Frohliche Weihnacten!

                          

Greetings earthlings! Frohliche Weihnachten! That is Merry Christmas in German, oh uncultured ones. (I took the initiative and asked Jeeves). I have just returned from the land of gluwein and goulash with a giant Tyrolean jumper. I mean a proper one, with a reindeer pattern, a George Michael in the ‘Last Christmas’ video one. I’m sure it will make men quiver with lust on viewing. Disastrously I was in Innsbruck and only Salzburg has the Sound of Music tour but what’s a girl to do. So, my days have been fruitful and merry. And by that I mean that they have consisted of wandering around Austrian markets scoffing my face with bratwurst. Naughty!

                         

Still I was feeling Christmassy. It was snowing, there was yodelling, what more could you possibly want?  Well there was one problem.

The main issue arising from spending time in a snow clad ski resort is that if you don’t ski you look A) like a bit of a loser/wannabe middle class joy rider and B) you will be lacking in entertainment and variety big time! As a result, going up the cable car without skiing equipment in a very dodgy looking puffa jacket raised a few eyebrows from the too cool for school Austrian teenagers. Well screw them! If I want to go to the top of the mountains and pretend that they are the misty mountains of Mordor then that is my prerogative/sad state of affairs. I got to the top, or near to the top. Actually not very near the top. I sat on a bench near the café. I yelled a bit under the pretence of feeling the great might and awe of nature but really I just wanted to avalanche the Austrian teenage skiers into oblivion. You see, despite being terminally middle class, as a ski novice I have no notion of ski etiquette, particularly regarding the chair lifts which look like a particularly dangerous staircase to heaven. I decided in a moment of madness that it would be fun just to ride the ski chairs a couple of times. Who cares if I didn’t have skis or a snowboard, how discriminating! They go round and round like a conveyor belt so what harm could it do? Ski chairs are perfect for an over imaginative disposition. I was thinking along the lines of a fantastic James Bond moment when Roger Moore (it would be far too silly for Sean Connery) escapes the villains after some impressive skiing moves with a very ‘realistic’ body double and is subsequently propelled by an effective gadget onto the chair lift. After burying his victims in the snow, Roger Moore raises an eyebrow and utters, ‘Well, they’ve found themselves snowed under!’ chortle, chortle, sexist remark, smoulder. This is what I was thinking when I attempted to embark on my mission. I swaggered over to the skiers and tried to jump onto the ski chair. I was met with a very loud and angry Austrian man who promptly stopped the whole ski chair circuit. The party of skiers hanging in mid air were not impressed. Apparently if I had got on without skis I would have had to jump off at the top which, without skis, could have sent me hurtling down the mountain, or I could have stayed on the chair lift which turns upside down on the way back which would have sent me hurtling down the mountain. If I were James Bond I would have had a jet ski in my rucksack and would have reached the ground to safety just in time to bed the bimbo before the credits roll. Unfortunately I had no jet ski and left with my tail between my legs off the mountain under the gaze of the furrowed brow of the livid Austrian. Party pooper.

                      

In an attempt to redeem myself in Austrian etiquette, I thought I would take in a traditional Austrian classical concert. How civilised! Unfortunately for me I have not had much experience in this field of music. The last ‘classical’ concert I had been to was when I was 10 years old and playing the clarinet in one of those poorly organised school affairs where parents watch with glazed eyes and cotton wool shoved in their ears. I had been taking joint clarinet lessons for a year with a friend. She had progressed far quicker than me and had been given the coveted role of playing Elvis Presley’s ‘Love me Tender’ on the clarinet. Not wanting to leave me out, (although in retrospect I bet she wished she’d had) my teacher excitedly informed me that my great sonata would be the Eastenders theme tune, a piece revered by audiences all over and renowned in classical circles as being akin to Chopin, Schubert and Bach. So the big day arrived and my proud parents, brother and grandfather all took the front row to support my great talent. A lot of kids went before me, doing nice twiddly bits on the piano, whilst their pushy parents whooped and hollered at them like dissident politicians in PM’s question time. I think the only thing I thought I could do to alleviate this dire situation was to attack the ‘piece’ with force. I played the Eastenders theme tune with gusto but unfortunately was far too over exuberant and forgot to suck in my cheeks. I ended up looking like a blowfish on ecstasy and swiftly left the stage to lack lustre applause. More embarrassment was to follow. The next boy on the stage was clearly very nervous and clearly took music very seriously. He spent ages tuning up his oboe and clearing his throat authoritatively. Just when he was about to play the first note, my younger brother, who is an expert in spontaneous flatulence produced the greatest, longest, loudest rattler that I have ever heard in my entire life. Deathly silence followed. The boy on stage looked bewildered. Cue my dad, who could never resist playing the comedian. He ushered the immortal line ‘what a bum note’. I sunk deeper in my chair and hid my face in my hands. Everyone exploded with laughter and my music teacher gave my family a look of absolute disgust. It was as though we had wiped our arses on a Mozart script.

