Feng Shite

Bye

2009-06-18T13:07:00.000-07:00

My mum just told me you died in an accident. I never thought I’d be googling your name to find out how and why you died. I last saw you briefly over ten years ago. You were wearing multicoloured leggings and were dressed like a rubbish knight for a re-enactment weekend my friend had dragged me to. We ended up getting a lift in the same car home. It was raining heavily and the girl driving momentarily lost control and we nearly crashed into a tree. I hope you did not die in a car crash.

I first noticed you buying chocolate milkshakes from the caretaker at school. I was nearly 15 I think. You were two years above me, hanging out with a guy who, by some bizarre fluke, now works in the same place as my dad. I thought you were quite cool. Somehow, my friend (who didn’t even go to our school) found out I had a bit of a crush on you and engineered a chance encounter one evening. All very juvenile but heck, we were 15. Next came the dubious notion of ‘why don’t I help you with your homework’. Somehow we ended up going out for a little while. People found this hilarious, because, on the face of it, you were not at all cool. You had a tie-dyed jacket, for goodness sake. And almost long hair. You also collected dice. And actually enjoyed listening to Chris de Burgh. Combine this with bottlegreen jeans (this was the mid 90s after all) and you have an ill-styled ueber-geek. Albeit, I did think you were great. Do you still have my East 17 album, by the way?

And you and your friend took me from the school carnival to a hilltop overlooking town in the middle of the night and demonstrated to me how one smokes weed. I felt terribly grown-up. The fact your then stoned friend drove us back to school was probably not so good. You also took me to a rave. I hated every minute of it and your dancing was shit. But, I still thought you were the best thing ever.

I can’t even remember exactly why you dumped me. I do remember getting very upset at first, then I was gutted and then I drank a lot. I’d never been going out with anyone before, let alone get dumped. You went to another school soon after, but I saw you around every now and then, blending into ‘the people you see around’ – this happens when you’re 15, people come and go.

I had not seen you since this knight-re-enactment weekend thing, but I did sometimes wonder what had happened to you. Now you’re gone forever. Google informs me you invented a special smoke alarm and won a prize for it. There is even a photograph of you getting an award for. Taken this year. Oddly, you have the same haircut you always had. Now you’re dead and I don’t even know what happened to you. I hope it was quick and painless and there was no time for you to get scared.

Mikrofisch - Monsters of the Universe

2008-12-02T12:24:00.001-08:00

Right, so this is not actually a Mikrofisch album. It is in fact the last Mikrofisch album (Masters of the Universe!) and assorted tracks covered by friends’ bands. What a marvellous idea indeed!

The result is a mixed bag of various German (and Dutch!! The USA are on here, too!) bands, well, interpreting songs. The resident rave track suddenly has a rather shrill flute on it and what appears to be real drums and possibly an acoustic guitar. The song by the USA is, unsurprisingly, very nice, too!

The Kids Are All Shite (this is actually proving popular in German indie clubs!) got a ravey makeover. I can’t make up my mind whether I like this one or the original better (quick recap, this is the one that goes ‘Fuck the Kooks!’ and ‘Are you gonna be my girl – FUCK OFF!’).

My personal favourite is Sechsundneunzig (eg. Ninety-Six!), which is a translated and adapted version of Let’s Kiss and Listen to Bis. Adapted in that it’s no longer about Bis, it’s about Tocotronic, complete with a bit of a Toco intro and some Tocotronic lyrics strewn around. I never heard of the guy who wrote it but I would very much like to phone him up and thank him profusely, because I do like a bit of nostalgia, ahem. I was there, in 1996, in my corduroy flares and Adidas jacket. I own the vast majority of Tocotronic’s back catalogue. I’ve been to a shitload of Tocotronic gigs, heck I even did the pogo dance down the front. Once we all went on a 5 hour train journey to see them play a gig in a disused railway depot. Oops, going off on one now!

Bizarrely, the cover of Drum Machines Will Save Mankind is laced with acoustic guitars and … oh dear … violins I believe. And real ones, by the sounds of it. Someone managed to Belle-and-Sebastian-ify a song about drum machines. Well and truly astounding.

I reckon everyone should try to get this album. You have no excuse – it’s a free download, dammit! And the Mikrofisches are very nice people. One half ran the rival fanzine in my home town 15 years ago, the other resides in London now and I haven’t seen her in ages!

http://www.komakinomag.de/?label:mikrofisch:monsters_of_the_universe

The Crocketts

2008-09-30T12:20:00.000-07:00

Haven’t written anything for a while. Just dug out my Crimea album (Tragedy Rocks! It really is rather nice), because Owen from the Crocketts/The Crimea was running Manda Rin’s merch stall the other week. This got me thinking.

I still have my Nintendo Fallacy poster on the wall. It’s ten years old I suspect. I loved the Crocketts. I really did. Bit weird, because it’s not the kind of stuff I’d usually be into. Ah well ….

I sent them a questionnaire for my fanzine many years ago. They filled it in and even made a little drawing for it. After I moved to London, I went to interview them. I was shitting myself, as I asked for a toothless Glaswegian tour manager at some West End venue, the name of which I can’t remember. Much to my relief, my interviewees were Owen and Rich. Davey Crockett was not present. Phew. Because he was right at the top of my ‘most beautiful band people’ list back then. And ahem, I guess he kinda still is! God knows why, he doesn’t even have a full set of teeth. Oh and here’s a nice piece of trivia, he’s DJ Annie Mac’s brother! Anyhow, where was I? The interview! That went well. And I did bump into young McManus afterwards. I was so embarrassed and starstruck, it was pretty horrendous.

These people also had a habit of popping up at the same venues as me for a while. Sometimes they said hello. How exciting!

Then the Crocketts disappeared and the Crimea came along a little later. It was a delight to hear that voice again (I am a bit of a sucker for damaged sounding young gentlemen), I even had a little tear in my eye. I went to see the Crimea play at the Windmill and a couple of other places. It was never the same as the Crocketts and they seem to have gathered a bit of a scary cultish student fanbase that knew all the words to songs that weren’t even released yet. I felt oddly out of place and, most of all, very very dated. So I stopped going to those gigs. I somehow felt I had no right to be there.

Then, a couple of months ago, something really odd happened. I was on the tube, on my way home. The train stopped at Euston. The carriage doors were just about to close when two guys in leather jackets came bursting in with guitars and amps. One of them was Davey Crockett. I smiled at him, mostly because it’s alwas funny seeing people wedge open tube doors and falling into the carriage with this ‘I did it! I fucking did it!’ look on their face. Then I realised who he was. I would have liked to tell him that a) I wanted to marry him ten years ago b) I still had that poster and c) that I had met him a couple of times before. Albeit, I was too chicken to do so, so I just sat there, bright red, trying not to look, heart thumping. Very, very childish indeed. I’m sure there would have been no harm in saying hello. Somehow, I couldn’t. Dammit.

New pets!

2008-09-05T13:16:00.000-07:00

Since I really can’t have a cat in my current living conditions and wanted some kind of pet again … after some deliberation, yesterday I acquired two baby rats! They’re white with red eyes, I can’t really tell them apart just yet, but, let me tell you, they’re a riot! They’re really inquisitive and quite tame already (the place I got them from had handled them nicely). When I open the cage door they come to the door, sniff my fingers and clamber onto my hand. Bless. Very smart, too! I put their little cardboard house upside down, they looked at it and made a concerted effort to push and drag it until it was a) the right way up and b) in exactly the same spot it had been in previously! They like yoghurt drop treats and take them from my hands with their little pink paws. So cute! No really, they are!

Weird thing is, I am petrified of sewer and ‘wild’ rats. Had one in my old flat once, it jumped out at 3am and eye witnesses inform me I jumped onto the sofa and screamed my head off for a good fifteen minutes.

But I like the pet ones! Does that make me a hypocrite? Guess it does a bit, but maybe I won’t be quite as scared next time one jumps out at me from me feed bin at the stables. I hope so, anyway.

Here is one of the little fellas. I think this one is Hubert, but it might be Basil. Hopefully, once they’ve grown and I get to know their personalities a bit better it will be easier to know who is who!

First impression of rats as pets is brilliant! They seem to interact a lot more than hamsters or guineapigs (although I LOVE guinea pigs, I really do!) and I can’t wait for them to be big and fat so they can have a run round the flat (they’re too small and wizzy to keep an eye on them at the moment).

The top whatever (un)romantic songs of indiedom

2008-08-25T15:22:00.001-07:00

Milky Wimpshake – Dialling Tone

A close call between this one and ‘I want to be seen in Public with You’ and ‘I Love You, You Weirdo’! But Dialling Tone wins. Because it says ‘Your Boyfriend is so dull, he was probably born on Hull’ and ‘I even have my own record label, so come and sit at my table!’. I can relate to the latter. Only that when I did have my own record label, nobody did want to ‘come and sit at my table’ in that sense! I love Milky Wimpshake!!! They have a knack of putting words to the indie awkardness like nobody else. No really, they do (ok, I’m a bit pissed as I write this, but still …).

Dialling Tone is about wanting to phone someone and hanging up before they pick up the phone. Must have been written before mobiles and the ‘dial 1471’ option. Otherwise ‘they’ know you phoned.

Peptone – Candidate for Wax

I admit this is fairly obscure. It was on a Snakebite City compilation. It has a line in it that goes ‘and you smoke another kingsize as you wait for the phone’. Having done this sort of thing many times, I can relate to that one. I listened to this song a lot when I was waiting for this guy to call. This was over a decade ago. I did go out with said go for a short while, but the fact he was in a Death Metal band meant it was not going to happen. I could not take the embarrassment of having a boyfriend that dressed like fucking Kiss onstage, complete with black and white face makeup and a hell of a lot of leather. Erm, no, I don’t think so!!

I Wish I Was Him – Kathleen Hannah

Yes, that is her of Bikini Kill fame. The song is about Evan Dando. Obviously. And how he obtains his records via mailorder and how he is just so so cool. Its about finding someone so amazing you actually want to be them (I’d rather be Kathleen Hannah than Evan Dando actually, I hear from reliable sources he’s a bit of an arse!).

Marmor Stein und Eisen Bricht – Drafi Deutscher

Drafi Deutscher was imprisoned for exposing himself to children. Nice. Still, I kinda grew up with this song translates to ‘Marble, Stone and Iron breaks, but our love does not’. Odd, I know. Very German.). This was my parents wedding song (yikes!) and my dad played it in the car all the time. It really grew on me, and when I am feeling a bit down/silly I howl along to this at full volume.

Wenn du mich nicht willst – Lassie Singers

Sorry, another German one. Lassie Singers are a vaguely feminist pop/punk group that have been going under various pseudonyms for ages. I like them a lot. This one is about the conundrum that people only seem to like you when you don’t like them (treat them mean, keep them keen, I suppose) and what a shit idea it is to play along with this kind of headfuck. How very right they are. This sort of activity is very stupid indeed and should be avoided. If you have to resort to playing mindgames with people, it’s best not to bother at all.

Will You Still Care – The Crocketts

You see, I was intending on marrying the guy from the Crocketts when I was, well, younger. He has a missing tooth and is kinda cool. I saw him on the tube a little while ago. I had met him ages ago, but somehow I don’t think he remembered that. So I did not say hello when I saw him on the tube. Instead I grinned at him (he was obviously on a way to a gig, for he was lugging a guitar and amp around and got off at Camden), heart pounding (I still have a Crocketts poster on my wall. It marks the release of the Nintendo Phallacy EP and is quite tatty now), heart pounding like mad (I felt like I was a starstruck teenage again. Whoops) and praying to God he would get off soon before I made an idiot of myself.

Anyways, that song! It’s the one that goes ‘will you still care for me – I DON’T FUCKING THINK SO!’. This has helped me get over many a … is it wrong to call them boys now? It’s the sheer angriness of it (and the fact it has the word FUCK! In it!) that makes this such a fabulous tune.

Connie Francis – Schoener Fremder Mann

Another German one. Even though Connie Francis is blatantly not German. She did release quite a few songs in German though. And those made it into the family car’s glove box. My dad used to play this over and over again on the ten hour car journeys to Italy we did every year. Somehow, they got etched int my brain. This one is about beautiful strangers (note to self: don’t write ANYTHING when you’re somewhat tipsy on cider) and rather corny. But I do love her bizarre American accent. I remember the whole family singing along to this in the car (this one and other one about the little Italians – that one was highly non-PC!). Happy memories indeed.

Let’s Kiss and Listen To Bis - Mikrofisch

Ok, I shouldn’t drone on about my friend’s band. Silvia deserves better than being mentioned in some kind of bizarre drunken list of songs. BUT!! This song encompasses the heyday of music perfectly. Back when I did not have a real job. Back when I still did fanzines and things. Back when I listened to Bis A LOT. Admittedly, I don’t think I ever kissed anyone with Bis playing in the background (I probably could have done though, I went out with quite a few people who liked Bis!), but it’s a nice idea. This is one of those indie-reference song – ‘keep Sparky’s Dream alive and dance to Teenage Fanclub’. Awww. Bless. The it goes ‘hold on to the past and let it last forever …’. I wish I could. But I can’t. The second Bis reunion gig got cancelled because they didn’t sell enough tickets …. Dammit!! *I* sure had a ticket!!! Why cancel??

I’m pretty sure this song is some kind of pisstake or at least ironic. Still, when I first heard it I wept for joy.

Me and You vs The World – Space

Yes. I know. Space are not cool. I do love this song though. It’s very Bonnie and Clyde. Some sort of boy/girl robbery gone horribly wrong. And it’s quite catchy. So what’s not to like?

Things nobody seems to ever teach you

2008-08-22T08:19:00.001-07:00

Washing machines

Did anyone ever take you to one side and explained to you how to wash your clothes without help? Me neither. A whirlwind of trial and error followed. I was 17 and had just moved out from my parents with a friend. We had a washing machine and no idea what to do with it. We settled on ‘everything at 40’ in the end. I still wash everything at 40 – unless I am feeling daring and go for a boilwash. And then realise that yes, the colour of the red top still runs after ten years and I have grey underwear once again. Why is there no crash course for this sort of thing?

Dusting

I have never managed this successfully with a duster. All it seems to do is spread more dust around. This seems rather pointless.

Making beds

Now I know that in theory you kind of flatten or fold the duvet and stick the pillow somewhere at the top. Only to then unravel it all again when you want to go to sleep. What’s the point?

Bleeding radiators

It’s cold. The radiators don’t seem to work. There’s always a male friend helpfully advising you to ‘bleed the radiators’. How the hell does that work? What will I do with all this blood? Is the blood boiling? Is that how they keep warm?

Cleaning windows properly

Spraying on windowcleaner and then wiping the contraption does not seem to work. Windows are left streaky and look no different to how they looked before you got started. How are you supposed to do this?

Excel

I don’t know anyone who has ever been trained on Excel before they used it for the first time. My first time with Excel was at a temping agency interview and I made it up as I went along. Having spoken to quite a few other people, it seems we’re all in the same boat. Nobody actually has any idea what they’re doing.

Look interested

An important skill! But how? Think of something interesting and you will instantly look interested even if you’re not. That doesn’t quite seem to work. Why not have courses to prepare you for those dull parties and boring conversations you will be forced to have in later life?

Things nobody seems to ever teach you

2008-08-22T08:19:00.000-07:00

Children of a pretend revolution

2008-08-19T11:20:00.001-07:00

Both of my parents are psychologists. Dear God!, I hear you cry. Both of them? By way of background information, I did not spend my childhood in group therapy. Yes, I had an awful lot of ‘educational’ toys and yes, my family talks an awful lot and yes, it’s all rather liberal and democratic.

So far, so good. But one thing I was always encouraged to do is speak my mind. And that it’s perfectly acceptable to talk back at people if they say something you don’t agree with. Or if they do something you don’t like. And yes, the latter did get me into an awful lot of trouble at school.

Another thing I learned is that injustice is not something to be tolerated. Which is why I did give that guy a primary school a black eye because he picked on my friend for being shit at basketball.

Fastforward twenty years. I am beginning to realise that the world does not work like that any more. Particularly not in a working environment. It seems to be ‘put up and shut up!’. But what if you think something is fundamentally wrong. You KNOW it’s wrong. You KNOW it’s not fair and you would really like to throw a mean left hook at the offending party. Only that you’re not allowed to. Because you’re at work. Some people are higher up than others. And you happen to sit somewhere at the bottom of the pile, ready to be dumped upon from a variety of angles. Last time I checked, ‘doormat’ was not part of my job description. And if I wanted to b part of a group email bunfight, I would join an debate group for masochists. I certainly don’t need this kind of activity at work.

You try to speak up and get duly brushed under the carpet. Take the moral high ground! Yeah right, the moral swamp, more like. And I am tiring of sitting in said swamp. I really am. And why can’t I rise from the swamp? Because ‘you can’t do that!’. I know this may sound pompous, but I was under the impression I was an individual of free will and could do what I want, as long as I don’t hurt anyone. That doesn’t seem to be the case. Somebody somewhere along the lines lied to me big time. Doing the right thing does not get you anywhere. Neither does trying to be helpful. And what’s all this bollocks about ‘going the extra mile’ about? You go the extra mile, somebody will lay out another three miles of broken glass you can then crawl over in your own time. Thanks, guys, really appreciate it.

This leaves me and my naïve believe that all you got to do is be nice to people and they’ll be nice also out in the cold. And the theory that working hard will be rewarded doesn’t rung true either any more. If you happen to the in the civil service, you can’t have any sort of payrise, so instead they bleed you dry. Particularly, if you foolishly agree to do every last task someone is trying to foist upon you. Sorry, I don’t live to work, I work to live. I do not want to be loosing sleep over work matters, thank you very much.

So change jobs! Hm, but somehow I suspect it wont be any different anywhere else. Because everything in the working world seems to be upside down these days. Or maybe it’s just me and I am being stupid for seriously believing what my parents drummed into me for all these years was nothing but a big fat lie.

More on the Facebook malaise

2008-08-18T12:43:00.000-07:00

It’s hard to imagine now that I once checked my Myspace several times a day. I haven’t checked my Myspace for months now, because every time I do I have a message along the lines of ‘We looked at your profile and thought you’d dig our tunes. We are a trash metal band from Usbekistan …’. Yes, Myspace seems to be music only these days. Which is nice. If I want to listen to some bands that haven’t got any records in the shop just yet. Annoyingly, most of them have disabled the download function, so I would have to sit on Myspace all the time if I wanted to play a demo on repeat. Ho-hum.

Cue Facebook. The supposed grownup option. The grandmother of all Bebos. I gather Bebo is for chavs and kids who like to play with knives/enjoy underage sex rather a lot.

