concentrate on the project in front of them until 5 o'clock and then go out and get pissed with their friends. I hope they know how lucky they are. I sit here doing five different things at work, and still, bubbling away underneath, is the feeling that I should be doing something else, or at least doing what I'm doing but differently. The volume of the Greek chorus has definitely quietened over the past few weeks and months, and I don't beat myself up nearly so much as I used to. I know, Big Picture, how lucky I am. But stuff's been so dark and bad recently that I haven't really been able to vocalise it to anyone else, which for a compulsive truth-teller such as myself has been odd. Anyway. Here's hoping I make it through.
In the meantime, I'll distract myself by playing the ukulele, going to gigs and getting worked up about the AV referendum. Bear with me.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Envy, needles, walking, fat, Egypt, patience
So like I said, I don't read other blogs very often because I feel lame and unsuccessful in comparison, and yesterday I discovered this one and I know my parents wouldn't approve but I have been laughing like a drain at her brilliant writing and it's made me think 'Meh, why do I even bother?' because there is SO much fantastic stuff out there. But then, it's fun to write. Even if she gets a gazillion readers and I get nine. And actually, I'm being a bit hard on myself, I haven't had a day with only nine readers for a long time. Years. Usually I at least get into double figures.
The fact is, this blog could definitely be a lot funnier if I decided to write only about funny stuff. But I like the mix. Life is a mix. We can't all be hilarious all the time. Well, Becky can, but she's a rare case. Besides, she has pets and a brother and sister and a mother, all of whom make regularly funny appearances. I would be much funnier if I had a pet or siblings, or a funny mother. As it is, I have a regular mother who only occasionally provides me with material. We have to play the cards we're dealt.
So, where were we? Acupuncture. It was un-fucking-believable. Its effects have faded now, but I swear, for about 36 hours, my new shoulders were a smooth river rather than their usual gnarled bit of driftwood. They don't half give you the hard sell, though, trying to get me to sign up for a course of ten and telling me I absolutely had to start coming weekly to feel the full benefits. I resisted because I am spending my money on other vital things like BOOZE and MORE CLOTHES. It doesn't hurt when they put the needles in, although it doesn't feel great. There's a little fumble, a bit like when your mum's doing the breaking-an-egg-on-your-head thing and is trying to get her nails to flick against each other to simulate the shell cracking, and then the needle goes in. It hurts 1/10, where getting your finger pricked pre-blood-donation is 4/10 and stubbing your little toe on the corner of your bed, unexpectedly first thing on a Monday morning, is an 8. And then you lie there, face down on the bed, and it's freaking weird because you know you've got twenty long needles sticking out of your back and neck, but you can't rise up and twist round to have a look because you think that any wiggle might drive the ones in your neck so far in that you might die, or maybe they'll just fall out and you'll have to lie there getting reduced benefit, so you stay completely and utterly still for thirty minutes, with a heat lamp pointed at the uncovered area, and it's freaking pleasant just lying like a beached whale and having an excuse to do so. And then she comes back in and quickly pulls out the needles and then gives you an acupressure massage, which is amazing, and then you go home and even the whole of the next day, all the muscles feel as new. For £15 on a Groupon voucher I thought it was unparalleled. For the regular price of £50, I'd never justify it unless something was seriously wrong, like I was so cramped up that I looked like a sexy hunchback. Gurgle. God it was nice.
24 hours later it was Tuesday evening and I went on a walking tour with a handsome friend round St. James' and we had a really seriously lovely evening, nattering and drinking and eating and laughing, until he decided to be a bit mental, but what was great is that Old Jane might have blamed herself and been like, 'Eeek, he's being mental, but if he thought I was amazing, he'd never risk our friendship by being mental, so clearly he thinks I am FAT and doesn't care about my opinion and so isn't bothered about coming across as a nutcase.' But on Tuesday I thought 'He is mental. I am a goddess, the little-known Goddess of Cellulite and High Priestess of Egos That Oscillate Between Over-Confidence and Crippling Insecurity. Bow down at my altar and weep, ye minions!
So after Tuesday night's mysterious shenanigans, I woke up yesterday feeling exhausted and ropey, and once I'd agreed with Emily that Erfan would take her to the restaurant instead of me last night, I then decided to use my day's fat allocation on a hangover lunch at Pret. I bought the following: a smoked salmon sandwich and a Pret Choc Bar, which, for the uninitiated, is a rectangular slice of what looks like chocolate biscuit cake, about the size of a Crunchie. I went back to my desk knowing that these heavenly items would be enjoyed and over all too soon. I swallowed them. Interested in the damage I'd just caused my weightloss intentions, I looked up the value of these items on the Weight Watchers website. The sandwich was worth nine points, the same as half a bottle of wine, and just under a third of my daily allocation of 29 points. That was a little galling. I'd definitely rather have had half a bottle of hair of the dog than a stupid sandwich. Then I checked the Choc Bar. Bear in mind that a Mars bar is eight points. The Choc Bar contained sixteen points. SIXTEEN. The total point count for my lunch was 25. I could have had a bottle of wine and a Twix for that. I'd have probably got fired for drinking that much during working hours, but at least I would have consumed some fat that made things fun, rather than fat that makes you feel guilty.
Meanwhile, Egypt is FASCINATING. Well actually, the whole Middle East is getting pretty feisty. I am following developments on Twitter and staring in awe at Jon Snow's feed, not merely because it is very interesting, but because I will never fail to find it amazing that some people are prepared to risk everything and go to these places and report on things, and yes, Jon Snow has fame and fortune and respect, but for every Jon Snow, there are hundreds of others who are taking the same risks but in a much lower-profile capacity, all doing their bit for global democracy, while I sit here eating fresh baby figs imported from South Africa and wondering whether to wear the aqua or grass-green eyeliner to the party tonight.
Yesterday afternoon, I had a gripping therapy session where I updated her on Tuesday night's weirdnesses, a couple of other ongoing sagas and my weekend in t'country. I told her how impressed I'd been with Lucy's mothering patience.
"I just could not have done it," I said, and explained how I'd have been more inclined to say 'Pull yourself together' than be endlessly supportive. My therapist was quiet for a bit and then suggested that I saw the Three Year Old Jane in Lucy's daughter, and that I had been told to pull myself together when I was being needy or unfun as a toddler. I thought that was possible. Later on, I checked with my mum, who said that it was more than possible, and was in fact extremely likely. And I think it's what I'd do in the same situation. Oh, I'd be a shit parent. Later on, the daughter had said to Lucy,
"Are we going to get out of the car when we get to the train station?"
"Yes, darling," replied Lucy.
"Will you look after me?" she asked.
"Darling, it's my job to look after you. I will always look after you, for ever and ever and ever."
The daughter sat in contented silence, swinging her be-tighted legs and silver glitter Mary-Janes from the safety of her carseat. I told this to my mum later, adding that I thought what Lucy had said had been just right, that every three year old wants to hear their parent say they'll always be there for them.
"What would you have said in her position?" asked Mum.
"I dunno. Probably something like, 'Look, I'll do my best to look after you, nutcase, but if you jump onto the tracks, you're on your own.'"
She laughed. I laughed. It's what my parents would have said to me. And look how I turned out. Shit. I should be sterilized.
The fact is, this blog could definitely be a lot funnier if I decided to write only about funny stuff. But I like the mix. Life is a mix. We can't all be hilarious all the time. Well, Becky can, but she's a rare case. Besides, she has pets and a brother and sister and a mother, all of whom make regularly funny appearances. I would be much funnier if I had a pet or siblings, or a funny mother. As it is, I have a regular mother who only occasionally provides me with material. We have to play the cards we're dealt.
So, where were we? Acupuncture. It was un-fucking-believable. Its effects have faded now, but I swear, for about 36 hours, my new shoulders were a smooth river rather than their usual gnarled bit of driftwood. They don't half give you the hard sell, though, trying to get me to sign up for a course of ten and telling me I absolutely had to start coming weekly to feel the full benefits. I resisted because I am spending my money on other vital things like BOOZE and MORE CLOTHES. It doesn't hurt when they put the needles in, although it doesn't feel great. There's a little fumble, a bit like when your mum's doing the breaking-an-egg-on-your-head thing and is trying to get her nails to flick against each other to simulate the shell cracking, and then the needle goes in. It hurts 1/10, where getting your finger pricked pre-blood-donation is 4/10 and stubbing your little toe on the corner of your bed, unexpectedly first thing on a Monday morning, is an 8. And then you lie there, face down on the bed, and it's freaking weird because you know you've got twenty long needles sticking out of your back and neck, but you can't rise up and twist round to have a look because you think that any wiggle might drive the ones in your neck so far in that you might die, or maybe they'll just fall out and you'll have to lie there getting reduced benefit, so you stay completely and utterly still for thirty minutes, with a heat lamp pointed at the uncovered area, and it's freaking pleasant just lying like a beached whale and having an excuse to do so. And then she comes back in and quickly pulls out the needles and then gives you an acupressure massage, which is amazing, and then you go home and even the whole of the next day, all the muscles feel as new. For £15 on a Groupon voucher I thought it was unparalleled. For the regular price of £50, I'd never justify it unless something was seriously wrong, like I was so cramped up that I looked like a sexy hunchback. Gurgle. God it was nice.
24 hours later it was Tuesday evening and I went on a walking tour with a handsome friend round St. James' and we had a really seriously lovely evening, nattering and drinking and eating and laughing, until he decided to be a bit mental, but what was great is that Old Jane might have blamed herself and been like, 'Eeek, he's being mental, but if he thought I was amazing, he'd never risk our friendship by being mental, so clearly he thinks I am FAT and doesn't care about my opinion and so isn't bothered about coming across as a nutcase.' But on Tuesday I thought 'He is mental. I am a goddess, the little-known Goddess of Cellulite and High Priestess of Egos That Oscillate Between Over-Confidence and Crippling Insecurity. Bow down at my altar and weep, ye minions!
