I learned two new things about me this holiday.
i) I am neither cool, calm nor collected in a 'situation'. In fact, I am a FLAPPER.
ii) My alcohol limit when air bound is significantly lower than normal. Stopping at, say, two bottles of rapidly necked wine is, in future, necessary in order to never again render my fellow passengers mute with horror as I snort-bark-squealed with laughter at children's films, swooned loudly at Javier Bardem and finally passed out in a drunken and no doubt snoring lump. Four bottles is greedy. Not festive.
These discoveries were borne out of England's inability to deal with snow. And we're talking inches here, not feet. Our green and pleasant was transformed into an icy tundra from as early as the end of November last year (hullo, Al Gore?) and subsequently morphed into a third world country. Buses ground to a halt, trains stopped running, the tube flopped over in pathetic defeat and more often then not people just stayed indoors. Typically British, we grumbled and sniped and moaned but similarly 'got on with it'. I, meanwhile, was basking in the sun over in the hot hemisphere, deliciously unaffected by the whole shambles aside from offering the occasional 'chin up' to friends and family who were losing small body parts to frost bite. I was due to fly back home for Christmas on the 20th of December. Plenty of time for the snow to melt, I thought. Bah humbug, said the weather.
So the 20th of December rolled around and I walked into work to be greeted by an ugly no-fly message on SAA's website.
BUT IT'S CHRISTMAS, I wailed. (Cancelling flights is not what Jesus would do.) The next flight I could get on was Christmas Eve. Well bollocks to that. The only reason I managed to get through the next few hours was a continuous flow of caffeine swiftly followed by large glasses of wine. Sneaking onto the website around lunchtime it appeared that they were flying as normal, after all. Hurrah, I cheered. (Or it could have been more of a woozy whoop as I crashed forwards into my desk by that point.) I immediately cheered up and began planning what order I was going to eat my Christmas food in, day dreaming about mulling any alcohol I could lay my hands on and how frequently I could eat cheese for 'pudding'. Happy days. By 4 o'clock the website said they were off again, the robotic lady voice on the phone said they were on and I was getting indigestion with the confusion of it all. I drove anxiously to the airport, dragging my ancient, 'at least no-one will steal it' bag behind me to be told that yes, my flight was cancelled. Sorry. They would know by 2pm the following day if they would fly or not and, in the meantime, it was best really to hang around until then. I looked at the air stewardess and for a split second imagined yanking her over coiffed 'do sharply downwards so her lipsticked mouth smashed into the desk.
And then I cried.
Crying, friends, is magical. It makes people UNCOMFORTABLE. And when people are UNCOMFORTABLE they tend to go out of their way to do anything and everything to make you stop crying. Her eye twitched and she swallowed nervously, brushing imaginary wrinkles off her blazer. Bingo.
So I totally got on a flight. The ONLY flight leaving the country for England. God bless that glorious, overly made-up air stewardess. I want to say I'm not proud but I sort of am. I didn't bump anyone else off, just took a seat that someone, in all the confusion, didn't pitch up for. I did hit a small child in the face with my handbag as I sprinted, red faced and panting, through the airport though. Did feel a smidge guilty about that and his subsequent wail but I was not missing that plane.
This is the part where I ignore the need for a refreshing glass of water and instead thirstily guzzle copious bottles of wine. I became quite loud. I chatted animatedly to my neighbour. I snorted with glee at the in-flight entertainment.
AND THEN I GOT GROPED.
God was clearly watching when I walloped that small child. Apparently my seemingly shy and retiring neighbour, a spotty and rather smelly Afrikaans youth on his first trip to the UK, thought that, though I was drunkenly snoring, my body was screaming STROKE ME. Dozily emerging from my wine induced coma to be greeted by a moist-palmed paw clutching at my arm was immensely sobering. However, I am English, which meant I was absolutely incapable of leaning over and telling him where to shove it. Instead I mock woke up in an overly exaggerated way, complete with disorientated/I just had a horrible nightmare noise. (I may have been a little drunk still.) He looked at me earnestly like a small puppy and I wondered how him and my arm could have formed such an intense relationship in such a short space of time, before giving him a wobbly smile (you know, the kind you reserve for drunk homeless men who lurch towards you on the tube shouting about the aliens in their head) and dragging my rug between us to form some kind of barrier. Needless to say the rest of my flight was pretty nightmarish as my premature hangover bashed me over the head and I simultaneously strained away from Gropey, tattooing the arm rest into my left hand side and cricking my neck.
