tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78106933581420373202024-03-14T02:14:31.714+00:00BLOG: an experiment into the ridiculous?Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-32008803771649894612012-12-03T15:53:00.006+00:002012-12-03T15:54:00.863+00:00We're The Customers Now<i>Normally for this type of article I'd use The Stag, but unfortunately, I really can't on this occasion. I've not been expressively told not to slag the University off, but I feel it would not be met with positivity. </i><br />
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<i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Universities have suffered a slump, with applications in England falling by 10% (BBC News) from 2011 to 2012. The University of Southampton’s vice-chancellor revealed in, The Independent, that UK student intake had fallen by more than 600. This comes after little surprise after the coalition’s controversial decision to raise undergraduate tuition fees to an eye watering £9,000 a year. This legislation came after Clegg promised to cut student fees, leading to student protests in Autumn 2010, culminating in the storming of Millbank’s Tory HQ. </span></i></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Here at Surrey we are feeling the slump too, with applications down significantly down on last year (I have found it very difficult to find exact figures, I wonder why?) and rooms being still available in student accommodation. Southampton’s Vice Chancellor describes the slump as a ‘wake up call’. This slump was blamed on the rules surrounding admissions, currently the government caps the number of students a university can recruit with grades lower than AAB. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">However, perhaps universities should be looking closer to home. Surrey prides itself on its impressive employability rates, even though they have fallen on last year. In the current economic climate, coupled with the huge amounts of debt graduates face, employment is paramount. More and more, students seem less interested in furthering their knowledge of their degree subject, but see the degree as a means to the end. The end being a graduate level job.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">These grad jobs have become harder and harder to come by. We have been forced into a culture were the degree subject is becoming more and more irrelevant, and the thing that really matters is a full CV. University is a great place to fill up your CV, getting involved in a society or with the Student’s Union will put you in good stead. The long holidays allow for a plethora of paid and unpaid work experience. But what about work experience during term time? Surrey focuses heavily on work experience, with the Careers service more than willing to help out with CVs, and even to help students source companies to apply to for a placement. However, academic studies come first surely. Students shouldn’t have work experience during term time as then they can’t attend lectures.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Well why not? When I was offered work experience at The Times, during term time, I was met with a stiff response from my Programme Director. They couldn’t stop me from going, but they could not condone it. Universities need to change their perception of the nature of a degree. If Surrey was really savvy they’d support people who want to conduct work experience during term time, a cap could be placed on how much study time can be missed, and Lecturers could e-mail notes round. Particularly with subjects with very low contact hours, such as arts based ones which have been hard hit by the fee hike, this could be a brilliant way to hook students in. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Work Experience could even become a vital part of the Degree experience, much like the success of the Placement Year, which is not viable for everyone. Two weeks work experience could be a mandatory part of your degree. Regardless of whether students have their hearts set on one career or aren’t sure, no can argue that work experience isn’t useful. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">If you went into a shop and they weren’t selling what you want you’d simply walk out. We’re the customers now, and universities aren’t selling us what we want.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-82892996621504837822012-09-18T17:26:00.005+01:002012-09-18T17:34:29.009+01:00My Celebrity Best Friend<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Since my beautiful, funny and intelligent best friend Jade moved out of GPA I’ve been left with a best friend shaped space<b>. </b>There is essentially a hole in my life that only a best friend can fill. It’s no polyfiller job, this is a massive cavernous gap in my heart. So I decided to come up with my ‘Celebrity Best Friend’ (CBF). I’ve always wanted a CBF. In my friendships I tend to take the back seat as the less interesting one, I’m so boring (OH WOE IS ME) so I reckon a CBF would be perfect. I would happily let them be the superior one, whilst eating Doritos on their sofa. And I would never hog the limelight at parties or red carpet events. I am like the 2012 equivalent to the noughties gay best friend, I am the perfect media event date. Forget bringing your Mum, bring me. </span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This could be you</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Of course, the CBF can not just be any old