So after Tuesday night's mysterious shenanigans, I woke up yesterday feeling exhausted and ropey, and once I'd agreed with Emily that Erfan would take her to the restaurant instead of me last night, I then decided to use my day's fat allocation on a hangover lunch at Pret. I bought the following: a smoked salmon sandwich and a Pret Choc Bar, which, for the uninitiated, is a rectangular slice of what looks like chocolate biscuit cake, about the size of a Crunchie. I went back to my desk knowing that these heavenly items would be enjoyed and over all too soon. I swallowed them. Interested in the damage I'd just caused my weightloss intentions, I looked up the value of these items on the Weight Watchers website. The sandwich was worth nine points, the same as half a bottle of wine, and just under a third of my daily allocation of 29 points. That was a little galling. I'd definitely rather have had half a bottle of hair of the dog than a stupid sandwich. Then I checked the Choc Bar. Bear in mind that a Mars bar is eight points. The Choc Bar contained sixteen points. SIXTEEN. The total point count for my lunch was 25. I could have had a bottle of wine and a Twix for that. I'd have probably got fired for drinking that much during working hours, but at least I would have consumed some fat that made things fun, rather than fat that makes you feel guilty.
Meanwhile, Egypt is FASCINATING. Well actually, the whole Middle East is getting pretty feisty. I am following developments on Twitter and staring in awe at Jon Snow's feed, not merely because it is very interesting, but because I will never fail to find it amazing that some people are prepared to risk everything and go to these places and report on things, and yes, Jon Snow has fame and fortune and respect, but for every Jon Snow, there are hundreds of others who are taking the same risks but in a much lower-profile capacity, all doing their bit for global democracy, while I sit here eating fresh baby figs imported from South Africa and wondering whether to wear the aqua or grass-green eyeliner to the party tonight.
Yesterday afternoon, I had a gripping therapy session where I updated her on Tuesday night's weirdnesses, a couple of other ongoing sagas and my weekend in t'country. I told her how impressed I'd been with Lucy's mothering patience.
"I just could not have done it," I said, and explained how I'd have been more inclined to say 'Pull yourself together' than be endlessly supportive. My therapist was quiet for a bit and then suggested that I saw the Three Year Old Jane in Lucy's daughter, and that I had been told to pull myself together when I was being needy or unfun as a toddler. I thought that was possible. Later on, I checked with my mum, who said that it was more than possible, and was in fact extremely likely. And I think it's what I'd do in the same situation. Oh, I'd be a shit parent. Later on, the daughter had said to Lucy,
"Are we going to get out of the car when we get to the train station?"
"Yes, darling," replied Lucy.
"Will you look after me?" she asked.
"Darling, it's my job to look after you. I will always look after you, for ever and ever and ever."
The daughter sat in contented silence, swinging her be-tighted legs and silver glitter Mary-Janes from the safety of her carseat. I told this to my mum later, adding that I thought what Lucy had said had been just right, that every three year old wants to hear their parent say they'll always be there for them.
"What would you have said in her position?" asked Mum.
"I dunno. Probably something like, 'Look, I'll do my best to look after you, nutcase, but if you jump onto the tracks, you're on your own.'"
She laughed. I laughed. It's what my parents would have said to me. And look how I turned out. Shit. I should be sterilized.
Friday, 21 January 2011
Spun
So no one rejected me yesterday, neither in my conscious life, my unconscious or my subconscious. It was a good day, involving old friends, delicious halloumi, white wine and stand-up comedy and I felt very lucky. Probably not feeling quite so sprightly was the guy sitting on a stool high up in the slips at the Soho Theatre who, halfway through Greg Davies' winning set, started having a massive fit. The lady next to him shouted out, the house lights came up, and we all swivelled our heads, Wimbledon-like, to the right where we helplessly watched the man slither off his stool and vibrate on the floor. The floor manager called out for a doctor and eventually a man went over and knelt down, trying to calm the fitter down. It initially worked, but he then started up again, probably freaked out by the fact that he'd come round to realise an entire theatre audience was watching him jerk and flail. The man had been alone, so no one could confirm exactly what was going on. After a minute or so, we were asked to decamp to the bar, and it was a fair while before the stretcher arrived and he was carried out. Returning to our seats in the auditorium, I asked the gentleman next to me (who hadn't decamped as requested) if I'd missed any major excitements, and he said that the guy had seemed fairly wrecked when he came to, slurring his words and being a bit aggressive with the paramedics, but he wasn't sure if it had been too much booze or if everyone's like that post-fit. After another couple of minutes, Greg bounced back on stage and we all got back to laughing.
I often don't have a bent when I'm writing - I just tell you what's going on in my head. Maybe I should start trying to be more polemical, but I can't really find an angle on the guy-has-fit-during-comedy-gig story. I didn't learn anything from it and it was handled well by the theatre. Still, it seemed like an anecdote worth recounting.
In a slightly more opinionated fashion, I can admit with pleasure that I am grinning from ear to ear at the news that David Cameron's chief spin doctor has had to resign due to being a lying, unscrupulous, Murdoch-loving hack. It is a glorious moment of karma and one that I'm sure is bringing a lot of shadenfreudic happiness to a lot of people. I can but hope that Coulson's departure will assist in exposing some of the disastrous decisions that have been made of late, the sneaky dismantling of our treasured NHS being only one example of many hideous neoliberal choices that are changing this country for the Much Worse. I'd be furious about it all but, as usual, I feel powerless and completely unrepresented, so whinging on here and on Twitter is about all the vitriol I can muster. I used to think it was laziness that stopped me getting involved - now I think it's a total unwillingness to compromise my ideals - I'd rather do nothing than pour a phenomenal amount of time and effort into a system that is inherently flawed for very little reward, safe in the knowledge that my incalculably large sacrifice will be shortly forgotten. Actually, that's basically laziness isn't it. Either way, I'm aware that it's a sad response to the current political state, but I don't think I'm alone in doing the maths and finding the situation doesn't add up. I've always suffered from black and white thinking, and a political life strikes me as a very grey area of no man's land: an over-academicised, over-wrought, out-dated, unfair system that I'm happier ignoring. Except when twats like Coulson get exposed - that bit's fun.
What else is news? I'm off for the weekend shortly, a lot of cleaning to do and then Black Swan and a reunion tomorrow and hangover brunch on Sunday. In amongst all that I need to squeeze in a run, some yoga and a substantial chunk of writing. I don't have much hope that the latter will happen, but maybe if I state my intentions here, I'll be forced to do something about it. Because looking like a failure in front of you would be unbearable, given that it's never happened before. Oh no. Not ever. Not even once.
I often don't have a bent when I'm writing - I just tell you what's going on in my head. Maybe I should start trying to be more polemical, but I can't really find an angle on the guy-has-fit-during-comedy-gig story. I didn't learn anything from it and it was handled well by the theatre. Still, it seemed like an anecdote worth recounting.
In a slightly more opinionated fashion, I can admit with pleasure that I am grinning from ear to ear at the news that David Cameron's chief spin doctor has had to resign due to being a lying, unscrupulous, Murdoch-loving hack. It is a glorious moment of karma and one that I'm sure is bringing a lot of shadenfreudic happiness to a lot of people. I can but hope that Coulson's departure will assist in exposing some of the disastrous decisions that have been made of late, the sneaky dismantling of our treasured NHS being only one example of many hideous neoliberal choices that are changing this country for the Much Worse. I'd be furious about it all but, as usual, I feel powerless and completely unrepresented, so whinging on here and on Twitter is about all the vitriol I can muster. I used to think it was laziness that stopped me getting involved - now I think it's a total unwillingness to compromise my ideals - I'd rather do nothing than pour a phenomenal amount of time and effort into a system that is inherently flawed for very little reward, safe in the knowledge that my incalculably large sacrifice will be shortly forgotten. Actually, that's basically laziness isn't it. Either way, I'm aware that it's a sad response to the current political state, but I don't think I'm alone in doing the maths and finding the situation doesn't add up. I've always suffered from black and white thinking, and a political life strikes me as a very grey area of no man's land: an over-academicised, over-wrought, out-dated, unfair system that I'm happier ignoring. Except when twats like Coulson get exposed - that bit's fun.
What else is news? I'm off for the weekend shortly, a lot of cleaning to do and then Black Swan and a reunion tomorrow and hangover brunch on Sunday. In amongst all that I need to squeeze in a run, some yoga and a substantial chunk of writing. I don't have much hope that the latter will happen, but maybe if I state my intentions here, I'll be forced to do something about it. Because looking like a failure in front of you would be unbearable, given that it's never happened before. Oh no. Not ever. Not even once.
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
Blood and (greedy) guts
Next time I give blood at around 3.45 or 4pm and they tell me smilingly that I shouldn't consume alcohol for at least six hours, can someone please just pop up and, in a totally unannoying way, gently suggest that, as employees of the NATIONAL BLOOD DONATION organisation, they may actually know what they are talking about? Yesterday afternoon, as the nice South African lady passed on her regulation list of things not to do shortly after a donation, I laughed jovially and said, 'I'm afraid that won't be possible!' and she said, 'Oh well, just watch yourself as you may get drunk a little quicker than normal,' and I said, 'Hahahaha, no problem!' and then I had Em and Ses over for dinner, and sucked up glass after glass of white, thinking all along, 'That woman didn't know what she was talking about, I'm hard as nails, this isn't affecting me!' and then woke up today feeling like I had been on a three day bender with Jim Belushi.
Still, I gave blood and that's the main thing. [Cue sound of wild applause].
