Lost in London

Final destination

2010-04-05T13:34:00.004Z

What better way to round off the blog than one of those pointless memes that pretend to be probing and revelatory but in fact uncover precious little about you other than you like 'red' or something equally inane? Ah well, come on, what did you expect? Something deep and meaningful to close off the last five years? Don't be silly. I told you my last post would be an anti-climax.

If I were a month, I’d be December. Cold mostly, but with exciting times to come.
If I were a day of the week, I’d be Tuesday. I was born on a Tuesday. Tueday's child is full of grace, apparently. I would go along with that. My mother may not.
If I were a time of day, I’d be 6.15pm. I was born at this time. It's a good time of day, too. Work is over and the evening stretches ahead of you.
If I were a planet, I’d be Mercury. Small, just that little bit too close to the Sun.
If I were a sea animal, I’d be a seahorse. Well, I didn't want to be cliché-tastic and say 'dolphin' or 'fish'. Seahorse. Yeah, why not?

If I were a direction, I’d be west. Life is peaceful there.
If I were a piece of furniture, I'd be a footstool. I can be comforting. And reliable. And a walkover.
If I were a liquid, I’d be Plymouth gin. Not quite the same as all the other gins. And depressive. Haha.
If I were a gemstone, I’d be one of those glass beads on QVC. Why? Because I'm not remotely precious, in any sense of the word.
If I were a tree, I’d be a sycamore. Because I like the way it is spelled.

If I were a tool, I’d be George Lamb (ho ho ho). I mean, what are you supposed to say here? Hammer? Drill? Circular saw? I don't know any other tools. DIY to me is something entirely different and involves broadband and a darkened room.
If I were a flower, I’d be a violet. Because it's just one 'n' away from being aggro.
If I were a kind of weather, I’d be drizzle. You know that type that gets you wet-through? And is persistent? Yeah, that's me.
If I were a musical instrument, I’d be a harpsichord. Ancient, yet tuneful.
If I were a colour, I’d be purple. The colour my face turns in a rage.

If I were an emotion, I’d be worry. I'm an overthinker. What can I say?
If I were a fruit, I’d be a raspberry. Not only tasty, but can be used to insult someone.
If I were a sound, I’d be the entirety of Into The Groove. Only when I'm dancing can I feel this free.
If I were an element, I’d be iron. According to Wikipedia: 'a lustrous metallic with a greyish tinge'. Yeah that sounds about right.
If I were a car, I’d be a Nissan Micra or something equally nondescript. I don't 'do' or particularly 'get' cars.

If I were a food, I’d be a risotto. Looks healthy on the service but packed with all the bad, tasty stuff.
If I were a place, I’d be a market town that's seen better days.
If I were a material, I’d be cotton. I really couldn't bring myself to be a man-made fibre. Nothing good ever comes of them.
If I were a taste, I’d be bitter.
If I were a scent, I'd be, er, smelly?

Thank you to those who have read the blog over the years. It is not 'the end'; I am using the excuse of a new broom to hotfoot it over to WordPress and start anew with a fresh outlook.

It has been a pleasure.

Alone

2010-03-22T19:05:00.005Z

Most days my life just plods on and on, with little to report; the personification of a cosy local newspaper, reporting on lost dogs and garden fetes. Very occasionally, it can be exhilarating, with moments of madness and fun and laughter. And sometimes everything I touch turns to dust. Kingdoms fall, lives are ruined, spines cracked and stiff upper lips liquified as yet again I manage to turn from quiet observer to king destroyer. For a short time last month, it felt like the end of days: as if there were no possible way out. No light at the end of the tunnel, no calm following the storm, no peace.

There is, however, almost always a light at the end of the tunnel, and this case was no exception. And so it is after a tumultuous couple of months I find myself no longer as I was. I'm now living in my own flat and I'm single, staring back at the end of an eight-year relationship.

I won't write too much about the break-up itself as this is a blog, not a diary hidden underneath my bed, but it has been amicable and, at the same time, extremely sad. My former other half was truly that — the other half of me. We did practically everything together, had the same group of friends and got on better than any other relationship I have had. That he is no longer in the same space as me 24/7 will be hard to get used to. Although we have moved to the same area and will probably see a lot of each other, it will be different. We won't be together. It was an end that is right and true, but that is scant consolation for either of us.

Looking for a flat has never been a favourite pastime of mine. Letting agents and landlords alike tend to stress me out and there's nothing quite so soul-destroying as being shown yet another ghettoised shithole and being assured that this is all that is available in your price range. Househunting is an endurance test like no other. Obstacles fling themselves in front of you and days alternately last for ever and whizz by, clocks ticking and counting down the time when you will have to box up your life and throw it in the back of a van. Sorting through your crap is in turns cathartic and devastating. Every till receipt, coffee cup and tea towel transforms from an everyday object into something that, at some point, had great significance. This receipt is from the time I was overcharged and didn't want to cause a fuss; that coffee cup is the one he bought me that day when… and so it continues.

It's not just my dog-eared books and kitchen utensils that I'm sorting through and leaving behind. Looking back over the blog is like reading a childish manuscript and it's probably time to wrap things up. I'm not who I was. I'm neither lost, nor a boy, and while I am still in London, seeing it through single eyes is certainly going to change things.

And so this is my penultimate post on this blog. My swansong — which I am determined will be a HUGE anti-climax, just like everything else in life — is to follow shortly.

Me against the music

2010-02-10T14:27:00.002Z

I have had an MP3 player of some description for the last six years. I've been through about 3 iPods and am currently on an iPhone. Some of my songs have been on my iPod so long that I only have to hear the first millisecond before I know what it is. Whereas pre-MP3 I wouldn't have dreamed carrying around a 'Discman' or its tape-playing equivalent, the iPod and its fellow MP3 family members have made music accessible and instant and, unfortunately, easier to get sick to death of.

When I was a child, which wasn't that long ago (er, really? - Ed) unless you had a record player you didn't really get to hear the tunes you wanted. Listening to your favourites was restricted to half an hour of Top of the Pops and then snatches of the radio. Radio 1 was a dreadful old MOR bore for most of the early '80s and commercial radio had too many ads. Nevertheless, I could be found once or twice a week with my finger hovering expectantly over the record button, ready to tape Kylie's latest opus or a selection of T'Pau's back catalogue.

Now, of course, there are 17,045 (or something) radio stations and once a punter hears a song they might like, they have to do little more than head to YouTube to stream it, or go on countless music blogs to download it illegally or, if they're a bit boring, go on to music streaming sites like Spotify and hear the song over and over and over again. And they don't even have to rewind the tape, desperately trying to stop it at the right place to avoid hearing Bruno Brookes and his hilarious anecdotes which you'd accidentally recorded. Even children with no internet access can find music via their mobiles, whether it's downloaded or bluetoothed to them by a light-fingered friend.

Much like Heat and Closer and their stablemates giving us access all areas to celebrities has downgraded the value of being famous, so too has the ease of which music can be obtained make it less important. For many in their teens and early twenties, paying for all your music is an alien concept. While iTunes has revolutionised paid music downloads, it's still de rigueur for a large number of music lovers to seek out their favourites for free first. Now that you can get your hands on a track as soon as you've heard it, true 'event' singles and albums are a thing of the past. Who now would queue round the block for Oasis's Be Here Now? Nobody. They'll have all downloaded it from a filesharing site two weeks ago and heard for themselves how dreadful it was, at no cost to themselves save for their bleeding ears.

Attention spans are shrinking to such a degree that a song which would usually be played to death for a good couple of months is old hat after three weeks or so, thanks to permanent rotation on music channels and the repeat button on an iPod. As a result, the majority of my music library has now overstepped the mark and wandered from familiarity into contempt. Songs that were previously milk chocolate to my ears are now stale spotted dick and cold custard.

I love my MP3 player, and I love the fact I can listen to what I want, when I want. But I do desperately miss the feeling you get when you *finally* get to hear your favourite song on the radio. That and the excitement you get as, trembling in case you miss the intro, you gingerly press down the record button on your tape player so that the song is yours to keep for ever. Or at least until you get bored. Or your tape gets chewed. Stupid fucking tapes.

