When something is better than nothing

I have to admit, my heart sank a little upon hearing that Band Aid 30 was going to be a thing. “Really? They're releasing that song for the fourth time?” (I then took a great amount of pleasure in being able to prove to Drummer Boy that yes, we have now heard four incarnations of Do They Know It's Christmas? People always forget the 1989 version. Probably with good reason. I digress.)

It's just all a bit, well, pfffff... You know. That song again. It doesn't even make sense – and the lyric edits this time around haven't helped in the slightest. If there's anything more sinister than Bono singing “Tonight, we're reaching out and touching you”, well, I don't want to hear about it. Tomorrow, we're applying for a restraining order. And I mean, who even is Rita Ora? I still don't know.

So, yeah. It's problematic. Rich, famous people telling poorer, less famous people what to spend their money on – and possibly shaming other rich, famous people* for not doing so – is never going to go down well, and Bryony Gordon's somewhat uncharacteristic rant makes this point really well.

*I'm still not 100% sure Adele was “shamed” for not being a part of it. All the reports I've read – and admittedly, that's a grand total of 2.5 – have been very vague about what was actually said.

However – and when I bring out the GCSE History essay game-changing word, you know shit's going down – at least Sir Bob Geldof has done something. Even if that 'something' is 'assembling a rabble of mediocre chart-botherers and cobbling together a single and a music video'. They managed to do that in the space of 36 hours. In the last 36 hours, I've... had a pub lunch, slept a bit, and sat in an office fiddling about with a shitty Sharepoint site. So I can't fault the man for deciding to do something and then bloody well getting on with it.

And yes, the criticism that the great and the good and the former rock stars should just put their hands in their own pockets, donate to one of the incredible charities that are already doing so, so much and shut the hell up about it is perfectly valid. Of course it is. Personally, I'm way more in favour of  quietly donating to your chosen charity than I am of any of the rather more public fund-raising efforts that have been so popular this year. (I'm not going to be specific; we know what I mean. I was going to write about it at the time but I'll be honest, I didn't want to be crucified. I still might throw a few thoughts down; everyone loves that one idiot who's brave/stupid enough to voice their unpopular opinion.)

But there's still something to be said for the people that wish for change - and then come up with ideas to bring about that change, and follow them through. Take Russell Brand - yes, he spouts a lot of words, and maybe only some of them are well-chosen, but whether you agree with him or not, he's done something. He's had enough faith in his own convictions to write a book about them. (I can hear the "yeah, but Hitler wrote Mein Kampf, and look what happened there" quips from here, OK?) It's easy, and often right, to criticise people for their egos, their self-promotion and their seeming naivety. Reading some of the criticism of Brand in the last few months has made me think that there is a sense of "but he's just a very average comedian, how dare he have opinions on other things? Get him back in his box!" If you set the dogs on the first person with a new idea, no-one else is going to want to come forward. And so nothing will change. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - the only people who've ever made a difference to anything important have always been the ones who were naive - and mad - enough to think that they could.

And do you know what? If I'd had the year Bob Geldof's had, I don't think I'd be throwing all, or indeed any of my energy into putting out a charity single. I really wouldn't. I cannot imagine how awful this year must have been for him, so if he can be thinking about the suffering of others at a time like this, then all credit to him.

I think the only point I'm making here is... live and let live. Or, to nick a Caitlin Moran quote, "don't get in the way". If someone's doing something that they believe in... let them. If you don't like it, do your own thing. It's as simple as that.

This is a much better track than Band Aid 30.

And so is this. I'm going to learn all the words to this; it can be my [very tedious] party piece.

 

Because a blog post doesn't have to be serious...

 ...sometimes, it's just a case of "I'm really into this right now, so I'm going to inflict it on everybody else!"

I'm pretty smug when it comes to my taste in music (not sure if anyone's noticed). I am wholeheartedly in love with Brontide, who no-one's heard of, I've been to a [very, very drizzly] post-rock festival, and about ten minutes ago I listened to all eight minutes of Led Zeppelin's Kashmir. But I do have a bit of a thing - and I won't say 'guilty pleasure', because life is too short to feel guilty about the things that give you pleasure - for late nineties and early 2000s pop.

Such as this prime example. Oh, the acoustic guitars. The harmonies. The spiky hair. The smily boys. The implausibly clean-looking station.

And this. A slightly moodier version of the above, and it looks like a Jack Wills promo video. I still fancy boys who have curtains and who layer short-sleeved t-shirts over long-sleeved ones. And that wobbly, overwrought "I can't get over YEW, baby!" Take it away, boys.

