...if you still have any.
I can't remember the last time I fell as completely and utterly in love with a film as I did with Mud, which I saw on Wednesday evening. It certainly wasn't the last time I made it to the cinema, to see Les Miserables - the only bit of which I didn't find glaringly underwhelming being Eddie Redmayne's face. I spent most of that genuinely concerned that Hugh Jackman was going to do serious damage to his vocal cords: "he's not going to go for that note, is he? No, he'll never make it. Oh, he is...? Brave. Very brave."
But anyway. Mud. Set along the Mississippi, in Arkansas, two young teenagers find a man hiding out on an island near their riverside homes. He goes by the name of Mud, and is waiting for a girl - a girl he's been in love with for years, and whose violent ex he killed - and is trying to stay off the radar of the dead man's family, and the authorities. The two boys get drawn into his story, and begin to help him - the sensitive one, Ellis, more readily than his brilliantly-named friend Neckbone. Ellis is having problems of his own; his parents are on the verge of splitting, and he's got a crush on an older girl. He's amusingly given to throwing punches when frustrated in his endeavours - I kind of wanted to ruffle his hair and tell him that in four years' time, he'd probably be needing two sticks to fight off the ladies. And then I remembered he's a fictional character.
It's achingly middle-class to get gushy about cinematography, but Mud definitely warrants it. Thanks to its glorious, wild setting and Steadicam camera work (I've been reading everything I can find about this film; can you tell?) it's a film you want to step right inside and explore. I've also had the soundtrack on repeat for the last few days; it's as country as you'd expect, with some really nice guitar work going on. In particular, the track called "Snakebite" (which doesn't give away any major plot points, not at all), with its spiky guitars and menacing drums, makes whatever you happen to be doing while listening to it feel like The Most Important and Epic Thing You've Ever Done. I was proofreading the absolute shit out of my work on Friday to it... (You can find it on YouTube if you want to see what I mean.)
There is nothing about this film I did not love - the plot feels like it could have been adapted from a classic American novel, and it doesn't descend into cliche. Even Ellis' dad, who could be your standard emotionally-unavailable hard-ass, has his softer moments. Everything wraps up quite neatly, sure, but thanks to the story-telling and really good performances from Matthew McConnaughey as Mud, Tye Sheridan as Ellis and Ray McKinnon as Ellis' father, you don't feel short-changed. And plus, who doesn't love a sort-of-coming-of-age film that ends in a shoot-out?
I mentioned in the last post that I'd wanted to include something about the new Thea Gilmore album, Regardless, but that I'd run out of words. So while I'm on the topic of nice things to see and listen to, here goes. In several reviews of the album, much was made of how Ms Gilmore has reached musical maturity and finally found her "place" in the British talent line-up. Biased though I may be, I think what's actually happened is that British music has finally found a place for her. Presumably she has, more or less, always made the music she's wanted to make, and for any artist, that's going to change between the ages of 23 and 30-something. It's probably true that in Regardless, Thea Gilmore has struck her best balance yet between finely-articulated rage against injustice and apathy, and writing about more universal themes of love, family and loss. Stand-out tracks include Start As We Mean To Go On - my new drinking song, surely - Something to Sing About, and Spit and Shine. And if you manage to listen to My Friend Goodbye and remain dry-eyed, then you're a robot.
And so to reading material. On my desk, there's a stack of things I should get on and read, one being The Second Coming, by John Niven. It's the sequel to Kill Your Friends, a book so sharp you could hurt yourself on it. With a protagonist so vile you finish the book and feel a genuine need to read the Bible - but he has such a strong voice you find yourself slipping into his thought patterns. It's funny, but black comedy doesn't begin to cover it. It's a triumph of a novel, but God, you feel dirty afterwards. I'm both nervous and sceptical about the sequel - it's got so much to live up to.
To lighten the mood, I've also got Hadley Freeman's Be Awesome. It's not a self-help book; it's closer to a more balanced How To Be A Woman. I worship at the altar of Caitlin Moran as much as the next 23-year-old upstart who thinks she's cool, but her first book probably should have been called The World According to Catmo. Freeman writes in a similar way - it's like having a long, putting-the-world-to-rights chat with your best mate - but her arguments seem slightly more measured. And it's worth reading for the chapter entitled "A day in your life in Daily Mail headlines" alone.
That's all for now. Have some... oh God, I'm struggling for musical recommendations... Oh, this is quite Sunday-ish, that'll do.
"A Guardian reader in Horsham, poor love."
Sunday, 19 May 2013
Monday, 13 May 2013
Not really part of the plan...
It's common knowledge by now that being a university-educated 23-year-old, in the UK in 2013, is no picnic. (And if you're the aspiring-writer girlfriend of an aspiring musician, you should probably face facts and admit that you're totally fucked, really.) Someone - not me - really needs to remind my mother of this; part 436 of the "why haven't you got a proper job yet?" conversation happened the other day, and ran thus:
Me: "[insert girl's name] has just got a job with Easyjet- she didn't get onto the course she wanted to do, so she's going to work for them for a year."