celebrity. We have to gel on a personal level. They need to be the ying to my yang, the bacon to my butty. They need to rival Jade in humour and intelligence. They need to enjoy a good night out and not be into this lettuce leaf and herbal tea bollocks. Their tipple of choice should preferably be wine or hard liquor, but I am sure we can negotiate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The first CBF that springs to mind is Kate Middleton. She is the kind of person I’d rather like to be: dignified (even in the face of certain photos), well dressed and kind. Except, however great and beautiful K-Middy may be I’m not so sure she likes sitting around in tracksuit bottoms and eating bread sticks dipped in Nutella (trust me, it’s good). Unlike Harry I’ve never seen K-Middz tumbling out of Bunga Bunga or some other godawful West London club so I’m guessing she won’t want to swig wine from the bottle with me then party the night away. Also, as an ardent Feminist K-Mid is sort of a moot point for me. I love her, yet I know she’s wrong. A bit like cheesecake.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Given that Kate’s out, I swung to the other extreme: Ke$ha. The girl who sang ‘TiK ToK’. Ke$ha’s similarity to Kate begins and ends with the letter ‘K’. Ke$ha’s a bad ass, she’s the chick who ‘brushes [her] teeth with a bottle of Jack’. We’d have mental nights out together and bond over jokes we’ll never remember. Then we’d get off with each other, photograph it and make it our Facebook profile pictures. Because we just don’t fucking care. Problem is, after an exceptionally debauched night out, I think I’d wake up feeling less like ‘P Diddy’ and more like ‘so shitty’ and then Ke$ha would call me a ‘pussy’ and ring up some other backcombed, denim short wearing mentalist and do it all over again. All whilst I’d be left sobbing on my bed with no one to watch hungover TV with.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Racking my brains yet further, I went on Twitter. Maybe I was in fact following my CBF already and I just didn’t know it. Entirely possible. It turns out I was. The best things are, indeed, always under your nose. Or fingertips. Whatever. My CBF is Caitlin Moran. She dresses like I want to dress, writes like I want to write and talks like I want to talk. She’s tweeted at me twice, both times saying ‘Aww, thank you’ but I still think there’s potential there. We both have an unhealthy and truly unruly obsession with ‘sexy sloth faced’ (as Cat Mo described him) Benedict Cumberbatch. Along with our mutual love for Doctor Who, Lady Gaga and FEMINISM. Caitlin wrote the amazing <i>How to Be a Woman</i>, which won the Galaxy award and generally changed 90% (made up statistic) of women’s lives and probably, like, 50% of men’s as well. As well as Feminist polemics, Caitlin pens Celebrity Watch, the sole reason I buy the Saturday <i>Times. </i>I really think Caitlin and I could be best friends. We could sit around sipping Whiskies (which I know she likes from reading <i>Moranthology</i>), get drunk and bitch about The Man. Seeing as she’s a TV journalist I’m sure she’d be fairly up for an ice cream and pizza date with my sofa and the TV. Even geographically speaking she’s a more viable choice than Ke$ha as she lives in London. And unlike Kate, she can travel without a full entourage of body guards. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So Caitlin, how about it? Do you fancy being my CBF? I can promise you banter filled nights out, coffee and lunch dates which last hours and hours because we can’t stop gassing, witty text messages, constant Twitter banter and of course, TV and ice cream. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">M<i>e and my CBF enjoying a tipple and a ciggie.</i></span></div>
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Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-15769527233974731072012-06-11T13:17:00.003+01:002012-06-11T13:17:24.027+01:00"Just a Coke For Me Please": I Can't Drink and It's Ruining My Life<br />
<b>My favourite thing in all the world is a really, really good Gin and Tonic.</b><br />
<br />3 ice cubes, a slice of lemon (or lime), Hendrick's Gin and Brittvic Tonic Water.<br /><br />Or a glass of red wine.<br /><br />Or a Havana Club and Coke.<br />
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Or a pint of Tribute.<br /><br />Or any cocktail containing cream.<br /><br />Basically, I really like alcohol.<br /><br />My tutor, the amazing Amanda Finelli, once told me I was a <i>'lightweight pussy'</i> because of the unbelievable levels of hungover I once exhibited in her class. We're talking running out to be sick midway through seminar. My friend Gen looked at me seriously, <i>'I don't think you're a lightweight Alex, I just think you drink too much.'</i><br /><br />Gen would be right. I never know when to stop. Much like when I'm writing, I tend to labour the point over and over again, desperately trying to squeeze out the laughs. I am the same drunk. <b>I drink until I feel physically ill then I desperately try to squeeze a few laughs out of the onlookers (my friends) and then usually crawl home holding my shoes in one hand and my dignity in the other.</b><br /><br />I get head crushing hangovers. We're talking the kind of hangover where just standing under the shower is like being shot in the face by a hundred super strength pea shooters. My gut mutinies against my body and has a mind of it's own, either forcing me to consume copious amounts of grease or rejecting all intake AT ANY TIME. Walking along Twickenham High Street, gut demands I vomit into a bin. In a seminar, gut demands I leave and vomit NOW.