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.

Code name: operation book group

So recently I was casually assessing the many factors which constitute my non-stop excitement life currently in South Northamptonshire. What did I conclude? My life is missing a book group.

Having tentatively done some market research into "book groups" both as a concept and a practicality I concluded that, perhaps unsurprisingly, they're not the coolest things ever. Especially as most people know I have a penchant for Hardy and Tolstoy with the odd dash of Jilly - an eclectic mix yes, but the right mix for a book group? Probably not. Somehow I can't picture 4 people sitting around discussing "the way Jilly used duck egg blue as her main adjective" and concluding that this "was just, lyrical somehow". Much more likely to be along the lines of "hell of a lot of shagging in these books isn't there? She's a randy old mare Jilly Cooper" and then the conversation would inevitably descend from there.

Not on my watch. I am holding out some determination for this to be an intellectually stimulating affair.

(I am aware by the way, that I will probably look back on this blog (as it's one dedicated reader) in a few weeks time and laugh hysterically at my naiive hopes for it to be "intellectually stimulating" and confirm to myself that I am at times, a complete tosser.)

Anyway, so I figured once I had lured people into the wilderness (aka where I live) they would have little choice but to say yes they would join my book group. Mainly to shut me up, probably, but they would join all the same! The location was decided, the bait, white wine and lasagne. A classic. I recommend it. So my three unsuspecting friends trundled over expecting a light evening of lasagne, white wine and general chat. I did not disappoint. All of the above were provided, but they came with a side serving of... a book group. Not what you might usually expect from a Wednesday night but fuck it. This is the post-big brother era we are living in now, we should be prepared for anything after the detritus which usually fills our televison of a weekday evening (Classics related documentaries are of course not included in this).


Fortuntately, I have some lovely friends, who are willing (or at least appeared willing, which I'm happy with) to indulge me in my ambition for a book group. Despite the rather rocky start - evidently just having a title and an author is not enough information in which to choose a book from (tough crowd) we did eventually settle upon one. Thanks to the on-hand google and some rather frantic searching eventually the democratic vote was taken and "The Wish Maker" by Ali Sethi was chosen. WHAT AN HONOUR. If only the author knew, how would he handle the news - probably by making a Gwyneth Paltrow style acceptance speech I'd hope.

So Operation Book Group somehow turned out to be a success. Careful monitoring of its members has shown that 4/5 have purchased the book so it's off to a pretty good start. I'm fully expecting the discussion part to be a complex and engaging affair demonstrating the power of freedom of speech and the opportunity to explore issues we have not encountered before... followed by shitloads of booze.

Amen to that.

Sha la la la

So I'm pretty into my music, me. I do love it. A few months back I was abroad and had many long car journeys to make and music was a big comfort. My mp3 player inexplicably stopped working one night and I was genuinely, actually, really distressed. I distinctly remember texting a good friend of mine complaining about it and then, when realising the extent of my distress asking the same friend if it was possible to be addicted to music, and if so, was I? Unfortunately due to circumstances which I was unaware of my excellent friend had gone on a drunken rampage and had managed to lose her phone. I can't remember the exact details, probably the excitement of finding a stick or something. Phone... Stick... Phone.... Stick... Stick... Yeah! Stick! These things happen, I can picture the thought process.

Anyway so when I received no reply to my pathetically panicky text messages my neurotic state of mind naturally caused me to convince myself that I am, totally and utterly addicted to music. Now I have calmed down (mp3 is working again) and I am in a (slightly) more rational state of mind I do stand by this conviction. However, subsequent circumstances have caused me to wonder if perhaps I am just primitive to the extent of just liking "noise" per se. There was a period of time when my car radio was not working and so rather than drive to work each day in total silence I poached my parents SatNav so I could be given unnecessary directions. Who am I kidding? Really I just used it as a talking point, never has "at the next left, bear right" lead to such a stimulating one-sided discussion of South Northamptonshire roads. It was pretty wild.

But this is a digression. Music is bloody ace, and I continue to indulge my addiction regularly. Currently a massive fan of Spotify - wonderful invention that it is. Despite it forcing me into adding the guy who sounds like a darlek onto my list of people to punch in the face I still persist. The shared playlist is wonderful, although to be used with caution. I added the song "Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits to a shared playlist and was mightily confused when it seemed to have disappeared the next time I checked the list. This led to a flurry of confusion on my part, had I deleted it? Had I even ADDED IT IN THE FIRST PLACE? Had Spotify deleted it? It was relatively traumatic. The explanation came when I was voicing these theories about where it had mysteriously gone to the other party of the shared playlist who eventually quietly confessed that... she had actually deleted it. It was firmly established that it was gone not from a point of abhorrance but because it was one of her favourite songs ever and for reasons of preservation, deletion was essential. I was happy with that, it put my mind at rest and smoothly avoided the awkwardness of a situation of deleting a track which you think is shite, but your friend thinks is the best thing since eggy bread. Ah, the complications.

Maybe this is what I actually love more, the drama and the complications behind music. Something stops working, something disappears, you hear 2 lyrics of a song can't remember the rest and spend the remainder of your day with it gnawing away at the back of your brain like a piece of apple stuck between two teeth.

Well, fucking brilliant I say, long live my addiction to music and everything it entails. Sha la la la.

Righto...

I seem to attract awkward situations. To be fair, it probably doesn't help that whenever an awkward situation does arise instead of powering through and manfully ignoring it like any normal repressed British citizen, I usually finding myself drawing attention to the situation by announcing something heinous like "AWKWARD.COM". How moronic. I literally can't help myself though, to revel in awkward situations is part of my nature. It's one of my many theories that everyone has it, just some people choose to tap into it and others - wisely - ignore it.

I witnessed and indeed participated in a classic awkward.com moment very recently. I was at a parental unit's birthday party, so naturally the only representatives of "the young" as we are so condescendingly known as were just my brother and myself, outnumbered and surrounded by wise elders. This of course lead to thousands of "what are you up to now?" questions, which needless to say, I loathe. It's all very well when you are working at some amazing job and can happily prattle on about how wonderful your life is, but when you are unemployed and living with your parents and the days are frequently spent merely killing time between getting up in the morning and going to bed at night... it's not so easy. I am, however, no stranger to these social land mines and I think, defended myself pretty well with lots of sweeping statements, swift conversation changers and, obviously, copious amounts of wine.

Having determinedly battered the conversation away from myself and my lack of prospects I was enjoying an extremely neutral and pleasant conversation with one of my parents oldest male friends about, that well-tapped common ground "travel". To be more precise, "places in the world I would simply luuurvve to visit". Sweet, I thought to myself, all this requires is a few choice nods and plenty of hyperbolic "oh I've heard that it's GORGEOUS there", so basically no brain power required and I can concentrate on getting merrily pissed and thinking about the usual mundane things which fill my brain. Perfect.

Or not, as the case may be.

Things were going fine, the waitress had just topped up both of our respective glasses with wine and we were discussing the many appeals of South America. As it would turn out, some things closer to home also held an equal amount of appeal. This I discovered when, said ancient and familiar family friend stopped abruptly mid discussion to inform me that:

"doesn't that waitress have the kind of look about her which makes you want to take her outside into a dark alley and give a good seeing to! Guffaw! Guffaw!"

...Righto. I did, tactfully inform him that it was me he was talking to, not an Italian builder, and then I helplessly stared at my fork, as if it could somehow help me.

awkward.com