When I first signed up for Facebook, I vowed it would not be like my Myspace and I would only ever add people I actually wanted to add. People I already knew from the outside world (yes, there is a world out there. Hard to believe, but there is). I now have 94 friends on Facebook. Some of them are dormant. Like terrorist sleepers. They lay in waiting, only to suddenly ‘throw a sheep at you’ out of nowhere or try and coax you into a round of ‘Texas Hold’Em’. I keep meaning to rid myself of these. But can’t quite do it. Although they won’t even notice I deleted them. A Facebook Kill is a silent kill. So far, I only disposed of one person on Facebook. This was duly noticed, I re-added. Temporarily. Then I went for the full delete-and-block option. I win.

One thing I do have reservations about is work colleagues on Facebook. With Myspace, it didn’t matter, really because your profile is up for grabs for the world regardless (unless you pretend to be under age, at which point they filter out grownups eg everyone you know). On Facebook, nobody needs to see what I’m up to outside work. Not that I’m up to a hell of a lot, but still. There’s work life and there is life life. Needless to say, my ‘no work on Facebook’ rule soon began to crumble. Next thing I know, half my team is on there. I do draw the line at work people I don’t really know though. What’s the point in having people on there I hardly talk to in the first place. Yeah, sorry I ignored your request. Twice.

Then there is the groups. Joining seems like a good idea at the time, but after the 10th reminder message about a clubnight the other side of the country, you begin to tire of those. And, let’s face it, in most cases, the notification that ‘… has joined IF 25 PEOPLE JOIN THIS GROUP I WILL CHANGE MY NAME TO STINKBOMB’ is the first and the last you will ever hear of said group.

And don’t get me started on the Application junkies. These tend to be the people that greatly enjoy forwarding emails that say ‘send this to 10 people and your luck will change’ or ‘check out these toddlers in bumblebee suits and fairywings’ and other adorable headings. These people will insist you take a test to find out which Disney Princess you are, they will Superpoke you (despite the fact you don’t even have the goodamn SUPERPOKE! Application!), they will add you to their bizarre Top Trumps-esque entourage of supposed friends and, worst of all, hunt you down in the ‘who is online right now’ bit somewhere at the bottom of the page (if anyone knows how to disable the thing, do let me know!). There is no getting away from them. And you can’t even message them to stop this malarkey because their profile will be so cluttered with slow-loading applications (egg hatching, virtual Christmas trees at Easter time, all sorts of kerrazy cartoon versions of them, online fishtanks, entire cocktail bars …) that it will take about 48 hours to appear in the first place. And no, I DO NOT NEED THE PETROL HEAD APPLICATION IN MY LIFE! I don’t even have a fucking driving license!!!!

Still, it’s easy to get all obsessive compulsive over Facebook. I even check mine on the mobile (ahem). Despite the fact nothing ever happens and all I do is delete messages from promoters whose nights I will never go to and decline invitations to aforementioned far-flung gigs by bands I never even heard of. Or write one-liners that aren’t funny on people’s walls. Or saying Happy Birthday to people I have never even met. Or people whose birthday I would have definitely forgotten if it wasn’t for the handy Facebook reminder. If you want to be really crafty, send them a text to say Happy Birthday. It’s then less obvious you found the birthday on Facebook and they might even think you actually remembered their birthdays because you are such a kind and caring individual.

But. I am sure something else will come along soon.

Rock Lobster

2008-08-08T05:35:00.001-07:00

Don’t you hate it when this happens? You’ve done everything there is to do, you’ve even taken some herbal sleeping tablets, everything is ready for the next day, you haven’t played computergames all evening, neither have you been watching too much television. Heck I even own a can of lavender spray. All that’s left to do is sleep, so you get to wake up the next day, nice and refreshed, like a normal person.

10.30pm. You’re all set. Pillows are arranged, gumshield in your mouth (quite disgusting, but at least it stops you from grinding your teeth into calcium flour over night), phone on charger, lights are off. Great. But why is it suddenly too cold in here? Let me find another jumper. Or maybe I shouldn’t. It’s August, after all. No, I think I will find a jumper. Maybe another duvet as well. Two jumpers and three duvets later, what is this now? Why is my foot itching? On second toughts, this pillow isn’t to comfortable, after all. Let me just quickly re-arrange all this. Right, that’s better. Oh, maybe I should go to the loo again. Nah, maybe I should not. Dammit, I will go.

11.30pm. Meanwhile back in my groggy brain, the B52s have launched into a splendid rendition of Rock Lobster. That song is about nine minutes long and they keep on repeating it. Don’t get me wrong, I like this song a lot. But not right now! Why doesn’t brain radio have an off switch? LOBSTER! DOWN! DOWN! DOWN! Here comes the jellyfish! Aoooh-aah-ooh!

12.30pm. Wide awake now. Maybe another cigarette will help. Lights on. Find fags. Find lighter. Find ashtray. Whilst I’m at it, why not start reading the most boring book I own (The British Horse Society’s comprehensive guide to stable management) and have a little read. ROCK LOBSTER! ROCK LOBSTER! I really am sick of that tune by now. IT WASN’T A ROCK! IT WAS ROCK LOBSTER! Stub out cigarette, put book away. Lights off again.

1.30am. Now it’s too warm. I am cooking under an array of duvets. This wasn’t a good idea. Let me take some of these off again. No, too many. Too cold now. Somebody do something! I have to get up again at 7. Supposedly, an adult needs at least eight hours sleep in order to function properly. What if I stop functioning at work? This isn’t good. I could come in for 10 I suppose. Alarm now changed to 8. Good. No need to panic now. … AND EVERYBODY HAD! MATCHING TOWELS! ROCK LOBSTER! I really need t sort out my dire financial situation. Maybe I could get another credit card. Only that they probably won’t let me have one. Hm. Why is it that I am earning more money than I ever had, but I’m still broke all the time? I really must do something about that. Right now would be good. PEOPLE ON THE PLAYA! HAVING FUUUUN!

2.30am. Ok, this isn’t funny any more. I now want to kill the B52s and their stupid LOBSTER! ROCK LOBSTER! Maybe pony Angel is scared in her stable. There’s lightning in the sky now. I hope she’s ok. I wish I had a car. Then I could hop in my car and go and see if she’s okay. ROCK! LOBSTER! DOWN! DOWN! For goodness sake, why am I still awake? The 10 o’clock start tomorrow won’t really cut it any more either. I’ll be a walking wreck. Again. I wish I’d have a better reason to be a walking wreck. If I’d been out clubbing, at least I’d have something to talk about. HERE COME THE STARFISH!!

3.30am. The last resort. Swinny! Swinny is a little toy guinea pig I had since I was a kid. He looks a little worse for wear, but at least I have trained myself to not sleep whilst clutching a cuddly toy any more a few years ago. He still lives in the bedroom though. Is that so wrong? For God’s sake it’s now 4am, I am sniffing a toy guinea pig and am swearing under my breath and am quite angry with myself for being such a loser. Tomorrow will be better. ROCK LOBSTER! OOOOOOH! ROCK LOBSTER!

The Antisocial Socialite

2008-08-06T12:27:00.000-07:00

Meeting groups of people I don’t know fills me with dread. Particularly, when the only thing group members and I have in common is that we happen to know the same person. It was easier before the smoking ban. At least you could sit in the pub chainsmoking when you didn’t know what else to do. I am famously bad at starting conversations and used to kick off with openers like ‘gee! Get rid off that beard!’ or ‘I don’t like your shoes!’. NOT popular. I have almost stopped doing this by now and frequently catch myself uttering the dreaded ‘so what do you do?’. Not great either, is it? Particularly when everyone else is already blind drunk and you instantaneously look like a total bore. I have no idea how many hands I have shaken in my life and how many times I said ‘nice to meet you’ when I proceeded to forget peoples’ names in seconds.

I can’t stand this ‘walking into a busy party where I only know one person’ feeling. I am incapable of chitchat and find it somewhat tricky to laugh along with perfect strangers about whose jokes I know nothing about. At parties, I actively seek out the few people I already know and follow them around religiously, because I simply cannot face striking up any sort of conversation with anyone else. I am probably terrified of coming across like a complete prat. On the other hand, not talking to anyone is likely to be even more prattish.

I used to be ok walking into a gig on my own. I even made acquaintances that way when I first moved to London and didn’t know anyone. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was ever particularly confident (for overly confident people are the most annoying of all), but I did okay. Somewhere along the lines, something must have backfires spectacularly. I tend to sit there, hiding behind a pintglass, trying to look enthralled at a conversation across the table I can’t even hear properly and pray to God I laugh in all the right places.

Either that, or outright hostility towards the unknown. Everyone is dubious until proven otherwise. Now, that is a very childish attitude to have indeed. It should be the other way round. Innocent until proven guilty.

I don’t even particularly care what people think of me. If I did, my life would have probably ground to an abrupt halt a long time ago, because I never really quite fitted in anywhere. I was always to weird, too honest, not dressed well enough and generally too nerdy. So why the heck can’t I be one of those intant socialites? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be one of those idiotic, hollow-brained ‘social butterflies’, because, quite frankly, I hate people like that. I really do. They epitomise everything I dislike about mankind: an obsession with first impressions, an obsession with looks, pub psychology applied to mannerism, a fake smile and a pathological urge to be everyone’s friend. I don’t want to be everyone’s friend! I honestly do not! I pick my battles and friends very carefully.

So why do I act like I’ve just been attacked with a stun gun when faced with a bunch of people I don’t know? I’m fine with that concept at work. I cannot do it in a social context. As a result I look like some sort of arrogant, aloof prick without meaning to. Great. Fantastic. And it’s getting worse by the minute. I can never think of anything remotely interesting to say and seem to have this pathological need to talk about a) my job or b) where I live. I don’t even like my job and it sure isn’t a job to be proud of. Its actually a pretty darn uncool occupation. I used to drone on about records and gigs to all and sundry. Now I fear this is likely to bore people to tears. And to be honest, it probably would. Nobody cares that I have signed Bis vinyl, that I used t write fanzines and promoted gigs. Nobody wants to know about my record label that folded many moons ago. I feel like a lost has-been sometimes. Thus, probably best not to share these things with anyone any more in the first place. Keep trap shut. Firmly shut.

When I had a few, I can get annoyingly argumentative. That isn’t good either. Nobody want to hear my hostile views about certain genres of music, dreadlocks, overly girlie girls and how society is intrinsically sexist.

Once I met people a few times, it tends to be okay. But these days everything moves so fast that nobody ever gets a second chance it seems.

I suppose I am basically screwed.

School reunion - part two

2008-08-01T07:14:00.000-07:00

So the school reunion happened without me. Luckily, I seem to be unable to remove myself from the associated mailing list and received a link to page with 297 pictures of said reunion yesterday.

My god. How glad am I that I didn’t attend? Judging from the pictures, only about 15 people came along. Guess what, I hated 11 out of those 15. With a passion.

The girls haven’t changed at all. The majority of the boys are now either fighting pattern hairloss or weight issues. Or both.

There is also a significant number of wedding rings strategically shoved into a lot of the pictures. Hey, look at me! Fat! Bold! And married! Isn’t it great that even gits like me can find a woman?

Here they are, standing in the boys loos at the old school smoking fags. Just like the old days. And I was relieved to see that the roadpaint ‘Abi 98’ (eg school leavers 98) in the school yard is still there, albeit a bit faded.

One of them even sported his ‘Abi 98’ T-shirt. A hideous white contraption in X-large (thank you, Fruit of the Loom) with a ‘street’ logo on the front and a list of everyone in the class (there was 120 of us, it’s a long list, hence the X-large size) on the back. Adorable.

One of those garments was forced upon me at the time. I boycotted the whole thing. On the school leaving fete, I wore it inside out. This is after I had taken some scissors to the seams. I don’t remember much about this fete, other than being hammered and hurling verbal abuse at quite a lot of people, before slinking off early with my friends.

Much to my delight, some of the people really haven’t aged well. The ‘Mr and Mrs’ of the Class of 98 (yes, those blithering idiots even held a beauty contest) don’t look so good these days. She looks gaunt. His hairline is halfway up his head, but he still insists on wearing his locks in a ponytail. It wasn’t a good look then, it sure isn’t now. I think I prefer having average looks and maintaining them to peaking early and aging fast.

And they’re al pretending to have a blast. I am sure they didn’t. Some of these people hated each other’s guts at school, so why are they suddenly sharing drinks? Presumably a crazy haze of fake nostalgia. Nostalgia about stuff that never happened. About a time that was not that great. The big lie that ‘school days are the best days of your life’. Hell they are! In one trench you have powermad teachers taking out their frustrations on hapless youths. In the other trench you get a bunch of teenagers stabbing each other in the back. Doctors’ kids versus lawyers’ kids versus farmers’ kids. Imagine being a psychologists’ child in the midst of all this. It wasn’t easy.

Still, the whole thing reminded me of ten years ago. It seems like a very long time. I don’t know whether I have changed. So let me dig out the Yearbook of 98, where my flatmate wrote a little description of me.

There’s a picture of the whole class at the front. I have short hair that I’d dyed red. And I am growling at my flatmate. I’m standing between her and my friend Conny. Conny and I lost touch a while ago. I don’t think she coped very well with me leaving the country and started to behave rather strangely, before stopping all contact. Shame, really, I liked her a lot.

Anyways, my profile description. There isn’t a picture because I refused to have one taken. It says …

A day in the life of …

One night, Julia is tortured by a horrible nightmare. She is a geometric ball shape and has to draw a line through herself!
This is accurate. I have always hated maths and certainly despised geometry.

She wakes up and cheers herself up with a healthy portion of indiepop. This can be heard from her room from 7am onwards on a school day. By 7am she is ready to go (once various pink and glittery items have been attached and the hair has been flattened by brute force). This is after she complained yet again that her hair looks like a Playmobile figure.

Damn right it does. Still.

On arrival at school, she obtains a sticky sugary pastry and proceeds to draw on any available surface in biro and markerpen (trousers, books …). To be accurate, she isn’t drawing, she is writing wry, cynical comments on the world. Like when she called a complicated chemical drawing a worldwide tubemap and also mentioned that the whole contraption wasn’t getting us anywhere. She even invented a story to help people remember cell division in biology …

Yes. I remember it well. A ludicrous tale of someone going to the supermarket, making up telephone numbers and eventually turning into a donkey.

Back home, she immediately makes a beeline for the letterbox. Because only a day with mail is a good day. Because she needs at least a letter a day to be able to converse about the truly important things in life (music).

Her profound geographical knowledge (isn’t Hanover near Munich?) didn’t help the phone bill either. Because of this, it’s safer to write. Better check that letterbox again. And again. And Again.

I still do this. Only with emails, texts and social networking days. I get quite frustrated when nobody contacts me.

If there still isn’t a letter, she gets quite annoyed. To fend off total melancholy, she is writing a fanzine (Zosch!) – a one-woman publication in A5 she uses as a weapon in the forced conversion of us philistines.

Suddenly, the phone rings! She is petrified of fires in the home. Where do I put that fag? Simply put it out? No way, that wouldn’t e safe! She swiftly empties the cold contents of her coffeecup into the ashtray and launches into a desperate search for a pair of scissors. Once these are located, the burning fag end is swiftly hacked off and mixed in the with cold coffee, resulting in a fireproof substance. It is now safe to answer the phone in the other room.

Her hamster is currently living in the cupboard, to ensure it’s dark and quiet.
She often gos out in Munich, where she enjoys a good dance in these indie discotheques (requests for dancelessons are taken for: air guitar, indieshuffle, shoegazing, stirring style, hammer style and saw style. Beginners and more experienced participants welcome! Well worth it!).

Nope, I still can’t dance to save my life. I enjoy it though!

Once she got through another exhausting day, she can kick back and gaze at the array of rather younglooking popstars in the posters on her wall (who look like 11 but she swears they’re at least 25!). Asleep at last, she dreams about pink candyfloss, Helly Kitty and London … London … London

… So here I am. In London. So screw the lot of you stupid people from school. I may be perpetually broke. I may find life in the metropolis difficult at times, but … at least I followed my dream. At least I gave it a bloody good go.

Pick me up before you go go

2008-07-30T13:32:00.000-07:00

Just when I thought I’d seen it all, I discover there is a whole weird new world out there. The people in it call themselves ‘pickup artists’. And yes, this is as bad as it sounds.

Successfully master meeting and attracting beautiful women.

The pickup artist, no matter how hideous they are, claims to be able to get any women he wants. Jolly good. And how exactly do they think this is going to happen? Oh sorry, I forgot. Women are but pretty creatures with peroxide for brains. You just need to find the on switch and the off switch and they’re all yours. They don’t think for themselves, have no taste and are just waiting for someone like you to pick them up. Sure thing, dude.

Now, I know people can be shy. And I know people can be clumsy. I also know some people find it very difficult to meet women and, like, talk to them. What I did not know is that it is now unacceptable to be a social retard. People like you or I shouldn’t even exist.

The pickup artist’s philosophy is based around the bizarre idea that all women are attracted to him. By default. Like these self-esteem tapes that tell you you’re beautiful, successful and everyone likes you.

What I can’t get my head round is why all women are supposedly attracted to these people. Correct me if I’m wrong, but when did chatup lines become fashionable again? Does anyone actually still collect girls’ numbers as a hobby/to get laid/show off their address book to their mates? Quantity is chosen over quality. Women have become phone numbers. And phone numbers collectable.

Pickup guru Craig Hendleman (who, incidentally, is an Essex lad) even goes as far as claiming that when it comes to women being attracted to men looks aren’t important. Whilst at the same time droning on about blondes, nice asses and supermodels. He gets to pick and choose. Girls are apparently too thick to notice and physical features of any male, as long as said male is buying into the pickup philosophy.

Common sense tells me that beauty does indeed lie in the eye of the beholder. Nobody needs to have a ‘type’ and I am certain most of what the media tell us is ‘beautiful’, the vast majority of people find pretty hideous. The pickup artist, however, is with the media on this one. Big tits! Cue ballscratching. Cue some male gorilla style bonding experiment. For peace and quiet’s sake/adding insult to injury, Hendleman actually goes as far as saying he was ‘with some very unattractive girls’. Yeah, and? You didn’t find them attractive, but there will be a number of people out there who find these ladies drop dead gorgeous.

Coming back to the shy types, the recluses, the geeks and the pathologically clumsy, pickup school is supposedly targeted at them. If I was a man, I would fall into all these categories. But I would also be quite happy with just the one girl. Not an array of shags and phone numbers. If someone happens to be on the introvert scale, revving them up and sending them out to streets and clubs armed with dodgy chatup lines won’t help them. They’ll be acting their socks off, but will no longer be who they are. There are so many different personalities and characters out there, why not find a girl with a personality to suit yours? Why pretend you are something you’re blatantly not? And how long can you keep up the pretence? What do you get out of the experiment? Oh yeah, phone numbers. And you might get laid by them. Well done you. But are you any closer to your quest of obtaining a girlfriend? The hell you are. Instead you treat women like pretty ornaments that had a lobotomy. Oh yes, that’ll get you real far in life. Everyone will take you ever so seriously.

