I love the internet. I really do, I'm a huge fan. I love that because of the internet we have Grumpy Cat. You could literally offer George Clooney up on a plate to that cat and it would just be, "bothered?".
But I do have one small complaint against the internet. Now I'm a huge music fan - I have music playing somewhere almost all of the time, regardless of what I'm doing. Sleeping, eating, reading, writing etc. I have 100+ playlists on Spotify and a small (but growing) collection of vinyl. Music is the best, and it's very important to me. Albums remind me of periods of my life - Fleetwood Mac, Rumours will forever remind me of my first few months in London, Radiohead, KID A is my down and out album etc etc. Listening to certain albums can either bring me out in tears of smiles, and I love that I have such strong associations.
Now I know that I really only have myself to blame, but I just don't buy cds any more. My cd player is broken in my car and when I'm at home I listen to a few on my hi-fi, but mainly I use spotify or youtube. And because I have stopped buying and listening to cds as much I have largely stopped making mix cds. It is the sad demise of the mix cd which I wanted to write about.
I love mix cds, I love making them, I love receiving them, I think they are brilliant. I've been on a real journey with my mix cds. I remember the first one I ever made. It was awful. I can say that now with total confidence, really it was terrible. It was approximately 2 hours long and featured an awful combination of music ranging from Air to Rage against the Machine. And yet, I distinctly recall how damn proud of it I was when I first created it. I gave it to practically everyone I knew, like someone thrusting free condoms on you in the street, I was doing that with my creation. I called up friends and boasted about how awesome it was and how much I loved it and how much I thought they would love it too. It's hardly surprising that my first attempt at a good mix cd was terrible - I listened to a lot of terrible music when I was 17. I had loads of angst. I can't remember what about now, but there was tons of it, and I used to listen music as a form of escapism. I was an angry teenager, I listened to angry music, and then shamelessly mixed it with tracks from "Essential chill out mix 2003". A massive error, I know appreciate.
However, nonetheless. It's all part of the journey and experience. I'm no expert whatsoever and although I think my mixes have significantly improved, they may still be utter crap in the listeners opinion. But I can say I have got them down to less than 2 hours, which can be no bad thing. It's a very personal thing, making a mix cd, which is something I have learnt to appreciate over the years. Or perhaps I just watched and read High Fidelity and it changed my life. Probably just that.
Either way, I have now learnt to appreciate the finer points of a mix cd. Unlike my past self who had one generic mix which I thought was the greatest thing ever and would suit anyone regardless of their taste because it is so great, I am now much more concious of the recipient of the mix. Sure there are some mixes with which you're perhaps trying to introduce them more to some artist you really like, but more often, I just want them to enjoy it regardless of whether or not they know the tracks.
High Fidelity has certainly taught me important lessons though. Such as the important of track one. Arguably the most important track on the cd. You could argue that track one defines the entire mix. It's your introduction, your taster of what else is to come...or not. Picking track one is often my favourite part of making a mix. The other tracks which I particularly love are the ones with which you're saying something particular, through your choice of music. This can just be, I hope you like this music but it can also be something deeper. I once told someone I loved them through a mix cd - I wasn't ready to tell them face to face, but through my mix, it became my attempt at a love letter. They probably have no idea, but some letters are written never to be sent.
Peter fucking Frampton.
Monday, 11 November 2013
Monday, 30 September 2013
Knew I'd get a blog out of it...
So I have had a brief encounter with the world of retail. I worked a shift as a shop floor assistant and, perhaps not all that surprisingly, I'm getting a blog out of it.
Those of you who know me or who have walked past me in the street and paid the slightest bit of attention to what I'm wearing will know that fashion is not my forte. Though it saddens me to say it, I have to confess that I do not know the first thing about clothes, fashion, or as it turns out, folding.
I was pretty nervous about the experience actually. Being thrust into the world of retail, surrounded by members of the general public who might...ask me things brought me out in a cold sweat. However, I steeled myself and entered the fray.
Now I must just take the opportunity to say that I actually did properly enjoy myself. I talked to loads of different people, I made friends with all the other shop floor assistants, who were all seventeen, I felt old (this was a less fun part), but I was constantly busy and overall I had a good experience.
Now I really did try. I'm a hard worker and I will give anything a bash. But no matter how many attempts and practices it took, nothing I folded looked any good. My main job, was to fold things, so this was obviously, a bit of a problem. I'm not 100% sure, but I did have suspicion that at one point a member of staff was actually told to go around after me and basically refold everything I had "folded" previously.
