'Are you going to do some weeding? Garden's looking pretty bad...'
'Nah, that's a boy's job.'
'You're a really shit Feminist.'
It's funny how thirty seconds of dialogue can really get you thinking. I'm all about declaring that I'm just as good as a man, that I don't believe in gender stereotypes and that women are equal to men.
Basically, I'm the first to say I'm a Feminist and this all got me thinking maybe being a Feminist means doing some of the shit stuff too. You know what, men get a tough time in society too. Fuck it, men are just as stereotyped as women. Whilst I'm often fond of saying that women are presented with an impossible and unrealistic image daily by he much maligned media. So are men! This in part links to my views on the phrase 'Man Up' but how often are men presented with a ridiculous or stupid image?
We ask a lot of men. Women want a man to sensitive and gentle, but God forbid he should be 'girly'. Growing up if a boy expresses an interest in a typically Feminine pursuit he is labelled as 'gay' (Hello, Homophobia). As for fashion, to an extent, women have much more freedom than men. It is not socially expectable for a man to wear a skirt. Why the fuck not? Skirts are comfy. Why shouldn't a man wear girl's clothes if he wants?
I've read in countless women's magazines about different types of males: Metrosexual (great, lovely and sensitive, but OMG WTF is he crying?!), Alpha Male (breadwinner, strong, probably has deep seated issues), Beta Male (Mummy's boy, bit of a loser, but in recessionary times he's the one to watch!), and of course The Lad (a right laugh when he's had a few drinks, likes football, unreliable.)
Well, that's just wrong isn't it? All the men I know can be lads when they go out, metrosexual when they go shopping, alpha male when they're having a good day at work and beta male when they're having a less good day...
Feminists fought so hard to break the Angel/Whore archetype, so why aren't we trying harder to break the male stereotypes? We are people. Not types. Perhaps the most wonderful thing about being human is that we are all different, so why are we trying so hard to categorize others?
So if you are equal to a man (and you SO are), you should take on some 'manly' tasks. If we're trying so hard to break down gender stereotypes then we need to do just that. There's no such thing as a 'manly' task, there is just a task.
I agree that it is harder for the average woman to do some heavy lifting than the average man. But we CAN put the shelves up, we CAN mow the lawn, and we definitely can do a bit of weeding.
There are plenty of nice things about gender inequality. It's nice that men are expected to ask us out, that they are expected to pay for dinner and open the door for us. Chivalry's cute, of course it is.
But, with the good comes the bad. If women want to be treated as equals, we need to act like equals. And that means paying for dinner sometimes.
So here's one for the boys. Because a lot of people forget that the best Feminists are often men. It's not about a fight between the genders. It's about uniting them. To me, what Feminism truly means is equality of the sexes. So why not cut a man some slack and ask him out? And let's all stop calling everyone and everything gay all the bloody time.
My first resolution is to buy my boyfriend some flowers. Because I want to subvert the gender norm. Because I'm a real Feminist. Because I'm sure he'll love receiving flowers just as much as I do. And, quite simply, because I love him.
Monday, 24 October 2011
Friday, 16 September 2011
What the fuck am I going to do with my life?
I always had this vague idea I wanted to be a journalist.
Not an award winning, trekking in the Congo journalist. But a stylish woman who
knows the difference between a flat white and a macchiato and who is ‘political’.
I suppose a Features Writer for any women’s glossy would have done nicely. So when I got the chance to attend a
conference aimed at those in Student Media wishing to pursue a career in the
media it seemed like a golden opportunity. I was so excited, I was going to meet
Iain Hislop, Jerome Taylor, Ed Caesar...to name but a few
and ‘mingle’ with other like minded people. What could be better right?
Well it just sort of wasn’t good. The speakers were interesting, their stories compelling and their dedication to their profession admirable. And, yet, I just wasn’t feeling it. Everyone talked about Twitter like you might talk about an indoor toilet; assuming that everyone has one. I even heard the phrase ‘The Twitterati’. And I don’t have Twitter. I didn’t realise how Twitter was ‘essential’ to getting a job. And I don’t know if I want to work in an industry where it is.
Then there was networking. My own personal worst nightmare. Imagine a large room full of tables with a few chairs around them, and one famous journalist sitting on a table whilst 18-21s year old’s gather around them and compete hungrily for their attention. I could pretend that I’m too ‘cool’ too ‘above that’, but honestly, I don’t have the balls to hound someone like....like a journalist would. Yep, you got it before I did. I’m simply not cut out to be a journalist. I’m really socially awkward, how would I cope with interviewing someone? How could I be pushy enough to demand to speak to an influential politician when I struggle saying no to a simple request from a friend?
Well it just sort of wasn’t good. The speakers were interesting, their stories compelling and their dedication to their profession admirable. And, yet, I just wasn’t feeling it. Everyone talked about Twitter like you might talk about an indoor toilet; assuming that everyone has one. I even heard the phrase ‘The Twitterati’. And I don’t have Twitter. I didn’t realise how Twitter was ‘essential’ to getting a job. And I don’t know if I want to work in an industry where it is.
Then there was networking. My own personal worst nightmare. Imagine a large room full of tables with a few chairs around them, and one famous journalist sitting on a table whilst 18-21s year old’s gather around them and compete hungrily for their attention. I could pretend that I’m too ‘cool’ too ‘above that’, but honestly, I don’t have the balls to hound someone like....like a journalist would. Yep, you got it before I did. I’m simply not cut out to be a journalist. I’m really socially awkward, how would I cope with interviewing someone? How could I be pushy enough to demand to speak to an influential politician when I struggle saying no to a simple request from a friend?
Every successful journalist attributed their success in some
way to networking. And while I watched my peers rush forward to Mike Thomas and
shake his hands, I was rooted to my seat. A boy barely taller and much thinner
than me pushed me out of the way to grab Ed Caesar’s beautifully
manicured hand whilst gabbing as loud and as fast as he could. I was shocked. I
know I am supposed to be from the ‘go- and –get- it’ generation, but wasn’t
this all terribly impolite? Was it really nice to hound the poor people? And
for what purpose... I mean was Iain Hislop really going to whip his phone out
and take some 19 year old whippersnapper’s number down, wait around until they’d
got their 2.1 and then give them their dream job? No.
Ultimately though, regardless of whether or not it would pay off, I was too afraid to try. I cannot shamelessly self promote. I cannot find words to fill the silence that would surely follow when introducing yourself to someone at least fifteen years your senior and who’s work you’ve read in national papers.
In short, I am not cut out for my dream career. And, perhaps I am foolish to have believed such a career would have suited me. The NUS Student Media Summit at Amnesty International was an incredibly valuable experience, not only was it fascinating, but it also showed me that I need to go back to square one. Back to the drawing board.
Ultimately though, regardless of whether or not it would pay off, I was too afraid to try. I cannot shamelessly self promote. I cannot find words to fill the silence that would surely follow when introducing yourself to someone at least fifteen years your senior and who’s work you’ve read in national papers.
In short, I am not cut out for my dream career. And, perhaps I am foolish to have believed such a career would have suited me. The NUS Student Media Summit at Amnesty International was an incredibly valuable experience, not only was it fascinating, but it also showed me that I need to go back to square one. Back to the drawing board.
So help me, what the fuck am I going to do with my life?
Friday, 10 June 2011
On Beauty, Happiness and Big Bouncy Breasts
I've been trying to write this post for several days now (it's a great distraction from revision/the impending doom of leaving Rawson House Level 1) and I've really struggled. I immensely dislike sentimentality and emotional outbursts and if this is what my post becomes then I have failed. I read somewhere that when trying to write something difficult you should imagine you are writing to a friend. So hello friend. I feel over the past 8 months of this blog you've got to know me fairly well. So here is my greatest secret and shame:
I would say I'm a fairly confident person. I'm no prude and I'm happy to talk about more or less anything, but there's one conversation I always walk away from. That's the one about my weight. Now to those of you who don't know me I'm not some sort of elephant woman. In fact here is a full length photo of me so you can see exactly what you're working with.
I would say I'm a fairly confident person. I'm no prude and I'm happy to talk about more or less anything, but there's one conversation I always walk away from. That's the one about my weight. Now to those of you who don't know me I'm not some sort of elephant woman. In fact here is a full length photo of me so you can see exactly what you're working with.
To be fair, I am drunk here and posing like a loser.
So as you can see, I am not exactly a french fry. Let's bare in mind I am wearing my favourite (read: most flattering) dress and I have my hair done up nicely and my make up all neat and whatnot. Also, I'm wearing heels which definitely makes a difference. The point is in Topshop I'm a 12/14. And that makes me feel horrible.
I'm going to Nice with my boyfriend on the 26th June for a week and about 2 weeks ago I decided I needed to go on a diet. Why? Because the thought of wearing a bikini on the beach in front of people made me cry. I feel really ashamed admitting this like I'm letting you into my most intimate thoughts. It got to the point where I avoided changing rooms because the all angle mirrors were far too depressing. Photos were I look anything other than perfect are immediately untagged.
I haven't wore jeans since I was 13 because I think my legs look fat in trousers. I don't even earn a pair of trousers. Do you know how hard it is to put tights on when you're chronically hungover, it's freezing cold and it's 8.53am and your lecture is at 9am? If not, I'll tell you, it's a fucking struggle. The summer is my favourite season because the sun makes me feel happy but baring my arms is something I can't stand. I tell people it's because I burn really easily (and I do) so I don't want to expose too much skin, but really if my arms were sinewy and lovely I'd be happy to walk around like a lobster. As for removing the uniform of black tights.....Disaster.
It takes me hours and hours to get ready for a night out because I am so obsessed with the fact that from a certain angle I might look fat. I have wasted so many hours of my life standing in front of a mirror scrutinizing my stomach.
I know from an intellectual point of view I am not ugly. I'm not even fat. I am definitely within the realms of a healthy weight. In fact here I am, 9.19am in the morning in my dressing gown, make up from the day before on my cheek and my hair unbrushed. This is an uneidted, unflattering and above all a truthful photo of me. And to be honest I don't look that bad.
Okay so I don't look amazing, I certainly wouldn't like to walk through Guildford town like this but if my boyfriend/flatmates/work mates/any demographic of people I know saw me looking like this I wouldn't exactly mind. I like my eyes, they are big and brown and I'm blessed with good skin and a fairly petite nose.