Daddy uncool

2010-01-23T12:42:00.003Z

I was absolutely horrified to read this article in The Times the other day. I don't have any problem with anyone who decides to 'change' their sexuality (if such a thing is even possible), but I don't really like the way that the newly-straight Patrick Muirhead is so quick to deride his one-time gay comrades. Now that Patrick has decided that he's into women, civil partnerships are "are little more than theatrical shams involving men making a point in matching wedding cravats, of embarrassed grandparents and monstrously camp multi-tier cakes" and he winces when "gays describe boyfriends as 'husbands', subverting a solemn institution created to provide stability for child-rearing". It seems that as well as a new-found predilection for vaginas, Mr Muirhead has acquired a new line in bigotry and thinly-veiled homophobia.

The catalyst for Patrick's switcheroo was a touching moment between a father and son in a barber's shop. Right then, he decided that he simply *must* have a child of his own, so that someone would love him unconditionally. Perhaps if he were a nicer person in real life, people would love him. But no, as if selecting a Gucci handbag, Mr Muirhead decided he needed a child. Not for him the long fought for gay adoption rights or artificial insemination which he describes as a "snook to the system of nature"; despite the fact there are millions of unwanted children in the world, Patrick is adamant that he should procreate, and it doesn't seem to matter who it's with.

He has been flirting with a woman in his local pub. No doubt she will be flattered to have been selected for impregnation by a former gay who has now decided at the drop of a hat to have a child. What about meeting someone and falling in love and letting nature takes its course? It's not gay parents defying nature, Patrick. It's you. There's nothing natural about the way you think that being homosexual is abnormal, simply because the majority don't practise it.

Patrick's attitude is coming across a bit like someone who's just given up smoking or split up with their lover. While you were puffing away on your cigarettes, polluting the air of everyone in the vicinity, smoking was the best thing ever and you don't care what people think. Once you've stubbed out your last fag, they suddenly become the work of the Devil, eliciting disgust and sanctimonious bleating to the smokers who still like to cram a B&H into their laughing gear. Now that Patrick has 'dumped' his erstwhile sexuality, it repels him. He no longer understands it. he fears it. He thinks it is wrong, especially now that he doesn't do it any more. What a guy.

Good luck to you with your new arrangement. Just don't kid yourself that life is going to be any more fulfilling because you've taken the 'normal' route.

I'm over '09

2010-01-10T18:58:00.001Z

2009 was the worst year of my life. I have no doubt about it. As a superlative, worst/ best X of one's life is over-used, especially by Simon Cowell on The X Factor when speaking about a very average audition. I'm not sure anyone who says that something was the worst experience of their life ever really means it. But I do. Here are nine things about 2009 that have been on my radar.

Katie and Peter
What was a thoroughly depressing and hideous partnership has now been transformed into a tiresome, excruciating break-up. Thanks to that, we've had to endure more Katie Price on TV, Peter André singing, the creation of Alex Reid, the takeover of ITV2 by afore-mentioned dunderheads. These are the last words I'll ever write about them. I hope other writers follow my lead.

Fearne meets...
Fearne Cotton is a multimedia migraine. Her radio show is shit, her adverts are shit, her various TV shows are, invariably, shit. It's not personal, but as a broadcaster she horrifies me. Everything is 'amazing'; her interview technique consists of scratching her head and going 'sooooooo...'; her voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and not in a good way. The pinnacle of her TV career has to be her ITV2 show (fucking ITV2 again!) where she 'met' 'celebrities'. The edition with Peaches Geldof was like watching two insane badgers eat, then regurgitate and then re-eat their own faeces. I use the word sparingly, but Peaches Geldof is undoubtedly one hell of a dumb cunt.

Losing my job
I was made redundant in April. I'd been at ITV for two years and thought it wouldn't be too hard to get another job. I thought wrong. I'm freelancing now, but summer was not a great time, except for the fact that I was as brown as a berry thanks to loafing around all day.

Being mad
Thanks to the above, I then went nut-nut and was diagnosed with clinical depression. Amazing, as Fearne Cotton would say. I am now on these bonkers drugs that make me not care about anything, which isn't as perfect as it sounds. I am 'OK' now but I do miss my old mind; we used to be so close.

MP expenses furore
The actual scandal didn't annoy me, it was the way it was reported as if it were an EastEnders plotline. I got very bored by it extremely quickly. Along with the bankers' bonus bollocks and people starting to like David Cameron, this really was the news nightmare of the year.

34
I'm thirty-four now. How the hell did that happen? To 'celebrate', my body decided to give me four coldsores for the big day. I am singlehandedly keeping Compeed (purveyors of coldsore patches) afloat.

Flying
I flew on planes FOUR times this year. That is quite an achievement for me. As for carbon footprint concerns, I didn't fly for a decade so I think I'm in credit there. Things I learned from flying: EasyJet sells raffle tickets; Air Malta food is nice; fat people like to sit next to me; passengers seem to save their smelliest shits for being airborne; I hate children.

Long hot summer
It was hot, it was long, it was summer. Before I went mad, I ran every day for miles and miles, sweating and panting like an overweight rapist. It was brilliant.

Festival
The Edinburgh Festival was brilliant this year. I drank enough pear cider to sink a battleship and saw some great acts.

2009, it's been emotional, but I am elated to see you finally fuck the hell off.

Leave your hat on

2009-12-08T12:49:00.000Z

The weather has been teasing us lately, in London at least. By rights it should be absolutely freezing but on stepping outside, it's become necessary to disrobe in the middle of the street, shedding layers of hoodie, scarf and jumper and thrusting them into my ever-bulging manbag. It won't last for ever of course, and when the cold really sets in, it's time to think about hats.

Hats and I have always had a very odd relationship. When I was a child I had a grey corduroy flat cap but growing up in a part of the country where wearing anything that didn't come from BHS was seen as outré, I was relentlessly mocked by my 'peers'. Reader, I cared not a jot outwardly, but inside I knew that hats are bound to get a reaction one way or another, so best to avoid them if you're not feeling up to defending your sartorial choices.

The biggest decision you have to make when thinking about shoving a hat on your bonce is whether you are willing to sacrifice having a hairstyle for the sake of style and/ or warmth (does anyone actually care about warmth over style? Surely not). Sadly, in the majority of cases, hat hair does not a good look make. There comes then the quandary: do you get a hairdo that won't look like a birds' nest every time you take your hat off, or do you brave the elements and miss out on an amazing accessory because you simply can't part with your Jedward mega-quiff?

For the last two years, I've had to go hat-free, as my barnet has got in the way. Long before those impish Irish twins were murdering pop classics on TV every week, I too had something of a quiff, held in place by ozone-hostile hairspray, industrial strength gel, wires, scaffolding- I'm sure you get the picture. Endless backcombing, primping and product application went into producing that hairstyle, and I was darned if I was going to see it crushed like Jedward's X Factor ambitions just for the sake of a tatty old titfer.

This year, however, my statuesque hairdon't has gone and has been replaced by a much more hat-loving style. I can neither confirm nor deny that this is due to short hair making one look younger, but I digress. I had a train driver style cap a few years ago when I had neck-length hair, and they're great, but when you've got short hair, those hats make your head look like a little pea rolling around your shoulders.

The answer then is the trusty flat cap. While I'm unlikely to ever recreate the amazingness of my childhood grey corduroy number, I'm looking forward to planting one firmly on my head and then, of course, whipping it off in full confidence that I don't look like I've stuck my fingers in a plug socket. Hats off to winter, indeed.

It's a Royal knockout

2009-12-02T11:50:00.003Z

For possibly the first time ever, I feel a little sorry for the Queen at the moment. Usually she's quite dour of face and looks like she wouldn't be a great deal of fun, but I suppose if the world and his wife is intent on documenting your every move, past and present, before you're even dead, then you probably wouldn't have much reason to smile.

Channel 4 is currently running a series of 'docudramas' (cringe) about Her Maj, interspersing a load of people who aren't really pretty enough for telly waffling on about things that have happened with highly-fictionalised scenes from the Queen's life played by actors.

It's an odd show. Obviously, despite the red tops' headlines about her, the Queen herself is a relatively private person. Not for her the confessional autobiographies, tell-all tabloid freakshow or breakdown on her own reality programme. The writers have had to rely on third, fourth and probably fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth-hand accounts of what actually went on. And it shows. Boy, does it show.

