I don't mind saying I like a bit of gossip. I would say it's a girl thing, but it's so not. It's also one of the few ways I can bond with my mother - she doesn't read books but she does seem to acquire truly impressive amounts of trashy magazines, which she passes on to me. (It's not easy to bond with someone who regards eating carbohydrates as a character flaw.) And as I've spent the last 4 years reading "proper" literature and no end of linguistics articles, I feel no shame in flicking through Grazia or Glamour from time to time. Reading a magazine is like eating a bag of crisps when you're really hungry - it distracts you for a little bit but you know it's no good for you. The hypocrisy of most women's magazines does get to me a little, because it does seem that most of them are a gross insult to our intelligence.
But now, to what I was actually going to say.
In the last few weeks, tabloids and magazines have been all over the Kristen-Stewart-cheating-on-Robert-Pattinson "scandal".
And naturally, everyone's got well up on their high horses in order to make judgemental sweeping statements about how all cheaters are scum and should burn in hell, or whatever.
I feel sorry for Kristen. Mainly because she's the one taking the majority of the flak. Yes, she cheated - but with an older, married man who definitely should have known better. He had the position of power, presumably; if anyone was going to put the brakes on their little make-out sessions, he should have been first.
She's 22. Old enough to know right from wrong but young enough to still be finding her feet. (I'm not even much of a fan of hers; about the best film she's done is Panic Room). And, good lord, if every relationship tizzy I have was splashed across the tabloids, I'd look a lot grumpier than she does. (You should have seen the Skype strop I had recently. Toddlers have displayed more rationale and reason; there was anguished yelping and everything.)
Cheating is wrong. We all know that. Can we please now get over that and have an intelligent conversation about it?
On the one hand, you can argue that we don't need to feel too sorry for Stewart, as she's never going to have to worry about money ever again, she plays the main character in one of the biggest film franchises there's ever been (unfortunately), and she probably doesn't have to clean her own oven. But to resort to stating the bloody obvious, all the money and success in the world is largely meaningless if you're sleeping alone every night.
On the other hand, her level of fame has probably sailed past the "oh, this is pretty cool" stage and reached the "this is fucking ridiculous, I can't even post a letter without being photographed." Yes, she chose her career path, and actors know if they're successful, they stand to to lose a certain amount of privacy. But is that necessarily fair? Admittedly, this is probably better aimed at the tabloid press (I knew my dissertation would get a look-in here at some point, and not just in the form of me moaning about it), but it is worth thinking about. Personally, sometimes I think it must be pretty cool to be "famous" (in my head I am the natural heir to Caitlin Moran and/or Tom Hardy's future wife), but then I really think about it. Every unflattering outfit, every bad skin day, every heated conversation, every moody look, all photographed and written about? Haha, I think not. There'd be far too many of, well, all of them.
Yes, she made a mistake. 22-year-olds do that. 17 year-olds do it. Ditto 45-year-olds. You can bet anything you like that how the press, and the internet hacks, and the pre-teen Twi-hards have responded to her bit of crappy decision-making has got nothing on what she's putting herself through. But no one makes that decision without a reason, and they alone know what the reason(s) is/are.
Being in a relationship is hard enough as it is - to paraphrase a quote from one of my favourite books, "you have to think about someone else all the time and all you get in return is regular sex" - but if you're two very famous young people who, I'm guessing, are probably miles apart a lot of the time due to work commitments, then at times it's not going to feel like a relationship at all. I've never done the long-distance thing, but I know that there's more chance of Satan winning gold at figure-skating that there is of me succeeding in a long-distance relationship. A good 60% of that relationship is in your head, really. You can't feel like you're with someone if you're not, like, with someone. I'm not saying this excuses cheating, but there's a reason proximity is a huge and obvious factor in who ends up with who.
I can't claim to be anywhere near the moral high-ground on this matter, and what's more, I'm normally judgemental as fuck, but just once, I would like to see people acknowledge that there are two+ sides to every story, a variety of possible motives and reasons for every bad decision, and that no one knows what they're capable of until they're put under enough pressure.
Enough.
Musically speaking, I saw this guy supporting Thea Gilmore back in 2003, and this is the only song of his set that made any sort of an impression on me. Almost 10 years later, I suddenly can't get enough of it.
"You make me smile, and laugh too; how I'd like to spend my time with you". Quite.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEzFLDrMm4k
And this is shamefully boyband-y, but it got stuck in my head when I heard it in the London Victoria branch of Paperchase last Sunday.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDL6aV7uKQU
The lyrics are very much from the songwriting-by-numbers school of thought, but there's something quite hypnotic about it.
"A Guardian reader in Horsham, poor love."
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Wednesday, 8 August 2012
Whatever floats your goat...
I have at last decided, I am not going to read any of the Fifty Shades trilogy.
And I really want to. It genuinely pleases me that books of that kind (I would call them erotic fiction, but having read excerpts here and there, that would be an insult to the rest of the genre) have rocketed into the bestsellers' lists, developed a stronghold there and have become such a talking point. Even Phillip Schofield has said they're good - or at least, the fact that they exist is a good thing (I used to fancy him when I was a lot younger). Even a few days ago, every third woman I saw on the train was reading a Fifty Shades book - I thought the hype was mostly over by now. But apparently, it persists.
And I don't normally get taken in by hype. If everyone's telling me that something is amazing, for some reason even I can't quite explain, my instinctive reaction is to think "it can't be that good".* It's why I've never seen The Hangover. Or The Notebook. It's why I do not find Ryan Gosling, Bradley Cooper or Ryan Reynolds attractive in any way. And this reaction doesn't come from a hipster-ish need to shun whatever might be drifting merrily down the mainstream, however much my friends want to think so. I just seem to have this default setting that makes me think, "if everyone thinks it's that good" - whatever it is - "then the thing in question can't be trying hard enough".
