Friday, 15 March 2013
Back to back
Be careful what you wish for, I have been taught in the last few days. I wished for...falafel, instead I got a compressed nerve in my already very damaged back. BRILLO.
I was thinking about this yesterday as I hobbled to the bus stop at my average speed of 0.1 mph. When your average speed is VERY SLOW you have a lot of thinking time. It's also important to try and give distraction from the pain of not lying down and being immobile. So I was thinking about how I should write a blog post about my back.
It's unlikely that this post will be funny, feature quotes from my now legendary mother and her attempts to get me a lover, nor in all likelihood will it be very interesting. However, seeing as I know my long suffering and excellent friends are the main readers of this blog (although according to blogger stats I have quite a fan base in Russia), it's also partly a long and rambling thank you.
I'm fairly sure that everyone is aware of the problems I have with my back. Admittedly, there have been a few awkward moments when I've encountered one of the few people in the world that I haven't. I dropped a packet of pitta bread in Waitrose yesterday and was left expectantly staring at the man in front of me, excpecting him to automatically drop down and pick it up for me as obviously I can't bend. He didn't. I gave him a look, he quelled and picked it up for me. It was rather odd actually, I must get this look out more often, I have great power!
Anyway, I digress, stories of young men in Waitrose...my mother will be thrilled.
So yes, I've had real trouble with it for about 18 months now. I've had problems in the past with my back, but mainly that's been down to stress and has never lasted more than a few days. So when I started having problems a while back, I put it down to stress. I was organising a big event at work, was under pressure, and I cannot handle pressure, I flap and panic and when my back started hurting I didn't think much of it.
Unfortunately, it got worse and it never got better. I think the worst thing has been how long I had to wait for a diagnosis. I have seen GPs, consultants, physios, osteopaths, strange sports therapists you name it and it was only when I eventually got an MRI a few months ago that they told me I had a bulging disc. The consultant cheerily told me that "it's bad...but it could be a lot worse!" which was a huge relief of course. He did however shatter my dreams of just shoving the fucker back in by telling me that couldn't be done. Nor could poking it, prodding or encouraging it back. He full on shot me down.
I can't really describe what it's like to have back pain because how you describe what pain is like? With me, it's pain which changes and affects different parts everyday. At the moment I'm having real trouble because the disc has become inflamed and is therefore trapping the nerves. Because of this I have a sharp ache continuously in my lower back (where the disc is) and also going down into my leg and occasionally into my calf. So that's fun. This is a new problem though, usually I just have to live with a very stiff and sore back with occasional pain which feels as if someone has stuck a knife into me.
What I hate most is how much it has affected my life. I feel like I am a different person now I live with this affliction. I can no longer do whatever I like, whenever. I can't go to gigs because I can't stand for too long, I can't concentrate at work like I used to because the pain numbs my mind and is all I can think about, I can't walk for long period of time and I can't be happy and care free. If it stopped me from doing things like skydiving and off road mountain bike riding, I reckon I'd probably be ok...but this can stop me from being able to get out of bed in the morning and getting the tube to go to work.
I'm naturally of quite a cheery disposition and my incessant desire to make small talk keeps my mind distracted. Obviously I have dark moments when I feel down about the fact I'm 25 and I get overtaken by packs of pensioners in the street, but really thanks to the support of my friends, family and colleagues I manage to stay pretty cheery. All are phenomenally tolerant of my inability to sit still for 5 minutes, my consistently grumpy to the point of demolition moods in the morning and my repetitive and monotonous chat of "my back hurts".
So a huge, Horsley style sensationalist thank you to you all. I bloody love you. When I get this sorted, we can go for a long walk and have a pint.
Thanks for reading.
H
Sunday, 20 January 2013
Things I wish I'd been taught at school
Obviously I'm a little out of touch with the school system these days, having left nearly 7 years ago and I confess my memories of school are extremely hazy. Mainly it was just a question of battling through the angst, counting down the days until I would be able to not give a shit any more that Speed = Distance over Time and thinking of a decent excuse to get me out of having to do the Cross Country Run.
However, I do of course remember the most basic parts of my education and on the whole, I have no complaints. It's set me in the right direction of at least having the basic skills and knowledge required to be a functioning human being who can get through each day relatively unharmed.
There are, though, a number of things which I wish I'd been taught about. Important, life sort of things which I just have no idea about and yet somehow it seems I'm expected to be all knowledgeable on. There was no handy "Boring but important" practicalities class when I was in school and...actually I wish there had been.
I've been thinking about this for a while now and, intrepid blogger that I am, I've spoken to some (1) friends about it and we've agreed that there are some essentials out there which it would it would be good to have at least some basic form of understanding of.
I'll start off with an anecdote before I dive into a boring list. The first item on my list of "things I wish I'd been taught at school" is the mysterious thing...GDP.