Mum: "Oh that's good. [Pause.] Why don't you try and get in with an airline for a bit? Just for a while, so that you have a proper job?"
I'd like to say I bit back the exasperated, "because about the very last thing I need right now is another job I don't want to do and that doesn't even have anything to do with what I'm good at", but because I'm a mouthy little shitall of the times at times, I didn't.
In a previous post (the ranty Iain Duncan Smith one), I mentioned that a Times columnist had written a light-hearted piece about all the menial, brain-meltingly dull and unfulfilling jobs he'd had in his time, and what they'd taught him. During a particularly long and boring afternoon at work the other day, I started compiling my own list.
My first job, aged 14, was a complete gift, and really brought me out of my shell. I worked here (you'll know it if you're from Sussex), and most of the time it was an absolute joy. Running round after animals and children all day? Nice work if you can get it. I shovelled a lot of shit, chased a lot of goats, looked after, rode and fell off some beautiful but sometimes temperamental horses and ponies. I got chased by a belligerent turkey, chased the odd cow through the car park, failed to get alpacas to go where they needed to go, had to shovel up sheep placenta during lambing season (ewww, that was grim) and judged a lot of people on their parenting skills. I worked almost every weekend and school/college holiday for four years, and then worked one last summer after my first year at uni.
I made some great friends, admired some hot boys from afar, and learned to drink at the staff summer parties (which tended to be when the admiration of hot boys could happen at much closer quarters). And all that shit-shovelling gives you a seriously flat stomach. Even if, when combined with falling off a horse, it also results in being frogmarched to an osteopath, who doesn't believe you're only 17 because "your back is awfully... um, how to put this... stressed. You're going to have to sort this out before you have children." Yeah, but I had abs of steel, who needs a correctly-aligned spine?
Next up was a summer behind the bar at a village pub. Which terrified me initially, as I don't love being the centre of attention (...much...) and when you're serving, you're on display all the time. And when you're not serving, you're probably passing through the kitchen, being shouted at by a chef. (I used to be overly nice to him whenever I saw him outside of work, mainly to kind of disarm him/weird him out. I don't think it worked.) I'm not what you'd call a natural at waitressing, so in my first week I think the only thing I said was "Sorry!" and every time my boss walked past me, he'd say "Kirsten, you look worried."
"No, Alex, that's just my face."
University had me doing the odd strange thing for money. There was the two days I spent sticking address labels on the alumni newspaper, for which I was paid about £100. I'm not kidding; I can't have done more than six hours' work. And they say universities don't have money to burn...
I worked in a university office for a few months - the QUB School of History and Anthropology. That was ok, until the last few weeks, when all the staff began taking their summer holidays and I was pretty much on my own in the History office. Which would have been fine had it not been the end-of-exams and pre-graduation bit of the year, so we were getting a lot of students calling up in a panic about resits and registering for graduation, and all they were getting on the other end of the phone was me. Who didn't have the first idea of what to tell them, because no-one had told me anything. I just used to say, "Erm, yes, I think the best person to speak to would be Frances, as she's the school manager", put them through and carry on faffing about on the internet. And then Frances would come in and I'd have to pretend to be doing something other than going through every comic on this website.
Sometimes I'd be over in the Anthropology office, which was smaller and quieter, perhaps because it was populated by men - one of whom did stand-up comedy in his spare time, which was pretty cool, especially as he'd sometimes leave his gig notes on his desk. While working there, I was having a bit of a trying-to-break-up-with-someone problem, while almost getting together with someone else, via a third person. No, I'm not proud of it. "You should have your own show," said the non-comedian guy once, after I'd given him the full run-down of my romantic situation(s). Well, he asked.
I also worked briefly as a Kumon assistant - I pretty much nicked the job off my flatmate - and I can't think of anything remarkable about that, except having to sneak off to the loo to text the Boy whenever a kid asked me to explain something Maths-related. An actual message I sent him was: "I've forgotten how to do long multiplication. Help!" Luckily for me, he obliged.
Which brings us to proofreading, and tanning-salon-minding. (Oh, the thrilling life I lead...) I remember being jobless and bored out of my skull once I'd come back to Horsham in the post-graduation comedown of summer 2011. I was just getting desperate and staring down the barrel of having to do something waitressy when I got an e-mail inviting me to Uckfield, which I'd vaguely heard of, to do a proof test. I had no recollection of applying for the job, but off I went. And found eleven mistakes on a ten-mistake document, much to the amusement of my friends when I proudly relayed that fact to them later on. "Can you start tomorrow?" said my interviewer.
And I'm still there, when I'm not at the salon. (Except on Sundays, when I refuse to un-cling myself from the Boy, because it's the only day we're both off.) I'm still proofing guide dog obituaries and insurance policies, and overhearing conversations that both amuse and appal me. It's not news, but boys aged between 18 and 21 are disgusting, hilarious creatures.