Oh (ho ho) but it doesn't stop there. After landing, running away from Gropey, collecting my bag
and enjoying a wonderfully cliche-ridden Christmas holiday full of log fires, scrabble battles, crumbly stilton, snowy dog walks, endless bottles of Merlot and tangerine smelling fingers I made my way back to the station to get to the airport. What's that? The train's been cancelled last minute because of overhead line problems and I'll need to take a round-the-houses replacement train before connecting somewhere else only to be picked up by a train that will similarly be delayed meaning I have to leg it (a - gain) through London, followed by a bag that will surrender it's rickety wheels to a snowy pavement, meaning I arrive at the boarding gate nine minutes after closing and subsequently miss my flight home?
Oh fuck this.
*** Here's to a 2011 of smooth travelling and, if not, guardian angels in the form of garishly made up air stewardesses that melt when you cry and move mountains to get you on planes ***
I'm not actually sure if what I mean is in actual fact karma, but the title would have been less catchy or more like a tired old film title if I'd called it something more woolly and meandering. *Looks at current title. Narrows eyes at unicorn reference.* Ok. I know what you're thinking. But describing it as a sparkly, gold coated mythical creature is apt. Truly. I actually also wanted to photoshop myself onto a picture of a unicorn but my in design skills are non-existent and my drawing skills something small children snort with derision at. (Side note: In looking for a Captain fantastic picture of a unicorn on Google I came across - next to a dandy cowboy of a unicorn complete with 'tache and monocle - not one but two pictures of Barack Obama wrestling a bear whilst on a unicorn. Naked. I'm still trying to work out what the artist was trying to say, other then: PLEASE TOP UP MY CRAZY PILLS I JUST WOLFED THE LAST BOTTLE TO SUMMON THIS LITTLE BEAUTY.)
So. Karma, or it's lesser known brother - God of Looking Out For You - is great.
Something really embarrassing happened to me yesterday. We're talking *winces* hurl yourself off something very tall onto something sharp and pointy embarrassing. It materialised technologically but was, nevertheless, a muff punch of a blunder. I took a tentative toe dip into the slightly-cheeky-but-socially-accepted world of phone sex yesterday. I say toe dip, because I wasn't brave enough to actually call. Yep. I'm not a prude, but I am aware of my, erm, limitations. I am clumsy. I talk too much. I am as subtle as an escaped loon wielding a gun at your face. I am blah blah blah the list goes on... This is how I imagine a phone sex conversation of mine to go down.
Guy: So. What are you wearing?
Me: Oh, just my old leggings and an 'I ate a kilo of ribs at Thundergun rib house, watch out or I'll eat you too' tshirt.
*Awkward pause*
Me: Oh I see. Start again. Um, I'm wearing red, crotchless panties. Wait. Is that too far? Can one go too far in a conversation aimed entirely at getting the other person off? Should I say a thong instead? Are thongs very 90's?? *trails off* Maybe we should have a safe word. Like in S&M. Not that I've done S&M. Just seen it on tv. Normal tv that is, not weird porno tv. Though I suppose you've probably watched porn before so that's fine. No judgement here. Out of interest do you store all your porn on your external hard drive (they've come down in price so much over the last few years) or do you do it old school with magazines?
This is the part where the poor sod on the other end would hang up and subsequently reach for the bottle.
Nope. I sent a text. I spent a good thirty minutes composing those cheeky one hundred and sixty characters and sent it off, smug as only a first timer can be. NAILED IT, my inner me squeaked.
A few hours passed.
I started to worry that inner whore had got carried away and punched in the wrong number, sending it to someone else entirely. My stomach flip flopped and fizzled into a puddle as I checked, sweaty palmed, that I'd sent it to the correct person. (Image of self having to calm down a bemused and frankly upset Grandmother racing through my mind.) It was correct. Odd.
A few more hours passed. And the night. And then some more hours after that.
Oh dear. Was my slutty sms in fact totally rubbish? Checked it again. Nope. (I actually blushed a bit.) So... *reality of situation sinks in* Did I send a dirty message to a red-blooded male and get NO RESPONSE?! Yes. Yes, I did. Felt faintly vomit-y after that little eye popper of a conclusion. The real life equivalent of this would be like me trying to creep into his bed, all saucy like, before he kicked me out shouting UGH NO THANKS, BOG OFF at me.
But along came the Karma unicorn to save the day!
