No argument needed, I've won

So I've recently finished six weeks of debating classes, and I thought it was about time I blogged about it.

The final conclusion is... six weeks later I'm still crap. I think I can just resign myself to the bitter reality that debating is something I will never be good at. I can add it to the long list of useful things I wish I could do, like sailing; or forming coherent sentences, or not scaring strangers by asking what their top 5 favourite puddings are. But no.

So my motivation behind starting the whole debating classes was mainly, because I was getting fed up with losing every argument I ever found myself in. My usual technique is to sit by and inwardly seethe but this has lead to such unpleasant occasions as finding myself once sitting next to someone who described chairman Mao as "not such a bad chap actually". To be fair, on that occasion it was better that I just held my tongue as violence would have probably ensured.

So on the occasions when I did allow myself to become entangled in arguments I would inevitably lose. Entangled is definitely the right word too to describe my efforts too. I'm going to be really geeky (for once, HO HO) and reference Lord of the Rings... you know when Frodo and Sam are playing hide and seek or some shit in the giant cave with the fuck off spider (which scares the living daylights out of me) and Frodo gets tangled up in the web (stupid sod) and he's stuck and it's all uber traumatic and tense? Well, the analogy I am (eventually) getting to is that Frodo is stuck and helpless and he has no idea how he got there. Which is exactly what happens to me when I argue. Obviously I mean without the giant spider with murderous intentions and a hobbit, but you get my drift. A BLOODY MESS basically.

Also, to summarise, here is an image of what I've been banging on about:

I allow my emotions and my tongue to argue before I even BOTHER to attempt and engage my brain, and this happens EVERY TIME. So I'll try and make a sound (aka, counter-argument) and all that come out is "GNAAAARRRRGGGHHH.... NO!" which, in the grand scheme of things... is pretty rubbish as far as replies go. This then pisses me off, and I will probably end up crying or calling my opponent a horrible person who I will hate forever. I should clarify though, this is generally only the case with relatives - with friends I'll just harbour some casual resentment and then inevitably get distracted by something shiny and the whole debacle is forgotten. As far as debating and discussion go, I'm officially shite. Hence why I signed up for debating classes - I was going through a scary phase of 'Actioning' stuff, thankfully it didn't last very long.

So the debating classes were pretty hilarious. I'm fairly sure they weren't meant to be, but they were. There were some absolute comedy characters who made it a really fun experience. My stand out personal favourite has to be Rosa, who is Spanish. That's pretty much all I (or anyone else in the class) knows, as you literally couldn't understand a word she said. Which can make for an interesting debate. Believe me.

Next in my failed attempts at personal development: Watching more Lord of the Rings so I can remember the name of the giant spider. WIN.

Growing Pains

I have recently created a shared playlist on Spotify, "Growing pains". I shall preserve my friends' modesty by merely referring to her as 'cb'. NB this isn't a cunning shortening of her real name, which interestingly, is actually Donald! Parents can be so cruel. ANYWAY, on with the blog.

So yes, 'Growing Pains' is a mixture of some of the music which we used to soothe ourselves with whilst in the midst of the agony, the horror even, which constitutes teenage angst. Ah, teenage angst. I've basically written off 13-17. It's pretty rare for me to be able to look back on those days with a fond smile and a head tint as I think of all the glory. NO. They were awkward hours spent tortured over what I now have literally NO IDEA. It's funny to think back about the things which used to literally devour all of my time worrying about now, I'm like WTF mate?

Strangely enough, one of the things I do find myself having to thank teenage angst for, is my love of music. I mean, obviously I had always been aware of music in the years before...thirteen, but it had never held any real significance for me. There's only so much you can glean from Boyzone and Britney Spears. Really.

So it was through my various friends who were also experiencing issues of teenage angst that I discovered some of the bands which I came to utterly adore, and then subsequently...forget. This was one of the funniest things about this brilliant playlist was just remembering all of these bands and tracks which I literally used to think were the absolute shit, and just haven't really given them the time of day since.