You get a lot of weird and wonderful characters in a tanning salon - a real cross-section of people. Loads more men than I expected, and what's more, loads more straight men. I've had the line "so, can a man and a woman fit on a sunbed together?" used on me more than once, which is nice, and the creams that we sell to prolong/enhance your tan have names you wouldn't believe if I told you. I've had to try and explain Morris dancing to our lovely Hungarian nail technician, and have acquired an admirer with the most beautiful Scottish accent I've ever heard. As Fran says in that episode of Black Books: "It just... does things to me."
I really need to stop now, this is far longer than planned. I was going to include something about the new Thea Gilmore album, "Regardless", as it's the only thing I've been listening to all week, but I'll be straying into e-book territory if I type any more words, and none of us need that.
Have this. The Boy keeps playing it, and as a result it keeps getting stuck in my head.
Me: "[insert girl's name] has just got a job with Easyjet- she didn't get onto the course she wanted to do, so she's going to work for them for a year."
Mum: "Oh that's good. [Pause.] Why don't you try and get in with an airline for a bit? Just for a while, so that you have a proper job?"
I'd like to say I bit back the exasperated, "because about the very last thing I need right now is another job I don't want to do and that doesn't even have anything to do with what I'm good at", but because I'm a mouthy little shit
In a previous post (the ranty Iain Duncan Smith one), I mentioned that a Times columnist had written a light-hearted piece about all the menial, brain-meltingly dull and unfulfilling jobs he'd had in his time, and what they'd taught him. During a particularly long and boring afternoon at work the other day, I started compiling my own list.
My first job, aged 14, was a complete gift, and really brought me out of my shell. I worked here (you'll know it if you're from Sussex), and most of the time it was an absolute joy. Running round after animals and children all day? Nice work if you can get it. I shovelled a lot of shit, chased a lot of goats, looked after, rode and fell off some beautiful but sometimes temperamental horses and ponies. I got chased by a belligerent turkey, chased the odd cow through the car park, failed to get alpacas to go where they needed to go, had to shovel up sheep placenta during lambing season (ewww, that was grim) and judged a lot of people on their parenting skills. I worked almost every weekend and school/college holiday for four years, and then worked one last summer after my first year at uni.
I made some great friends, admired some hot boys from afar, and learned to drink at the staff summer parties (which tended to be when the admiration of hot boys could happen at much closer quarters). And all that shit-shovelling gives you a seriously flat stomach. Even if, when combined with falling off a horse, it also results in being frogmarched to an osteopath, who doesn't believe you're only 17 because "your back is awfully... um, how to put this... stressed. You're going to have to sort this out before you have children." Yeah, but I had abs of steel, who needs a correctly-aligned spine?
Next up was a summer behind the bar at a village pub. Which terrified me initially, as I don't love being the centre of attention (...much...) and when you're serving, you're on display all the time. And when you're not serving, you're probably passing through the kitchen, being shouted at by a chef. (I used to be overly nice to him whenever I saw him outside of work, mainly to kind of disarm him/weird him out. I don't think it worked.) I'm not what you'd call a natural at waitressing, so in my first week I think the only thing I said was "Sorry!" and every time my boss walked past me, he'd say "Kirsten, you look worried."
"No, Alex, that's just my face."
University had me doing the odd strange thing for money. There was the two days I spent sticking address labels on the alumni newspaper, for which I was paid about £100. I'm not kidding; I can't have done more than six hours' work. And they say universities don't have money to burn...
I worked in a university office for a few months - the QUB School of History and Anthropology. That was ok, until the last few weeks, when all the staff began taking their summer holidays and I was pretty much on my own in the History office. Which would have been fine had it not been the end-of-exams and pre-graduation bit of the year, so we were getting a lot of students calling up in a panic about resits and registering for graduation, and all they were getting on the other end of the phone was me. Who didn't have the first idea of what to tell them, because no-one had told me anything. I just used to say, "Erm, yes, I think the best person to speak to would be Frances, as she's the school manager", put them through and carry on faffing about on the internet. And then Frances would come in and I'd have to pretend to be doing something other than going through every comic on this website.
Sometimes I'd be over in the Anthropology office, which was smaller and quieter, perhaps because it was populated by men - one of whom did stand-up comedy in his spare time, which was pretty cool, especially as he'd sometimes leave his gig notes on his desk. While working there, I was having a bit of a trying-to-break-up-with-someone problem, while almost getting together with someone else, via a third person. No, I'm not proud of it. "You should have your own show," said the non-comedian guy once, after I'd given him the full run-down of my romantic situation(s). Well, he asked.
I also worked briefly as a Kumon assistant - I pretty much nicked the job off my flatmate - and I can't think of anything remarkable about that, except having to sneak off to the loo to text the Boy whenever a kid asked me to explain something Maths-related. An actual message I sent him was: "I've forgotten how to do long multiplication. Help!" Luckily for me, he obliged.