A personal favourite is this one. I have this on my iPod, and still listen to it at least once a week. Again, we've got those acoustic rhythm guitars and incredibly flimsy lyrics. The video itself is kind of dreamy and a little bit soft-focus, and Jennifer Paige is a) wearing clothes, and b) styled in a way that is so typically late-nineties it hurts. The denim jacket over the baby blue, Calvin Klein-esque dress. The choppy haircut. The "natural" make-up. I'm just going to dissolve into a puddle of nostalgia, I'll catch you guys up.

And who didn't love this song? At least the first 492 times it was played on the radio in 1997, anyway. Once again, it's all a bit dreamy, and once again, our singer has a bob that's less "choppy" and more "Edward Scissorhands is my stylist, what of it?" She's also rocking a floaty-dress-and-boots combination that I quite like.

And, the video that actually sparked this post - it's one of my all-time favourite songs and I will always love her - this one, from 2001. I revisited this video while writing about Michelle Branch for something else (codename: The Other Project), and it made me laugh out loud, because suddenly I was eleven again, and just starting to learn the guitar, and music was The Most Important Thing In The World.

There's the bootcut jeans, and the top with the cut-off sleeves. The impeccably straightened, layered hair. The Lust Object with his shirt unbuttoned over his vest thing. A lot of moody shots of Michelle, as she plays guitar like she means it, and sways slightly, because the video director is telling her she has to move a bit - she's a female pop star, she can't just stand there and play her instrument. The requisite party scene, where people are jumping up and down for no apparent reason. We've also got people standing in front of a backdrop of trees for no apparent reason. Upon spotting her mystery man, she legs it downstairs to try and find him. But alas, she has to return home alone - clearly pissed off that stalking him and noting his every move hasn't worked - but would you look at that? He's in her living room.

There's no way I can end this post with a meaningful line, so I'm not even going to try.

On doing something for nothing

It's kind of tricky to admit, but I know I can be pretty selfish at times. Certainly no more so than the average twenty-something - I hope - though I do have an aversion to sharing food and drink that borders on the psychopathic. And to make that worse, I am That Girl - the one that won't order her own chips/onion rings/pudding, but will absolutely expect you to share yours with me. I'm sorry. I'm working on it (I'm not).

On Saturday, however, I did a small, reasonably selfless thing - I volunteered at the Cancer Research UK Shine Night Walk. Which meant I chose to spend my Saturday night standing at a pedestrian crossing in Trafalgar Square, from 11.30pm to 7.30am, making sure 16,000 walkers went in the right direction and didn't get run over (I was at about mile 18; it would have been a terrible waste to get mown down at that point). It was, all things considered, a complete and utter blast.

The reason I decided to do it wasn't because I now work for CRUK (though I do enjoy it; but mainly I just like being employed). It was actually because of a wonderful friend of mine, who was walking the walk, in memory of her mother. This friend has been through a fair amount by anyone's standards, and is still one of the loveliest, kindest, most thoughtful and fun people I've ever met. It was kind of a solidarity thing - I thought, if she's going to be walking 26 miles through the night, the least I can do is help out for a bit. So I did.

And what a night it turned out to be. When I arrived at my designated station, I wasn't in the best mood - I was already getting the first wave of tiredness, the one that makes you think wistfully of sinking into bed. And the station manager was the most Scottish woman I've ever met, and she was so loud and enthusiastic that I'm sure she was an American cheerleader in a past life. At 10.30, this was not what I wanted. At 6am, when I had my next proper encounter with her, it was actually exactly what I needed.

I was partnered with Steve - "what a guy!" said Mrs Cheerleader, and they were not the words I would have used to describe Steve - and we were walked to Trafalgar Square and put in our spots. The only memorable thing about Steve was what he said after giving me one solitary fruit pastille: "your sugar levels will probably crash after that". Steve, dude. I've weathered exam seasons fuelled by Haribo Tangfastics, coffee and Mini-Eggs. My tolerance for sugar is second to none. One fruit pastille's just a drop in the saccharine ocean.