So lets see, what features on this epic playlist. Well, the rules were that we were allowed 20 tracks each which were most significant to us, in the dark years. Now at the time of blogging the mystical Donald (cb) and I have quite a few shared playlists as we have similar tastes and it's a good way of not only sharing cool music but discovering new artists at the same time. However, judging by 'Growing Pains'... we weren't quite there yet in terms of the similar taste thing.

Now before I reveal what some of the cringers are - I must justify myself. There are some pretty cool bands in there. Radiohead, for example, have always featured pretty heavily in my music taste, and if they don't represent teenage angst then hell I have no idea what does. The pixies, also I still listen to, not as regularly, but I am still more than prepared to give them well deserved kudos. The Pixies are a cool band. Other acceptable features include: The Libertines; The Vines; The White Stripes; The Streets; Nirvana and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. So really, not much shame there, and as I said earlier, in some ways I'm thankful to the angst for introducing me to some awesome music which still features heavily in my (ear) life.

It's more when I remember having ventured down the line of... *deep breath* Avril Lavigne; Eminem; The Distillers; The Bronx and creed that I start to wince. Now I'm not all out dissing them at all - it's more the connotations that come with. I had forgotten, for example, how much I was into The Distillers. I thought they were so cool, and that I was therefore "pretty hard" for liking them. This attempt to be hard lead onto me attempting to like stuff like The Bronx. I never really did, but I tried, oh how I tried.

When I really start to squirm is when I think back to how I actually thought Avril Lavigne was awesome. Like genuinely, as an impressionable 14 (*16) year old I wouldn't go so far as to say I thought of her as role model, but I definitely thought she was someone I would like to be like. OH GOD. Right, seeing as it's all coming out and I will never actually have to suffer the consequences of this blog because I will have DIED FROM THE SHAME I reach Eminem. Yeah I was into Eminem, I used to read along to his lyrics and try (operative word definitely being try) and rap along. Of course, I was shit and usually about half a beat behind, but this activity of rapping along helped me with my teenage angst as I felt like I related more to the lyrics. Oh how I related to these important, anger and hate filled lyrics which I definitely felt spoke to me and were, like, all about me y'know?!

Like I said, THE HORROR. I almost wish I had never evolved into finding music which could 'speak' to me. Life was so much easier when I was at the very early stages of teenage angst and pretty much loved any song which ever said the word fuck. It was like buying a cd with a Parental Guidance sticker on it and leaving it around the place just so people knew how cool you were. And that you could swear, evidently.

With that, I shall sign off, I have to go to a darkened room and rock for a while. Maybe I'll listen to some Eminem to help me through. Maybe.

NOT pleased to meet you...?!

So the festive season is over, and I find myself in the midst of cold January with no amusing advent calender antics with which to start my day. Sad times.

It was a pretty amusing Christmas, and I would like to dedicate to the main source of entertainment... my beloved mothership. Yes, the mothership, a force beyond many others to be reckoned with. After a relaxing Christmas day with friends we returned to the homestead to open our presents and to casually get on it, as is traditional across the nation. An extremely pleasant afternoon / evening it was too, and somehow it culminated with my mother sitting on the sofa, glass of wine in hand, listing word she deems as being "common". This is, it would seem, one of her favourite past times, as worryingly when I was regaling this spectacle to some friends the next night in the pub they responded with "oh yeah, we've heard that list. Standard."

I can't remember the exact list - I did make notes at the time but as the casual, socially acceptable drinking continued I think someone burnt them having mistaken them for a log. Easy mistake, could v'e happened to anyone. However, there is one which particularly sticks out in the memory. According to my mum, it is possible to commit social suicide simply by saying, "pleased to meet you". I mean, WTF?!