*Things I've been wrong about: (500) Days of Summer (it really is that cute. Don't watch it with your significant other, though; you might come over all, like, feeling-y or something). Razorlight's first album. The Civil Wars. Reel Big Fish live. That's kind of it.
But back to the matter at hand.
Like I said, I want to read them. Or rather, I want to want to read them. (I also really want to make a terrible pun about reading them so I can join the mass debate, but I won't.)
I know I'm not going to put myself through it though, purely because of how they're written (I don't want to say "badly", because hey, who's the published author, me or E.L. James?). But the clumsy, wince-inducing prose style and the incredibly irritating narrator will infuriate me to distraction before I find anything vaguely erotic about the books. It's a shame, because really, there is so much potential there: the naive, wide-eyed young girl being seduced and corrupted by the complicated - and by all accounts, rather bossy - mysterious (and conveniently rich) man... We've all had that fantasy, right?
Anyway... It's a shame, because I think in the hands of a more skilled writer, the books would have been truly great. Seriously, what's the whole "inner goddess" thing about? (If I get bored while dandering about in town, I duck in to WH Smiths and read a few lines, wince, chuckle and wander off again. Thinking about it, I've probably read a fair bit of the first book through doing this.) I don't have an inner goddess, I don't think. If I do, she's socially awkward and terribly indecisive, so if you find that remotely sexy, I'm your girl. I want to support the Fifty Shades cause - for want of a better word - because it seems to have got many, many women talking very publicly about what they find hot - an area of conversation that I don't think it's too controversial to say, has previously been dominated by men. (And speaking of being dominated by men... oh, it's too easy.)
I didn't want to give this too much of a feminist slant because, let's be honest, that sounds rather dull. But it seems that part of the reason Fifty Shades has become so talked-about is because it's essentially mainstream porn for the girls. Which we haven't had, really, up until now. (Not that I've looked.) Guys have had it easier in that respect for quite some time. Already, Fifty Shades is spawning copy-cat stories - it's like Twilight all over again - and while these bandwagon-jumping tales might well be worse than the wagon that came first (God forbid), hopefully this means that erotic fiction will maintain a presence in the best-seller charts for time to come. Or will at least prompt people to seek out the better-written stuff. Like Anais Nin, or Erica Jong. Or even when Sarra Manning gets two of her main characters in a bedroom. Or, as you're on the internet, try that.
So - not that I can really conclude with anything useful, as I'm on the fence myself - I wish I could switch off my word-geekery and rattle through the trilogy, because I'm nothing but in favour of erotic fiction. But it really, really kills the mood when the choice of words makes you cringe. It's like having someone talk dirty to you in a strong Birmingham accent - just kind of wrong (oh God, please no-one take offence) ...I think I should go before I say something worse...
I must quickly explain the rather odd title of this entry - a few nights ago, I was joking around with a friend and said something along the lines of "Well, the wildest night I ever had involved dwarves and the sacrifice of a goat..." (Funnily enough, this is what's known as a lie.) To which he responded, "Whatever floats your boat, I guess!" I couldn't resist saying, "Don't you mean... goat?" Heavy groans all round.
Here, have some Tim Minchin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V41R1p9hjNg
My favourite verse starts at 2:19. It's the work of a genius (well, almost).
And I'm listening to these guys' new album, but this song is one of my favourites by them (and probably one of my favourite songs ever). They're very good live.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnPCoCfz1mM
And I really want to. It genuinely pleases me that books of that kind (I would call them erotic fiction, but having read excerpts here and there, that would be an insult to the rest of the genre) have rocketed into the bestsellers' lists, developed a stronghold there and have become such a talking point. Even Phillip Schofield has said they're good - or at least, the fact that they exist is a good thing (I used to fancy him when I was a lot younger). Even a few days ago, every third woman I saw on the train was reading a Fifty Shades book - I thought the hype was mostly over by now. But apparently, it persists.
And I don't normally get taken in by hype. If everyone's telling me that something is amazing, for some reason even I can't quite explain, my instinctive reaction is to think "it can't be that good".* It's why I've never seen The Hangover. Or The Notebook. It's why I do not find Ryan Gosling, Bradley Cooper or Ryan Reynolds attractive in any way. And this reaction doesn't come from a hipster-ish need to shun whatever might be drifting merrily down the mainstream, however much my friends want to think so. I just seem to have this default setting that makes me think, "if everyone thinks it's that good" - whatever it is - "then the thing in question can't be trying hard enough".
*Things I've been wrong about: (500) Days of Summer (it really is that cute. Don't watch it with your significant other, though; you might come over all, like, feeling-y or something). Razorlight's first album. The Civil Wars. Reel Big Fish live. That's kind of it.
But back to the matter at hand.
Like I said, I want to read them. Or rather, I want to want to read them. (I also really want to make a terrible pun about reading them so I can join the mass debate, but I won't.)
I know I'm not going to put myself through it though, purely because of how they're written (I don't want to say "badly", because hey, who's the published author, me or E.L. James?). But the clumsy, wince-inducing prose style and the incredibly irritating narrator will infuriate me to distraction before I find anything vaguely erotic about the books. It's a shame, because really, there is so much potential there: the naive, wide-eyed young girl being seduced and corrupted by the complicated - and by all accounts, rather bossy - mysterious (and conveniently rich) man... We've all had that fantasy, right?
Anyway... It's a shame, because I think in the hands of a more skilled writer, the books would have been truly great. Seriously, what's the whole "inner goddess" thing about? (If I get bored while dandering about in town, I duck in to WH Smiths and read a few lines, wince, chuckle and wander off again. Thinking about it, I've probably read a fair bit of the first book through doing this.) I don't have an inner goddess, I don't think. If I do, she's socially awkward and terribly indecisive, so if you find that remotely sexy, I'm your girl. I want to support the Fifty Shades cause - for want of a better word - because it seems to have got many, many women talking very publicly about what they find hot - an area of conversation that I don't think it's too controversial to say, has previously been dominated by men. (And speaking of being dominated by men... oh, it's too easy.)