Which brings us to proofreading, and tanning-salon-minding. (Oh, the thrilling life I lead...) I remember being jobless and bored out of my skull once I'd come back to Horsham in the post-graduation comedown of summer 2011. I was just getting desperate and staring down the barrel of having to do something waitressy when I got an e-mail inviting me to Uckfield, which I'd vaguely heard of, to do a proof test. I had no recollection of applying for the job, but off I went. And found eleven mistakes on a ten-mistake document, much to the amusement of my friends when I proudly relayed that fact to them later on. "Can you start tomorrow?" said my interviewer.
And I'm still there, when I'm not at the salon. (Except on Sundays, when I refuse to un-cling myself from the Boy, because it's the only day we're both off.) I'm still proofing guide dog obituaries and insurance policies, and overhearing conversations that both amuse and appal me. It's not news, but boys aged between 18 and 21 are disgusting, hilarious creatures.
You get a lot of weird and wonderful characters in a tanning salon - a real cross-section of people. Loads more men than I expected, and what's more, loads more straight men. I've had the line "so, can a man and a woman fit on a sunbed together?" used on me more than once, which is nice, and the creams that we sell to prolong/enhance your tan have names you wouldn't believe if I told you. I've had to try and explain Morris dancing to our lovely Hungarian nail technician, and have acquired an admirer with the most beautiful Scottish accent I've ever heard. As Fran says in that episode of Black Books: "It just... does things to me."
I really need to stop now, this is far longer than planned. I was going to include something about the new Thea Gilmore album, "Regardless", as it's the only thing I've been listening to all week, but I'll be straying into e-book territory if I type any more words, and none of us need that.
Have this. The Boy keeps playing it, and as a result it keeps getting stuck in my head.
Friday, 26 April 2013
Daily Fail.
It's not easy being the daughter of a Daily Mail reader. On a near-daily basis, I find myself saying things like, "that's a slight generalisation, isn't it?" and "whoa, hang on, that might be a bit racist!" And possibly the worst one of all: "don't say that, you sound like Granny".
This post will contain a couple of ironies - mainly, that by complaining at length about said newspaper, I'll only be further boosting its profile, and secondly, a blog post that bitches about bitchy so-called journalists is in itself a massive contradiction.
Don't get me wrong, I love a good bitch. Some of the best conversations I've had with friends have involved a heartfelt slagging-off session of a mutual frenemy. Part of what brought the Boy and I together was our shared sense of superiority over [most] other human beings. (The other parts were vodka, and a mutual love of cheese. Find someone that really understands when you say, "that is some amazing Camembert" in an almost orgasmic tone, and you're set.)
What I'm not so keen on, however, is coming across newspaper articles that amount to nothing more than inches upon inches of bitterness and spite. Written by people who are in the privileged position - because we all know where print media is headed, let's be honest - of being paid to thrash out their opinions on a laptop and have them printed in national newspapers. Liz Jones, Jan Moir, Samantha Brick, I'm talking (typing?) about you. If I ever have to cast Macbeth, you three will be a shoe-in for the witches. (Note to self: calm down. Deep breaths.)
I am aware that those named above all write for the Daily Mail, and to provide some gender balance, there's Richard Littlejohn - also at the Mail - and undoubtedly numerous other offensive columnists at other papers. It's those three that drive me to distraction though, every time I have the misfortune to stumble across one of their pieces. In the same way that Fifty Shades of Grey was car-crash storytelling, Brick, Moir and Jones deal in car-crash newspaper columns - you read on, because you can't quite believe what you're reading.
On my way home from work on Tuesday (I get most of my blogging ideas on the train, mainly because it's the only time I don't feel bad about spending ages arsing about on Twitter), I noticed there was a lot of Twitter-based outrage at Jan Moir. (Again.) This time, instead of being vile about deceased boyband members, she'd sunk her claws into mezzo-soprano and let's face it, rather pretty lady, Katherine Jenkins. Now, I don't really have an opinion on Jenkins, and admittedly, getting your high-school bitch on is a far lesser crime than putting your vindictive, homophobic attitude down in black and white. My mum has a couple of Katherine's CDs, and yes, her voice is impressive. But I only have room for one girl-crush in my life, so I'm not here to stridently defend the singer.
But the tone of Moir's article was so breath-takingly bitchy, and seemed so utterly unnecessary, that it was hardly surprising that Twitter was buzzing with it and bloggers and columnists were tapping out responses as fast as their fingers would allow. So Katherine was wearing sunglasses when she ran the marathon - it was sunny. So her hair was "pulled back into an immaculate ponytail" - she was running a marathon. I should imagine that's hard enough without your hair flopping sweatily round your shoulders and getting blown into your face. So she might have been wearing some make-up? Jenkins herself did later deny that she was, but it doesn't bloody matter either way - some women I know will put something on their faces to put the bins out, given half a chance. Like I said, who gives a shit? She ran a marathon, raised £25,000 for Macmillan, a brilliant charity that provided help for her father, who died when she was only 15. Based on those things alone, writing such a nasty article just isn't on.