And if someone walked up to me in the street telling me how amazing my legs were or if they could try my shoes on, rest assured my reaction will not be pretty.

Where do I stand?

2008-07-26T05:04:00.000-07:00

Right. I’ve been working in what is effectively a complaints department for over three years now. I think I had enough. It’s not even supposed to be a complaints department. ENQUIRIES is the thin disguise used to make people feel a bit better about their workplace.

In reality, more than half the ‘contacts’ are from deranged, angry citizens. Fancy spending seven hours a day reading about how ‘disgusted’ people are, how ‘ludicrous’ the world is, just how much they hate their phone provider and how everything is a conspiracy by thee such-and-such ‘brigade’. The use of the word ‘brigade’ makes me particularly angry for some reason. What do they think this is? Who’s in all these brigades?

I particularly despise the old ‘I pay your wages you do as I say’ trick. Jesus, did you really think civil servants are exempt from taxes? Have you any idea how crap our pay actually is compared to the private sector? And do you know how many times I have heard this bullshit today alone? Ah no, you do not. Because you are one of those ‘retired white male caukasian’ people that make up the readership of the Daily Telegraph and you haven’t had a reality check for about a decade.

And why would you want to send an email ENTIRELY IN CAPITALS to get your POINT ACROSS? And why is any old shit suddenly a MATTER OF UTMOST URGENCY. And why do you keep addressing your letters to ‘the manager’, ‘the chief executive’ and the ‘head of complaints’ plus a whole host of invented titles, when you know damn well that any large organization has a whole host of people manning an Enquiries department dealing with this sort of thing? Like the blithering idiot who threatened to sue an admin person at Virgin Media for supposedly STEALING a letter that he addressed to Richard Branson HIMSELF and responding to it WITH A PACK OF LIES? How naïve are you? Do you really think the world is going to stop, just so you can get your godforsaken toaster repaired? By Richard Branson, preferably. My God.

Don’t get me wrong, I can be very helpful indeed. But only if you act in a civilized fashion and aren’t a raving lunatic droning on about taxes, the freemasons and whatnot.

Do what you like but remember, like Adam Sandler in the Wedding Singer I HAVE THE GODDAMN MICROPHONE! And if I choose to shove your stupid complaint at the bottom of the pile., I bloody well will do.

Time to find a new job, methinks ….

Personal Services Required

2008-07-17T01:30:00.000-07:00

Looks like Wifeswap spawned a whole new range of these household documentaries. Where we take a peek into Joe Blogg’s home and watch ‘people like us’, as opposed to the nutters on Big Brother. Or so I thought. Personal Services Required … just where do they find these people? Did they advertise in Nouveau Chav magazine? ‘Wanted: Essex couple with mansion. Must be New Money. Spraytans optional’.

I am absolutely gobsmacked. There really are people out there with nothing better to do than thinking about how twelve cushions should be arranged on the bed during the daytime. Now, bedmaking is a waste of time in the first place, but, surely, if, for some reason, you’re into this sort of thing, does it really require 20 minutes with a ten minute inspection following? I can’t even decide who I feel sorrier for, the poor sod applying for a live-in housekeeper position or those sad freaks who wish to employ a housekeeper. The first is well on her way to become some kind of modern day slave, the latter … well … they might as well take their hedgefund and jump off the nearest bridge. For there is nothing left of their lives. They have outsourced everything. Including the careful folding of toilet paper. Who would do such a thing?

Interestingly, they also offer a handsome salary to whoever is willing to move into their house and be at their every beck and call. It’s almost like buying a Grandmother, albeit a young, healthy one that isn’t your mother.

A friend of mine is a professional Nanny. She refuses to take on live-in positions. Because it’s only a job. As opposed to selling your entire body and soul the spraytanned lady of the manor. Mind you, not having to pay rent and bills sounds handy. But would you really want to be sharing a house with your boss, who may well inform you that there is a fly in his bedroom at 3am?

Having watched Personal Services Required twice now, I am absolutely horrified at some people’s need to wield power over servants. To even tell them what they should and should not be wearing. And to show them off to friends and family like novelty pets.

And I can’t make up my mind who was worst. The headhunting, orange couple who asked this guy to wear chauffeur’s livery to Tesco’s or the middle-aged, chavy but loaded single mother who spent the entire program drooling over the young, male Au Pair? The latter acted almost like she was a female sex tourist in her own home, for goodness sake! Mind you, the one who informed her budding new Au Pair that she was ‘going to mould her’ wasn’t that pleasant either. Mould her? Yeah, sorry, you are but a spotty nothing, but I am going to make you a star, my dear. You are but an empty shell and I will make sure that I brainwash you into total submission.

Where do people get these powertrips from? I suppose it is to do with money. Money can buy you pretty much everything. I am loaded, therefore I am. Now I will invest in some new friends, a big house, some kids. I will buy into being admired and liked. Because I am the one paying. What these people didn’t quite realise is that the one thing they don’t seem to be able to purchase is anyone’s respect. How do you respect someone with an unhealthy obsession with polished faux brass lighswitches?

No Miss, I have not been smoking in the girls toilet!

2008-07-11T07:41:00.000-07:00

My contract says no smoking in the flat. I ignored this, of course. Next thing I know the agency announces that ‘our regular inspection is coming up’. Er, okay. Not that you mention this to me at all. Not in the contract either. Flat smells like a working men’s club before the smoking ban.

Panic. Must get rid of smell. But how? Stop smoking in there immediately. Okay, that didn’t work. I resorted to smoking in the bathroom. After the event I realised my bathroom has no windows. Oops. Next stop, Oust! If it works for badly dubbed Dutch housewifes, it’s good enough for me. I settle for the ‘Outdoor Fresh’ variety. Pfffft, there goes the can. To my surprise I woke up the next morning, delighted I had not manage to gas myself over night. Death by chemical pine – not great. The can says to not use on fabrics. Febreze! I need some Febreze! Two hours later I am spraying double. Febreze pointing on the carpet, Oust! Towards the ceiling. Bubbling away in the bath is half a tub of Vapour Rub I am cunningly steaming with boiling water. Nice one, Julia. If hell was on earth, it would smell of fake pines, menthol and fresh Febreze Cotton Scent goodness.

Then it hits me. What the hell am I doing? I feel like I am 15 again, standing in the girls loo at school, clutching an air freshener. Have you been smoking in there, Julia? No! So why is there smoke coming out from under the door? I have no idea. And why is there a fagbutt floating in the toilet? No idea. You can’t prove anything!

Or the time when I seriously thought half a packet of Strawberry Hubba Bubba would ensure my parents would not detect my fags and beer breath after a night out on the town. They knew, allright. But they took great pleasure in leaving me to squirm for a year, until they ‘officially’ caught me smoking. Only then did they tell me they were most aware of my filthy habit from day one, but they thought it’d be more educational to have me come down to earth with a bang all by myself. Thanks, guys.

So why on earth am I thinking the letting agency won’t notice the fact I’ve gone crazy on unusual smells? Why not just let off a stinkbomb and claim an upset stomach, no further questions asked? I am 29 years old now, I should not have to be doing this. I hold down a perfectly respectable job and I am technically speaking a grown-up. Admittedly, I live like a student, but … those tatty band posters have been with me for over a decade. I like them. And that signed Stereolab poster is irreplaceable. So are the He-Man toys. So there.

Don’t touch my bikini!

2008-06-22T04:01:00.001-07:00

(By the way I’m not being weird, that is a quote from a song by the Halo Benders)

For I shall be going on holiday soon, it was time to take stock of any available swimwear I had. Three mismatched bikinis and one that appears a size too small later, I decided I may have to invest in a new garment.

Off I trundled to the Westend. It’s June, there’s loads of shops and there appears to be a sale on. Finding suitable attire should not be a problem.

First stop, Primark. An urban hell hole of a shopper’s warzone. Ladies are tearing at T-shirts and jumpers. I get confused and end up in the lingerie section. After feeling up half the bra section, I realise these are not for swimming in. Ooops.

Onto the beachwear! Locating something that does not consist of three strategically placed triangles and a bit of string is proving difficult already. God, if I wanted to show off quite that much of my dubious physique, I would have booked a week in a nudist camp! Do people really walk around wearing what is effectively a set of nipple tassles and a figleave? Hello? Less is not more. It is less.

On to H&M. Luminous colours seem to be very this season. I spot something that looks halfdecent in design, but, sadly, it appears to be only available in neon pink camouflage. No doubt it’d be great for hiding on the beach. Hiding amongst all the other neon camouflage ladies that is. By now I am harbouring a deathwish. It gets better: there’s a sign telling me that if I buy a bikini top, I shall get the bottom half thrown in for free! As opposed to what exactly? How many people are currently out frolicking on beaches bottom- or topless? Actually, I’d rather not know.

Next stop BHS. Ah, this is better. Sensible bikinis. Ones were you don’t end up with three quarters of breast tissue hanging out the sides. With matching bottoms that consist of squares rather than triangles. Needless to say, I found those in the ‘middle aged ladies section’ and they are thirty quid a pop. I will have to give that a miss.

Topshop! Two floors worth of organic, ever so urban pretend-vintage later, I finally spot the swimwear section. And there is it. A silver man-kini (or is that a woman-kini?). It’s so bright it has a halo. It looks like a fucking space suit. I haven’t seen such an exquisite alignment of lycra since the last cocktail party on Dallas. Better still, two women are actually picking the things up and take them to the changing room. I’m intrigued. They’re not actually going to … I hang around by the changing rooms (creepy, I know. But I had to know!). Both parties emerge victoriously and … take the silver shockers to the till! I am now convinced there will be an alien invasion soon. The kind where the old tinfoil hat just won’t cut it any more.

And all I wanted to do is acquire a bathing costume.

When the kids are re-united …

2008-05-22T13:14:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I received an email inviting me to a school reunion. Ten years since I left school. Oh my. The sender I instantly recognizes as the irritating, overly sociable little git who constructed his own lie-down bicycle at the tender age of 15. In the ‘TO’ box, I soon spotted various irritants of my formative years. Funnily enough, the entire ‘in crowd’ is on there. And yes, I am still puzzled why it was sent to me, for I was never a member of this ‘in crowd’, Quite the contrary, I was with the weirdoes. The ones who did not live in Replay! And Chiemsee jumpers. The ones whose jeans were not made by Chevignon. If you have never heard of these brands, I suggest you pat yourself on the back right now.

Whoever invented the idea that school years are the best years of your life is a big liar. They are not. They’re the years you spend getting picked on, laughed at and smoking in the girls loos. The years with the ‘us versus them’ attitude, where you get the weird kids in one corner and the brand wearing offspring of the local surgeons and lawyers in the other. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t bullied as such. And I did have friends. I just didn’t get on with the majority of these, well, people and I certainly did not enjoy school. Who’d enjoy a powercrazed megalomaniac at the front of the room telling those at the back of the room exactly what they should and should not be doing? Exactly. And lessons were not ‘fun’. And those ‘hilarious’ pranks the class jokers played on people weren’t all that funny. And I doubt they’ll be funny ten years down the line either.

‘Remember how we used to … whatever … in the chemistry lessons? Wasn’t it such a laugh?’. No, it bloody well was not. Chemistry lessons sucked ass. And so did PE. We were only there because we did not have a choice. I, for one, ditched chemistry as soon as I got the chance to.

The email is accompanied by an itinerary and a questionnaire. The itinerary consists of a champagne reception in the school hall (and I am, in fact, surprised the decrepid building that was my school hasn’t collapsed entirely yet), then a tour of the school (why would I need a tour? I spent nearly ten years in that school!), followed by a ‘bavarian buffet’ (think Emmental, think Pretzels, think large sausage platters, think no more) in the café of the nearby park. For this I am asked to pay 35 Euros. I don’t think so. I have an excuse. I’m out of the country. Permanently.

The questionnaire is disconcerting, to say the least. The email tells me that those wanting to save themselves from 120 small talks should fill in and return the questionnaire. Hang on, if there won’t be any small talk, why would you go to a school reunion. Without a half-arsed ‘so, what have you been up to?’ ice breaker, this is going to be a very silent affair indeed.

‘What have you been doing over the last ten years?’

Left the country.

‘This is what I remember from the last day at school celebrations?’

The only thing I remember is that, during the headmaster’s speech, I plucked up the courage to talk to this guy in my year I had a crush on for ages. He was a bit strange and I had never spoken to him before, He told me he secretly liked Abba. I haven’t seen him since and I doubt very much he would turn up for the school reunion. He never spoke to anyone at school, collected war memorabilia and most people were a bit scared of him.

‘This is what I always wanted to say about my final week at school’

1.Yes, I was stoned out of my brain when I turned up for that last biology exam. 2. Yes I did indeed burn the book in which absences were recorded. 3. Yes, I did nick about 50 air fresheners from the toilets during my last two years at school.

‘This is what still links me to Regensburg’

Not a lot. My parents live outside of town. My sister is transient between Dresden, Hamburg, Berlin and Munich and my friends got the hell out of that town.

‘This is what I imagine myself to be like for the 20 year reunion’

Jesus, they’re planning another one? I have no idea, to be honest. Still alive, I hope.

Please take your items

2008-05-17T05:02:00.000-07:00

Picture the scene. You’re in the supermarket. You’re hungry. You’re in a rush.

After repeating your order at the cigarette counter three times (what is it with non-smokers working at these counters?), you’ve filled your little basket and it’s payback time.

Queues, glorious queues as far as the eye can see.

You try to be smart and head for the self-checkout. To check yourself out. Up goes the little basket. Have you swiped your Nectar Card? As you fumble in your purse for the godforsaken card (that never seems to get you anything but vouchers for nappies you don’t need), your bloodpressure begins to rise. Card Accepted! Fabulous! You swipe a yoghurt and put it in your bag. Please place item in bagging area! I just bagged it! No really, I have. I don’t get it. On the one hand they are begging you to bring your own bags, on the other hand the robotic checkout girl throws a wobbly if you try to use anything but their bags. Please wait for assistance! Here comes with personal Checkout Captain in the shape of a spotty youth with a nametag saying ‘KevinHowCanIHelpAreYou21?’. Well, I am. Young Kevin certainly is not.

Onwards! I scan the next item. A packet of Heat Patches. The box states these do not contain any kind of actual painkiller. Still, Authorisation Required! Please wait for assistance! Now where has young Kevin gone? I decide it’s probably best to get the Ibuprofen ready also, since this is likely to cause another approval scene. Just in case I am planning to cut my shopping life span short with the help of 16 painkillers and a Heat Patch.

By this point my blood pressure has reached dangerously high levels and I am ready to throttle the screaming baby in aisle number three. Heck, I’ll throttle the teenager mother, too. That way she won’t be able to bring any more screeching, hairless little numpties into this world.

Shit. Now my bag is full. I fumble with plastic bags. A queue has formed behind me. Unexpected item in the bagging area! Yes, that would be my hand. Authorisation required! For my own flesh and blood. What is this? Some bizarre consumer assault course? I could be home by now, had I queued up behind the baby in aisle three.

At last! Insert payment! Only that the robotic check out girl does not like my 20p. The coin returns time and time again. I try the thing where you rub the coin on some metal (who came up with this idea? People do it in phone boxes, too. It never helps.). To no avail. Change of plan, I’m giving them a tenner. The tenner doesn’t want to go in either. Did I put the Queen’s head the wrong way round? Eventually, the machine eats my tenner and proceeds to spew out my change in a randomly located tray. Coins on the floor. I am beginning to sweat profusely, the queue behind me is getting restless. And so am I.

I hurriedly stuff my wares into bags and scuttle outside. Turns out one of the bags had a hole in it. There’s egg on my face, there’s egg on the floor. I am now very angry and kick the nearest dustbin in projected frustration. This swift motion causes me to drop bag number two. A milk bottle now decides to leak. I feel a one-woman rage coming on. Breathe in. Breathe out. For God’s sake, BREATHE. Walk away calmly. And stop pulling those horrible faces.

A Woman's Weekly

2008-05-15T03:49:00.000-07:00

I think I am addicted to weeklies. It all started quite innocently with fishing out a copy of Love It! Magazine to read in the bath. Next was Take A Break, followed by Real People and there isn’t an end in sight.

Now, I consider my self a reasonably educated semi-feminist. I have no understanding of cosmetic surgery or the latest weight loss fad. Neither am I a 15 year old single mother with hoop earrings and hair scraped back so tightly my eyes have started to wander towards my temples.

But, how could I resist the riveting weekly story about someone having a sex-change? ‘My Groom is a Bride’! ‘How I became the first pregnant man in Bolton’!.

For the more harrowing tales, paragraph one will set the scene and force the reader to like the tortured protagonist. Hence, a lot of ‘I smiled’, ‘I cupped my baby bump’ and ‘I giggled as I stuck the last bauble on our Christmas tree’.

Inadvertently, some form of disaster will strike in paragraph number four. ‘Dwayne only had four weeks left’, ‘I was about to loose my baby’ or ‘I just didn’t feel comfortable as a man any more’. Luckily, good friends are always at hand to ‘soothe’. I could write a whole book on the overuse of the word ‘soothe’ in human interest stories. ‘It will be okay’, Stacey soothed, ‘Don’t worry, he only lost both legs, an eye and a kidney’, Jayneesha soothed …

After much soothing and despair, a solution will present itself in the shape of a ‘hunky mechanic’ with ‘rippling muscles and eyes like saucers’, accompanied by a picture of a grinning, hideous male with two litres of hairgel on his head, a gold earring in his nose, fake tan on his shoe and a shifty glint in his ears. Chavboy to the rescue! First thing chavboy will do is impregnate the protagonist, because then she will be able to do all the smiling and bump-cupping from paragraph once again and everyone is happy.

Should there was a baddie in the story, a picture of Baddie (no matter what Baddie did, if they’re male, they will always look like a pedophile) will appear at the end, with a caption saying ‘Bruce refused to comment, but did say he had never met Stacey in his life. Sadly, we could not interview him properly because he is currently imprisoned for petty theft or GBH’.

Another staple requisite for the likes of Love It! is the weekly plastic surgery story. Entitled ‘I hated my ugly hooter’ or ‘Bullied for my spaniel ear boobs’, this will explain to the hapless reader that a restructured bodypart can buy you eternal happiness. It also reminds you that anything smaller than a D cup will ruin your life (Oh no, better go hang myself on my A cup bra right now! I can’t possibly go on like this!). To reinforce the point, ‘before and after’ shots are provided. Before: blurred picture, bad hair, misery all around. After: big smile, full makeover (which tends to evolve around blond highlights and a low cut top or bikini), lens no longer blurry lens. Flat chested BAD. Big tits GOOD.

The cunning editor also manages to consiostently feature the amazing weightloss story right next to the one entitled ‘My Bulimia Hell’. What now? Am I meant to loose weight or gain weight?

Particularly annoying is the ‘You’ve Got Male’ section. Where do they find these people? Building sites? The job centre? They’re always topless and look like they’re likely to reappear in next week’s issue as an axemurderer. If I see another bronzed sixpack on some semi naked fireman I am going to puke.