I didn't want to give this too much of a feminist slant because, let's be honest, that sounds rather dull. But it seems that part of the reason Fifty Shades has become so talked-about is because it's essentially mainstream porn for the girls. Which we haven't had, really, up until now. (Not that I've looked.) Guys have had it easier in that respect for quite some time. Already, Fifty Shades is spawning copy-cat stories - it's like Twilight all over again - and while these bandwagon-jumping tales might well be worse than the wagon that came first (God forbid), hopefully this means that erotic fiction will maintain a presence in the best-seller charts for time to come. Or will at least prompt people to seek out the better-written stuff. Like Anais Nin, or Erica Jong. Or even when Sarra Manning gets two of her main characters in a bedroom. Or, as you're on the internet, try that.
So - not that I can really conclude with anything useful, as I'm on the fence myself - I wish I could switch off my word-geekery and rattle through the trilogy, because I'm nothing but in favour of erotic fiction. But it really, really kills the mood when the choice of words makes you cringe. It's like having someone talk dirty to you in a strong Birmingham accent - just kind of wrong (oh God, please no-one take offence) ...I think I should go before I say something worse...
I must quickly explain the rather odd title of this entry - a few nights ago, I was joking around with a friend and said something along the lines of "Well, the wildest night I ever had involved dwarves and the sacrifice of a goat..." (Funnily enough, this is what's known as a lie.) To which he responded, "Whatever floats your boat, I guess!" I couldn't resist saying, "Don't you mean... goat?" Heavy groans all round.
Here, have some Tim Minchin:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V41R1p9hjNg
My favourite verse starts at 2:19. It's the work of a genius (well, almost).
And I'm listening to these guys' new album, but this song is one of my favourites by them (and probably one of my favourite songs ever). They're very good live.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnPCoCfz1mM
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
Don't you dare use the word "party" as a verb in this shop!
...or, Things People Really Need To Not Say.
Before I get my (admittedly very tongue-in-cheek, light-hearted) rant on, I must say, the last few days have been very pleasant indeed. Well, apart from the 24 hours spent in university halls last week - which, in the middle of the summer, was pretty eerie. I had to get a friend to ring me to take my mind off the nagging fear that if I was caught up in, say, the Talybont Massacre, no-one would know, since there was no-one about. Still, I was grateful to have a free place to crash so I could see my dissertation supervisor and pick up my deposit from my landlady. Oh, the rock & roll life I lead...
But then things did get a bit more rock & roll. Because this weekend, at the grand old age of 22, I finally lost my festival virginity*. To Truck Festival. (Nothing to do with heavy goods vehicles, I can assure you.) Held on a farm in a beautiful village close to Oxford, it was a great couple of days and one I can highly recommend if you want a weekend of awesome music that won't break the bank. Says the girl who still hasn't paid back her ticket-buyer. Eek. It's family-friendly too - I lost count of the number of little ones being carried around on their dads' shoulders, and then felt sorry for the all parents during Tim Minchin's excellent but rather sweary set. I could only imagine the awkward questions later: "Mum, who's the motherfucking Pope?"
*V in 2007 doesn't really count; we only had a day ticket.
I'm not what you'd call a natural camper - as much as I like to think I am quite outdoorsy, it's been a while since I spent every weekend working on a farm, and I think the last time I camped properly, I was a Guide. The idea of not showering for a couple of days didn't exactly fill me with joy - I think I'm borderline-OCD when it comes to shaving my legs; I have a zero-tolerance attitude to stubble. But feeling pretty rank was a small price to pay for so much good music in one place, and when my mother's opening line to me when she picked me up from the station on Sunday was "No offence darling, but you look skanky, you need a shower", I laughed. Mainly at the fact that she thought I needed telling.
Anyhoo. The weekend was rounded off nicely with a quiet drink with a handful of friends, some of whom I hadn't seen for bloody ages, and then it was up at 5.45am on Monday and Tuesday for work. Or, two days of "spot the difference: water bill edition", bookended by lots of train rage. I was relieved when I was told I wasn't needed today, and planned on a serious lie-in and a very relaxed, unstressy day. I must have been mistaken as to who I am for a minute there, because of course, my day began at 7am with excruciating pain (I'll spare you the details) and I've spent most of the time since then thinking, "Oh God, I don't have enough to do". I don't think I'm going to learn how to relax until I'm about 55.
So I thought it was time for another ranty list - because hey, if there's one thing I'm good at, it's making ranty lists.
I don't actually know what triggered this particular list, but the other day I did find myself wondering why people say certain things - things that are either a) pointless, b) never going to get an answer, or c) just plain annoying. Here are a few things I really can't help but scoff at when I hear people say them; you probably have your own.
1) "What are you thinking?"
Oh, this old chestnut. Blatant and sweeping gender stereotyping - and Ed Byrne - would have you believe that this question is very much a Woman Thing:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-P87DS3aY4w
Apparently, it's a seemingly-innocuous bomb we drop on guys to make them panic and scramble in vain for something more romantic than, "I was just wondering whether it would be worse to be raped by a pirate or a ninja".
Personally, I've been asked this question many more times - by guys who should really know better than to put me on the spot like that - than I've asked it. It's a stupid question because a) generally, people don't have one thought at a time. I, for one, can be planning what I'm going to wear tomorrow, thinking of exciting and improbable careers for myself and doing the day's "calorie maths" all at once (sad but true). All while having the "OhmyGodI'm22andhavenoideawhatI'mdoingwithmylife" breakdown. So, for your own peace of mind, don't ask me what I'm thinking. It'll only freak us both out.