So then it was just a case of standing there, in a snazzy high-vis t-shirt and hat, feeling like a lemon - and looking like one, incidentally. The first walkers came by about an hour later, but stormed past like they were in a Liam Neeson film and were on a mission to fuck shit up. And then I waited another hour, and more walkers started to appear. But of course, this was London on a Saturday night, so while I was waiting on Shine walkers, I provided the tipsy revellers of Trafalgar Square with much amusement. "Why are you all in yellow? Do you have to stand there all night? What charity is this for? What are you DOING?" Most people were lovely, and simply curious, but I did acquire a creepy "friend" for a while - he wouldn't leave me alone, and then would wander off for a while, but return ten minutes later and ask if he could stand there all night. Eventually, he realised he'd lost his phone at some point, and I put on my best bossy voice and said "I really think you should go and find it", and he left.

The loveliest drunkard of all though was Eric. He'd lost his friend on their night out and decided to just stay and chat for a while: "So you're standing here all night?" "Yes." "For free?" "Well,  I work for the charity, but I'm doing this for free?" "All night?" "Yes." "For free?" "Yes."

Pause.

"Have they even offered you a cup of tea?"
I replied that they hadn't.
"I'm going to buy you a coffee!"
"No, don't be silly. And I don't have any change, anyway."
"No, it's fine." And off he stumbled.
I decided that, given the state he was in, I'd be surprised if I actually got that coffee. And I later found out that he had tried to offer it to Steve, who'd helpfully directed him back to me. I don't think I've ever enjoyed a 4am latte more. The price for this was having him stand there, shouting "encouragement" ("come on ladies, only six miles to go!" "Erm, there's men there too, and it's eight miles. You can't tell them it's only six!") and every so often having him try and call his friend to get him to "come to the bright yellow lady!"

So if anyone knows a London-based, half-Finnish journalist called Eric, can you tell him that the bright yellow girl says thanks for the coffee? Cheers.

The night wasn't without its low points - the main one being at about 5.30, when I realised I hadn't seen the tea-coffee-and-loo van at all, and to be honest, quite needed it. I flagged down one of the the volunteer cyclists who were patrolling the route, and he hared off to find it. It was at this moment that a passing French guy chose to ask me about the event. I was almost bent double, as my back was really starting to hurt from the hours of standing, and also my kidneys were beginning to feel like they might explode. "What is this?" he asked. I couldn't be bothered to simplify the explanation, so went with "it's a Cancer Research UK walking marathon".

"Cancer?" he said, with a look of concern in his eyes, and I nodded, and went back to crouching down, trying to ease the pain in my lower spine. So now there's probably a French guy who thinks I have something terribly wrong with me. Sorry.

But then Mrs Cheerleader arrived to pull me and Steve from our positions, and give us tea and biscuits and a sit-down, and her sheer pep was just the thing to get us through the last hour or so.

And watching the sun rise in the Square was possibly one of the most beautiful things I've seen in ages - the sky lightened slowly, gently, and the morning was crisp and clear and pale blue and gold. The best kind of day. There was hardly anyone around by this point, except event staff and street cleaners - peace at last. At the end of the shift, I walked back down the Mall, towards Victoria Station, and wished I could stay up all night in London more often, so I could see things like this:

It was such a great event, and all of the Shiners were truly amazing - so positive, right the way through the night. Good on you, every single one. You were fantastic.

I might have to actually walk it next year.

Long time, no blog

So. It's been a while. In fact, I'd sort of made the decision to abandon this blog - at least temporarily, anyway. I have a real job now, in an office, and it involves spreadsheets and phone calls, and means that there is no better time than 5.30 on a Friday evening. And I'm actually trying to write something... bigger. Which sounds counter-intuitive; who gets a full-time job and decides that their now-limited free time must be spent tackling a sizeable writing project? Oh, that's right, me. Why? Well, because if not now, when I'm supposedly young and fresh and energetic and full of half-thought-out ideas, then when? But more on that another time. I'm going to be testing it out, possibly on a different blog, so if you're interested, watch this space.

Anyway. This post is all the fault of my friend Catherine. She tagged me in one of those "make of a list of things then nominate others to do the same" Facebook statuses, and while usually I ignore them, it's such a lovely one that I couldn't not make that list.

In no particular order, here are ten books that, in the course of my reading life, have seemed terribly important and world-view-changing at some point or another.

1) Little Women by Louisa M. Alcott. Yes, I'm sure I've wanged on about this one before, but I caught the film on TV again relatively recently, and it struck me again how bloody relevant the story is. On the surface of it, you might think that the lives of four girls and their mother in Concord, Massachusetts, at the end of the American Civil War would be of little consequence to the average modern reader, but let's take Jo March, the second daughter. A tomboy, a guy's girl, when girls weren't allowed to be. An aspiring writer, who wanted to do Something Good and Important, at a time when women had very little power. An angry young woman who, upon being left at home after one sister married and another went to Europe, had a massive rant about not fitting in and wanting to run away, and who then took herself to New York and got cracking with a writing career.