I missed the first one which dealt with the oft-trodden path of Princess Margaret's scandalous affair with a divorced man. When drama The Queen's Sister tackled this, they wisely left the Queen out of it, instead opting to have her opinion out across by way of a highly-dramatised Prince Philip. The second one, dealing with the kidnapping attempt of Princess Anne in the 1970s, was my first glimpse. I suppose it could have been quite an interesting subject: the ridiculous audacity of the potential kidnapper and also the high drama that went with it. Channel 4, however, chose to pad out the story with Princess Anne and the Queen having little heart-to-hearts as if they were EastEnders characters chewing the fat not in the smoky confines of the Queen Vic but in the hallways of Buckingham Palace and in full view of about 100 servants. I'm not saying that the Queen talks like she's making a speech 24-7 but the pure soapiness of it all beggared belief. Even more incredible was a later scene that saw the Queen doing the washing up while Harold Wilson dried the dishes! What next? Camilla Parker-Bowles shouting 'I love you!' at Charles during his wedding? Perhaps the Queen could reveal at a state banquet that Philip is not Anne's father, or that she has been having an affair with the President of France, while everyone else has been eating Christmas dinner unawares.

Movies like The Queen and Frost/Nixon have accelerated the trend for 'real life' dramas. Fantasy and fiction aren't enough any more; nobody can be bothered trying to connect to new characters unless they can read about them in the paper every day. In order to survive, drama has had to follow the path beaten by gameshows and reality TV before it. Ordinary, average Joes don't pull in the viewers any more and with new celebrities being created at a rate of knots, it's easier than ever to fill a house or a jungle with a load of Z-listers or populate primetime gameshows with famous contestants.

And now it's drama's turn. Now film-makers don't even have the grace to wait until their subjects are dead before trivialising and soapifying their lives. The episode which documented the rift between Margaret Thatcher and the Queen was preposterous, more akin to a bitchfight between Alexis Colby and Krystle Carrington than a major constitutional sticking point. And beyond a wig, the actors don't even try that hard to be like the people they portray. We've heard the Queen speak, right? Are we really supposed to believe that once the cameras are off she lapses into a Home Counties brogue? Perhaps they thought that as long as they sounded 'a bit posh' they'd be OK. Team that with the clumsy dialogue and you've got an episode of Corrie that's dripping in jewels.

We are not amused, chuck.

Oh Christmas tree

2009-11-24T19:20:00.001Z

My Christmas tree is up. News of this has been met with mixtures of amazement, derision and gentle ribbing by my friends, but this is actually quite late by my standards: I once put the tree up on Hallowe'en. It looks great. Lots of red and gold and a bit of ribbon and new lights.

I am quietly looking forward to Christmas. I have no idea why: it'll be my poorest one since I was a student and, being a freelancer, any time off is not only a break from work but also a break from earning. My Christmas shopping plans have been scaled back to a level of extravagance that would have a battery chicken rolling its eyes and the train journey back to Yorkshire is costing me an arm or a leg. And yet... I can't wait.
Perhaps it's something to do with having a bit of a weird year.

I've surprised myself at how much I've been enthusiastic about the festive season. Usually I spend the preceding weeks pacing up and down shopping areas all over London, whingeing and cursing at the crowds of people and sneering shop assistants. I also be,oan the fact that my birthday is at Christmas, therefore stealing from me the feeling of having a birthday that people actually care about. But now, I think I'm finally over it.

This year, I actually went to watch the Christmas lights in the West End being turned on. And I made an 'ooh' noise when they were! I grinned like a fat bloke who's just bought a Mars bar when the seasonal red cups came out at Starbucks and have indulged in more dark cherry mochas than my purse strings would usually allow. What a capitalist pig I am!

Call it going soft in my old age, or desperately trying to find something positive, but I'm 'up for' Christmas in a way that I'm finding strange yet exciting.

This Christmas might just be the merriest yet.

The future's so bright, I've got to wear shades

2009-11-21T18:04:00.001Z

I have never wanted to be famous. I can't understand what the attraction is. Loads of people you don't know loving or hating you, or even worse being aware of you and totally indifferent to you. While I don't want to *be* famous, I quite like *feeling* famous. Now, short of going on Big Brother or murdering someone, I'm not likely to be catapulted into public consciousness, but there is a really easy way to get that 'celeb feeling': wear sunglasses when you don't need to.

Yeah, I know. You run the risk of people mocking you or thinking you love yourself but so what? At least they're noticing you, right? Lots of people think celebrities are up themselves for wearing shades whatever the weather, but there are actually three very good reasons for doing so. First of all, a picture is worth less if you can't see the eyes. Secondly, your eyes can let you down on a photo. If you blink or roll your eyes, you look drunk or stupid or both. Finally, it's practical: with all those flashbulbs going off in your face, your little peepers need all the protection they can.

Another extra little bonus is that it's a scientific fact that everybody looks around 45% hotter in sunglasses. If your eyes are a bit wonky or too small, just bang your shades on and voilà! You're a sex bomb.

Of course it's important to get it right. I don't care how fashionable they are, but wayfarers only work in summer. I also happen to think wayfarers are a load of shit and make the wearer look like an ugly fashion victim but hey, each to their own, right? Bright colours are also out unless you want to look like a fat American fresh off a flight from Florida. Keep it understated and effortlessly cool. Aviators are timeless and a celebrity favourite. They look good on almost everybody (if your face is too thin, avoid them or you'll look like a fly) and work in any weather system. For extra celebrity sparkle, a gold-rimmed pair are just the ticket. People will ask for your autograph.

As for the lenses, mirrored are not a good look. Think of it from the celebrity angle: flashbulbs would reflect in them and make your eyes look like torches. Not great. Your lenses need to be tinted just enough so that you can almost but not quite see the eyes. This allows you to check out the hotties without being discovered.

The only time the shades need to come off are:

- indoors
- at night
- when it's raining

Wearing them in a bar is OK during the day as long as there are big windows letting in light. At night, you just look like a twat. Or Stevie Wonder. Wearing them on the tube is OK. Why not? At least then you don't have to pretend not to make eye contact. Stare as much as you like! Sporting sunnies when it's raining is social death: you don't want to spend the entire day wiping off speckles of drizzle with a tissue like a nerd. Oh and don't wear them in the house. Even Victoria Beckham doesn't do that.

Let them laugh, let them stare. You look fantastic. Like a superstar.

Ribbed for my pleasure

2009-11-17T22:59:00.003Z

Corduroy. A band. A material. Something I hadn't considered for years.

I've been getting a little sick of the monopoly jeans have over my lower half. Sure they come in different colours and go with pretty much anything, but as anyone caught in the pouring rain on Saturday will tell you, the feel of wet denim clinging to your nether regions is neither pleasurable nor practical.

Although I've avoided corduroy for quite a while now, being told that for a new job I couldn't wear blue jeans in the office posed a bit of a problem. Sure I could wear my aubergine or grey skinnies, but they're a little bit 'nightclub' and not so much 'I am a responsible person and you were right to give me this contract'. I went into central London yesterday with the idea of buying black jeans to solve my problem, but only encountered more difficulties.

Black jeans only seem to exist in two distinct types. First of all you have your superdark, never-washed black jeans. They're not unfashionable, but look ever so slightly like formal trousers hanging loose at the weekend. You know the type, the 'cool, up-for-it dad' who wears a suit at work all week but really likes to chill out in his immaculately ironed ebony denim. Then you've got your distressed/ faded side of the family. Unless you're buying them from quite an expensive retailer, they just never look right. Either they've been so distressed that they look like you accidentally spilled bleach on them or they are so ridiculously faded they appear to have been hanging in a shop window since Prince William's christening. What can look so good on blue jeans can look so bad on their darker cousins.