In fact, it's about 15cms of my body that reduce me to an emotional mess. 15cms. The size of a small ruler or a large (ish) penis. Not exactly something to send you into waves of discontent and pain. By the way, that 15cms start at my hips (ish), encompassing my stomach and span out to the tops of my thighs. Vagina is obviously included but I have little to no issue with my womanly garden. If you'd like to read more about woman bits go here (because it's a really good post and Ivy is brilliant so you should read her blog anyway)
I don't like my 34FF boobs (too big and too difficult to encase in a shirt/t shirt/any form of fitted garment) and I'm not an epic fan of my bitten to the quick finger nails. But I can handle these things, I can work around them. It took my a long time to accept 'nature's gift' of abnormally large breasts. The mountains that sprung from my once athletic (no, really) chest took years to get used to. The stares from older men still annoy me, but as breasts go mine might be beastly, but they're also rather good. I can do cleavage with a capital C and a v- neck makes me look like Wonderwoman.
I am what people would describe as curvy. Body like a guitar. Look like a coke bottle. Cliche but shaped like an hour glass. And apparently that's what everyone wants, yak yak yak. Bollocks. Every cute or fashionable piece of clothing I find in Topshop/Dorothy Perkins/New Look etc is tailored for a straight up and down french fry. Not a coke bottle. To quote my darling friend Emma, 'Imagine the awkward moment when my thighs fill the space in the harem pants.' By the way, Emma is not fat. She's beautiful.
I like the way I look. I do. It's just the clothes that are made for young people are made for young skinny people. And I am not, and will never be, skinny. Girls can be cruel, we know this. But the way I feel in a body con dress is nothing to do with the way a girl looks at me when I wear it, it's to do with the way I have been told (by the godforsaken media, by society, by the fashion industry) it's supposed to look.
My diet is going well. I have cut out carbs and sugar. But what for? If I'm honest, I didn't want to lose a few pounds. I wanted a body transplant. I wanted legs you could snap with one hand. I wanted jaw bones you could cut yourself on. I wanted a stomach that did not just stay flat, it actually poked in.
So far, so eating disorder. But here's the thing. I might have dreamt of Kate Moss esque shape. But I love to eat. I love to drink. I love to enjoy life. Now, I'm going to tell you to read Charlie's blog because he says this is more beautiful words than I can create. I would rather have a stomach, hips, boobs and enjoy my life to the full. Yes, being thin would make me happy, but not forever. My boyfriend wouldn't love it that's for sure, and neither would anyone who loves me now. Because, let's face, I wouldn't be Alex if I looked like someone else.
This diet has helped me in so many ways. I've realised that I love vegetables for one, which surprised me. And I realised that food was something to be enjoyed, rather than something to plan my life around ('If I do an hour more of revision, I can buy a chocolate bar from the vending machine' is not the right attitude to have). My most important realisation is that I want to be healthy, not skinny. I want to be happy, whether I'm a size 14 or a size 8. I want to live each day to the full, not pick at a lettuce leaf and forgo a glass of wine.
So this post isn't a complaint. It isn't even really a diatribe of resentment towards the fashion industry or everyone's favourite scape goat the media. It's a celebration. A celebration of skinny minis in their skinny jeans, and girls with bums, hips, tums and boobs. Anyone who lives life to the full, no matter what their figure looks like, is worth praising. Be healthy, look after your heart (it'll last a lifetime), eat your greens and enjoy your food. Live life to the full and don't be like me and wish for someone else's body. As Judith Butler said, 'The body is a social construct' anyway. I don't know if I do believe that, but I do believe that happiness isn't a number, a clothing size or the way you look in the tightest jeans. At the risk of sounding like an outdated hippy, happiness is laughter, love and friendship. Not matter how you look, you will always be richer for having these three magical elements in your life. I don't just believe this, I live by it, and it never fails to do me right.
In fact, it's about 15cms of my body that reduce me to an emotional mess. 15cms. The size of a small ruler or a large (ish) penis. Not exactly something to send you into waves of discontent and pain. By the way, that 15cms start at my hips (ish), encompassing my stomach and span out to the tops of my thighs. Vagina is obviously included but I have little to no issue with my womanly garden. If you'd like to read more about woman bits go here (because it's a really good post and Ivy is brilliant so you should read her blog anyway)
I don't like my 34FF boobs (too big and too difficult to encase in a shirt/t shirt/any form of fitted garment) and I'm not an epic fan of my bitten to the quick finger nails. But I can handle these things, I can work around them. It took my a long time to accept 'nature's gift' of abnormally large breasts. The mountains that sprung from my once athletic (no, really) chest took years to get used to. The stares from older men still annoy me, but as breasts go mine might be beastly, but they're also rather good. I can do cleavage with a capital C and a v- neck makes me look like Wonderwoman.
I am what people would describe as curvy. Body like a guitar. Look like a coke bottle. Cliche but shaped like an hour glass. And apparently that's what everyone wants, yak yak yak. Bollocks. Every cute or fashionable piece of clothing I find in Topshop/Dorothy Perkins/New Look etc is tailored for a straight up and down french fry. Not a coke bottle. To quote my darling friend Emma, 'Imagine the awkward moment when my thighs fill the space in the harem pants.' By the way, Emma is not fat. She's beautiful.
I like the way I look. I do. It's just the clothes that are made for young people are made for young skinny people. And I am not, and will never be, skinny. Girls can be cruel, we know this. But the way I feel in a body con dress is nothing to do with the way a girl looks at me when I wear it, it's to do with the way I have been told (by the godforsaken media, by society, by the fashion industry) it's supposed to look.
My diet is going well. I have cut out carbs and sugar. But what for? If I'm honest, I didn't want to lose a few pounds. I wanted a body transplant. I wanted legs you could snap with one hand. I wanted jaw bones you could cut yourself on. I wanted a stomach that did not just stay flat, it actually poked in.
So far, so eating disorder. But here's the thing. I might have dreamt of Kate Moss esque shape. But I love to eat. I love to drink. I love to enjoy life. Now, I'm going to tell you to read Charlie's blog because he says this is more beautiful words than I can create. I would rather have a stomach, hips, boobs and enjoy my life to the full. Yes, being thin would make me happy, but not forever. My boyfriend wouldn't love it that's for sure, and neither would anyone who loves me now. Because, let's face, I wouldn't be Alex if I looked like someone else.
This diet has helped me in so many ways. I've realised that I love vegetables for one, which surprised me. And I realised that food was something to be enjoyed, rather than something to plan my life around ('If I do an hour more of revision, I can buy a chocolate bar from the vending machine' is not the right attitude to have). My most important realisation is that I want to be healthy, not skinny. I want to be happy, whether I'm a size 14 or a size 8. I want to live each day to the full, not pick at a lettuce leaf and forgo a glass of wine.
So this post isn't a complaint. It isn't even really a diatribe of resentment towards the fashion industry or everyone's favourite scape goat the media. It's a celebration. A celebration of skinny minis in their skinny jeans, and girls with bums, hips, tums and boobs. Anyone who lives life to the full, no matter what their figure looks like, is worth praising. Be healthy, look after your heart (it'll last a lifetime), eat your greens and enjoy your food. Live life to the full and don't be like me and wish for someone else's body. As Judith Butler said, 'The body is a social construct' anyway. I don't know if I do believe that, but I do believe that happiness isn't a number, a clothing size or the way you look in the tightest jeans. At the risk of sounding like an outdated hippy, happiness is laughter, love and friendship. Not matter how you look, you will always be richer for having these three magical elements in your life. I don't just believe this, I live by it, and it never fails to do me right.
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Jasmine Von der Bogaerde: The UK's (more talented) answer to Rebecca Black?
OK I've been really lazy with my blog of late, but honestly I haven't had time for (many) sexual antics (apart from my new purchase....
But I hate her cover of ‘Skinny Love.’ It makes me feel angry. I appreciate she has a beautiful voice, I appreciate she is an exceptional pianist. It doesn’t stop me loathing her cover of one of my favourite songs. In early 2008 I became aware of Bon Iver (a play on the French ‘Bon Hiver’ meaning good winter) and the album ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’ stills moves me further than most. The album is wracked with passion and meaning. Not only has Justin Vernon (the singer-songwriter of Bon Iver) got a soulful voice, he is also talented songwriter. ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’ was written in Wisconsin during a three month winter, in which Vernon was halled up in a log cabin in the state’s Northern Woods. The reason for Vernon isolation? A break up. The break up was the inspiration for ‘For Emma, Forever Ago.’ Needless to say the album is packed with emotive lyrics and soft gentle melodies. My favourite line from ‘Skinny Love’ is a fantastic example of the raw emotion evident in ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’, ‘Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer/I tell my love to wreck it all/ Cut out all the ropes and let me fall.’ From Vernon’s husky, gentle voice this is truly heartbreaking. When a fourteen year old, with annoyingly perfect features sings these lines to me, atop perfect piano accompaniment I simply cannot buy it. Vernon’s pain and heartbreak shines through each perfectly constructed line, Van der Bogaerde’s does not. Simply because, she is fourteen, she is young, talented and lucky. By default she cannot flood the song with as much meaning as Vernon does. And for me, that makes the song weaker. It means less when it does not and cannot come from the heart.
Jasmine Van der Bogaerde will go far. Unlike her contemporary, Rebecca Black, she is gifted, incredibly so. In five years time I will be excited for her own contribution to the music world. But for now, she needs to get off my facebook and get her heart broken a few times. Then come back with a sensational album, which will make me kick myself for ever doubting her.
I've linked you here so you can hear Birdy's cover, and here so you can hear the original.
And here is a picture of Birdy which perhaps highlights how annoying she is.
Punching her in the face would be oddly satisfying.
I think I wanna be a dominatrix?
BIRDY, BON IVER AND WHY IT ALL JUST MAKES ME ANGRY
But more on that later. If I get enough revision done today to satisfy the sense of guilt that I have been feeling then I shall write all about my leather bound antics. For now I am shamelessly reposting something that I sent to Lorna to be published in The Stag, soz. And it's about music.
I like cover songs. I have no issue with someone covering a song I like. But I have a massive issue with ‘Birdy’s’ cover of Skinny Love by Bon Iver. I am aware I am bit late on this. Birdy, AKA Jasmine Van der Bogaerde is fourteen, and her song went viral a few months ago, facebook was inundated with links to her YouTube sensation. So far, so Rebecca Black. However, that is where the comparison with Rebecca Black ends. Van der Bogaerde does not lack talent, she has it in heaps. She is a classically trained pianist, with a gorgeous voice. Her cover of ‘Skinny Love’ charted at number seventeen in the UK and Fearne Cotton named ‘Skinny Love’ her song of the week on Radio One. Impressive stuff for anyone, let alone a fourteen year old.