And the best part of it is, Louisa Alcott didn't even want to write the book. Her publisher suggested she write something about her own life, and she wasn't keen. And then she only went and created one of the greatest families in literature. Thanks, Louisa.

2) The Examined Life by Stephen Grosz. Grosz is a psychoanalyst, and The Examined Life is a collection of patient histories. It's fascinating - I had to ration my reading of it, as each case is brief, so you can sail through the book in a day, maybe two if you're busy. It's astonishing how people will repeat the worst behaviour of their parents and relatives and remain unaware that they're doing it, until they are shown. It's a book that makes the reader more aware of themselves - something only truly good books can do.

3) Eating Myself, Candida Crew. Again, I've mentioned this one before, but it's great for anyone who's ever felt a bit weird about food. Crew explores what she calls "normal-abnormal" attitudes to food, putting forward the theory that the vast majority of [white, Western] women are just on a scale of abnormality when it comes to food and dieting. Some are more normal about it than others, but we all have our "things".

4) Ulysses, James Joyce. No, I haven't read the whole thing - I'm not entirely mad, and I've had stuff I needed to get done, to be honest - but I read bits of it for a uni module, and if James Joyce taught me one thing (other than "maybe don't write a 700-page book") it's that you can make up words that fit what you're trying to say. No-one's going to stop you. In fact, they'll probably ply you with awards and praise.

5) Running Like A Girl, Alexandra Heminsley. I'm not much of a runner - even less so since I rediscovered swimming - but Heminsley's book about how she turned herself into a marathon-runner is genuinely inspiring, and touching, and funny. Worth it for the bit where she completes the San Francisco marathon (I cried, on a bench in town, on my lunch break) and for the line "I decided to be able to". That's how you get things done.

6) Great Expectations, Charles Dickens. Another lofty choice, another hangover from my English degree. Thing is, it's wonderful. I thought it was going to be all grey and grim and muddy, like a long weekend in Yorkshire, but it made me think about society and class and whether social mobility is actually possible.

7) How To Be A Woman, by Caitlin Moran. There was no way I wasn't going to include this. There are better books about feminism, sure, but none that are as funny, or as brutally honest. Moran has helped make it OK to talk about things we previously kept to ourselves. Better still, she made it OK to joke about them. She turned Mother Feminism - originally a stern, scary headmistress-type, full of righteous anger - into the cool girl in the pub who wants to get drunk with you, tell filthy stories and become your best mate.

8) Unsticky, Sarra Manning. I should probably apologise for having something that looks a lot like chick-lit on this list, but I'm not going to. I read Manning's teen fiction when I was at school, and she started writing "grown-up" books as I reached my late teens, so I sort of think we grew up together. Her heroines are always slightly awkward and moody, with good hearts, and her love interests are always intriguing with astonishing bone structure (I think my obsession with cheekbones comes from reading too much Manning). And she's one of the few writers who can write a hot sex scene - which is important.

9) The Equality Illusion, Kat Banyard. For anyone who's ever wondered why we still need feminism, or has ever uttered the words "I don't know what feminists are complaining about" - read this book.

10) I'm agonising over the last slot on this list - I really am. There are so many books that have had an impact on me, and the vast majority of them aren't big and important works of literature. A lot of the books I've returned to, and re-read over and over and over, are just small, simple stories. The "Jill" pony books of the 1960s - a girl and her horses and her friends, living in the country and riding all the time, the worst thing that ever befell anyone was a horse going lame on show day. Anything and everything by John Niven - if I'm ever half the writer Niven is, I'll die happy. I've never come across a writer who's so skilled at making the reader empathise with such vile characters. (I'm also willing to bet that Ruby Ferguson's "Jill pony books" and "John Niven" have never been mentioned in the same paragraph, and probably never will be again.) Antonia Fraser's biography of Marie Antoinette - because I have a bit of a fascination with the maligned queen, and regularly daydream about Versailles and all its mind-melting grandeur. Chavs by Owen Jones - because it's political and meticulously researched and right, and because Owen Jones is brilliant.

I can't pick one; there are too many. Each book is another little world, that either takes you away from your life for a while, or makes you feel your life more keenly - makes you understand your own "self" a little better. The best books manage to do both.