<br /><br />As for my head, it feels like someone's placed an extra tight 3 inch elastic band (that's about 2 sizes too small) around my forehead. Mt brain is a cracked egg, with a chain saw whirring through the middle.<br /><br /><b>In short, I get really fucking hungover. </b>When hungover I neck Nurofen and pints of water in my dressing gown. I can barely move without a bowel movement and I'm never sure which end to stick over the toilet.<br /><br />I don't go out a lot. I probably go out once a month. But when I go out, I go hard. Go hard or go home. (Sometimes I do have to go home, carried by my long enduring housemates at the embarrassing time of 1am, I love my housemates I really do.....). So my point is I enjoy and cherish my night outs. <b>I have never been able to fathom why people would go out and not get riotously, wonderfully drunk</b>. How can you go out and get 'merry' or 'tipsy'?<i> Nah mate, you GOTTA GET FUCKED UP</i>. I can't imagine anything worse than pretending to dance (jiggling your breasts and bum with your hands awkwardly static) in a smelly room full of sweaty people and sticky floors whilst not being completely, utterly off your face.<br /><br />Today is the last day of my exams (I really should be learning something instead of writing this but I've never done anything sensible so why start now?) and tonight the whole of English second year (the formidable LitSoc) are going to be hitting up Legion. I don't really rate the Legion, it tries too hard to be cool and forgets it's in Surrey. Legion, you have a GU postcode, not an SE one, please let's all stop pretending. Aside from that I don't mind. It is a place, where alcohol is available and where I can embarrass myself in front of a willing audience. Perfect.<br /><br />However, I am on medication. No, I'll be honest. I'm on anti-depressants. Such an awkward conversation stopper that one. Well, get over it. Let's just pretend their antibiotics so everyone can get their eyes off the floor and refrain from asking me if I am <i>'mentally unstable'</i>. <b>I am perfectly lucid I assure you.</b> And no, I'm not planning to kill myself any time soon.<br /><br /><b>Anyway, my fragile mind aside, I cannot drink on my meds.</b> Because they are hormones or some shit.<br /><br />When I told my Mother she responded with a shocked, <i>'But what about your social life? Drinking is...errr....such a big part of your life.'</i><br /><br />Oh, Mum. <b>Drinking is such a big part of my life and now I don't know how to have a social life.</b><br /><br />I am regularly told you don't have to get drunk to have fun, and I strongly believe that. I've had a fucking RIOT in the library with Faye and Gen before. B<b>ut there is nothing I want to do less than wear a skimpy outfit in 9 degrees whilst a drunk man tries to grab my arse, stone cold sober.</b> Everyone else will be drunk (and rightly so) and I will be painfully sober and tired. <b>No amount of coffee or godforsaken RedBull will give me the same buzz a Jagermeister would. </b><br /><br />So it with a heavy heart that I will not be attending. And now I'm stuck with the painful realisation that the foreseeable future will be just like this.<br /><br />Maybe I will become a sort of carrot juice drinking hippy who rejects alcohol for the rest of their life. Maybe I will stop liking meat (unlikely) and only wear cheese cloth (impossible).<b> In fact if my permanent state of sober induces me to start wearing cheese cloth and become a vegetarian, just shoot me. It'd be kinder on everyone.</b><br /><br />When I do, eventually, inevitably, brave a night out, I'll let you know how it goes. Maybe I'll enjoy it, doubtful. Most likely I'll hate it. If I hate it, I'll write about it and make pleasant reading for you all. Over and out x<br /><br />Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-37410780950352529242012-03-05T15:26:00.000+00:002012-03-05T15:27:06.979+00:00I Decided To Give Up Bitching In Order to Save Myself From Insanity<br />
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<b>“If I looked like her I’d walk around in my underwear at any
given opportunity too.”</b></div>
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I frequently say this when looking at magazines, facebook
profile pictures or girls at parties. When I tell my friends they look nice and
they reply with something like, ‘Is the top too low cut though?’ or ‘Is my
skirt too short though?’ I always reply <b>“if I had your boobs/legs I’d wear it
too!”</b></div>
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So I regularly champion dressing in short/non existent
clothes but if I see a girl who’s not quite ‘pulling off’ (not literally) that
micro mini skirt I’m the first to say..<b>.'That girl looks like such a slut.’</b> Or ‘that
top is way too tight for her.’ I justify this frequently by saying things like,
‘I’ve got a really similar figure to her and you’d never catch me wearing anything
that short/tight/low cut etc.’ </div>
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So this led me on to the bigger picture. I should be
opposing to bitching, to quote the eternal genius of <i>Mean Girls</i>, ‘You’ve got to stop calling each other sluts and
whores. It makes it OK for guys to call you sluts and whores.’ I totally agree
with Tina Fey on this one. So why am I bitching about girls in short skirts?