Thumbs up for the Reader’s Tips page though (‘Carly’s Top Tips’!) though. Did you know there was ten useful things to do with the little net bags washing tablets come in? And that you can satisfy your neatfreak cravings by sticking clingfilm on the bathroom wall above the sink so you can just peel any toothpaste stains off the wall without actually having to scrub it? Did you know that your goldfish just loves frozen peas and that you can make a perfect gardening kneeling pad out of ‘an old showercurtain’? I don’t know about you, but how many old showercurtains do you have knocking around at any given time?

I can’t wait for next weeks issue. ‘I love my fake 32G boobs!’!! ‘I stole my best friend’s wrinkly dad!’!! and the much awaited ‘Cheryl Exclusive’!!

Hooked

2008-05-08T13:34:00.001-07:00

I have come to the gruesome realization I am addicted to doing things I should not. Nothing major, but things like smoking in my flat when the contract clearly states I am not allowed to. Picking my nose on the tube a little bit when nobody is looking. That sort of thing. Now I’m planning to give up smoking but have every intention of getting a little furry pet, despite the fact my contract states ‘no pets’! And since I am considering of getting rats (would love a cat but I don’t want to be keeping a cat indoors and if I let it out, people in my block would know!) eg every landlord’s worst nightmare.

If the letting agency have to come round in an emergency, I’d be screwed. They won’t do that very often, but shit happens. Mind you, I am an experienced keeper of pets who won’t tell her parents about them. A friend once said ‘You never lie, apart from pet-related lies’. And he had a point there. I don’t lie to people and I do mean what I say, even when I’m saying stupid or inappropriate things, I am usually brutally honest.

So what is it with the excitement of doing stuff I’m not supposed to do. Why did I take the plug for the bath tub with me when I moved out? (ok, guess I wanted to annoy my old flatmate). Why did I badly paint the hallway of my old flat in the vain hope nobody would see the great big bike tyre marks?

Weirdly, despite the fact I am very strong willed, I do seem to have a very addictive personality. I obsess over stuff. I smoke. Thank God I never took up drugs and am a lightweight drinker. Instead I obsess over little things, like how coffee should be, what chocolate is good, strange bags and morning routines. And if anything or anyone disturbs my routine, my day shall be ruined from then on. At least until lunchtime. Probably not quite OCD, but somewhere on that scale.

Bye Hun

2008-04-25T13:00:00.000-07:00

Three temps left the Office today. It’s an epidemic. And I don’t blame them. Would you want to work for six-odd quid an hour if you had something better lined up? Neither would I.

#1

Celebrated her 22nd birthday in the Office by crying because she missed her mum. Her mum was back in South Africa. I got her a miniature pack of crayons for her birthday, she was very impressed. Once I swapped her over to someone else’s team (she was petrified of nasty phonecalls, which doesn’t help when you’re supposed to be manning the enquiries line of a large-ish Government body), she was eternally grateful. I also equipped her with Monster. Monster came in a Happy Meal and cheered her up no end. One we put her in charge of filing, the stationery order and away from horrible callers, she was having a lovely time at work. In fact, everything was ‘lovely’. Every phonecall ended with ‘lovely’ (apart from the nasty ones, those ended in tears).

Anyhoo. Today was her last day. I went over to say goodbye. Next thing I know she had burst into tears and is crying on me. I think this was her first job ever. She said she would miss everyone (I doubt that! She is off to work on a cruiseship in the Mediterranean sun, why would you miss rainy London?). I nearly cried myself. Just out of solidarity.

#2

Was with us for a couple of months, but didn’t get a permanent position so her temping agency found her another job. That pays better. Apart from constant singing/sighing, she also delighted with a bewildering array of Darth Vader breathing noses (once her cold had cleared up this stopped) and some very strong opinions on God. She tried to convince everyone to visit her church. Hm. No thanks. We bought a cake for her today. The idea was for her to share it with the rest of the team. We even gave her a little knife with the cake. Somehow, she missed the point, thanked us profusely and proceeded to stuff the whole cake box and the knife into her bag. How awkward. For a split second I toyed with the idea of mentioning to her that she was supposed to share the cake with us. Then I thought of the major embarrassment this would cause, so the cake stayed in her handbag. I hope she is enjoying it as we speak.

#3

A very sudden demise. It is Friday afternoon and she announces via email that she won’t be back on Monday. The email was worryingly entitled ‘News Flash – This Social Butterfly Is Leaving’. Is being a ‘social butterfly’ something to boast about, when you turn up at work in miniskirts and fuck-me-boots on a regular basis? The social butterfly also indulged in overzealous greeting procedures (normal work greetings are somewhere between a friendly grunt and ‘morning!’). HEY HUN! HOW ARE YOU, BABES?. First thing Monday morning, that is a lot to take in. And Hun always makes me think of Attila. Today someone suggested I should have hired an actual Attila The Hun outfit and greeted her back with ‘yes, that’s right’, before offering to make a cup of tea. Worse still, she also called everyone ‘HEY BEAUTIFUL!’. I wasn’t beautiful last time I checked and adding ‘hey’ won’t change that fact either, I’m afraid. And don’t get me started on ‘TA BABES!’. I have left the baby stage about 28 years ago. I am not a baby. Let alone a ‘babe’. Like in ‘A Pig Named Babe’, maybe but in a screeching, belching, stinking and gargling newborn sense of the word. I think not. A rather nasty person suggested drawing a butterfly being squashed with a large hammer on her leaving card. But that would be just plain nasty. So nobody did.

Of course they all promised to stay in touch. Yeah right, as if. I’ve only ever stayed in touch with people from work if I actually liked them. Which is why I sometimes go for lunch with a girl I temped with years ago. That’s because she is good fun and I have a lot of respect for her. I would never stay in touch with work people for the sheer sake of it. I don’t even want them on my Facebook if I don’t actually like them on a social level.

And if I have to ever see another ‘Forever Friends’ greeting card, I am going to kill somebody.

Even more on estate agents ....

2008-04-01T12:37:00.001-07:00

Dear Mr and Mrs Estate Agent,

(… or shall I say ‘Dear Mr and Mrs I. Diot’?)

THANK YOU!

Thank you for taking a massive holding deposit off me on the proviso that I would indeed be allowed to kill myself in the privacy of my own home via cigarette smoke. Thank you for assuring me of this fact in your letter I received last week. I do appreciate the fact you assured me this was not going to be a problem, when I asked you about this three times. Thank you for offering to remove the non-smoking clause from your lovely prefab tenancy agreement.

And thank you for then turning round, a week before I’m meant to move in, and announcing that you’re now not so sure about that part of the contract. Gosh, aren’t you ACE? Thank you for reminding me I am a filthy nicotine junkie and crazed addictive personality. And thanks for putting my holding deposit at stake here. Gee, I do love you for this.

THANK YOU!

Thank you for sending me a long letter about checking out of my old flat. Thanks for reminding me I should really splash out on having the carpets professionally steamcleaned. Despite the fact they were not freshly steamcleaned when I moved in (you helpfully stated on the inventory they were cleaned six months before I even set foot in the place) and despite the fact your amazing contract merely states that I have to pay for them to be cleaned if they are ‘soiled’, whilst at the same time assuring me that ‘reasonable wear and tear’ is not a problem. And thanks for recommending a whole host of cleaning products to me (we recommend that you use products such as Hob Brite for cleaning ceramics and Shiny Sinks for stainless steel sinks). What would I do without you? I’d be polishing off the windows with toothpaste. And thanks for reminding me that you will retain £250+ of my deposit if I don’t have the carpets steamcleaned. You even provide me with the mobile number of your nephew, who happens to be in the carpet steam cleaning trade.

THANK YOU!

And thank you for patronising me over the last year and a half. Thanks to you I know the dangers of suspect leeks in my bathroom. I also know to be alert at all times, because your staff just love to pay a surprise visit. It’s nice to nip downstairs to make some tea to find one of you is already in my kitchen. He even helpfully asked me what I was doing there. Thanks for reminding me that I do still live here. And thanks for your lovely follow-up email to this unannounced viewing exercise. Gee, I had no idea one can utilise a Hoover for anything other than pest control. And a big thank you for losing my original contract and then asking me to hand over my own original copy to you. That’s way better than having to lug four pages of A4 paper to the recycling bin. It really has helped me a lot.

It makes me very sad that our fantastic partnership won’t last for much longer, because, unfortunately, I will have to gauge out your eyeballs with a wooden spoon now. Terribly sorry, but the voices in my head make me do strange things sometimes.

The Last of the Secret Agents

2008-04-01T12:18:00.001-07:00

Good morning, I’m ringing about this flat in Whetstone you’ve got advertised ….

No, we’re updating our web site!

Okay. Er, the one for £155 a week.

I SAID, we’re UPDATING OUR WEBSITE! What are you looking for?

A flat. In N12 or N20. Like the one you have advertised.

Are you not listening? We’re updating our web site!

Does that mean you haven’t got that one any more?

No, now are you going to tell me what you’re looking for or not?

A flat in N12 or N20, LIKE the one you no longer have!

Only one I got is £230 a week!

I have had many conversations like this one in the past couple of weeks. Estate agents are complete cunts. I knew that already. But I didn’t realise they got worse. Now they’re advertising flats as Unfurnished and then refuse to take out the manky old sofa bed, table and chairs and horrible pine cupboard that’s already in there. Their ages seem to average out at 19. Like the one whose phone went off with some gangster rap ringtone during the viewing of a ‘lovely, cosy, good size studio’ (6ft by 6ft). It’s the missus. She hates that ringtone..I am not surprised. It sucks!. This is after he spent ten minutes trying to open the door to the flat and I had to help him prop the door up in the end. That little shit probably earns twice as much as I do. And he has a nice car and a little polyester suit.

These people enjoy nothing better than laughing in your face when you inform them of your budget. A studio is now the price a two-bedroom flat was a year and a half ago. I shit you not. Presumably landlords are freaking out over the supposed property price crash and rising interest rates and have decided to take this out on those who can’t afford to actually buy anything. Nice one. But don’t you laugh in my fucking face when I am offering you my business. And for God’s sake, stop patronising me like I’m some kind of imbecile. And don’t call me on my mobile three times in a row going ‘Ah, hello? Is that Mrs Vergho?’. Firstly, you spoke to me five minutes ago on the same number. Secondly, this is a mobile phone. They’re likely to be answered by their owners and thirdly, what gave you the right to assume I was married?

And don’t say you can do a viewing at 6pm and then go on and on about how inconvenient this is for you and how you have so many better things to do. Either you can do this time or you cannot. You said you could, so stop fucking guilt-tripping me. You’re an estate agent. You need people like me.

And don’t get me started on your trick photography of studio flats. You appear to be using a self-timing camera that’s sunk in a hole in the wall, facing some kind of mirror. How else could you give the impression a 6ft by 6ft hell hole was ‘large’?

And why instruct five different agencies to find you a tenant? The same two flats have appeared on the usual property web sites up to 10 times. This is very frustrating. I have seen both of them already. One was the 6ft by 6ft joke, the other wasn’t all that nice either. I used to live in the same house, I know these flats well. Could someone take them off these web sites, please? It’s confusing me.

So thanks to you and your inflated prices, I am currently thinking about taking on a flat I can barely afford. And it’s not even in the location I had in mind. I’ll be spending nearly half my wages on rent. How can a fucking studio be 700 quid a month plus bills AND be in Band C for council tax?

Your arrogant demeanour has had me in tears of frustration, I have lost sleep over bastards like you. You make me feel very small and like I am at your mercy. I don’t understand. I have a good job (for fuck’s sake, I’m a civil servant, I should be every letting agent’s dream!), my wages are okay (or so I thought!) and I’m trying to give you money. Why do you hate me so much?

The USA @ The Industry, Shoreditch 27 March 08

2008-03-28T10:47:00.000-07:00

First things first, The Industry is a shit venue. The Upstairs is full of irritating yuppiesque architect types, drinks are expensive and Plum Promotions have their sticky little fingers deeply in the pie. It seemed that tonight wasn’t promoted at all. The USA came over all the way from the Netherlands to support another band. Said other band pulled out. As a result, there was about five people in the audience. What a crying shame! What a CRYING SHAME!

I hadn’t heard of The USA before and came along because my friend's band will be going on tour with them soon. First impression: wow, there’s a toy robot onstage. And some nicely naff looking keyboards. Unsurprisingly, they were really rather good! Aforementioned keyboards were put to fun use, the robot (I have since found out he is known as Emilio The Friendly Robot) was clutching a comic and his eyes flashed every now and then. I think he even said ‘Thank You’ once. Hooray! Every band should get one!

I have since looked The USA up on Myspace and learned that they’re brother and sister plus a girl from another band (The Cuties, if I remember correctly) who joined them to play drums for the tour (and a girl drummer is always good to have). They used to be in a band called John Wayne Shot Me (possibly the best band name I have heard in ages!).

http://www.myspace.com/wearetheusa

Nine Years!!

2008-03-27T04:53:00.000-07:00

Yesterday it has been nine years since I moved to London. Nine years since I boarded that plane to move into a room above a Hoover shop in Acton with my friend. Said friend left again after six weeks. I was pretty much on my own. Quite scary when you think about it. From a village with 600 people, a bakery, two restaurants and a bank straight into the big smoke. But, I’m tougher than I look and managed to make some friends, found a flatshare and a job. The only thing that was a bit iffy was going to gigs on my own. But I soon realized it was always the same people at these gigs, so I got talking to them. I also dragged Tom along, whom I had bonded with over Chicks on the Bis message board. Bless. Then I met Andy, because we were both trying to peddle our fanzines at a Brassy gig.

Has London been good to me? Overall, I suppose it has. If you discount the crime rate (there is no crime where I come from. Seriously, my parents habitually leave both the car and the front door unlocked overnight), the extortionate rents and the fact everywhere takes about an hour to travel to. I only meant to stay for six months. My friend Connie drove me to the airport. She had made me a mixtape (note: Connie was into completely different music, on the tape I found Run DMC, Roxette and a few other supposed gems) and was holding back the tears (Connie doesn’t do crying in public). So was I, because deep down I knew that this wasn’t just for six months and that my life would never be the same again, that I would only see my friends back home sporadically at Christmas and that people would move on. I felt quite bad for leaving Connie behind. We’d been friends for years and years and she didn’t really have many other friends. Which is why she lived on my sofa for quite some time, after her parents turfed her out for being gay. And now I was just going to leave her there.

In those nine years I have learned quite a lot about the world. And me. I learned that I hate baked beans, that flats never have their actual size advertised, that estate agents are evil liars, that the market research crowd is not for me, that terrorism appears to exist, that I can hold down a job and that ‘see you soon’ does not necessarily mean you will see these people again in a hurry. And I learned how to speak English. When I arrived in London, my English was based around what I had learned at school and on MTV. This wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I realised that having an obvious German accent locks a lot of doors, people make assumptions and, let’s face it, Germans are not the most popular of tribes. It is all a bit schizophrenic though, because at the end of the day I am from that village. I tell people I am from Munich. But in fact I am from this village that’s 15 minutes drives from this town that is another hour’s drive away from Munich. I’m not really from Munich at all.

When I go home at Christmas, I realise it’s not quite home any more. I have spent all of my adult life in London and the experience has been more useful than all of the time I spent at school combined. Because school is useless and doesn’t teach you anything useful. All it taught me is a healthy hatred of authority.

I have moved house more times than I care to remember. I have had my heart broken 1.5 times (and nearly broken another 1.5 times). The first and last time I actually pulled at a gig was in London (a mindboggling experience at a Gel gig at the Astoria). And I acquired a horse in London. Who would have thought it? I have met lots of other Germans but soon realised that the only thing I had in common with most of them was a shared country of origin. Not very useful.

I have lived with flatmates from hell. Like the Spanish guy who left his yellowing Y-fronts out to dry all over the flat. Or the quiet Japanese guy who made me tell people trying to visit him he wasn’t in and later informed me they were just ‘fuck friends’ and he had no desire to see them again and could I please tell them to go away?

Then there was uni. Where I made all of two friends. One is now back in Finland, the other I am no longer on speaking terms with.

Worryingly, I don’t think I have grown up much at all over the past nine years. I still have the same posters in my room, sleep in the same dubious duvet covers (I suppose when you’re 28, a Thundercats duvet may not be such a great idea, ahem), still collect He-Man toys and obsess over music. I think the only thing that has changed is that I am now more wary of people. People sometimes say one thing and mean another. It took me years to work that one out, and I still don’t understand the logic behind this. Why don’t people just say what they want to say? Or people who say they will do something and then they don’t? Why bother? This has happened so many times now that every time I encounter new people I view them with a healthy amount of suspicion. I wasn’t like that nine years ago and merrily took everything and everyone at face value. Only to find myself disappointed with the world time and time again. I suppose this could be misconstrued as having turned bitter and cynical. Hm. No, I think I’ve always been cynical.

But, on the whole, I still like it in London. It’s way better than back home and well worth the sacrifices.

Blur!

2008-03-21T13:07:00.000-07:00

Today I had the urge to listen to Blur. Only to discover I had already stashed all my Blur CDs at the bottom of boxes I packed last weekend. Had to download them instead.

I LOVED Blur ever since I first saw them on MTV. I was 15 and still a bit confused about what music I actually liked. I had dabbled in Arrested Development (who nobody will remember, they were like an eco-friendly hiphop collective), Bjork and Jamiroquai. Bjork is okay, but Jamiroquai? Whoops. Then there was the ghastly rave stuff most of my friends were into at the time (and I had already been forced to attend a couple of raves. I was way too young to do so, one time there was a police raid and we had to escape through a toilet window. I am not fond of raves.).

I went out and bought Parklife. I listened to it incessantly. I must have spent two month not listening to anything else. Annoyingly, I could not buy the other albums anywhere. Not even the import section of World of Music in Munich had them. I found Modern Life Is Rubbish on an exchange trip to France eventually and mailordered everything else I could find.

Then, rather excitingly, I found out Blur were playing in Munich! In a small venue (couple of hundred capacity) called Tilt! I made my friend tag along (who was into New Model Army, Deep Purple and the Red Hot Chili Peppers at the time …). Off we trundled to the ticket shop to buy out beautiful Blur tickets. None of this Ticketmaster printout crap. Those were real, shiny tickets with the album cover printed on them. I still have that ticket in a scrap book somewhere.

We got the train to Munich way too early. Then we couldn’t find the venue for ages. Then we arrived there at 4pm. As in waaay to early (this was NOT an underage show … but then, this is Munich, people didn’t really check how old you were). Only to find people were already having some kind of picnic outside the venue. Turns out some of them were from our hometown, and the other two were from a village next to the village I am from. Lasting friendships started on this very day. One of them I moved to London with years later. She then moved back home because she ran out of money. We have since fallen out I think. Although she is now back in London and I bumped into her at Camden Sainsburys a few years back. She is going out with the guy from the Sneaker Pimps that noone has ever heard of (possibly a session musician!) and we never met up again.