Massive digression but the point is….. well there is no point really. I just wanted to get a fart joke in. The festive spirit of Innsbruck is contagious and I am now spending my nights dreaming of Captain Von Trapp in lederhosen. I mean he is divine, no wonder Maria didn’t want to be a nun. She practically had an orgasm every time he blew that dog whistle! (this is a reference to the film and not some fetishistic innuendo).
 
                      
Quite frankly the Austrian concert passed without any amusing incidents and was dull as dishwater. I think next time I’ll stick to the old boy with a zither. He was high on a hill with a lonely goat herd……

Disclaimer: Contrary to what this blog might have you believe, I did not travel to Austria by myself on a Mr Bean style holiday.

                     

I love my friends!

"I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

      

 As Emily Dickinson says, ‘my friends are my estate.’ I love my friends, so here is a little humorous look at all the different friend types I have been blessed with in my life. Some are generic, others you may be able to work out! All were written with affection.

The Cameo:  The friend that is flakier than a 99p flake. This is the kind of person that rocks up to pre drinks an hour late, downs a bottle of wine, and then wanders off never to be seen again. Often found passed out in bushes, their company is fleeting yet rewarding. This friend often makes outlandish excuses to get out of social occasions. For example, he/she was supposed to look after his/her mother’s favourite houseplant and it died. They now have to go out and purchase a cactus to replace the plant with a more exotic counterpart. Which will mean flying to Mexico. Sorry.

The Pseudo Intellectual: The friend, usually a male, who fancies himself as a smarty pants but in reality is a little bit of a phoney. Usually found misquoting Nietzsche, this friend can fool many, but you’ve got him sussed! He is frequently found watching foreign films and documentaries about the Atom Bomb. He thinks that Tolstoy’s War and Peace is the dog’s bollocks….despite only reading the first 100 pages ... and he never has a structured an argument to back up his elaborate points. He usually illustrates his ‘intellectualism’ with flowery vernacular not dissimilar to the assertive feminist. He protests about Tibet. He is a friend who goes through many phases to make himself stand out. He might participate in ju jitzu, learn Klingon or read Chomsky in his spare time. He is also a big fan of travelling, however only if it is for spiritual or intellectual ‘enlightenment’.  He has sampled cuisine from all five continents and frequently whips up Asian inspired entrees. He believes that he is the thinking woman’s crumpet. Wears waistcoats.

The Early Riser: This is the friend, usually a girl, who has a tattoo of carpe diem on her foot. Every day is a challenge, an opportunity to be seized. She revels in achievement from dawn til dusk. She has never got up past 9am in her life, even with mammoth hangovers. In these situations, when everyone else has lost the power of speech and are attending to their panda eyes, this friend has been up for two hours, washed her hair, got dressed and done a few sudokus.  A mesmerizing force of optimism and energy. She usually has an actual talent, a talent that makes your year 5 rendition of the Eastender’s theme tune on the clarinet at a concert deplorable. Occasionally displays geeky tendencies that are not discernable to the naked eye. You know though, you’ve seen her sci-fi collection in her room!  

The Love/Hate pairing: The two friends in your friendship group that simultaneously love and hate each other. It’s all a game of cat and mouse and pig-tail pulling, as they pretend to argue about everything! Music, politics, comedy, adverts. When I say pretend, I mean pretend. These two friends probably have more in common than Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee and clearly enjoy some good sparring. There are lots of affectionate insults flung around and the sharp tongued jibes are laced with sexual tension. Of course the love/hate friends are unaware of this tension, but that’s what makes it all the more entertaining. You have always found it amusing that for two people who vehemently express their loathing for each other, they spend an inordinate amount of time in each other’s company….  