2) "Come on, what's the worst that could happen?"
To this, my answer is succinct: can I write you a fucking list?
3) "I'm not being funny, but..."
No, you're not being anything in the same time zone as funny. You're being petty and nitpicky, I can pretty much guarantee it. (And I can't have anyone infringing on my "petty and nitpicky" copyright.)
4) "Oh, I was going say something but now I've forgotten what it was."
Oh God, don't tease me like that. Now I'm not going to listen to at least the next six minutes of this conversation because I'm trying to guess what you were going to say. Hurry up and remember, damn it.
5) "So why were you at the doctors'?"
Does anyone ever expect a genuine answer to this question? It's the kind of information that you should know not to ask for if it hasn't been volunteered. I'm aware that asking this does come from genuine concern, but relax - I'd have told you if it was serious/contagious/your fault, honest.
6) The following words: condiment, throb, naughty, pulsate.
Throb and pulsate are self-explanatory, I feel. They're just far too onomatopoeic.
"Condiment" is just an unnecessary word. I don't know what we could replace it with, but there's got to be something shorter that means "stuff you put on food to make it better".
"Naughty" is either applied to misbehaving children, or to most of Lovehoney's products. I don't need to make the point that nothing should apply both of these things.
Dara O'Briain agrees with me:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xtl7Q_biowM
7) "Get over yourself."
No. Sorry. Like every other human being, I am the central protagonist in my life. So I reserve the right not to get over myself, thank you very much.
8) "I didn't think it would be your kind of thing..."
This one seems fairly harmless, and I'm never going to call anyone out on it when they say it - I'm not a total nutjob. But the first problem with this is that you can't say much in response: "Oh. Well, it is." Cue awkward silence.
And then - me being ever the linguist (read: pedant) - there are underlying assumptions contained within the statement that need unpicking. Assumptions being the operative word, really; the speaker is assuming they know what your kind of thing is - which admittedly isn't a crime. But it's the assuming part that makes me get a little prickly - I don't care how well you think you know me, please don't assume you know everything. I'm a woman of many tastes and talents (well, two talents mainly, and you only find out the second if I really like you) - you can't pigeon-hole me, man! And other such pretentious-wanker nonsense. I think this all just comes from my perma-teenage tendency to retreat into a thought-cycle of "I'm so misunderstood" whenever I'm feeling vaguely out of sorts.
So now you know what to say if you want to annoy me. (I can guarantee that some of the wind-up merchants I like to call friends are making mental notes to drop as many of these as possible into conversations with me. I'm onto you, kids.)
Musically speaking, you really need to check out a band called Brontide if you know what's good for you.
And it's not summer til Santana happens:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0gpwgPpswms
Before I get my (admittedly very tongue-in-cheek, light-hearted) rant on, I must say, the last few days have been very pleasant indeed. Well, apart from the 24 hours spent in university halls last week - which, in the middle of the summer, was pretty eerie. I had to get a friend to ring me to take my mind off the nagging fear that if I was caught up in, say, the Talybont Massacre, no-one would know, since there was no-one about. Still, I was grateful to have a free place to crash so I could see my dissertation supervisor and pick up my deposit from my landlady. Oh, the rock & roll life I lead...
But then things did get a bit more rock & roll. Because this weekend, at the grand old age of 22, I finally lost my festival virginity*. To Truck Festival. (Nothing to do with heavy goods vehicles, I can assure you.) Held on a farm in a beautiful village close to Oxford, it was a great couple of days and one I can highly recommend if you want a weekend of awesome music that won't break the bank. Says the girl who still hasn't paid back her ticket-buyer. Eek. It's family-friendly too - I lost count of the number of little ones being carried around on their dads' shoulders, and then felt sorry for the all parents during Tim Minchin's excellent but rather sweary set. I could only imagine the awkward questions later: "Mum, who's the motherfucking Pope?"
*V in 2007 doesn't really count; we only had a day ticket.
I'm not what you'd call a natural camper - as much as I like to think I am quite outdoorsy, it's been a while since I spent every weekend working on a farm, and I think the last time I camped properly, I was a Guide. The idea of not showering for a couple of days didn't exactly fill me with joy - I think I'm borderline-OCD when it comes to shaving my legs; I have a zero-tolerance attitude to stubble. But feeling pretty rank was a small price to pay for so much good music in one place, and when my mother's opening line to me when she picked me up from the station on Sunday was "No offence darling, but you look skanky, you need a shower", I laughed. Mainly at the fact that she thought I needed telling.
Anyhoo. The weekend was rounded off nicely with a quiet drink with a handful of friends, some of whom I hadn't seen for bloody ages, and then it was up at 5.45am on Monday and Tuesday for work. Or, two days of "spot the difference: water bill edition", bookended by lots of train rage. I was relieved when I was told I wasn't needed today, and planned on a serious lie-in and a very relaxed, unstressy day. I must have been mistaken as to who I am for a minute there, because of course, my day began at 7am with excruciating pain (I'll spare you the details) and I've spent most of the time since then thinking, "Oh God, I don't have enough to do". I don't think I'm going to learn how to relax until I'm about 55.
So I thought it was time for another ranty list - because hey, if there's one thing I'm good at, it's making ranty lists.
I don't actually know what triggered this particular list, but the other day I did find myself wondering why people say certain things - things that are either a) pointless, b) never going to get an answer, or c) just plain annoying. Here are a few things I really can't help but scoff at when I hear people say them; you probably have your own.
1) "What are you thinking?"
Oh, this old chestnut. Blatant and sweeping gender stereotyping - and Ed Byrne - would have you believe that this question is very much a Woman Thing:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-P87DS3aY4w
Apparently, it's a seemingly-innocuous bomb we drop on guys to make them panic and scramble in vain for something more romantic than, "I was just wondering whether it would be worse to be raped by a pirate or a ninja".