What is this? Gigantic dead parrot? Gory Dorrito Packet? Generous Dotty Patron? Generally Dangerous Politician? I could go on.
Fortunately I didn't think it was any of these when I found myself talking about it in a noisy pub. In fact, I didn't think we were talking about GDP at all. I thought I was having a conversation about GBK. As in, Gourmet Burger King.
You can probably imagine my confusion when my companion started saying things like
"If it doesn't increase soon we could be looking at a decade of misery and doom."
A little extreme, I thought - I've never actually eaten there but I've heard pretty good things. Certainly no one has ever mentioned "Doom" in the context of a burger to me before, but you live and learn. Being brought up as I was by my parents never to admit defeat in conversation and to battle on at all costs I found myself looking at an expression which implied I was expected to respond to this statement. With which I told him that:
"Well I'm no expert, but I've always though they're pretty out there with "extras". I don't want an onion ring on my burger, I'm straight forward like that and I think they risk aliening a lot of customers by pressurising them into ordering things they don't want. It can be very stressful!"
To be honest, I think I would have said pretty much exactly the same thing if I had a) been aware that we were talking about GDP and b) known what the bloody hell GDP is. Except I maybe would have replaced "onion rings" with "inflation rates" in a pitiful attempt to sound more credible.
So, number 1: GDP
Others on the list include:
2) How does inflation work?
3) TAX.
4) MORE TAX I REALLY KNOW NOTHING ABOUT TAX RETURNS. My approach is incredibly similar to Bernard Black's approach. I too, would like a fashionable jacket made out of receipts.
5) Pension - How do I get one? Can I download one from the internet?
All this..is really rather taxing....
I'll get my coat.
However, I do of course remember the most basic parts of my education and on the whole, I have no complaints. It's set me in the right direction of at least having the basic skills and knowledge required to be a functioning human being who can get through each day relatively unharmed.
There are, though, a number of things which I wish I'd been taught about. Important, life sort of things which I just have no idea about and yet somehow it seems I'm expected to be all knowledgeable on. There was no handy "Boring but important" practicalities class when I was in school and...actually I wish there had been.
I've been thinking about this for a while now and, intrepid blogger that I am, I've spoken to some (1) friends about it and we've agreed that there are some essentials out there which it would it would be good to have at least some basic form of understanding of.
I'll start off with an anecdote before I dive into a boring list. The first item on my list of "things I wish I'd been taught at school" is the mysterious thing...GDP.
What is this? Gigantic dead parrot? Gory Dorrito Packet? Generous Dotty Patron? Generally Dangerous Politician? I could go on.
Fortunately I didn't think it was any of these when I found myself talking about it in a noisy pub. In fact, I didn't think we were talking about GDP at all. I thought I was having a conversation about GBK. As in, Gourmet Burger King.
You can probably imagine my confusion when my companion started saying things like
"If it doesn't increase soon we could be looking at a decade of misery and doom."
A little extreme, I thought - I've never actually eaten there but I've heard pretty good things. Certainly no one has ever mentioned "Doom" in the context of a burger to me before, but you live and learn. Being brought up as I was by my parents never to admit defeat in conversation and to battle on at all costs I found myself looking at an expression which implied I was expected to respond to this statement. With which I told him that:
"Well I'm no expert, but I've always though they're pretty out there with "extras". I don't want an onion ring on my burger, I'm straight forward like that and I think they risk aliening a lot of customers by pressurising them into ordering things they don't want. It can be very stressful!"
To be honest, I think I would have said pretty much exactly the same thing if I had a) been aware that we were talking about GDP and b) known what the bloody hell GDP is. Except I maybe would have replaced "onion rings" with "inflation rates" in a pitiful attempt to sound more credible.
So, number 1: GDP
Others on the list include:
2) How does inflation work?
3) TAX.
4) MORE TAX I REALLY KNOW NOTHING ABOUT TAX RETURNS. My approach is incredibly similar to Bernard Black's approach. I too, would like a fashionable jacket made out of receipts.
5) Pension - How do I get one? Can I download one from the internet?
All this..is really rather taxing....
I'll get my coat.
Tuesday, 18 December 2012
megacringe@stupidemailaddress.com
I'm pretty out there with my e-mail
address. I hand it out everywhere. Genuinely, it's really the best way to get
hold of me. I'm intensely forgettable when it comes to texting and with
facebook I just get distracted by the option of poking someone. LOL.
E-mail, you know what you're doing, it's down the line, no problem.
I think the main reason I'm so happy to hand out my e-mail is because it's literally my initals and my surname. No slashes, no semi colons, no 87's none of that malarky. But it wasn't always like this. Sadly not.
