Thursday, 26 February 2015

Madonna and Me

STOP PRESS! HOLD THE FRONT PAGE! Madonna has only gone and taken a tumble and, oh, hang on, you knew that already. Well frankly, who could miss it? In the last 24 hours it has been all over the papers, to say nothing of the ubiquitous meme spreading like wildfire across social media. Happily for me the shock was not in the fact she went A over T after her cape (Armani, natch) was yanked from behind, causing her to unceremoniously cease mid warble. No, it was more that finally, eventually, I have something in common with the Queen of Pop. Not for me her crotch flashing ways (less her Madge-isty than her Vag-esty), nor the ‘come too close and I’ll have yer eye out’ bras of the 90s, however falling on your ass in front of a room full of people, yup, you and I Madge, we got that NAILED.

Now much to my annoyance, I’ve been clumsy my whole life. I’ve fallen down things, over things, up things and into things for as long as I can remember. The almost falling off stage during a school play aged 13 was a particular high, saved only by the strong armed, swift actions of the string section of our school orchestra, heaving the chair I was sat upon back onto stage.  However, my accidentally prone nature has not just limited itself to falling, oh no siree. I’ve had boobs pop out at inopportune moments (unlike Madonna who always seemed to know exactly what she was doing when she released her puppies). I’ve hiccupped tea mid swallow, subsequently shooting it out of both my nose & mouth simultaneously, dousing both myself and my colleagues in a not so fine mist of earl grey.  What made it particularly smooth was the fact that it was during a meeting to announce my recent promotion to head of department, a job to which I was obviously oh so qualified, as long as it didn’t involve tea. I’ve walked too close to the road on the rainy way to a job interview & been punished for my efforts with a muddy shower from an overly generous white van man, thereby alerting my potential new employers to the fact that while I can file invoices with the best of them, I also do a fine line in drowned rat impressions. Needless to say, I consider myself a fully paid up, founder member of the Clumsy Club.

So what is it that makes people accident prone? According to Berkley University, medication, and alcohol obviously have an effect, as do lack of sleep, poor health & emotional stress. However these weren't so relevant to my 13 year old self, whistling out her happy tune in front of her teachers, fellow pupils & associated parents. I  did once read that women tend to be more naturally clumsy around their period, and also that a low level of education indicates a short concentration span, which can often lead to accidents.  I’ll admit to the former (if in doubt, blame the hormones), but as the proud owner of a 2:1 in philosophy there’s no way I’m copping to the latter, all that Kant & Hegel required some mega bucks in concentration.


Perhaps it’s just me? Or more likely, it’s that only I admit to it. But either ways, when I saw Madge take her tumble last night, I empathized. OK, hers was on a stage in front of the world’s media and mine was only in front of the audience of The King & I, St Anne’s Catholic High School for Girls, 1993, but regardless of that minor fact, I know what it is to hideously embarrass yourself but yet still get back up to carry on. So I salute you Madge, I salute you and your tumbling ways and your dignity in recovering. But please, next time you’re on the way to a job interview on a rainy day, I implore you, learn from this master and step away from the kerb.  That and never wear a cape, you’re only asking for trouble.


Saturday, 14 February 2015

Valentines Schmalentines

It is that time of year again, the one where marketeers are king and the high street is festooned with pink & red. Yup, it’s Valentines Day... again.  To celebrate this manmade celebration of mass hysteria and one-off price increases, I have decided to share my experiences in the World Of Dating.

As an almost perma single person, my love life (or lack thereof) has been of much fascination to coupled up friends and colleagues of years gone by. Perhaps it’s just the nosey parker intrigue of living vicariously. Perhaps it’s the general smugness of ‘aren’t we SO glad our lives aren’t like that’. Either ways, my dating history has provided many hours of amusement in the past, and so, to celebrate the annual festival of love, I hereby present to you (in no particular order) my top 5 worst dates:

Mr (Or Misters) Do You think I Can’t See You?
According to scientifical research, people lie on dating profiles, no shit Sherlock. Women apparently lie about their weight/body size, and men most often lie about their income and/or height. It is the latter that I have most frequently experienced. I’m no height Nazi, I like a tall man, but I’d rather have a 5 foot 6 lovely than 6 foot 2 dickhead.  The thing about this guys, is it’s obvious. I can quite easily see the fudging of the truth if you claim to be a head taller than me and I’m towering over you in my flats. And furthermore, if I know from the get go that you’re lying about something as obvious as your height, I can only wonder what other porky pies you might be busting out…. Incidentally, a good (tall) female friend of mine had a good tactic for dealing with this. Exasperated by her multiple experiences of this phenomenon, on one date she ended up making one poor soul take his shoes off and do a back to back in a nearby mirror, & irrevocably proved his fibbing ways. Needless to say, she never saw him again, and has now ended up with an awesome gentleman, who isn’t as tall as her, but then again never claimed to be.  So the lesson to be learned gentlemen, if you want a relationship, own your height, that or wear Cuban heels. But be warned, we can see both, and neither is attractive.