<b>Why the hell am I calling girls fat when I could hardly be described as skinny? </b></div>
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As a Feminist, a label I’m still not sure on all the time, I think I should be promoting female solidarity. Or maybe I should
be promoting dressing for yourself and not the ‘male gaze.’ As in, who are
these tight dresses being worn for? Is it to fulfil some expectation that we
are scarcely even aware of? The problem seems so deeply rooted in socialisation
that sometimes I’m not even sure if I am dressing for me or for someone else
(be it male or female). <br />
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I was drawn to Feminism because I’m not very good at being a girl. </b>I’m loud, I
swear a lot, I sometimes forget to put make up on and I hate sitting with my
legs crossed. I always felt, before <i>The
Female Eunuch</i> (actually I’ll be honest the text that really got me into it
was<i> Reclaiming the F Word </i>by Refern
and Aune) that because I hate kids, don’t want to ever wear a white dress or
shave my armpits there was something innately wrong with me. Feminism taught me that there’s nothing wrong
with me, in fact there’s a lot right with me. I’m resisting the the patriarchal
pressure put upon women by mass media and consumer culture. I mean, I thought I
was just being lazy in the morning with the mascara... </div>
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Today I was looking at facebook pictures of people I barely
know, because let’s be honest it’s always fun to facebook stalk someone you
haven’t seen in 4 plus years. And these girls are very beautiful. Traditionally
beautiful. And so, so, so thin.<b> I wanted to hate them, with their perfect
lipsticked mouths, fake nails and tiny tight dresses but I think I was just
jealous. </b></div>
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It got me thinking...I wouldn’t give a shit about Feminism
if I looked like that.<b> If no one had ever called me fat, if no one had ever
turned me down for being ‘ugly’ I wouldn’t care about a women’s movement
</b>promoting (amongst many other more complicated issues) the right to look
however you want.</div>
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That left me feeling pretty crap. I actually am just a
shallow girl who doesn’t care about what’s on the inside.</div>
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So here’s my plan:<b> I’m
going to try to stop bitching about people, namely girls and what they choose
to wear.</b> And I’m going to stop facebook stalking people, again girls. In fact I’m
going to delete all those haven’t-seen-you-in-4-years-but-i-love-to-stalk-you
people from my facebook entirely. Out of sight, out of mind.</div>
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It’s very, very easy to tell people what you want them to
hear. “Yes, I’m a Feminist, which means I don’t care about society’s
expectation of what women should be. I believe in the right for women to
dress/act how they want and not be labelled a slut.”</div>
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But it’s much harder to enact these aims. But I have to. For
my own sanity.<b> I can’t keep beating myself up because I’m a 12 and not a 10.</b> I
can’t keep comparing my figure to every single person I see every single day. </div>
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<b>If you feel the same, why not join me?</b> I'm going to talking shit about
other girls, because let’s face it when I'm bitching it’s to make myself better. Except it doesn’t really work because of the curse of comparison. I have a great bitch session with my girl mate, and then at home later I start thinking, ‘Well we both said she’s fat...but she’s actually got skinnier
thighs than me....what if I’m fat?’ So,
really I'm just bitching about myself and projecting it onto someone else. </div>
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<b>So I'll just stop. Stop bitching about myself and stop bitching about others. You better all hold me to it.</b></div>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-1560572759913736812012-02-27T21:47:00.000+00:002012-02-27T21:54:37.628+00:00The Cost of an Unpaid Internship: £3000<br />
<br />
After going back to the drawing board and giving up on journalism <a href="http://www.alexandraisonfire.blogspot.com/2011/09/what-fuck-am-i-going-to-do-with-my-life.html">(See here for more info)</a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><b>I decided to throw myself into my role as Literature Editor for<i> The Stag</i> (University of Surrey's student newspaper) as this was probably the best it was going to get.</b><br />
<br />
Part of 'throwing myself in' was acquiring interviews. Not the easiest thing to do when you're a 20 year old with no connections. So I got on to Waterstones, Guildford and asked them to tell me about events coming up with authors. Sure enough the lovely people at Waterstones emailed me confirming that Sarah de Carvalho would be appearing at the store. I did a quick bit of research on Sarah and she sounded cool. <b>Author of 3 books, she'd also founded Happy Child International. Happy Child is a Christian ethos charity which works with street children in Brazil. </b><br />
<br />
So I emailed her, asking (nay, pleading) for an interview. Charmingly she acquiesced and a week later I was sipping a coffee with her in Costa, Leatherhead.<br />
<br />
<b>The interview was a success. Sarah was lovely and answered my questions with enthusiasm.</b> After the interview she asked me a few questions about myself. Surrey offers its students a placement year scheme so I was telling her about this when she asked if I'd secured my placement. I told her I had not. She then asked me what areas I was looking in. <b>At that time, after giving up journalism, I'd been thinking about an arts administration type role</b>. So I told her this.<br />
<br />
<b>Then it all got very strange.</b> Her eyes lit up and she began to ask me questions about my competency at an alarming rate. I answered them as best I could and then she gave me the best piece of news. <b>She was looking for an intern to work for her charity Happy Child International and promote her book <i>Solomon's Song.</i> It was the arts admin based internship I was looking for!</b><br />
<br />
Sarah asked me to send her my CV and covering letter, so I did, that evening. <b>She quickly got back to me offering me a role as an unpaid intern for a year</b>. I was not expecting a paid role and it was 3 days a week giving me a chance to earn some money. Not the best scenario but the best I was going to get. She asked me to meet up with her and her colleague Caroline to finalise these details after Christmas.<br />
<br />
<b>Over Christmas I began to have serious doubts about whether this placement was a good idea.</b> How would I live? Would it really look that good on CV? <b>And then I realised I had no idea what the role actually would be... </b><br />
<br />