But I hate her cover of ‘Skinny Love.’ It makes me feel angry. I appreciate she has a beautiful voice, I appreciate she is an exceptional pianist. It doesn’t stop me loathing her cover of one of my favourite songs. In early 2008 I became aware of Bon Iver (a play on the French ‘Bon Hiver’ meaning good winter) and the album ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’ stills moves me further than most. The album is wracked with passion and meaning. Not only has Justin Vernon (the singer-songwriter of Bon Iver) got a soulful voice, he is also talented songwriter. ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’ was written in Wisconsin during a three month winter, in which Vernon was halled up in a log cabin in the state’s Northern Woods. The reason for Vernon isolation? A break up. The break up was the inspiration for ‘For Emma, Forever Ago.’ Needless to say the album is packed with emotive lyrics and soft gentle melodies. My favourite line from ‘Skinny Love’ is a fantastic example of the raw emotion evident in ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’, ‘Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer/I tell my love to wreck it all/ Cut out all the ropes and let me fall.’ From Vernon’s husky, gentle voice this is truly heartbreaking. When a fourteen year old, with annoyingly perfect features sings these lines to me, atop perfect piano accompaniment I simply cannot buy it. Vernon’s pain and heartbreak shines through each perfectly constructed line, Van der Bogaerde’s does not. Simply because, she is fourteen, she is young, talented and lucky. By default she cannot flood the song with as much meaning as Vernon does. And for me, that makes the song weaker. It means less when it does not and cannot come from the heart.
Jasmine Van der Bogaerde will go far. Unlike her contemporary, Rebecca Black, she is gifted, incredibly so. In five years time I will be excited for her own contribution to the music world. But for now, she needs to get off my facebook and get her heart broken a few times. Then come back with a sensational album, which will make me kick myself for ever doubting her.
I've linked you here so you can hear Birdy's cover, and here so you can hear the original.
And here is a picture of Birdy which perhaps highlights how annoying she is.
Punching her in the face would be oddly satisfying.
As ever, I've made huge sweeping statements and unfair judgements. Pick up as you will dear readers. More on sex later.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Realisation
It's 23.22. I'm sunburnt. My hand hurts from writing. My boyfriend is ringing me in about seven minutes. I have been revising for hours, in town, by the lake, in the library. I even went to Tesco. I booked my tickets for Latitude Festival. I handed in my last piece of coursework for the year and I actually put a suprising amount of effort in. I'm going to be Copy Editor on a university creative magazine next year. And of course my much talked about position as Literature Editor of The Stag, my university newsaper.
It's 23.24. I'm in love with someone who loves me back. I've nearly finished my first year at University (something I thought I'd never be able to do). I get on with every member of my family. I have a job (even if I would rather stick my hand in acid than work on Saturday). I have friends, here and at home.
It's 23.25 and I'm happy.
It's 23.26 and everything is going to be alright.
It's 23.27 and after two difficult years I've realised I've finally become the person I always wanted to be.
It's 23.28 and I'm officially a sentimental loser.
Goodnight.
It's 23.24. I'm in love with someone who loves me back. I've nearly finished my first year at University (something I thought I'd never be able to do). I get on with every member of my family. I have a job (even if I would rather stick my hand in acid than work on Saturday). I have friends, here and at home.
It's 23.25 and I'm happy.
It's 23.26 and everything is going to be alright.
It's 23.27 and after two difficult years I've realised I've finally become the person I always wanted to be.
It's 23.28 and I'm officially a sentimental loser.
Goodnight.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
"The sex was amazing, until N-Dubz came up on shuffle...."
Music is something I'm really afraid of when it comes to sex. Sometimes it can be tantric and wonderful and really add to the moment. Usually it's just plain embarrassing. The first time I ever did anything vaguely sexual with Tristan Sean Kingston's Beautiful Girls came up on my ipod shuffle. (If you haven't heard it, please listen here) Anyway, that was pretty awful for me. But, then I started thinking and chances are someone else (with slightly different music taste) would probably find it perfectly acceptable.
When I was about 15 people I knew starting actually 'doing it.' Obviously, I wasn't having sex. But it felt like everyone was (actually, about 3 of my friends). I was round a friend's house and she had her ipod plugged in and asked me to put some music on, so I selected her 'Chilling' playlist as that's exactly what we were doing. She turned around irate and shouted, 'Why the hell have you put my sex playlist on?' Mortifying memory for me even after 5 years. Anyway, her sex playlist was nothing like I would have imagined.
In films (and I'm talking the kind of films I watched when I was 15 so The Notebook* etc) the music is always soft and gentle during the sex scene. I'm thinking more 'Make You Feel My Love' by Adele, originally Bob D before you all shout at me, rather than 'You're Makin' Me High' by Toni Braxton. So I always imagined that sex music was gentle and nice- my first sex playlist contained Death Cab for Cutie and Coldplay!
Then I gave up with music during sex by and large. Until I came to University, where the walls are thin and I live with fourteen other people who I'm sure would rather hear my music than the creaking of a very old bed and/or heaven forbid my cries of passion. I pay for my spotify so I didn't have to worry about adverts thankfully, but the main thing I wondered was WHAT music to play. So much so that so far I've just chucked on my current month's playlist and hoped for the best.
Today I decided, I'd like to create a sexy playlist. But what the hell music did I find sexy? And surely did it not depend on the type of sex I was having? Were songs about sex sexy? Or was it the actual rhythm that was sexy? Was a sexy song a song I'd listen to at another time? The Smiths are my favourite band but would it ever be appropriate to have sex to one of their songs?
So I did what I always do when I'm confused, I asked the good people of Facebook. And because my friends are wonderful I got so many replies. And it was all so different. Slow RnB- Ne-yo, Pretty Ricky, Marvin Gaye. 'Scary' rock music- Nirvana, The Mars Volta. John Mayer. Prince. To name but a few. I asked my flatmates (who I love so much, there you go guys, thank you for reading) and everyone felt differently from Toots and the Maytals to Def Leppard. I was more confused than ever.
I started making a tentative list, and it all went wrong. I've had great sex to Arcade Fire but could I find a song that I found actively 'sexy'? No. I've had amazing sex to Bon Iver but same problem. I think 'Time is Running Out' by Muse is a really sexy song, but I don't think I want to have sex to a song with lyrics such as, 'You will be the death of me.'
Everyone else seems to know what they like to listen to when they get down, whether it be Ne-yo or The Mars Volta and I just don't have a clue.
So help me out everyone...here is my sex playlist, tell me what I need to do to it. Is it too slow? Is it too fast? I want it to encompass romantic lovemaking and also the occasional dirty fuck. Help! Is John Mayer too 30 year old mum? Is Ellie Goulding too main stream?
Here's a link to my playlist: Sex?
Facebook me with your advice, I need your help. My sex life is suffering.
*I really don't like the Notebook. Soz.
Of course I know what to listen to after sex... Always this.
When I was about 15 people I knew starting actually 'doing it.' Obviously, I wasn't having sex. But it felt like everyone was (actually, about 3 of my friends). I was round a friend's house and she had her ipod plugged in and asked me to put some music on, so I selected her 'Chilling' playlist as that's exactly what we were doing. She turned around irate and shouted, 'Why the hell have you put my sex playlist on?' Mortifying memory for me even after 5 years. Anyway, her sex playlist was nothing like I would have imagined.
In films (and I'm talking the kind of films I watched when I was 15 so The Notebook* etc) the music is always soft and gentle during the sex scene. I'm thinking more 'Make You Feel My Love' by Adele, originally Bob D before you all shout at me, rather than 'You're Makin' Me High' by Toni Braxton. So I always imagined that sex music was gentle and nice- my first sex playlist contained Death Cab for Cutie and Coldplay!
Then I gave up with music during sex by and large. Until I came to University, where the walls are thin and I live with fourteen other people who I'm sure would rather hear my music than the creaking of a very old bed and/or heaven forbid my cries of passion. I pay for my spotify so I didn't have to worry about adverts thankfully, but the main thing I wondered was WHAT music to play. So much so that so far I've just chucked on my current month's playlist and hoped for the best.
Today I decided, I'd like to create a sexy playlist. But what the hell music did I find sexy? And surely did it not depend on the type of sex I was having? Were songs about sex sexy? Or was it the actual rhythm that was sexy? Was a sexy song a song I'd listen to at another time? The Smiths are my favourite band but would it ever be appropriate to have sex to one of their songs?
So I did what I always do when I'm confused, I asked the good people of Facebook. And because my friends are wonderful I got so many replies. And it was all so different. Slow RnB- Ne-yo, Pretty Ricky, Marvin Gaye. 'Scary' rock music- Nirvana, The Mars Volta. John Mayer. Prince. To name but a few. I asked my flatmates (who I love so much, there you go guys, thank you for reading) and everyone felt differently from Toots and the Maytals to Def Leppard. I was more confused than ever.
I started making a tentative list, and it all went wrong. I've had great sex to Arcade Fire but could I find a song that I found actively 'sexy'? No. I've had amazing sex to Bon Iver but same problem. I think 'Time is Running Out' by Muse is a really sexy song, but I don't think I want to have sex to a song with lyrics such as, 'You will be the death of me.'
Everyone else seems to know what they like to listen to when they get down, whether it be Ne-yo or The Mars Volta and I just don't have a clue.
So help me out everyone...here is my sex playlist, tell me what I need to do to it. Is it too slow? Is it too fast? I want it to encompass romantic lovemaking and also the occasional dirty fuck. Help! Is John Mayer too 30 year old mum? Is Ellie Goulding too main stream?
Here's a link to my playlist: Sex?
Facebook me with your advice, I need your help. My sex life is suffering.
*I really don't like the Notebook. Soz.
Of course I know what to listen to after sex... Always this.
Friday, 13 May 2011
Exciting News & A Couple of Romantic Truths
Hello all, I come with news from other lands. News from Surrey anyway. I have been elected Literature Editor for The Stag (university newspaper). How exciting!
Now, I will get on to be intended subject matter. I can wax lyrical about Feminism. I really do believe all the things I have written previously about women's rights, gender roles etc see here and of course, the one I always implore you to read here.
HOWEVER, I cannot speak for all women, but this is all I have ever really wanted:
Now, I will get on to be intended subject matter. I can wax lyrical about Feminism. I really do believe all the things I have written previously about women's rights, gender roles etc see here and of course, the one I always implore you to read here.
HOWEVER, I cannot speak for all women, but this is all I have ever really wanted:
(How cool do I look with my 'euro-trash, post-modern' also unread, novel on the table?)
Yes, they are from Tristan. Yes, they are roses. Yes they are in my favourite colours: pink and cream. They came with a handwritten letter. (Obviously written in his hand, otherwise it would be weird...)
I hate stereotypes. I really do. I never ever want to what people expect me to be. I try as hard I can not to stereotype people (although I probably do all the time...definitely in this blog) but I love receiving flowers. And I think all women do really. There is something about a perfectly chosen bouquet that no other present can beat. It's the very best way to say I love you.