The Genius with no common sense: This friend, it has to be said, is usually a male. He is possibly considered one of the great minds of the day, has studied medicine, law, economics at a prestigious University. He has probably already had something significant published in a journal. He excels at all academia, and yet he is an idiot of unquantifiable proportions. He lacks a lot of social awareness, is tactless and cannot hold his drink. Usually oblivious to his surroundings, this friend will lie across a tram track after a glass of shandy and pass out at inappropriate occasions. Often wears oddly matched socks.

The Whimsical Daydreamer: This is a floaty type of friend, usually a girl, who seems to exist in her own mind. Often adorned in hippy attire, this girl seems to glide into a room, like a bat in a poncho. She is distressed because the last leaf of the sycamore tree in the garden has fallen. This represents destruction. This friend often has a quiet, silvery voice and makes her own jewellery. She likes art house films and conspiracy theories, particularly if they indicate that the end of the World is nigh. She likes clothes with toggles on them. Toggles.

 The Singing Sensation:  This is a friend who sings everywhere! In their room, in the shower, on the toilet, in the garden, walking to work, walking from work, in the living room and over the TV. This friend probably loved musicals as a child and still has dreams of Broadway. Unfortunately this friend is completely unaware that his/her singing sounds like a bag of cats been thrown against a brick wall and unassumingly irritates you all with his/her less than perfect pitch. Probably owns a guitar. Probably can play the guitar much better than he/she can sing. He/she is unaware of this. Extremely complex songs are often attempted with disastrous consequences. Dido should never ever be attempted if you have a flat voice!

The PR Guru: Your friend, who outside your friendship group may be referred to as a control freak. This friend could rule the world, like Pinky and the Brain but the Brain does not like to share power with Pinky. In this metaphor, we, as the ‘other’ are Pinky. This friend is an organising machine and occasional megalomaniac, it’s his/her way or the highway. This friend is obsessed with tiny details and woe betide anyone who does not live up to expectations. However he/she is the first to organise surprise birthday parties and ‘spontaneous’ city breaks. This friend always gets the drink to nibble ratio at parties right, and is a connoisseur when it comes to diplomacy. This friend is fabulous at advising how to avoid tricky social situations and is swiftly turning PR Guru for your friendship group. Move aside Max Clifford.

The Assertive Feminist: Ah, the female friend who is extremely fierce. Not Beyonce fierce. Like scary fierce. She is usually known for being a master of the eye roll. She is pretty good at the eyebrow raise too. This usually occurs after a misogynistic comment by a male. A misogynistic comment she feels was masquerading under the pretence of laddy banter! She is a fan of Germaine Greer and spends a lot of time reading feminine discourse and defending her sex. She is probably an expert in the field of forced female circumcision. As a result she over compensates in the aggression department on occasions and scares a lot of men. Ironically though, most of her friends are men as she regards overly girly behaviour as something that must be thwarted. Despite this, she is genuinely nice to her few girl friends. Opinionated, sharp, and sarcastic, this girl uses unnecessarily elaborate vocabulary to make her point. She does not understand most of it. For the few who know her well, she is actually a massive baby and can often be found crying to Joni Mitchell and Eva Cassidy. She has a penchant for stray dogs. Oh, this friend type is often placed in the love/hate pairing.

The One with Peter Pan syndrome:  Usually a male friend who is not growing up at the same rate as most of your friendship group. It’s the end of university and most of your friends are settling down with long term girlfriends, getting jobs but this boy is still planning the next chunder induced pub crawl. This friend usually accuses other male friends who have serious girlfriends of turning into dullards. He resents change, and quite frequently harbours Freudian  homoerotic desire for his ever dwindling circles of lads. This friend mainly sees relationships as suffocating, but does not mind an anonymous tryst now and then. Often found smacking the gluteus maximus of a trampy, inebriated fresher at the student ‘cheese’ night. Despite such flaws, this friend is endearingly vulnerable due to his childishness and flocks of premature mother hen types rush to his assistance…. He usually seduces them. 