Anyhow, back to the gig (Echobelly were supporting, by the way!). I had a Blur T-shirt on which I acquired on a trip to London I did with my parents a couple of weeks before. My T-shirt had UK tourdates on it! How cool was I (ok, not very actually … the thing was X-large!)? The doors opened, one of my new friends decided she had to RUN to the front and went smashing into a pillar. Very amusing it was, too.

The venue was small, there were no barriers or anything like that! I ended up in the second row. It was absolute mayhem. Damon Albarn was wearing a green-blue stripey T-shirt (as could later be seen in one of those life-size posters from Smash Hits. The sort that came in 4 pieces you had to collect and glue together). People were jumping up and down, people tried to grab Damon Albarn’s leg (and succeeded for a while. Then a bit of his trousers ripped off and the people let go), there was screaming, someone passed out and I was so, so happy. This was brilliant. Even though this was … god … shit … in 1994 I think (Jesus Christ that’s 14 years ago!!) … definitely one of the most memorable gigs I’ve ever been to (and I have been to quite a lot since then). I can still smell that gig when I think of it. And I got half a setlist. I meant to get the whole one. But as I was picking it up, some stupid girl, who was a lot louder than me, a lot bigger than me and a lot stronger than me tried to snatch it from my hand and ripped it in half.

This gig was the beginning of the beginning. Suddenly I had friends that liked the same music as me. We went to the international press in the train station together to buy the Melody Maker and the NME. Q and Select we erm took for free because we hid those inside the Melody Maker.

Then, a penfriend of mine (who wasn’t into music at all) somehow telephoned a radio station (I think it was a programme about people looking for likeminded friends?) and announced that her pen friend (ie me) would like to meet more people who liked Blur (WTF?).

I then received a letter (at this point I had no idea about this radio program or that my name had been bandied around!) from a guy from a town near Munich. This guy then turned into the best friend I’ve ever had (I know this sounds slightly OTT but he really was). After I moved to London, he visited a couple of times, but we had silly arguments and we rarely hear from each other now. Sometimes I really miss him a lot.

We did all sorts of bizarre things. He had a car, so we’d go to gigs together and he dropped me off home afterwards (this involved a two hour detour for him). We even ended up following Blur’s tourbus once (shameful, I know. It was all perfectly innocent though. We just really wanted to meet them) and ended up drinking Bacardi and Coke with Graham Coxon in a hotel bar (for the record, Graham Coxon is a lovely man! Alex James is an arrogant shit. Damon Albarn is a lot taller than you’d think and Dave Rowntree is so averagely normal it’s almost painful!).

Oh I nearly forgot my trip to Colchester now! Me, my friend from my village and my friend from town went on a holiday to Colchester. Most of Blur are from Colchester. We spent ages trying to find the house Graham Coxon grew up in. We even found it in the end. Along with his primary school. Once we were there, we weren’t sure what we were meant to do. So we took a photo and left very quickly. Embarrassingly, we did show those photos to Graham Coxon at a gig soon after. He looked worried. I don’t blame him.

This all seems to crazy when I think about it now. All these gigs where we’d turn up at the (very small) venue at 5pm, hoping to meet bands (again, I repeat, this was all very innocent as far as I was concerned. I just wanted to meet them. My friend, on the other hand, managed to shag one of the Bluetones and Placebo’s something or other technician. I was quite pissed off with her, because I genuinely was only there because I liked the music and I thought it was really stupid of her. I love music but have little time for groupies. I find them tedious and annoying. Most of them don’t even buy the records. Losers.). I have a whole selection of photos of bands outside that same little venue in Munich. And it all started with this one Blur gig.

Somehow, I lost interest in Blur after Think Tank came out. I didn’t even buy it, because I wasn’t keen on the direction they were heading into. I like fun pop songs. I don’t like semi-experimental weird stuff that much.

I still have a soft spot for Blur, but it all seems like another world now. I have moved away, lost touch with most of the people I was hanging around with, that venue in Munich has long closed down, I never got to see Blur in a small venue again. The other gigs were quite big, there were barriers and stuff … I don’t like big gigs as much. I still have my scrap book though, with tickets and that ripped set list in it. And the signed pictures. Sometimes I look at it and wish I was still 16.

Thoughts I had today

2008-03-14T10:39:00.000-07:00

Shampoo!

A friend helpfully provided me with a link to ALL Shampoo songs recorded (or so he said). Fantastic! I downloaded the lot, even the ones I already had. The live ones are (as would be expected) a little, er, ropey (ok, they’re ropey as fuck! I don’t think Shampoo ever claimed they could actually sing!). Still, hooray! Feeling a bit nostalgic now. I had a T-shirt that said POW! On it, too! And me and my best friend at uni bonded over Shampoo in the canteen queue (along with her home made Kenickie T-shirt!). Said friend disappeared into thin air years ago. We had lived together, which led to disaster, because I got a bit fed up with her alcoholic girlfriend who was around all the time. The 4am ambulance calls because said girlfriend had drunkenly slipped in the shower weren’t that fun either. Neither was the puke all over the bathroom … carpet!

Listening to Shampoo reminds me of that friend. Particularly when we got bored on a Saturday night, drank Absinthe, played Cluedo and howled and danced along to Shampoo. And Catch. And Kenickie. I miss those times. I guess I’m too old for that sort of thing now. Or my friends are. Maybe everyone is. I don’t know. Still, I miss doing random things. I can’t remember the last time when I did something really random and silly.

Work

Had the big annual feedback performance report meeting at work today. Part of this is getting written feedback from my team, peers and random people across the office. I was a bit worried about that, because I’m a notorious worrier who thinks everyone hates me. To my surprise, the feedback gave a very strange view of what I am like. Or rather, what people at work think I am like.

Approachable

This is odd. Because people who know me from outside work and have nothing to do with work (ie my friends) seem to think the opposite. I’m generally quite rubbish at meeting new people (especially in group situations) and my pathological shyness gives me an annoying aloof (sometimes arrogant, I am informed) air. But I seem to be good at hiding this at work, it’s almost like some kind of bizarre game.

Caring

My team claims I care about them. Bless. A few Good Mornings seem to go a long way. Mind you, I did not have myself down as ‘caring’. I’ve been let down so many times at work, in life and so on, that I am fucking careful as to who I care about. And it takes me quite a bit of time to be like that with newly acquired friends, because I need to assure myself I’m not wasting my time first. But then, I do think I’m very loyal to my friends (not to be confused with acquaintances), even the ones that screw up. Heck I even have some sort of loyalty to various ex-boyfriend who were less than nice to me, because I think that, some time ago, I really did care about them. I may not care as much now, but still.

Knowledgeable

This one scared me. People think I am some sort of font of all knowledge at work. All it is that I have an excellent people memory. I could probably still list all the people I went to primary school with, their first names, their last names, where they lived and what their parents did for a living. I never forget a face either. And I figured out which bits are important to remember at work. That does not mean I am interested in economics (quite the contrary!) or consumer credit. I can reel off bits of consumer law, but most of it means nothing to me at all. It’s like I am watching myself in a strange movie called Work.

Friendly

Similar thing to ‘approachable’ I suppose. Why wouldn’t I be friendly? I’m at WORK, for goodness sake. Nobody really wants to be there, but why make my work life difficult by being an arse? I have blown my top at work on several occasions (like when I yelled at my then-manager and told him that ‘I had the right to be FUCKING ANGRY if I chose to be!!!’ and ‘If that bastard is still here tomorrow, I’ll FUCKING WALK!’). People don’t seem to remember that. Good. Most of my work-related fury I save for friends, anyway. Or I sit down somewhere quite where nobody can see me, stick my walkman on really loudly, chainsmoke, kick some dustbins and return to my desk as if nothing happened.

Copes brilliantly under pressure

Again, a mere pretence. I do not cope well under pressure. Only that nobody at work knows this. Because I pretend to be perfectly fine at work. The fact I seem to have developed insomnia and find it increasingly hard to switch off outside work is something they’ll never find out. Neither will they ever find out that I actually chucked up in the loo after my last job interview, because I was so fucking nervous. Some things are better left unsaid.

My mum!

My mum sent me the annual Easter parcel. It’s stuffed with chocolate. And hay. The latter is to keep it authentic and make me feel like I’ve just been to an Easter Egg Hunt in the countryside. I wasn’t. I picked it up at the local post office. Sometimes I worry that my mum still thinks I’m eight years old. I am 28. But still, I like my Easter parcels’ contents. Sometimes I think I should see my parents more often. I go home once a year for Christmas. They visit about once a year. I know they miss me. That’s why I get a lot of postcards and newspaper clippings (look, Julia! The local paper has something about Damon Albarn in it!) sent by my dad. His postcards are works of art. He likes to cut’n’paste weird stuff onto paper. I guess me and him have a lot in common there. Much as I love my dad to pieces, I am not sure I want to be exactly like him. I’m the spitting image of him visually as it is, and we have a lot of character traits in common already, and I’m discovering more of those as the years go by. My dad always knows exactly what is going on in this fucked up little brain of mine. Which is a bit disturbing at times, because it is meant to be MY brain.

Panic! On the streets of …

2008-03-12T14:04:00.001-07:00

North Finchley, I suppose.

Don’t you just hate it when blind panic sets in. Happened to me yesterday. The kind that only lets you get two hours sleep and then you’re on the bus to work, because you fucked up somewhere along the line, and you think you may either hit someone or burst into tears for no apparent reason (and no, don’t give me that PMT theory!).

When you think everything is about to come crashing down on top of you, reducing you to a little pile of rubble in the process. Best of all, there isn’t actually any valid reason to panic. Everything is fine. Could be better, but nothing life-threatening. Just lots of little niggly things piling up. You sort out one, two more will appear.

The niggly thing called work. The niggly thing called trying to find a new flat (okay, that is in fact quite a big thing. Someone once compared the moving house experience to going through a messy divorce, stresswise), pony woes, friend upsticksing it to Canada for six months, mother threatening to visit, bills to pay, will Helen Love play Indietracks in the summer?, my friend had a breastcancer scare (and it was only a scare), will I ever be a grown-up?, another friend split up with his fiancé, will he be okay? Am I sending too many text messages? Maybe I should actually ring my friends more often, is it really March yet? And what if my friend is right and my fierce independence will be my downfall eventually?

Nothing too major, really. So why panic? What’s with the insomnia? Maybe I am hooked on minor crises? Hooked on blowing things out of proportion? Hooked on worrying? Like my friend’s mum, who was only ever happy when there was at least a nuclear war going on.

Maybe not quite that bad, but certainly with melodramatic headless-chicken tendencies. Trouble is, I can’t keep the melodrama to myself and am often found embroiled in hour-long telephone conversations, raving and ranting about nothing at all. What the hell is wrong with you?

I don’t know if everyone else has these tendencies, too, but they’re just better at hiding them. Maybe everyone else‘s brain is mental, too. They’re just very good at keeping up the pretence that they’re all well-balanced individuals without a care in the world. Happy fools even. Good morning, and how are you today?

In the meantime, I am trying to thrive on total chaos.

More on moving house

2008-03-09T05:25:00.001-07:00

I have handed in my notice! Unfortunately, there was a 24 hour delay between my letting agency finding out and my flatmate finding out. Oops. Now I have a somewhat sour flatmate. Who will remain in the flat. The lovely, lovely, big flat I found and quite like. Oh well, at least she gets to spread out even more once I’m gone.

What is it with London and never being able to stay anywhere for more than two years maximum? Or is that just me? Mind you, it’s usually people that are to blame, not the houses themselves. People are a pain to live with, I’ve come to realise this once again. I don’t seem to be able to do it. I still have a friend’s words ringing in my ears. Yeah that’s because you’re a bit weird, with your fierce independence. You just can’t compromise about anything with any flatmate, no matter how nice they are! Yep, he probably had a point there. The prospect of moving out, being able to find a flat by myself and leaving my stuff lying around everywhere is quite appealing at this moment in time. I can just say I shall take this flat, put my deposit down and move in. Nobody to consult with. Nobody to agree with. No man is an island. Wrong, some people are! I will be an island with my own flat. And I won’t be fucking Ibiza. I’ll be Galapagos. Maybe. Galapagos kitted out in Ikea. With tortoises and dinosaurs.

No more of these pointless dinner conversations. No more how was you day? When I know for a fact that neither my or my flatmate actually wants to know what happened at the other’s work. No more squeezing past her horrid, horrid boyfriend in the kitchen. No more zero freezer space.

Instead I’ll be crammed into some kind of studio room enjoying my own company. If I want to talk to someone, I can either phone them or they can come round. If I don’t want to talk to anyone, I won’t have to. If I want to drag hay and woodshavings onto the carpet, I can. No more questions about why the washing machine is full of horse hair and no more hands off my looroll!

And I can have people round for dinnerparties if I feel like it! Heck, I can even have two dinnerparties! One for the horse-friends and one for the other ones. And they won’t be glowered at by flatmate and her biochemist pals.

A little rant about the horse world (and some horses!)

2008-03-04T09:33:00.000-08:00

And just when I thought I’ll manage to avoid her for the entire winter … the single most annoying horse owner I know appeared at the stables last night. Irritating daughter in tow. Ok, the daughter has attention deficit syndrome, so she can’t help it. But, sometimes I really can’t be arsed to play babysitter for a hyperactive six year old because her mother has pissed off somewhere round the corner. Mind you, I disapprove of the way that child is handled in the first place. Annoying as they may be, there is no excuse to call your daughter a bitch and a whore. No matter what she does. No wonder the child is deranged. Anyways, moving on. Annoying horse woman. She is one of those people that acquired a horse in some half-arsed rescue mission. Those people that probably shouldn’t have a horse at all. You don’t see her all summer, the pony is dumped in the field and getting obese (last summer he looked like a hippo and waddled). By obese I mean not just a bit porky, but obese in the sense that there could be serious health implications for the poor blighter. The fact said pony also has ‘issues’ (he rears up randomly and can fly off the handle for no reason. He also lacks any sort of manners and displays some very bratty behaviour) doesn’t help either. Rather than trying to sort it out, this woman turns up once in a blue moon and is then surprised the horse still isn’t well behaved. Erm, no, it doesn’t know any better. How can you expect the poor sod to play nicely the ten times a year you actually bother coming up to see him?

Then she went on and on about how she sacked her latest sharer (note to non-horse people: a sharer is someone that rides your horse a couple of times a week and sometimes pays you for the privilege). Said sharer was a really nice and very competent Swedish girl. But annoying woman managed to fall out with her over money. Annoying woman falls out with everyone. So there she is, ranting and raving, completely ignoring the fact I just spent the whole day at work, my head hurts, I am hungry and would like to go home. Cue another rant. This time about her farrier. Well, not really her farrier either, as she just leeches on to whoever has the farrier up when she randomly decides her pony’s feet need doing. No wonder no farrier wants her on his books. She is annoying, the horse is nuts. No idea why she is yelling at me about it though. The farrier doing the no-show isn’t even mine. In fact I’m keeping my farrier’s details from her, because I’d rather he didn’t have to put up with her or her deranged horse.

She then proceeds to give me tips on how to keep my pony healthy. No thanks. Since I actually bother looking after mine and since I’ve been doing horse things since I was about eight, I don’t think I need advice from someone who doesn’t feed their horse properly, bought it a saddle that doesn’t fit on Ebay and relies on other people to look after her pony without doing anything in return … nope. Pull the other one.

I just wandered off with my friend and left her standing there in the end. She wouldn’t stop talking.

Moving on …

Pony Angel and I have found a new nemesis. Melody (why would you call a horse Melody?) arrived some time last week. Rumour has it she was at the yard down the road before. And Sarah heard that ‘the mare is a psycho!’.

Imagine my delight when I took my friend’s horse down to the field and found Melody The Psycho hanging over the gate wanting to leave the field. The gate opens outwards. Melody was pushing at it from inside the field, my friend’s horse got scared and tried to hide behind me (this didn’t work, he’s a big horse!) whilst I fumbled with the chain that holds the gate together. Eventually, after flicking a rope at her numerous times, waving my arms about going ‘SHOO!! MELODY! GET LOST! AWAY! PISS OFF!!’, she sauntered off and I could get my friend’s horse in there.

Then I collected Angel (who by this point was quite pissed off because I hadn’t taken her to the field FIRST) and stuck her in the field, too. Cue Melody running up to her like a crazed Banshee and booting her for no reason. And again. And again. Then Angel had enough, bless her, and went into pony attack mode. Unfortunately, Angel’s co-ordination at times of retaliation is rather rubbish, so it was mainly handstands, pinned back ears and impressive double-barreling of thin air. Still, it was enough to scare of young Melody. Phew.

Later it was time to get Angel and friend’s horse back in from the field. Got Angel out fine. Went back to get the other one. By this point Melody and Grace (the other horse in there) were positively desperate to come in from the field and looming by the gate in a somewhat menacing demeanor. My friend’s horse cowering somewhere in the distance, too frightened to go anywhere near the gate. Great. I had to go INTO the field and try to chase off the unruly lady horses. And somehow retrieve my friend’s horse without the other two legging it out of the gate.

Equipped with a rope, arms flailing and trying to be as scary as possible (the trick is to somehow get the horse to think you’re bigger and stronger than it. I am not very good at this and have previously been informed I resemble a chicken with a death wish when I attempt to outscare horses …) I went in. By this point Melody is busy kicking Grace and I’m stood in a VERY dangerous spot (eg between to horses having a fight. NOT a good idea!). As I attempt to scramble to safety, one of my wellies gets stuck in the mud and comes off. Argh! I hate it when that happens. Lost balance, my socked foot straight into the kneedeep mud. Then this stupid horse decides to make a beeline for me (probably worked out I’m her ticket to freedom because she just saw me opening the gate. Horses can’t open gates themselves, you see). I am beginning to panic at this point. I manage to pull the wellie from the mud but haven’t got enough time to actually put it back on, because this stupid horse is coming straight at me. I somehow managed to not fall over in the mud AND wave the red wellie at her like an idiot, swearing and flicking her with the rope at the same time. Lo and behold! She buggered off. And I managed to retrieve my friend’s horse, put my wellie back on and get him out of that darned field. I really wish people would explain to their delinquent equines that they are supposed to move out of the way when asked by ANYONE. Not just their owners.

And I hadn’t even realized that one of my trouserlegs was covered in mud to just above the knee. This was pointed out to me by the farmer’s kids. Thanks, guys. By this point I really didn’t care anymore and hoisted my muddy trouserleg, mud-encrusted wellies and hat covered in woodshavings onto the bus and went to Sainsburys. The checkout girl looked somewhat disgusted at the sight of me. Oops.