However, one definite highlight was that despite not being on the ski slopes, I had the opportunity to pretend to be like James Bond. I managed to acquire a walkie talkie you see. To clarify, acquire makes it sounds dramatic / that I stole it from somewhere - actually someone thrust it at me and ran off. So in the brief moment that I held this walkie talkie in my hand, I felt pretty cool. When you're starting at basically the rock bottom of cool you see, it doesn't take much to feel cool when you're suddenly in the possession of something like a walkie talkie.
It took me just one attempt to use the walkie talkie to bring any ideas I had about being cool/like James Bond crashing down. Nothing feels quite like humiliation like hearing your own voice, quavering out garbled words, desperately trying to describe identifying features on a belt echoing across a packed shop floor. That was a joy. This was only made worse when I subsequently failed to grasp the really, very basic operating system of the walkie talkie and ended up having a battle with the stock room assistant who was actually trying to talk to someone else entirely about a scarf. It took about 4 exchanges which went something along the lines of...
"The blue scarf"
"No it's a brown belt"
"The SCARF"
"IT'S A BELT"
...Before someone took the walkie talkie off me (deliberately not saying confiscated) and put me out of my misery. I went and hid behind some jumpers and refolded some of my earlier efforts.
Another stand out moment was when in, I'm going to claim, the excitement of it all but really it was just a moment of quite spectacular stupidity, I somehow forgot entirely where I was working. I'm not joking. I forgot that I was working in a womens store. So when a very handsome (had to be handsome) man came up to me and asked me my opinion on two different jackets, I gave it to him, in my full capacity as an honest and direct human being.
One, I told him, would make him look a bit effeminate so....you know... perhaps -not- that one...
Unfortunately I took the subsequent stunned silence as an opportunity to direct my attention to the other.
Nice, very nice, but quite light, and as he was quite pale it could make him look a bit washed out so...y'know.
(NB: I honestly think I heard that washed out bullshit on tv once and stored it away happily in my subconscious for just such an occasion, nice one, past me).
He looked at me as if I was mad. I looked at him with what I hoped was the kind of look that said "Hey dude, I'm just here to fold clothes, not give opinions", but really probably just looked like a slightly over eager smile, waiting for confirmation that actually, I did know things about fashion and that I was a top employee.
However, once he'd (kindly) clarified for me that they weren't for him (and subtly implied that I actually wasn't such a top employee, more top deluded employee), we moved on fairly swiftly. That is to say I laughed uproariously and said THANK GOD very loudly. Every now and then it pays to have a laugh which threatens to break the sound barrier as it distracts you so much that you usually have no idea what it was you were just talking about. Usually it just makes you a slightly annoying/embarrassing person to go to the cinema/pub/theatre/shops/outside with, but this time it came to my rescue. Thankfully, he also found the funny side, we laughed and rode off into the sunset together.
It was always expected that I'd get some kind of story out of my brush with retail. I texted one of my friends when I got back saying I had a few funny stories to tell and she replied saying simply, "Knew it". Shit like this just happens to me. It's part and parcel of being fairly hopeless at life and only really having a proper grasp on what's going on about 7% of the time. Watch out world!*
That's it from me for now, until the next time I venture outdoors. Stay tuned!
*Actually world, you can probably take it easy for a while, I'd say your safe for a bit. Have a cup of tea. Mmm.
Those of you who know me or who have walked past me in the street and paid the slightest bit of attention to what I'm wearing will know that fashion is not my forte. Though it saddens me to say it, I have to confess that I do not know the first thing about clothes, fashion, or as it turns out, folding.
I was pretty nervous about the experience actually. Being thrust into the world of retail, surrounded by members of the general public who might...ask me things brought me out in a cold sweat. However, I steeled myself and entered the fray.
Now I must just take the opportunity to say that I actually did properly enjoy myself. I talked to loads of different people, I made friends with all the other shop floor assistants, who were all seventeen, I felt old (this was a less fun part), but I was constantly busy and overall I had a good experience.
Now I really did try. I'm a hard worker and I will give anything a bash. But no matter how many attempts and practices it took, nothing I folded looked any good. My main job, was to fold things, so this was obviously, a bit of a problem. I'm not 100% sure, but I did have suspicion that at one point a member of staff was actually told to go around after me and basically refold everything I had "folded" previously.