I highly doubt Ms Jenkins will be losing any sleep over it. If you're in the public eye, you must know that you're going to get a fair bit of crap written about you, so I'm not saying famous people should be exempt from having tabloids print that crap. I'd just like there to be genuine justification for it. There's a reason Charlie Brooker - as an example - is a far more pleasing read than Moir et al.; when he's being misanthropic, he at least displays a certain level of self-awareness so his audience knows he's got a heart somewhere.
Maybe this kind of thing comes from laziness. Maybe if you're a columnist on a national newspaper and it's a slow news week, it's easier to pull a name out of a hat and pick that person apart than it is to try and think of something that will give your readers something constructive, perhaps even uplifting, to mull over when they're commuting to work/on their tea-break/waiting for their dentist appointment. But we're not living in slow news times. There are so many things happening, so many things to write about, that people shouldn't need to resort to filling their column-space with venom and vitriol - especially when those at which it is aimed are doing good things. I get that it sells, and that those circulation figures are what the editors are primarily concerned about, but that doesn't mean it should be accepted. Journalists are meant to write "the first draft of history"; in such a jammy position, you'd hope they'd be beyond the playground bitching.
As I said, I'm well aware that posting the links to the offending articles in question only gives the writers more page-hits, but it's mainly so I don't have to paraphrase and thus risk giving an inaccurate synopsis. It's also in the interests of fairness. Of course.
I didn't really like this song the first time round, but I've been playing it non-stop this week.
If you don't have a sentimental bone in your body, you won't like my second choice. But it's very cute, very catchy, and the musical itself is nothing short of fucking brilliant. Click me.
This post will contain a couple of ironies - mainly, that by complaining at length about said newspaper, I'll only be further boosting its profile, and secondly, a blog post that bitches about bitchy so-called journalists is in itself a massive contradiction.
Don't get me wrong, I love a good bitch. Some of the best conversations I've had with friends have involved a heartfelt slagging-off session of a mutual frenemy. Part of what brought the Boy and I together was our shared sense of superiority over [most] other human beings. (The other parts were vodka, and a mutual love of cheese. Find someone that really understands when you say, "that is some amazing Camembert" in an almost orgasmic tone, and you're set.)
What I'm not so keen on, however, is coming across newspaper articles that amount to nothing more than inches upon inches of bitterness and spite. Written by people who are in the privileged position - because we all know where print media is headed, let's be honest - of being paid to thrash out their opinions on a laptop and have them printed in national newspapers. Liz Jones, Jan Moir, Samantha Brick, I'm talking (typing?) about you. If I ever have to cast Macbeth, you three will be a shoe-in for the witches. (Note to self: calm down. Deep breaths.)
I am aware that those named above all write for the Daily Mail, and to provide some gender balance, there's Richard Littlejohn - also at the Mail - and undoubtedly numerous other offensive columnists at other papers. It's those three that drive me to distraction though, every time I have the misfortune to stumble across one of their pieces. In the same way that Fifty Shades of Grey was car-crash storytelling, Brick, Moir and Jones deal in car-crash newspaper columns - you read on, because you can't quite believe what you're reading.
On my way home from work on Tuesday (I get most of my blogging ideas on the train, mainly because it's the only time I don't feel bad about spending ages arsing about on Twitter), I noticed there was a lot of Twitter-based outrage at Jan Moir. (Again.) This time, instead of being vile about deceased boyband members, she'd sunk her claws into mezzo-soprano and let's face it, rather pretty lady, Katherine Jenkins. Now, I don't really have an opinion on Jenkins, and admittedly, getting your high-school bitch on is a far lesser crime than putting your vindictive, homophobic attitude down in black and white. My mum has a couple of Katherine's CDs, and yes, her voice is impressive. But I only have room for one girl-crush in my life, so I'm not here to stridently defend the singer.
But the tone of Moir's article was so breath-takingly bitchy, and seemed so utterly unnecessary, that it was hardly surprising that Twitter was buzzing with it and bloggers and columnists were tapping out responses as fast as their fingers would allow. So Katherine was wearing sunglasses when she ran the marathon - it was sunny. So her hair was "pulled back into an immaculate ponytail" - she was running a marathon. I should imagine that's hard enough without your hair flopping sweatily round your shoulders and getting blown into your face. So she might have been wearing some make-up? Jenkins herself did later deny that she was, but it doesn't bloody matter either way - some women I know will put something on their faces to put the bins out, given half a chance. Like I said, who gives a shit? She ran a marathon, raised £25,000 for Macmillan, a brilliant charity that provided help for her father, who died when she was only 15. Based on those things alone, writing such a nasty article just isn't on.