One Man, Two Guvnors Review

                        

One Man, Two Guvnors is a modern play written by Richard Bean, which has been adapted from the 1859 Italian Renaissance farce commonly known as The Servant of Two Masters. Bean has set the play in early 1963, between the end of the Chatterley ban and the Beatles first LP.  It is on the cusp of the swinging 60s and the play is interjected with smut, musical interludes, charismatic thugs and bawdy humour. British comedy has always found a place in its heart for slapstick and, like its Italian forefather, One Man, Two Guvnors masters physical comedy with ease. Throw in some crafty witticisms and flamboyant characters and this has all the makings of a modern classic.   

The plot, like most renaissance farces, is hard to decipher, but follows the traditional structure of a classic case of mistaken identity, in which a plucky jester-type figure attempts to use the confusion to his advantage. James Corden plays Francis Henshall, an ousted skiffle player with an insatiable appetite who ends up working for two ‘guvnors’. One is Rachel Crabbe (Jemima Rooper), who has disguised herself as her recently murdered gangland twin brother Rosco, and the other is Stanley Stubbers, (Oliver Chris) a smooth talking, arrogant toff who murdered Rosco and is also Rachel’s secret lover. They are oblivious to the fact that Henshall is working for them both and hilarity ensues as he desperately tries to keep them apart as the lies and confusion mount up. Henshall’s motive is to put food in his belly, later followed by the lust for a woman and it is refreshing to see a modern play keep the farcical tradition intact.

Whilst I have never been a massive fan of James Corden’s celebrity persona, I have always admired his theatrical talent since his critically acclaimed role in The History Boys. In One Man, Two Guvnors, Corden commandeers the stage with ease and flourishes in a role that could seem hammy and one dimensional. His delivery is impeccable and the energy he brings to Francis Henshall’s optimistic ne’er-do-well makes the character endearingly genial. In one scene Corden displays some impressive slapstick comedy in which the two sides of Henshall’s conscience fight each other. Watching Corden repeatedly slap himself with force and roll around on the floor banging into dustbins takes some endurance and dedication. It is extremely funny and a nostalgic reminder of the bygone age of the vaudeville. Corden also has excellent reflexes when it comes to audience participation as some lucky people on the front row found out. Such is the talent of his acting that the audience automatically assumed that he was engaging in spontaneous improvisation and not, in fact, intricately woven dialect to throw off the plays timing. 

             

This is undoubtedly the James Corden show. However, there are two supporting actors who deserve much praise. Daniel Rigby plays Alan Dangle, an aspiring thespian whose mannerisms are influenced by the old style school of acting. Rigby is wonderful in this satirical role as the flamboyant Alan who has histrionic fits and comically puts great emphasis on ridiculous dialogue. One of my favourite parts of the play is when Rigby delivers the immortal line ‘Love is fluff, very fluffy fluff’ with sincerity and a dead pan face.  It is also amusing to see Rigby use dramatic extensions of his arms for everything his character Alan deems to be profound.

Another magnificent performance is by Oliver Chris, who plays toff Stanley Stubbers to great effect. Stanley is a testament to public school boy arrogance.  Stanley swaggers around the stage in a manner which should be abhorrent but it is down to Chris’s fantastic acting that the character is ultimately loveable. Chris allows us to revel in his gleeful school boy charm and then tut when his snooty vernacular rears its head. He is portraying a character we all know so well so there is added pressure not to fall for the obvious stereotypes, such as the gregarious snot drinking jugs of Pimms at the Local Hunt Ball. Placing Stanley in Brighton, away from his London idyll makes him slightly vulnerable, yet he always delivers the goods with some top toff lingo. His constant yup yup yup’s and exclamation of ‘Britain, what a CUNTry’ was a hilarious addition.

One Man, Two Guvnors is refreshingly traditional in its structure. Bean has done Goldoni proud because it really has embodied the heart and soul of a farce. It has been expertly adapted for a modern audience. Its humour is whip smart and its rubbery physical comedy gives it a unique edge. I think, most importantly, this play is brave. One Man, Two Guvnors is uplifting and unashamedly so, something which seems to be lacking in so much modern theatre. In the doom and gloom of credit crunch Britain, it lacks the cynicism of our age … or just covers it up very well.