Confidence crisis

This one got a bit self-analytical and emo. Consider yourselves warned.

Here's a tragic realisation: I turn 24 in less than three weeks, and I have no idea how to stand up for myself.

To people who have no choice but to put up with me - to people where arguments are a natural part of the relationship - I can. My mother, Drummer Boy; I have no problem arguing with them (I should, but I don't). Anyone else - colleagues, bosses, even friends - I can't. And it's got to the point where I need to learn pretty damn quickly.

Trouble is, once everyone has you pegged as a quiet one, one who won't make a fuss, you're kind of doomed. When you finally do put your foot down with a firm hand, everyone is taken aback and thinks you're being a bitch. You end up over-doing it, because everything you've put up with over the previous weeks/months/years has gathered and grown, so by the time you get around to speaking up, it simply comes out as, "screw you guys, I can't take this bullshit anymore," Carrie-from-Homeland style.

I'm not even particularly laid-back; I'm pretty highly-strung. Things that make me hissy include but are not limited to: not having enough to do, having too much to do, being rushed, other people being slow, cold showers, the Boy not being a fully-qualified mind-reader, and my mother offering me food*. I know, I know - I'm probably going to spend a lot of time in some sort of therapy when I can afford to.

*She barely eats, but insists that everyone else eats loads. It makes me irritable.

Obviously, the problem with standing up for yourself in work-related situations is that there can be pretty serious consequences. If you're just having a bit of a scrap with a loved one, the worst that can happen is a few hours of sulking and silence. If you try and point out - however tactfully and politely - that your boss is being totally unreasonable and that something needs changing, you could lose your job/have your colleagues turn against you, et cetera. Nine situations out of ten, those things won't happen, but there's still a risk, and it won't always pay to take that risk.

It's frustrating though, because I think it's a confidence thing. It feels like there's a part of my personality missing - the "no, I will not take your bullshit" part. It's really sad but I think I'm just too scared of being disliked. (Having written that sentence out for The Internet to see, I realise how pathetic that is. Oh dear.)

I've half-wondered if it's also partly a woman thing - I've been told many times that I'm too nice (it's not even true! I can be a right so-and-so when things aren't going my way, I just pick and choose who sees it) and I'm fairly certain that girls are brought up to be "nice" in a way that boys aren't. Studies conducted in US schools found that girls receive harsher punishments for being "rowdy" (for example, answering the teacher back) than boys do for the same wrongdoing. Nice guys finish last, but nice girls go far (that isn't true either, I am hugely in favour of nice guys. They're better in bed, for a start). But I can't blame society - like I said, it's in my hands now. It's time to take responsibility and learn how to be assertive. I'm not trying to be a ball-busting, hard-as-nails bitch, I just need a sodding backbone.

A piece of advice I've seen a few times is this: pick a role model, and do what you think they would do. Admittedly, it does sound like something you'd read in a teen girl magazine, but you don't have to pick Beyonce as your "model" (I'm not nearly black nor American enough to pick her, anyway). Who would I choose? Caitlin Moran, Grace Dent, Owen Jones? Great, so my options in times of trouble are: making amazing puns followed up with devastating insights (Moran), saying something brilliantly snarky but very funny (Dent), or pulling out some well-chosen statistics and being fantastically socialist with a Northern accent (Jones. I say all that with admiration and lust though, he's my current intellectual crush). None of that is applicable to my life at the moment, sadly. So that's not much help.

Perhaps I should look closer to home. My mother? No. Confident she may be, but she still says "yes" to everything, knackers herself out, takes it out on the rest of the family, all the while pretending it's all her idea. I love her, but I will not do the martyr thing. The Boy? He always appears to be incredibly self-confident, sometimes to the point of arrogance. I know it's not genuine arrogance, but it doesn't really matter - if you look like you're confident in yourself and aren't going to stand for any bullshit, then people are simply less likely to try and take advantage. Fake it til you make it and whatnot.

Pffft, as usual, I don't know. If anyone's got any tips or tricks, feel free to share.

In the meantime, there's music:

I don't know why I like this song so much, having always been pretty underwhelmed by the singer in question, but I cannot get enough of the lyrics at 2:58 - there are songwriters with three decades on her that couldn't come up with lines like that.

And this song - despite the video being utterly bonkers, and the lyrics sounding like Avril Lavigne wrote them -  keeps getting Stuck. In. My. Head. So now y'all have to suffer it too. (It is quite cute though.)