Dear Sir/Madam,

2008-03-04T07:08:00.001-08:00

The tables have turned. I am currently embroiled in having to recruit a number of people for this department I work in. Scary stuff considering this is my first ever real job and I’m usually the one clutching the little glass of water in the interviewing room, coughing a lot and laughing nervously. And I’m usually the one agonizing over that application form, desperately trying to find more managementy words like ‘succeeded’ rather than ‘managed’ and ‘enjoyed greatly’ rather than ‘did okay’.

I wrote the job advert and lo and behold! Applications started to arrive. To make things easier, all people had to do was fill in a fairly straightforward form. None of that coverletter-and-CV nonsense. To my horror, I soon came to realise that maybe a CV and cover letter would have been easier for some of the (and I mean this in the loosest possible sense!) unlucky applicants.

The form is easy enough to populate. There are boxes for everything. Including the exact skill set asked for in the job advert. Communication! Analysis! Working with people! And so on.

Instead, some people invented their own competencies (decisional skills) or left the whole field blank. Another wrote no less than four paragraphs about his psychological air into the ‘communication skills’ box. I don’t know about you, but would you want to employ someone who basically threatens to psyche you out between the hours of nine and five? Exactly. I wasn’t sure about the motivational speeches either. It’s only an admin job, for God’s sake. And you, my dear, are not a life coach. So keep your excellent grammer and spelinge to yourself. And if you are indeed dyslexic, for goodness sake, ask someone to check the form before you send it off.

And why would you want to explain in great detail how one fillets a salmon under ‘analytical skills’? Don’t get me wrong, it made for a riveting read, but … why? And what about the gluten free party you threw in Lagos? Where your friend provided the entertainment (… he makes excellent music)?

As for ‘organisational commitment’. Well, well, you are applying for a job in an organisation. The clue lies in the title. This was your chance to give the impression you actually bothered looking at the Office’s web site. That you did some research and know what you’re letting yourself in for. It was not the box where you tell us how organised you are and that you’re always on time. Or that you are committed to keeping your desk tidy. Neatfreak!

All this may sound very harsh, and I do realise that filling in forms is a nightmare and that you probably did so in a rush, but … please … all I’m asking for is some sort of connection between the job advert and what you stick on the goddamn form. It’d be nice if I could actually read your handwriting, too! And don’t you realise that answering every question with I was a school governor for fifteen years! Is going to scare the living daylights out of me? Do you not realise you might come across as slightly deranged?

There were three of us sifting through those application forms. Plus gallons of tea. And biscuits. Two hours later, all three participants had started shrieking uncontrollably. Somehow, we decided on 13 (sic) interview candidates. I am looking forward to meeting these people in two weeks time. I don’t know what to wear yet and I do hope I manage to control myself and won’t collapse under the table laughing hysterically when you whip out that salmon.

(and yes, I am a complete bitch sometimes)

Two in three people suffer from STRESS at work

2008-02-28T12:50:00.001-08:00

… so how can you beat it?

Sounds helpful enough, doesn’t it?

Keep reading …

Alright then, now that you have handed me this four page free Scientology newspaper after work, I might as well. For I am, of course, one of the two in three people who suffer from STRESS at work. To help me realise this, you have helpfully printed the word STRESS in a massive red font that looks like it’s cracking up. Along with pictures of people who are supposed to look STRESSed. There’s a man with his head in his hands, below we find a woman waving her arms at a man and she looks like she is shouting. Again, man burying face in hands.

What causes you to lose confidence? Why can’t you believe in yourself? What causes unhappy relationships? Where do unwanted emotions come from? Anger? Jealousy? Guilt? Fear? And last but not least, the semi-medical question: What causes unexplained illness and pain?

Yes, why! Dammit! Why why why? Can you help me, Mr Hubbard? Can you, can you can you? Pretty please.

(a friend actually urged me to put the paper down at this point, because he was worried about subliminal messages and fumes oozing from the print. I think they’ll have to do better than red and black ink in Times New Roman laced with pictures of people in powersuits for that).

Oh look! It’s called DIANETICS. There is a cure! A cure! A fucking CURE! For, it says here, there is a single source of all your problems … it’s called the reactive mind – the hidden part of your mind that stores all painful experiences, then uses them against you.

Hey ho, yes, people are volatile little things. Bash them on the head with a stick, they react. Show them a picture of a lamb being led to slaughter, they well up. Or is that just their petty little reactive minds talking?

To rid oneself of such creepy little things, one must embrace the analytical mind. So when someone next bashes you on the head with a stick, you’ll leave them to it. And the next lamb coming your way, you’ll merely view as lambchops. With dill.

Turn the page, pictures of happy people will appear. They’re laughing, they’re drinking coffee and they chat on the phone. Gosh, isn’t it lovely? And all because they have emptied their brains of anything remotely emotional. Great stuff.

Somewhere halfway down the page, I am informed that we will not put you into a trance. No? What a shame, I had been looking forward to that bit. How can you delete my reactive mind without me being in a pleasant semi-awake state of eternal bliss? What are you going to do instead? Talk me round? Go on go on gowangowangowan, please, reactive mind, would you please leave?

Oh, halfway there, with all these celebrities advising me on how to swap my mind, how can I resist? A certain ‘Chick Corea’ (award winning jazz keyboardist) tells me that he no longer suffers from ‘inner conflict’ (heck if I was into Jazz I’d be in eternal turmoil as well, Jazz is just so ghastly), whilst the bassist from Mr Big (what the fuck?) managed to ‘come out of his shell’. Now I wish the latter had stayed well tucked into his shell, because then there would be one less soft rock power ballad outfit with poodle hair bothering me.

My favourite part is the ‘quick crossword’ on the back of the paper, where little inconspicuous nobrainers like ‘tavern, 3 letters’ and ‘also, 3 letters’ mingle freely with ‘L. __ Hubbard, author and humanitarian, 3 letters’ and … wait for it … ‘tax free bank account, 3 letters’. Not sure how to react to this one.

Can I have my flat back now, please?

2008-02-14T12:59:00.000-08:00

I have a bad feeling what I am about to write is going to sound awfully horrible and bitchy. So I would like to point out that my flatmate’s mum is a reasonably sweet little old lady who means no harm and is probably mortified by the inconvenience she is causing. My flatmate is overall okay as well, as far as having a perfect stranger you have nothing in common with living in your flat goes.

Flatmate announced before Christmas that her mum was coming to visit. Parental visits shouldn’t be a problem and since my flatmate had to put up with my slightly nutty mother for five days, why not? Then came the catch. Her mother would be staying for seven weeks. That’s right, SEVEN weeks, as in: nearly two months. She would be sleeping on a specially bought futon in the lounge for that duration. Bye-bye lounge.

I think we’re currently in week three. Another month to go.

Any simple manoevre in the flat (like, trying to open the fridge or getting into the bathroom) has since turned into a merry game of ‘You go first!’ – ‘no! you go first!’ – ‘thank you thank you’ – ‘no problem’. I am reasonably polite and certainly polite to people’s parents. I am sure her mum reckons I’m quite a polite person. But … I am about to crack. I cannot deal with this any more. Even a simple task like trying to have my dinner in the lounge has turned into a major operation. During which flatmate and her mum exlaim ‘’no no! you must eat at the table! We clear our laptops away! No! no! please! Take a seat!’, when I was more than happy to eat on the sofa. By now I have taken to eating in my room. At my desk. It was too much to handle that sort of thing after work and whatnot. I am sure they have noticed my anti-social behaviour.

They’re also slowly taking over the flat. I lived in this flat for a year before my flatmate moved in. I never had a problem sharing cutlery and stuff with flatmates (as long as they don’t scorch my Ghostbusters plate or smash my Thundercats mug that is). But, new flatmate immediately divided up the kitchen. Two thirds of the storage place had to be hers, I got the remaining third. So I got a little trolley thing for the rest of my stuff. She started filling that up as well. We even use different washing up liquids and use either side of the sink for drying our dishes. Needless to say, I got the shitty, small side of the sink. The fridge is now divided into half. I never saw the point in that. I mean, I know what I bought and I know what I didn’t buy. And I have no intention of nabbing anyone’s food. Mind you, that doesn’t seem to matter now, because she has filled up my half of the fridge as well now. As well as the entire freezer. I have NO freezer space.

They have also taken to pile anything of mine that is anywhere in the kitchen onto my little trolley. Strangely, it’s okay for them to leave dirty pots on the hob, but if I do it, it goes onto my cutlery drawer. Today I found they stuck a sock into the cutlery drawer. Presumably a washing machine stray. But why chuck it into the cutlery drawer? I don’t understand.

Sometimes it feels like I am not really there at all. They take over the kitchen, they’ve taken over the lounge and keep moving my stuff around. I am 28 years old, I do not need my stuff moved around.

Then there is the weekends. Then it’s not just her mother and her, but also … her strange boyfriend (who always looks really angry and is not much fun to be around), her biochemist uni friends (three of them) and various other random people. They hog the lounge. They actually close the door to the lounge when they’re in there, which leaves me feeling somewhat out of place in my own home. I don’t mind flatmates having friends round, but do they have to behave like they own the place and I shouldn’t be there. When I live there, too?

Then there is the constant cooking. I don’t mind people cooking, but surely frying cabbage at 6am almost every day is a little odd? I have been waking up to the smell of that stuff for three weeks now, and I’m tiring of it pretty quickly. Yesterday they stewed an entire eel. I stupidly did some washing and left it in the hallway to dry. Half my wardrobe now smells strongly of eel. Eurgh.

Then there is the cleaning announcements. I have now cleaned the bathroom. Yeah, and? I cleaned it the week before, but did not make a big deal out of it. Plus, I actually cleaned the toilet, whilst you only clean the bits you like. They have also taken to washing stuff that is mine. Sorry, but why would you need to boilwash a handprinted sofa cover every week? I’m surprised the thing still has colour in it.

And if I leave anything lying around the lounge, it lands … in the cutlery drawer. Whilst my flatmate keeps two massive cardboard boxes full of assorted junk, half the contents of the Chinese supermarket and a load of other paraphernalia in the lounge on a permanent basis. And I’m too nice to say anything. Okay, maybe not too nice, but I really don’t want any hassle in my flat. I live there. I do not wish to live in a Cold War zone, thank you very much.

But, it’s beginning to really stress me out now. I cannot deal with all these people in the flat 24/7. And I’ll soon reach the point where I won’t be polite any more. Where I won’t just smile and nod and wait my turn in the kitchen/bathroom/lounge. Then I may snap at them. They won’t like it, I won’t like it either. Another four weeks of this.

The Indie Neurosis

2008-02-13T09:42:00.001-08:00

"Neurotic", or affected by neurosis, has come to describe a person with any degree of depression or anxiety, depressed feelings, lack of emotions, low self-confidence, and/or emotional instability.

“Indie”: […]A do-it-yourself sensibility, which originated with punk in the 1970s, is often associated with indie, with people in the scene being involved in bands, labels, nights and zines. Indie often has an internationalist outlook, which stems from a sense of solidarity with other fans, bands and labels in other countries who share one's particular sensibilities; small indie labels will often distribute records for similar labels from abroad, and indie bands will often go on self-funded tours of other cities and countries, where those in the local indie scenes will invariably help organize gigs and often provide accommodation and other support. In addition, there is also a strong sense of camaraderie that emerges from a selflessness among indie bands and often results in collaborations and joint tours.

That’s what Wikipedia says. Wikipedia never lies.

This morning I got a text from my friend S. S. thinks that Indie Neurosis appears to be a condition to be reckoned with. Sadly, she did not elaborate on this any further. But it got me thinking (oh no! there will be a diatribe!).

Firstly the Wikipedia definition of indie appears to be describing punk rather than indie. In the sense that I have not known the indie scene in the conventional sense to have a particularly international outlook. On the contrary, it seems cliquey and insular instead. Having booked bands from the US to play London with disastrous consequences, I really don’t see the international thing myself.

As for zines and DIY labels, well, zines seem to be dying out (thank you, internet …) and I can’t think of many labels that are truly DIY. There seems to be a connection to something bigger most of the time, whilst the DIY ones are dying a slow death because, sadly, they tend to ooze shitloads of money.

As for selflessness and camaraderie – not so sure about the selflessness, but there is some element of camaraderie, in that ‘I come to your gig if you bring twenty mates to mine’.

Still, all quite quaint and cliquey. So where does the neurosis kick in?

In secondary school, I suppose. If the music (and associated paraphernalia) you’re into doesn’t quite strike a chord with the mainstream, chances are you won’t have all that many friends. Music and scene-dom are big things when you’re 15. The few friends you have will soon help you ease into an ‘us vs. them’ mentality. Not necessarily a bad thing, but you may well find it’s suddenly ‘me and this seven inch single vs everyone else’ or ‘me and my fanzine vs the rest of the world’. And, let’s face it, there’s a lot of depressing indie records out there to help you on your way.

BUT!

I doubt very much the rise of depression in the indie community is anything to do with the music we listen to. I prefer to think that people who end up in the indie ghetto were a little strange to begin with. I mean, what sort of teen would actively shy away from the charts and the mainstream? Would actively shy away from those ghastly Chevignon and Replay! Jumpers (not sure what you UK people had at the time, but those brands were all the rage at my school)? I think that takes quite a bloodiminded attitude to start with. The pathological urge to be different (only that, let’s face it, if you’re stood with twenty people in exactly the same Oxfam outfits, you’re not that different. Beware the indie identikit, my friends). Or you were (like me) just a bit weird in the head in the first place. Like that woman in the Immodium advert, I woke up one morning. And I had a choice. Between Mark Owen and Damon Albarn. I chose wisely. I chose Blur.

And I suppose indie is more of a thinking person’s choice. A bit like those Guardian readers. If you’re thick as mud, you probably won’t like it. Sadly, with some level of intellect comes thinking. With thinking comes pondering. With pondering comes self-doubt. With self-doubt come the Manic Street Preachers (oh no!).

So you set off and make friends with other self-doubters. And end up with a whole bunch of people who’re not quite sure what to do with themselves either, unless it involves putting another seven inch on the record player and loosing themselves in a song. Which then leads to perpetual weirdness, fuelled by even more records. And having lots of records around will inevitably make you a little nerdy. And nerdiness leads to fast declining popularity levels within the rest of the world. Particularly, if you’re a girl, because girls aren’t meant to be nerdy.

Before I ramble on for too long ….

Indie Neurosis! People with existing neurotic tendencies that are then tripled by listening to records you really, really love.

Or maybe it doesn’t exist at all.

My Bloody Valentine (a blast from the past!)

2008-02-13T05:24:00.000-08:00

Right, I wrote this one in 2002. I have little recollection of what was going on in my head at the time (just as well!) and this thing was first published on Drownedinsound.com . They have since done away with the Lifestyle section. Bastards.

I will add bits in bold if my views have changed over the past six years or if I feel I need to add anything. SIX YEARS! ARGH THIS ARTICLE IS SIX YEARS OLD! S.I.X. YEARS!!!!!!!!!!

My Bloody Valentine

Three Seasonal Thoughts.

Yes, it's that time of year again: HMV are flogging 'romantic' compilations that get you 20% off at Ann Summer's, Clinton Cards' reaching out for entirely new heights of tackiness and florists across the nation are greedily rubbing their hands together.

To this add Gregg’s bakery. A reliable source informs me that they have replaced pretty much all the bread and sausage rolls with horrid heartshaped lumps of gingerbread.

Valentine's Day. Coming to a High Street near you soon. What no one seems to notice is the fact that a large percentage of the population is somewhat single and not quite sure whom to get all these boxes of chocolate and flowers for. As for the singles, they usually come in two designs: There are those who chose to be single and those who didn't. The first group will hate Valentine's Day with a vengeance and call it 'sentimental bullshit for hypocrites' (an expression also applied on Mother's Day and Christmas).

Add to those the people who just don’t care either way. And social imbeciles.

They will rant at every florist they come across and avoid card shops like the plague. The second group of singles, the ones who didn't want to be single in the first place, however, will, despite rather being dead than admitting to do so, pass the florist somewhat melancholic, imagining the possibilities of what is very unlikely to happen, because the Instant Boyfriend/Girlfriend is yet to be invented. One solution for this dilemma is the popular option of getting Valentine's card for your best friend, just so that you can indulge in picking a kitsch and painfully cheesy design (alternatively, there's always the option of pretending you do actually buy the card for a loved one. But that's just sad, so don't even think about it), and, who knows, your best friend might give you a card in return. Not a bad option at all. Only problem being that it's not the real thing and you damn well know that.

Ah I think I was still at uni in 2002. This all sounds awfully studenty. I haven’t actually tried any of those things. Valentine’s cards have little point to them as Christmas cards. More paper in the recycling box.

On a somewhat different note, there are also Valentine's Day obsessives. Obviously these people are a complete nuisance to the single-who-didn't-chose-to-be-single, for the Valentine obsessives are always the ones equipped with some sort of other half (they usually start recruiting around Christmas, just to make sure someone is going to be around in February), and that other half tends to be sickeningly like-minded. These people will spend Valentine's Day in crowded restaurants and cinemas. Nothing wrong with that. If only the Valentine obsessives would shut the fuck up and stop rambling on about just how wonderful this year was going to be. They're allowed to ramble at each other, it's just very unpleasant for their single friends to hear about it. So please keep that in mind, otherwise you might end up friendless by March.

On second thoughts, people like that had no friends in the first place!

Personally, I don't really care about Valentine's Day in the first place. It's grossly over-rated and most people don't make that much of a big deal of it (as a matter of fact, the only things I ever got for Valentine's Day was a green plastic egg cup from a then-boyfriend and a red rose from a then-best-friend), thank God for that. Still, from a commercial point of view, I'm all for banning Valentine's Day from our shelves and shops, because I personally wouldn't buy a heartshaped pillow or novelty picture frame for anyone, not even my worst enemy.

Oh dear, the green egg cup. This was about 12 years ago now and I still have no idea what was up with that egg cup or what happened to it.

And whilst you’re at it, why not do away with Christmas and Mother’s Day as well.

No Country For Old Men (another review!)

2008-02-08T14:48:00.001-08:00

I don’t often leave the cinema thinking what the hell was that all about?!

There’s this guy who somehow finds large amounts of money (I think I was in the loo when that happens, so I can’t be sure how exactly that came about). Then there’s these people whose money it is. And because said money appears to be the proceeds of some drugs business or other, they don’t like this guy running off with it.

So they hire a hitman with a bowl hair cut who enjoys nothing better than randomly killing people with some kind of air canister. Or a big gun. At a push, he’s equally happy to throttle folk with a set of handcuffs. Sometimes he doesn’t kill people. That’s if they give the right answer in his bizarre coin tossing experiment.

So, yeah, man with money on the run. Hitman in pursuit. The latter is easy because the money was cunningly fitted with a tracker device, for which bowl haired hitman has a baby blue remote control tracker device tracker. Very handy.

Off they trundle and a rather frightening game of cat and mouse springs into action. And because this is Hicksville America, there’s a lot of staying in motels, doing things with coathangers and airconditiong shafts in motels and even more random bloodspill in motels.