Before I begin my story, I would just like to extend a huge thank you to the other contributors to this post. I put out a request on faceache for first e-mail addresses under the condition that all names would be kept anonymous and I'll only ever mock them over the internet. What a response! People I haven't spoken to in years, frankly who I thought had culled me long ago for my inane blog posts sent me messages detailing their humiliation. If I was accepting an Oscar for this, let's face it I'd say your names and publicly humiliate you so thank god I'm not, but in all seriousness, thanks. And thanks especially for being equally moronic teenagers as I clearly was.
So I'm going to put it out there first and tell you all about me. If anyone has read my blog before or indeed, met me, you'll know (hopefully) that I am literally the least "groovy" person possibly ever. I wear dinosaur t-shirts, I make compulsively shit puns and frankly have a borderline unhealthy obsession with Fleetwood Mac. I also detest the word 'babe'. I've been known to physically recoil when it has been said in my general direction.
There is therefore, genuinely no possible explanation as to why my first e-mail address was:groovebabe123@hotmail.com
Yep. True story. What amuses me especially about this is the lack of "y". I was no Groovy Babe. No. I was a Groove babe. A babe that grooves. Whatever the fuck that be. I actually quite vividly recall creating this e-mail account up. I had wanted, obviously, groovybabe123, that was the dream, but alas, some other half witted moron had already claimed it. So, I settled naturally. I also remember having the slightest suspicion, a vague lurking sense, that this was possibly a stupid e-mail address and that I might regret it. But being caught up in the excitement of having my first ever e-mail address, and of being a "groove babe" no doubt, I put it to the back of my mind.
I lasted about a day before my feeling of deep and intense regret was cemented for good and this memory was tattooed onto the "you twat" part of my brain, and for that, I have to thank my Dad. Somehow, he managed to get wind of my new, glorious e-mail. I will never, ever, forget that moment when my mum handed the phone over to him to speak and he, with the enthusiasm which only a truly loving parent can ever muster, greeted me loudly with
"IS THAT GROOVE BABE ONE TWO THREE???"
That was the moment. Right then, when I thought to myself: Error.
I deactivated my account about two days later.
12 years later, and I can finally share my humiliation. And frankly, what THRILLS me is to find out that I am not alone! These are some of the other gems which similarly confused and misguided 12 and 13 year olds were also using. 2001 was a golden age for this. So here goes...
madmadmonkey@hotmail.com - pretty standard.
quoth_the_raven@hotmail.com - PFFFFFFFFFFFT
monkey_in_a_neglige@hotmail.co.uk - Worrying. Frankly.
optimismisforthethick@hotmail.com - Teenage angst in an e-mail address. Impressive
.
shaggershane69 - apparently Shagger Shane got into Nottingham university, something to put on your UCAS form certainly - my teachers always told me it was important to stand out on your UCAS form. Evidently we could all have learnt something from Shagger Shane and his impressive use of an alliteration.
squashedhedgehog@yahoo.com - Not roadkill87?
djduckling@hotmail.com - Ministry of sound watch out. Genuinely, do.
Baywatchbabe87@hotmail.com - Somewhere out there has to be a Hoff version of this.
way2cool@hotmail.com - Speaks for itself doesn't it?
I would like to end on my two personal favourites out of what is frankly, a pretty impressive collection. The first, I can offer no comment apart from SURELY YOU WOULD JUST PRESUME THIS IS A SPAM. Really, if I was to get an e-mail from pinksausagecloud@hotmail.com, I'd probably shut down my computer and put it under the bed out of fear for the sort of virus an address like that looks like it comes with.
E-mail, you know what you're doing, it's down the line, no problem.
I think the main reason I'm so happy to hand out my e-mail is because it's literally my initals and my surname. No slashes, no semi colons, no 87's none of that malarky. But it wasn't always like this. Sadly not.
Before I begin my story, I would just like to extend a huge thank you to the other contributors to this post. I put out a request on faceache for first e-mail addresses under the condition that all names would be kept anonymous and I'll only ever mock them over the internet. What a response! People I haven't spoken to in years, frankly who I thought had culled me long ago for my inane blog posts sent me messages detailing their humiliation. If I was accepting an Oscar for this, let's face it I'd say your names and publicly humiliate you so thank god I'm not, but in all seriousness, thanks. And thanks especially for being equally moronic teenagers as I clearly was.
So I'm going to put it out there first and tell you all about me. If anyone has read my blog before or indeed, met me, you'll know (hopefully) that I am literally the least "groovy" person possibly ever. I wear dinosaur t-shirts, I make compulsively shit puns and frankly have a borderline unhealthy obsession with Fleetwood Mac. I also detest the word 'babe'. I've been known to physically recoil when it has been said in my general direction.
