Tube life

A very good friend of mine is totally unabashed regarding whatever she's reading at the moment and where she's reading it. Such as the tube for example. She has even been known to read what has been described (in her own words) as "vampire porn". From what I've gathered about this so called, "vampire porn", you don't have to be glancing over her shoulder to gather that it's of an erotic nature...apparently the cover makes that pretty clear from the off.

I have a deep respect for this type of brazen tube reading. I've recently been reading 'The Story of O', which I've heard mutterings about for years and yet had no real idea of what it was about (I'd guessed, sex, from the ways people would get a look and would then shuffle slightly at the mention). I hadn't anticipated quite how kinky it would be though. It was however, written and published in the 1950s, so has that slightly dated feel to it and although the content is, filthy, it is also slightly clouded in woolly language. I was battling through it the other day and using my Sherlock-like mind had deduced that O was up to something...but it took me until about a 25 lines later to realise what exactly she was doing. There's no such thing as "cutting to the chase" in this story.

Anyway so I was blushing my way through this on the tube which is where I predominantly do all my reading, and was suddenly gripped by one of those painfully clear moments of self-awareness. I could practically -hear- the drunk old man sitting next to me starting to breathe more heavily as he took in the content from over my tensed up shoulder. What does one do in these sorts of situations? I suppose, a normal person would just carry on as if nothing was happening. I think this blog has done enough to destroy my reputation as a normal person (please see my post about classical themed tourettes if in any doubt) so naturally I reacted in my usual way. I.e I tensed up so much that if the train had suddenly come to stop there is a good risk that I would have shattered; I also pretended that I had randomly become partially sighted, so had to hold the book as close to my face without simultaneously drawing attention to the front cover (whihc is black apart from the text: The Story of O, the erotic cult classic). It wasn't comfortable and I ended up getting off a stop early and walking home in the rain.

However, on the other end of the spectrum, the tube is also a fantastic way to show off to total strangers who you will never see again that you read really clever books. This leads me onto the kindle. Now, I really like my kindle. I spilt an entire and I mean entire cup of tea on it the other day and it's fine! Impressive! However, to me, the kindle is a double edged sword. I read an article the other day about how women (predominantly) are loving Kindles as behind it they can hide their modesty as they read twilight based porn in public places etc etc. Super. But what if you're reading War and Peace and you want everyone to know? I've read War and Peace. IT'S REALLY LONG. I want some credit for that.

Anyway, a slightly disjointed post. Maybe don't read it on the tube? I've written the word "porn" at least 4 times. Just a suggestion.

Signing off,
H

A day in the life of the Daily Mail

Yesterday I started thinking about the Daily Mail. It came up in conversation with a friend - we were talking about the so-called "3am girls". From what I can gather, they are essentially journalists/reporters who trail around after celebrities getting wasted and eavesdropping on the sort of drivel which celebrities talk about, and the masses (myself included) devour their outpourings with our dead, dead eyes. Then I started thinking about Liz Jones. Fucking hell. Liz Jones + The Daily Fail.

In case you're unfamiliar with Liz Jones.Here's an introduction: Read this.

To summarise: the woman is BAT. SHIT. CRAZY. She has accused women, the female species, of stealing sperm and impregnating themselves in the dead of night.

...

Sorry, I just had to take a minute there. Although, you know I think, almost what concerns me more, is that at some point, I presume, the editor had a look at that article and was all "good work LIZZZZZZZZZZZZ!! Let's GO WITH IT, YEAHHHHHH"

Another thing about The Daily Fail, is that evidently, it's a newspaper in which, a grasp of the English language is apparently not even remotely necessary.

Example a (this is a direct quote): "Prince Harry one a trophy." I'm not joking.

On some levels, I cannot imagine what it must be like working at the Daily Mail...but on others...well there must be a sense of freedom which you just don't get at the other newspapers. I mean, you can basically say whatever you like. For example:

D'you know...I'm kind of jealous.

Tales of the mothership (part 7,564)

This is an accurate, unedited version of events:

Anna: I'm thinking of coming back to the shire next weekend.

Mothership: That's fine darling, but the house will be very cold and unwelcoming...no one will be here.

A: That's cool, I'm actually going out in Northampton on the Friday night.

MS: *Pause.* You know...Northampton is very dangerous, Anna.

A: Not it's not.

MS: It's very rough.

A: Mum, can I just point out that I'm nearly 25, I've been out in Northampton hundreds of times and...I LIVE IN LONDON.