The letter was the best of all. For all the men reading this, write more letters in your life! Fuck it, for anyone reading this...write more letters. They last forever and they are so much more personal than an email, a text, a phone call.
If you don't believe me, imagine these words handwritten:
'Before I met you, I fear I was sleeping, missing out on countless opportunities in favour of chasing fruitless pursuits.....I love you for everything. Your optimism, your passion, you kiss and the ice cream stain on your coat.'
-Tristan Redburn
So I might be a Feminist but I still want to recieve flowers and letters like this. I mean in all honesty, who wouldn't?
Tristan, this is for you.
'If they stop loving you, I won't stop loving you. If they stop needing you, I'll still need you my dear.'
You know what that means <3
Monday, 9 May 2011
Stockings and Suspenders: Sexy or Sickening?
I love underwear. I am more gentle with my bras and knickers than any of my dresses or shoes (even the ones I spent over £50 pounds on) and I am obsessed with beautiful lingerie. But prior to this year's Valentines day I had never bought 'sexy' underwear. And by 'sexy' underwear I mean the kind of underwear you don't wear under your clothes. The kind of underwear that is a set of clothes in itself. I'm talking the whole hog- suspenders, thong, corset, babydoll, whatever.
It was a bit terrifying going shopping for this underwear. I felt like I was walking around harbouring a dirty secret. My first stop was (and oh god, don't judge me) Primark. Now, I am going to say loudly and clearly if you are ever trying to be sexy do not buy a corset from Primark. Sexy is more than aesthetic, its the way something feels and most importantly (cliched but true) it is the way it makes you feel. I don't think I would feel sexy wearing uncomfortable, badly made, itchy fabrics. The corsets in Primark feel either slimey or just plain itchy. Plus, the colour scheme sucks.
My next stop was Ann Summers. Now I've previously described here how Ann Summers made me feel. Yes, it is an adult's playground in luxury colours with the feeling of a very high class Parisian boudoir but it's also a little bit intimidating. I wandered around nervously touching outfits I felt I'd need a couple of very stiff drinks before I even contemplated wearing them. I was asked if I needed help by a shop assistant and I really did need help, so I said yes. And she was lovely. She asked me my budget (limited) and what I was looking for (something that my boyfriend will like and I will not feel ridiculous wearing). The first thing she pointed me towards with underwear in a box. Now I'm not going to lie, I'm a complete and total snob, but underwear in a box, really? I can only describe this garment as akin to fishnet tights. It was almost like a see through, skin tight and very short dress. It was also hideous. In fact here it is so you can decide for yourself:
It was a bit terrifying going shopping for this underwear. I felt like I was walking around harbouring a dirty secret. My first stop was (and oh god, don't judge me) Primark. Now, I am going to say loudly and clearly if you are ever trying to be sexy do not buy a corset from Primark. Sexy is more than aesthetic, its the way something feels and most importantly (cliched but true) it is the way it makes you feel. I don't think I would feel sexy wearing uncomfortable, badly made, itchy fabrics. The corsets in Primark feel either slimey or just plain itchy. Plus, the colour scheme sucks.
My next stop was Ann Summers. Now I've previously described here how Ann Summers made me feel. Yes, it is an adult's playground in luxury colours with the feeling of a very high class Parisian boudoir but it's also a little bit intimidating. I wandered around nervously touching outfits I felt I'd need a couple of very stiff drinks before I even contemplated wearing them. I was asked if I needed help by a shop assistant and I really did need help, so I said yes. And she was lovely. She asked me my budget (limited) and what I was looking for (something that my boyfriend will like and I will not feel ridiculous wearing). The first thing she pointed me towards with underwear in a box. Now I'm not going to lie, I'm a complete and total snob, but underwear in a box, really? I can only describe this garment as akin to fishnet tights. It was almost like a see through, skin tight and very short dress. It was also hideous. In fact here it is so you can decide for yourself:
It looked worse in the box
So on this rather beautiful woman, it doesn't look too bad. In fact it looks quite good. But she is shaped like a french fry and unfortunately I am shaped more like a potato wedge. Getting my size 12 bum and hips into a piece of sexy netting that exposes my less than toned stomach was about the least sexual thing I could imagine, so I politely declined.
I ended up with a babydoll, in black and red, with gorgeous black lacey knickers to match and plain black suspenders. Even when it comes to sexy underwear I am plain it seems..
The best part about what I bought was the knickers actually. I refused the thong- I've never really 'got into' thongs massively. The knickers are made of the nicest fabric ever, although they bloody should be for £11. The whole little lot (incl. suspenders) came to £43 (a small fortune to a student.)
At first I was estatic with my purchases. I felt the seixest I'd ever felt when I tried the whole outfit on in my room with my high heels. Then I realised the suspenders (despite being reasonably expensive) were rubbish and kept slipping down. Plus suspenders don't really suit people with thighs that aren't sinewy and willowy. Also I couldn't wear the babydoll without a bra because my breasts looked terrible and were in danger of spilling out. Then I felt ill because I'd spent my food budget for nearly 2 weeks on clothes I was only going to wear once or twice and that would of course be hastily removed. The nicer the underwear the quicker it comes off. Depressing.
Then I started really thinking. And I don't do this a lot, so it's pretty exciting. And I was wondering what do I think is sexy. I could tell you what I think is sexy about a man. But what do I think is sexy on a woman? Honestly, I think small breasts are sexy. Really small ones (which sucks because mine do not fit into this category.) Hips are sexy. A not completely toned stomach. And tight black underwear. Not lacey, plain. And a black bra. Simple. So why the fuck was I trussing myself up in satin, lace, and god knows what other fabrics?
My beautiful friend Ava (go watch her videos, she's brilliant) suggested that Ann Summers was a bit of a male fantasy land and to an extent I agree. I don't find the clothes sexy, or ir if I do, it is a certain type of sexy. I think a man is sexiest when he is being himself, confident and happy in a nice suit or a good pair of jeans. Perhaps a suit is dressing up but it certainly is of a different calibre to world of corsets and babydolls. The kind of sexy Ann Summers clothing promotes is a bit fake. A trussed up, over done version of sexy. The models don't look like real women with their perfect bodies, blow dried hair and falsh eyelashes. Also, who the fuck wears stilletos in the bedroom?
I'm all in favour of spicing things up in the bedroom and I suppose these outfits could do just that. Its just I feel that so many of them don't tap into a female fantasy. They don't make the woman feel sexy, or even think about what a woman would wear to feel sexy. They are all for show. They only work from the outside. I'm going to use this particular garment as an example:
To me this is a male fantasy (it's also crotchless). When describing this product on the website the writer constantly states that it will, 'guranteed to get his attention', what about guranteed to make you feel gorgeous? This isn't even metioned.
I'm trying not to go on a Feminist diatribe. I'm trying to just evaluate how I feel about Ann Summers. I could be wrong. If it works for you, that's great. If it does make you feel sexy, then that is brilliant. But what I worry about is women wearing these clothes not for themselves but for a man.
Maybe I'm just bitter because outfits like this are definately not designed for my 34F breasts, 'child bearing' hips and slightly more wobbly than I would like stomach. And let's not talk about thighs at all. On the plus side, I certainly won't need to invest in Ann Summers 'instant boob job bra'.
Not needed for today, thank you!
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Man Up. No, Shut Up.
I have half an hour before I need to get ready for work (yes it's 3.30, but I work in a hotel so 9 to 5 doesn't really exist). Anyway, half an hour is just about enough time for a mini gripe: I really hate the phrase, 'Man Up'.
I have a vivid memory of being genuinely upset about the death of my Grandma's dog. I understand this is hardly, as tragedies go, massive but I was young and I loved that dog! I was crying, and perhaps a friend could have suggested that I was overreacting or that worse things happen etc. No, I was told simply to 'Man up'
I have two problems with this phrase:
1) It suggests that men don't have emotions, that men are always tough. And this is bollocks. Moreover, it's wrong to suggest that to be manly, a man must be strong and silent. Men have emotions and should be allowed to express them.
2) Why should a woman be told to act like a man? What's wrong with being a woman? And why does showing emotion make you a 'woman'? Why does being strong make you a 'man'?
OK I know it's only a phrase and maybe I should 'lighten up', but it's not so much the phrase but the values the phrase promotes. The idea that to be a respected and successful woman, women should take on more stereotypically 'male' characteristics. Perhaps the most prevalent issue for me is the fact that I feel so uncool saying these things. Feminism isn't cool or sexy. But, really, what's cooler than standing up for your rights? What's sexier than having an opinion?
I have to go to work now so I can't develop this argument as much as it warrants, but I would implore you all to read 'Female Chauvinist Pigs- Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture' by Ariel Levy. It pretty much presents the same argument I've attempted in this blog but much more articulately. Levy is the modern day, post-feminist answer to Friedan, and she's excellent.
Finally, on the subject of Feminism...
I shall shamelessly plug myself here, only because it is my favourite thing I've ever written.
I have a vivid memory of being genuinely upset about the death of my Grandma's dog. I understand this is hardly, as tragedies go, massive but I was young and I loved that dog! I was crying, and perhaps a friend could have suggested that I was overreacting or that worse things happen etc. No, I was told simply to 'Man up'
I have two problems with this phrase:
1) It suggests that men don't have emotions, that men are always tough. And this is bollocks. Moreover, it's wrong to suggest that to be manly, a man must be strong and silent. Men have emotions and should be allowed to express them.
2) Why should a woman be told to act like a man? What's wrong with being a woman? And why does showing emotion make you a 'woman'? Why does being strong make you a 'man'?
OK I know it's only a phrase and maybe I should 'lighten up', but it's not so much the phrase but the values the phrase promotes. The idea that to be a respected and successful woman, women should take on more stereotypically 'male' characteristics. Perhaps the most prevalent issue for me is the fact that I feel so uncool saying these things. Feminism isn't cool or sexy. But, really, what's cooler than standing up for your rights? What's sexier than having an opinion?
I have to go to work now so I can't develop this argument as much as it warrants, but I would implore you all to read 'Female Chauvinist Pigs- Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture' by Ariel Levy. It pretty much presents the same argument I've attempted in this blog but much more articulately. Levy is the modern day, post-feminist answer to Friedan, and she's excellent.
'What a woman was criticized for doing yesterday she is ridiculed for not doing today.'-Edith Wharton, 1915
I shall shamelessly plug myself here, only because it is my favourite thing I've ever written.
Friday, 6 May 2011
I'm Writing About Sex.