I highly doubt Ms Jenkins will be losing any sleep over it. If you're in the public eye, you must know that you're going to get a fair bit of crap written about you, so I'm not saying famous people should be exempt from having tabloids print that crap. I'd just like there to be genuine justification for it. There's a reason Charlie Brooker - as an example - is a far more pleasing read than Moir et al.; when he's being misanthropic, he at least displays a certain level of self-awareness so his audience knows he's got a heart somewhere.
Maybe this kind of thing comes from laziness. Maybe if you're a columnist on a national newspaper and it's a slow news week, it's easier to pull a name out of a hat and pick that person apart than it is to try and think of something that will give your readers something constructive, perhaps even uplifting, to mull over when they're commuting to work/on their tea-break/waiting for their dentist appointment. But we're not living in slow news times. There are so many things happening, so many things to write about, that people shouldn't need to resort to filling their column-space with venom and vitriol - especially when those at which it is aimed are doing good things. I get that it sells, and that those circulation figures are what the editors are primarily concerned about, but that doesn't mean it should be accepted. Journalists are meant to write "the first draft of history"; in such a jammy position, you'd hope they'd be beyond the playground bitching.
As I said, I'm well aware that posting the links to the offending articles in question only gives the writers more page-hits, but it's mainly so I don't have to paraphrase and thus risk giving an inaccurate synopsis. It's also in the interests of fairness. Of course.
I didn't really like this song the first time round, but I've been playing it non-stop this week.
If you don't have a sentimental bone in your body, you won't like my second choice. But it's very cute, very catchy, and the musical itself is nothing short of fucking brilliant. Click me.
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
"Fashion changes; style endures."
Alas, I can't take credit for either of those.
As the last three weeks have involved two blocks of working 6 days straight, and one three-day migraine (whoa, so many numbers), I took yesterday off, so that I could have an actual two-day weekend. I know, it's not easy being me. I've got so fed up of my clothes recently that I felt that a bit of a wardrobe overhaul was due, so I took myself to Guildford bright and early yesterday morning - because Horsham is God-awful for clothes shopping and Crawley is just God-awful all round.
I have a very on/off relationship with fashion - like most people, I should imagine. I can happily flick through Glamour/Elle/InStyle but when push comes to shove, I don't actually give a shit about trends. There are some things I totally object to, sartorially speaking - why would anyone wear a tracksuit outside of their house/a sporting facility? Why, also, would anyone let their Uggs meet any flooring surface that wasn't their bedroom carpet? Leather-look leggings - just why?
On the whole, I hate to look like I'm trying too hard. Indeed, I have to make a hell of amount of effort to look like I've made any effort whatsoever. I'm just not a fan of "too much". Big hair, dramatic eye make-up, statement jewellery, dresses that are in themselves a talking point - all things that look cool on other people. Just not me. I am not, nor will I ever be, one of those effortlessly elegant women, who always look perfectly put together, even when buying mangoes in Sainsbury's on a Sunday morning.
And traditionally, womankind as a whole is meant to love shopping. We're meant to be good at it, we're meant to be able to do it for hours. But I'm sure I can't be the only one who finds it's a lot like having your photo taken with Keira Knightley - you're never going to come out of it feeling anything but momentarily suicidal. Maybe I'm just getting hugely fussy in my old age, but yesterday's shopping attempt was about the opposite of successful. I just couldn't find anything that made me go, "that is so nice, I need it. Now." And that wasn't for want of trying. I even went into shops I normally won't go near, like Next (which is either too "officey" or too "harrassed-mother-on-the-school-run").
My thought processes went something like this:
Topshop - you have to be a borderline-anorexic sixth-former to suit 97% of their stock. I tried on a big slouchy cardigan, that was quite nice, but they didn't have my size.
Gap & Fat Face - nice enough stuff, but mainly casual. I need stuff that can do office and pub. One of my best friend keeps extolling the virtues of Gap-owned Banana Republic to me, but I think my nearest one would be in London.
Zara - I like the idea of Zara. I go in, and think, yeah, this is very me. Do I ever buy anything in there? No. Also, all the UK branches I've ever been to have been untidy, and I'm a neat freak, so this is a problem.
H & M - often good for basics like t-shirts, everything else is quite hit-and-miss, and I'm never totally convinced by the quality. That said, I have a couple of H & M tops that I wear a lot and they still look perfectly acceptable. If you ignore the odd hole and missing button and fraying seam... what? I wear my clothes hard.
River Island - Topshop on crack. Oddly, their jeans are great.
Oasis - very pretty and girlie, but edging towards too girlie.
Miss Selfridge - again, their jeans are pretty good. They have the occasional nice thing.
Primark - absolutely not. (Yes, I'm a snob, I know.)
New Look - good for inexpensive ballet flats. Everything else, nah, not really.