John Lewis- The Devil in Disguise

                         

I have a bone to pick. A big one. You may think I will be reflecting on the Euro crisis, Greece in turmoil, Libya, Syria, student protests, James Murdoch, phone tapping, or any other crucial news story to hit Britain this past month. After all, these factors are shaping a New Britain. A Britain existing entirely of euro sceptics, media cynics and curmudgeonly worriers. Well, important they may be, but I apologise. Something far less important has pissed me off. Are you ready? Drum roll….. John Lewis. Bloody John Lewis. And what are they guilty of? Corporate sentimentality in the first degree. I mean really, their adverts are vomit-inducing. This violent reaction may seem unfairly misanthropic and I probably now appear to be a heartless bastard. Well I am a bastard but I’m certainly not heartless. Lots of things make me cry. Here’s a list. Old men alone in pubs (we’ve covered this one before), animals being tortured/killed in films, animals being ridiculed in films, animals winning their freedom in films, animals being picked on by their peers, animals proving their worth to their peers, Piers Morgan, ‘The Elephant Man’, ‘The Great Escape’ (why do all the Brits die and all the Americans survive?), the outcast child playing alone in the playground, the outcast teenager sitting alone for lunch, Ludovico Einaudi, ‘Watership Down’, boiled eggs and the acting prowess of Nicholas Cage. See, I have feelings. I’m not a drone, hell bent on sucking the joy out of life. I am a drone hell bent on bringing down John Lewis’ reign of sugary sweetness. Good grief, when I saw their first advert, you know the ‘she’s only a woman to me’ one, I was certain it was about cancer. Definitely a cancer advert. Or a Tena lady advert….. But more likely to be cancer, it was that sentimental! I really thought it was gearing up for a climatic ending, I was preparing myself. My bottom lip was wobbling; I had a twitch in the left eye, a glisten of a tear in the other. Oh God she’s going to die. It makes perfect sense. Except it didn’t make perfect sense. It was about John Lewis. You know that huge billionaire shopping chain. Exploitative drivel, I was expecting a death! No advert that sentimental should be about a department store! It should be about cancer, or Africa, or donkey charities.  Though that advert enraged me, more insanity was to follow. Next was the overly simpering Christmas advert of 2010. An advert that will forever be engraved in my memory for being cruel to animals. Yeah everybody is having a hunky-dory Christmas inside, with the warm log fire burning, presents galore, grandpa asleep in the armchair after pigging out on sprouts, you know the usual. But where is the dog? Oh he’s only outside alone in Siberian winter conditions.  Seriously I’m surprised I didn’t see icicles clinging onto to his shaggy coat. But wait, a small child has recognised the dog’s plight. He’s coming out to bring him back in to the house. Hooray! Oh no, no he’s going to taunt the animal by hanging a stupid stocking up in the medieval looking kennel, and then leave with a sarcastic wave.  And then John Lewis has the temerity to leave you with the ironic tag of ‘For those who care about showing they care.’  Pah!  

                    

 That’s not very Christian. But then Christmas isn’t very Christian either these days.  Warped Christmas spirit has overtaken the real importance. Spread a little good will, just as long as it comes with a 30 return day back guarantee.  So really, advertising is just feeding on the beast within.  Corporate Christmas has been kicking around for a while, but nothing has caused more of a stir than the new John Lewis 2011 Christmas advert. I have been told by numerous people how moving it is, and that it will definitely reduce me to tears. I finally saw it. Wow. First of all, I think this is dangerous. Parents all over Britain will be comparing their own brats to the John Lewis angel incarnate wishing to god that little Wayne will morph into a loving, unselfish child of unbelievable proportions. The prognosis of this ever happening? Not good. Particularly if you have called your kid Wayne. Seriously, children like that do not exist. For one thing, a child that young would not have the foresight or the ability to go out and buy a present by himself. Take it from me. My parents bought my presents for them till I was about sixteen! So we can really look at the advert as child cruelty. Both parents are clearly oblivious that their child has been wandering around John Lewis alone looking for the perfect gift. Or, even worse, he has been surfing the net for some deals. Who knows what he might have found! He may now have an addiction to ebay. Terrible parenting. Also I am 100 percent certain that if John Lewis had picked a fugly, British cynicism would have kicked in and we would have ridiculed this advert. But no, give the public a mop top with Bambi eyes and everyone melts. Seriously people get with it! It is not being heartless. It is seeing it for the smug, knowing, commercial tug at the heart strings that it is. Don’t give in, that’s what they want! God I’d rather have the Frosties ‘they’re going to taste gggggreat’ kid back! Obnoxious, self satisfied, he’s the perfect parallel for advertising agencies.