However, one definite highlight was that despite not being on the ski slopes, I had the opportunity to pretend to be like James Bond. I managed to acquire a walkie talkie you see. To clarify, acquire makes it sounds dramatic / that I stole it from somewhere - actually someone thrust it at me and ran off. So in the brief moment that I held this walkie talkie in my hand, I felt pretty cool. When you're starting at basically the rock bottom of cool you see, it doesn't take much to feel cool when you're suddenly in the possession of something like a walkie talkie.
It took me just one attempt to use the walkie talkie to bring any ideas I had about being cool/like James Bond crashing down. Nothing feels quite like humiliation like hearing your own voice, quavering out garbled words, desperately trying to describe identifying features on a belt echoing across a packed shop floor. That was a joy. This was only made worse when I subsequently failed to grasp the really, very basic operating system of the walkie talkie and ended up having a battle with the stock room assistant who was actually trying to talk to someone else entirely about a scarf. It took about 4 exchanges which went something along the lines of...
"The blue scarf"
"No it's a brown belt"
"The SCARF"
"IT'S A BELT"
...Before someone took the walkie talkie off me (deliberately not saying confiscated) and put me out of my misery. I went and hid behind some jumpers and refolded some of my earlier efforts.
Another stand out moment was when in, I'm going to claim, the excitement of it all but really it was just a moment of quite spectacular stupidity, I somehow forgot entirely where I was working. I'm not joking. I forgot that I was working in a womens store. So when a very handsome (had to be handsome) man came up to me and asked me my opinion on two different jackets, I gave it to him, in my full capacity as an honest and direct human being.
One, I told him, would make him look a bit effeminate so....you know... perhaps -not- that one...
Unfortunately I took the subsequent stunned silence as an opportunity to direct my attention to the other.
Nice, very nice, but quite light, and as he was quite pale it could make him look a bit washed out so...y'know.
(NB: I honestly think I heard that washed out bullshit on tv once and stored it away happily in my subconscious for just such an occasion, nice one, past me).
He looked at me as if I was mad. I looked at him with what I hoped was the kind of look that said "Hey dude, I'm just here to fold clothes, not give opinions", but really probably just looked like a slightly over eager smile, waiting for confirmation that actually, I did know things about fashion and that I was a top employee.
However, once he'd (kindly) clarified for me that they weren't for him (and subtly implied that I actually wasn't such a top employee, more top deluded employee), we moved on fairly swiftly. That is to say I laughed uproariously and said THANK GOD very loudly. Every now and then it pays to have a laugh which threatens to break the sound barrier as it distracts you so much that you usually have no idea what it was you were just talking about. Usually it just makes you a slightly annoying/embarrassing person to go to the cinema/pub/theatre/shops/outside with, but this time it came to my rescue. Thankfully, he also found the funny side, we laughed and rode off into the sunset together.
It was always expected that I'd get some kind of story out of my brush with retail. I texted one of my friends when I got back saying I had a few funny stories to tell and she replied saying simply, "Knew it". Shit like this just happens to me. It's part and parcel of being fairly hopeless at life and only really having a proper grasp on what's going on about 7% of the time. Watch out world!*
That's it from me for now, until the next time I venture outdoors. Stay tuned!
*Actually world, you can probably take it easy for a while, I'd say your safe for a bit. Have a cup of tea. Mmm.
Friday, 30 August 2013
My mate Joss
Joss and I hate a lot of things and we like some things. These are combined lists of some of our top hates and few loves.
HATE
HATE
LOVE
Wine; eating; sleeping; animals dressed in little person outfits; gin; David Mitchell; Peep show; awkward situations; sarcasm; twitter; dinosaurs; the word 'fnar'; spotify; cake; Britney; Fleetwood Mac; asparagus; broccoli; saying something stupid and pretending its ironic so that i can get away with it; tea.
Tuesday, 27 August 2013
Future me V Past me
Don't get me wrong, this isn't going to be rambling, snotty and largely incoherent post about how I hate myself and no one has ever understood me. None of that. I went to boarding school remember, any hint of an emotion and my brain goes into code red: EMOTION. OPERATION SHUT DOWN.
I've learnt about feelings the hard way. Not so long ago I posted a tweet about them on Twitter to my largely (spam based) collection of followers. If you think I'm exaggerating re: my spam followers I closed my eyes and picked one at random. Apparently she loves her job because she gets to fuck on film. Case and point. Anyway, so I am largely followed by robots/porn on Twitter and yet when I tweeted about feelings, they actually engaged with me! That is, they engaged enough to unfollow me. Gutted. It wasn't even that full of sodding feelings, to be accurate, all I said was: "Feelings, what are they all about?" and I got unfollowed by like 3 of my dedicated spam accounts. Bastards. Where is the loyalty?!