A LOT of people are killed, but one cannot be certain why. They just seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’re shot in the head, they’re shot in the foot, they’re shot at close range, they’re even shot through shower curtains. Sometimes there is no indication of how they were shot and they just lie about the scenery dead and random. He even shot the dog.

And because the whole thing comes across as very anti-Hollywood, the halfbaked hero gets killed, too. So does the guy who was supposed to rescue him. They all wore cowboy boots. An important lesson is learnt here: do not wear cowboy boots, for it gets you killed.

And since he is the only survivor, I presume the Sheriff played some kind of important role in this. Film starts with Sheriff. Film ends with Sheriff (albeit retired by that point).

And I can’t even say if this was a good film or a bad film. Probably not a bad one at all (I have seen Good Will Hunting, half of Titanic and Epic Movie. Now those are bad films), if only I’d managed to follow the plot.

The mind boggles.

Let me check my diary …

2008-02-05T12:37:00.000-08:00

I finally got round to purchasing a 2008 diary. No mean feat, these things are either vastly overpriced or they have a Formula 1 theme. I was pleased to locate a little red, inconspicuous-looking model for under two pounds.

And, I soon discovered that this is not just a diary. It is an essential font of all knowledge that I will not be able to live without. On second thoughts, no, I will be able to live without it. Sixty-Seven pages I ended up ripping out of the thing on the tube. SIXTY-SEVEN pages of random trivia.

CALORIE COUNT

This informs me that an entire rainbow trout has less calories (only 100) than 4 oz of baked bass (weighing in at 287). And that Italian bread (whatever that is) appears to be healthier than a bran muffin (again, define bran muffin) or an entire croissant (as opposed to a broken one?). The dairy makers also unashamedly advertise Cheerios, for it is the only brand name mentioned in the calorie counter. The rest is generic bran flakes (bran. Again. What’s with the bran?) or ‘Rice,Quick-2/3 cup’.

WEIGHTS AND MEASURES

A useful tool for metric girls. According to this, I am … 66.3 inches high. And no, I am not going to calculate this is feet/elbows/hands.

QUOTES

We’ve covered the basic diary stuff now, on to value-added SUPERDIARY information. If you’re ever lost for words, this will come in useful.

The vote, I thought, means nothing to women. We should be armed. (Edna O’Brien)

Bats feel proud in the absence of birds. (Japanese proverb)

Well if I called the wrong number, why did you answer the phone? (James Thurber)

I used to be Snow White …but I drifted. (Mae West)

The problem is that many MPs never see the London that exists beyond the wine bars and brothels of Westminster. (Ken Livingstone).

As you can see, all useful stuff to bring up in conversation. And if you don’t want to … Silence is the most perfect expression of scorn. (George Bernard Shaw)

PRIME MINISTERS

You need not be a disgrace at Trivial Pursuit ever again. This will come in so, so useful for pub quizzes and curious tourists as well. Cane ju tall mee whoo wez prame minista een ay-teen-oh-six? – Sure, let me just check my diary, That would be … Weeelleeeaaam Wyndhame Grenvil, feerst berron of Granville. Fantastic.

GIFT AND ZODIAC INFORMATION

This lists anniversary gifts, but does not specify what they’re for. So if it’s the ninth anniversary of your dog’s dearth, be sure that someone receives ‘pottery’. Interestingly, eight year anniversaries require either ‘bronze’ or ‘electrical appliances’. A nice shiny bronze toaster it shall be. Or a sunbed, so the anniversary victim can bronze and be electrical – the best of both worlds.

And for the really dimwitted, there are helpful explanations of what the symbols for star signs should look like. Confusingly, Cancer is meant to be depicted as a Crab. And how would you depict the Virgin for Virgo without coming across as lecherous? And the Capricorn has been reduced to a humble goat.

SOME GIFT IDEAS

Picture this. You’re on your way to your aunts birthday. You lack inspiration. You pull out your diary and … so many brilliant ideas. There are Travel gifts (umbrella! Suitcase! Briefcase! ‘best selling novel’!), Food gifts (chocolate! Liquors!), Office gifts (pen and pencil set! Calendar! Heck, how about a new diary!), Home gifts (potpourri! They should be shot for this. I don’t know anyone who actually enjoys looking at and sniffing potpourri), Special Occasion gifts (A hobby or sports item! Brooch! Pieces to augment or complete an existing collection!) … and … gifts for the sick. Like ‘an amusing book’. Yes, because someone with a fresh appendix wound really wants to laugh heartily. From the belly. And I’m not sure about the colouring book idea … what if someone lost their hand in a freak accident. So not a good present.

FIRST AID/SAFETY IN THE HOME

Worryingly, this covers both animal and human bites in the same section. When did you last sustain a human bite that made you worried about Tetanus? It does explain the Heimlich Maneovre though: Strike up to 5 times with the heel of your hand between the shoulder blades. If this does not work, perform an abdominal thrust: stand behind them with your hands interlocked below the ribcage and pull sharply inwards and upwards up to 5 times. Call medical help if this does not work.

STAIN REMOVAL

This eases us gently into the subject matter by how to remove blood stains. Via chewing gum, chocolate and perspiration, we finally arrive at … the urine stain! Presumably, by the time anyone gets to this stage, they’re likely to have collapsed in an alleyway, blind drunk and their diary is now in the possession of a teenager mugger. But just in case, one may treat with vinegar solution or, ‘if odour persists, sprinkle with baking soda’. Now you know.

There are also sections on how to grow your own herbs, gardening notes, a mileage chart (Zurich to Dukerque, 469), a wine chart, ‘entertainment’, the monarchy, useful web sites and …

USEFUL TRAVEL TIPS

Never forget the risk of terrorism! There is a global risk if indiscriminate attacks! Even on those places frequented by foreigners! And remember, many terrorist attacks have been foiled by the vigilance of ordinary people.

And they all carried a little red diary.

Juno

2008-02-03T04:30:00.000-08:00

This is touted as the latest indie feelgood movie. Only that it’s not all that indie, and I wouldn’t have thought of it as a feelgood movie either. How can being 16 and pregnant make anyone feel good?

But, that aside, Juno is a rather sweet little film. Yes, that kid’s knocked up, but at least she retains a sense of humour (sarcasm, I dare say) throughout and it almost feels like this whole pregnancy thing is taking a backseat in the storyline. And, thank God, the makers of this one left off the moral high ground (the possibilities on this one could have been endless: do not get pregnant! Abortions are murder! In fact, don’t sleep with anyone until you’re at least married! For you will love even an unwanted baby!) and took a fairly realistic stance (no, highschool kids do not want a living and breathing newborn in their life, yes, sometimes kids should be more careful, and yes, you can basically sell your child in America). And I thought the idea of calling the suburb where the adopters live St Clouds was marvellous, but you probably won’t pick up on that if you haven’t read The Cider House Rules by John Irving.

And that kid is so lo-fi she’s almost too cool for school. She’s got the Converse, the zip-up hoody, the cool T-shirts and a Bangs poster on the wall.

Anyhoo, on to the more interesting things. This is almost a music film. The girl is in a band. She has some interesting opinions on music (she even says the unthinkable: Sonic Youth are just noise! Yes, they mostly are! I am glad someone plucked up the courage to make this public statement. Sonic Youth may have the odd moment of clarity, but, overall, they are vastly overrated!), the guy who nearly adopts the kid toured with the Melvyns once and they even have a go at doing an impromptu cover of a Hole song. Bless. And there’s always a time and place for a Belle & Sebastian song! The rest of the soundtrack is pretty much laced with the Moldy Peaches and Kimya Dawson (I suppose Adam Green should have been on it as well, just to complete the set). Who would have thought it? Who would have thought this was ever going to happen. There you are, at your local Odeon and there’s two kids singing a Moldy Peaches song onscreen! Amazing! I almost wept with joy! (not so pleasant was the fact they used the same song for the birth scene. Odd choice!).

Next stop … a romantic comedy about an awkward comic collector meeting an even more awkward bassist of an indieband that doesn’t technically exist, all based around the works of Milky Wimpshake! Ha!

A Bloggy Blog

2008-02-02T06:49:00.000-08:00

Just to prove that I do leave the house sometimes! And yes, today’s account thus far is a little boring, but I have no intention of writing these very often.

Got up at 8 (a lie-in for those who keep ponies!) and decided to brave the cold and cycle to the stables. And because this trip involves cycling down a very muddly bridleway, this involves cycling in wellies (took a bit of getting used to, but I am now fully competent in this discipline). And this marvellous cycling helmet fleece cover thing Sarah gave me. Yes, it looks like I have fleecy roadkill on my head, but … it has earflaps! It is warm! And I’ve never been one for vanity when it really is uncalled for (I never understood girls who save on the cloakroom and stagger around town in miniskirts and strappy tops at 3am in February. Aren’t you cold?). Said Hello to pony Alfie and his new donkey friend on the way, and was thinking, once again, how nice it would be to have a donkey, but dismissed this idea (again), because I can barely cope with the one pony.

Got to the yard to find pony in a mood. Don’t blame her, the poor thing isn’t allowed out in the field at the moment. She is, however, allowed half an hour in the dirtpaddock every day. Once I managed to get her in there, after being dragged across the carpark by an eagerly trotting pony (with her current ailment, she is NOT supposed to trot around, let alone on hard surfaces such as carparks. But since she is on industrial strength painkillers, she doesn’t see the point of this). Then I had a chat with my friend Helen while I mucked out. Helen is currently in pursuit of an interesting soil sample for her college class (Helen is in her fourties and in pursuit of a new career. She is technically an arborist but getting a bit old for climbing up trees for a living). Overall, Helen is ace, if slightly mad (but since I much prefer slightly mad people to sane people, that is okay!).

Meanwhile back in the paddock, pony Angel decided she now had enough of being in there, because there was a) tractors going past (she sees those every day, but likes to pick random ‘Today all farm machinery is LETHAL!’ days) and b) her friend walked past on his way to the field (so she got annoyed that she wasn’t allowed to join him). Cue more running around on hard ground (noooh!), cue angry huffling (take me out! Take me out!). Cue me caving in and bringing her back to the stable somewhat prematurely.

I also managed to soak best part of my jeans with the help of a leaky hosepipe. When you turn on water you do not expect a jet of icy water attacking you sideways! But, since I was going to get drenched later, anyway, hanging up a soaked haynet (ever tried this? These things are quite heavy, they’re dripping water and they’re very unwieldy when you’re trying to hang them on a hook that’s about 4ft above the floor, whilst trying to keep it up with your knee).

Then I dragged my soggy self back on the bike again and headed for home. Stopped on the way to say Hello to my friend Saskia’s pony who was stood by a hedge (more about this later). Next stop Post Office. An internet friend from back home had sent me some stuff for Angel which I have been arguing about with Parcelforce for weeks now. I was expecting a small packet containing a small bottle of colic drops for ponies. I was NOT expecting a massive parcel. I somehow managed to get it home by balancing it on the handlebar whilst pushing the bike. The whole contraption only fell over once, which is not bad going. On opening the parcel, my faith in humanity was restored once again. Dear Christina had packed it full of interesting wares! Like a pile of German horse magazines, a whole selection of homeopathic remedies (with handwritten instructions!), linseed, haypellets, some other stuff you can turn into a mash for sickly ponies and a lovely letter from her, too. I will have to return the favour! Amazingly, I opened up one of the magazine on a random page and … what should I find but a long article about a TV series I LOVED as a kid. It was set in Iceland and shown in about 1985 (a story about two brothers somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Iceland) and it was that series that made me obsessed about Iceland (I STILL haven’t been!!). The article was about how they filmed it and even had a little interview with one of the main characters (who is now grown up and an opera singer! How weird is that!). I had a massive crush on this then- child-actor when I was little and even wrote him a letter once! In English! Despite the fact I didn’t speak (let alone write!) any English in the mid-Eighties. He never replied, of course.

Ah now I forgot to mention what happened when I got home. Went upstairs to find my flatmate and a strange man (yet another!) staring at a map. ‘This is Pierre, my navigation teacher!’. You WHAT? ‘Hello Pierre, the navigation teacher!’. I still have no idea what this was about. Home tutoring in navigation? Huh? And where did this Pierre come from? Mind you, there’s so many strange comings and goings in my flat, I have stopped asking questions by now.

I then had a bath (reading LoveIt! Magazine, because I LOVE reading utter trash in the bath. Did you know that Nicky from Big Brother has now developed OCD?), some pasta, fixed an Aldi candle, cooked some Henna (I am wearing a clingfilm Henna turban on my head as I type this, by the way. Looks a bit like a sludgy space helmet) and stuck it on my head.

Then I got a text from my friend Saskia (who own aforementioned pony that was by the hedge!) informing me her pony had been bad and escaped through a hole in the fence and was finally found eating grass he really shouldn’t by the powerstation next to his field. Oops, baaaad pony. Hope it won’t make him sick.

Later on, I shall be going to the cinema to see Juno, because Barnet Odeon has it on a week early and I read the soundtrack is really good (Moldy Peaches! Kimya Dawson!). Reuben rather helpfully braved the automated ticket hotline. According to his text, this went along the following lines: bloody automated voice recognition. And jaunty voice ‘you wish to book nine tickets for alien 5 for mon-day the ninth-of-july 2000 and 11. To confirm, say ‘cabbages’. Sorry, I didn’t under-fivesecondgap-stand. Did you mean ‘mattress’? Say ‘nautical’to confirm.

And I will not be able to attend Andy’s birthday do at Stay Beautiful, after all, because I have to be up early for pony duties tomorrow, because I shall venture down to Camberwell in the afternoon too visit a hospitalized friend. I was going to lend him an amusing book, but since he had his appendix removed recently and then had another operation, I figured it’s probably best to not have him laugh too much, as laughing is likely to cause the poor guy agony. Having had my amusing dad visit me after I had my appendix out, I know what I’m talking about. You do NOT want to be laughing with a gaping hole in your stomach. My dad was only trying to be helpful, of course. He did this to my mother as well and thought it would help things (well, me in that case!) along if he cracked lots of bad jokes when the poor woman was in labour. So I was basically born to the sound of some atrocious Knock!Knock! type jokes and an array of very bad puns … which would explains a few things about me.

Love Thy Neighbour

2008-02-02T06:01:00.000-08:00

I have the good fortune to live above an Italian restaurant. The sort that has a large neonsign adorned with the colours of the Italian flag and a picture of a gondola. Very tasteful indeed. The interior is spruced up with random wooden wagonwheels and plastic flowers. The outside is now orange. I went outside one morning to find the front of the house I live in orange. Different, I suppose. They also put a rather large concrete pot with an olive tree in it outside my front door. It took us quite some time and musclestrenght to shift the thing, so it no longer blocked our door. My flatmate stuck a sign on it that said ‘If you move your fucking tree again, I will take an axe to it. I do mean that!!!.’ I removed the sign before the restaurant people saw it though, because I didn’t want to get embroiled in neighbourly warfare just yet.

Next stop, our rubbish bin. When we moved in we were instructed to leave it outside our front door. So we did. One Saturday morning I found the bin gone. I figured the bin men might have taken it round the back. Which they did, so I moved it back to the front door. Twenty minutes later, the bin was missing again. Somewhat startled, I came to the realization that maybe the people downstairs shifted it. This angered me, so I paid them a visit. The confused (but nasty!) waiter/owner person claimed innocence at first, but soon admitted that he ‘thought he knew where the bin may be’ (I had checked round the back, but couldn’t see said bin anywhere!). So we went round the back and he helpfully guided me to a spot behind one of those huge Council owned bins, where my bin had mysteriously been hurled. Upside down. Somehow he knew exactly where it was, but at the same time claimed he had no idea how it got there. Yeah right, dustbins like to travel alone and enjoy nothing better than leaping in awkward places on their own accord.

For peace and quiet’s sake, I agreed to now keep my bin round the back. This was after he claimed to have received a letter from the Council about how my bin should be round the back (I checked this with the Council a few days later, they’d never heard of the guy. Neither had they ever written to him). To this day I do not comprehend how a grown man and restaurant owner could resort to such childish tactics (hiding someone else’s dustbin, then denying this and then making up a white lie about the council). But, hey ho, I’m not going to argue with such a greasy tosspot.

Then, there is the music. It is loud and blaring at high volumes at all hours. It gets louder when the restaurant closes and they start cleaning up. Opera, Italian Cheese (if you’re not familiar with Zucherro or Eros Ramazotti, I urge you NOT to bother!), soft rock. You name it, they got it. To the point where visitors walking into my flat think I have the radio on continuously. It is particularly intriguing in the bathroom, as the sound appears to travel through pipes. We started closing the toilet lid, as this makes Pavarotti a little bit muffled.

After various negotiations about this failed, we ended up complaining to the Council. I wouldn’t normally ever complain to anyone about anything, and I’m by no means oversensitive to noise, but a 24/7 barrage of shit music was proving too much, even for me. The Council didn’t do anything, of course, other than advising us how we could take our own legal action. I don’t think so, somehow.

What gets me most is the sheer arrogance with which these people have just taken over. With their signs, their stupid olive trees, their rubbish music, their massive flowerpots outside our living room window and their stinking attitude. I had a bucket of water poured over my feet ‘accidentally’ once, when they were washing the floor outside MY door. I proceeded to have my revenge by listening to Killing In The Name Of very loudly at a restaurant peaktime. And I do hope some of their nouveau riche diners complained.

So today I got home to find they are now including James Blunt in their repertoire. James fucking Blunt. Whose name rhymes with …. At this moment in time, I am ready to kill someone ! It’s bad enough that James Blunt is even allowed to exist (I may sound snobbish here, but … for goodness sake, the man is an annoying whiney, posh little shit with really rubbish hair), but does he really have to sing out of my toilet?

So if you happen to come across a copy of the Barnet Times with the headline ‘local restauranteur slayed by irate neighbour’, make sure you come visit me in prison with some cake.

The General Public

2008-01-30T03:30:00.000-08:00

In theory, that should be everyone, because we’re all somehow acting in a public fashion most of the time.

In practice, the general public is those who write letters to newspapers, those who form committees and action groups and those who happily sign any petition going. It is also those who enjoy nothing better than lodging complaints and ‘reporting’ anything that moves to whichever Government body tickles the general publican’s fancy on any given day, irrespective of whether the Government body in question has anything to do with the complaint.