Dorothy Perkins - the rare flash of "that's actually really nice" - I have a stripey dress that is incredibly flattering and comfortable but also looks like I've made some sort of effort. But it's not often DP excites me that much.
Jack Wills - the only problem I have with their stuff is the price. The clothes are gorgeous.
Hollister/Abercrombie - see Topshop.
Argh. Who does a girl have to sleep with to get some decent clothes on the high street? (Probably a rich man, come to think of it. And then I could avoid the high street altogether. Wahey, a plan!)
Do guys have this problem? Is it just me being monstrously fussy? There is a chance I was slightly hormonal yesterday - I did text the Boy from a fitting room because I was having a hissy fit about feeling fat. Which only opens you up to ridicule when you're mostly a size 8. I didn't feel like a size 8, OK? There's a reason the most fun I had all day was in Boots. You don't have to be thin for make-up.
Right, that is more than enough from me. I was going to put this song up anyway, because it's bloody good - but the first verse is oddly apt. And she's just too talented.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
The kids are alright...
I know I said I wouldn't do much topical stuff, as I'm not very good at 'The News'. I'm really only interested in the politicians that are prioritising the further education and [un]employment issues of young people, and as that's basically none of them, it makes things very simple for me. This story, however, had "oh, for fuck's sake!" writtten all over it, so as the Handbook for the Overly-Opinionated Half-Hearted Hipster dictates, I thought I'd blog it out.
Paris Brown and I would never be BFFs, this much I know. She might be into the writings of Caitlin Moran and Grace Dent, girl singers with guitars, quirky little Anglo/Irish indie films and incredibly cerebral conversations about superpowers, but I'm not banking on it. (I sound almost quite cool when I describe myself like that; fear not, I also like Made in Chelsea and a dash of Paloma Faith - I'm not infallible.) But I've felt quite sorry for her over the last few days, as she's been dragged into the merciless sights of the British media and been forced to justify daring to behave like a teenager. A stupid one, yes, but good grief, when's the last time you saw a teenager and thought, "how wonderfully wise and well-informed you are"?
I believe I'm right in thinking it was the Daily Mail or the Mail on Sunday that started this shitstorm-in-a-teacup. If various current affairs blogs are to be believed, a journalist at the Mail on Sunday invited Brown to an interview and used that as an "in" to write a piece detailing her Twitter activities. And sure, she's said a number of things on there that are at best unwise and at worst offensive. And being young does not completely excuse her. But, aged 14-17, it is sometimes hard to see that a lot of what you say and do at this time will affect you later on. It's also a bit of a bitch that when you are a teenager - at an age where you should be free to be a little reckless and experimental - you are asked to make decisions that you're told will affect the rest of your life. There is also evidence to suggest that as well as all the physical shit you go through during your teen years, your brain goes through a bit of a re-wire too. But you're going to have to Google that one, as I can assure you, I am no scientist. In short, I don't think it's too much to suggest that a little bit of slack should be cut. A smidgeon of consideration should be had. I don't even think she put herself up for the job of Youth Crime Commissioner; I think someone suggested it to her.
The point is, judging by this girl's tweets - and indeed, her eyebrows - she doesn't seem like the brightest badge on the cardigan. I also find it hard to believe there are no other smart young people with an interest in youth crime (and a little more internet savvy) in Kent who would qualify for the job, but that's a complete aside. However (and it's a massive "however"), it just seems odd - no, ridiculous, actually - that a young woman is hounded out of a job because of things she wrote on one social-networking site long before she actually took up said post. And really, if we're going to start chasing people out of jobs because of things dredged up by the Daily Mail, then God help us. We're all fucked. There's also some irony in the Daily Mail getting outraged about a teenager's allegedly "racist" comments. Really, DM? Really?
There's no doubt that people should be careful about what they say online, because it can and will be held against you, should the circumstances arise. But that's just basic manners - you should be careful what you say in life. And not everyone has good manners 100% of the time. We wouldn't be human if we did. The internet is a brilliant, buzzing thing - but it's also a record of our stupidity. Once you write something on the internet, it's there permanently and it's find-able. I would cringe so hard I'd headbutt my desk if presented with my Facebook statuses aged 17-19. Hell, let me loose on red wine and then Twitter and it's a similar story now. Even here, on this little blog that averages maybe tens of hits, as opposed to hundreds or thousands, I have to rein it in sometimes, and remind myself that when I hit "publish", what I've said is out there for good, contributing to whatever idea of "me" any readers might have. I've had one particular post in drafts for months now which details the rather dramatic and upsetting demise of a friendship, but I'm not sure when, or even if, I am going to make it public. I don't mention names in it, and nor would I, but because I wrote it when the situation was fresh in my head and I was really bloody mad, it's a heartfelt piece of writing that I'm actually quite proud of (it's amazing how concise I am when I'm angry). I don't know if that post will ever see the light of day, because the last thing I want is to re-hash things from which people have now moved on.