So the avenue of black jeans was a cul de sac. I wandered around the shops dolefully, bemoaning not only my lack of imagination when it comes to buying trousers but also the stupidity of clothing manufacturers unable to read my mind and run me up a little something that would be ready by the time I stepped off the tube. Just as I was about to admit defeat, I spotted out of the corner of my eye some cords. Cords to me always conjure up memories of a particularly unlovely pair I had when I was eight. They were aubergine-coloured and were made out of really jumbo corduroy material. I had a growth spurt soon after their purchase but was forced by my mother to wear them anyway: a look that now graces almost every street corner in London, yes, but half-mast trousers was social death when I was growing up.

I picked the cords up and looked at them. They were a very nice grey colour. A kind of mid-grey with a touch of silver. Could I? Should I? I resolved to try them on. I then spotted their neighbour, another pair of cords but this time blue. Navy blue. Slim fitting. Navy blue cords? Really? I picked them up and then picked the next size up as well, just in case I had put on weight thanks to that dark cherry mocha I'd had earlier.

I tried on the grey pair first. You have to be careful with cords at my age. Jeans, for most people, have an air of cool. They're the rebel's uniform, look better ripped and tugged and beaten. They're wild nights out in scuzzy bars, crumpled fivers and triple vodkas. Cords to me evoke buzzwords like 'geography teacher', 'reformed sex offender', 'just one more cup of Ovaltine' and 'comfy'. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked good. Next came the navy pair. Also good. I turned round. Ass looked good. All seemed to be in order. Reader, I bought both pairs.

Today was my first day in corduroy for about seven years, when I finally threw away two pairs of bootcut monstrosities (one black, one brown) that I'd worn for work, an act which came two years after throwing out more brown and black pairs (skinny fit this time) for being too vile for words. Teaming them with a pair of desert boots and a polo shirt in a fetching shade of aubergine I made my way to work and I have to say, I kinda liked it. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I felt very much my age but, even if I do say so myself, still looked OK. Pretty good in fact. I'm fine with that.

The pipe and slippers, though, will have to wait.

How the other half live

2009-10-21T09:52:00.002Z

TV presenters poking their noses into the lives of Joe Public is nothing new. From telling them what to wear to noseying through their worthless heirlooms via picking apart their home decor and repainting everything in terracotta, the fascination with telling the viewing public what to do has been a staple of mainstream TV for years.

Recently, however, this has taken a new turn. Now we see a worrying trend where the super-rich are being encouraged to have a prod and a poke at some of the country's most unfortunate citizens. A few years ago, politician Michael Portillo attempted to 'raise' a family on benefits for a TV experiment. He was followed by fellow MP Ann Widdecombe raking through the 'lifestyles' of prostitutes and other unfortunates of society.

These invasive shows have now moved up another gear, with Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York, slumming it on an estate in Hull and nodding and smiling in all the right places as decades of desperation and misery are laid out in front of her. Last week saw iconic soap bitch and notorious Concorde and Champagne devotee Joan Collins commissioning a Bentley and zooming down to Plymouth to inject a bit of glamour into the tired lives of three women. It was hard to tell whether Joan's facial expression was due to bemusement or the years of surgical assistance her line-free visage has enjoyed, but as she quizzed drunk locals about their tattoos, I got the distinct feeling Joanie was out of her depth. Joanie's prescription for glamour seemed to involve going to Primark and picking out outfits she wouldn't be seen dead in. La Collins freely admitted that she shopped in M&S occasionally, but when pressed by her charges into revealing her other favourite shops, she had to confess they'd be more likely to line Bond Street than be found in a gloomy shopping precinct.

Just a week after Joan's relatively harmless crusade to wring glamour out of a New Look cardigan, TV is at it again. '7 Days on the Breadline' takes four famous faces and uproots them from their various bases in LA or London and plonks them in the middle of some of the roughest areas of Leeds, a city I know quite well.

Spice Girl Mel B, fashion fascist Trinny Woodall, rugby player and Strictly Come Dancing twinkletoes Austin Healy and, er, bon viveur Keith Allen have all taken up residence in council estates across the city for a so-called social experiment. Mel has been left in charge of a family of five with just benefits to see her through. Trinny has been paired up with a remarkable elderly lady who sleeps on the sofa as she can't manage the stairs. Austin is with a smaller family who seem to be relatively well-off, but the elder son smokes dope. Finally, Keith Allen is head of the household with a slew of boisterous boys (and one girl) to look after.

We're only one episode in, and this opener was mainly taken up with the celebs meeting their new 'projects' and being shown round their modest abodes. Trinny's pensioner, fantastically, didn't have a clue who she was which knocked the wind out of the style guru's sails. Trinny's not doing too well at fitting in: she was a liability when taken to the local bingo hall and she gasped in horror at the 'all you can eat' Chinese buffet she was taken to afterwards. To her credit, she did unflinchingly empty a commode- albeit down the kitchen SINK rather than the toilet; my mother would have been HORRIFIED- and seemed to genuinely feel empathy for her buddy. Perhaps her 'journey' will be the most revealing.

Elsewhere, Mel B sported an array of lurid tracksuits so she could stand out even more, endured endless catcalls from passing cars and bizarrely seemed to think that free gym memberships for all the brood would help lift them out of their doldrums. That Mel has been in LA too long was clear to see. She asked the extremely reticent children for hugs and spouted forth about 'getting to know each other' and forced family meals upon her squirming, embarrassed charges. All very admirable, but totally alien to your average Leeds youth.

Keith walked around his new home in abject horror, fighting a losing battle to clean and tidy it. The teenagers in his family cause trouble at school so they get sent home. They say they want to join the army. Keith doesn't quite know what to say so re-arranges the kitchen. A shopping trip to Asda is excruciating as Keith peers at every food's origin or fat content before putting anything in the trolley, pushed by a resentful teen who'd rather be in bed.

Austin's faring a little better so far. His works has thus consisted of gruffly calling in the teens for dinner and then having big manly chats about 'cannabis' over the meal, the awkwardness of his words ringing off the walls like a pealing church bell.

But why do we need these programmes? Do we need famous people undergoing a culture shock to make serious social issues more appealing, more entertaining? Would a hard-hitting documentary be roundly ignored?

Are these shows really highlighting the plight of the 7 million people who live below the breadline in the UK and bringing it into the wider consciousness? Or are we enjoying a little bit of poverty tourism, where we can watch in horror at the celebrities picking their way through dirty washing, thanking our lucky stars that we can afford our little luxuries? Before switching off and thinking about something else entirely.

The great pretender

2009-10-17T11:34:00.003Z

I generally think of myself as someone as devoid of bad habits. If anyone asks me what my worst habit might be, I say something really boring like "Oh I can be really untidy" or similar.

Of course, I have thousands of bad habits, but I prefer to think of them as quirks. I mean, what does actually constitute a bad habit? It's something you do regularly that other people might think is, er, bad. Right? Whereas you think it's perfectly fine. While I no doubt share some of my habits with others- nose picking, bottom-scratching that kind of thing- one of my 'worst' habits is also one of my favourites and I know I can't be alone in doing it. Put very simply, I always- and I mean ALWAYS- pretend I haven't seen someone when I have, in fact, spotted them ages ago. In any occasion. Let me explain.

Scenario 1: I have arranged to meet a friend at a pre-designated spot. If I arrive first, I will wait patiently. As I see them approach, I will stare into middle-distance. If they wave madly enough, I *may* break at this point and allow a flicker of recognition- if only to stop them making utter idiots of themselves- but usually I will wait until they are practically on top of me before I acknowledge their presence. If I am second to arrive, I will march ahead determinedly toward our meeting spot, even if they attempt all manner of waving, jumping up and down, calling out (which makes me cringe as I hate being hollered at in the street) or- God forbid- whistling. I do not flinch until I am relatively close and even then offer only a small smile of acknowledgement. I don't know why I behave like this. Sometimes I get a tiny wave of pleasure as I look impassively at their vain attempts at attracting my attention. It's not normal, is it?

Scenario 2: I am 'out and about' and see someone I know. If I am in the street, walking past them, I will usually let them go by (unless it's a good friend; I'm generally talking about acquaintances here). I will try my best to avoid eye contact and do my good old middle-distance peering at some non-existent point of interest way off beyond their shoulder. If they stop me, well, that's all well and good, but if they don't, I don't and we float on and get on with the rest of our lives. If I'm at a party and I arrive, I will pretend I've not seen the host- or indeed anyone else of interest- until they come right up to me. If someone arrives 'fashionably late', in other words shamelessly attention-seeking, I will simply look the other way or become particularly engrossed in whatever conversation I'm having until it becomes unavoidable, whereupon I will call on my best acting skills and act surprised to see them.