MS: Anna, the streets of Damascus are safer than the streets of Northampton!

A: Really, Mum? Syria? That's what your comparing Northampton to?

MS: I just worry about you.

Troilus and Cresuda...strike back.

Hello internet!

It's time for another little self-deprecating update from the "series of awkward moments" which constitutes my life. Can I hear a hurrah?! Oh it sounds so sad when it's just me cheering.

ANYWAY - let's try and avoid that gaping pit of sad ramblings and cut to the (dubious) humour.

So, today's humiliation was thankfully, narrowly avoided. But by god it was close. Basically, I very nearly made a Classics joke to a complete stranger. Now, I freaking love Classics jokes. They are hilarious. Many a happy hour was spent at university playing variations of the classic (ha!) 'shag, travel, marry' game with different Roman Emperors. (All time favourite = Caligula/Nero/Domitian. BUURRRRN). Or there was the worrying phase I went through of going out, getting on it, and randomly texting people I didn't know particularly well from my course asking them "WHO IS YOUR FAVOURITE ROMAN EMPEROR!!!!!!1".

So today was basically the result of the classicist in me having been pent up for too long. ERROR. Lesson learnt. I'll give y'all a brief run down of what happened:

So I was outside my work having a smoke, and my building is behind a gate. On the other side of the gate there is an alley way with a pub and another office building. So this bloke came out of the office also to have a smoke. So I'm standing there, glancing across at this other human being and the thought popped into my head that this gate was acting as a kind of barrier between us. We could still communicate through it and all - just between the bars. What does this prompt me to want to say?

"Hey! I just thought of something...WE'RE LIKE TROILUS AND CRESUDA!!!!!!!

Oh Christ, no. Just, no.

For those of you who have no freaking idea who Troilus and or Cresuda were, they were basically a pair of lovers who communicated with each other through a hole in a wall. It's knock-out stuff. Actually I'm fairly sure they end up dying somehow, horribly but frankly that's irrelevent. For the meantime, lets just focus - in fact CLING ON to the fact that by the thinnest glimmer of self control, I managed to restrain myself from shouting the following words at a total stranger:

"TROILUS!

CRESUDA!

WALL

LOVERS

DEATH

CLASSICS!!!!!!!"

Thank fuck for that.

A brief history of mobile phones

I can count the number of mobile phones I have had on one hand. I'm no Anne Boleyn, I've just only ever had 5. I'm really not fussed by phones which will tell you your hair looks nice or remind you what you did the night before. I just need one which can send a text message either saying: "Where are you?" or "Just coming, G&T, thanks" or which can handle me making a phone call to say "Sorry, I'm late". This is predominantly what I need and use my phone for.

I'm currently experiencing some mild phone trauma, in that mine has broken and so I've been forced to take a walk down memory lane with the replacements and it's jogged my memory as to the various phones I've had in the past 10 years. Hold onto your hats people, this is going to be a nail biting ride.

I want to make reference to my first one, purely because it secured my place in the hall of "people certain never to be famous, cool or respected". Please see below:

Please don't be distracted or impressed by the dazzling selection of colours. It was a rubbish phone. That aerial may look sturdy but it will snap like a twig. Believe me. I will never forget the time my brother and I were wandering around one of those giant supermarkets in France where you meet 90 year olds who came in for some fromage and never found their way out and saw MY phone, my pride and joy on sale for less than a fucking euro. Shame.

Anyway, I think I actually used this humiliation to my advantage as it meant I actually motivated myself into buying a better one, and so I did what the craze was at the time, and bought a yo-yo. I mean a Nokia. And to be fair, Nokia's have never let me down. When my crackberry broke and I had to revert to an old model, I had a fun week typing-out-every-single-letter-in-a-text on this bad boy:

What a fucking classic. I'll tell you, I actually was pretty proud of this. I got looks of admiration on the tube when I first pulled it out and they swiftly changed to looks of seething envy as I'd happily while away the tedium of the tube with a quick game of Snake 2. Oh yes. Someone even told me they are going for upwards of £300 on ebay, so I have a back up plan in case the whole "career" thing falls through too - win!

However, sadly, I have also abandoned this one. Frankly, it was just bloody knackering. I felt like I'd dived into a pool, rescued a brick, and was now carrying this brick around in my pocket ALL THE TIME. So I've opted for the next best thing. My most recent, old phone. This is a classic. It's still a Nokia, but it's very much an upgrade-downgrade situation I've gone for.