In other news, I slightly hate myself. Today it's because I am trying not to eat unless I'm actually hungry, and yet I just went to the vending area to get a Diet Coke as I am struggling to stay atop my posture stool, so tired and hungover do I feel after last night's reduced blood session, but obviously the idea of just drinking a Diet Coke without having anything to dilute its nasty carcinogenic metallicness is hideous, so even though I'm still pretty much full from lunch, I knew in advance that I would definitely purchase an item from the snack machine, and it was my bad luck because my first pack of two fingers of shortbread got stuck, so clearly I had to buy another one, and of course any normal person would have put the second pack in her desk drawer to eat tomorrow, but I am not normal, I am highly special and gifted and talented and disgustingly greedy, so here I am eating my third shortbread finger and lining up the fourth. Yup. There it goes. Not remotely hungry. Why would I eat it? Why? My therapist says it's because I am using food as a reward for feeling shit the rest of the time. I'd buy that, although I haven't really been feeling shit recently. Except for today, and I would have been fine if I had listened to the stupid blood donor woman.
ANYWAY. Today is Chilean miner day and that is all very exciting. That said, I should probably admit that I am completely out of the loop with it and am basically just waiting for the film to come out so that I can watch the whole thing in one handy ninety minute segment rather than following the story unfold over several weeks. Real life is so high maintenance.
Still, I gave blood and that's the main thing. [Cue sound of wild applause].
In other news, I slightly hate myself. Today it's because I am trying not to eat unless I'm actually hungry, and yet I just went to the vending area to get a Diet Coke as I am struggling to stay atop my posture stool, so tired and hungover do I feel after last night's reduced blood session, but obviously the idea of just drinking a Diet Coke without having anything to dilute its nasty carcinogenic metallicness is hideous, so even though I'm still pretty much full from lunch, I knew in advance that I would definitely purchase an item from the snack machine, and it was my bad luck because my first pack of two fingers of shortbread got stuck, so clearly I had to buy another one, and of course any normal person would have put the second pack in her desk drawer to eat tomorrow, but I am not normal, I am highly special and gifted and talented and disgustingly greedy, so here I am eating my third shortbread finger and lining up the fourth. Yup. There it goes. Not remotely hungry. Why would I eat it? Why? My therapist says it's because I am using food as a reward for feeling shit the rest of the time. I'd buy that, although I haven't really been feeling shit recently. Except for today, and I would have been fine if I had listened to the stupid blood donor woman.
ANYWAY. Today is Chilean miner day and that is all very exciting. That said, I should probably admit that I am completely out of the loop with it and am basically just waiting for the film to come out so that I can watch the whole thing in one handy ninety minute segment rather than following the story unfold over several weeks. Real life is so high maintenance.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Meh of the same
I was hoping to give you a positive update that I now look back on Sunday and Monday and think, 'Wow, where did that come from? I feel AMAZING now! Look at me gambolling through this poppy field and playfully throwing handfuls of blossom at this attractive Boden-wearing stranger.' But in fact, I'm thinking, 'Wow, where did that come from? It couldn't be less logical, yet I am getting more and more sad with each passing hour and I don't understand why. And in the moments where I am not holding back tears, I am UNBELIEVABLY ANGRY at EVERYTHING. In short: a joy to be around.'
Something did make me laugh yesterday though. I had approximately the following conversation with my workmate, Chris.
J: God I'm grumpy. I hate being mental.
C: Yep. It must suck.
J: Maybe I'll die.
C: Don't die, I'll have to take time off for your funeral and I don't have any spare holiday days.
J: You'd definitely get compassionate leave for my funeral if you could pretend to be upset. I don't know how it would work though, because I want to be buried, not cremated, and apparently all the burial grounds in the UK are consecrated land, so basically, you have to have a religious ceremony in order to be buried. Which I don't want.
C: Just get cremated. We could scatter your ashes from the 5th floor.
J: No. I want to decompose slowly. Go back to the earth. Or I guess I could be buried at sea. Once I've donated my organs, you can do what you like with me.
C: [visibly shudders] Oooh no. That's one thing I could never do.
J: What, be buried at sea?
C: No, donate my organs. Yuck.
J: [aghast and pompous] Don't be ridiculous. You can't not donate your organs. That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard.
C: Maybe, but I'm not doing it. It freaks me out.
J: But you could potentially save, like, eight lives. I'm going to secretly register you on the online organ donation register and you won't know about it until you're dead.
C: [looks genuinely scared] Please don't do that.
J: [more pompous] What you need is someone close to you to desperately need an organ - then you'd see how important it is.
C: I have seen that. My cousin. But I'm still not doing it.
J: [Gobsmacked silence]
C: I tell you the other thing that freaks me out. Clock faces.
J: [proper shouty guffaw]
C: I'm serious. I'm OK with little ones but big ones terrify me.
J: What about digital ones?
C: No, it's just the big ones with hands. When I went to Prague, I had to be physically dragged up the clock tower because I was so scared.
J: And you call me mental?
C: You are mental.
J: I'm scared of failure and dying alone. You're scared of clocks and donating your organs AFTER YOU'RE DEAD. I think it is clear who is the weird one here.
He just sent me an email saying the following: "Just hit myself in the face with a phone receiver. As far as uncool ways to get a black eye go, that’s pretty high up there…"
Glad someone is making me laugh. And no, Mum, romance is not blossoming.
In other news, both mine and Chris' combined mentalness is put in the shade by some utter twunt of a priest in Florida, who is 'commemorating' 9/11 by burning 200 copies of the Qur'an. I hope his cassock goes up in flames and then he goes to purgatory and spends the rest of his life being shunned by 72 virgins. What. A. Dick.
Something did make me laugh yesterday though. I had approximately the following conversation with my workmate, Chris.
J: God I'm grumpy. I hate being mental.
C: Yep. It must suck.
J: Maybe I'll die.
C: Don't die, I'll have to take time off for your funeral and I don't have any spare holiday days.
J: You'd definitely get compassionate leave for my funeral if you could pretend to be upset. I don't know how it would work though, because I want to be buried, not cremated, and apparently all the burial grounds in the UK are consecrated land, so basically, you have to have a religious ceremony in order to be buried. Which I don't want.
C: Just get cremated. We could scatter your ashes from the 5th floor.
J: No. I want to decompose slowly. Go back to the earth. Or I guess I could be buried at sea. Once I've donated my organs, you can do what you like with me.
C: [visibly shudders] Oooh no. That's one thing I could never do.
J: What, be buried at sea?
C: No, donate my organs. Yuck.
J: [aghast and pompous] Don't be ridiculous. You can't not donate your organs. That's the most selfish thing I've ever heard.
C: Maybe, but I'm not doing it. It freaks me out.
J: But you could potentially save, like, eight lives. I'm going to secretly register you on the online organ donation register and you won't know about it until you're dead.
C: [looks genuinely scared] Please don't do that.
J: [more pompous] What you need is someone close to you to desperately need an organ - then you'd see how important it is.
C: I have seen that. My cousin. But I'm still not doing it.
J: [Gobsmacked silence]
C: I tell you the other thing that freaks me out. Clock faces.
J: [proper shouty guffaw]
C: I'm serious. I'm OK with little ones but big ones terrify me.
J: What about digital ones?
C: No, it's just the big ones with hands. When I went to Prague, I had to be physically dragged up the clock tower because I was so scared.
J: And you call me mental?
C: You are mental.
J: I'm scared of failure and dying alone. You're scared of clocks and donating your organs AFTER YOU'RE DEAD. I think it is clear who is the weird one here.
He just sent me an email saying the following: "Just hit myself in the face with a phone receiver. As far as uncool ways to get a black eye go, that’s pretty high up there…"
Glad someone is making me laugh. And no, Mum, romance is not blossoming.
In other news, both mine and Chris' combined mentalness is put in the shade by some utter twunt of a priest in Florida, who is 'commemorating' 9/11 by burning 200 copies of the Qur'an. I hope his cassock goes up in flames and then he goes to purgatory and spends the rest of his life being shunned by 72 virgins. What. A. Dick.
Thursday, 26 August 2010
The drought continues
Nothing to say. Again. I think the combination of the boyban and meditation might be making me externally dull. Internally, I'm fascinating. I'm just not sure that the major psychological breakthrough that has been taking place in my grey matter will be as gripping in black and white. Once I've got everything sorted into a convenient bite-sized summary, I might give it a go. But for now, you'll have to put up with the fact that I have little to give.
I do think that the people panicking about the wheelie bin cat woman need to get a grip though. I mean, it's bad. I am not trying to claim that the cat secretly got a kick out of the experience, or that the woman is a modern day Dr. Doolittle who should be honoured with a place in the Ultimate Big Brother house. It was an unpleasant incident. But when you have a list of issues to get upset about that goes something like this:
I do think that the people panicking about the wheelie bin cat woman need to get a grip though. I mean, it's bad. I am not trying to claim that the cat secretly got a kick out of the experience, or that the woman is a modern day Dr. Doolittle who should be honoured with a place in the Ultimate Big Brother house. It was an unpleasant incident. But when you have a list of issues to get upset about that goes something like this:
- Tories utterly screwing public services
- LibDems completely capitulating like a bit of paper in a force nine gale
- No viable alternative in the Labour leadership elections
- Worst humanitarian disaster of recent history unrelenting in Pakistan
- Terrible drug cartel deaths in Mexico
- UK interest rates forecast to rise to 12% in the next two years
- Slightly unhinged woman puts cat in wheelie bin; cat now absolutely fine
anyone who has spent more time being upset about the wheelie cat than about any of the other issues should be put in a bin and mailed to Pakistan.
Monday, 26 July 2010
And finally
Just because I have been rambling away in typical self-gripped fashion, it's not to imply that I am not hooked on the extraordinary Wikileaks/Afghanistan revelations. General buzz from the UK seems to be, 'What, you didn't already know that this was a shit war that's getting shittier?' and that if anyone believes the right wing yarns re. spiffing war heroes and possible victory, they're more naive than a kitten born in a nunnery. Not to deny that there have been some heroics along the way, of course. But really. Let's get out of there. And, in the meantime, thank our lucky stars that Wikileaks and its whistleblowers are still around to prove what everyone suspects.