Try working in the Enquiries department of a Government body with a very specific remit. Phones ringing all day long. Now, who would ring a Government body with a random gripe between the hours of 9 to 5? That is likely to be the retired, the unemployed and the desperate stuck-at-home-with-ten-kids housewives. Now throw in a couple pf pissheads, some folk with anger management issues and a handful of people who won’t take no for an answer out of principle. And don’t forget the ‘honest, hardworking, taxpaying citizens’. The latter tend to be wifebeating chavs who got into a pickle involving some off milk in the supermarket and beat up the checkout assistant through no fault of their own (‘I AM NOT A VIOLENT PERSON BUT THIS CUNT WOULDN’T EXCHANGE THE MILK WITHING FIVE SECONDS! LIKE I SAID, I NEVER PICK ANY FIGHTS EVER!!!!!! NOW SORT IT OUT OR I WILL KILL YOU!!!’). Of course, and I am the Virgin Mary and none of you ran up those credit card debts on purpose, and you’ve all had your signature forged by your ex-wife and have no idea why the newsagent won’t give you credit any more or why Thresher’s barred you. Sure thing. You’re all lovely, smart people.

That’s when you’re not pushing me on the bus, shout at the poor girl behind the cigarette counter and threaten GBH to your local’s landlord. Or when you’re not busy yelling at me down the phone, calling me a stupid cow for something that isn’t my fault, remind me you pay my wages (I got news for you, I pay tax, too, MORON) and go out out of your way to make my life hell. Brilliant plan, because giving me verbal abuse will really make me want to help you with your poxy little complaint about how many pineapple chunks should be in that tub of yoghurt you just acquired. WEIRDO!

And when you feel phonecalls don’t cut it any more, you put pen to paper. Did you know that only mad people write in green ink? My personal favourites are handwritten letters with little address stickers full of puppies and kittens on them, with a gold rim. Those are the ones that tend to be full of mis-spelled swearwords like Pastart! Sheet! And Vankar! Innit? And could you please ensure your paper and envelope are reasonably clean? Mystery stains are not a good way to fast-track your response. Like the time when this guy sent in a complaint about ‘erotic prints’ he bought on Ebay, and the letter was full off strange yellowing blotches. Vile! Vile! We ended up wrapping it in clingfilm because it was so foul. Or the time when someone sent in half a pork-pie because it ‘tasted funny’. Do you really think we want to take a bite out of your moldy porkpie? Exactly.

And could you please visit your local library or the internet and find out which Government body you SHOULD be complaining to before approaching the one I work for. I am tiring of re-directing everyone and his dog to the appropriate body, because they were too lazy to find out who does what. It ain’t rocket science. And when you realized you made a mistake, you take it out on me. Thanks for that.

I don’t know where the notion that Civil Servants are not human came from? Neither do I understand why people assume it’s ok to insult/belittle/rubbish Civil Servants. I am not stupid, I do not enjoy verbal abuse, I do know what’s going on and I am likely to have information you could benfit from. And if you shut your cakehole for just two seconds, I might even be able to pass this information on to you. I can be very helpful when I want to be. But I sure as hell won’t be if you continue yelling at me. And refuse to listen to anything I have to say, because you decided I was an idiot before you even picked up the phone.

So next time you need to complain to a Government agency about something, please bear in mind that Civil Servants are people, too, and try to keep it civil.

Things that are good things

2008-01-28T13:24:00.001-08:00

Since I have been informed that I am a) clinically insane and b) against most things out of sheer bloodimindedness, maybe it is time to write a bit about things that are nice. Yike-di-Yikes. Niiiiiice things. Glass half FULL things. How very dull.

The humble feline

A cat is a good thing. Always. For the cat does not do as it is told. The cat does not look to others for inspiration. The cat does its own thing. The cat is also a rather clean animal. If you pat a dog, your hand will smell of wet dog for hours afterwards, if you stroke a cat, it just smells rather pleasant. A cat’s face tells you much more than a dog’s face. The cat incorporates the ‘on a scale from one to ten’ into an array of emotions. Thus a cat can be ‘mildly pissed off’ or ‘rather a lot pissed off’ and you will be able to see the difference. Cats also look a lot nicer than dogs. And with a cat, you can always be sure it is indeed a cat. With dogs, one can’t be certain. Who would’ve thought that Chihuahua with the T-shirt saying ‘The DogFather’ is indeed a dog, and not some freaky supersized rat? Thus, the cat will win and it shall rule victoriously for all eternity.

Aldi

When I found out Aldi was moving five minutes down the road from me, I counted down the days until opening. A month in advance. I was practically raised on Aldi stuff. I even have a cookbook dedicated to recipes made almost entirely (it does say to seek a ‘good butcher you trust’ for meat) from Aldi foods. That cookbook is entitled ‘Aldi-Dente’ and it’s bloody fantastic (only that it was published ten years ago and they don’t sell most of the stuff in it any more, but that’s by the by)! Aldi will sell you delicious filled pasta (gorgonzola and walnut? Salmon? Which would you like?) for next to nothing! And bizarre Pesto (I can highly recommend the Fennel and Pistachio variety!)! Then there is the special offers aisle! I actually sleep on Aldi mattresses that my mother lugged over on a plane. I shit you not. In the special offers aisle you might find anything from entire computers and thermal underwear to discolights and skiing goggles. Isn’t it amazing?

Seven inch singles

I like these a lot. Especially the multicoloured variety. Bands these days really should put more effort into their vinyl pressing. I’d quite happily buy a shit single if it’s pink. My favourite ones are ‘that’ Disco Pistol single, the poobrown Purple Munkie single … and I like heavyweight vinyl, too. You can’t go wrong with a lovingly created cover either. Remember that hand spray-painted Designer single, anyone? The Bis singles with the stickers on them? FLEXIDISCS!!!! And it’s even better when you get fanzineflyers raining out of the sleeve! Sadly, HMV and Virgin (or whatever they are called now) don’t seem to cater for the vinyl-junkie any more. It’s mostly odd dance 12” contraptions and the odd haircut indie issue. The Rough Trade superstore seems to be the only place that actually bothers with a halfdecent vinyl selection. Although, they only seem to have stuff that’s under two years old. What happened to everything else? The Music Exchange is out, because they started treating their 7” singles rather poorly, so all you can find is a copy of some Spearmint single that some philistine rummager snapped in half! Shocking!

He-Man and the Masters of the Universe

The pinnacle of my early childhood! Aren’t they just fantastic? I am very fond of the cartoons as well, especially the bit at the end where they always stand in a group, someone comes out with the moral upshot of the story (‘if you always eat your broccoli you’ll be just as strong as Man-At-Arms!’), just before Orko cracks a really lame joke and they laugh some more. You just don’t get that with Pokemon and Power Rangers. And Marshall Bravestar (whom I hold responsible for both the skinny new He-Man figures and the demise of Eternia that followed shortly after). I still have a collection of He-Man toys on my shelf. The rest of the stuff is at my sister’s house. Combined we have every single figure, all the castles and vehicles. Even Fakor! Yes, this may sound a bit nerdy but … Masters of the Universe are so cool!

80s kids films

You can NEVER go wrong with Ferris Bueller. If you haven’t seen it (damn you!), I highly recommend you obtain a copy right now. If you haven’t seen Ferris Bueller at least five times, you haven’t lived! I also urge you to see The Lost Boys (featuring Corey Feldman as a fearless vampire hunter and worth its weight in gold seven times over!), anything John Hughes did before Home Alone (stay away from Home Alone. It’s shit and 90s!), E.T. (everyone’s seen E.T., right?), Stand By Me (with a very young River Phoenix!), Momo (this is a bit more obscure. It’s based on a book written by the guy who wrote The Neverending Story) and, obviously, The Goonies. Up yours, Pirates of the fucking Carribean!

Fanzines

He who throws a fanzine on the floor and steps on it shall be doomed. Fanzines are an excellent way to find new music. Sadly, the internet killed a lot of them. Which I don’t quite understand, because how is looking at a computer a substitute for holding a piece of A5 glory in your hands that someone lovingly photocopied and stapled? It doesn’t matter if the majority of reviews are about six months out of date, because that’s not the point. The point is that there is a great record out there and you urge people to listen to it. Doesn’t matter when it was released. Doesn’t matter if there are typos, doesn’t matter if half the bands you interviewed have since split up, or are yet to form a coherent group. Doesn’t matter that you photocopied half your layout from the NME and a 50s cookery book (or was that just me?). My fanzines led me to so many amazing things it’s almost painful. I got to interview quite a few bands (some more famous than others. Heck, I got to interview Gary Numan and accidentally met Robbie Williams. The latter was a bit of a disaster because I didn’t realise he was standing behind me when I was merrily slagging him off to his support band), I got an awful lot of promos and I met some truly lovely people when I was doing my zines. Most of them are still my friends.

A few random things I really don’t understand the point in …

2008-01-27T07:27:00.000-08:00

Doing things a certain way because you are meant to do them in that way

This drives me to distraction. Why would you have to do something because someone else tells you it’s a good idea? And since when is there a particular, mutually agreed way of, say, using a knife and fork? Where does all this ‘etiquette’ come from? Who told men to hold open doors and help ladies into cars? I can see the point if there’s health and safety reasons that make sense behind those mindboggling theories, but if there isn’t? Why bother with all these unwritten rules? And only because you always hold the knife and fork ‘the wrong way round’ when you’re cutting food, why would this make you any worse or better than the next person on the table? And what if you speak with your mouth full? It’s like people never left school. Not that I took much notice of instructions at school either. I have very vivid memories of PE lessons where they tried to make me jump off a rather high rope. I mean, why jump when you can just climb down? What is the point in plunging down onto a gym mat when you can just ease yourself off that goddamn rope? ‘But you must jump!’. ‘Make me!’. ‘Alright, we’ll ask for your parents to come in!’. ‘You do that. But how will this make me jump?’. ‘Right, detention!’. ‘Yes, but I’m still not jumping. What are you going to do, drag me? I don’t think so!’ … and clambered my way down the rope again. Similar things happened with any kind of team sport. What good does it do to be on the ‘winning team’? What losers invent these things? ‘Yeah, the group of people in the blue tabards … if they get this ball into the basket more often than the group in the yellow tabards, the blue tabards shall be the winners’. Why? All this does is make the yellow tabard people feel bad, because they’ve been indoctrinated with the idea that those with less balls in the basket shall be known as losers from then on.

Having a dog you don’t have time for

Now I’m not big on dogs and I certainly would never get one of these little critters, simply because the beautiful cat is vastly superior to your average, dumb canine companion. Dogs are addicted to company. They’re addicted to commands. They’re addicted to people telling them what to do. They love nothing better than a human strapping a leash on them and taking them for a walk. So why would you want to get a dog if you work full-time and can only really feed his addictions at the weekend? You might drag it round the block before work, maybe you even have a dogwalker visit the thing at lunchtime. You get back after work, if you feel like it, you drag doggie round the block again. In the long hours between you going to work, the dog walker arriving and you getting back from work, doggie is on cold turkey. And may compensate by howling, tearing your house apart, crapping into flowerpots and developing some rather interesting behavioural defects. If you can’t provide the entertainment (either someone is in all day or the dog has a job, is outside and/or has another dog for company), for heaven’s sake, don’t get a dog.

Pushing people onto the bus

We’ve all been there. See bus. Arm out. Bus stops. Door opens. Bus is empty and about 3 people should like to get on it. In theory, there should be no reason for commotion, for it is obvious that all three of you will comfortably fit onto the vehicle. There is no problem. Now try explaining that to the woman behind you who is merrily jabbing you in the back with her pointy Louis Vuitton armpit-baguette of a handbag. On second thoughts, don’t try to explain that to her, for she’ll just call you a bitch, before turning round to other passengers, in desperate need of an audience for her clumsy bunfight. Instead, stop dead. This will make her jab you harder with her bag, to the point where everyone else notices that she is indeed attacking you in an unprovoked fashion, which will make her look bad and, if you time it right, in the meantime you’ll look like a patient saint.

Limping teenagers

There does not appear to be any medical reason behind their swagger and they’re everywhere. Bus stop. Highstreet. Any mobile phone shop. Schools. The tube. Trousers miraculously fixed onto their little kneecaps. Failing that, there is the ‘stiff arm hand clamp’, whereby the youngster clutches his leg with a strangely immobile wrist at all times. Even when they’re running. Maybe I’m missing something, but I just don’t get it. Why would you incapacitate yourself in such a fashion, look ridiculous and severely infringe on your walking skills? Now I know that 50 Cent got shot in the leg or something, and the idea of some sort of tribute to this incident may be appealing, but … honestly, you don’t all need to do it. You will never meet Fiddy. He will never appear randomly on your high street going ‘Yo! You with the limp! Cool! Dude!’. It’s just not going to happen. So will you please limp the hell out of my way?

Ironing

This is the 21s century. Most people wear T-shirts and jeans. Most shirts seem to be self-ironing. Why bother? It’s a blatant waste of time and energy. Just think of all the exciting things you could be doing instead of standing there trying to clamp down on this unruly tennis sock. ‘Ah but I must look dapper in the workplace!’, I hear you cry. Well, I got news for you sunshine. Nobody is ever going to notice whether you have that all important karate crease going down your trouserleg or not. Nobody will ever notice that you may have slept in that very shirt you’re now wearing in the Monday morning meeting. Clothes sort themselves out, so stop interfering with mother polyester and father cotton. You are wasting your time.

Folk hanging on to their respected other halves in public places

It’s a sad state of affairs when you think your other half is going to run off at any moment, so you have the irresistible urge to hang on to their knee/arm/neck down the pub. Trust me, if they even like you just a little bit, they’re unlikely to do so. You do not need to hamper their every move. Worst I’ve seen was some poor girl trying to take a sip from her glass, and this bloke was still hanging onto her elbow. Then there is the even more saddening aspect of one half (usually the male) ensuring everyone else in the place knows that this specimen of lady is his. Next time you’re down the pub, watch a random couple. The moment a group of males walks through the door, the boyfriend will immediately grab the nearest limb of his respective girlfriend, because, heck, those blokes just need to know he pulled. It’s almost like fire hasn’t been invented just yet and people revert to these cavemanesque rituals to preserve the species. Remember, these are modern times, nobody is anyone’s ‘property’. Mind you, holding hands in a situation that does not involve sitting down at a table is acceptable, because there is the argument one person might actually lose the other in the event of a sudden stampede of pedestrians. And it keeps your hands warm I suppose (at least one of them).

Maintaining the myth that girls all go to the loo together so they can bitch about people

Maybe I am actually a descendent from another galaxy, but this does not happen. Not in my world, anyway. Toilets are not usually nice places to be in, so what would be the point in a whole bunch of you crowding in front of the sinks to express your views on society or the pub or club you happen to be in at the time? So let me clear this up once and for all. This is what really happens:

Group of people is in a pub or club or at a gig, a bar even. One of you needs the loo. This may remind another person that they also happen to be in need of a visit to the ladies. So you get up and make your way to the facilities. One of you might hold the door open for the one behind. You make your way into separate cubicles and go about your business. There might be a cry of ‘oh! Dammit! Er, anyone got any looroll they could pass over the door?’. Then you go wash your hands. You might say something along the lines of ‘ah this hand dryer is very loud isn’t it?’ or ‘yes, I believe this cubicle to be vacant!’ or ‘was yours flushing okay?’. And that is about it. We’re not at a high school prom. Neither are we attending some kind of key swapping party. Nor do we actually have the urge to re-paint our faces in a toilet. Nobody would know the difference, anyway. And if they did, chances are you’re pissed and took a leaf out of the Clown School Of Makeup by accident. I should also like to take this opportunity to speak for all those people who happen to have a fast metabolism and drink runs through them like they’re one of those babydolls. There is nothing wrong with us. And yes, when we say we need to go to the loo, chances are we really do need to go to the loo. And if we’ve been 10 minutes earlier, so be it. Some people are just like that.

I have come to the gruesome realization that I may be a complete bitch!

2008-01-26T09:24:00.000-08:00

Oh no! That was the last thing I had in mind! But sometimes, not-so-pleasant character traits creep up on you sooner than you can say ‘What a lovely jumper this is!’.

Yesterday I laughed at the expense of a fellow human being. I did so loudly and uncontrollably. Worst of all, this happened at work. I really should be more careful. Harbouring spite is best done in the comfort of one’s home, or in the company of a select few you know you can trust. Trust not to put you down in the ‘horrible backstabber slagger-offer’ category of friend that is. Those who know you’re really a pleasant and genuine individual who means no actual harm to anyone.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no problems telling someone to their face exactly what I think of them. But, as I found out a while ago, you cannot do that in the workplace. And if you feel the urge to do just that, you storm out for a fag and find some dustbins to kick over. And for heaven’s sake, do not express any of these thoughts in a work email! I learned that the hard way when I said something along the lines of ‘God such and such is such a bore!’ in an email and ten minutes later realized that such and such was currently sharing the email account of … the person I sent that too. Cue many icy silences. Mind you, I was proven wrong when that very guy emerged with a massive black eye one Monday morning and it turned out he got into a one-man-fight with a barman. Who would have thought it?

Moving on, yesterday I was supposed to somehow host a temp’s leaving presentation. In theory, this is easy. You just give them a big leaving card (hoping that the people signing it made the best use of the space available and that the card does not look empty) and say some things like ‘Thank you, it was a pleasure working with you!’. Once you get over the embarrassment of such scenarios, it really shouldn’t be that hard to do. In most cases, you never see these people again, anyway.

Yesterday, I got as far as ‘… working with you’. The person leaving had only worked there for about a week and during this period excelled in overusing the words ‘crikey!’ and ‘goodonyamate!’. Helpfully, his voice had a habit of, er, carrying. So imagine sitting opposite a cross between Rolf Harris and Steve Irwin. In a lime green polo shirt. With a limp handshake. And some very interesting opinions. That very morning he compared himself to a tub of PlayDoh (‘You can massage me into any shape you like!’). He also had a habit of calling me ‘Julie’. Now that is not my name. I do not like being referred to as ‘Julie’.

So I hand over that card (a humorous specimen from the local branch of Hallmark), this is where the leaver takes over and says a few words about just how much they enjoyed working here (presumably they are lying. Why else would they be leaving?). Instead, this guy launches into a lengthy pompous speech. There was a lot of pathos. Then. There it was. The space rocket analogy. ‘… and I feel like space rocket who goes skywards too quickly and then fizzles out. Like a bang!’.

At this point I was unable to contain myself any longer. I tried to stop the vicious attack my brain had instore for me. I failed. Instead I developed a rather nasty and unappetizing case of the giggles. The kind that leaves you shrieking, gargling, crouching close to the floor, face a shade of blue, tears and snot streaming down your face. Luckily, I happened to be clutching half a muffin, so I am positive that at least a few people though I was ‘just’ choking on that muffin.

It was bad. It should not happen to a team leader at a team member’s leaving presentation. I toyed with the idea of dragging my sorry self into the kitchen to er ‘laugh it off’, but that would have looked even worse.

And I just know that this guy must have known I was not laughing with him but at him, in a rather obvious fashion. And I am sure my apologies of ‘sorry, but that ‘joke’ about the space rocket was just so funny, thank you for making my afternoon!’ were rather pointless and just made me look even worse.

Laughing at other people is wrong. Everyone knows that. But sometimes, a little gem like this turns up on the horizon and all those good intentions go up the creek. I hang my head in shame (it WAS funny though).