I met up with Sarah and Caroline again. That's when they laid the bombshell on me.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">They expected me to start in July 2012 but before that they wanted me to raise £2000 for Happy Child International through events at the university. Caroline said to me, <b>'If you can't do this, I'll know you're not serious.'</b> </span><br />
<br />
She also wanted me to go to Brazil to see, and I quote, 'the vision'. I explained that this not financial viable for me and<b> Caroline said I would need to raise the money for my trip as well then. So that's another grand.</b><br />
<br />
We then went on to discuss working hours and I stipulated that 3 days was the absolute maximum I could do. They seemed disappointed with this. <b>At no point did I get to see a contract.</b> I was not told who my line manager would be and when I asked them to tell me what I would be doing day-to-day they seemed vague answering that some days I would be working from home.<br />
<br />
I was then given 2 weeks to decide whether or not I wanted to take up the placement. I was having serious doubts. As a full time student, how the hell was I going to raise 3 grand?<br />
<br />
I talked to my tutor and she helped me compile a list of questions to ask Sarah and Caroline via email. <b>Caroline did not get back to me for 10 days,</b> seriously limiting the amount of time I had to decide.<br />
<br />
When I eventually received an email back from Caroline; she told me I would be assisting on projects in schools. Something which I have absolutely no experience in. I thought I would be publicising the book and the charity. <b>The official job title would be Administration Assistant.</b> Even though I asked for one I was still not given a contract.<br />
<br />
<b>I was also told I no longer needed to raise the money. Apparently Sarah thought this would be too difficult for me. If this was the case why was I asked to in the first place? </b><br />
<br />
After asking for detailed Health and Safety precautions in regards to my trip to Brazil, Brazil was immediately taken off the table as well.<br />
<br />
<b>I turned down the placement with Happy Child International.</b> Maybe I'm an idiot. But,<b> I feel that being asked to raise 3 grand before even taking up the placement was ridiculous</b>. I also disappointed with the lack of communication between Sarah and Caroline. The nail in the coffin was the amount of time it took Caroline to e-mail me back.<br />
<br />
Happy Child International is an amazing charity; I have researched their work and was so impressed with what I saw. However, perhaps they should think hard about how they treat the people in the UK as well as those in Brazil.<br />
<br />
This comes at a time when unpaid internships have been met with criticism. I am not opposed to unpaid internships in principle, and would happily take an unpaid one if I could afford and I felt it would be beneficial. However, <b>being asked to essentially pay 3 thousand pounds to work unpaid for a year seemed far too steep for me.</b><br />
<br />
My experience with Happy Child International scared me and opened my eyes to the big, bad world of work experience. <b>If this is how a Christian ethos charity treat their interns I shudder to think how those at less scrupulous companies are treated.</b><br />
<br />
I'm no longer going to do a year's placement. I want to finish my degree and crack on. <b>And I don't want to work in Arts Administration.</b> OK so I went to one conference and I didn't enjoy it. But since then I've done some amazing work with <i>The Stag. </i><b>All I've ever wanted is to be a journalist, and you have to stay true to what you really, really want. </b><br />
<br />
I've since been applying for work experience over the summer with magazines, regional newspapers, and when The Guardian opens their internship scheme in 2 days I'm going to apply for that. Why work for a charity whose principles I'm not sure I agree with in a role I don't really want?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Only 27 per cent of bylines on the front pages of newspapers are written by women (Centre for Media Literacy) but that's nearly a third of all front page stories. What it really boils down to is: <b>I want to be in that 27 per cent.</b></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-33938242458164683062011-10-24T16:53:00.001+01:002011-10-24T16:54:09.330+01:00One Of The Boys<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>'Are you going to do some weeding? Garden's looking pretty bad...'<br />'Nah, that's a boy's job.'</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>'You're a really shit Feminist.'</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's funny how thirty seconds of dialogue can really get you thinking. <b>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.</b><br /><br />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. <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Fuck it, men are just as stereotyped as women</span></b>. 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 <a href="http://alexandraisonfire.blogspot.com/2011/05/man-up-no-shut-up.html">'Man Up' </a> but how often are men presented with a ridiculous or stupid image?<br /><br />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. <b>Why shouldn't a man wear girl's clothes if he wants?</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 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.) </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Feminists fought so hard to break the Angel/Whore archetype, so why aren't we trying harder to break the male stereotypes? <b>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?</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So if you are equal to a man (and you <u>SO</u> 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. <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There's no such thing as a 'manly' task, there is just a task.</span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, with the good comes the bad. <b>If women want to be treated as equals, we need to act like equals.</b> And that means paying for dinner sometimes. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So here's one for the boys. Because a lot of people forget that the best Feminists are often men. <b>It's not about a fight between the genders. It's about uniting them.</b> 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.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-40535375245455255352011-09-16T23:02:00.000+01:002011-09-16T23:02:27.800+01:00What the fuck am I going to do with my life?<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>I always had this vague idea I wanted to be a journalist.</b>
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. <span> </span>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?<br />
<br />
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’. <b>And I don’t have Twitter.</b> 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. <br />