So lesson learnt: Never tweet about feelings. Even the spambots don't like it.
The point which I am - laboriously - attempting to get to, is that despite the title of this blog post, I am not going to bang on about I hate myself and I have so many feelings about all the hating. I'm not like this chick:
And yet. Despite all of this hatred, I owe past me a lot for having an awesome time at all these weddings. And frankly, who has the time for hating? Not me. So despite everything, past me, you can be up there with Glen Coco. Four for you!
Heads up: my next post will probably be me drivelling on about how Mean Girls is just the best film ever.
I've learnt about feelings the hard way. Not so long ago I posted a tweet about them on Twitter to my largely (spam based) collection of followers. If you think I'm exaggerating re: my spam followers I closed my eyes and picked one at random. Apparently she loves her job because she gets to fuck on film. Case and point. Anyway, so I am largely followed by robots/porn on Twitter and yet when I tweeted about feelings, they actually engaged with me! That is, they engaged enough to unfollow me. Gutted. It wasn't even that full of sodding feelings, to be accurate, all I said was: "Feelings, what are they all about?" and I got unfollowed by like 3 of my dedicated spam accounts. Bastards. Where is the loyalty?!
So lesson learnt: Never tweet about feelings. Even the spambots don't like it.
The point which I am - laboriously - attempting to get to, is that despite the title of this blog post, I am not going to bang on about I hate myself and I have so many feelings about all the hating. I'm not like this chick:
Nah mate. None of that. But regardless of this, sometimes I do hate me. To be specific, I hate past me. Past me is a pain in future me's arse. Present me is always being screwed over by past me and similarly usually about to reap brutal vengeance again on future me. As I type this, I am feeling sorry already for future me who will have to proof this bullshit, convince myself it's vaguely amusing and then face the crashing reality that actually it's a bit shit and rambly. Present me doesn't care, I'm just enjoying the sound of typing right now, I've gone rogue! I've got nothing to lose! Do you know why? Ah, because future me can deal with that. Ha ha ha! Gutted.
The inspiration behind this blog post came after my first wedding. If you know me you'll know that I have had a number of weddings this summer. All of which have been awesome. Sadly I haven't met or married Hugh Grant which is frankly, disappointing, as it was high on my agenda; but I have got to see some awesome people get married and bust some serious dance moves on various dance floors up and down the country. As far as I'm concerned, this summer I have achieved.
My first wedding was possibly the most drunken out of all of them so far. This is largely down to the fact that I droned on at a waitress for so long that she literally handed me a bottle of wine so that I would go away. I then bravely, heroically, you might even say, took it upon myself to drink this entire bottle myself. I made a pretty good dent and was therefore in a state appropriate for someone who has drunk most of a bottle of a wine after what had already been a pretty heavy evening.
I can remember very little about getting home, but I do remember finding a bed which wasn't mine and as I lay down in all my wedding finery (earrings, makeup etc), on top of the covers at the wrong end of this bed I distinctly remember thinking...
"shit I probably should go to my own bed and get changed"
AND THEN WHAT DID I THINK? Exactly this: "Fuck it, future me can deal with it"
And then I passed out, dribbled and generally looked hawt.
So Future me wakes up, with literally no idea where I am, wondering if I was in contention for breaking some kind of record for "longest time spent wearing the world's most uncomfortable strapless bra ever", feeling like I'd drunk enough red wine to fill a small ocean and feeling the effects.
Eventually, after I'd found my bearings and established that I was at least in my own house (thank GOD), I believe I spent the rest of the day, hiding my hangover from my parents (I failed) and, with the fiery passion of Mount Doom, hating past me.
And yet. Despite all of this hatred, I owe past me a lot for having an awesome time at all these weddings. And frankly, who has the time for hating? Not me. So despite everything, past me, you can be up there with Glen Coco. Four for you!
Heads up: my next post will probably be me drivelling on about how Mean Girls is just the best film ever.
Monday, 29 July 2013
Road kill - Chat kill
When I was about 15 years old, I was at drinks party of friends of my parents. You know how it is when you're that age, you get dragged along to all sorts of events and you take the opportunity (at least I did) to drink as much free booze as possible and then pretend that you weren't really that hideously embarrassing drunk teenager in the corner chatting up a pot plant you'd named Colin.
Happy memories. HAPPY MEMORIES. Anyway, this particular drinks party stands out very clearly in my mind, mainly because the incident I am about to regale happened before I had gotten drunk enough to start finding plants attractive.
