Monday, 8 November 2010

Neighbor Hood Party.

Generally, my relationships with my neighbors are civil. I do not talk to them, they do not talk to me. Occasionally I'll hold their mail for them and pop it over when the time is right; sometimes should i be feeling particularly emotionally generous, I'll wave to them if we both exit camp at the same time. The issue with the 'neighbs' is a relativly new one and one that has arisen from my student accom experiences. Our house this year is sandwhiched between two others. This is fine, I have little issue with this. But lets put some more variables into the mix. The walls in student houses are generally not much more substantial than a slightly stale rice cake; our living hours are genereally akin to that of a fox until exam period when we try and face daylight; we are firm believers in pre/post parties. Herein lies the issue. A pre party is no biggie, a post party is a bitofa bitch especially when it involves Bon Jovi till 5 in the am. And, the killer factor, is being held in the bedroom next door to my own. In their defence, it was really not that loud, in fact I could just make out the chorus (but that is about the right amount of Bon Jovi song you'll need to play audibly for me to get angry.I am greatly thankful that they (my new roomies) do not enjoy death/black metal as much as last years neighbor did- that was a tough one, and it got kinda creepy when he/she just played songs that I had been listening to earlier in the day. And this house (new nextdoor) also don't practise whipping in the garden or raping in the bedroom(it really sounded potentially prisonworthy) and we must be thankful for small mercies. Our Neighbors on the other side aren't much better. You normally get an argument about once a week. Which is suprisingly good entertainment. We normally turn off the TV to make sure we've heard every 'I...HATE...YOU'. Fights are fine, dance music obsession is a little trying on a wednesday afternoon. I'd like to think I am a good semi room mate. I have fantastic taste in music (I believe-who doesn't love Barry White on a Sunday afternoon), I rarely have parties in my room and I don't own a whip. Surely I am within the codes of neighbor etiquette? I don't practise djembe drumming in my down time, I don't own a parrot or a furby, I don't enjoy music written by tragic 90's rock bands, I don't put up pictures on the adjoining wall using hammers/nails, and I don't open their mail when it's left round ours. Maybe we/I should set down some groundrules for anyone who shares a wall with me in future (and I write this to cover any eventuality) 1. No hammers on any occasions (the walls in any student house are mighty small and I don't want a peep hole betwixt our chambers) (FYI, my friend had a neighbor who watched us in his garden through a hole in the fence...weird) 2. No Bon Jovi unless you have headphones. 3. No raucous sex or swingers meetings nextdoor. I don't want to play any part in your lovemaking so I certainly don't want to hear it. 4. No whips. The reasons are self evident. 5. No pets that can speak (younger siblings, parrots, trained chimpanzee's etc.) 6. No Martial arts practise past 8pm. Generally a noisy activity. 7. No early morning theatricals. I do really want to know why "Gav toootally pisse''erd me aaf" and why "eeeee's saaaach a waaankaaa" but not at this hour/audio level. 8. Don't stare at me when I'm in my kitchen doing my dishes like we know each other: "Oh yea, Hi, haven't seen you since last time you watched me baking". 9. Don't keep maggots in your fridge (I did have a neighbor who did this, though the maggots were a side package that came with the liver that she kept for the neighborhood cats) 10. Don't post random mail through my door hate mail/ love letters; or for that matter fetish party invitations/ killing kittens parties, I don't want to go, at least not with you. However feel free to: 1. Put my bins out in my absence 2. Drop round with homebaked goods 3. Play Barry White at any hour of the day. I think that is everything covered. I think I might send this manifesto to Neighborhood watch.

Wednesday, 4 August 2010

Dear Scouting For Girls.

Dear Scouting For Girls,

You have been puking all over our airwaves for some time now; whilst I will be the first to admit that I took a liking to "she's so lovely" (i had some vague hope that someone, somewhere, was singing along and thinking of me: "I like the way she does her hair" etc.); I think it is time that someone told you enough is enough. How many more songs can you pump out where the chorus is simply a repetition of one, frankly uninspiring, line about something ridiculous like Elvis not being dead?

Perhaps my criticism has been to harsh. Maybe you are going through some tough times. Evidently you Lyricist continuously leaves you after giving you just one chorus line which you then play on loop in the vague hope that none of us will notice you've been saying the same words for the best part of 90 seconds. Not only is this painful to listen too it also insults your recipient's intelligence. I am not a deaf ape, I have noticed....