Also he is worth crying about. I’m sure after that advert he has become a social pariah and now is the outcast teenager eating alone at lunch. Now that advert can be added to my crying list. Sob.Anyway I’ve got to go. It’s breakfast time. They’re going to taste great, they’re going to taste great. I can hear the sound of Frosties hitting me plate! Seriously, that is the line! Who the bloody hell eats Frosties off a plate! So stupid and yet completely and utterly preferable to John Lewis’s adverts. At least it wallows in it’s own corporate cynicism. John Lewis is the evil enforcer of fake sentiment. John Lewis’s child is the devil incarnate. And on that note I am off to sip a victory cup of Starbucks coffee. Golly I hate corporate consumerism.

The Gospel according to Attenborough

                                                 

            I was extremely miffed to hear that the Americans get their own ‘dude’ to do the voiceover for BBC nature docs. How dare they! Who can beat Attenborough? Well either Attenborough but right now I’m specifically talking about David. Although Dickie is fabulous in 'Miracle on 34^th Street.' I actually thought he was the Big Cheese himself. It was a real beard after all, that kid pulled it remember? Anyway, I digress. Some people believe in God, I believe in Attenborough, Dickie and Dave. Anyway back to David. David Attenborough is alone worth the BBC licence fee. That and BBC4 which is spectacular. BBC3 is a cultural wasteland and must be thwarted! Seriously, they have a new programme entitled ‘Hot Like Us’, a reality TV programme where ‘beautiful’ couples battle for the crown of most self indulgent parasite. A show made without any passion and craftsmanship. It is pond scum. And exhale. Fortunately Frozen Planet has graced the small screen making me gaga over nature once more. Just not Lady Gaga. She probably saw Frozen Planet Americano, narrated by Ryan Seacrest and thought she would use walrus flesh for shoulder pads for her new 80s inspired meat collection. Back to Frozen Planet.  I am a self confessed wildlife freak. Seriously, I bloody love nature. I think this might be even better than Blue Planet and how can you top a panoramic view of a Blue Whale? You top trump it with sneaky criminal penguins stealing pebbles. People are easily amused. Hats off to the BBC cameramen who captured this wonderful footage. It’s so human in its pettiness, like a dispute between curmudgeonly neighbours over hedge heights. Fabulous.

           

           

            The cinematography is stunning, the narration spot on but I have to say I have an issue. I am a big baby. I cry at anything. It is a serious handicap in my life. I can’t enter a pub without scanning for the horizon for a sad story. An old man alone with a pint. As my friends point out, he probably popped out for half an hour to get away from his nagging wife. But no I create my own back story and it’s always destitute. It frequently involves Meals on Wheels. Therefore I find Frozen Planet incredibly distressing. Those cruel orcas toying with that seal on the ice sheet. The look in its eyes when it was game over as they pulled it to its demise. Horrific. Seriously, it gave me nightmares. I know it’s the circle of life, and I am being shallow because quite frankly it is only the cute animals I am interested in but I hate it. However I will get over this aversion because this series is magnificent. I mean for one thing chivalry is not dead in the animal world. The elephant seals fight for their female every hour for three months! We’d be lucky with a gift voucher from Boots……..