Unfortunately I was distracted from exposing the horrors of saying "pleased to meet you" as not actually being a perfectly socially acceptable thing to say when you first meet someone as it has been for centuries. Somehow the conversation suddenly bounced onto my Dad being accused of being both homophobic and suppressed because he didn't like Brokeback Mountain. To be fair, Brokeback Mountain is really not my Dad's kind of film. He's old school in his film taste, but he was tricked into going by my mother, who vaguely described it as something to do with cowboys and claimed that it "would probably turn out to be a modern take on a Western". Or not, as the case turned out. Fortunately my Dad did manage to pull through, and is now able to give an accurate and concise summary, as my brother found out when he asked how the film was and was met with the response: "If you want to go and see a film about buggery, well that's the one for you."

Ah, quality family time, you just can't beat it. Roll on next year I say.

Back for good, Take That style

To quote the immortal Shane Ward who was just prancing about on my screen as part of the Awful Factor, "I am back!". To all my dedicated readers out there (hi Mum), I apologise for the lack of blogging. It's ok, now you can quit the drugs and the booze, the wilderness is over.

Part of my silence has been due to lack of internet in the flat, and because the recent hectic move to London hasn't left much time for daliances such as blogging. Fortunately I am now back to having too much time on my hands. Phew.

Part of this stressful move stemmed from myself and my flatmate having a few days of manic flat hunting. This probably wouldn't have been nearly as stressful if I hadn't been reminding my prospective flat mate "OH MY GOD DUDE WE HAVE TO FIND A FLAT OR WE WILL PROBABLY DIE." I'm seriously handy to have around in a stressful situation. I come recommended on NHS direct. Anyway, I digress. So aside from me being irritating our hunt was not helped by the multiple of horrors which we came across. Mainly in the form of estate agents. Or as they will hereby known as bastard estate agents.

Our multiple interactions with them has lead me to the conclusion that there are several "breeds" if you will of bastard estate agents and also just general peopleyou will end up coming into contact with through the stressful median of flat hunting. Such as:

The wide boy.

Potentially graduates from either Northampton or Kettering University. Say "yeah" unconvincingly a lot and promises you the world. The world subsequently turns out to be shite, and will cost you 1 BILLION POUNDS a week for the privilege of living in.

The wide boy is a tosser.

Random people in the street who try and offer you a room. Namely a bloke called Trevor whocornered us whilst we were waiting to see a property. For anyone interested, his name was Trevor and he had a one bed flat in Brixton. Apparently it's lovely. We told him we'd definitely be in touch, and despite not knowing our names or numbers he seemed satisfied that somehow, through the will of the gods, we would get in touch if we changed our mind about the flat.

Had an entertaining encounter with Foxtons - after a nice spin in the mini and some small talk about what "SERIOUS LASH" there was in Infernos, I also now know what it's like to work for Foxtons. Or at least, I know that "you have to be able to handle the bantaaaar. There is serrrous (sic) bantaar." When we actually got to the flat, although it was decent enough there was a rather hilarious moment when we commented on the rather obvious and unusual smell which the flat seemed to be in possession of. It went along the lines of:

AH: "The flat smells funny."

FL (Foxtons lass): "Does it really?! Do you think?! (cue hyperbolic and dramatic inhaling) I can't smell anything!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AH: "It smells of old people. Definitely."

We left soon afterwards.

Due to these numerous traumatic experiences we did subsequently also trawl gumtree for some leads. In terms of flats this was also a horrific experience but in the context of blogging well just tons of quality material.

For instance, there was the woman we rang up to enquire about her flat - which looked lovely... but we didn't get very far. Mainly because as soon as the words "Hi, we're ringing about your flat" were uttered the response was a loud: "TEXT! I PUT TEXT ONLY ON THE ADVERT! DON'T RING ME - TEXT! TEXT I SAY!" Uttering profuse apologies, we did text. We did however, get no reply.

But! The icing on the cake, the real, icing on the cake of horror, was the last flat we saw on our first day. Again, gumtree found it looked affordable,convenient and potentially a real go-er.