Thursday, 27 May 2010
Problems? Yep. Solutions? Not so much.
FFS. The news in this country may be one of the most free on the planet, and I do count us lucky, but seriously, when The Guardian editor picks this as a recommendation, I do despair. Seriously? This is what is important right now? Which decade healthy, happy, becoupled women should choose to get up the duff? ARGH.I'm emailing a guy at the moment who's an education journalist and briefly hinted at my feelings of depression re. the academies situation. He said he'd always assumed the Tories would get in, so he's been thinking of it as a depressing reality for months now - but he agreed that it is an appalling idea. This from someone who comments on education policy for his full-time job.
And now I'm reading a book - a brilliant book, mind - about South Africa, called Ways of Staying by Kevin Bloom, a Jewish South African whose liberal nature struggles to come to terms with the murder of his cousin. I didn't understand the title at first, but turns out it's about how to remain in a country when, all around, there are so many signs that you should leave. The writer is enviably observant, putting in crisp details about, for example, interviewees' hand gestures and plate management, all of which paints an extraordinarily vivid picture. The country's certainly beautiful, and certainly interesting, but... I'm getting the picture that it's a dark, bloody mess. We're discussing it next week at book club, and with several members of our group connected personally to SA, I fear it may be a fairly feisty evening. I will take my mace.
My fictional husband is going to cheat on me. Africa's crumbling. The global economy's a disaster. China's human rights are appalling. The middle east is as corrupt as it's possible to be. Pakistan is bubbling. Iran has The Bomb and isn't scared to use it. The UK is moving into a new era of educational segregation. There is awful stuff happening in Jamaica. And I still firmly believe that all we can do is work to collapse the gap between rich and poor. Poverty in itself does not drive people to violence and other crimes. Inequality does. I read about South Africa and feel sick to think of all us Western tourists driving from airconned hotel to fenced-in restaurant when there's so much darkness and hatred a stone's throw away. But it's here too. The violence is not as bad, thankfully, but the envy, the anger is here too. The difference is, we haven't been colonised recently. Not since the Romans.
But am I working to collapse the inequality gap? Erm. No. Far, far from it. And instead of confronting this, I wiggle my big beak further down into the sand and enjoy the feelings of the hot grains moving in between the feathers on my neck and head.
Anyway. So the macro state of affairs is all a bit depressing. In happier (micro) news, from inside the Bubble of Denial... I learned how to play Don't You Want Me by The Human League at ukulele class last night, my mail-order tent arrived and Glasto is less than four weeks away. Phew.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Six days in April
Rage. I've done it again: left writing my blog for so long that I am now overwhelmed with information and feel as though I should split it up under subheadings. Maybe I will.
Cocksuckgate
Last Thursday morning I phoned my mother just before I got to the airport, to say goodbye and reassure her that I had not yet died, an almost-daily ritual for which she seems to be grateful.
"Oh, Jane, I'm glad you called," she said, solemnly. "I was just about to email you." She sounded close to tears.
"What's wrong?" I asked in a high-pitched voice that indicated my panic.
"Your... your blog, Jane..." she said. I wasn't much the wiser.
"What about it?"
"Dad and I... we're both... shocked."
"What about?"
"I can hardly say it... You used the word..." (I tried to scan my memory of what the offensive item could possibly be) "...cocksucker."
I roared with laughter.
"So?!" I asked. Mum was not reassured.
"It's awful, Jane," she said. "So vulgar. So... unfeminine."
"Really? Worse than fucking?" I asked.
"Oh god, yes," she said, emphatically. "So much worse than fucking."
I told her that I believe this is a generational difference, but she seemed so gobsmacked by my labelling the volcanic ash as something that fellates that I felt it necessary to do a straw poll on arriving in France. I asked around twenty people in their early thirties, none of whom felt that a cocksucking volcano is any worse than a fucking volcano. Of course, we all agreed that fucking and cocksucking are both vulgar and unfeminine, so mother, you are indeed correct on that point. But for any of my mother's friends, or indeed any others, who read this blog and feel that she has failed in her parenting duties as a result of my free use of profanities, I apologise. Only the good bits of me are a reflection of her, i.e. my skin that tans, my love of birds and my US citizenship. Everything else is my dad's fault.
France
So I went to France for Emily's wedding and it was one of those cominglings of beautiful people and beautiful surroundings and beautiful emotions and beautiful food that made me simultaneously joyous and painfully and continually aware that, of the youth contingent, and as a fairly normal size 14 gal, I was the fattest female there by about nine stone. I kid you not. I genuinely reckon I could have got three of the other wedding guests into each leg of my jeans. There were literally miles of smooth, slim, tanned thighs on show, and the men's eyes were, naturally, out on stalks. I could have collected the drool and irrigated southern Africa for a month.
To distract myself, I forwent my wheat ban and ate baguette, and I sunbathed and met tiny ponies. It was all going rather well until I got dressed up on Saturday afternoon for the wedding, and had one of those rare moments when I looked in the mirror and thought I had managed to make myself look momentarily bearable. To celebrate, I asked Kate to take some photographs of me outside for posterity. She snapped away for a minute or so and said she'd got some good ones. I retrieved my camera and looked at the screen. In the (approx.) six minutes since I'd put on my make-up in the bathroom mirror, the circumference of my face appeared to have inflated by around an inch. I briefly became convinced that I was the victim of a cruel pre-wedding allergic reaction but then I double-checked with Kate, who assured me that the photo was, in fact, normal and that I was looking at a picture of What I Look Like. This could not be true. Desperate for a second opinion, I showed Christianne the mutant image and was sorely disappointed at her distinct lack of horrified gasps or attempts to shield my eyes from the appalling aberration. On the contrary: it appeared that the grotesque image before me was not only fairly representative but actually flattering. Shortly afterwards, we got in the car and drove to the wedding, the other three girls chattering happily as I tried to come to terms with the realisation that I look utterly, utterly different to what I thought and that my fictional version was much prettier.
Of course, the weekend was not all about me. We had a fantastic few days in and around Mirmande, made all the more precious as the volcano had done its best to keep us away, and I made new friends and passionately loved my old ones. The bride was stunning, the groom's speech was excellent, the venue was magical, I didn't fall over on the dancefloor, the lunch the day afterwards was dreamy, my skirt didn't blow up in the wind and reveal my pants, the band were crush-worthy and best of all, I managed to get a mild tan which, as Kate continually stated, will "set us up" for the summer. Here's hoping.
Election 2010
What is weird is that I have voted. I posted it yesterday. Fortunately I haven't yet regretted my decision although I'm not denying that might happen between now and 6th May. I almost regretted my entire existence last night, however, when Sara, Rog, Grania and I sat through the most excruciating event ever at the Union Chapel. Instigate Debate was meant to be a cutting edge two-fingers-up at the mass media approaches to politics; the NME called it "the most important underground movement," which, if true, is enough to finish me off once and for all.
Invited speakers were Dame Vivienne Westwood; Deputy Leader of the Labour Party, Harriet Harman; ex-Labour MP and current Green candidate, Peter Tatchell; ex-Mayoral candidate and LibDem hotshot, Simon Hughes; and Shadow Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, Jeremy Hunt. Music was to be from the Magic Numbers, Shlomo and Rose Elinor Dougall, and we were promised comedy from The Amazing Tommy and the Weeks.
In reality, Dame Viv didn't turn up and nor did Jeremy Hunt - in their place we got the Tory candidate for Putney, a dumpy young thickie who tried admirably to compete with Tatchell, Harman and Hughes and got absolutely nowhere. The Magic Numbers turned out to be one-of-the-Magic-Numbers, which is a bit different, while Tommy and the Weeks were about as Amazing as a pavement. The host, John O'Sullivan, was a self-satisfied, shambolic, patronising blunderbus who encouraged the audience to ask questions and then ignored what they said and asked his own. He sneered at an intern who passed him a note during the evening, consistently called 'his hero' Peter Tatchell 'Thatchell', and introduced beatboxer Shlomo as 'one of the best rappers in the world'. The evening had an absurdly obvious LibDem bias which shat all over any concept that we were watching a genuine 'debate' and I was fully embarrassed to witness the politicians going through such a risible two hours. It was an unmitigated disaster. On the upside, Shlomo was great, but watching him work his magic in front of a stifled smattering of uptight politicos sitting in church pews was painful. £5 I would rather have spent on something useful, like Compeed or stamps. Meh. You win some, you lose some.
Right. Must go hang out my whites wash.
Cocksuckgate
Last Thursday morning I phoned my mother just before I got to the airport, to say goodbye and reassure her that I had not yet died, an almost-daily ritual for which she seems to be grateful.
"Oh, Jane, I'm glad you called," she said, solemnly. "I was just about to email you." She sounded close to tears.
"What's wrong?" I asked in a high-pitched voice that indicated my panic.
"Your... your blog, Jane..." she said. I wasn't much the wiser.
"What about it?"
"Dad and I... we're both... shocked."
"What about?"
"I can hardly say it... You used the word..." (I tried to scan my memory of what the offensive item could possibly be) "...cocksucker."
I roared with laughter.
"So?!" I asked. Mum was not reassured.
"It's awful, Jane," she said. "So vulgar. So... unfeminine."
"Really? Worse than fucking?" I asked.
"Oh god, yes," she said, emphatically. "So much worse than fucking."