Scarlet Blushes

                             

Oh my, I forgot to share my horrendous London experience a few days ago. I was walking to a job interview. I finally had a job interview! Of course nothing anywhere near related to what I want to do. Working on a party boat in London. Oh God that’s all I needed. Being reminded of my failure as I serve financial fascists and wanker bankers bottles of vintage wine. Ignore the verbal diarrhoea, I’m just jealous I’m not a hot shot business woman like Jordan.  So I was walking over London Bridge day-dreaming about pesto, thinking it’s really been a long time since I’ve used pesto, but also worrying about whether I can afford pesto and chastising my mother in my head for always buying green pesto. The red one goes so much better with fish. Then feeling horribly middle class, I was distracted by some builders wolf whistling in my direction. I was surprised. I know I’m not an oozing mutant found excavated from a murky swamp but neither am I usually whistling material. Hmmm maybe it was the heels. I cannot walk in heels, and I was wearing heels today, probably for the first time in a year. I was fully betraying my tomboy nature by wearing tight smart black trousers and a tight top that whispers ‘I’ll make allowances to further my career’.  I’m only joking, as if! I wore a jumper. Not my dad’s jumper. Anyhoo I waddled off in my heels a bit further on. I seemed to be getting lots of looks from men. It was like a reversed ‘Lynx’ advert. Everywhere men were staring at me, smirking, whistling. I began to like the attention. I strutted as best I could down the road giving men flickering eyelashes and coy smiles. Suddenly, just as I passed a greengrocer, a woman ran up to me obviously distressed. ‘Those men were laughing at you’ she shrilled. I said nothing but was secretly thinking, you shrew! Just because I am the flavour of the month and you’re not! I tried to brush her aside. She pointed at my crotch and said ‘Look.’   Lo and behold a hole the size of a meteoric crater had ripped its way through my trousers. It was the wrong day for scarlet pants. Turning a similar shade I mumbled my thanks and wandered off, doing a shuffle that made me look even more suspect, like I had an unsightly itch to attend to. Unfortunately there was no time before my interview to address my trouser malfunction. I waited on the pier until it was time for me to go on the boat for my interview. Across the pier a few men saw me and wolf whistled. Dear God, I thought, will this nightmare ever end! What if I ended up working with these men? I’d be forever known as the ‘Scarlet Harlot’ or a less lustrous alternative.

Turns out I got the job. I really, really don’t want to know why.

Terrorists on Hemlines

                          



So a week on and I have nought, zero, nil, zilch in the way of getting a job. I literally have £20 to my name. (Now £19.20 because I’ve just succumbed to a Gregg’s sausage roll.) It’s OK, I’m filling up my days - and not just with pastries. Yesterday I visited my local shopping centre, scowling on the periphery at all the consumerists who could afford clothes, DVDs, CDs (yes I’m old school), wondering whether I’ll ever be in a position to make the transition from charity shops to TK Maxx. Top Shop is the Holy Grail and way out of reach. You see, apart from providing dynamite groove gear, I hate to say that charity shops selling clothes leave me feeling slightly icky. Some of the items are so dusty and musty (exquisite rhyming) that it looks as though they were all donated by Miss Faversham. (Marvel at ‘obscure’ literary reference).  Although there are gems. I remember once stumbling across a patchwork skirt covered in Che Guevara and Fidel Castro’s faces, spewing out revolutionary rhetoric across the hemline. This was when I was fourteen and thought it cool to like borderline terrorists. I wore it almost every weekend with relish, twirling around, making the ‘terrorists’ dance. Communism was looking very appealing to me. Unfortunately like Communism, the skirt had had its moment to shine and then quickly led way for further progression. Namely red hair and flared jeans. In my fantastical world of teenage revelry it was the 1970s, all right! Anyway, thus began the end to my love affair with charity shop clothes. Although there was a darling green waistcoat in Barnardo’s the other day…….OK, enough with the futile digression. The point is I have no money, no job and, due to lack of fresh oxygen, I am starting to acquire a pasty pallor worthy of Twilight. I’m not going to merit that unfortunate series by referring to the character my pasty pallor is worthy of. The whole thing is merely Twilight to me. Stupid, corporate, crooked smile, inappropriately toned torso on a pubescent boy, Twilight. Girl who has no taste in men, Twilight. Girl who chooses between necrophilia and bestiality, Twilight.  You get the picture.

           

Home Sweet Home!