I suppose this quirk is now too ingrained in me now and I will never be free of it. I'm sure that everyone does it at some point or another, if not with my startling regularity. If you do happen to see me in the street, don't feel you have to say hello; I can hardly blame you. Just so long as you know that I have seen you. And I saw that you saw me too.

41 things

2009-10-12T21:17:00.003Z

I have not done a meme for what seems like an eternity. Lubin Odana did one and urged me to do the same. I have to say that a lot of my answers would have been very similar to his, so in those cases I chose another answer to make it more 'interesting' for the 3 people and 17 spambots who glance at this blog de temps en temps.

1) My mother once: told me to leave my hometown as soon as I was able. It was sound advice
2) Never in my life: will I understand tax
3) When I was five: my hair was bright golden blond
4) High school was a: Grammar School where I come from. I hated every second.
5) I will never forget: the feeling of leaving home. Horror, excitement, fear, scheming
6) I once met: the Cheeky Girls
7) There's this person I know who: is a rampant Tory. I really like her but it disturbs me intensely. I fear Tories.
8) Once, at a bar: I had my first drink. I kind of wish I hadn't bothered.
9) By noon I'm usually: weary.
10) Last night I: drank a bottle of prosecco and ate olives
11) If only I had: not been quite so cautious when I was younger
12) Next time I go to church/temple: I will be at yet another bloody wedding
13) Terri Schiavo: I don't know who this is
14) I like: bread but it doesn't like me
15) When I turn my head left, I see: my kitchen. I think officially it's a 'kitchenette', but sadly that word has died out, it would seem
16) When I turn my head right, I see: my a lamp I paid £2 for from Asda
17) You know I'm lying when: I'm overly enthusiastic
18) In junior school: I should've hit back more
19) If I was a character written by Shakespeare: I would be scenery
20) By this time next year I: will be almost 35, which I find in turns amusing and horrifying
21) A better name for me would be: something else beginning with J. No-one ever used to get my name right when I was a child
22) I have a hard time: a lot of the time
23) If I ever go back to school, I'll: ditch Spanish and English Literature A-levels and do the ones I actually wanted to do
24) You know I like you if: I start being affectionately rude to you
25) If I won an award, the first person I'd thank would be: Mummy!
26) I hope that: the Tories never 'get back in' again
27) Take my advice: don't bother smoking. It really stinks and make you look UGLY
28) My ideal breakfast is: porridge, no sugar, no honey, no nothing
29) A song I love but do not have is: yet to exist
30) If you visit my home town, I suggest: Valium and blinkers
31) Tulips, character flaws, microchips and track stars: Is this a lyric?
32) Why won't anyone: instantly 'get me'? Getting to know people is boring and hard work
33) If you spend the night at my house you'd have to: not bitch about me drinking decaffeinated tea. Seriously, Starbucks is >>> that way if you're one of those dullards who needs caffeine to inject a bit of verve into you
34) I'd stop my wedding: I actually wouldn't start my wedding
35) The world could do without: parsnips, fennel and celery
36) I'd rather lick the belly of a roach than: not be right
37) My favourite thing is: out there somewhere
38) Paper clips are more useful than: Angelina Jolie and any magazine she graces the cover of
39) And by the way: If I want your opinion, I'll give it to you
40) The last time I was (really) drunk: I woke up feeling absolutely fine
41) My grandmother always: adored me. Both of them did. Much to the consternation of my cousins. I still smile about it now. Ha.

I got you babe

2009-10-03T10:24:00.003Z

Like loads of other people too tight or anti-Murdoch to get Sky, I had to retune my Freeview box the other day. It’s said that some viewers may have been confused as to how to do it or might forget, but I find that hard to believe, given that every time I turned the TV on or changed channel, a reminder would flash up. It still flashes up now, even though I’ve already done it. Match that with alarmist stories in the press about Freeview boxes blowing up and very patronising news reports where a journalist would stand in a Currys (I wanted to write Rumbelows there for creative effect, but it doesn’t exist any more does it? Sounded better though) giving a slow, step-by-step guide on how to press two buttons on your Freeview remote, and surely everyone was in the know.

Since retuning, I have noticed only two differences. A few channels have switched themselves around, moving down a few ‘doors’ in some kind of telly channel house swap. The other thing I’ve noticed, and it’s difficult *not* to notice, is that there are now FIVE channels in a row dedicated to a usually devastatingly-unattractive female rubbing her minge on a pillow. Yes, I now have Babestation!

I’ve seen Babestation before, many years ago. I used to share a flat with a guy for whom masturbation was the only sexual option he was ever likely to have. He had two boxes of Kleenex by his bed and his last girlfriend was such a distant memory, all his photos of their time together were sepia-tinted. He was the first person I’d ever known who had ‘Sky Digital’ as it was then called. I would come home from work or doing something much more interesting to find him watching Babestation. It then consisted of two women reading out texts from pathologically lonely bank tellers and deputy managers of leading supermarket chains. Occasionally they’d lick their lips or plump their (always blond) hair. And that was that really. Endless hours of waving to ‘Gary’ or ‘Steve’ in a tight top. I admired the girls in a way. It really was money for old rope.

Fast forward ten years later and Babestation is a different animal. In fact, animal is probably the best way to describe it. As I’m working late evenings at the moment, I’m getting in at around two-thirty in the morning, so perhaps it’s not quite so bad at other times, but at that time of the morning, Babestation has gone on to the next level. And it’s not an upward journey.

There’s a lady. Oh she’s got no top on. She’s got two or three tattoos. Her boobs are VERY round and look like they’ve been stuck on. Her hair extensions are a bit frazzled. Ooh look she’s on the phone, but I can’t hear her speaking. She’s lying on her back and humping the air in the sheerest, flimsiest of thongs ever. I can see bits of her that even she’s probably not investigated in any depth. Oh where’s she putting her hands? Oh no is she going to put them insi… hmm no she’s not she’s just putting them ‘tantalisingly’ close to the band of her ‘panties’. Now she’s turning over and is on all fours. Her boobs look like huge oranges. They look quite painful actually. The skin is stretched over them like a bad facelift. They’re straining to escape. Now she’s lying flat and, oh, she’s having sex with a pillow with mad, forceful thrusts. Now she’s stopped. Now she’s thrusting again. Now she’s stopped. A lick of the lips. She’s just put her boob in her mouth. It appears that she’s not some bored housewife entertaining herself while she’s holding the line to the British Gas call centre: there’s someone on the phone telling her what to do. As she replies to the mystery caller, her face contorts in what I imagine she thinks are sexy expressions but in fact she looks spiteful, as if she’s telling him what a small penis he has. I wonder what her voice is like. Strong, dominating, persuasive and sexy? Husky and sensual?

I soon find out. After a few calls, the gyrating lady will be tossed a microphone which allows her to speak to us, in order to entice more viewers to call her. She sounds like the woman who does the tannoy announcements in a Stockport Asda. “Yeah hi guys I’m Stacey and I’m really lookin for-wood to talkin to you. Call me now for some sexy chat.” If you get bored of the Stockport senorita, you can always ‘flick’ on to the next channel to watch a slightly thinner girl with huger breasts or a more curvy girl with extra tattoos. The last couple of babealicious channels are in fact Babestation imitators with what viewers might think are less attractive ladies- they don’t have hair extensions and their bodies aren’t like melons glued to a pencil.

At the moment, while the girls are topless and thrusting, nothing particularly sexual is happening. I’m already desensitised to the sight of Stacey rubbing her knock-off Janet Regers on velour cushions, so to her regular viewers it must be as sexy as watching Corrie. Eventually, perhaps with the promise of an extra fiver, the knickers will have to come off and then, perhaps a year or two down the line, God knows what will be going God knows where.

I’ll have to check back on them in 2019.