Personally, I've been asked this question many more times - by guys who should really know better than to put me on the spot like that - than I've asked it. It's a stupid question because a) generally, people don't have one thought at a time. I, for one, can be planning what I'm going to wear tomorrow, thinking of exciting and improbable careers for myself and doing the day's "calorie maths" all at once (sad but true). All while having the "OhmyGodI'm22andhavenoideawhatI'mdoingwithmylife" breakdown. So, for your own peace of mind, don't ask me what I'm thinking. It'll only freak us both out.
2) "Come on, what's the worst that could happen?"
To this, my answer is succinct: can I write you a fucking list?
3) "I'm not being funny, but..."
No, you're not being anything in the same time zone as funny. You're being petty and nitpicky, I can pretty much guarantee it. (And I can't have anyone infringing on my "petty and nitpicky" copyright.)
4) "Oh, I was going say something but now I've forgotten what it was."
Oh God, don't tease me like that. Now I'm not going to listen to at least the next six minutes of this conversation because I'm trying to guess what you were going to say. Hurry up and remember, damn it.
5) "So why were you at the doctors'?"
Does anyone ever expect a genuine answer to this question? It's the kind of information that you should know not to ask for if it hasn't been volunteered. I'm aware that asking this does come from genuine concern, but relax - I'd have told you if it was serious/contagious/your fault, honest.
6) The following words: condiment, throb, naughty, pulsate.
Throb and pulsate are self-explanatory, I feel. They're just far too onomatopoeic.
"Condiment" is just an unnecessary word. I don't know what we could replace it with, but there's got to be something shorter that means "stuff you put on food to make it better".
"Naughty" is either applied to misbehaving children, or to most of Lovehoney's products. I don't need to make the point that nothing should apply both of these things.
Dara O'Briain agrees with me:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xtl7Q_biowM
7) "Get over yourself."
No. Sorry. Like every other human being, I am the central protagonist in my life. So I reserve the right not to get over myself, thank you very much.
8) "I didn't think it would be your kind of thing..."
This one seems fairly harmless, and I'm never going to call anyone out on it when they say it - I'm not a total nutjob. But the first problem with this is that you can't say much in response: "Oh. Well, it is." Cue awkward silence.
And then - me being ever the linguist (read: pedant) - there are underlying assumptions contained within the statement that need unpicking. Assumptions being the operative word, really; the speaker is assuming they know what your kind of thing is - which admittedly isn't a crime. But it's the assuming part that makes me get a little prickly - I don't care how well you think you know me, please don't assume you know everything. I'm a woman of many tastes and talents (well, two talents mainly, and you only find out the second if I really like you) - you can't pigeon-hole me, man! And other such pretentious-wanker nonsense. I think this all just comes from my perma-teenage tendency to retreat into a thought-cycle of "I'm so misunderstood" whenever I'm feeling vaguely out of sorts.
So now you know what to say if you want to annoy me. (I can guarantee that some of the wind-up merchants I like to call friends are making mental notes to drop as many of these as possible into conversations with me. I'm onto you, kids.)
Musically speaking, you really need to check out a band called Brontide if you know what's good for you.
And it's not summer til Santana happens:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0gpwgPpswms
Sunday, 15 July 2012
New favourite rock star...
So there I was, complaining to Facebook that I was running low on things to write about. Do I weigh in on the Fifty Shades of Grey madness, despite having only read the first fifth of the first book? (I still might; it's like the Da Vinci Code of BDSM - badly written, but good grief, everyone's got an opinion). Do I do a vague and generic "Relationships: even when they're simple, they're not" post? Which, rest assured, arises out of being agony aunt for a couple of friends recently, rather than my own issues (which, indeed, would fill a book, so perhaps here isn't the place). A friend suggested a post on superpowers, which would be very brief (I have a lot of geeky friends so we've got this particular conversation down to a fine art). The superpower I'd most like to have would be mood control - so being able to rouse a crowd of apathetic people, or calm down an angry mob. Or just defuse awkwardness. The Boy suggested a rant about people who make massive generalisations -we were having a conversation in the pub about the Daily-Mail-reader kind of attitude that can be truly horrifying in its pervasiveness. We all have friends/relatives who are prone to making big, sweeping statements about entire groups of people based on one tiny, barely-significant experience. But, knowing the upshot of that soapbox session would be "God, aren't people just crap?" there would be some irony there.
But then. As I was sitting in bed on Saturday feeling rather queasy and sorry for myself (am on drugs for a week, and constant nausea seems to be the side-effect. Cheers, biology), my uncle called. "What are you up to today?"
"Oh, kind of busy," I lied, thinking he was going to rope me into doing something helpful - which, ordinarily, I hasten to add, I wouldn't mind - just not when the contents of my stomach are churning like a washing machine.
"Well, I have a spare ticket to Bruce Springsteen in Hyde Park..."
That changed things. Radically.
"I'm sure whatever I'm doing isn't that urgent. What time are we leaving?"
Now, I wouldn't call myself a die-hard Bruce fan. There's a good handful of his songs that I do really love - more recent ones like The Rising, Radio Nowhere, Lonesome Day, and the classics like Born to Run and Dancing in the Dark - but I'm not a go-out-and-get-new-album-on-date-of-release kind of fan. (Actually, it's more sit-in-and-download-standout-tracks these days, but the point stands.) However, my uncle has been a devoted fan for as long as I can remember, and as I was partly brought up by my grandmother and him, Bruce's music featured heavily in my early childhood. As a kid, I loved the "Born in the USA" album, and I remember being rather perplexed by the album cover for "The Ghost of Tom Joad" (hey, I was only five or so).