I told her that I believe this is a generational difference, but she seemed so gobsmacked by my labelling the volcanic ash as something that fellates that I felt it necessary to do a straw poll on arriving in France. I asked around twenty people in their early thirties, none of whom felt that a cocksucking volcano is any worse than a fucking volcano. Of course, we all agreed that fucking and cocksucking are both vulgar and unfeminine, so mother, you are indeed correct on that point. But for any of my mother's friends, or indeed any others, who read this blog and feel that she has failed in her parenting duties as a result of my free use of profanities, I apologise. Only the good bits of me are a reflection of her, i.e. my skin that tans, my love of birds and my US citizenship. Everything else is my dad's fault.
France
So I went to France for Emily's wedding and it was one of those cominglings of beautiful people and beautiful surroundings and beautiful emotions and beautiful food that made me simultaneously joyous and painfully and continually aware that, of the youth contingent, and as a fairly normal size 14 gal, I was the fattest female there by about nine stone. I kid you not. I genuinely reckon I could have got three of the other wedding guests into each leg of my jeans. There were literally miles of smooth, slim, tanned thighs on show, and the men's eyes were, naturally, out on stalks. I could have collected the drool and irrigated southern Africa for a month.
To distract myself, I forwent my wheat ban and ate baguette, and I sunbathed and met tiny ponies. It was all going rather well until I got dressed up on Saturday afternoon for the wedding, and had one of those rare moments when I looked in the mirror and thought I had managed to make myself look momentarily bearable. To celebrate, I asked Kate to take some photographs of me outside for posterity. She snapped away for a minute or so and said she'd got some good ones. I retrieved my camera and looked at the screen. In the (approx.) six minutes since I'd put on my make-up in the bathroom mirror, the circumference of my face appeared to have inflated by around an inch. I briefly became convinced that I was the victim of a cruel pre-wedding allergic reaction but then I double-checked with Kate, who assured me that the photo was, in fact, normal and that I was looking at a picture of What I Look Like. This could not be true. Desperate for a second opinion, I showed Christianne the mutant image and was sorely disappointed at her distinct lack of horrified gasps or attempts to shield my eyes from the appalling aberration. On the contrary: it appeared that the grotesque image before me was not only fairly representative but actually flattering. Shortly afterwards, we got in the car and drove to the wedding, the other three girls chattering happily as I tried to come to terms with the realisation that I look utterly, utterly different to what I thought and that my fictional version was much prettier.
Of course, the weekend was not all about me. We had a fantastic few days in and around Mirmande, made all the more precious as the volcano had done its best to keep us away, and I made new friends and passionately loved my old ones. The bride was stunning, the groom's speech was excellent, the venue was magical, I didn't fall over on the dancefloor, the lunch the day afterwards was dreamy, my skirt didn't blow up in the wind and reveal my pants, the band were crush-worthy and best of all, I managed to get a mild tan which, as Kate continually stated, will "set us up" for the summer. Here's hoping.
Election 2010
What is weird is that I have voted. I posted it yesterday. Fortunately I haven't yet regretted my decision although I'm not denying that might happen between now and 6th May. I almost regretted my entire existence last night, however, when Sara, Rog, Grania and I sat through the most excruciating event ever at the Union Chapel. Instigate Debate was meant to be a cutting edge two-fingers-up at the mass media approaches to politics; the NME called it "the most important underground movement," which, if true, is enough to finish me off once and for all.
Invited speakers were Dame Vivienne Westwood; Deputy Leader of the Labour Party, Harriet Harman; ex-Labour MP and current Green candidate, Peter Tatchell; ex-Mayoral candidate and LibDem hotshot, Simon Hughes; and Shadow Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, Jeremy Hunt. Music was to be from the Magic Numbers, Shlomo and Rose Elinor Dougall, and we were promised comedy from The Amazing Tommy and the Weeks.
In reality, Dame Viv didn't turn up and nor did Jeremy Hunt - in their place we got the Tory candidate for Putney, a dumpy young thickie who tried admirably to compete with Tatchell, Harman and Hughes and got absolutely nowhere. The Magic Numbers turned out to be one-of-the-Magic-Numbers, which is a bit different, while Tommy and the Weeks were about as Amazing as a pavement. The host, John O'Sullivan, was a self-satisfied, shambolic, patronising blunderbus who encouraged the audience to ask questions and then ignored what they said and asked his own. He sneered at an intern who passed him a note during the evening, consistently called 'his hero' Peter Tatchell 'Thatchell', and introduced beatboxer Shlomo as 'one of the best rappers in the world'. The evening had an absurdly obvious LibDem bias which shat all over any concept that we were watching a genuine 'debate' and I was fully embarrassed to witness the politicians going through such a risible two hours. It was an unmitigated disaster. On the upside, Shlomo was great, but watching him work his magic in front of a stifled smattering of uptight politicos sitting in church pews was painful. £5 I would rather have spent on something useful, like Compeed or stamps. Meh. You win some, you lose some.
Right. Must go hang out my whites wash.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Brief bit of politicking
A General Election update from the perspective of LLFF:
- Monday - Labour released their manifesto. It has made no impact on me whatsoever. Any good ideas they discussed have washed over me because I don't understand why they haven't been doing them for the last 13 years. I still basically like Gordon Brown even though he sold all our gold for a £10bn loss, and I still basically don't like Labour because they took us into an illegal war and I'm a pacifist.
- Tuesday - Conservative manifesto launch. There's no doubt that the Tories' campaign has been, thus far, way smoother than Lab's. That said, David Cameron's glossy forehead and his public relations background is, of course, part of his problem. The gulf between what they're talking about and what will actually happen if they win is so laughable that it makes me sick. I can't believe we're still arguing about this irrelevant rise in National Insurance. What about the fact that they're raising the level for inheritance tax? How can they be seen as progressive while still looking after the richest?
- More than that, however, are their plans for privatising state education. I am simply gobsmacked that anyone believes this is a good plan - making something that should be fair and national be even more about profit and local advantage than it is already. The gaps between good and bad will only increase, the postcode lottery will just get worse. It makes me sick to the stomach. Why should the people have to sort their schools out?! Isn't that the job of government? This is literally absurd. The state education system needs massive investment. No surprise that today, over fifty headteachers attacked the Tory plans.
- Cameron says in The Times that he wants to "put the public in the driving seat". I don't want to be in the driving seat. We pay MPs' salaries so that they can spend every moment of their working week making informed decisions on our behalf. We give them a mandate to make those choices. We do not have time to gather the information. We have families, and we are going to Glastonbury. They should make the country great - and if they fail, we won't vote for them next time. How can this concept be appealing? As the LibDems wrote in a press release following the Conservative manifesto launch, "when the Tories say we're all in this together, what they really mean is you're on your own". (Peter Mandelson then published a press release an hour later making the same observation. Then the LibDems published another press release pointing out that Mandy had nicked their line.)
- Boris Johsnson has finally admitted that one of the key election proposals he pushed forward when he was elected as London Mayor - to run tubes an hour later on Fridays and Saturdays - has been shelved. Only a twunt trusts a Tory.
- Wednesday - the Liberal Democrats manifesto is launched, and finally someone is speaking sense, but they can't win the election and suddenly I find myself getting a bit frustrated. Raising the income tax threshold to £10,000, which results in a £700 annual tax cut for 'most people'. Mansion tax of 1% on properties worth more than £2 million. Class sizes cut to 20 pupils in primary schools; catch-up places for 160 students in every secondary school. Clever students from lowest-achieving schools guaranteed a university place. Scrap ID cards and many other excellent proposals on freedom - the LibDems are the only party making any sense on liberty. And fantastic proposals on the family, including shared allocation of maternity and paternity leave, 20 hours free childcare for every child from the age of 18 months.
Obviously the LibDems won't win, but their manifesto launch, and the words written within it, are the most compelling by a country mile. I simply cannot see how any reasonable person wouldn't want policies like these to become law - and I'm writing this as someone who stands to lose several thousand pounds per year if they won. The Times polls today say that the majority of the country want a hung parliament - and from the data I'm seeing, the gap between Tory and Lab is currently too small for an outright Tory win - the Tories need to win around 40% of the vote, with around a 10% gap between them and Labour, to secure a majority. At the moment, Tories are around 38% with Labour on around 31%. However, my friend at the BBC says that a lot of people are still (understandably) ashamed of being Tory, and that there will be a lot of secret right wingers who are keeping schtum now but who will vote Cameron on the day itself. We'll see. It's definitely tight. It's definitely exciting. And if I can mobilise one or two people to a) vote when they wouldn't have otherwise, b) vote LibDem or c) just be a little bit more liberal in their thinking, I'll be one happy politicised bunny.
OK. It wasn't that brief.
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Electric dreams
Two typos and a misused 'which' yesterday but due to rushing I didn't spot them until long after my self-imposed thirty minute editing window had past. Tut tut. Am distracting myself with my consumer excitement of the day: I am going to go to John Lewis after work and buy a fleecy heated underblanket. My arctic bedroom conditions have beaten me - I went to bed last night wearing velour bottoms, a T-shirt, a velour long sleeved nightie, a snood and slippers and was still so cold that I had to heat up my microwave beanbag and arrange it over my face so that it heated up my nose while still allowing me to breathe. Basically, I need another radiator in my bedroom, but a fleece underblanket is a) cheaper and b) easier so we will all have to ignore the fact that c) it makes me feel like I should also be applying for a freedom pass.
Not much to report from this end. New eyeliner is lovely. I am waiting to see what the Apple Tablet looks like. The Guardian's editor says that Murdoch is wrong to charge for online news access, but I can't see how it's sustainable to give all this journalism away for free when so many individuals are prepared to do it on a smaller, more niche basis without getting paid or by generating advertising revenue on their sites. Of course, the big papers generate online ad revenue too - huge amounts - but it's simply not enough to cover their overheads: apparently the Graun is losing £100k a day. Hmmm. The next few years are going to be very interesting.