You old bag

2009-09-14T17:36:00.000Z

I have to admit: I haven't been particularly environmentally-friendly in my life. As a teenager I would look out of the window on endless car journeys through identical country landscapes and long for the glowing light of a Sainsbury's or McDonald's to break up the monotony. In my twenties I would gleefully throw everything away as soon as I was bored with it, even if it wasn't broken, and glass bottle after glass bottle would be chucked merrily straight into the bin without nary a thought.

In the last few years or so, though, things have changed. Along with the extra fine lines and the greying sides, I'm growing something I never thought I'd see. Yes, I think I'm getting a conscience.

It started slowly. I started to stack bottles by the side of the sink to be taken to the recycling point. I would agonise about what kind of product to get based on whether it had too much packaging or not. And now my attentions have turned to bags. Plastic bags, the scourge of the supermarket. Being anti-bag is nothing new. Various newspapers have been campaigning against them for quite a while and checkout staff have long been trying to put off patrons from loading up their solitary onion in a thick, glossy shopper by a) charging for them and b) offering loyalty card points for bringing your own. I have quite a few of these 'bags for life' as they like to call themselves. When I forget to take them to the supermarket I mentally flagellate myself to a degree that would make an Opus Dei devotee wince. If I forget the bag whe I pop over to the 'local' supermarket- a three-aisle nightmare with queues that stretch to the Norfolk Broads and only one type of everything, all premium brands with sky-high prices- I refuse a plastic bag and play a dangerous game of avoiding A-road traffic while balancing 'ingredients' in my arms, biting my lip in concentration as they wriggle and jiggle like a coughing baby. It's like being on an 'extreme' version of Ready Steady Cook.

Not everyone shares my bag guilt. I went into a well-known supermarket the other day and bought a small, plastic bottle of water (plastic! Again! Why *do* I hate Mother Earth so?) and was offered a free bag for it. This is the same chain that, in other branches when I am buying an obscene amount of groceries for over-inflated prices, charges for bags even if you have no choice but to have one. This isn't just any old double standard, this is a 'world-famous brand' double standard.

The harsh reality

2009-08-28T09:56:00.001Z

The demise of Big Brother has gained a large amount of coverage in the press. Channel 4's decision not to renew the show's run beyond its 11th series in 2010 seems to have been portrayed in various media outlets as a victory for quality programming and the death knell for the so-called reality TV genre.

In fact, Channel 4 haven't 'axed' Big Brother as such. They've just decided that when the current contract runs out, they won't be renewing. The lights in the Big Brother house won't be dimming for the final time until this time next year, so it's hardly the whipping off the airwaves that some would have you believe. The reality genre has mutated many times during its lifespan. From a gentle start filming families and workers going about their daily business, to the artificial environments created by shows like Big Brother and I'm A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here, the genre has made heroes and villains out of a cast of thousands, has been going strong for the last 40 years or so and shows no signs of stopping, despite Big Brother preparing for its swansong.

I never really saw Big Brother as a reality show. Despite its early insistences that it was a social experiment, it was essentially a gameshow, at best a personality contest. The first two series did have a factor of the unknown about them: in the first, nobody thought so many people would be watching; in the second, nobody truly thought anyone would bother to watch it again. As production teams, sponsors and TV executives got wise to the revenue-generating power and PR potential of the show, the format was tweaked, contestants manipulated and the editing process polished to sway the viewing public. The role of playing God moved after the fourth series from the viewers themselves to the producers.

Even people who don't watch Big Brother have something to say about. Remember John Humphrys's frankly embarrassing tirade against Big Brother and the reality genre in the McTaggart lecture at the Edinburgh TV Festival back in 2004? Denouncing the show as damaging, he was forced to admit a little later that he was not a regular viewer of the show. Most of the show's detractors don't actually watch it and the loudest calls for its removal from the airwaves are often from those who are already doing something better with their time when it's on. I stopped watching it three series' ago when the casting stopped being to my personal taste. I've seen three episodes of the current run and and am a little glad I haven't tuned into the whole thing, although I still found myself intrigued by the goings-on. It's quite an investment of time and energy and I don't think it's worth it to me any more.

That said, it does have an audience and is a massive hit with the 18-22 age group. As new generations grow up with Big Brother, there's still mileage in the brand and the potential cast is getting bigger and bigger. That Channel 4 has decided to have a creative rethink and focus on making dramas that the 18-22 year-olds currently glued to that slot will avoid is a brave move. Much braver than deciding not to renew a show that still generates revenue. Only time will tell if they've made the right decision. Five and Sky have so far denied that they have any interest in producing the show, but I doubt we've seen the last of Big Brother. Someone, somewhere is watching and waiting and when the time is right, he'll be back.

I lift my cup

2009-08-25T18:15:00.003Z

I am usually late to any party, be it a mix and mingle at the neighbours' or the figurative kind. One particular party I'm rather glad I wasn't on time for was the viral video phenomenon that is 2 Girls 1 Cup. Friends have been banging on about it for years and I had always resisted watching it. Last night. however, I had something in a lull in my sanity and decided to premiere it in my very own living room. I won't 'spoil' it for anyone who's not seen it yet, but it does involve poo. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone, but go on YouTube and search for reaction videos: you'll get the general idea from the looks on the faces of the millions who've taped themselves watching it. The internet really *is* a load of shit, on this occasion at least.

I have always had a very weak stomach. As a child I would have to stand outside butchers' shops as the smell of dead animal sent to me into convulsions. Dog poo on the shoe- an all-too-frequent occurrence- would leave me speechless with fear and even the scent of a lemon meringue made me lose my breakfast all over the dining hall as 7-year-old. There was a boy who lived on my street for whom a weak stomach was simply not an issue. He, allegedly, had no sense of smell or taste; or if he did it was severely impaired. He had no fear, giving the bullies of the area ample fodder. All manner of dares would be batted his way and he would take part in them without flinching. This will of iron apparently extended to him putting faeces in his mouth, lending him the nickname of 'Shit Eater'. Being so young at the time, I can't remember if I ever saw him actually doing this, but the image has stayed with me. And every time I think of it, I heave. Watching 2 Girls 1 Cup brought it all flooding back. Ugh. Although I must admit a sadistic pleasure in watching my other half view it for the first time; I laughed for about a decade. And filmed it. What's wrong with me?!

And don't even get me *started* on 2 Girls 1 Finger. I don't think any amount of therapy will mindwipe that monstrosity.

When extra toppings go bad

2009-08-13T21:47:00.001Z

When you eat out, getting a little bit extra is always good. A bigger portion is always a nice surprise, but when your added bonus has dropped from the chef's head, the fun factor decreases significantly.

While in Edinburgh (I was in Edinburgh last week; did I mention it?), I stopped at a cafe for lunch with my other half and a friend. Unless you're laying out £££ for a spendy meal or in a half-decent restaurant, Edinburgh's not that great for food, especially lunches. When I lived there, hours would be spent counting off places to eat on our fingers as we dismissed every bar and cafe in the city because of some previous horrific experience. Either that or we would trudge around sulking at the lack of decent eateries and bemoaning the fact that we had had dreadful lunches from one end of town to the other. Things aren't much better in London, but at least we haven't exhausted every place just yet.

So we sat down and after waiting a while to be seen, we ask for menus. I liked up and down the menu with trepidation, picturing in my head as I read the words the limp-lettuced salads, greasy paninis and uninspiring burgers. Having plumped for a chicken burger, I was most surprised around three quarters of the way through it to find a coarse black hair poking out of the bun and waving at me. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Hair still there. More blinking ensued, but my burger refused to lose its burgeoning toupée. I started to feel a bit awkward. There was no way the burger was going anywhere near my mouth again, but I'd eaten quite a lot of it already. If I complained, would they think I was trying it on?

I bit the bullet and complained, as quietly as possible so as not to alert other diners of the possibility of finding something furry in their lunch. The waitress didn't seem to be that bothered. I said I'd like it taken off my bill. She went away and returned some minutes later saying they wouldn't take it off the bill but would make me another one. As we were with a friend, I didn't want to make a scene. I had something of a dilemma here. If I refused the new burger and demanded it be removed from the bill, it would embarrass my friend. If I refused the burger and paid for the hairy one, it was (to me) and admission that I had been trying it on and had put the hair in myself. If I took the new burger, I would have to eat it. I took the burger. I wish I'd complained now; the second one was even ranker than the first and just came on its own as they'd thrown my fries and salad away with its hairy predecessor.