Mr Survey Monkey
First dates are often the time to suss each other out, ask questions, generally chat and sound out whether you really want to see them again. Fair play I think, that was until one particular chap came along. Never have I been quizzed so thoroughly. Questions ranged from my job (standard), hobbies and pastimes (equally standard), past relationship history (hmmmm, iffy ground for a 1st date I feel) and then the ultimate zinger, who my role model in life was. A bit odd I thought, but I went with it, muttering something about my mum or something, and then he busted out his answer… William Hague. Yep, you heard it, William Hague (by the way, this was in the pre-Angelina Jolie days). That right wing, nasal sounding by-product of a chance meeting between Thatcher and Humpty Dumpty. I know religion and politics should never be mentioned at the dinner table, or indeed bar stool, unfortunately, my date didn’t and, being the Tory disliking woman that I proudly am, I scarpered.

Mr Job Interview
There I was, having met this chap on a night out, and having decided to take a punt on a date, we met in a sunny beer garden for an afternoon of conversation and flowing drinks. Or so I had hoped. However, 10 minutes into the date, I popped to the loo, returning to our table to find my date in deep conversation with the rather drunk woman from the table next door. Sympathetically indulging her, as she poured out her heart to us about her recent break up, I took pity on her. That was until she revealed her profession (the same as my date’s) and immediately started interviewing him for a vacant position within her company. This went on for 5, 10, 20 minutes, and before I knew it, ¾ of an hour had been lost to a sobbing, vacant position holding woman. I’m not sure what I found most insulting, the fact that all the while she was interviewing my date she was smoking my cigarettes, or the fact that a job interview for a possible fictional position was vastly preferable to my company. Either ways, I hopped it and never saw the man in question again.

Mr Ex Wife
As I said, talking about relationships on a first date is a general no no, let alone crying into your napkin about your ex wife leaving you within ten minutes of our meeting. Nuff said… NEXT!

Mr BDSM
So there I was, on a first date, again a result of internet dating. He seemed pretty normal (don't they all!), and certainly nothing to be scared of for an independent feisty woman like myself. We had bantered for a few weeks, never really finding the time to meet up, so eventually when we did finally find some space in our mutual calendars, we had a great backlog of repartee to draw upon. Things were going pretty swimmingly, we’d had maybe 3 or 4 drinks, and conversation was flowing, lubricated by booze and a generally flirty atmosphere. Needless to say inhibitions were coming down, gently so I thought, but to my date, with all the force of a medieval portcullis barring the way of an invading army. It went something like this:
Me: So, you must really love your job huh? (or something equally inoffensive)
Him: Yes, but not as much as I’d love to choke you round your neck as I’m *insert bedroom antics imaginings here* to you.
Now call me a prude, as you well might, but I feel such things should be left for, well certainly not for the first date anyways. Fifty Shades of Grey? Perhaps just one shade, and a pretty dark one at that. I never saw him again and his BDSM predilections were left to another poor soul… hopefully still breathing

So be content smug marrieds, you have reason to be smug indeed, but while you will be paying over the odds for your romantic candlelit meal for two, I shall be out on the lash with a group of equally single friends, reveling in a combination of double vodkas and footloose (even if somewhat bitter) fancy freedom.  You may be on the receiving end of flowers and jewelry but it is gift enough that I won’t be getting out a tape measure, mopping up tears, struggling for breath or disagreeing violently over politics. Plus I’ll be smoking all my cigarettes myself thanks very much.


Thursday, 12 February 2015

Gin and Creosote - make mine a double

Music has always been A Thing for me, and A Good Thing at that.  I blame my family, specifically my aunt, a talented opera singer whose passion for practicing the scales, according to family rumour, once raised the eyebrow of the local constabulary, to whom concerns about the volume of an orgy had been reported. Subsequent to my aunt’s warbling, and under the influence of my parents’ love of music (Dad’s first gig Creedance Clearwater Revival; Mum’s favourite album Neil Young’s Harvest) I was fortunate to be imbued with pretty good taste (I think!) from an early age. I hit my first proper gig aged 11 (Dire Straits, Woburn Abbey since you ask), and haven’t really looked back since. There’s some awe & magnificence of live music that gets me.... right there *points*.