There is therefore, genuinely no possible explanation as to why my first e-mail address was:groovebabe123@hotmail.com
Yep. True story. What amuses me especially about this is the lack of "y". I was no Groovy Babe. No. I was a Groove babe. A babe that grooves. Whatever the fuck that be. I actually quite vividly recall creating this e-mail account up. I had wanted, obviously, groovybabe123, that was the dream, but alas, some other half witted moron had already claimed it. So, I settled naturally. I also remember having the slightest suspicion, a vague lurking sense, that this was possibly a stupid e-mail address and that I might regret it. But being caught up in the excitement of having my first ever e-mail address, and of being a "groove babe" no doubt, I put it to the back of my mind.
I lasted about a day before my feeling of deep and intense regret was cemented for good and this memory was tattooed onto the "you twat" part of my brain, and for that, I have to thank my Dad. Somehow, he managed to get wind of my new, glorious e-mail. I will never, ever, forget that moment when my mum handed the phone over to him to speak and he, with the enthusiasm which only a truly loving parent can ever muster, greeted me loudly with
"IS THAT GROOVE BABE ONE TWO THREE???"
That was the moment. Right then, when I thought to myself: Error.
I deactivated my account about two days later.
12 years later, and I can finally share my humiliation. And frankly, what THRILLS me is to find out that I am not alone! These are some of the other gems which similarly confused and misguided 12 and 13 year olds were also using. 2001 was a golden age for this. So here goes...
madmadmonkey@hotmail.com - pretty standard.
quoth_the_raven@hotmail.com - PFFFFFFFFFFFT
monkey_in_a_neglige@hotmail.co.uk - Worrying. Frankly.
optimismisforthethick@hotmail.com - Teenage angst in an e-mail address. Impressive
.
shaggershane69 - apparently Shagger Shane got into Nottingham university, something to put on your UCAS form certainly - my teachers always told me it was important to stand out on your UCAS form. Evidently we could all have learnt something from Shagger Shane and his impressive use of an alliteration.
squashedhedgehog@yahoo.com - Not roadkill87?
djduckling@hotmail.com - Ministry of sound watch out. Genuinely, do.
Baywatchbabe87@hotmail.com - Somewhere out there has to be a Hoff version of this.
way2cool@hotmail.com - Speaks for itself doesn't it?
I would like to end on my two personal favourites out of what is frankly, a pretty impressive collection. The first, I can offer no comment apart from SURELY YOU WOULD JUST PRESUME THIS IS A SPAM. Really, if I was to get an e-mail from pinksausagecloud@hotmail.com, I'd probably shut down my computer and put it under the bed out of fear for the sort of virus an address like that looks like it comes with.
And finally, I would
actually like to dedicate this blog, to a long suffering friend who has put up
with my almost continuous hysterical laughter ever since in a moment of sheer
confidentiality they confessed their address. I didn't keep my promise to only
mock over the internet, I just couldn't hold it in.
sexyvegetable123@hotmail.com...this is for you.
Signing off,
groovebabe123@hotmail.com
Monday, 29 October 2012
#parentwordsforsex
I love the sorts of conversations you're having in public, and you know that other people are listening and are clearly laughing along.
I had one of these sorts of conversations last Saturday night in a lift. Don't ask me why but for some reason I found myself turning to my friend and asking her about her parents words for sex. I have no idea where the conversation sprang from, but it happened, and frankly, it was hilarious. It has also grown into something so much bigger it's caused me to write this post.
So, parents words for sex. Or, as I've desperately been trying to get trending on twitter #parentswordsforsex
It's my theory that all parents have them, use them and are advocates of them. My parents may be more repressed than the average bunch and it's possible I've a distorted warped view of the world having been packed off to boarding school as a child with my only nourishment being laughing cow sandwiches. However, I'm confident that there are other parents out there, and indeed, other children who were brought up on papayas and herrings who also endured the murky period of time of strange code, euphemism and frankly downright confusion some of the time.
So far we have:
Bonking - a classic, I'm fairly sure this is standard practice used up and down the country. Expectant mothers are probably taught it in ante natal classes. You know when you're trying to think about all that breathing you were taught and "how to find your happy place" I bet all that bullshit leaves you in the heat of the moment and you find yourself thinking of words you can use as euphemisms for sex to your child so they'll be so put off it they will never ever go through what you are doing.
Rumpy Pumpy. Disturbing, frankly, the kind of word a pervvy uncle uses after one too many sloe gins and after everyone has finished having a good laugh at the Dorset Knobs your mother has just produced to go with the cheese. Also, correct pronunciation needs lots of 'R's. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrumpy pumpy. Shudder.
HOW'S YOUR FATHER. My personal favourite. Feels like the kind of word I might use if I was discussing sex in Waitrose. Which I do, frequently, y'know, FOR KICKS. In all seriousness though, comedy gold. I'm going to reintroduce this. Admittedly I have literally nothing in common with "the kids" but if I was a member of their team or gang, I'd be all over saying how's your father.