The sad thing is, by Miss Brown deciding not to continue in her role as youth crime commissioner, she's unwittingly handed the Press - or a certain sector of it - more ammunition. They'll rub their hands with glee, and say that young people have no staying power or resilience, and that they knew it was a stupid idea anyway, giving teenagers adult responsibilities. I wish she'd decided to weather the storm, tough though that would have been, and then gone on to throw herself into that job, and make the role a worthwhile and valuable one. That would have made them eat their words.
On the subject of teenagers, have something gloriously bratty with a sing-along chorus. It's been getting me through my commute this week.
I am obsessed with this band at the moment - largely because I saw them live last week, and they were brilliant. Like the other song here, the chorus of this song is nothing short of glorious.
Paris Brown and I would never be BFFs, this much I know. She might be into the writings of Caitlin Moran and Grace Dent, girl singers with guitars, quirky little Anglo/Irish indie films and incredibly cerebral conversations about superpowers, but I'm not banking on it. (I sound almost quite cool when I describe myself like that; fear not, I also like Made in Chelsea and a dash of Paloma Faith - I'm not infallible.) But I've felt quite sorry for her over the last few days, as she's been dragged into the merciless sights of the British media and been forced to justify daring to behave like a teenager. A stupid one, yes, but good grief, when's the last time you saw a teenager and thought, "how wonderfully wise and well-informed you are"?
I believe I'm right in thinking it was the Daily Mail or the Mail on Sunday that started this shitstorm-in-a-teacup. If various current affairs blogs are to be believed, a journalist at the Mail on Sunday invited Brown to an interview and used that as an "in" to write a piece detailing her Twitter activities. And sure, she's said a number of things on there that are at best unwise and at worst offensive. And being young does not completely excuse her. But, aged 14-17, it is sometimes hard to see that a lot of what you say and do at this time will affect you later on. It's also a bit of a bitch that when you are a teenager - at an age where you should be free to be a little reckless and experimental - you are asked to make decisions that you're told will affect the rest of your life. There is also evidence to suggest that as well as all the physical shit you go through during your teen years, your brain goes through a bit of a re-wire too. But you're going to have to Google that one, as I can assure you, I am no scientist. In short, I don't think it's too much to suggest that a little bit of slack should be cut. A smidgeon of consideration should be had. I don't even think she put herself up for the job of Youth Crime Commissioner; I think someone suggested it to her.
The point is, judging by this girl's tweets - and indeed, her eyebrows - she doesn't seem like the brightest badge on the cardigan. I also find it hard to believe there are no other smart young people with an interest in youth crime (and a little more internet savvy) in Kent who would qualify for the job, but that's a complete aside. However (and it's a massive "however"), it just seems odd - no, ridiculous, actually - that a young woman is hounded out of a job because of things she wrote on one social-networking site long before she actually took up said post. And really, if we're going to start chasing people out of jobs because of things dredged up by the Daily Mail, then God help us. We're all fucked. There's also some irony in the Daily Mail getting outraged about a teenager's allegedly "racist" comments. Really, DM? Really?
There's no doubt that people should be careful about what they say online, because it can and will be held against you, should the circumstances arise. But that's just basic manners - you should be careful what you say in life. And not everyone has good manners 100% of the time. We wouldn't be human if we did. The internet is a brilliant, buzzing thing - but it's also a record of our stupidity. Once you write something on the internet, it's there permanently and it's find-able. I would cringe so hard I'd headbutt my desk if presented with my Facebook statuses aged 17-19. Hell, let me loose on red wine and then Twitter and it's a similar story now. Even here, on this little blog that averages maybe tens of hits, as opposed to hundreds or thousands, I have to rein it in sometimes, and remind myself that when I hit "publish", what I've said is out there for good, contributing to whatever idea of "me" any readers might have. I've had one particular post in drafts for months now which details the rather dramatic and upsetting demise of a friendship, but I'm not sure when, or even if, I am going to make it public. I don't mention names in it, and nor would I, but because I wrote it when the situation was fresh in my head and I was really bloody mad, it's a heartfelt piece of writing that I'm actually quite proud of (it's amazing how concise I am when I'm angry). I don't know if that post will ever see the light of day, because the last thing I want is to re-hash things from which people have now moved on.
The sad thing is, by Miss Brown deciding not to continue in her role as youth crime commissioner, she's unwittingly handed the Press - or a certain sector of it - more ammunition. They'll rub their hands with glee, and say that young people have no staying power or resilience, and that they knew it was a stupid idea anyway, giving teenagers adult responsibilities. I wish she'd decided to weather the storm, tough though that would have been, and then gone on to throw herself into that job, and make the role a worthwhile and valuable one. That would have made them eat their words.
On the subject of teenagers, have something gloriously bratty with a sing-along chorus. It's been getting me through my commute this week.
I am obsessed with this band at the moment - largely because I saw them live last week, and they were brilliant. Like the other song here, the chorus of this song is nothing short of glorious.
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