But only a fool would turn down an opportunity to see the Boss live, so I shovelled some dry toast into my face, stuffed a rucksack with lunch and a waterproof, and off we toddled to Hyde Park.
I probably don't need to tell you it was an amazing show. That for a man of 62, the energy and sheer joy he exudes while onstage puts 85% of other performers to shame. That - and don't worry, I'm wincing at the phrasing I'm about to employ - the gig was a journey from the harder, angrier, political songs of recent years to the anthems Springsteen is best known for. The turning point came - for me at least - at the twelfth song of the evening, "Because the Night". You have not lived until you have shouted along to that song as the stage lights turn the rain gold and silver. I also hope never to forget that performance of the afore-mentioned "The Ghost of Tom Joad", which included a positively orgasmic guitar solo from Tom Morello. The encore included Born in the USA, Glory Days, Born To Run, and Dancing in the Dark - and true to form, Bruce plucked one super-lucky lady from the crowd to dance with him, and then personally lifted her up and put her back where he'd found her. Oh, to be Bruce's Dancing in the Dark girl...
It wasn't over yet though, because who should stride onstage but Paul McCartney? And unfortunately this is where my tale (I say tale, it's more an extended "Ha, I saw Bruce and you didn't!") turns a little sour. As has been reported all over the internet today, the plug was pulled at 10.40pm, as Bruce, his band and Sir Paul were storming the hell out of Twist and Shout. They'd passed their curfew by 10 minutes - not half an hour, as most papers/sites are claiming - and so were silenced. It's not a big deal, and of course it didn't ruin the evening, nice as it would have been to have heard the band's goodbyes. But what dawned on me today was that these days, a live music event is one of the last places where you can get thousands of people together who have no intention of causing trouble, are there to just see their act of choice and have a good time, so to pull the plug on that seems to be erring on the side of buzzkill. I know whoever took that decision was merely doing their job and following orders, but it's just a shame such a spectacular night had to end like that.
Whatever though, I got to sing along to Born To Run as if my life depended on it, so I'm not complaining.
So that was yesterday, and today I've been at a family gathering - and all anyone asked me about was my dissertation/Masters course/career ideas. Someone genuinely uttered the words, "So what are your job prospects like?"
I had to stuff an entire egg sandwich into my mouth to stifle the yelp of anguish.
I'm going to leave you with this (it's a personal favourite and he didn't play it), and go and feel guilty about the stone I've gained in cake today.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtrOYsNCPmg
Ciao for now.
P.S. That's Bruce crossed off the to-see-live list. Now, who wants to get me tickets for the Stones?
But then. As I was sitting in bed on Saturday feeling rather queasy and sorry for myself (am on drugs for a week, and constant nausea seems to be the side-effect. Cheers, biology), my uncle called. "What are you up to today?"
"Oh, kind of busy," I lied, thinking he was going to rope me into doing something helpful - which, ordinarily, I hasten to add, I wouldn't mind - just not when the contents of my stomach are churning like a washing machine.
"Well, I have a spare ticket to Bruce Springsteen in Hyde Park..."
That changed things. Radically.
"I'm sure whatever I'm doing isn't that urgent. What time are we leaving?"
Now, I wouldn't call myself a die-hard Bruce fan. There's a good handful of his songs that I do really love - more recent ones like The Rising, Radio Nowhere, Lonesome Day, and the classics like Born to Run and Dancing in the Dark - but I'm not a go-out-and-get-new-album-on-date-of-release kind of fan. (Actually, it's more sit-in-and-download-standout-tracks these days, but the point stands.) However, my uncle has been a devoted fan for as long as I can remember, and as I was partly brought up by my grandmother and him, Bruce's music featured heavily in my early childhood. As a kid, I loved the "Born in the USA" album, and I remember being rather perplexed by the album cover for "The Ghost of Tom Joad" (hey, I was only five or so).
But only a fool would turn down an opportunity to see the Boss live, so I shovelled some dry toast into my face, stuffed a rucksack with lunch and a waterproof, and off we toddled to Hyde Park.
I probably don't need to tell you it was an amazing show. That for a man of 62, the energy and sheer joy he exudes while onstage puts 85% of other performers to shame. That - and don't worry, I'm wincing at the phrasing I'm about to employ - the gig was a journey from the harder, angrier, political songs of recent years to the anthems Springsteen is best known for. The turning point came - for me at least - at the twelfth song of the evening, "Because the Night". You have not lived until you have shouted along to that song as the stage lights turn the rain gold and silver. I also hope never to forget that performance of the afore-mentioned "The Ghost of Tom Joad", which included a positively orgasmic guitar solo from Tom Morello. The encore included Born in the USA, Glory Days, Born To Run, and Dancing in the Dark - and true to form, Bruce plucked one super-lucky lady from the crowd to dance with him, and then personally lifted her up and put her back where he'd found her. Oh, to be Bruce's Dancing in the Dark girl...
It wasn't over yet though, because who should stride onstage but Paul McCartney? And unfortunately this is where my tale (I say tale, it's more an extended "Ha, I saw Bruce and you didn't!") turns a little sour. As has been reported all over the internet today, the plug was pulled at 10.40pm, as Bruce, his band and Sir Paul were storming the hell out of Twist and Shout. They'd passed their curfew by 10 minutes - not half an hour, as most papers/sites are claiming - and so were silenced. It's not a big deal, and of course it didn't ruin the evening, nice as it would have been to have heard the band's goodbyes. But what dawned on me today was that these days, a live music event is one of the last places where you can get thousands of people together who have no intention of causing trouble, are there to just see their act of choice and have a good time, so to pull the plug on that seems to be erring on the side of buzzkill. I know whoever took that decision was merely doing their job and following orders, but it's just a shame such a spectacular night had to end like that.
Whatever though, I got to sing along to Born To Run as if my life depended on it, so I'm not complaining.