<br />
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, <b>I don’t have the balls to hound someone like....like a
journalist would</b>. 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? <br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. <br />
<br />
Ultimately though, regardless of whether or not it would pay off, <b>I was too
afraid to try.</b> 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.<br />
<br />
In short, <b>I am not cut out for my dream career</b>. 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 <b>I need to go back to
square one. </b>Back to the drawing board.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So help me,<b> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">what the fuck am I going to do with my life? </span></b></span></div>
Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-23331818135965023242011-06-10T16:22:00.000+01:002011-06-10T16:22:21.030+01:00On Beauty, Happiness and Big Bouncy BreastsI'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. <strong>So here is my greatest secret and shame</strong>:<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqPoVKt9uTsD341mH1iVbckSlrOoC8Voc8Md9n4Aa1J66SFjq-Rqlgo9AhJzBm7aU6a6nohmbMQrlf1f751p9uLJ9pkP8oF7H2YZ87I8VfpVuhyphenhyphenk7Lo_1U9rrqpSNLfFxNG0WNLzdTFRe/s1600/me+full+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqPoVKt9uTsD341mH1iVbckSlrOoC8Voc8Md9n4Aa1J66SFjq-Rqlgo9AhJzBm7aU6a6nohmbMQrlf1f751p9uLJ9pkP8oF7H2YZ87I8VfpVuhyphenhyphenk7Lo_1U9rrqpSNLfFxNG0WNLzdTFRe/s320/me+full+blog.jpg" t8="true" width="240px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>To be fair, I am drunk here and posing like a loser.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left">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 <strong>horrible</strong>. </div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">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? <strong>Because the thought of wearing a bikini on the beach in front of people made me cry.</strong> 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. </div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">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.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">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. <strong>I have wasted so many hours of my life standing in front of a mirror scrutinizing my stomach. </strong></div><div align="left">I know from an intellectual point of view <strong>I am not ugly. </strong>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. <strong>This is an uneidted, unflattering and above all a truthful photo of me.</strong> And to be honest I don't look that bad.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240px" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk3vbGEkICkNUGC62DCqfS6CiRZlK9bvq2-RcC_3BhZU-lmtUb1zAsOKYhCj0FpBMsicw5tVx_sOQY4KdA704Cvi9LxdSEU8UBonMqOJpMmRySBpIDOILlf_s5i6s6AWP_fhe9_wdktTuz/s320/Picture0153.jpg" t8="true" width="320px" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>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.<br />
<br />
In fact, it's about 15cms of my body that reduce me to an emotional mess. <strong>15cms.</strong> 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 <a href="http://brightonivy.blogspot.com/2011/06/shaving-lady-garden.html">here</a> (because it's a really good post and <a href="http://brightonivy.blogspot.com/">Ivy</a> is brilliant so you should read her blog anyway)<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://miss-m-ason.blogspot.com/">Emma</a>, 'Imagine the awkward moment when my thighs fill the space in the harem pants.' By the way, Emma is not fat. She's beautiful. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <strong>I wanted a body transplant.</strong> 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.<br />
<br />
So far, so eating disorder. But here's the thing. I might have dreamt of Kate Moss esque shape. <strong>But I love to eat. I love to drink. I love to enjoy life.</strong> Now, I'm going to tell you to read <a href="http://southeastsexandsanity.blogspot.com/2011/06/confession.html?zx=25e409341e229681">Charlie's blog</a> 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, <strong>I wouldn't be Alex if I looked like someone else.</strong><br />
<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"> to</span> have). My most important realisation is that I want to be healthy, not skinny. <strong>I want to be happy, whether I'm a size 14 or a size 8.</strong> I want to live each day to the full, not pick at a lettuce leaf and forgo a glass of wine. <br />
<br />
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. <strong>It's a celebration</strong>. 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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judith_Butler">Judith Butler</a> 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, <strong>happiness is laughter, love and friendship</strong>. 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.</div>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-65198633073986459432011-05-31T16:01:00.000+01:002011-05-31T16:01:35.900+01:00Jasmine Von der Bogaerde: The UK's (more talented) answer to Rebecca Black?OK <span style="font-family: inherit;">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</span>.... <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.annsummers.com/wcsstore/AnnSummers/images/AnnSummers/ASPRODUCT_IMAGES/03BOOTAS1037_Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="http://www.annsummers.com/wcsstore/AnnSummers/images/AnnSummers/ASPRODUCT_IMAGES/03BOOTAS1037_Z.jpg" t8="true" width="240px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>I think I wanna be a dominatrix?</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u>BIRDY, BON IVER AND WHY IT ALL JUST MAKES ME ANGRY</u></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span><br />
<br />
I've linked you <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aNzCDt2eidg">here</a> so you can hear Birdy's cover, and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrMmr1oMPGA">here</a> so you can hear the original.<br />
<br />
And here is a picture of Birdy which perhaps highlights how annoying she is.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/e/e1/Birdy_with_trophy.jpg/401px-Birdy_with_trophy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/thumb/e/e1/Birdy_with_trophy.jpg/401px-Birdy_with_trophy.jpg" t8="true" width="214px" /></a><br />
<em>Punching her in the face would be oddly satisfying.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As ever, I've made huge sweeping statements and unfair judgements. Pick up as you will dear readers. More on sex later.</div>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-47040221276855584482011-05-25T23:29:00.000+01:002011-05-25T23:32:37.628+01:00RealisationIt'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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