I'm not a serial complainer but I do hate being ripped off. Was I unreasonable on asking for it to be removed from the bill? Should I just let it go and move on? Yes, I think I should.

The gentle touch

2009-08-12T13:25:00.002Z

When I was in Edinburgh, I read an interview with comedienne Laura Solon where she said that people-watching wasn't a good way to get the basis for a comic act, as people don't tend to do very much when out in public. I couldn't agree more: people-watching is fun for the very first few minutes, but beyond that, you're just watching people walk past you.

What struck me about the article wasn't Ms Solon's observations, but the fact that throughout the article, she was referred to as a 'comedian' or 'comic'; the word 'comedienne' didn't get a look in. It's becoming increasingly common to ignore the feminine variants of roles these days. Actresses prefer to be called actors and even waitress seems to be slipping from favour.

I seem to remember reading some years ago that these words have been dropped as they're seen as sexist and women prefer not to have the gender distinction made. I'm not a woman, so it's not for me to say what they should and shouldn't be called, but as someone who loves words, I have to say that I would hate to see the death of comedienne, actress and waitress and all their fellow feminine words. Not only do they look better written down, they also sound more interesting and exotic when you say them out loud. If you put the emphasis on the second syllable of actor, it sounds almost sneery, mocking. Say it. Act-or. Act-OR. Not particularly affectionate, is it? The word actress, however, doesn't take any shit. You just can't mock it.

I speak French and one of the things I love about the language is that it has masculine and feminine words. In English we say 'calculator', which, if you translated directly into French using the rule that 'or' = 'eur', would make 'calculateur'. This version of the word does exist but the French prefer to girlify the common old calculator and now she's a 'calculatrice' and thus, if you want to be all literal and turn it back into English, 'calculatress'. A calculator plods its way through your mathematical problems: it's dependable but functional and essentially a dullard. Your calculatress, however, tears her way through your logarithms, destroys your algebra and polishes off your myriad multipications without so much as breaking a nail. She's the Alexis Carrington of the mathematical world.

While I accept that roles which define men and women may be a barrier to gender equality, I dare say lexicographers nationwide are going to miss those lovely ladies.

Stresstival

2009-08-10T19:24:00.000Z

I have just got back from a short break in Scotland. I spent a few days in Carnoustie with my dad and his wife, but the rest of my break was taken up with the very serious business in doing as much of the Edinburgh Festival as possible. I have had a strange relationship with the festival over the years: I lived in Edinburgh for a few years from the late nineties and used to find the festival something of an inconvenience. Save for the odd show, the only goods I'd get out of the festival would be the extended opening hours of bars and clubs and, er, getting to know the strangers in town for the event. Edinburgh really is consumed by the festival throughout August: the population swells and the whole city is unrecognisable, transformed from a grey, proud capital into a fun, boisterous place. Dour grannies make way for enthusiastic performers and the place is all the better for it.

It is more or less a tradition for permanent residents of Edinburgh to hate the festival, at least outwardly. The influx of RP accents and bright young things prancing around in Victorian clothes or full theatrical make-up doesn't really endear the event to the Edinburghers. Many Edinburgh folk are turfed out of their flats by landlords who want to move in more-moneyed temporary residents for the month of August, prices seem to shoot up out of nowhere, taxis become scarcer than unicorns and the quantity of amateur bagpipers increases tenfold. Secretly, though, I think they love it. Venues spring up in the most unusual of places and the city seems surrounded by a warm aura that you don't get during the remaining dank months of the Edinburgh calendar.

This year, I managed to see 8 shows and missed around 10 more that I would have liked to have seen. Eight shows in 3 days may not seem like a lot, but going to see performances is extremely time-consuming. First of all, you have to pore over the umpteen festival guides to find shows you may be interested in. You have to then spend half an hour cursing that the show you really want to see has just finished 10 minutes ago. You'll then forget to see it the next day. Then it's time to queue for your ticket. For a full festival experience, your show should be sold out after you've queued for aeons. Once you do get your tickets, you need to get your drink to take in with you (the venues are notoriously hot *and* some shows are so bad they can be much improved by inebriation.) You think you're finally at the main event, but no: you have to queue up again, this time to get in the venue. Once you're in, you're in for at least an hour and then when you're out, there's the obligatory drink in the bar to dissect what you've just witnessed. And then the process starts again.

When I lived in Edinburgh I probably saw a maximum of 3 shows for the entire three weeks. I never bothered with the main International Festival, which was usually lots of opera, high-brow dance or Shakespeare. The Film Festival didn't really appeal, either, what with films being much longer than live shows and there being all that festival quaffing to do outside the darkened auditoria. So it was the Fringe that I would frequent, although my experience of it all was mainly confined to the various bars that pop up here, there and everywhere. Now that I'm an Edinburgh ex-pat, however, I try and fit in as much as I can in the few short days I have there. There's some great stuff to see, but, man, there's a lot of dross too. Going as we did this time in the first week meant that not many shows had been reviewed or seen by anybody else, so it was hard to get a feel for what was good and what was absolute bobbins. Last year, we went in the third week and got a much higher hit rate. You do pay less for tickets in the first weekend, though.

And now it is over, and here I am back, feeling a bit blah. I was quite proud of myself for managing to fly there and back (my heartfelt thanks to Diazepam for making this possible). I know that this makes my so-called carbon footprint considerably larger but, come on, I didn't fly for ten years until last year so I reckon I'm due a little bit of aviation experience. I have also come back hopelessly addicted to Kopparberg pear cider. I don't think I could have got through some of the shows without it. So all-in-all, a marvellous festival fuelled by tranquilisers (for the flight only, I assure you) and pear cider. See, you don't need 'Glasto' for rock and roll.

Up the junction

2009-07-28T12:16:00.001Z

My unemployment rages on. The problem with not having a job is that you're exposed to far fewer humans than everybody else. Some may say this is ideal, as in many workplaces colleagues are dreadful bores who are forced upon you, much like lecherous relatives or rude checkout assistants. I am, however, starting to miss interaction that doesn't involved friends I've know for years and my other half. I miss the whimsy and dreaded 'watercooler' moments that you just don't get if you're not trooping into a workplace every day.

The highlight of my unemployment has undoubtedly been attempting to get state benefits. I have signed on twice before: once when I was 'on hiatus' from college and then again just after I graduated. I was on the dole for precisely one week, both times. I don't remember it being nearly as difficult or stressful as it was this time, but perhaps the mists of time have clouded my judgement. I was quite surprised, despite having worked solidly for the last 10 years, to be refused Jobseekers' Allowance. Apparently, there was mix up and they thought I hadn't made enough National Insurance contributions. It's taken two soul-destroying trips to the JobCentre with my P60 (they lost it the first time) to prove I had paid enough. The money, such as it is, is now starting to dribble through.

The most awful bit is signing on itself. The whole process is designed to upset and annoy. You have a fixed time you must go but, without exception, you'll be kept waiting a good 45 minutes. The heat and desperation go hand in hand and every time I'm in there, someone is shouting at a member of staff. Nobody says 'hello' to you: you are just told to sit down. Nobody even looks at you. It's strange. I can't understand why anyone would behave like that, but most of the people who work there do.

The scariest thing is that potential jobs are becoming scarcer. I see around 3 a week that I may just be suitable for. I always used to get an interview when I applied for jobs. Recently it's been a hit rate of 1 in 10. I shine and dazzle in interviews and the potential employers nearly always love me, but the gig goes to someone else at the last minute. Such is life.

I'll stop now before this turns into an employment-related version of those misery novels about harsh upbringings in Ireland. Perhaps I should write one myself called 'Please Recession, Don't Hurt Me' or similar.

Baby one more mime

2009-06-30T23:27:00.000Z

I went to see Britney Spears in concert the other week. Well, I think I did. A blonde pranced about on a stage for a couple of hours as some of Britney’s CDs played in the background so I can only assume it was actually Miss Spears. I only went because I managed to get £5 tickets on the day so thought that anyone was worth seeing for a fiver and dragged along my other half to the O2 where the world’s most famous hick was holding court.