After this, it basically descended into: how many different words for having sex can you name. The list was fairly extensive and used all the obvious ones like shagging etc. However, as it went on and on and the more obscure words used started to appear we did somehow manage to stumble upon one which, is actually a very strong contender for how's your father as the all time greatest euphemism for having sex, ever.
Peter up the Pantry.
Special thanks to Green Wing for that gem, and of course, a huge shout out to Dr Alan Statham. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BwryAppHAHg
(disclaimer: I couldn't actually find the clip of him saying "Peter up the pantry" I just think this is hilarious.
So, parents words for sex. Or, as I've desperately been trying to get trending on twitter #parentswordsforsex
It's my theory that all parents have them, use them and are advocates of them. My parents may be more repressed than the average bunch and it's possible I've a distorted warped view of the world having been packed off to boarding school as a child with my only nourishment being laughing cow sandwiches. However, I'm confident that there are other parents out there, and indeed, other children who were brought up on papayas and herrings who also endured the murky period of time of strange code, euphemism and frankly downright confusion some of the time.
So far we have:
Bonking - a classic, I'm fairly sure this is standard practice used up and down the country. Expectant mothers are probably taught it in ante natal classes. You know when you're trying to think about all that breathing you were taught and "how to find your happy place" I bet all that bullshit leaves you in the heat of the moment and you find yourself thinking of words you can use as euphemisms for sex to your child so they'll be so put off it they will never ever go through what you are doing.
Rumpy Pumpy. Disturbing, frankly, the kind of word a pervvy uncle uses after one too many sloe gins and after everyone has finished having a good laugh at the Dorset Knobs your mother has just produced to go with the cheese. Also, correct pronunciation needs lots of 'R's. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrumpy pumpy. Shudder.
HOW'S YOUR FATHER. My personal favourite. Feels like the kind of word I might use if I was discussing sex in Waitrose. Which I do, frequently, y'know, FOR KICKS. In all seriousness though, comedy gold. I'm going to reintroduce this. Admittedly I have literally nothing in common with "the kids" but if I was a member of their team or gang, I'd be all over saying how's your father.
After this, it basically descended into: how many different words for having sex can you name. The list was fairly extensive and used all the obvious ones like shagging etc. However, as it went on and on and the more obscure words used started to appear we did somehow manage to stumble upon one which, is actually a very strong contender for how's your father as the all time greatest euphemism for having sex, ever.
Peter up the Pantry.
Special thanks to Green Wing for that gem, and of course, a huge shout out to Dr Alan Statham. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BwryAppHAHg
(disclaimer: I couldn't actually find the clip of him saying "Peter up the pantry" I just think this is hilarious.
Sunday, 7 October 2012
Leveson: the secret story
A little behind the times with this post, the media has now moved on from the Leveson enquiry and is consumed with mocking Nick Clegg, weeping about Jeremy Hunt and, if you're the Daily Mail, exposing the dangers of fake tan.
I've been meaning to write a blog about this for a while. I will leave my actual opinions and comment for badly articulated ranting sessions in the pub though and take this opportunity to expose a little known fact about the news of the world which, shockingly has been utterly and ruthlessly ignored by the press. Not just by the press in fact, but also by the internet at large. The internet, of which 99% is dedicated to fucking CATS, because evidently there really is nothing better to talk about.
So brace yourselves, this is big.
My dad was hacked by the News of the World.
I know. It's huge.
Actually, it's not, as I'm not even entirely sure they actually fully hacked in, but there was a definite attempt. Also it makes a more interesting story.
Just to give you some background info on my Dad in case anyone starts presuming he's some secret agent or a cousin of the queen who no one talks about. He's really not. He's an accountant, who lives in South Northamptonshire who likes reading. I'm obviously incredibly biased towards him given I'm his daughter and all, but he really is brill. However, regardless of how wonderful I think he is and and all, I really can't imagine why he would ever EVER be hacked into. So this got me thinking about the possible range of voicemails which they might have had the pleasure and thrill of listening to, and the related headlining stories that would also be broken.
Just to give you a bit of background, my Dad is the type of phone user who only turns it on when he needs to make a call, so voicemails rarely get listened to or noticed. The News of the World probably trawled through a fair few before realising there was literally nothing interesting to glean. Although the reality is, there are probably only two types of voicemail which my dear Dad is ever actually left.
The first: instructions from the mothership. The mothership is a commander, a leader, and having been married for 25+ years, she is aware of just how useless my Dad is at shopping. I have lost count of the number of times he has been dispatched to the supermarket with a shopping list of eggs, milk, coriander, fabric softener and orange juice, only to turn up with eggs, the wrong type of milk, chives, bleach and tropical juice (logic: there was no orange juice but at least this has orange in it).