It's 23.25 and I'm happy.<br />
<br />
It's 23.26 and everything is going to be alright.<br />
It's 23.27 and after two difficult years I've realised I've finally become the person I always wanted to be.<br />
<br />
It's 23.28 and I'm officially a sentimental loser.<br />
<br />
Goodnight.Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-67399735687382272252011-05-17T22:16:00.000+01:002011-05-17T22:16:04.449+01:00"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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7uX3X2XIly0">here</a>) 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.<br />
<br />
When I was about 15 people I knew starting actually 'doing it.' Obviously, I wasn't having sex. But it felt like <em>everyone</em> 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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7Elp07LckM">'Make You Feel My Love'</a> by Adele, originally Bob D before you all shout at me, rather than <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vm0pqqGUHzM">'You're Makin' Me High'</a> 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! <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.' <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
Here's a link to my playlist: <a href="http://open.spotify.com/user/alexandraisonfire/playlist/7ptiVLxExzcl2P7n6oTLaV">Sex?</a><br />
<br />
Facebook me with your advice, I need your help. My sex life is suffering.<br />
<br />
*I really don't like the Notebook. Soz.<br />
<br />
Of course I know what to listen to after sex... Always <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQlIhraqL7o">this</a>.Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-58681769938541426432011-05-13T18:29:00.000+01:002011-05-13T18:29:17.544+01:00Exciting News & A Couple of Romantic TruthsHello 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! <br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://alexandraisonfire.blogspot.com/2011/05/man-up-no-shut-up.html">here</a> and of course, the one I always implore you to read <a href="http://alexandraisonfire.blogspot.com/2011/02/f-word-my-name-is-alexandra-wilks-and-i.html">here</a>. <br />
<br />
HOWEVER, I cannot speak for all women, but this is all I have ever really wanted:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwiH__c8CTk35HEw9uSwtfkiq9M97QIzSprzzHTDl7DSaN7sABhjUbfLA4yvoNmiMOkUV0GGbaN73SKBi67nRg_2CG0EV3N7Niwt4JVT_Uakjl9Ve2Vu6GRgP0B9NHiA4W0CyJ1_A4MtRs/s1600/blogflower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwiH__c8CTk35HEw9uSwtfkiq9M97QIzSprzzHTDl7DSaN7sABhjUbfLA4yvoNmiMOkUV0GGbaN73SKBi67nRg_2CG0EV3N7Niwt4JVT_Uakjl9Ve2Vu6GRgP0B9NHiA4W0CyJ1_A4MtRs/s320/blogflower.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>(How cool do I look with my 'euro-trash, post-modern' also unread, novel on the table?)</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="left">Yes, they are from Tristan. Yes, they are roses. Yes they are in my favourite colours: pink and cream. They came with a <em>handwritten</em> letter. (Obviously written in his hand, otherwise it would be weird...)</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">I hate stereotypes. I really do. I never ever want to what people expect me to be. I try as hard I can <em>not</em> 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.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">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.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">If you don't believe me, imagine these words handwritten:</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><em>'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.'</em></div><div align="left">-Tristan Redburn </div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">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?</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">Tristan, this is for you.</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left"><em>'If they stop loving you, I won't stop loving you. If they stop needing you, I'll still need you my dear.'</em></div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div align="left">You know what that means <3</div>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-72371624126963953582011-05-09T13:26:00.000+01:002011-05-09T16:54:22.181+01:00Stockings 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. <br />
<br />
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 <strong>do not</strong> 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 <em>you</em> 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.<br />
<br />
My next stop was Ann Summers. Now I've previously described <a href="http://alexandraisonfire.blogspot.com/2011/05/im-writing-about-sex.html">here</a> 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:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaWjkszjWyQqr-1bWUbiBWTH14QzBoNdg2cZSlx7m75pS5OAgzK-NWqun026ZGzvTwFDUtEJm4SVtBMTJKS3gq7pYrbG0latjy-qTxTTU_1nsfQiB2bJmohP9YtCSv-f8kXH4cvLzp9sAT/s1600/ann+summers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaWjkszjWyQqr-1bWUbiBWTH14QzBoNdg2cZSlx7m75pS5OAgzK-NWqun026ZGzvTwFDUtEJm4SVtBMTJKS3gq7pYrbG0latjy-qTxTTU_1nsfQiB2bJmohP9YtCSv-f8kXH4cvLzp9sAT/s320/ann+summers.jpg" width="240px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>It looked worse in the box</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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..</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.annsummers.com/wcsstore/AnnSummers/images/AnnSummers/ASPRODUCT_IMAGES/01SRCIAS1052_Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" j8="true" src="http://www.annsummers.com/wcsstore/AnnSummers/images/AnnSummers/ASPRODUCT_IMAGES/01SRCIAS1052_Z.jpg" width="240px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then I started <em>really</em> 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? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My beautiful friend <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/avaadore44">Ava</a> (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? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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 <em>female</em> 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:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.annsummers.com/wcsstore/AnnSummers/images/AnnSummers/ASPRODUCT_IMAGES/18BDPEAS1018_Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" j8="true" src="http://www.annsummers.com/wcsstore/AnnSummers/images/AnnSummers/ASPRODUCT_IMAGES/18BDPEAS1018_Z.jpg" width="240px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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'.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.annsummers.com/Attachment/banners/kissingcleavage2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137px" j8="true" src="http://www.annsummers.com/Attachment/banners/kissingcleavage2.jpg" width="400px" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Not needed for today, thank you!</em></div>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-24852910990455363002011-05-07T15:51:00.000+01:002011-05-07T15:51:44.003+01:00Man 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'.<br />