           
                       

This wasn’t supposed to happen. How have the powers that be let this occur? In Marlon Brando’s wheezing words, ‘the horror’. Surely this is a devastating human rights violation? Dear God, I am living back home. Shudders. Living back home. It feels like only yesterday I left that suffocating hole of doom. No disrespect to mum and dad, but I guess I was always that odd breed of teenager who read far too much Sylvia Plath and cared too little about teenage protocol. I used to make earrings out of wine corks. The eco warrior phase was not massively popular with my peers. My university life on the other hand was a blur of self-indulgent independence. A miraculous escape for my agitated eighteen year old self. I was encouraged to be eccentric, to wear pyjamas at all hours of the day, to eat kebabs (not sober obviously)  and to be part of a group of friends that were so weirdly wonderful I cried like a little girl when I left them.  It was the best of times. Unfortunately now I’m wallowing in the worst of times as a graduate home dweller. An Arts graduate home dweller. Need I say more?

My parents must have had an overwhelming desire to nudge me, nay push me out of the nest. I wasn’t the easiest; the poor sods probably thought they had got shot of me but, like the soap actor that tries and fails to make the transition into serious drama, I keep on coming back. Unconditional love is no longer obligatory when one’s twenty two year old daughter spends her twilight hours consuming cheesecake in a dimly lit room watching Diagnosis Murder re-runs. Re-runs that I methodically record for my evening’s entertainment. Tragic.  I mean it’s not really what you expect to happen is it? I was a naïve fool in thinking that a new life awaited for me when university ended. I mused about the working world,  pictured myself in one of those suits, you know the ball-bashing ones for hard businesswomen. Alas the recession has crushed my dreams.

I’ll rewind to my graduation. (Although I never actually made it to the ceremony). You see, deterred and aware of the sorry state of affairs that awaited me, I loitered in Africa for three months doing charity work in a school. I had hoped that this would relax me and energise me for the intrepid mass job search I had planned on my return. It did not. I loved Africa too much and left depressed. I knew that my hippy African pants would not be welcome in the working world. When I returned, my hair had grown so long and shaggy I looked like an Afghan hound. I also lost a stone and a half. Of course that has all gone back on now. See cheesecake above. So I cut my hair, dressed more appropriately, and became engulfed into the zombie masses of post graduates trying to get work. It is bloody difficult. The problem with university is that it gives you a superiority complex, without the skills to back it up. So even though I am broke, I’m reluctant to take on certain jobs. I’m sorry if this sounds brattish but I refuse point blank to work in a call centre. I’d rather elope and take my chances on Dale Farm. And for some unknown reason, retail has never really worked for me. Shopping scares me. Just seeing gaggles of determined Primark customers fighting over the last leopard print jumpsuit fills me with terror. It is like gang warfare in there! And not the organised kind, the hardcore guerrilla kind. I genuinely believe the customer is never right, which is not serving me well in a job hunt. I guess I could get my old job back at the lecherous pub down the road but why should I? I should be employable in a field I want to work in. God dammit I’ve learnt about the Renaissance! I’ve studied the entire works of Shakespeare (not the comedies, they are terrible). My days shouldn’t be consisting of watching Loose Women. That is no way to live. The more unpaid internships I send my CV off to, the angrier I get. I am so angry at my unemployable state of affairs, that I have begun morphing into a kind of hybrid of woman/ harpy. And not the sexy femme fatale kind of harpy - the vengeful, unrepentant kind. I find I’m letting rip at the TV like a crazy person. Bloody successful people! Bruce Forsyth should really be pensioned off. See, I can’t help myself! These terrible words are tripping off the tongue. I am being the snappy, bitter, teenager once again. It’s not like I don’t try. Recently I’ve applied for a BBC graduate scheme programme. They have an online personality assessment. I thought honesty was the best policy, now I’m not so sure. I think I may have portrayed myself as a cantankerous litterer. Yes they actually ask if you litter. What is this Jedi mind game? What do they want from me? I dropped litter once, you’ve got me!


                       
 

Today is the first day all week I have got out of my dad’s jumper. I feel inspired. I think I’ll hand a few CVs in. Well maybe after Location Location. Oh but then Dickinson’s Real Deal is on! Also I must get back for The Eggheads, I haven’t seen CJ for ages.  Maybe I’ll go tomorrow. Come on BBC, you know you want me!