Here are a few helpful hints:

1. repetition does not necessarily equal a musical climax.
2. throwing in the names of cult figures such as James Dean and Elvis does not give you cult status.
3. next time you sing the lyrics "this isn't a love song this is goodbye" take some of your own advice and leave.

thanks guys,


Monday, 12 July 2010

We English have a tendency to believe that when the temperature sores above, say, 20 degrees, we should all take up eating, sleeping and shitting al fresco. Festivals pop up every weekend between the end of June and the penultimate days of September: when the real keeno's are hopefully gripping their fold up bbq's praying for the dithering sun to allow just one weekend of tepid outdoor debauchery. It is also at this window of British summertime when the super duper keenos (now I'm talking tipi tents, eco friendly cardboard toilets, and 300 quid "self inflating roll mats") hold their own camping parties. This weekend I attend one such party. Oh, and FYI I am not a super duper keeno: I had to buy a tent for the occasion; but I am a keeno, and i do often subject myself to weekends of polystyrene burgers, uncalled for public nudity, and rum drunk lovingly and hastily out of 2litre Evian bottles.
Having mastered the art of festival going (...almost, I still can't quite manage to get the weather to match my wardrobe) i thought that this private shindig would be no problem at all. And of course, there would have been no problem had there not been an unlimited supply of Stella. I have come to recognise that all that saves me from getting facial piercings, joining the Hare Krishna movement, and dip dyeing the lower half of my body at most festivals is that the beer is so ridiculously expensive.
Having had allowed myself to have a reasonable, some would say sizable, amount of alcohol, I decided that the urge to pee had become to much and I'd have to climb my way to the brow of the hill where the posh portaloos had been placed. This would have all gone really well had i not decided that a torch was a useless accessory when it came to camping. "Oh dad, really I'll be fine. It is just up the gravel path I'll just stick to the gravel nothing will go wrong." What I hadn't banked on was the fact that those 4 bottles of Stella had had a small impact on my ability to walk in a straight line. If you hold your arm out vertically in front of you, and now turn it down so it lies like a shelf across your chest you'll have a visual idea of what my version of a straight line up the hill had become. Essentially, I walked off the side of the hill. Off the side and into the bramble bushes that lay, waiting, below. I now look a tad like a sadist; most of the visible aspects of my body have gone unscathed, the lower parts of my back have not fared so well . Clearly as i plummeted to the ground my trousers did that attractive thing where they allow the top of your bum to stick out because i have scratches everywhere around that area.... hot. So a sadist, or someone who has a strange, and possibly illegal relationship with their cat.
Not having a torch also impacted my ability to recognise that i had put my new shoes in the melted brie that had just come off the camp fire, and later as i made it to my tent, my ability to see the difference between Dazzle Dust (a bright gold powder) and lip balm in my make up bag. The former ended up everywhere and i now look like one of those strange people who still believe its cool to have glitter on EVERYTHING they own: jeans, bags, tents, feet, etc.
Scratched, cheesed, and glittered I have learnt my lesson. Next weekend, at WOMAD festival, I will have a torch on my person at all time, I might even attach one to my belt regardless of how much of a super duper keeno i look!