So that was yesterday, and today I've been at a family gathering - and all anyone asked me about was my dissertation/Masters course/career ideas. Someone genuinely uttered the words, "So what are your job prospects like?"
I had to stuff an entire egg sandwich into my mouth to stifle the yelp of anguish.
I'm going to leave you with this (it's a personal favourite and he didn't play it), and go and feel guilty about the stone I've gained in cake today.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtrOYsNCPmg
Ciao for now.
P.S. That's Bruce crossed off the to-see-live list. Now, who wants to get me tickets for the Stones?
Friday, 22 June 2012
Hey, come in and crash around inside my head...
...just please don't have me committed. (I once had a dream that a van-full of men in white coats came to take me away. I was only twelve or so at the time, and it genuinely frightened me.)
It struck me the other day that if I made a list of ALL the things I spend time worrying about - well, it would be less a list, more an Encyclopaedia Neurotica.
So naturally, I started to do just that. I'm hoping, I guess, that people will read this and either feel reassured, in an "oh, I'm not the only one who does that" sort of way, or they'll feel incredibly relieved that, well, they're not as addled as me.
I do have a very dear friend who has spent hours - honestly, hours - thinking about the perfect way to make a bechamel sauce. That's probably part of the reason we're friends - we understand each other. "You spent all night worrying about that problem that exists only in your head?! Oh my God, samesies!"
We also both used to self-diagnose on the internet if we didn't feel well, especially during our "watch ALL the seasons of House" phase. Don't ever do these two things together, take it from me.You will discover you have something terrible and incurable.
Then you will realise that what that is, is a lack of common sense.
But generally, it starts upon waking. What am I saying, it starts?! It doesn't stop. I'm pretty sure the first thought that fires in my head - and it's generally verbalised too if I'm on my own - tends to be, do I look like a spotty sixteen-year-old today? (My face hasn't got the memo that it's 22, not in its mid-teens. Curses. Clinique, I owe you a lot.) Then there's the in-shower, "am I too fat?" debate. Objectively, no. I know what I weigh and for my height it's probably bang-on. But we're forgetting those pesky XX chromosomes. Which mean, amongst other things, that in my head, I will always want to be thinner. It doesn't help that Mother Dearest is thinner than me. She has so many amazing clothes and I can't borrow any of them. Because they're too small. (Firstworldproblems, huh?)
Other ridiculous things I worry about...let's see. Oh, here's one. While on the train to work the other day, I spent most of the time between Horsham and East Croydon feeling guilty because I wasn't a "proper" commuter. (I wish I was kidding.) I felt bad that I was surrounded by people in suits who had proper jobs and real lives and families to provide for, and I was just on my way to sit in an office and essentially play an hours-long game of spot-the-difference.* I've since started taking my laptop with me to look more professional. I joke, it's so I can do dissertation work on the train. (Which is almost worse, somehow.)
*Or, as it's been this week, read-the-sociology textbook. Repeatedly.
And I haven't even got started on the relationship angst. I can hear friends thinking, "Oh God, what do you have to angst over? Like, seriously?" I take their point, I do. I know how lucky I am. I've made some shit decisions in my time, but I have brilliant taste in boyfriends. You can't fault it.
But I think I have a touch of "perfect girlfriend syndrome". And I highly doubt I'm the only one.
Man, there's a lot of soul-baring going on here. My next post will be lighthearted, I promise. Because, if nothing else, I need to check I can still do "lighthearted", as I've not exactly been Miss Full of The Joys of Spring. More like Miss Summer Drizzle.
So, Perfect Girlfriend Syndrome. It's quite simple, but boy, is it persistent. I don't know, I just want to be the perfect girlfriend. I don't do anything else to international level, so I might as well give this a shot. Trouble is, it backfires spectacularly because when "PGS" is coupled with my natural bottling tendencies, it means I withdraw into ice-queen mode and everyone is left feeling rather perplexed as to why I am a) silent, and b) suddenly even more haughty and uppity than usual. You know the script as well as I do:
Are you OK?
Yup.
Are you sure?
Yup.
'Cause it doesn't seem like you are. You know you can tell me if you're not.
No, I'm fine. Of course I'm not fine, why the flip do you not know this? Oh, 'cause I haven't told you because I don't want to drag you into my emo misery and you're not a mind-reader. WHY AREN'T YOU A MINDREADER? And so on, and so forth.
Don't give me that look, I've never claimed to be rational.
I just hate feeling like the whiny, needy one. I know probably everyone does, but I'm much more comfortable being the listen-girl, rather than the this-is-how-I-feel girl. Thing is, I'm aware that I do the ice-queen thing and I know it's not exactly the hallmark of a mature relationship -but I don't know how to not do it! - and so the whole cycle of worrying kicks off again.
In a way, I think it's at least partly a crutch, this chronic and acute worrying thing. The following sentence might not make sense, but I'll risk it. I worry that if I stop worrying, things really will all fall to pieces, purely because I've stopped worrying about everything. It's a running joke in my family that, "if Kirsten doesn't have something to worry about, she worries about that." Obviously life isn't like that - shit's gonna happen whether you were dreading it or not, and as someone far wiser than me once said, "the real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind". Which isn't especially reassuring, come to think of it.
I also worry that I haven't figured out number 17 on this list:
http://jezebel.com/5910701/congrats-new-grads-by-the-way-you-dont-know-anything
Everything else that churns round and round in my head is pretty much universal, I think - money (i.e. a severe lack thereof), getting a job, being able to tolerate that job long enough to be able to at least rent a tiny little flat and live with someone I'm not related to...
As is probably obvious, I could continue, and you won't be surprised to hear (read?) I nearly gave myself a stomach ulcer a couple of years ago. There are probably about four or five things that unfailingly make me relax in this world, the rest of life is a relentless cycle of "oh but what if-?"