It is very necessary therefore to leave strict instructions re: what to do in case the strictly listed items aren't there. In a voicemail. Which, chances are, won't get heard. ONE MUST TRY THOUGH.
Imagine:
BREAKING NEWS: Man buys SKIMMED MILK from Waitrose.
I'd buy that.
The other which I suspect they may have had to sit through can be traced back to my brother and I. This headline though would probably have struck a cord with a huge amount of the population. I'm not going to give this any background or explanation, in fact, they probably would have struggled to get a story out of it because really, what else is there to say apart from:
OFFSPRING RINGS PARENT, ASKS FOR MONEY.
Bloody typical.
I've been meaning to write a blog about this for a while. I will leave my actual opinions and comment for badly articulated ranting sessions in the pub though and take this opportunity to expose a little known fact about the news of the world which, shockingly has been utterly and ruthlessly ignored by the press. Not just by the press in fact, but also by the internet at large. The internet, of which 99% is dedicated to fucking CATS, because evidently there really is nothing better to talk about.
So brace yourselves, this is big.
My dad was hacked by the News of the World.
I know. It's huge.
Actually, it's not, as I'm not even entirely sure they actually fully hacked in, but there was a definite attempt. Also it makes a more interesting story.
Just to give you some background info on my Dad in case anyone starts presuming he's some secret agent or a cousin of the queen who no one talks about. He's really not. He's an accountant, who lives in South Northamptonshire who likes reading. I'm obviously incredibly biased towards him given I'm his daughter and all, but he really is brill. However, regardless of how wonderful I think he is and and all, I really can't imagine why he would ever EVER be hacked into. So this got me thinking about the possible range of voicemails which they might have had the pleasure and thrill of listening to, and the related headlining stories that would also be broken.
Just to give you a bit of background, my Dad is the type of phone user who only turns it on when he needs to make a call, so voicemails rarely get listened to or noticed. The News of the World probably trawled through a fair few before realising there was literally nothing interesting to glean. Although the reality is, there are probably only two types of voicemail which my dear Dad is ever actually left.
The first: instructions from the mothership. The mothership is a commander, a leader, and having been married for 25+ years, she is aware of just how useless my Dad is at shopping. I have lost count of the number of times he has been dispatched to the supermarket with a shopping list of eggs, milk, coriander, fabric softener and orange juice, only to turn up with eggs, the wrong type of milk, chives, bleach and tropical juice (logic: there was no orange juice but at least this has orange in it).
It is very necessary therefore to leave strict instructions re: what to do in case the strictly listed items aren't there. In a voicemail. Which, chances are, won't get heard. ONE MUST TRY THOUGH.
Imagine:
BREAKING NEWS: Man buys SKIMMED MILK from Waitrose.
I'd buy that.
The other which I suspect they may have had to sit through can be traced back to my brother and I. This headline though would probably have struck a cord with a huge amount of the population. I'm not going to give this any background or explanation, in fact, they probably would have struggled to get a story out of it because really, what else is there to say apart from:
OFFSPRING RINGS PARENT, ASKS FOR MONEY.
Bloody typical.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
Do you know what I love?
Well if you've come within 15 feet of me you'll probably be aware that I love Fleetwood Mac, dinosaurs and Roman Emperors. Pretty much in that order.
If you'd come a bit closer, say 2 or 3 feet...you may have heard my other great love blasting out from my headphones. That would be: power ballads.
I freaking love power ballads. I'm talking about true power ballads which make you want to do things like lunge, spontaneously; look meaningfully and distantly into the air; power grab like your life depends on it and of course, the hair toss.
One of the main reasons I love power ballads is just purely for the lack of a requirement of dignity of any kind. I'm not a dignified person. I'm not even going to give examples of this, please just accept it as fact. Which is why power ballads are the perfect thing for someone like me. No one looks dignified whilst singing along passionately to power ballads. Need an example? MEATLOAF.
Power ballads are what I use to drag myself through each day. How would I ever get out of bed if I didn't have a rousing version of Tina Tuner telling me I'm simply the best circulating round and round my head? How would I ever go into work and sit mindlessly typing about things without the occasional blast of Bonnie Tyler. I just wouldn't, it's as simple as that. Power ballads are like my caffeine, my lucozade. MY CRACK. Ok, slight exaggeration maybe.
The other thing I love about PB (yes) is the unity they inspire in others. I'm fairly convinced that it's literally impossible not to love power ballads. If I wasn't so chronically lazy, I'd probably tempted to do some actual bone fide research into that, or like, write a paper or whatever. But realistically, that's never going to happen. What I will tell you is that there are certain situations through which basic human nature sometimes just shine through. Take the London Underground. Regardless of how many hours you are trapped underground, and regardless of how long it's been since you tasted air which wasn't tinged by BO from the businessmans armpit in you face...you will never say a word. And nor will anyone else. Basic human nature kicking in there, it's just instinct. Like breathing in and out.