Admittedly, this excitement started to wane when we approached the looming tower block in which the flat was contained, having carefully avoided the eyes of the four policemen who were arresting someone outside of the door (good community involvement at least we told ourselves) we entered the building. It is quite amazing how quickly you can adjust to the stench of piss, and as we grimly ascended the stairs (the metal coffin which was apparently the lift was lacking in appeal) we decided that perhaps, it just wouldn't do. I'm not sure I could handle the rejection of inviting friends over for dinner and being told "Just...No. Sorry, but we're too scared." I was pretty scared and this was at like 4pm in the afternoon in broad daylight.

Character building stuff, certainly. Blog building stuff, oh definitely.

KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON

On Sunday, I ran a half-marathon. Well, run is perhaps a slight overstatement. Certainly I ran the first 10 miles I would have said, but by the final 3 I had faithfully departed from my "slightly faster than walking" pace to... well it was probably slightly slower than walking to be honest. But, it was still a "run" - as my brother kindly remarked to me as he strolled along next to me for the final mile "one of your feet is off the ground at any one time - technically you're still running." I shall cling to that statement.

I have been tempted to blog some of my running experiences before this but was concerned that I would not be able to complete the marathon I was training for and then every time I glanced back at my previous posts I would be shamed by the irony. I did not want to tempt fate, so to speak. Now, however, I can blog away, hurrah!

It has not been at easy past few months. Ever since I rashly signed up under the mis-construction that it would be "fun" I have had moments of utter panic. Most of these occurred when I first started running. Only to discover, that I couldn't run. Well not for very long at least, a mile would have my life flashing before my eyes and forcing myself to restrain from flagging passing motorists down and begging them for a lift.

"Shit", was what went through my mind the majority of the time. How the bloody hell am I going to run 13.1 miles if 1.5 is a challenge. Fortunately, I am incredibly optimistic, and would calm my frantic nerves with the reassurance that I could always either a) just not turn up on the day and blame the traffic, b) fake injury c) run (no pun intended) away.

After that it was a matter of swallowing my pride and resigning myself to the fact that no matter what, I was going to look like a tit. I have had my fair share of humiliation. There was the time I was a mile into a 7 mile run and it started pissing it down - literally people were driving past me, laughing. Or the time I got a bit carried away listening to Tina Turner and found myself skipping and jumping erratically in the road; or, a personal favourite, when I inadvertently yelled "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST MOTHER OF GOD" at a cyclist who had cycled past me suddenly giving me the fright of my life. All character building stuff. I have, of course suffered numerous other humiliations and embarrassments but I shall keep them for whenever someone needs cheering up.

The title of this blog may seem utterly irrelevant but it is fundamental to my success. When running for a long time - and indeed, on marathon day - I frequently needed boosters to help me going. Sometimes Tina just didn't quite cut it. One of the techniques I employed was to make little jokes as I went along - if I ran past some sheep I would shout "hello ewe!" and chortle away, or try and list all the Jilly Cooper characters (never got very far) but my favourite was to give myself a firm talking to and to remind myself to remember to "KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON!"

Too right, love.

This morning whilst conveniently late for work I somehow found myself embroiled in an argument with a good friend of mine concerning "internships". It started because I was bemoaning the fact that I will (outwardly) happily work for free to gain valuable experience whilst the respective company gets to joyously milk my slave labour. This enraged my friend to the extent that he made the simile that "doing a stupid internship is just like the fucking Victorians sending children down coal mines. Except at least they got bloody paid tuppence for it!"

Amusing and inaccurate as this may be (I don't spend my days earning nothing but the experience of my lungs being steadily corroded by coal dust, thankfully) it lead onto a discussion (read foul-mouthed fight at 8 am in the morning) as to the ethics of the situation.