I feel so lucky to have been born with one foot in The Past and one in The Future. I got my first mobile phone and email address when I was 18, but I still clearly remember life without them, when home computers were rare, TV only had four channels, and I spent most termtime nights queuing with ten other girls, waiting to use the landline at our boarding school, trying to get through to the house of some uninterested boy who was out playing sport or doing something really cool and would never get the breezy messages we left. Now Skype videocalls are normal, I can watch live TV on my phone and I frequently leave the house without a clue where I'm going, but by the time I've reached the tube station I've copied and pasted the postcode from an email into the maps app, found my destination, worked out which stop I'm headed for, and then found out which part of the platform to get on the train in order to be nearest the exit stairs on my arrival. I can't imagine how the future of technology could be much cooler than it is already but I'm sure it will surprise us all. Hold on tight.
Not much to report from this end. New eyeliner is lovely. I am waiting to see what the Apple Tablet looks like. The Guardian's editor says that Murdoch is wrong to charge for online news access, but I can't see how it's sustainable to give all this journalism away for free when so many individuals are prepared to do it on a smaller, more niche basis without getting paid or by generating advertising revenue on their sites. Of course, the big papers generate online ad revenue too - huge amounts - but it's simply not enough to cover their overheads: apparently the Graun is losing £100k a day. Hmmm. The next few years are going to be very interesting.
I feel so lucky to have been born with one foot in The Past and one in The Future. I got my first mobile phone and email address when I was 18, but I still clearly remember life without them, when home computers were rare, TV only had four channels, and I spent most termtime nights queuing with ten other girls, waiting to use the landline at our boarding school, trying to get through to the house of some uninterested boy who was out playing sport or doing something really cool and would never get the breezy messages we left. Now Skype videocalls are normal, I can watch live TV on my phone and I frequently leave the house without a clue where I'm going, but by the time I've reached the tube station I've copied and pasted the postcode from an email into the maps app, found my destination, worked out which stop I'm headed for, and then found out which part of the platform to get on the train in order to be nearest the exit stairs on my arrival. I can't imagine how the future of technology could be much cooler than it is already but I'm sure it will surprise us all. Hold on tight.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Haiti, Leona and self-absorption. Just another day on LLFF.
A couple of weeks ago, when Islamists were protesting in the town of Wootton Bassett, Newsarse, the brilliant satirical UK news website, posted a headline saying that all over the country, left-wing Guardian readers' heads were exploding because they couldn't find the correct stance on the matter - the conflict between a true commitment to freedom of speech, a desire not to write off all Muslims as violent wannabe bombers and a simultaneous and firm dislike of terrorism put us into a state of mental overdrive, whereupon we blew up. I'm going through a similar situation with cruise liners in Haiti. What's happened over there is utterly devastating, the piles of corpses stacking up outside the morgues is heartbreaking and the thought of such a turbulent country being kicked so conclusively in the nuts when it's already so weak is just mind-shattering. And now we read that hundreds of tourists are being shipped in to a port sixty miles away, where they are free to sunbathe, jetski and relax. The Guardian article points out that the boats and their passengers bring valuable money to the port in this time of urgent need, and one of the commentators rightly says that if there was a huge disaster in London, we wouldn't want tourists to stop going to Brighton. But there is something undeniably gross about holidaying so close to human agony. I know, I know, it's a pointless question of geography - would we give someone a hard time about going ahead with a planned holiday in Marbella while the earthquake is being cleaned up in Haiti? Probably not. So what does it matter if they happen to have booked near the site of a recent natural disaster? But, like sitting down next to a homeless person and tucking in to a Big Mac, it seems more than a little insensitive. The cruise ships justify it by giving 100% of their profits to the rescue efforts. How about giving the profits anyway but diverting the cruise somewhere else? I dunno. I'm only a born again liberal. I don't have the answers. I just feel a bit sick. I gave £100 to the relief effort this morning and my company, in a rare it's-good-to-work-for-a-City-bank moment, will double all its employees' donations. I'm not sure if any of it will get to where it's needed, but I can do nothing else. Please visit Unicef and donate, if you haven't already. I wouldn't normally mention the amount but I thought it might add gravitas. Yuck yuck yuck yuck yuck we're so lucky.
In other news, it appears that Leona Lewis forgot to remind her skivvies to iron her dress before the Golden Globes. Oops. Sure, there's the crushed silk look, I know about that, but what she's wearing isn't it. She looks like she did my usual trick of pulling the garment out of the washing machine, brushing it down firmly while it was still damp and hoping for the best. Instead, the thigh-height creases just draw attention to... the wrong places. Obviously if the girl had even a spectre of a personality I might be more forgiving, but as it is, I feel like I'm poking fun at a waxwork, which is not only fine but to be encouraged.
And finally, I am thrilled to confirm that the anti-biotic stint is working its way to a close. I'm off out tonight with Simon and I'm so excited about my first glass of cold white wine that I could weep. Given that we're seeing The Road first, I'll probably already be inconsolable, either with disappointment that it's not a patch on the book, or with genuine grief, the tears might be less hilarious hyperbole and more actually embarrassing. You'll read it here first.
In other news, it appears that Leona Lewis forgot to remind her skivvies to iron her dress before the Golden Globes. Oops. Sure, there's the crushed silk look, I know about that, but what she's wearing isn't it. She looks like she did my usual trick of pulling the garment out of the washing machine, brushing it down firmly while it was still damp and hoping for the best. Instead, the thigh-height creases just draw attention to... the wrong places. Obviously if the girl had even a spectre of a personality I might be more forgiving, but as it is, I feel like I'm poking fun at a waxwork, which is not only fine but to be encouraged.And finally, I am thrilled to confirm that the anti-biotic stint is working its way to a close. I'm off out tonight with Simon and I'm so excited about my first glass of cold white wine that I could weep. Given that we're seeing The Road first, I'll probably already be inconsolable, either with disappointment that it's not a patch on the book, or with genuine grief, the tears might be less hilarious hyperbole and more actually embarrassing. You'll read it here first.
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
Barbour black sheep
I read this article today about the renaissance of poshness in British society. To nutshellise, it claims that 'normal' people are dressing like posh people by wearing Barbours, which proves that being posh isn't seen as such an awful thing as it used to be. Weirdly, I agree with the conclusion, but not the hypothesis. I do feel that the upper classes, plummy accents and country pursuits are sneered at less now than they were two decades ago, and I concur with the journalist who suggested that this shift has happened because Thatcher seems a long time ago, and the new enemies are bankers and global corporations, not colonial landowners. The toffs aren't the ones ruining the UK any more, so it's OK to like them. I see the logic in this argument, but I think it's bollocks. Ultimately, massive capitalist and corporate greed is more dangerous and damaging than a yearning for some sort of golden era of pre-war clarity where everyone knew their place. But they both suck. And being governed by a pack of Old Etonians might seem reassuringly familiar in this time of uncertainty, but not all that is familiar is good.
And anyway, I don't think the hipsters who are wearing Barbour jackets want to look posh. The people buying them are in their early twenties and have lived under a Labour government for most of their lives - they can't remember why everyone used to hate the upper classes. Even if they have a vague understanding of the concepts of class wars, snobbery and social immobility, they care more about looking different and ironic than politically active. In the nineties, Burberry was subversive for a bit, sported by Kate Moss, but then it filtered down to Oasis and the Appletons and, almost overnight, became a uniform for aspirational working classes. Then it disappeared out of the public eye altogether. Now it's back, the telltale tartan is used discretely if at all, and the brand is quietly unaffordable once again. These things move in entirely predictable waves.
Whatever happens, even if Barbour-wearing becomes compulsory for anyone under 35, this is one bandwagon I won't be joining. In the days of yore, during my bowl-haircut, alabaster-pale, pony-crazed early teen years, before I fell in love with Joey MacIntyre from New Kids On The Block, I had a waxed jacket, and although I concede its waterproofing abilities, I detested its singular smell and the fact that it was uniquely useless at keeping me warm. It was like wearing a dark, condensation-filled army tent, smelling of dogs, discomfort and heart-rending homesickness, and I hated it. The trendy Hoxtonites can sport 'em all they like, but as the snow falls in London, you'll see me snuggled up in my M&S coat and my H&M fake fur bonnet, looking something like a cross between an elf and a panda, and happy as a clam.
And anyway, I don't think the hipsters who are wearing Barbour jackets want to look posh. The people buying them are in their early twenties and have lived under a Labour government for most of their lives - they can't remember why everyone used to hate the upper classes. Even if they have a vague understanding of the concepts of class wars, snobbery and social immobility, they care more about looking different and ironic than politically active. In the nineties, Burberry was subversive for a bit, sported by Kate Moss, but then it filtered down to Oasis and the Appletons and, almost overnight, became a uniform for aspirational working classes. Then it disappeared out of the public eye altogether. Now it's back, the telltale tartan is used discretely if at all, and the brand is quietly unaffordable once again. These things move in entirely predictable waves.
Whatever happens, even if Barbour-wearing becomes compulsory for anyone under 35, this is one bandwagon I won't be joining. In the days of yore, during my bowl-haircut, alabaster-pale, pony-crazed early teen years, before I fell in love with Joey MacIntyre from New Kids On The Block, I had a waxed jacket, and although I concede its waterproofing abilities, I detested its singular smell and the fact that it was uniquely useless at keeping me warm. It was like wearing a dark, condensation-filled army tent, smelling of dogs, discomfort and heart-rending homesickness, and I hated it. The trendy Hoxtonites can sport 'em all they like, but as the snow falls in London, you'll see me snuggled up in my M&S coat and my H&M fake fur bonnet, looking something like a cross between an elf and a panda, and happy as a clam.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Spills and spoils
Far be it from me to be a pedant or a grouch, but this made me growl last night. I'm as much of a fan of value for money as the next person, but when Tesco put a handy tear-off strip around their Colours washing powder, and then fill the box up way above that line, so that the act of opening it means that you have to a) hoover and b) do about seven colours washes immediately, I start thinking "Maybe Tesco are dicks." That said, the incident gave me an opportunity to use my Black & Decker Dustbuster, which made me very happy.On a separate matter, I was reading a story in The Guardian today about which of the Miliband brothers (if either) should be the next leader of the Labour party. As usual, I scrolled down through the comments at the bottom (almost always the most enlightening part of any article) and was gobsmacked to read the following by a commentator called RapidEddie:
"So the choice is between two brothers who both went to the same university to study the same degree? But I'm forgetting. The other name in the frame is James Purnell, who also studied PPE from Oxford. Oh, and Ed Balls (PPE degree from Oxford). I think this is New Labour's idea of diversity."