I’d heard that she was miming the entire set, which I find unacceptable in any live act. Had I paid full price for my ticket, I’d have lynched her and paraded her head on a stick past the endless chain restaurants that encircle the arena. I once paid- well, twice actually- a small fortune to see Madonna and was horrified at rumours she’d mimed some of it. When did that become OK? Anyway, we pitched up at the O2, arriving amid a flurry of bunny ears, tutus and cheap perfume, before taking our seats. I’d been misinformed at the time Britney would be on stage and so had to sit through the support acts. First on was R&B also-ran Ciara, who had boundless energy but was a little swamped in the middle of the huge, round stage and, sadly, did a minimum of singing over a thudding backing vocal. The girl next to me asked if I was excited about seeing Britney. I had to admit I wasn’t that bothered and had only come along for the cheap tickets. I’d meant it to be a kind of joke, but the girl- I say girl, she was in her mid-twenties- took considerable offence and switched seats, which caused me no end of amusement.

When Britney finally appeared on stage, the crowd went wild and while the show had plenty of spectacle and the music sounded good, she mimed the whole thing, which no doubt wasn’t a problem if you were stageside but those of us up in the Gods had difficulty connecting with her, knowing that she was twirling around to a tape. She occasionally ‘spoke’ to the audience but knowing her she probably lip-synched that too. It was a bit like watching one of those dolls with a string hanging out of her back that you pull to make it talk. I wonder who does hold Britney’s strings these days. She did her fair share of dancing, despite performing the first three songs being dragged in a shopping trolley, but to me live should mean live, and I almost felt sorry for the Britney maniacs who come back night after night, spending all their wages watching her move her mouth.

As usual, I drank too much and managed to piss off the two girls at the end of my row with my constant trips to the bar. The actual highlight of the concert wasn’t related to Britney at all. Four girls who’d got £5 tickets and were sitting near us were approached by a member of the production team to see if they wanted to sit in a better seat. They naturally agreed, and were shown to luxury couches at the very edge of the stage, where they would be nose to nipple with their idol. Absolutely free. Watching them whooping it up, screaming and generally losing their shit at their good fortune totally made my night and was much more compelling than the dead-eyed pop princess strutting her stuff.

Jungle fever

2009-06-15T20:32:00.000Z

I am supposed to be preparing a presentation for a second interview that I’ve got in 2 days and, as inspiration is not forthcoming, I have been doing anything but what I should be doing.

I’ve managed to catch some of the new US version of I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here! and have found it wonderfully bizarre. Firstly, you don’t really have to be that famous in America to get on it. Janice Dickinson, runner-up in the UK a couple of years ago, is back for more here. While she is relatively entertaining in her other million reality shows, she doesn’t really shine in this format, whingeing and looking increasingly like she’s been left under the grill too long. She’s supposed to be rough and tough but welches out of challenges at the drop of a hat. I can’t believe she’s agreed to do the show again; her pay packet must be huge. The main highlight has been my introduction to Heidi Montag and husband Spencer Pratt. I’ve never watched The Hills, the show that propelled them to fame, but from what I understand it is a ‘scripted reality’ show. I think that means its participants are pretending to be in a docusoap but are actually faking it, the kind of behaviour that would have you hauled over the calls on an anti-sleaze ticket in the UK, but is absolutely fine in the US. Imagine if Ken and Barbie found God and you’d be halfway there with the Montag-Pratts. They’re in turns bouncy and clinically depressed, facing every hardship with utterings of prayers. Heidi, a wannabe popstar, was asked to sing a song from her album for the jungle crew. The resulting tuneless warble was met with derision from Janice, who received a dressing down from hubby Spencer who urged a bemused Janice not to make him ‘spence out’. Sadly, the shiny-toothed pair have now left the jungle thanks to Heidi contracting a vomiting bug. As stick-thin Heidi only usually vomits after a meal, the bosses figured something was up and the world’s worst advert for evangelical Christians slipped off our screens, much to the relief of the other also-rans. I hear that Heidi’s sister Holly has taken her place, so I’ll be tuning in to see if she’s just as jelly-brained.

I’m just half-watching that Giles Coren and Sue Perkins show where they ‘live’ in a different decade and eat food particular to that period. In this edition, somewhat pointlessly, they’re tacking that bygone era that is, er, the 1980s. Watching them ooh and aah over foods like Stella Artois, potato waffles and the like feels like a very empty experience. Unless you’re about 15, the menus don’t have the ‘ick’ factor that previous series would have done, thus rendering the programme a waste of time as no teenager would want to sit and watch this middle-class drivel. One scene had Giles going into Pret A Manger, for fuck’s sake. Gosh, nobody does that these days, do they? How odd!

One more TV gripe before I pretend to get on with some work: Andie MacDowell. Aside from these endless L’Oréal adverts, where she plugs anti-ageing cream (I wonder if it dials the plastic surgeon for you), does she actually do any acting? How would she find the time? She must film a new one every day.

Killer queen

2009-06-02T20:56:00.005Z

Formidable retail ogress Mary Portas is back on our screens with her Mary Queen of Shops show, but instead of haranguing provincial boutique owners into ditching the leatherette jackets in favour of the latest trends, she's taking on the mild-mannered volunteers who staff the nation's charity shops.

Charity shops' heyday seems to have been and gone. Students are more likely to be clicking their way to a secondhand bargain online than rummaging through the flower power fabrics down at Oxfam. That eBay has usurped charity shops as a place for getting rid of unwanted possessions seems to have passed Mary by in her new show. I was practically shouting at the TV as she repeatedly expressed her bemusement that nobody was donating their best bits and bobs in the midst of a recession. "They're flogging everything online, Mary!" I wanted to yelp. "Log on and see for yourself." In the days where anything older than two seasons is 'vintage' and snapped up by ironic haircut-sporting trash enthusiasts with their own market stall, charity shops are being left with the sodden rugby boots, poo-stained knickers and crispy cardigans that would otherwise languish at the bottom of the dustbin.

Mary's steely approach usually works when she's lambasting a poodle-permed clothes shop owner in Cheadle, but when up against a silver-haired volunteer in Orpington, Mary looked less like the saviour of modern retail and more like a grimacing care worker, tweaking the cheeks of the obstinate grannies and giving them nicknames that for the first 89 years of their lives they managed to do without.

Mary's main hindrance was the hapless area manager of the Save the Children store that Mary was charged with rescuing. Clueless, grasping and powerless, Nick tried valiantly to persuade Mary that he was of some use, but la Portas was far from convinced. A stand-off in the shop over the state of the stock room left the area manager mourning the loss of his balls. A key part of Mary's masterplan was to turn the kindly volunteers into salespeople. One scene at a market stall, where Mary had charged the white hair brigade with flogging designer cupcakes made for slightly uncomfortable viewing as Brenda, a longstanding volunteer, thought of every excuse possible not to have to talk to customers or handle the goods. There was a positive outcome as Brenda turned into a market trader in a matter of minutes (in the edit at least), but it seemed that Mary, no doubt the very opposite of a wall flower most her life, didn't seem to want to accept that some people, especially little old ladies, prefer the shadows.

Even if Mary's retail rottweiler act seems a little at odds with the superannuated sales crew, it's fantastic to have her back on telly. I can't remember the last time I left a charity shop with anything other than paperback novel or maybe at a push a semi-interesting tie; can Mary's rag and bone revolution sweep the country? At the end of the first episode, there were a few tears from Mary, although she may have been peeling an onion under her desk; I couldn't quite see.

Winging it

2009-05-30T19:55:00.000Z

My fear of flying has reared its ugly head again. I'm flying alone to Malta in July for a friend's wedding. I haven't flown since we went to New York last year, which is just long enough for the dull anxiety to start creeping back in. I have dallied about booking it for months, with the excuse that I couldn't book it until I knew if I had a job or not. As the job situation isn't really looking up (I'm freelancing to keep my head above water) I very uncharacteristically threw 'caution to the wind' and booked it last week.

Although I am looking forward to seeing my friend get married, I can't say I'm excited by the prospect of spending time in Malta. It's not a holiday destination I would've chosen. Most people I know have pulled a face when I've told them where I'm going. My dad went there on holiday once and said it was the dullest 10 days of his life. And he lived in Catford for a year.