The same happens when you're in a club and a power ballad comes on. Everyone with a voice will stop whatever they're doing, turn, raise their hands into the air and scream "choooon!!", this will then be followed by huge scenes of celebration as everyone hugs at the prospect of the approaching noise and...well we all know what happens next. Blissful happiness. Euphoria.
One final point. You can have a conversation through power ballads. I once had a genuine e-mail conversation with a friend of mine about a night out we were planning.
X: it's going to be... http://www.youtube.com/
Y: I'm going to have thehttp://www.youtube.com/
X: After all http://www.youtube.com/
Y: And ://www.youtube.com/
X: we're into the http://www.youtube.com/
Y: http://www.youtube.com/
X: just http://www.youtube.com/
Y: I have http://www.youtube.com/
X: Power ballads sure are http://www.youtube.com/
Total eclipse of the heart anyone?
Well if you've come within 15 feet of me you'll probably be aware that I love Fleetwood Mac, dinosaurs and Roman Emperors. Pretty much in that order.
If you'd come a bit closer, say 2 or 3 feet...you may have heard my other great love blasting out from my headphones. That would be: power ballads.
I freaking love power ballads. I'm talking about true power ballads which make you want to do things like lunge, spontaneously; look meaningfully and distantly into the air; power grab like your life depends on it and of course, the hair toss.
One of the main reasons I love power ballads is just purely for the lack of a requirement of dignity of any kind. I'm not a dignified person. I'm not even going to give examples of this, please just accept it as fact. Which is why power ballads are the perfect thing for someone like me. No one looks dignified whilst singing along passionately to power ballads. Need an example? MEATLOAF.
Power ballads are what I use to drag myself through each day. How would I ever get out of bed if I didn't have a rousing version of Tina Tuner telling me I'm simply the best circulating round and round my head? How would I ever go into work and sit mindlessly typing about things without the occasional blast of Bonnie Tyler. I just wouldn't, it's as simple as that. Power ballads are like my caffeine, my lucozade. MY CRACK. Ok, slight exaggeration maybe.
The other thing I love about PB (yes) is the unity they inspire in others. I'm fairly convinced that it's literally impossible not to love power ballads. If I wasn't so chronically lazy, I'd probably tempted to do some actual bone fide research into that, or like, write a paper or whatever. But realistically, that's never going to happen. What I will tell you is that there are certain situations through which basic human nature sometimes just shine through. Take the London Underground. Regardless of how many hours you are trapped underground, and regardless of how long it's been since you tasted air which wasn't tinged by BO from the businessmans armpit in you face...you will never say a word. And nor will anyone else. Basic human nature kicking in there, it's just instinct. Like breathing in and out.
The same happens when you're in a club and a power ballad comes on. Everyone with a voice will stop whatever they're doing, turn, raise their hands into the air and scream "choooon!!", this will then be followed by huge scenes of celebration as everyone hugs at the prospect of the approaching noise and...well we all know what happens next. Blissful happiness. Euphoria.
One final point. You can have a conversation through power ballads. I once had a genuine e-mail conversation with a friend of mine about a night out we were planning.
X: it's going to be... http://www.youtube.com/
Y: I'm going to have thehttp://www.youtube.com/
X: After all http://www.youtube.com/
Y: And ://www.youtube.com/
X: we're into the http://www.youtube.com/
Y: http://www.youtube.com/
X: just http://www.youtube.com/
Y: I have http://www.youtube.com/
X: Power ballads sure are http://www.youtube.com/
Total eclipse of the heart anyone?
Saturday, 11 August 2012
50 Shades of Grey: The review
So like the rest of the oestrogen populated population I decided to buy into the whole 50 shades of grey phenomenon to see what the fuss was about. I'd heard a variety of different things such as:
Twilight with sex
So much shagging it has caused a baby boom
It is igniting the spark in marriages up and down the country
Self published
Kinky.
What's not to like? I mean, I hate Twilight with a heat hotter than the very pit of hell itself. I've actually banned from watching it in company because I just can't contain my sarcasm/burning hatred and as funny as my comments may be (I think) apparently they can ruin the "experience" for others. I did try and read the books, I once found myself stranded with nothing to read except the blasted thing and despite most of my time being taken up marvelling in the fact that the situation I was in WAS my very own personal hell, I did eventually give it a bash. I'd say I made it about 5 pages in before I found my eyes being drawn to the drying paint on the wall next to me and that was it. It was so much more gripping I just couldn't bring myself to force myself to carry on reading about the trials and tribulations of the most boring character ever created.