I write this with shaking hands. It's my first foray into content of a more sexual nature. I'm actually laughing now. OH AND DAD, SERIOUSLY...PISS OFF. I can hear you shouting at me from the bathroom, and yes, it is funny shouting, 'Mum's on the bus!' mimicking my South London accent once, but over and over again can get quite annoying. Also, you're in the shower, can't you wash yourself instead? So there you go, now please stop reading.
Picture the scene. Romantic holiday inBath
Now, I'm beginning to sound like prior to my visit to Ann Summers I was some poor little Victorian lady with my piano legs covered up and 'sex' was a dirty word. Not at all. It was just quite an exciting experience.
Anyway, so Tristan and I decided to take a look in Ann Summers and we had a right giggle at the large dildos. Me holding one up tentatively and saying, 'For your pleasure?' or 'Do you feel emasculated yet?’ Aside from an awkward scrabble where we both ended up with 'Champagne ' flavoured lube on our hands (don't bother with it- it tastes just like very sweet and very cheap tinned peaches) it was an enjoyable experience for the both of us. Whilst tentatively fingering (ha) the vibrators I said to Tris, 'This'd be amazing'. Obviously, I was holding the 'rampant rabbit', which as far as I can see is the 'Rolls Royce' of vibrators. Tristan responded with, 'it’s a shame we can't afford to use any of this stuff eh?’ It seems that exotically coloured pieces of vibrating plastic in the shape of bunnies carry a hefty price tag. Then I came up with a rather uninspired idea, 'Wouldn't it be great if people paid to read about our sexploits? Then we could buy all this crazy shit and then I could write about it?' Tristan then replied, with a comment which just about sums up why I am completely in love with him, 'You could send it to The Stag.' The Stag is my University Paper. I don't think the Stag or the good people who read it want to read about what it feels like to have my bits lathered in decadently flavoured lube. Much less I don't think a free paper would pay me to write about them!
Then we got talking about it more seriously. We'd left Ann Summers by this point and had a small play fight, culminating in me spitting on Tristan's hand and having my spit rubbed back on my t-shirt (never said we were the most sophisticated couple) and I started to think 'Why the fuck not?' I mean everyone who reads the Stag is 18+. I can send my articles in anonymously and they won't pay me but I can still send articles in. And hey no one else writes about sex in the university paper. If they don't publish them I will write riotous articles about CENSORSHIT (or some other hilarious pun involving the word 'censorship' I'm a little bit pressed for time).
So Tristan's cool with it, I'm cool with it. We're both adults who like sex. And I'm an adult who likes writing, why not combine these two pleasures?
The ideas started popping out of my head:
Ann Summers: Resplendent or Repressed? (All credit goes to Ava, who is far more liberated and cool than I ever could be)
The Art of Anal (a bit of a joke that one)
Ditch Your Man, Buy a Vibrator?
etc etc.
If you own a vibrator, I'd really love to hear what it's like, so don't be shy get in touch!
Finally if you're into sex blogs read this one:
Brighton Ivy It's really rather good
And if you enjoy that
Then read her bloke's blog as well
http://www.southeastsexandsanity.blogspot.com/
Both are brilliant!
And Dad, if you read that, please never ever discuss it with me.
Anyway, get in touch with your views on sexploits etc. Tell your sexy stories and tell me your views! I love you dear readers. I'm going to have my lunch now.
Picture the scene. Romantic holiday in
Now, I'm beginning to sound like prior to my visit to Ann Summers I was some poor little Victorian lady with my piano legs covered up and 'sex' was a dirty word. Not at all. It was just quite an exciting experience.
Anyway, so Tristan and I decided to take a look in Ann Summers and we had a right giggle at the large dildos. Me holding one up tentatively and saying, 'For your pleasure?' or 'Do you feel emasculated yet?’ Aside from an awkward scrabble where we both ended up with '
Then we got talking about it more seriously. We'd left Ann Summers by this point and had a small play fight, culminating in me spitting on Tristan's hand and having my spit rubbed back on my t-shirt (never said we were the most sophisticated couple) and I started to think 'Why the fuck not?' I mean everyone who reads the Stag is 18+. I can send my articles in anonymously and they won't pay me but I can still send articles in. And hey no one else writes about sex in the university paper. If they don't publish them I will write riotous articles about CENSORSHIT (or some other hilarious pun involving the word 'censorship' I'm a little bit pressed for time).
So Tristan's cool with it, I'm cool with it. We're both adults who like sex. And I'm an adult who likes writing, why not combine these two pleasures?
The ideas started popping out of my head:
Ann Summers: Resplendent or Repressed? (All credit goes to Ava, who is far more liberated and cool than I ever could be)
The Art of Anal (a bit of a joke that one)
Ditch Your Man, Buy a Vibrator?
etc etc.
If you own a vibrator, I'd really love to hear what it's like, so don't be shy get in touch!
Finally if you're into sex blogs read this one:
Brighton Ivy It's really rather good
And if you enjoy that
Then read her bloke's blog as well
http://www.southeastsexandsanity.blogspot.com/
Both are brilliant!
And Dad, if you read that, please never ever discuss it with me.
Anyway, get in touch with your views on sexploits etc. Tell your sexy stories and tell me your views! I love you dear readers. I'm going to have my lunch now.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
VOTE!
Today is the day of the referendum. My facebook has been flooded with statuses telling me to vote (in the main) Yes (not sure why they felt the need to capitalise it, but hey ho) and I am very happy about this. Not because I am voting 'Yes', but simply because it means that people are voting!
In the most recent general election there was a 65.1% turnout with 29,653,638 votes cast (http://www.general-election-2010.co.uk/2010-general-election-results.html). And we all know it is the young people who don't vote. But you should vote! It doesn't matter whether you are voting yes or no, I couldn't care less WHAT you're voting I'm just asking you to vote!
I do understand the argument that if you don't understand what you are voting for you shouldn't waste your vote at all, however it only takes a google search and about 5 minutes of reading to get your head around whether you like AV or you like FFTP.
I went down to my local polling station at 3 o'clock and I was the only person there. I was told by the people working there it had been 'very quiet', their half finished sudokus and cups of tea said it all. It made me so sad. Voting is YOUR right given to you by YOUR government!
I reckon it comes down to this:
If you love England... VOTE
If you hate England... VOTE
If you love the Government...VOTE
If you hate the Government...VOTE
If you're ambivalent...stop being such a waste of space, no one likes people with no opinions
We are lucky to live in country where we can vote, regardless of gender, race etc. It's easy to think 'one person won't make a difference' but if everyone had that mentality... Plus, this is YOUR vote, don't throw it away! Incidentally we have no excuse the polling station is open today from 7am- 10pm.
Please, please, please vote. It does matter, your opinion matters! If you do vote, I'll shut up and I'll give you cookies :)
If you're unsure, this website is amazing and you can even link it to our national obsession facebook!
http://wrangl.com/av
P.S I voted no. Soz guys. I'm not a worthy student.
P.P.S Doesn't matter if you vote yes or no, just vote!!!
In the most recent general election there was a 65.1% turnout with 29,653,638 votes cast (http://www.general-election-2010.co.uk/2010-general-election-results.html). And we all know it is the young people who don't vote. But you should vote! It doesn't matter whether you are voting yes or no, I couldn't care less WHAT you're voting I'm just asking you to vote!
I do understand the argument that if you don't understand what you are voting for you shouldn't waste your vote at all, however it only takes a google search and about 5 minutes of reading to get your head around whether you like AV or you like FFTP.
I went down to my local polling station at 3 o'clock and I was the only person there. I was told by the people working there it had been 'very quiet', their half finished sudokus and cups of tea said it all. It made me so sad. Voting is YOUR right given to you by YOUR government!
I reckon it comes down to this:
If you love England... VOTE
If you hate England... VOTE
If you love the Government...VOTE
If you hate the Government...VOTE
If you're ambivalent...stop being such a waste of space, no one likes people with no opinions
We are lucky to live in country where we can vote, regardless of gender, race etc. It's easy to think 'one person won't make a difference' but if everyone had that mentality... Plus, this is YOUR vote, don't throw it away! Incidentally we have no excuse the polling station is open today from 7am- 10pm.
Please, please, please vote. It does matter, your opinion matters! If you do vote, I'll shut up and I'll give you cookies :)
If you're unsure, this website is amazing and you can even link it to our national obsession facebook!
http://wrangl.com/av
P.S I voted no. Soz guys. I'm not a worthy student.
P.P.S Doesn't matter if you vote yes or no, just vote!!!
Wednesday, 4 May 2011
Writing & Sexy Things in a Paper Near You?
I've really been neglecting my blog of late. Sorry blog.
Talking of neglecting things I wanted to write about something which really annoys and saddens me: my ability to start and not finish anything. This blog is a good example of this- I leave it for over a month and then post, then forget about it, then get excited over it again...
Anyway, I went on a little sojourn with 'ma boy' to Bath over the Royal Wedding Weekend (and it was lovely- wonderful city!) and whilst I was away I realised that I had to write 1000 words of fiction for Friday for my creative writing coursework. Boyfriend was slightly irritated with me for not realising whilst I flippantly replied 'It's fine I'll bash it out in half an hour.' And, all arrogance aside, I did 'bash out' 3 different pieces of 1000 words in length over the course of two hours. Pretty impressive stuff, and the quality was good. I really should get my head out of my arse, don't worry I'm getting to the part where self loathing creeps in and you can like me again. I had three stories: one set on a imaginary island about a girl who befriends a deaf boy (think fairies, mermaids etc); one about a woman who commits a murder in Walthamstow and of course the good old statue story.
The statue story, incidentally, is something I've had in my head for years. When I'm bored on trains or waiting for things I like to embellish it. Yet, despite having thought about it for about 4 years I've only ever written about 2000 (and that's being generous) words towards its creation.
The point I'm trying to make here is I can start something but never finish it. This mainly applies to writing, but I've always wanted to be a writer (in a vague, abstract, airyfairy way) but I'm far too lazy. It makes me sad, when I think about these ideas, the stories, blowing away into the sky never pined down by a pen and slowly forgotten. The details bore me: the punctuation; the family histories of my characters; the moments of low drama... Oh! To write only the love scene, fight scene and death scene!
My main ambition in life has been to write a book that some reputable source such as the Guardian would describe as, 'beautiful'. However, 'beautiful' books don't sell many copies and my book would have to be a best seller. So not only would it be 'beautiful' but it would be one of those rare books which is penetrable for both Literature buffs and the Waterstones masses. In short: a masterpiece. I even have a plot for my book. It is whimsical, ridiculous, full of tedious metaphors and 'erotically charged moments' and whatnot. This dream is unrealistic even for well established writers; let alone 19 year girls who cannot put pen to paper. If you do ever see my name in print, please buy the book purely on account of the fact I actually managed to write it!