I found myself talking to an artist and I remember our conversation very clearly. It went something along the lines of this:
Artist: So what's your talent?
Anna: I don't have one. Really I'm pretty useless at everything, unless I can count that as my talent?
Artist: Everyone has a talent my child, (he didn't actually call me my child, but he could have). Tell me what is yours.
Anna: Well... I guess I'm quite good at croquet.
A sure fire talent for succeeding in life. Be quite good at a "sport" which approximately 0.2% of the world population has ever played, and the reason you deem yourself "quite good" is largely because all other competitors you have played have drunk more Pimms than you.
If I was to be asked the same question today I would give the same answer, with one small alteration. I'm quite good at croquet, and I'm not bad at small talk.
I say not bad because I have in no means got it down completely, and I proved this to myself quite extensively at a wedding I was at last weekend. I mean when you say you're making small talk, really you're just making slightly awkward conversation about incredibly neutral topics. I may have inadvertently stepped up the "neutral" conversation topic to another level with my latest attempt at small talk, when I found that I couldn't stop talking about roads. Bloody roads. Who wants to talk about roads? Me, apparently. Roads which I referenced included: A13, A34, M25 and the South Circular in London. Really, quite a lot of roads. This wasn't even just one conversation. I talked about roads...to more than one person. I must have..*ahem* driven them crazy.
I won't bore you with the details of my road chat. To be honest, I think on each occasion that I started talking about a road, I realised what a terrible path I was on, and that there are really only a few things you can actually say about a road (e.g I took that road, I like that road, I hate that road etc) so I really have no logical explanation as to why I kept going back for more. The only silver lining I can cling onto and that the poor recipients of my chat no doubt clung to was that I didn't get quite as far as to start banging on about junctions. Next time though. Junction 11, M40, I'm going to give you a big shout out.
I'd say I am averagely keen on roads, I admit to having my favourites (M40) but not enough that I talk about them to strangers. I have no idea what was in the air or the water at the wedding, but it brought out my inner road lover. But then, we're British after all, we bloody love roads. And we love complaining, what gives you more opportunities to complain that a road! I am somehow managing to create a blog post about roads. If you're reading this, you're reading about roads. Everyone is now thinking...about roads.
My work here is done.
Happy memories. HAPPY MEMORIES. Anyway, this particular drinks party stands out very clearly in my mind, mainly because the incident I am about to regale happened before I had gotten drunk enough to start finding plants attractive.
I found myself talking to an artist and I remember our conversation very clearly. It went something along the lines of this:
Artist: So what's your talent?
Anna: I don't have one. Really I'm pretty useless at everything, unless I can count that as my talent?
Artist: Everyone has a talent my child, (he didn't actually call me my child, but he could have). Tell me what is yours.
Anna: Well... I guess I'm quite good at croquet.
A sure fire talent for succeeding in life. Be quite good at a "sport" which approximately 0.2% of the world population has ever played, and the reason you deem yourself "quite good" is largely because all other competitors you have played have drunk more Pimms than you.
If I was to be asked the same question today I would give the same answer, with one small alteration. I'm quite good at croquet, and I'm not bad at small talk.
I say not bad because I have in no means got it down completely, and I proved this to myself quite extensively at a wedding I was at last weekend. I mean when you say you're making small talk, really you're just making slightly awkward conversation about incredibly neutral topics. I may have inadvertently stepped up the "neutral" conversation topic to another level with my latest attempt at small talk, when I found that I couldn't stop talking about roads. Bloody roads. Who wants to talk about roads? Me, apparently. Roads which I referenced included: A13, A34, M25 and the South Circular in London. Really, quite a lot of roads. This wasn't even just one conversation. I talked about roads...to more than one person. I must have..*ahem* driven them crazy.
I won't bore you with the details of my road chat. To be honest, I think on each occasion that I started talking about a road, I realised what a terrible path I was on, and that there are really only a few things you can actually say about a road (e.g I took that road, I like that road, I hate that road etc) so I really have no logical explanation as to why I kept going back for more. The only silver lining I can cling onto and that the poor recipients of my chat no doubt clung to was that I didn't get quite as far as to start banging on about junctions. Next time though. Junction 11, M40, I'm going to give you a big shout out.
I'd say I am averagely keen on roads, I admit to having my favourites (M40) but not enough that I talk about them to strangers. I have no idea what was in the air or the water at the wedding, but it brought out my inner road lover. But then, we're British after all, we bloody love roads. And we love complaining, what gives you more opportunities to complain that a road! I am somehow managing to create a blog post about roads. If you're reading this, you're reading about roads. Everyone is now thinking...about roads.