As if that wasn't shocking enough, a few scrolls down, and TangerineDream added this:
"If they want a bit of female diversity, they could always choose Jacqui Smith (PPE Oxford), Yvette Cooper (PPE Oxford), Ruth Kelly (PPE Oxford). If they wanted a bit of unelected dark-knighted-ness they could always choose Peter Mandleson (PPE Oxford). And hey, if the proles want a bit of a change we could always elect David Cameron (PPE Oxford) ably assisted by William Hague (PPE Oxford), and if we really wanted to push the boat out we could go crazy and go for a crazy liberal like Chris Huhne (PPE Oxford). Is it any wonder that all our politicians say the same thing? The most influential political figures in British politics are the Oxford PPE lecturers."
Blimey. Be interesting to see what would happen if we banned all Oxbridge grads from running for parliament. Might shake things up a bit. And I'd have more of a chance of getting elected then. Mwah ha ha ha.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Stand in the place where you live
Now this I can agree with: http://worklessparty.org/ The article might be a fraction long for a busy LLFF reader, but the idea that we are too efficient for our own goods rings very true with me, and is firmly in line with one of my other obsessions, the paradox of choice. I was listening to Oliver James on the radio the other day, the author of Affluenza (which I haven't read), who was talking about all parents rushing off to make more money to support their children and god knows I don't have a clue about all this being single and childless, but he was suggesting offering serious cash incentives to parents to stay at home while their children were young, paying them around £25k a year not to go back to work but instead to be full-time parents, at least for the first three years, and it does make sense in a crazy way. All this money, all these desires, it's not right. I didn't agree with John Major about much, but conceptually, Back to Basics is surely where it's at.
But now, Back to Me. I feel like I've been flying by the seat of my pants a bit recently, rushing around trying to have fun and get everything done before I hit the beach on Saturday. The weather has just been glorious, which has added to the confusion since I am now unable to exercise during daylight hours as it would mean wasting possible tanning windows. In an attempt to pre-empt the beached whale whiteness on Beach Day 1, I have slathered myself in Clarins fake tan, which has come up trumps everywhere except the area between my fourth and little toe on my left foot, which is the colour of Dale Winton.
I didn't talk nearly enough (for my liking) about my politics course last Thursday. Now it's all rather distant and less emotive, but I feel I must share that we were joined by two journalists - one, representing the liberal left, from The Guardian, and one from the right-wing Spectator - and although it was all gripping, my favourite bit was probably the feeling that us outsiders doing the politics course were all a bunch of cynics and that the two people who worked 'in the business', who I would have expected to be far more cynical than the rest of us put together, both genuinely believed in politics as a force, and both seemed frustrated that we and the population at large are so delighted every time things go wrong, and so convinced that it's all a great mess. One of them said it was a bit like the scene in The Life of Brian where they say, "All right, but apart from the sanitation, medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh water system and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?" [copied and pasted from a Gearch search, not transcribed from memory] - the idea being that we all sit around slagging off politics and the failing system, and it's so easy to forget all the amazing things that have changed in the course of the last few decades, in the course of half a lifetime - gay marriage legalized, double the funding on the NHS etc. Of course not all changes are unarguably for the better but the fact is, things, massive things, do change. And they will in the future too. It was heartening and inspiring. My second bit was when the Guardian journalist, who I slightly loved, said I should become an MP and that she'd vote for me. I answered, as I always do when people tell me I should become an MP (which happens more often than I would expect) that I am far too lazy and don't want to work that hard. But it was still nice that she liked me.
I wonder if, if I ever have a massive change of heart and decide to stand as an MP, having written the sentence above will come back to haunt me? Although, that said, if I do become an MP, I don't think that admitting that I'm lazy and don't want to work very hard is the most embarrassing/career-destroying thing I've written on this blog. A short click away in the Jane = idiot section, I'm sure any dirt-hunters would find a lot better material. Ah well. Maybe I'll change my name before going into politics. Wouldn't want to meet a world leader and find that they knew that I'd once fallen drunk off a bus after my 10k run and that my ankle is permanently swollen, or that I'd temporarily blinded myself by accidentally putting deodorant in my eye or that I once set fire to my mum's pashmina at a wedding reception while talking to one of the judges of Britain's Next Top Model. Better to keep this identity a secret, eh?
But now, Back to Me. I feel like I've been flying by the seat of my pants a bit recently, rushing around trying to have fun and get everything done before I hit the beach on Saturday. The weather has just been glorious, which has added to the confusion since I am now unable to exercise during daylight hours as it would mean wasting possible tanning windows. In an attempt to pre-empt the beached whale whiteness on Beach Day 1, I have slathered myself in Clarins fake tan, which has come up trumps everywhere except the area between my fourth and little toe on my left foot, which is the colour of Dale Winton.
I didn't talk nearly enough (for my liking) about my politics course last Thursday. Now it's all rather distant and less emotive, but I feel I must share that we were joined by two journalists - one, representing the liberal left, from The Guardian, and one from the right-wing Spectator - and although it was all gripping, my favourite bit was probably the feeling that us outsiders doing the politics course were all a bunch of cynics and that the two people who worked 'in the business', who I would have expected to be far more cynical than the rest of us put together, both genuinely believed in politics as a force, and both seemed frustrated that we and the population at large are so delighted every time things go wrong, and so convinced that it's all a great mess. One of them said it was a bit like the scene in The Life of Brian where they say, "All right, but apart from the sanitation, medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh water system and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?" [copied and pasted from a Gearch search, not transcribed from memory] - the idea being that we all sit around slagging off politics and the failing system, and it's so easy to forget all the amazing things that have changed in the course of the last few decades, in the course of half a lifetime - gay marriage legalized, double the funding on the NHS etc. Of course not all changes are unarguably for the better but the fact is, things, massive things, do change. And they will in the future too. It was heartening and inspiring. My second bit was when the Guardian journalist, who I slightly loved, said I should become an MP and that she'd vote for me. I answered, as I always do when people tell me I should become an MP (which happens more often than I would expect) that I am far too lazy and don't want to work that hard. But it was still nice that she liked me.
I wonder if, if I ever have a massive change of heart and decide to stand as an MP, having written the sentence above will come back to haunt me? Although, that said, if I do become an MP, I don't think that admitting that I'm lazy and don't want to work very hard is the most embarrassing/career-destroying thing I've written on this blog. A short click away in the Jane = idiot section, I'm sure any dirt-hunters would find a lot better material. Ah well. Maybe I'll change my name before going into politics. Wouldn't want to meet a world leader and find that they knew that I'd once fallen drunk off a bus after my 10k run and that my ankle is permanently swollen, or that I'd temporarily blinded myself by accidentally putting deodorant in my eye or that I once set fire to my mum's pashmina at a wedding reception while talking to one of the judges of Britain's Next Top Model. Better to keep this identity a secret, eh?
Friday, 15 May 2009
Weighty issues
So the MPs expense claims fiasco is still making me chortle. I know it shouldn't, I know it's outrageous, but it's just so ingrained in their culture. I was reading today that when Gordon Brown became an MP in the early 1980s, their annual salary was a risible £15,000. Expenses claims were how they survived. Now their annual salary is £65k, but over time, they've all colluded in wiggling the system in their favour and the unavoidable, laughable sense that they've all been simultaneously busted is slightly gleeful. I do want it to change, don't get me wrong - I think it's a serious issue - but the idea that our tax money has gone on the following surely raises a smile:
Nick Harvey (Lib Dem) - £30 per month for Sky Sports subscription
Julia Goldsworthy (Lib Dem) - £1,200 for a rocking chair
Alan Duncan (Tory) - £598 for lawnmower repairs
Oliver Letwin (Tory) - £2000 for repairs to pipe under his tennis court
David Miliband (Lab) - £145.96 for a pushchair
Margaret Beckett (Lab) - £600 for a hanging basket
Andy Burnham (Lab) - £19.99 for a dressing gown
John Prescott (Lab) - £112.52 for repairs to a toilet seat
Andy's £19.99 dressing gown was particularly poignant - I feel sorry for him that he didn't splash out a little more and go for something a bit nicer. But the one that made me feel saddest was John Prescott's repair work. How broken could it have been, for goodness' sake?! And how much did the seat cost in the first place, that it was preferable to spend over £100 repairing it rather than replacing it? The correlation that will inevitably be made between the size of Mr Prescott's derriere and the cost of the damage was what made me wince. One of the worst memories of my life happened about ten years ago, when I weighed... quite a lot. I was in Miami to do an interview with some tiny American popstrel, and we'd gone up to the rooftop garden of our unbelievably swanky hotel to take some photos on the beautiful wooden loungers by the pool. It was a stunning, warm spring day, the weather totally different to the cold rain we'd been having back in London. I was already feeling self-conscious as I was probably about five times the size of the starlet, painfully white and uncomfortable in my summer clothes that hadn't been worn since the previous year. But then, as I tried to relax on one of the poolside wooden stools, I felt an unmistakable crunch occur beneath my oversized buttocks, and seconds later, I was on the floor, the seat of the stool in two pieces on the decking beside me. Of course, I laughed. There was no other possible response. But I remember being furious that it had happened. I was convinced that the stool had been on its way out, and it just seemed so typical and so unfair that it had been The Fat Girl who had been the one to tip it over the edge.