Now since going freelance in my career over the last 12 months, there have been several aspects of life that have changed of late, the vast majority very much for the better, however one for the worse…. that of less music.  Yes, I’ll always have the joys of Lauren Laverne & BBC 6 Music to accompany me on my journey outside the 9-5, and of course my own music collection which frequently sees me chair dancing on the buses of north London. However my gig attendance has lessened and this saddens me. 

You see there is something about live music that is infinitely powerful, magical and brilliant. Yes, shit bands are shit bands (albeit subjectively judged), but usually even with the shittest of bands there is something to admire, only if it is only the sheer ballsyness of getting up on stage to perform.  I’ll never understand it when people say they ‘don’t like music’. Yes friends, some people DO say that! One poor chap had the misfortune to utter those very words while out on an internet date with me. Never have I remembered I had left the oven on so quickly.  And I’m no muso, don’t get me wrong, I have friends with a far wider, broader and more encyclopedic interests in music than myself, and it is two of them that I thank here, for I recently accompanied them to a gig and boy was it special.

The gig itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, hyped or even particularly ‘big’ in many respects. It was great music, don't get me wrong, I loved it. But what was so extra special to me was the fact of being there, being back at a gig having been out of the habit so much recently. That feeling of awe came back to me. That peeking above the heads of the crowd who had arrived much earlier than we, to see someone display their heart and soul on stage. That absolute bloody jealousy of a talent I have not. That oneness of a crowd of people, being together for one good thing, that very brilliant thing of seeing a group of talented musicians perform.  I must admit, I did shed a tear, occasional sap that I am, (sap imbued with 2 large gins I must admit). But gin or no gin, the gig was ace and treasured and wonderful. 

So hurray. Hurray for live music, hurray for the bravery of musicians, and hurray for my mates who took me to a gig for the first time in 7 months.  My thanks to you King Creosote who made my night so special, and especial thanks to my mates Lou & Gareth. I owe you one, next time the gins are on me…



Gin and creosote...
Shaken and stirred



Tuesday, 3 February 2015

The Ten Swimmandments

There are few things in life that bug me, but perhaps none so much as swimming pool etiquette. Having banged on upon this topic previously, I’ve decided to take a stand (if having a rant on a little read blog can be described as taking a stand) and have drawn up my own commandments, or ‘swimmandments’ if you will. So read on while I head off to find myself a photocopier, and in the meantime, I’ll see you in the deep end....

No running!
But walking on water is fine
THE TEN SWIMMANDMENTS

1. Thou shalt not make false idols of the swimming floats.... nor use one in the middle or a fast lanes.

2. Thou shalt not idolize any other rules than these, as these are correct (but still, no smoking, running or fondling in the deep end).

3. Thou shalt not take the name of the lifeguard in vain... especially when s/he asks thou to stop doing an antisocial, excessively splashy butterfly. The lifeguard is right and butterfly is for twits with nothing better than show off their ill acquired watery prowess.

4. Remember the changing rooms, keep them holy… or at least clean & free of all toenail clippings/ pubic hair shavings.

5. Honour thy fellow swimmer. If thou is swimming too slowly & subsequently asked to shift lanes, thou shalt not throw a tizz just because thou is a hunky, bulky man swimmer, and the person who has asked thou is a chunky ginger girl (who happens to be faster than thou, get over it).

6. Thou shalt not murder anyone, even if they have crashed into thou while swimming backstroke. Basically, thou is probably in the wrong place or swimming too slowly, thus thou has brought it all upon thouself. 

If God is a lifeguard, I'm getting me to church
7. Thou shalt not commit adultery, frolic, snog or get up to any other kind of mischief that should be kept at home. Just because it’s called the deep end, it doesn’t mean anyone should be fondling your deep end. Put it away love. 

8. Thou shalt not steal my place in the lane. it is rude. If thou wishes to overtake, thou should only do so on a clear signal from thou fellow swimmers. Don’t assume I'm dithering at the end of my lane, I'm probably waiting for ole slowpoke to get far enough away from me that I don't crash into them (see swimmandment 6). 

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thous neighbour, discussing at length Tabitha’s latest balletic achievement or Tarquin’s mastery of the clarinet. Frankly, the swimming pool is no place for a mother’s meeting, and none of us is interested in the dubious achievements of thou’s yummy mummy offspring. 

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s pace, instead thou shalt swim at the appropriate pace for your lane. See sub swimmandments 5, 6 and 7.


So, now we've got that all agreed, I expect to see you all down at your local pool, forming a nice orderly lane, swimming at the correct speed. But if I catch you rummaging in your deep end (or that of anyone else), there will indeed be hell to pay.