My work here is done.
Monday, 3 June 2013
To all my "ones"...
A bit of context to the title of this blog. Basically, I seemed to have developed quite the habit for calling people, "my one". It started off harmlessly enough - I took my guidance from my TRUE one, the (sadly) fictional Mark Corregan, who also thinks that anyone who bears even the slightest resemblance in interests to him must be his one.
Annoyingly I couldn't find a link of him thinking someone could be his one, but this is an absolute classic instead. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZSIMwZaZ_A
I think I can actually pinpoint the origins of this disastrous habit. I was out at a power ballads night called "Ultimate Power", which is as awesome as you suspect. I believe I'd just finished a particularly moving sing-a-long rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and feeling the spirit of Bonnie within me, I went to the bar and got chatting to the bloke standing next to me.
I can tell you literally, nothing about his man. I think he was wearing a red t-shirt. That's it. Anyway we got chatting, and he was pleasant enough (he was wearing a nice enough red t-shirt for it to stick out in my memory) and he made a Peep Show reference. In my drunken and power-ed (geddit) state, I took this as a sign that he was a) potentially my one and b) would definitely get the reference as in a Mark Corregan way of calling someone your one.
Predictably, he didn't. Sadly I can't remember how our conversation went from this moment on, but given that I'm not currently married with children to this bloke, I'm going to take a guess and say not brilliantly. I subsequently have blurry memories of charging about this club in London, taking breaks between ballads and screech along singing to get more drinks etc, and I saw him a couple more times around the club. Each time I spotted him for whatever unknown possessed reason, I would start pointing and shouting "hey it's my one! HEY ONE!!!". He definitely fled each time, I mean really the dude would like gallop away. Great start.
So that was the beginning, and since then, it has escalated. Many many experiences have taught me that, NO ONE GETS THE PEEP SHOW REFERENCE, literally no one. I really must start to take this on board. It has gotten to the point of being almost totally out of control. Some of the people I have termed as being "my one" have included:
My optician,
David Mitchell
Stranger on Twitter
Colleagues
A friend's Mum
A friend's Dad
Potentially, a zombie
Anyone who comes within a 5 yard radius after I've had "a few"
That doesn't mean that each and every one (excluding perhaps the zombie) aren't/weren't special to me. Sure I'm pretty generous with my labeling, but there's always a good motivation behind it. Apart from when I'm drinking, then really everyone is at risk.
So to all my "ones" out there, it's been special. And to all my future ones...it's going to be ace. Big love.
Annoyingly I couldn't find a link of him thinking someone could be his one, but this is an absolute classic instead. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZSIMwZaZ_A
I think I can actually pinpoint the origins of this disastrous habit. I was out at a power ballads night called "Ultimate Power", which is as awesome as you suspect. I believe I'd just finished a particularly moving sing-a-long rendition of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" and feeling the spirit of Bonnie within me, I went to the bar and got chatting to the bloke standing next to me.
I can tell you literally, nothing about his man. I think he was wearing a red t-shirt. That's it. Anyway we got chatting, and he was pleasant enough (he was wearing a nice enough red t-shirt for it to stick out in my memory) and he made a Peep Show reference. In my drunken and power-ed (geddit) state, I took this as a sign that he was a) potentially my one and b) would definitely get the reference as in a Mark Corregan way of calling someone your one.
Predictably, he didn't. Sadly I can't remember how our conversation went from this moment on, but given that I'm not currently married with children to this bloke, I'm going to take a guess and say not brilliantly. I subsequently have blurry memories of charging about this club in London, taking breaks between ballads and screech along singing to get more drinks etc, and I saw him a couple more times around the club. Each time I spotted him for whatever unknown possessed reason, I would start pointing and shouting "hey it's my one! HEY ONE!!!". He definitely fled each time, I mean really the dude would like gallop away. Great start.
So that was the beginning, and since then, it has escalated. Many many experiences have taught me that, NO ONE GETS THE PEEP SHOW REFERENCE, literally no one. I really must start to take this on board. It has gotten to the point of being almost totally out of control. Some of the people I have termed as being "my one" have included:
My optician,
David Mitchell
Stranger on Twitter
Colleagues
A friend's Mum
A friend's Dad
Potentially, a zombie
Anyone who comes within a 5 yard radius after I've had "a few"
That doesn't mean that each and every one (excluding perhaps the zombie) aren't/weren't special to me. Sure I'm pretty generous with my labeling, but there's always a good motivation behind it. Apart from when I'm drinking, then really everyone is at risk.