NOW DAD IF YOU ARE READING THIS FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP!! I HAVE ASKED YOU TIME AND TIME AGAIN AND IF YOU DON'T STOP READING IT I WILL HAVE TO DELETE MY BLOG. I love you, but please desist, what you are about to read is 'of a personal nature' and will only upset you! Go on, click off now. Thank you.
Stop Reading Here If You Are:
A) Offended by lewd or bawdy content.
B) My Father
C) Anyone in my family at all.
In an aside, I'm thinking about writing anal sex . The idea came from a conversation with Tristan in Ann Summers and he's very much in favour. If they publish it I will super impressed and if they don't it'll give me something wonderful to complain about.
It makes compelling reading in one of my favourite blogs: http://brightonivy.blogspot.com/ Anyway, tell me what you think via facebook, email or whatever dear readers!
I'm off to the pub.
Talking of neglecting things I wanted to write about something which really annoys and saddens me: my ability to start and not finish anything. This blog is a good example of this- I leave it for over a month and then post, then forget about it, then get excited over it again...
Anyway, I went on a little sojourn with 'ma boy' to Bath over the Royal Wedding Weekend (and it was lovely- wonderful city!) and whilst I was away I realised that I had to write 1000 words of fiction for Friday for my creative writing coursework. Boyfriend was slightly irritated with me for not realising whilst I flippantly replied 'It's fine I'll bash it out in half an hour.' And, all arrogance aside, I did 'bash out' 3 different pieces of 1000 words in length over the course of two hours. Pretty impressive stuff, and the quality was good. I really should get my head out of my arse, don't worry I'm getting to the part where self loathing creeps in and you can like me again. I had three stories: one set on a imaginary island about a girl who befriends a deaf boy (think fairies, mermaids etc); one about a woman who commits a murder in Walthamstow and of course the good old statue story.
The statue story, incidentally, is something I've had in my head for years. When I'm bored on trains or waiting for things I like to embellish it. Yet, despite having thought about it for about 4 years I've only ever written about 2000 (and that's being generous) words towards its creation.
The point I'm trying to make here is I can start something but never finish it. This mainly applies to writing, but I've always wanted to be a writer (in a vague, abstract, airyfairy way) but I'm far too lazy. It makes me sad, when I think about these ideas, the stories, blowing away into the sky never pined down by a pen and slowly forgotten. The details bore me: the punctuation; the family histories of my characters; the moments of low drama... Oh! To write only the love scene, fight scene and death scene!
My main ambition in life has been to write a book that some reputable source such as the Guardian would describe as, 'beautiful'. However, 'beautiful' books don't sell many copies and my book would have to be a best seller. So not only would it be 'beautiful' but it would be one of those rare books which is penetrable for both Literature buffs and the Waterstones masses. In short: a masterpiece. I even have a plot for my book. It is whimsical, ridiculous, full of tedious metaphors and 'erotically charged moments' and whatnot. This dream is unrealistic even for well established writers; let alone 19 year girls who cannot put pen to paper. If you do ever see my name in print, please buy the book purely on account of the fact I actually managed to write it!
NOW DAD IF YOU ARE READING THIS FOR GOD'S SAKE STOP!! I HAVE ASKED YOU TIME AND TIME AGAIN AND IF YOU DON'T STOP READING IT I WILL HAVE TO DELETE MY BLOG. I love you, but please desist, what you are about to read is 'of a personal nature' and will only upset you! Go on, click off now. Thank you.
Stop Reading Here If You Are:
A) Offended by lewd or bawdy content.
B) My Father
C) Anyone in my family at all.
In an aside, I'm thinking about writing anal sex . The idea came from a conversation with Tristan in Ann Summers and he's very much in favour. If they publish it I will super impressed and if they don't it'll give me something wonderful to complain about.
It makes compelling reading in one of my favourite blogs: http://brightonivy.blogspot.com/ Anyway, tell me what you think via facebook, email or whatever dear readers!
I'm off to the pub.
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Hairy Woman, Walking Down The Street: Would This Really Be The Kind You'd Like To Meet?
I'm a really girly girl. I straighten my hair every day, I love make up and it can take up to an hour and a half for me to be completely 'ready' for a night out. I blow all my money on clothes and spend hours on clothing websites. However, there's one thing I really hate doing. Hair removal.
I have thick dark brown hair, which is gorgeous on my head. As for everywhere else: I shave my legs, wax my arm pits, wax my stomach, pluck my eyebrows, hair removal cream my top lip, hair removal cream my bikni line, shave/hair removal my actual lady bits, bleach my back (in the summer), and I'm thinking about waxing my arms. Oh and I exfoliate prior to this and then moisture afterwards. Coupled with the fact I have sensitive skin I'm always battling against the threat of irritation, spots or rashes so I have to test each product 24 hours before. Oh, and I do this twice a week! Four times in the summer! Not to mention the money I spend on all of this (baring in mind hair removal cream is about £4 and I use two bottles a month) it takes ages. The whole process can take up to 3 hours.
I'm not going to pretend I don't love the feeling of smooth bare legs in the summer or that I'd enjoy having a moustache but it seems ridiculous that every time I see my boyfriend (even in the dead of winter) I need to have an entirely sleek and smooth body. I've never really discussed in detail how my boyfriend feels about stubble but I doubt he'd like it. The thing I don't understand is the shaving of pubes. It makes me look like I'm six years old and a pornstar. Maybe that's the point. I don't know understand why it is so unacceptable in our society to be au natureale. The hair grows for a reason, and if it was so unnatural it wouldn't grow so why must have little hair be waxed, shaved, epilated or chemically pulled out? Not to mention, some of these treatments are painful!
If I could I'd let my leg hair grow all winter to provide a nice warm coat (hey, in Britain I need it) then I'd pay for it to waxed off by a professional at the beginning of the summer. My boyfriend often asked me why I don't just get waxed.....I can't afford it! If every single little hair has to be removed then I can't afford a wax once a month. I'm a student! I understand that men shave their faces every day and 'trim their garden' but with an electric shaver it takes a few minutes. To gain a smooth shave on my legs it takes about 15 minutes.
All the other beauty treatments I do (from dying my hair to wearing foundation) I do for myself. I feel like I shave to be accepted in society. It's not something I enjoy at all. Paticularly the pubes, as they terrify me when I've just shaved them. It looks like an alien.
So my choice is to continue with my hair removal treatments and occassionally bitch and moan about it or stage a Julia Roberts Esque protest. And I totally love Julia Roberts. I think she's beautiful and a brilliant actress. Pretty Woman is my favourite film of all time, but still, I cringe when I see this photo of her at the premiere of Notting Hill.
I have thick dark brown hair, which is gorgeous on my head. As for everywhere else: I shave my legs, wax my arm pits, wax my stomach, pluck my eyebrows, hair removal cream my top lip, hair removal cream my bikni line, shave/hair removal my actual lady bits, bleach my back (in the summer), and I'm thinking about waxing my arms. Oh and I exfoliate prior to this and then moisture afterwards. Coupled with the fact I have sensitive skin I'm always battling against the threat of irritation, spots or rashes so I have to test each product 24 hours before. Oh, and I do this twice a week! Four times in the summer! Not to mention the money I spend on all of this (baring in mind hair removal cream is about £4 and I use two bottles a month) it takes ages. The whole process can take up to 3 hours.
I'm not going to pretend I don't love the feeling of smooth bare legs in the summer or that I'd enjoy having a moustache but it seems ridiculous that every time I see my boyfriend (even in the dead of winter) I need to have an entirely sleek and smooth body. I've never really discussed in detail how my boyfriend feels about stubble but I doubt he'd like it. The thing I don't understand is the shaving of pubes. It makes me look like I'm six years old and a pornstar. Maybe that's the point. I don't know understand why it is so unacceptable in our society to be au natureale. The hair grows for a reason, and if it was so unnatural it wouldn't grow so why must have little hair be waxed, shaved, epilated or chemically pulled out? Not to mention, some of these treatments are painful!
If I could I'd let my leg hair grow all winter to provide a nice warm coat (hey, in Britain I need it) then I'd pay for it to waxed off by a professional at the beginning of the summer. My boyfriend often asked me why I don't just get waxed.....I can't afford it! If every single little hair has to be removed then I can't afford a wax once a month. I'm a student! I understand that men shave their faces every day and 'trim their garden' but with an electric shaver it takes a few minutes. To gain a smooth shave on my legs it takes about 15 minutes.
All the other beauty treatments I do (from dying my hair to wearing foundation) I do for myself. I feel like I shave to be accepted in society. It's not something I enjoy at all. Paticularly the pubes, as they terrify me when I've just shaved them. It looks like an alien.
So my choice is to continue with my hair removal treatments and occassionally bitch and moan about it or stage a Julia Roberts Esque protest. And I totally love Julia Roberts. I think she's beautiful and a brilliant actress. Pretty Woman is my favourite film of all time, but still, I cringe when I see this photo of her at the premiere of Notting Hill.
Monday, 21 March 2011
'Die Young and Save Yourself' or How I Grew Old and Still Listened to Emo Music
‘Die Young and Save Yourself’ or How I Grew Old and Still Listened to Emo Music
The Smiths are my favourite band. Perhaps some but consider them a guilty pleasure but I don’t. I think they are unrivalled and possibly the greatest band that there ever was (excluding the Beatles). But don’t worry I’m not here to wax lyrical about my undying love for Morrissey or indeed the whole of the ’80s. It’s funny that some would consider the ‘80s as a bit of a write off period musically or consider bands like Soft Cell as definitely falling under the header of ‘Wedding Disco’ or ‘Guilty Pleasure.’
For me, my guilty pleasure is a modern band. A modern American band. I used to be a really big emo. Admitting this is causing me quite high levels of discomfort. I like Arcade Fire and my favourite colour is pink. I’ve renounced all but one of my emo indulgences. That indulgence is Brand New.
I liked a plethora of emo bands: Jimmy Eat World, Taking Back Sunday, My Chemical Romance, The Used, but most notably Brand New. Brand New were my number one favourite. I hear their most recent albums have been very good but the only ones I ever listen to are their 2001 release ‘Your Favourite Weapon’ and 2003’s ‘Deja Entendu’. When I listen to these two albums I feel angry and confused (just as I did when I was 13-16) but most of all I feel young. Brand New meant something to me, pathetic though that might sound. They meant I didn’t have to be the person my parents or teachers wanted me to be. They meant I was part of something that older generations could never understand. Emo was a youth movement and Brand New embodied the movement for me. The anger in sons like ‘Seventy Times Seven’ (‘Don’t apologize! I hope you choke you die!’) helped me get through those angsty, spot-ridden teenage years.