You see, it's an upgrade, in the sense that it's a better phone (colour, camera, can connect to the internet if it really tries but can't actually display a webpage, bless it) but downgrade in the sense that it's not really in a condition to still qualify as a phone. I'd say it's approximately 75% electrical tape and 15% phone. You can see most of the screen but typing is a bit of a nightmare. I'll upload a photo at some point for the full effect, but right now, it texts, it rings (quietly, the tape has muted it quite a lot) and I love it.

Running in public part 1

Running in public. We all try to avoid it, but at some point, we have all done it. Some do it more than others though, and as it's just over a year that I have now been living in London, I wanted to catalogue some of the different "runners" which I have encountered, and become accustomed to.

Tube runners

I encounter these bastards every day. I'm talking about the platform crossers who RUN. Everyday at Stockwell, I risk death by commuter trampling as I walk across the death platform to get to the other side. SO. MANY. BLOODY. RUNNERS. Look at them go! Suits flying out, briefcases flapping in the wind and eyes half closed with the determination to get to the platform before the train has even arrived! Why? Are they actually, so competitive that they feel like they have to BEAT the train? Or beat all the other commuters who inevitably end up getting on the same carriage as the runner and subsequently pass the time looking at said runner by thinking "what a twat".

The Dad Run

This isn't a breed, but a type of run. Obviously. I cannot take credit for this, instead full ownership goes to @rjball87 . The dad run can be seen up and down the country on a daily basis, and despite the misleading name, can be done by anyone. I'm a huge fan myself. I usually break it out when I'm late for a train, have a ton of random things like a wok and a cuddly toy camel with me, so can't break into my natural Usain Bolt gait and have to settle for the part run, part walk, part jog. AKA THE DAD RUN. It's a classic.

Gig rant.

So last Friday I went to the Union Chapel to see Alexi Murdoch. It's up there as one of the best gigs I've ever been to. The Union Chapel creates an atmosphere like no other as everyone sits quietly in their respective pews watching the artist perform. There is no shuffling, background chat or people alternatively spilling drinks on you/stepping on your feet. It is lovely. Alexi Murdoch is also lovely. If you are unfamiliar with him, then sort it out and listen to this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_R5IQoIYvTM

It's great. This is another well known one:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Uz8uRWoC0I&ob=av2n

So yes, an excellent artist, a cracking venue and overall it was a brilliant evening spent with some of my best friends. It was great.

However, this being Alexi Murdoch and this being the Union Chapel, there were a few people who found the mellow and calming sound and atmosphere clearly a massive turn on, and so were indulging some full on make out sessions, a little odd maybe, but it did amuse me as it reminded me of the Seinfeld classic "you were making out during Schindlers list?!"

But what infuriated one of my gigging comrades most, was when looking for a decent video from the gig, she found this beauty. Which is unfortunately, a potentially excellent video (good sound, good recording etc) spectacularly sabotaged by someone who just couldn't resist tunelessly singing along occasionally...It sparked the following excellent tirade about the rules of gigging:

"A gig should basically follow the same rules as those found in swimming pools.. no running, no bombing (this applies to the group / support act) and the most important NO HEAVY PETTING. In addition DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES MUMBLE AND SING OUT OF TUNE ALONG TO THE SAID LIVE MUSIC to ruin a perfectly beautiful sighable song AND THEN POST IT ON YOU TUBE TO SHOW THAT YOU ARE OUT OF TUNE AND RUINING A PERFECTLY LOVELY SIGHABLE SONG FOR EVERYONE AROUND YOU. It’s like saying HI CAN YOU HEAR HOW LOVELY THIS SONG IS – GOOD WELL I HAVE RUINED IT AND AM STUPID ENOUGH TO POST IT ON YOUTUBE SO JUST IN CASE I PISSED YOU OFF AT THE GIG I CAN REMIND YOU HOW BLOODY ANNOYING IT WAS THIS IS ME I AM HERE HATE ME PLEASE."

I agree with all of the above. I should have recited this very rant to the two girls who once came and stood directly in front of me in the middle of a Tracey Chapman gig and regaled each other with stories of some poor bastard they had both shagged recently and essentially compared notes... Fine, I have no problem with that, share away. But really? In the middle of a fucking gig?! Someone is standing with a guitar and singing. This is not a fucking soundtrack to your life, if you think that someone standing in front of you singing is your cue to start talking about some poor sod and his weak technique I really think that something is wrong. Of course though, I kept all this to myself, I did sigh and shuffle a lot but next time I am resolved to take action...I'll punch them in the face.