So to all my "ones" out there, it's been special. And to all my future ones...it's going to be ace. Big love.
Tuesday, 7 May 2013
Some thoughts on a zombie apocalypse
As well as dinosaurs, I also love zombies. Zombies make the best films. Not that you need reminding but just in case:
Shaun of the dead
Zombieland (the intro credits are not for the squeamish)
28 days later
The Walking dead (tv series)
It is actually because of the Walking Dead that I've been thinking so much about zombies recently. And also the reason I've not slept properly in a week and am therefore beginning to resemble a zombie myself. Brief introduction: Simon from Teachers/the guy in love with Keira in Love Actually, is not really pathetic and whiney (aka Simon from Teachers), nor forlorn and in love with his best mate as Love Actually might lead you to believe. He's actually a Sheriff from Georgia and he's pretty badass. He's also ace at taking out the odd member of the undead which wanders into his life having mistaken it for the canteen.
It's pretty straight forward stuff, end of the world, zombies everywhere fight for survival etc, but I would highly recommend it. The writing is excellent and there's the odd moment of black comedy to keep one's spirits up (although these do become few and far between as it goes on).
So zombies have dominated my chat of recent days, and it got me thinking about what I would do if, heaven forbid, I was to suddenly find that the end of the world had happened and everywhere I went people kept trying to eat me as one of their five a day.
I've spoken to a few friends about this and the responses have varied hugely. I have a pretty gung-ho, ridiculously optimistic attitude, which mainly consists of, ride it out, have some tea and it'll all blow over. Worse comes to worse, go to France and live out the rest of my days on a vineyard. Hell, it won't even take a zombie apocalypse for me to do that, I'm about a month of unemployment away from doing this already.
Others, however, are much more pragmatic. One's attitude, was basic.
"Well if you can't beat them...join them."
It was pointed out that this would, sadly involve a) turning into a zombie, and that unfortunately research has shown there's not really a pain-free way of doing this and also that b) once you've made this traumatic and excruciating transition...you will then largely be spending your time charging about, trying to eat your peers. Sunday mornings spent watching TOWIE and eating Pringles will no longer be an option.
Friend x then revised her views, and announced confidently that she'd be fine. She would cycle to Wales.
I'm putting down that as an option for survival 1: Cycle to Wales
At this moment I'd just like to clarify an important point about what type of zombie I'm imagining my zombie apocalypse will feature. To be brutally honest, 28 days later zombies are like the scariest freaking things ever, so they're out. The Walking Dead ones are also pretty vicious, and nippy, which is not something I'm keen on. So I'm thinking, this is England, we're all pretty slow and casual about how we do shit, and Shaun of the Dead reflects that pretty well. Sure, en mass, they're a pain and if you're Dylan Moran, gutted. (Warning: Gory clip). But, you can also stroll along next to them moaning with an arm sticking out and you're fine. So, I'm electing them.
Ok, so they're pretty slow and a bit dopey. Still, other's aren't keen. I had a long text conversation with my friend H about this and she, frankly, rained all over my "ride it out and it'll blow over" attitude. She did, however, wisely point out that having zombies roaming all over the shop, would be something of a kill joy. Even if you did somehow manage to sit around watching TOWIE and eating Pringles, the fact that at any moment you could be eaten alive would, I suspect be a bit of a dampener. H put things into context with the following anecdote:
"A spider once dropped into my lap when I was on the toilet. I screamed and hit my head. I can only imagine that a zombie attack whilst having a wee is like a bajillion times worse."
Valid point. So, what's the solution? A: Head to an off license and drink.
Think about it though. What do we get like when we're drunk? Stupid, and over confident. Chuck into the mix some flesh eating undead and I can definitely forsee a situation in which I declare my love to a zombie, call it my one, hug it, and it eats me. Gutted.
OR - with this drunken confidence, we track ourselves down some bikes and begin the epic 45 minute (approx) cycle to Wales, singing Bohemian Rhapsody. Either way, I think booze is definitely a pretty good shout.
(Possible) option for survival 2: Booze.
Option number 3: Eat macaroni cheese. Nothing bad can happen to someone eating Macaroni Cheese (disclaimer: this theory has yet to be thoroughly tested).