First, my bus was on time this morning. A small but definitely noteworthy event. Then, I went on to National Express to buy a train ticket from Norfolk to London at the end of December - inner dread settling on my breakfast as I realised my rail card had expired and rail prices had gone up by nightmarish proportions - and it cost me EIGHT POUNDS. Read it and weep my friends. I felt like I was sticking it to the man! Well, the train man at any rate. But wait, it gets better. Someone at work had a birthday and bought in a bowl, nay - a bucket, of mini doughnuts. I am the kind of person who hops wildly up and down when presented with free food. Free mini doughnuts?? I practically exploded in a shriek of sugary coated happiness before someone pointed out that all the creatives are getting treated to a freebie breakfast at Primi tomorrow morning by some production house. Get. Out of. Town. I also realised that a killer song I've been trying to remember for ages so I could download it, actually already existed in my iTunes. And then a fellow advertising mule mate of mine brought it to my attention that we now live closer to each other and must, must, must go and watch the new Harry Potter together. Dressed in cloaks.
Thank you Karma unicorn. I may have been spurned sexually but you fired lasers of awesomeness from your twirly horn of loveliness at me today.
Oh and it's two for one burgers tonight at Spur. Hells yeah.
****
Following day: the karma unicorn has come up trumps A - GAIN. Had my annual review this morning where I managed to wangle both a raise and a bonus out of my especially smiley ECD. Twinkly, lollipop flavoured rockets of magic are zoom zoom zooming towards me. Happy days.
I'm not a particularly attentive blogger. At all. Part of it is the sorry acknowledgment that the content will merely be an explosion of erratic, giddy words falling on top of one another detailing, in the main, food. And possibly the odd half hearted stab at a current affairs topic that will invariably lead back to, yes, food. The other part of it is that I am also actually lazier than I realise. This does make sense, however, as presumably most lazy people don't realise they're lazy. So technically it's not my fault. *trails off confusedly...*
Anyway.
I want to leap onto my friends' musical bandwagons and parrot my latest recommendations. I understand that some may consider this *gesticulates inverted comma signs wildly* copying, but I live under a rock and am simply not cool or quick enough to discover music on my own. Sadly, I seem to have a friend that EVERY TIME I proudly produce a song or a new artist to he's already got their album, read the latest interview in The Guardian and is going to see them, actually, in an intimate gig tomorrow night. His raised eyebrows and skinny jeans ooze louche. Louche people are the movers and shakers of the music industry. Not me, the personification of an over excitable springer spaniel.
So.
The five favourites my ears are loving listening to right now are:
James Blake - CMYK
Crystal Castles - Not in Love ft Robert Smith
LCD Soundsystem - Dance Yrself Clean
Pariah - The Slump
The xx - Basic Space (Pariah remix)
James Blake's voice is raw and earthy. Shut your eyes and drink in the plinky intro that moves deliciously into a sultry, dub step-y beat. His cover of Feist's "Limit to your Love" is, simply, beautiful and well worth a listen. Music for a long, dark bus journey along London's lamp lit streets. Crystal Castle's, "Not In Love," makes you warm and fuzzy in all the right places - Robert Smith's voice conjuring images of broken hearted teenagers crooning to his posters plastered over their bedroom walls. Gorgeous. As for LCD Soundsystem their new album, "This Is Happening" is beautifully crafted. Couldn't decide which track to put up as have been blasting the whole album through my earphones to be honest. But the whole thing is effortlessly cool and the music heaves and swells and fizzes as it dances through your body. It won't disappoint. Lastly there's Pariah, another young 'un playing with similar sounds to Blake. His remix of The xx's "Basic Space" is utter euphoric bliss, and his tunes are unassumingly beautiful, melodic yet twitchy.
There's also a Hot Chip "We Have Remixes" album coming out which promises to be very good - whack your email address into this link and get the Time Machine Remix Edit of "Hand Me Down Your Love" by Todd Edwards. Boom. Enjoy.
Over and out.
(See? Springer spaniel.)
Nope, this is not some thinly veiled attempt to blog my waltz from 'the closet' in all its probable sparkly sequin covered, marching band flouncing, frantic arm flapping, rosy cheeked choirboy singing, white collared dove releasing glory.
(See I say I know gay, and yet...)
Sidenote: To be honest, considering my new Blackberryness I probably would blog my new found sexuality were it ever to, um, change. you know. Um... *desperately tries to claw blog back into at least seeming smidgen of reality*
The point of this 'grubby pawed toddler showing his less than impressed mother the large worm he found in its death throes' information, is that I acquired a Blackberry a few months ago from a very good, very generous friend of mine. (Thank you, Sarah.) I've always been a bit of a snob when it comes to technology, something I ranted about in my first ever blog, and not in the cool, that is sooo last year, Apple way. In the way that smacks of a caveman that simply doesn't have the brain capacity to appreciate modernity. Don't get me wrong. I think Apple products are PRETTY. But apparently that's not the point. So, I've always insisted that having internet on your phone is just plain stupid and unnecessary and that no I don't want to see how you can access the latest news and events on your phone and update your facebook status and check the weather in Chulmleigh and take a picture to send to your Aunt Matilda in Australia and summon a personalised unicorn with the power of one button all at the same time. Thank you very much. But now I've actually got internet on my phone...