Whereas my friend demanded that I stand up, shout FUCK YOU to the man and quit in a blaze of glory, I, in my cowardly and pathetic way argued that sometimes you just have to suck it up. If I was actually James Bond, (rather than just pretending to be on the ski slopes - the closest I come), I would fight the very principle behind unpaid work. The ethics behind this new accepted system of unpaid internships is frankly awful. I worked at one place where my daily expenses were £7 a day. Don't get me wrong, £7 is far better than a slap in the face with a wet fish, but when broken down to the tragic statistic of "£1 an hour"... well it was harder to stay so cheery. And it can become incredibly demoralising, working is better than sitting at home watching Jeremy Kyle "confront gangs" (oh where would we be without him to protect our moral backbone) but really, we need Jeremy Kyle to "confront internships". Surely the ethics behind companies continually hiring interns - to do a full time job for a period of months, and without pay are practically non existant?

So yes, I should have agreed, whole heartedly with my friend this morning. He was saying what I have been thinking, but it boils down to the fact that, unethical, boring and depressing as they may be, I have accepted that unpaid internships are almost like some twisted rite of passage. Perhaps when I have finished my purgatory sentence down the coal mines I may progress. Fingers crossed, certainly.

calling all keen horticulturalists

A while ago I spent a weekend frolicking in a field with good chums at the Secret Garden Party. It was seriously good fun; plenty of random activities to partake, observe and avoid, conversations to be had and overheard and of course, excellent music. I do love a good festival and I think this one can proudly ascend to a firm spot in my top 5 of favourite festivals.

Fortunately there were no embarrassing demonstrations of my utter "squareness" like last year, when I mistakenly thought someone was offering to sell me some cake, and could barely contain my disappointment when it turned out to be "K", or my embarrassment when it had to be explained to by said appalled drug dealer that K stood for Ketamine. Just as well, I was about a second away from asking whether the offer was for a cereal bar of just a box of the stuff? Either way - I'm keen!

Thankfully nothing like that this year. So instead of cataloguing the entire weekend (because it would be quite boring for one, and importantly because I can't be bothered for two) I shall relate one of my favourite moments from the festival. This one especially is reflective not of the awesome music we saw but was simply, really bloody funny.

This number one spot has to be given to "LAURA". This Laura, is similar to other icons who are so great they only need one name. Think, Prince, Madonna...I can't think of any more so it's a relief that the "Laura" in question can be added to this catalogue of legends.

So we discovered this Laura one evening when we were chilling in our tent. The tent flap was open and a random girl popped her head in asking if we'd seen a wasted girl called Laura? Sadly not, was our response. Cue 15 solid minutes of what sounded like three different people shouting constantly around the campsite for this enigmatic Laura. There was no response to any of them.

We discovered why, a short while later. Laura, had clearly, as my mother would say "taken up with some young man" or in her (my mother's, not Laura's) latest bizarre expression "gone to sow her oats" I literally had NO IDEA what she was talking about the first time she started going on about oats and sowing. Most distressing, but I digress, that is for another blog. After a short rest from name calling a further furious attempt was started and this time after one particularly desperate sounding "Laura!" call, there was a reply! I shall set the scene properly:

"Laura! Laura!....LAURA!!!"

"....FUCK OFF!"

Kudos to both teams I say. For her friends for preserving so long in the manhunt and for Laura, for being so dedicated to the task (or job, ho ho) in hand. At least the entire festival had confirmation that she was alive. Collectively, a great sigh of relief was had.

This was then swiftly followed by a loud conversation about wild horses, perhaps conducted by the dedicated fans of Laura, I'm not sure. Either way, at one point our delighted ears were treated to a comprehensive impression of a wild horse, including foot stamping, neighing and a touch of horse-like snorting. Then followed the classic exchange:

"WHAT'S YOUR NAME"
demanded an authoritative gardener
"Paul"
Paul meekly replied.
"Paul? PAUL?!"
Replied the authoritative, and now rather indignant gardener
"er, yes" (poor Paul)
"You don't look like a Paul! You look like a RUPERT."

I wonder what constitutes looking like a Rupert. Or indeed, simply not looking like a Paul?! Poor bastard.