These days I'm no longer fat, thankfully, but I still find weight a fairly constant concern. I'm currently preparing myself for ten days on the beach at the beginning of June and gearing up for that initial reveal of myself in a bikini, surrounded by people who are already bronzed: a moment of unparalleled awkwardness. I'm doing my best to eat less and exercise more in the run-up to the event, but even when I'm not working too hard at it all, there's that fairly constant stab of envy as I see one naturally slim person after another eating pizza or doughnuts or biscuits without thinking. I just envy that ability to eat without analysis - to grab lunch in McDonalds or guiltlessly order a Fiorentina for dinner and have no guilt or repurcussions. As Eva's mum always said, 'They'll turn to fat,' but they will have had decades of carefree munching and they don't know how lucky they are.
But back to politics (and away from any discussion about buttocks, whether they're mine or John Prescott's)... I had class three of my six-week politics course last night. The topic was inequality and it was fascinating. I found myself agreeing with Napoleon rather than Marx - equality of opportunity rather than equality of outcome - so my dad's fears that he's 'bred a red' can be calmed a little. But I still fear that, expenses scandal included, no matter how many scandalous truths are revealed about our governing system, the vast majority of people won't engage with politics because they simply don't believe that their vote will make any difference. The parties are too similar, the representatives are self-interested and the democratic machine is fundamentally flawed. How can we change this? I don't know. I am sure that some sort of parliamentary reform is vital, probably involving proportional representation, but even then, the extant political parties don't seem to reflect the national interests. And, worryingly, as I read in today's Guardian, the media won't change this: "What aspect of the restoration of trust in politics would be in the media's interest? The answer is no part of it at all." They are loving this scandal, they love discontentment, they love demonstrations that turn into riots. Good news is no news. In a country where the media, more than anything else, shapes public opinion, that's a fairly depressing state of affairs. And I can't even smother my sorrows by comfort eating. Bah.
Nick Harvey (Lib Dem) - £30 per month for Sky Sports subscription
Julia Goldsworthy (Lib Dem) - £1,200 for a rocking chair
Alan Duncan (Tory) - £598 for lawnmower repairs
Oliver Letwin (Tory) - £2000 for repairs to pipe under his tennis court
David Miliband (Lab) - £145.96 for a pushchair
Margaret Beckett (Lab) - £600 for a hanging basket
Andy Burnham (Lab) - £19.99 for a dressing gown
John Prescott (Lab) - £112.52 for repairs to a toilet seat
Andy's £19.99 dressing gown was particularly poignant - I feel sorry for him that he didn't splash out a little more and go for something a bit nicer. But the one that made me feel saddest was John Prescott's repair work. How broken could it have been, for goodness' sake?! And how much did the seat cost in the first place, that it was preferable to spend over £100 repairing it rather than replacing it? The correlation that will inevitably be made between the size of Mr Prescott's derriere and the cost of the damage was what made me wince. One of the worst memories of my life happened about ten years ago, when I weighed... quite a lot. I was in Miami to do an interview with some tiny American popstrel, and we'd gone up to the rooftop garden of our unbelievably swanky hotel to take some photos on the beautiful wooden loungers by the pool. It was a stunning, warm spring day, the weather totally different to the cold rain we'd been having back in London. I was already feeling self-conscious as I was probably about five times the size of the starlet, painfully white and uncomfortable in my summer clothes that hadn't been worn since the previous year. But then, as I tried to relax on one of the poolside wooden stools, I felt an unmistakable crunch occur beneath my oversized buttocks, and seconds later, I was on the floor, the seat of the stool in two pieces on the decking beside me. Of course, I laughed. There was no other possible response. But I remember being furious that it had happened. I was convinced that the stool had been on its way out, and it just seemed so typical and so unfair that it had been The Fat Girl who had been the one to tip it over the edge.
These days I'm no longer fat, thankfully, but I still find weight a fairly constant concern. I'm currently preparing myself for ten days on the beach at the beginning of June and gearing up for that initial reveal of myself in a bikini, surrounded by people who are already bronzed: a moment of unparalleled awkwardness. I'm doing my best to eat less and exercise more in the run-up to the event, but even when I'm not working too hard at it all, there's that fairly constant stab of envy as I see one naturally slim person after another eating pizza or doughnuts or biscuits without thinking. I just envy that ability to eat without analysis - to grab lunch in McDonalds or guiltlessly order a Fiorentina for dinner and have no guilt or repurcussions. As Eva's mum always said, 'They'll turn to fat,' but they will have had decades of carefree munching and they don't know how lucky they are.
But back to politics (and away from any discussion about buttocks, whether they're mine or John Prescott's)... I had class three of my six-week politics course last night. The topic was inequality and it was fascinating. I found myself agreeing with Napoleon rather than Marx - equality of opportunity rather than equality of outcome - so my dad's fears that he's 'bred a red' can be calmed a little. But I still fear that, expenses scandal included, no matter how many scandalous truths are revealed about our governing system, the vast majority of people won't engage with politics because they simply don't believe that their vote will make any difference. The parties are too similar, the representatives are self-interested and the democratic machine is fundamentally flawed. How can we change this? I don't know. I am sure that some sort of parliamentary reform is vital, probably involving proportional representation, but even then, the extant political parties don't seem to reflect the national interests. And, worryingly, as I read in today's Guardian, the media won't change this: "What aspect of the restoration of trust in politics would be in the media's interest? The answer is no part of it at all." They are loving this scandal, they love discontentment, they love demonstrations that turn into riots. Good news is no news. In a country where the media, more than anything else, shapes public opinion, that's a fairly depressing state of affairs. And I can't even smother my sorrows by comfort eating. Bah.
Friday, 3 April 2009
Two photos and a momentary revel
Oh god oh god. This photo actually brought tears to my eyes. The whole G20 summit has been absolutely gripping to follow, but as you all know too well, underneath all the attempts to be worthy and educated, I am of course just another superficial girl and despite my best attempts, I can't help myself. I have to comment. Just look at it. Have you ever seen anything so depressing? Poor, poor Sarah Brown. It is an absolute disaster. The first thing my eyes are drawn to is her pronounced womb, hugged so cruelly by the synthetic fabric of her ill-advised pencil skirt. What is she doing?! She is clearly and undeniably a pear-shape, so why on earth is she wearing something that would only be vaguely bearable on a true hourglass? Her shoulders look tiny, her waist appears only to be defined by the clinging waistband of her tights and, horror of all horrors, there is actually a visible dent in her upper thigh from the bottom of her underwear! Then there's the fact that the suit itself has never been in fashion, the buttons are slightly straining, her opaque tights aren't right for the look and her shoes make her calves look clumpy. It's just too sad. Swap the two women's outfits and things would have been far better - Sarah's womb and thigh nightmare would be completely disguised in Michelle's prom skirt, while Mrs Obama could have dazzled us with her smile and made us forgive the royal blue error beneath.Of course, Sarah Brown is nothing to do with fashion. There's absolutely no need for her to be glamorous or cool. But you'd have thought, as the most senior wife in British politics and clearly an extremely clever, capable, nice woman in her own right, she might have asked for a tiny bit of clothes advice on this most high-profile of occasions. Next time, Mrs B, just try to go for something a little less corporate, a little more loose, make sure you buy the right size - and, for the love of god, woman, please avoid any sort of VPL.
And this is the other photo that had me squinting forward at my monitor this morning. When I imagined the G20 dinner, it wasn't anything like this. I must admit to finding the Arab wearing his headphones over his scarf childishly funny, and wondering how it is possible to relax for even a second with all those microphones, translators and aides surrounding them. The man peering over the shoulder of the far off delegate on the left seems to be at least 8 feet tall, while the young guy hugging the curtain on the right appears about to enter a new orbit of stress. I have to be honest, I preferred my vision of how the evening might look: everyone chilling out, slippers on, ties off; Angela Merkel with her hair in a topknot, wearing a facemask; the men smoking pipes, shouting out requests to the iPod controller; an arthritic spaniel wandering in and out; Jamie Oliver coming in to admit that he dropped the pasta in the sink when he was trying to strain it and everyone saying 'Oh, don't worry, it'll taste fine,' in concilliatory tones. Surely more conducive to a fun evening? But possibly not such a great environment for an evening which ultimately concluded in the announcment of a $1.1 trillion dollar cash injection. So far, the markets seem to be pleased about this, but until my house price rises, I'll be raising a cynical eyebrow and refusing to comment.Finally, as warned in the title of today's posting, a brief and (I hope) uncharacteristic revel. I am a very lucky bunny, but I must just quickly note, as I never have said it out loud before, that I freaking love being able to sing. Last night, three of us met at Harry's flat to rehearse for a wedding at which we're singing in a few weeks. And suddenly, the black and white notes on a page were able to bring tears to the eyes of the happy-couple-elect. It's just the most wonderful feeling, to be part of something that comes from your body alone, that can be done anywhere in the world: complete and joyous escapism, a mental and physical act that challenges and rewards. I'm not the best singer, and I tend to brush off comments about enjoying it for fear of looking uncool - but, in case I'm hit by a bus in the next 24 hours, I'd like the records to show that singing, whether in the choir or in smaller groups or even on my own, makes me very happy indeed and it's a hobby I'd recommend without hesitation. I was in fine fettle on my bus journey home, humming along to Stevie Wonder and feeling pretty self-sufficient and massively fortunate. Then I woke up this morning with the sensation that thirty or forty smallish beanbags filled with a warm, leaden gel had been placed on my skull and shoulders, and that two large thumbs were slowly and methodically attempting to push my eyeballs out through their sockets from the inside. Depression: it's a fascinating beast and for reasons of self-discovery alone, I don't regret having it but ooh, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. TGIF.
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