...well it's a whole different story. Facebook is horribly accessible. A friend makes a comment on a photo or someone sends me an invite to an event I'll never go to and WHAM BAM THANK YOU MA'AM. My phone trills and flashes a little blink-y red light at me instantly. No more squabbling over which actor was in what when Google is at your fingertips. Or ever getting lost, when a map shows you just how retarded your original route was and how clever this suggested new one is. Oh and I've started tweeting. Tweeting *blushes* quite a lot. About really quite trivial stuff. Ok, that's not fair actually. If you'd witnessed that muffin based loveliness you would have taken a picture of it too. Don't get me wrong, I used the internet before. Obviously. I mean, my Grandparents use the internet. But I used it at my desk, on a computer, connected to a plug of some kind. Not all portable and cool and modern. And I'm not just a grudging convert either - I'd happily glaze my nipples and skip squealing through the streets, lauding the merits of internet on your phone. So essentially I'm a big, fat hypocrite. One little Blackberry and all my snide scoffing is thrown - nay, HURLED - out of the window. And the worst thing? I'm too smug, grinning like a loon, to actually stop tweeting rubbish or checking information on my phone when there's a perfectly good computer with a much larger screen just next to me. I'm like that nerd who FINALLY got invited to the party and is now running around like a small child at Christmas, on meth, wolfing down cake and snortsquealing (*hangs head* my speciality) as they run around the dance floor spraying crumbs and slowly turning purple with excitement.
And yes. I'm totally going to tweet this.
I haven't blogged in a while. Consider it a combination of spending too much of my spare time chuckling at other people's blogs and remembering that I have a grown up, quite demanding job that takes up an inordinate amount of the rest of my time. Plus I seem to have had nothing interesting to say. At all. Nada. Which is sort of disappointing and a bit odd since I live in an exciting foreign country and all that.
(Anyway)
I read an article yesterday that chilled me to the very core. So moved was I by the news relayed to me by the Guardian online (it's not The Times but it'll do) that I felt compelled to send a strongly worded missive out into cyberspace. *Looks over at current number of followers (three) concedes that LETTER OF OUTRAGE may be overlooked somewhat* This news affects all that is British-y in us. It threatens our culture. It encroaches upon our childhood memories and creeps, Bogeyman like, into our happy days of yore. It's that nasty, bigger child on the beach that kicks over your painstakingly constructed sandcastle palace then skips off all innocent, chuckling cruelly. You know, of course, what I'm talking about. Yes. The possible sale of United Biscuits to some big, fat Chinese conglomerate.
To put it into context -- a sad farewell to Twiglets, Jaffa Cakes and Mini Cheddars. (There are heaps more but these are my favourite and, being my rant, the most important. Obviously.)
Ok, so nothing is set in stone but the 'in talks' with Bright Foods alone was enough to make me reach for the paper bag. I mean, good grief people. Is nothing sacred any more?! I won't bore you with the history (United Biscuits can trace it's roots back to 1830, employs 7000 in the UK alone, has sales of 1.3billion a year, operates out of 24 locations worldwide and is loved by tummies from Greece to Australia, Sweden to Nigeria - thank you Google) but what on earth will kiddies, students, stoners and gummy-toothed old people alike snack on now? Besides, when questioned on the above, a spokesman for Bright Foods merely issued the statement, "We are in talks about buying United Biscuits." Snore. Is this really who we want snatching up the very foundations of our youth? What's next? Marmite gets sold to a Peruvian philanthropist?? *swoons*
There are several other companies circling, however, notably Kellogs, Nestle, Kraft and some unnamed Indian chaps. I think, therefore, the only fair solution is to do some sort of a test. Bah humbug to who has the most dosh (I reckon the Chinese might have the edge there), United Biscuits must go to the most deserving. I think a quick pop quiz on the snacks, some recipe ideas and dip alternatives, favourite hours of the day to eat said snacks and why, hand sewn cushion cover of favourite snack, a 5000 word personal statement, best snack moment and poetic 'ode to a snack' should suffice. In iambic pentameter.
Here's hoping.