Don't ever tell me that I don't need to worry so much. I can assure you, I do.
Music time? Music time.
I'm going to be honest, the song is nothing outstanding, I just like the video. There's a lot of corset-y action and people that look delightfully free of morals.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lH0IT6qT6zE
I'm seeing these guys in November, and I might cry when they play Poison and Wine, because I'm like that. But have this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=441mR2zsQbg
It struck me the other day that if I made a list of ALL the things I spend time worrying about - well, it would be less a list, more an Encyclopaedia Neurotica.
So naturally, I started to do just that. I'm hoping, I guess, that people will read this and either feel reassured, in an "oh, I'm not the only one who does that" sort of way, or they'll feel incredibly relieved that, well, they're not as addled as me.
I do have a very dear friend who has spent hours - honestly, hours - thinking about the perfect way to make a bechamel sauce. That's probably part of the reason we're friends - we understand each other. "You spent all night worrying about that problem that exists only in your head?! Oh my God, samesies!"
We also both used to self-diagnose on the internet if we didn't feel well, especially during our "watch ALL the seasons of House" phase. Don't ever do these two things together, take it from me.You will discover you have something terrible and incurable.
Then you will realise that what that is, is a lack of common sense.
But generally, it starts upon waking. What am I saying, it starts?! It doesn't stop. I'm pretty sure the first thought that fires in my head - and it's generally verbalised too if I'm on my own - tends to be, do I look like a spotty sixteen-year-old today? (My face hasn't got the memo that it's 22, not in its mid-teens. Curses. Clinique, I owe you a lot.) Then there's the in-shower, "am I too fat?" debate. Objectively, no. I know what I weigh and for my height it's probably bang-on. But we're forgetting those pesky XX chromosomes. Which mean, amongst other things, that in my head, I will always want to be thinner. It doesn't help that Mother Dearest is thinner than me. She has so many amazing clothes and I can't borrow any of them. Because they're too small. (Firstworldproblems, huh?)
Other ridiculous things I worry about...let's see. Oh, here's one. While on the train to work the other day, I spent most of the time between Horsham and East Croydon feeling guilty because I wasn't a "proper" commuter. (I wish I was kidding.) I felt bad that I was surrounded by people in suits who had proper jobs and real lives and families to provide for, and I was just on my way to sit in an office and essentially play an hours-long game of spot-the-difference.* I've since started taking my laptop with me to look more professional. I joke, it's so I can do dissertation work on the train. (Which is almost worse, somehow.)
*Or, as it's been this week, read-the-sociology textbook. Repeatedly.
And I haven't even got started on the relationship angst. I can hear friends thinking, "Oh God, what do you have to angst over? Like, seriously?" I take their point, I do. I know how lucky I am. I've made some shit decisions in my time, but I have brilliant taste in boyfriends. You can't fault it.
But I think I have a touch of "perfect girlfriend syndrome". And I highly doubt I'm the only one.
Man, there's a lot of soul-baring going on here. My next post will be lighthearted, I promise. Because, if nothing else, I need to check I can still do "lighthearted", as I've not exactly been Miss Full of The Joys of Spring. More like Miss Summer Drizzle.
So, Perfect Girlfriend Syndrome. It's quite simple, but boy, is it persistent. I don't know, I just want to be the perfect girlfriend. I don't do anything else to international level, so I might as well give this a shot. Trouble is, it backfires spectacularly because when "PGS" is coupled with my natural bottling tendencies, it means I withdraw into ice-queen mode and everyone is left feeling rather perplexed as to why I am a) silent, and b) suddenly even more haughty and uppity than usual. You know the script as well as I do:
Are you OK?
Yup.
Are you sure?
Yup.
'Cause it doesn't seem like you are. You know you can tell me if you're not.
No, I'm fine. Of course I'm not fine, why the flip do you not know this? Oh, 'cause I haven't told you because I don't want to drag you into my emo misery and you're not a mind-reader. WHY AREN'T YOU A MINDREADER? And so on, and so forth.
Don't give me that look, I've never claimed to be rational.
I just hate feeling like the whiny, needy one. I know probably everyone does, but I'm much more comfortable being the listen-girl, rather than the this-is-how-I-feel girl. Thing is, I'm aware that I do the ice-queen thing and I know it's not exactly the hallmark of a mature relationship -but I don't know how to not do it! - and so the whole cycle of worrying kicks off again.
In a way, I think it's at least partly a crutch, this chronic and acute worrying thing. The following sentence might not make sense, but I'll risk it. I worry that if I stop worrying, things really will all fall to pieces, purely because I've stopped worrying about everything. It's a running joke in my family that, "if Kirsten doesn't have something to worry about, she worries about that." Obviously life isn't like that - shit's gonna happen whether you were dreading it or not, and as someone far wiser than me once said, "the real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind". Which isn't especially reassuring, come to think of it.
I also worry that I haven't figured out number 17 on this list:
http://jezebel.com/5910701/congrats-new-grads-by-the-way-you-dont-know-anything
Everything else that churns round and round in my head is pretty much universal, I think - money (i.e. a severe lack thereof), getting a job, being able to tolerate that job long enough to be able to at least rent a tiny little flat and live with someone I'm not related to...
As is probably obvious, I could continue, and you won't be surprised to hear (read?) I nearly gave myself a stomach ulcer a couple of years ago. There are probably about four or five things that unfailingly make me relax in this world, the rest of life is a relentless cycle of "oh but what if-?"
Don't ever tell me that I don't need to worry so much. I can assure you, I do.
Music time? Music time.
I'm going to be honest, the song is nothing outstanding, I just like the video. There's a lot of corset-y action and people that look delightfully free of morals.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lH0IT6qT6zE
I'm seeing these guys in November, and I might cry when they play Poison and Wine, because I'm like that. But have this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=441mR2zsQbg
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