Other thoughts for how to, not necessarily survive, but perhaps make things a little more bearable include:
Shaun of the dead
Zombieland (the intro credits are not for the squeamish)
28 days later
The Walking dead (tv series)
It is actually because of the Walking Dead that I've been thinking so much about zombies recently. And also the reason I've not slept properly in a week and am therefore beginning to resemble a zombie myself. Brief introduction: Simon from Teachers/the guy in love with Keira in Love Actually, is not really pathetic and whiney (aka Simon from Teachers), nor forlorn and in love with his best mate as Love Actually might lead you to believe. He's actually a Sheriff from Georgia and he's pretty badass. He's also ace at taking out the odd member of the undead which wanders into his life having mistaken it for the canteen.
It's pretty straight forward stuff, end of the world, zombies everywhere fight for survival etc, but I would highly recommend it. The writing is excellent and there's the odd moment of black comedy to keep one's spirits up (although these do become few and far between as it goes on).
So zombies have dominated my chat of recent days, and it got me thinking about what I would do if, heaven forbid, I was to suddenly find that the end of the world had happened and everywhere I went people kept trying to eat me as one of their five a day.
I've spoken to a few friends about this and the responses have varied hugely. I have a pretty gung-ho, ridiculously optimistic attitude, which mainly consists of, ride it out, have some tea and it'll all blow over. Worse comes to worse, go to France and live out the rest of my days on a vineyard. Hell, it won't even take a zombie apocalypse for me to do that, I'm about a month of unemployment away from doing this already.
Others, however, are much more pragmatic. One's attitude, was basic.
"Well if you can't beat them...join them."
It was pointed out that this would, sadly involve a) turning into a zombie, and that unfortunately research has shown there's not really a pain-free way of doing this and also that b) once you've made this traumatic and excruciating transition...you will then largely be spending your time charging about, trying to eat your peers. Sunday mornings spent watching TOWIE and eating Pringles will no longer be an option.
Friend x then revised her views, and announced confidently that she'd be fine. She would cycle to Wales.
I'm putting down that as an option for survival 1: Cycle to Wales
At this moment I'd just like to clarify an important point about what type of zombie I'm imagining my zombie apocalypse will feature. To be brutally honest, 28 days later zombies are like the scariest freaking things ever, so they're out. The Walking Dead ones are also pretty vicious, and nippy, which is not something I'm keen on. So I'm thinking, this is England, we're all pretty slow and casual about how we do shit, and Shaun of the Dead reflects that pretty well. Sure, en mass, they're a pain and if you're Dylan Moran, gutted. (Warning: Gory clip). But, you can also stroll along next to them moaning with an arm sticking out and you're fine. So, I'm electing them.
Ok, so they're pretty slow and a bit dopey. Still, other's aren't keen. I had a long text conversation with my friend H about this and she, frankly, rained all over my "ride it out and it'll blow over" attitude. She did, however, wisely point out that having zombies roaming all over the shop, would be something of a kill joy. Even if you did somehow manage to sit around watching TOWIE and eating Pringles, the fact that at any moment you could be eaten alive would, I suspect be a bit of a dampener. H put things into context with the following anecdote:
"A spider once dropped into my lap when I was on the toilet. I screamed and hit my head. I can only imagine that a zombie attack whilst having a wee is like a bajillion times worse."
Valid point. So, what's the solution? A: Head to an off license and drink.
Think about it though. What do we get like when we're drunk? Stupid, and over confident. Chuck into the mix some flesh eating undead and I can definitely forsee a situation in which I declare my love to a zombie, call it my one, hug it, and it eats me. Gutted.
OR - with this drunken confidence, we track ourselves down some bikes and begin the epic 45 minute (approx) cycle to Wales, singing Bohemian Rhapsody. Either way, I think booze is definitely a pretty good shout.
(Possible) option for survival 2: Booze.
Option number 3: Eat macaroni cheese. Nothing bad can happen to someone eating Macaroni Cheese (disclaimer: this theory has yet to be thoroughly tested).
Other thoughts for how to, not necessarily survive, but perhaps make things a little more bearable include:
- Attempt some stand up comedy - don't let the lack of laughter get you down. Zombies can't laugh - but I'm sure that every snarl / menacing groan is their attempt to.
- Head to a beach. It may look like the zombie in the surf is chasing you down, but equally, they could be frolicking. Also, sandcastles.
- Obvious one: arm yourself. Right now, all I have which could be of any use is a ukulele and a squash racquet. I am however, working on my record collection.
- Make puns. The apocalypse is rife with punning opportunities, chin up, it's not the end of the world, ETC.
Anyway, I have clearly spent far too much time and energy thinking about this. I think I need a good dose of reality to calm my frazzled nerves. Bring on Geordie shore, ha'way!
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