I went to see Brand New when I was about 14. It is one of my very best memories. I squeezed myself into Topshop’s skinniest drainpipes, wore two studded belts (to show I was hardcore) and cut my fringe even further into my eyes to mark the occasion. Embarrassingly, I actually cried during the set (during ‘The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot’) I found it that moving. I went with my best friends and we used about 4 eyeliner pencils between the 8 of us. We screamed, shouted, danced, ‘moshed’ and yes, cried together. Hey, as lyrics go, these ones are pretty emotional: ‘You are the smell before rain/You are the blood in my veins.’ (I am glad, however, that I decided against getting this tattooed around my wrist, as was my original plan.)
Brand New remind me of being a teenager and will always have a place in my heart and on my spotify. Even if the Smiths did steal their position as ‘best band ever’. But perhaps Brand New knew that would happen anyway, as they said in ‘Mix Tape’, ‘you always criticise The Smiths and Morrissey/ [But] I know you’re a sucker for anything acoustic.’
The Smiths are my favourite band. Perhaps some but consider them a guilty pleasure but I don’t. I think they are unrivalled and possibly the greatest band that there ever was (excluding the Beatles). But don’t worry I’m not here to wax lyrical about my undying love for Morrissey or indeed the whole of the ’80s. It’s funny that some would consider the ‘80s as a bit of a write off period musically or consider bands like Soft Cell as definitely falling under the header of ‘Wedding Disco’ or ‘Guilty Pleasure.’
For me, my guilty pleasure is a modern band. A modern American band. I used to be a really big emo. Admitting this is causing me quite high levels of discomfort. I like Arcade Fire and my favourite colour is pink. I’ve renounced all but one of my emo indulgences. That indulgence is Brand New.
I liked a plethora of emo bands: Jimmy Eat World, Taking Back Sunday, My Chemical Romance, The Used, but most notably Brand New. Brand New were my number one favourite. I hear their most recent albums have been very good but the only ones I ever listen to are their 2001 release ‘Your Favourite Weapon’ and 2003’s ‘Deja Entendu’. When I listen to these two albums I feel angry and confused (just as I did when I was 13-16) but most of all I feel young. Brand New meant something to me, pathetic though that might sound. They meant I didn’t have to be the person my parents or teachers wanted me to be. They meant I was part of something that older generations could never understand. Emo was a youth movement and Brand New embodied the movement for me. The anger in sons like ‘Seventy Times Seven’ (‘Don’t apologize! I hope you choke you die!’) helped me get through those angsty, spot-ridden teenage years.
I went to see Brand New when I was about 14. It is one of my very best memories. I squeezed myself into Topshop’s skinniest drainpipes, wore two studded belts (to show I was hardcore) and cut my fringe even further into my eyes to mark the occasion. Embarrassingly, I actually cried during the set (during ‘The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot’) I found it that moving. I went with my best friends and we used about 4 eyeliner pencils between the 8 of us. We screamed, shouted, danced, ‘moshed’ and yes, cried together. Hey, as lyrics go, these ones are pretty emotional: ‘You are the smell before rain/You are the blood in my veins.’ (I am glad, however, that I decided against getting this tattooed around my wrist, as was my original plan.)
Brand New remind me of being a teenager and will always have a place in my heart and on my spotify. Even if the Smiths did steal their position as ‘best band ever’. But perhaps Brand New knew that would happen anyway, as they said in ‘Mix Tape’, ‘you always criticise The Smiths and Morrissey/ [But] I know you’re a sucker for anything acoustic.’
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
THE F WORD: My Name is Alexandra Wilks and I am a Feminist
Feminists are few and far between. It has become almost a taboo to admit that you are a feminist. Feminism is the butt of many chauvinist jokes and something which many people claim that they ‘don’t think about too much.’
Yet men still earn more than women; in 2010 full time male workers earned just over 10 per cent more than their female counterparts. Men are still more successful than women; four out of the twenty nine cabinet ministers are women. Even women who do battle through the glass ceiling have to make choices between their career and having a family. Women are forced to reject their femininity and assume more 'masculine' qualities in order to succeed in a male dominated society. Girls outperform boys at GCSE by 72.4% A*-C grades compared to 65.4% for boys (2010 Guardian Study of GCSE results) and then again at A-level. So why are women less successful in the work place and why do their feminine traits hinder rather than help their progress?
It wouldn’t surprise me if you told me you’d heard this barrage of information before. Anyone who studied Sociology A-level will no doubt be tired of hearing about the ‘gender gap.’ Yet, despite the fact that nationally we are aware that women are earning less, we still argue that feminism is no longer needed in today’s society. Despite all the evidence of a patriarchal society Feminism is still a dirty word. Why?The stereotype of a feminist is the Radical Feminists of the 1970's. These women publicly burnt their bras and hated men. Statements such as, 'All men are potential rapists' and 'a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle' made this approach to women's rights unpopular. After asking several of my male and female friends what they most associate with Feminists the most popular choices were, 'bra burning', 'lesbian' and 'man haters'.
So I looked up Feminism in a dictionary. The dictionary definition of Feminism is 'the advocacy of women's rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes.' Nothing about burning your bra, hating men or being a lesbian then. In fact, surely every well informed person would believe men and women are equal and should be treated as such.
Emily Davison of the suffragette movement died under the king's horse in 1913 for women’s right to vote. A century later and women are rejecting the idea of Feminism all together. The word 'Feminist' has been misconstrued. To be a feminist you do not have to wear trousers or dump your boyfriend. And for men, being a feminist doesn't make you a 'poof'. Every person I know believes in equal rights for men and women. Therefore every person I know is, by definition, a feminist.
Our generation has seen the world change in countless ways (with the birth of the internet, the invention of the mobile phone etc.) yet we still live in a society in which women are treated differently to men. We jumped at the chance to march against the increase in Student Fees, but a ‘Rights for Women’ march would probably have been less popular. The word ‘Feminist’ needs rebranding. It has been claimed by patriarchal society and filled with negative connotations. Surely in 2011 men and woman can stand up for equal rights. Surely, the word feminist need no longer be a taboo.
My name is Alexandra Wilks and I always wear a skirt, love wearing red lipstick and enjoy receiving flowers. My name is Alexandra Wilks and I am a Feminist.
Yet men still earn more than women; in 2010 full time male workers earned just over 10 per cent more than their female counterparts. Men are still more successful than women; four out of the twenty nine cabinet ministers are women. Even women who do battle through the glass ceiling have to make choices between their career and having a family. Women are forced to reject their femininity and assume more 'masculine' qualities in order to succeed in a male dominated society. Girls outperform boys at GCSE by 72.4% A*-C grades compared to 65.4% for boys (2010 Guardian Study of GCSE results) and then again at A-level. So why are women less successful in the work place and why do their feminine traits hinder rather than help their progress?
It wouldn’t surprise me if you told me you’d heard this barrage of information before. Anyone who studied Sociology A-level will no doubt be tired of hearing about the ‘gender gap.’ Yet, despite the fact that nationally we are aware that women are earning less, we still argue that feminism is no longer needed in today’s society. Despite all the evidence of a patriarchal society Feminism is still a dirty word. Why?The stereotype of a feminist is the Radical Feminists of the 1970's. These women publicly burnt their bras and hated men. Statements such as, 'All men are potential rapists' and 'a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle' made this approach to women's rights unpopular. After asking several of my male and female friends what they most associate with Feminists the most popular choices were, 'bra burning', 'lesbian' and 'man haters'.
So I looked up Feminism in a dictionary. The dictionary definition of Feminism is 'the advocacy of women's rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes.' Nothing about burning your bra, hating men or being a lesbian then. In fact, surely every well informed person would believe men and women are equal and should be treated as such.
Emily Davison of the suffragette movement died under the king's horse in 1913 for women’s right to vote. A century later and women are rejecting the idea of Feminism all together. The word 'Feminist' has been misconstrued. To be a feminist you do not have to wear trousers or dump your boyfriend. And for men, being a feminist doesn't make you a 'poof'. Every person I know believes in equal rights for men and women. Therefore every person I know is, by definition, a feminist.
Our generation has seen the world change in countless ways (with the birth of the internet, the invention of the mobile phone etc.) yet we still live in a society in which women are treated differently to men. We jumped at the chance to march against the increase in Student Fees, but a ‘Rights for Women’ march would probably have been less popular. The word ‘Feminist’ needs rebranding. It has been claimed by patriarchal society and filled with negative connotations. Surely in 2011 men and woman can stand up for equal rights. Surely, the word feminist need no longer be a taboo.
My name is Alexandra Wilks and I always wear a skirt, love wearing red lipstick and enjoy receiving flowers. My name is Alexandra Wilks and I am a Feminist.
Monday, 7 February 2011
Girl, You're a Tragedy.
It is 12.29 pm. I am sitting in my room which is in on its usual destructive path to mess. I am wearing my boyfriend's extra large nike hoodie, no bra, and my navy blue tracksuit bottoms. Oh and a ripped t-shirt which I slept in. My hair is unbrushed. A mug of tea and a biscuit is all I have eaten all day. Needless to say I have not showered. It is a Monday and most people have been at work for been at work for 3 plus hours. I battled my way through my required reading til the early hours of today, only to find out my lecture was on a film by Jean Luc Godard (which of course I have not watched). Oh, the irony.
When I naively imagined students at university (we're talking from the ages of say 15 to 17) I imagined arty, intense, bright young men and women with earnest eyes and thick rimmed black glasses. Girls who wear polo necks and don't shave their legs. Boys who drink port and roll filterless cigarettes, their hands shaking from too much coffee. I imagine them staying up til the early hours in libraries with decaying books and soft lamp light and only a black sugarless coffee to keep them company. I can hear their excited cries as they debate (note: not argue) about politics sitting in tight circles with a Communist poster on the wall. They are fiercely left wing, dangerously clever and the epitome of cool.
On my gap yah, I worked on average 60 hours a week. I got up at 5.45 every day and I was pretty much happy about it. I liked my job and I certainly liked the money. Now I complain when I have to get up for a 9 o clock lecture. This semester I have EVERY Thursday and Friday off, and Wednesday off every other week. Being a student has not made me go to the theatre, become radically political (or even know very much about politics), use the library (although I should seeing as I study Literature), boycott Nike or Nestle or whatever company beginning with N is being boycotted these days.
Sadly, the girls and boys of my imagination are probably few and far between and the face of Student Britain probably looks a lot more like me. Usually drunk, wearing ridiculous outfits, eating pasta and spending almost every day in their pajamas and not knowing exactly how to access the library.