You see, Anastasia Steele (fucking idiot extraordinaire) and protagonist of 50 shades of grey isn't boring. Well, actually she is, she is very boring, but what overshadows this characteristic is how overwhelming, blood boiling annoying she is.
Imagine the other most annoying person in the world: The Go Compare Tenor dude (big shout out to Sue Barker for taking him out, ledge). I would happily spend the rest of my life with him, marry him, have little singing children and spend Sundays harassing people who are washing their cars with him, husband and life partner rather than even share a fucking tube carriage with Anastasia Steele.
As far as I was concerned, one of the main selling points of 50 Shades is the sex which from what I'd heard was literally all there was, with the plot essentially being "how much sex can two people have in 400 pages". Imagine my disappointment then when I had to trawl through half of the first book before anything happened. One friend of hers called "Jose" does lunge at her (kudos Jose, who doesn't love a lunge) and she rebuffs him as if he'd just come at her with a syringe of heroin. Poor Jose. That's pretty much the most exciting thing which happens for approx THREE HUNDRED PAGES. The rest of this is filled with different adjectives for "hot". Christian Grey is apparently "frighteningly good looking" you see, so this needs a lot of emphasis. Clearly written on the presumption that the reader is as stupid as the protagonist everything is written convincingly in the style of a moron. Here is an example:
"I decided to get into my car and go for a drive. A car is a mechanical vehicle which can take you to where you need to go faster than walking or a segway. I only ever drive mine at the recommended speed limit of 40mph though. I care about the dolphins and don't want to pollute their water."
This is admittedly, a mild diversion from the text BUT THERE ARE TIME THAT IT FEELS JUST LIKE THAT. i.e torturous.
Anyway, eventually she meets Christian Grey, who is all tortured and spends vast sections of dialogue stopping mid sentence to gaze off into space and look all intense and thoughtful. It becomes very evident that he is clearly just killing time before he can pounce and shag her again and that "gazing into the distance" is actually just a move so that he can ensure enough time has passed and it is socially acceptable for him to try and jump her.
The very worst experience I've had relating to 50 shades was not actually related to the reading. Rather (shamefully)... it was related to the listening. Yes, I've listened to the audiobook of 50 shades of grey. I hasten to add that I wasn't the one which bought it. One of my good friends (mentioning no names but she's quite the big name...) did, on her father's credit card no less. That's going to be an entertaining morning when her Dad receives that statement. £17.99 spent on Fifty Shades of Grey, the audiobook. ALL SEVENTEEN HOURS OF IT.
Seventeen hours. We had a total of approximately 16 hours of driving in total and I'd say we powered through about 6 hours of it before I literally had to stop the car and say "Turnitoffturnitoffturnitoff -breath- ImgoingtohurtsomeoneifIhavetolistentoanymoreofthis".
Don't get me wrong, it was entertaining at least - mainly I'd say because we were mocking ruthlessly throughout but the woman reading it did not have a voice which inspired you to keep reading. If anything, the fact that we powered through so much of this monotonous droning detritus is actually a credit to us. Well done team! What actually finished me off in the end was the e-mails. Anastasia and Mr Grey e-mail. Which in itself is impressive given that she is so dense I honestly wonder how she can string two words together let alone spell and compose sentences. Anyway, intelligent enough both of them may be to able to write e-mails and the such like, but neither of them have been able to master basic e-mailing.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but my e-mails tend to be something similar to the following:
From: Anna Horsley
To: Friend A
Subject: Friday night
Hello Friend A,
Free for drinks on Friday night?
H
From: Friend A
To: Anna Horsley
Subject: RE: Friday night
Yes I am.
From: Anna Horsley
To: Friend A
Subject: Re: Re: Friday night
Great!
H
Admittedly it's pretty boring. Yes, I know, Jesus not all of us are "trendy and hip". But it's better than this:
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Safe arrival?
To: Christian grey
Dear Sir,
Please let me know that you have arrived blah blah blah
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Sorry
To: Anastasia Steele
(paraphrasing) Yes I have arrived sorry for not letting you know. I am a bad, bad man. yak yak yak etc
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: The Situation
To: Christian grey
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Pleading the Fifth
To: Anastasia Steele
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Pleading insanity
To: Christian grey
I could write an entire BOOK about how stupid an annoying it is to change the fucking subject of each e-mail. What is the point? Surely they'll figure out the bloody subject by reading the e-mail?! What is wrong with hitting reply like everyone else using e-mail on the planet? I nearly drove off the road at various points I was so cross at this.
I have somehow ended up with the other 2 books of this bloody trilogy. I just don't think I will ever muster the energy to read it, I genuinely feel like every page kills more of my already preciously limited brain cells. If I run out of paint to watch dry though - rest assured... you'll hear my thoughts about it.
Signing off,
H
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