Well, it's a little late considering the shortlist of nominees for the controversial Mercury Prize was announced last week -- but I did my teeny weeny bit for the folk'ing fantastic Laura Marling a few months ago and now feel it's time for me to fly the flag for this glorious lot. Mumford and Sons.
Again, my musical vocabulary is somewhat wanting, but their debut album, 'Sigh No More,' is delicious. Believe the hype. Curl up with it, rewind and listen again and let it wash over you in all of its toe tapping glory. As my brother recommended them to me, my mind leapt to awkward country themed discos, clutching a sweaty Smirnoff Ice as my scuffed boots (NONSENSE. ARMY BOOTS ARE PRACTICALLY THE SAME, DARLING) and wilting cowboy hat navigated gingerly through grubby straw and leering, chubby hands. But those first, haunting notes, simple sweet lyrics and that voice that's both gravel and chocolate left all that behind.
A white blank page and a swelling rage, You did not think when you sent me to the brink, You desired my attention but denied my affections,
They. Are. The. Shit.
Not particularly eloquent, but sometimes there's just no point beating about the bush. Truly, buy the album. Listen to it. Then listen to it again. It doesn't get old, or tired, or dull. If anything, frankly, it gets better. I can't decide if I even want them to win the Mercury award. (Not many have escaped the aftermath of the poisoned chalice.) But I do want them, music snob that I am, to explode into the modern musical consciousness. To be recognised and celebrated for their talent. To not be resigned to the bargain bin at HMV or, God forbid, themed dances.
Besides, not just anyone can make a banjo sexy.
Behold. Doesn't he look all Prime Minister-y and delicious? Sadly - no offence, Dave - this is not our Prime Minister.
(DING DING DING. *the crowd cheers* Fine. Not exactly the finest display of parliamentary deconstruction,
but at least applaud my tentative toe dip into political waters.)
Nope. The point of this picture is because Cameron is currently making his first official visit to America, as Prime Minister, to meet the effervescent Obama. And whilst newspapers up and down the country are either lampooning or lauding the 'special relationship,' my mind jumps to a rather different place. Two words.
'Love Actually.' Tell me you're not already there, eyes shut, bum-in-chair wiggling, humming oh so enthusiastically before belting, I CAN FEEL YOU GETTING HOTTER. OH BABY. Fear not friends. You're not alone. Then, of course, I make the obvious leap to that picturesque moment in the snowy dusk where skinny, 'still had antennae fringe hair,' Keira is gazing sadly at a stack of dreamy message boards, blushing prettily to faux carol singing as Andrew Lincoln declares his patient and undying love for her - only to receive a cold peck on the cheek. (At this point you'll find me on my knees in front of the tv, wailing, HE LOVES YOU JUST THE WAY YOU ARE, NINNY, DITCH THE LOSER UPSTAIRS.) And from there I progress to Colin Firth marching through the cobbled streets of Portugal, all dark haired and determined, proposing in pigeon Portuguese in front of the entire restaurant. Then I drift to our thwarted but delicious and bespectacled Frenchie......
And then it all goes a bit hazy from there as I simultaneously praise Richard Curtis for his impeccable taste in casting and desperately attempt to claw my thoughts back to the supposed theme of this blog. Politics. Well, Politics. ISH. Emphasis on the ish. Because as many people scowl and scorn this supposed special relationship between the UK and America; try to decipher and translate what it even means, I drift off to that speech old Hugh delivered with such gusto in the film. Where he celebrated, "Shakespeare, Churchill, The Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter, David Beckham's right foot. David Beckham's left foot, come to think of it," and it sort of makes me yearn for a similarly gutsy display of patriotism from Cameron.
I don't hate America. Far from it. In fact, Obama is kind of cool in a 'can't name your policies but you don't look like you'll shag your secretary or invade a Middle Eastern country' sort of way. Nor do I think it wise to expect our politics to play out like a Richard Curtis script. (Ok. Secretly I do. A little bit.) But I do think that, as we all hold our breath for reports from Washington, we should expect a steely determination and pride from Cameron to set the tone of his tenure that reflects the English people. A people that has had their fair share of hiccups but say RECESSION SESMESSION (what, people say that) and bah humbug to the loss of Rooney's striking foot. We are the people that wait chilly months on end for the sun before stripping off to bare goose-pimply skin in our lunch break, perched on a wobbling wooden bench in a full-to-bursting park. We're determined. Yes, we moan and grumble. Snipe and complain. But we don't give up. We stay resolute.
Hang on. There's a point here. Somewhere. (Note to self : next time, STICK TO FOOD.) Oh yes...
So a message to David Cameron from me -- Stand firm. Oh and don't be afraid to channel Hugh Grant.