Saturday, 8 May 2010

Big Feet Bigger Problem,

Just when you think you have come to term with your bodies proportions the high street comes along and throws a spanner in the works.
I have, since the age of 13, had size 9 feet. Thankfully they are not out of proportion with my 5ft10" frame, but they are far to big for the British high street. Whilst most places will stock up to an 8 in all styles and a 9 in some of the less desirable ones; not one high street store has its entire collection ranging up to a 9. Apparently this tyranny effects only 8% of our female population...and a seriously pissed off 8% we are.
All I want this season is a pair of brown Oxford Brogues, hell I'll even settle for black. I just do not want to spend another summer larking about in my interchangeable summer foot-drobe of converse and flip flops.
When I was 13 this was never a problem. I located myself a pair of suitably gaudy trainers and wore them till they broke. They were then promptly replaced with another pair. I still have the same pair I wore for U14's netball practise. I felt cool back then but now I am sure the rest of boxercise can see a cheeky flash of sport sock peeping from between the seductive aerated curtain of my 2004 Adidas Clima Cools.
I cannot contain my excitment when a shoe trend is bisexual. By which I mean worn by both genders. I love my converse (even though I slated them earlier) and still remember the day I bought my pink high tops; for once in my life I had a shoe that was seen on the foot of the female celebs, well, Hilary duff on the poster for "A Cinderella Story". My high tops too could perhaps peek sexily out from underneath an over zealous prom dress whilst I seductively straddled the back of Chad Michael Murray. Or not.
My current boot of choice, The Doc Marten, is also a bi-trend; which is completely fantastic as yet again my feet are clad in a fashionfootfriendly number.....though admittedly not the chicest of shoe. My brothers try hard to prevent themselves being violently sick on them every time i put my feet on the sofa. They're also not a hit with the lads; men may want a confident and domineering woman but they don't all want someone who looks fresh off the set of "this is England" with an attitude to boot.
I have spent the past 48hrs frantically searching the web for a pair of brogues. They are men's shoes for god sake, stock them in a 9 Office! I have found some shoes in a 9. Alas, they are the kind my grandmother would be embarrassed to be seen in and we are talking about a women who has gold trainers by Ecco, you do the math.
Fearne Cotton and Aldo are my only solace. In fact, Cotton has a pair on the Littlewoods website that almost hit the spot. Shame they are white: big feet, white shoes, a formidable combination. La Redoute has also made an attempt to be BFG (big footed girl) friendly, but sadly none of their flats would be acceptable on the foot of anyone other than a blind, middle aged, misguided, maths teacher. A bit harsh, but when to my disappointment I found their version of a 42 was a UK 8 they were asking for it.
I have resigned myself to Ebay, tirelessly searching the mens shoe sections, typing as many syntactical variations of, brown, oxford, brogue, 42, as you can think of. It is sadly my only option aside from binding my feet and I am not one who believes in that whole "beauty is pain" malark.
I am not asking for much, just one size more. I am more than content to push my foot, ugly sister-style, into a size 8 if i feel the wearing in period won't outlive a week but sometimes I just wish asking for the next size up was met with a yes rather than: a "sorry This is our largest size", or "You could look on our website" or the dreaded "Some of our mens shoes are similar".
Maybe one day the great British high street will answer my call and me and the other 8% of size 8+ women will no longer be confined to peep toes, sandals, and stretchy flats but shall roam free in that Utopic world of perfect pumps and well fitting brown Oxford brogues.
You know what they say about women with big feet?
Big problem.

Saturday, 1 May 2010

Friday, 23 April 2010

Modern (f)art.

Every once in a while I take a day out of my hectic schedule of oversleeping, overeating, overwatching, and underworking to do something worthwhile. Being a student often the closest I come to culture is the kind that I find growing on my half finished tin of heinz meanzest beanz in the fridge. Sometimes however I feel that since I am an Arts student I should indulge my inner Pater and go out and get all introspective, existential and nonsensical over art.

The Tate Modern seemed like a good place to start. Firstly, I knew it quite well, secondly, it was free (the piece de resistance for any "sensible" student) and thirdly, I lived in hope that there'd be something really grotesque or obscene around every corner.

Aside from the room full with the TV that had the antics of a self harmer on loop there wasn't much that caught my eye. They didn't even have that obscene video I saw on my first visit: a naked man doing ballet. I hear it was a retaliation against years of female oppression in art. Deep. But lets be honest, No one wants to watch tackle do the tango.

Modern art has always confused me a little. I enjoy its impact but rarely admire its artistry. A signed urinal, some red canvases, a poo in a box (even I could do that!).

But the other day something caught my art-eye. Mauricio Velasquez Posada is makes garments out of paper. Its like a wacky, large, wearable origami. Breathtaking, bizarre and highly flammable. The fold and spikes drown his models. They are left standing arms and legs akimbo looking like the love child of Vivienne Westwood and a paper shredder. I am not sure where the future of the pieces lie, since you could never wear them (they aren't your typical threads) and you could never display them as art (they don't hang and I'm imagining would not fit in any modest house hold). I find it difficult to see where their future is. But perhaps their transient nature is what all modern art is about: completely impracticability in favour of making the absolute statement. Or perhaps all this modern art fart has started to have a bit of an effect on my thinking......

Thursday, 22 April 2010

Going Pell Mell.

And in the beginning there was a blog, and he saw that is was reasonable and declared that it would be average and called it Pell Mell.

Well She, not he. And why "Pell Mell"? Well we can never fully know her motives but I can divulge this much; after spending many hours deliberating (a word coined from America's Next Top Model) and, to be frank, pissing about on, it was decided that "pell mell " had a certain ring to it. A bit more jingly than "Harum Scarum" which would you believe was also an option. Not only does Pell Mell have the jangle it also does the business, by which I mean highlights the mood of this blog. A little Haphazard at the best of times.