When I naively imagined students at university (we're talking from the ages of say 15 to 17) I imagined arty, intense, bright young men and women with earnest eyes and thick rimmed black glasses. Girls who wear polo necks and don't shave their legs. Boys who drink port and roll filterless cigarettes, their hands shaking from too much coffee. I imagine them staying up til the early hours in libraries with decaying books and soft lamp light and only a black sugarless coffee to keep them company. I can hear their excited cries as they debate (note: not argue) about politics sitting in tight circles with a Communist poster on the wall. They are fiercely left wing, dangerously clever and the epitome of cool.
On my gap yah, I worked on average 60 hours a week. I got up at 5.45 every day and I was pretty much happy about it. I liked my job and I certainly liked the money. Now I complain when I have to get up for a 9 o clock lecture. This semester I have EVERY Thursday and Friday off, and Wednesday off every other week. Being a student has not made me go to the theatre, become radically political (or even know very much about politics), use the library (although I should seeing as I study Literature), boycott Nike or Nestle or whatever company beginning with N is being boycotted these days.
Sadly, the girls and boys of my imagination are probably few and far between and the face of Student Britain probably looks a lot more like me. Usually drunk, wearing ridiculous outfits, eating pasta and spending almost every day in their pajamas and not knowing exactly how to access the library.
THE BRIGHT YOUNG MINDS OF BRITAIN TODAY
Monday, 17 January 2011
You're Not 19 Forever...
Hello most cherished readers.
Today is supposedly according to research (??) the most depressing day of the year. Deep. I can see why- it's actually raining or was earlier. I am not depressed especially. I am back in GU2 and enjoying not doing very much revision at all....
Anyway, on the most depressing day of the year I am brought to face a rather scary reality that I won't be young forever. In fact I am already descending into adulthood.
I no longer partake in the usage of recreational drugs (almost certainly a good thing.)
I now suffer from chronic, head crushingly awful hangovers, whereas when I was 17, 18 I could go out 3 or 4 nights on the trot quite happily.
I've had a full time job and paid income tax (on my 'gap yah').
I am in my first, proper grown up long term relationship with an older man (not obsecenely older but 3 and a half years.)
I am (as of Saturday) going to start renting my first house next year. It's amazing! I'm living with Jade, Dave and Alex in a lovely 4 bed.
I've nearly been alive for 2 whole decades.
I am legally (and have been for over a year) an adult.
I am at university: I cook my own meals, I pay my own rent (with a little help from a thing called a loan).
I can nearly drive a car.
I am no longer in compulsory education.
I do my own laundry and regularly at that.
I'm actually getting better at not blowing all my cash in Topshop.
Thing is, sure, I won't 19 forever. But I hope I'm making the most of it.
I've always wanted to be older than I am. Own a house, get married, get two dogs (called Baby and Marbella- don't ask), have a job, cook dinner... you know that sort of thing.
So I have decided in deference (perhaps) or definance to my impending adulthood I am going to do something truly WILD before my 20th Birthday.
Tattoos are out of the question as are piercings (pain is an issue). So it's got to be one last hurrah with the hair. It's been shaved (one side, looked quite good), bright red, very long, black, a gingery colour, purple, very short, shaved up the back (unintentionally, mis communication at the hairdressers...disastrous), excessively straight, sprayed every colour under the sun, beyond greasy (when travelling), curly, put into a beehive, cut by me, cut by my friends, cut by my mother (I looked like a very poor man's Cleopatra) and is now currently a respectable light brown colour...
Although, that is all going to change...
WATCH THIS SPACE.
P.S I should be revising but I love you all so very much I decided to update the blog instead. Aww.
Today is supposedly according to research (??) the most depressing day of the year. Deep. I can see why- it's actually raining or was earlier. I am not depressed especially. I am back in GU2 and enjoying not doing very much revision at all....
Anyway, on the most depressing day of the year I am brought to face a rather scary reality that I won't be young forever. In fact I am already descending into adulthood.
I no longer partake in the usage of recreational drugs (almost certainly a good thing.)
I now suffer from chronic, head crushingly awful hangovers, whereas when I was 17, 18 I could go out 3 or 4 nights on the trot quite happily.
I've had a full time job and paid income tax (on my 'gap yah').
I am in my first, proper grown up long term relationship with an older man (not obsecenely older but 3 and a half years.)
I am (as of Saturday) going to start renting my first house next year. It's amazing! I'm living with Jade, Dave and Alex in a lovely 4 bed.
I've nearly been alive for 2 whole decades.
I am legally (and have been for over a year) an adult.
I am at university: I cook my own meals, I pay my own rent (with a little help from a thing called a loan).
I can nearly drive a car.
I am no longer in compulsory education.
I do my own laundry and regularly at that.
I'm actually getting better at not blowing all my cash in Topshop.
Thing is, sure, I won't 19 forever. But I hope I'm making the most of it.
I've always wanted to be older than I am. Own a house, get married, get two dogs (called Baby and Marbella- don't ask), have a job, cook dinner... you know that sort of thing.
So I have decided in deference (perhaps) or definance to my impending adulthood I am going to do something truly WILD before my 20th Birthday.
Tattoos are out of the question as are piercings (pain is an issue). So it's got to be one last hurrah with the hair. It's been shaved (one side, looked quite good), bright red, very long, black, a gingery colour, purple, very short, shaved up the back (unintentionally, mis communication at the hairdressers...disastrous), excessively straight, sprayed every colour under the sun, beyond greasy (when travelling), curly, put into a beehive, cut by me, cut by my friends, cut by my mother (I looked like a very poor man's Cleopatra) and is now currently a respectable light brown colour...
Although, that is all going to change...
WATCH THIS SPACE.
P.S I should be revising but I love you all so very much I decided to update the blog instead. Aww.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
BOOK VERSUS FILM: Heated Debate.
I haven't really watched many films. This is a revelation that came to me today. I might be one of the only people in the country whose read 'The Princess Bride' but not seen the film. I don't mean this is in a 'superior-tv-rots-your-brain' sort of way, but in a genuine kind of 'what-do-i-do-with-my-time?' way. I watched The Beach today (Leonardo Di Capro looks phenomenal, very young) but I didn't really like it. Compared to the book, it wasn't much. The book was one of my obsessions. I didn't dislike the film I just didn't think it was as good as it could have been. I'm not saying I could have done a better job, I just thought it could have been even better given the material they were working from (the book).
So leads me on to a book versus film debate.
So here goes (if you disagree with me, feel free to tell me, but I'll just shout you down)
AMERICAN PYSCHO: Christian Bale is outrageously good in the film, but overall Bret Easton Ellis is the master. Book.
FIGHT CLUB: Book's not bad. But, overall, Brad Pitt in the '90s? Film.
THE BEACH: Both brilliant. But book.
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD: Gregory Peck is wonderful, but Harper Lee is such an excellent writer. Book.
REBECCA: My boyfriend thinks the Hitchcock film is genius but I would go for book everytime because of 'Last night I dreamt of Manderley' if nothing else. Book.
GREAT EXPECTATIONS: Brilliant story but I really don't like Dickens. Sorry. Film.
HARRY POTTER: Now, this is a controversial one. I love Harry Potter books and films. But overall, it's got to be Films for me. Sorry.
REVOLUTIONARY ROAD: Richard Yates- loved the book. Saw the film- most boring pile of wank. Book.
THE READER: Both excellent and I do really enjoy Kate Winslet. Overall, book though.
THE LORD OF THE RINGS: Reading the book was like wrestling with someone I couldn't see. Difficult. Watching the film was brilliant escapism. Film.
MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA: One of my favourite books as a teenager. Absolute monstrosity of a film. Book.
MATILDA: Not even going to have a debate here. Roald Dahl everytime. Book.
ATONEMENT: I do like the film, Keira Knightley is less annoying than usual and I like how the film is shot. (Not that I know anything about it). But, the subtle nuances (sorry I am an English undergraduate) of the book are what makes it brilliant and ultimately they're lost in the film. Book.
TRAINSPOTTING: I found the Irvine Welsh book difficult and irritating. The film is brilliant. Film.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S: I like Truman Capote. I really do. But, I love Audrey Hepburn. Film.
I CAPTURE THE CASTLE: This is probably my favourite book of all time. I was quite worried about the film, would I hate it? Would it ruin the book? I love the film, I think it's brilliant and faithful to the book and the characterisation is beautiful. But, overall, book.
I know a little about books and even less about film but I think it's always go to express your under informed opinions. In fact, if I didn't, you probably wouldn't be reading this because the blog probably wouldn't exist.
So leads me on to a book versus film debate.
So here goes (if you disagree with me, feel free to tell me, but I'll just shout you down)
AMERICAN PYSCHO: Christian Bale is outrageously good in the film, but overall Bret Easton Ellis is the master. Book.
FIGHT CLUB: Book's not bad. But, overall, Brad Pitt in the '90s? Film.
THE BEACH: Both brilliant. But book.
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD: Gregory Peck is wonderful, but Harper Lee is such an excellent writer. Book.
REBECCA: My boyfriend thinks the Hitchcock film is genius but I would go for book everytime because of 'Last night I dreamt of Manderley' if nothing else. Book.
GREAT EXPECTATIONS: Brilliant story but I really don't like Dickens. Sorry. Film.
HARRY POTTER: Now, this is a controversial one. I love Harry Potter books and films. But overall, it's got to be Films for me. Sorry.
REVOLUTIONARY ROAD: Richard Yates- loved the book. Saw the film- most boring pile of wank. Book.
THE READER: Both excellent and I do really enjoy Kate Winslet. Overall, book though.
THE LORD OF THE RINGS: Reading the book was like wrestling with someone I couldn't see. Difficult. Watching the film was brilliant escapism. Film.
MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA: One of my favourite books as a teenager. Absolute monstrosity of a film. Book.
MATILDA: Not even going to have a debate here. Roald Dahl everytime. Book.
ATONEMENT: I do like the film, Keira Knightley is less annoying than usual and I like how the film is shot. (Not that I know anything about it). But, the subtle nuances (sorry I am an English undergraduate) of the book are what makes it brilliant and ultimately they're lost in the film. Book.
TRAINSPOTTING: I found the Irvine Welsh book difficult and irritating. The film is brilliant. Film.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S: I like Truman Capote. I really do. But, I love Audrey Hepburn. Film.
I CAPTURE THE CASTLE: This is probably my favourite book of all time. I was quite worried about the film, would I hate it? Would it ruin the book? I love the film, I think it's brilliant and faithful to the book and the characterisation is beautiful. But, overall, book.
I know a little about books and even less about film but I think it's always go to express your under informed opinions. In fact, if I didn't, you probably wouldn't be reading this because the blog probably wouldn't exist.
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