<br />
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'<br />
<br />
I have two problems with this phrase:<br />
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.<br />
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'?<br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDFQwuisNFDHt85GmMpg-aWglHPVsGhu5NUsCewliFaO49RxyO8IBr1jvAXtcRs5_KHnivNb-3cseKXeYY4r0vQrZGlfucmeOc_wDHTV2kTjHfosN6XlJg-zCInJYGXFPPVAVA6Y8ProZl/s320/p102730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDFQwuisNFDHt85GmMpg-aWglHPVsGhu5NUsCewliFaO49RxyO8IBr1jvAXtcRs5_KHnivNb-3cseKXeYY4r0vQrZGlfucmeOc_wDHTV2kTjHfosN6XlJg-zCInJYGXFPPVAVA6Y8ProZl/s320/p102730.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>'What a woman was criticized for doing yesterday she is ridiculed for not doing today.'</em>-Edith Wharton, 1915</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Finally, on the subject of Feminism...<br />
I shall shamelessly plug myself <a href="http://alexandraisonfire.blogspot.com/2011/02/f-word-my-name-is-alexandra-wilks-and-i.html">here</a>, only because it is my favourite thing I've ever written.Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-45886764984026026362011-05-06T12:13:00.000+01:002011-05-06T14:37:10.087+01:00I'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.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<br />
Picture the scene. Romantic holiday in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Bath</st1:city></st1:place> with the boy. Wandering the streets of the beautiful city hand in hand, Georgian architecture everywhere we look. Then up pops an Ann Summers. Now, Ann Summers is a place I've only been in a handful of times. A few times circa 2004 when it was 'like dead funny' to try and get into the 'restricted' section of the shop and gawp at the dildos etc. Then later, this year for Valentines Day when I decided 'sexy underwear' was needed. My second visit blew my mind- Ann Summers is like an adult's sexy playground. A sensual mix between a teenage boy's wet dream and a very high class porn movie (you know, the ones that are less pornography and more art). The satin, the black and red, the champagne flavoured lube, the vibrators in tantalising and vibrant colours, the dildos that managed to epitomise masculinity and yet also poked fun at it! Amazing!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
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.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
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 '<st1:place w:st="on">Champagne</st1:place>' 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 <em>free</em> paper would pay me to write about them!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
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).<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
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?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The ideas started popping out of my head:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Ann Summers: Resplendent or Repressed? (All credit goes to Ava, who is far more liberated and cool than I ever could be)<br />
The Art of Anal (a bit of a joke that one)<br />
Ditch Your Man, Buy a Vibrator?<br />
etc etc.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
If you own a vibrator, I'd really love to hear what it's like, so don't be shy get in touch!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
Finally if you're into sex blogs read this one:<br />
<a href="http://http/brightonivy.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: blue;">Brighton Ivy</span></a> It's really rather good<br />
And if you enjoy that<br />
Then read her bloke's blog as well<br />
<a href="http://www.southeastsexandsanity.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.southeastsexandsanity.blogspot.com/</span></a><br />
Both are brilliant!<br />
<br />
And Dad, if you read that, please never ever discuss it with me.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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.<o:p></o:p>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-5269333753515339042011-05-05T15:05:00.000+01:002011-05-05T15:31:20.805+01:00VOTE!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!<br /><br />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 <em>don't</em> 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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />I reckon it comes down to this:<br />If you love England... VOTE<br />If you hate England... VOTE<br />If you love the Government...VOTE<br />If you hate the Government...VOTE<br />If you're ambivalent...stop being such a waste of space, no one likes people with no opinions<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Please, please, please vote. It does matter, your opinion matters! If you do vote, I'll shut up and I'll give you cookies :)<br /><br />If you're unsure, this website is amazing and you can even link it to our national obsession facebook!<br /><br />http://wrangl.com/av<br /><br /><br />P.S I voted no. Soz guys. I'm not a worthy student.<br /><br />P.P.S Doesn't matter if you vote yes or no, <strong>just vote!!!</strong>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-65587929158819656212011-05-04T18:51:00.001+01:002011-05-13T17:51:56.130+01:00Writing & Sexy Things in a Paper Near You?<div>I've really been neglecting my blog of late. Sorry blog.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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!<br />
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<br />
<br />
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<br />
<strong>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. </strong><br />
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<a href="http://www.marketinginprogress.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/06/stop-sign-300x300.jpg" onblur="function anonymous()
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<br />
Stop Reading Here If You Are:<br />
A) Offended by lewd or bawdy content.<br />
B) My Father<br />
C) Anyone in my family at all.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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!<br />
<br />
I'm off to the pub.</div>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-57719923104799611172011-04-02T14:27:00.000+01:002011-04-02T15:00:14.246+01:00Hairy 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. <br /><br />I have thick dark brown hair, which is gorgeous <em>on my head. </em>As for everywhere else:<em> </em>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. <br /><br> 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! <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCm3dJ882qAUXxlUA_Kcwm4sGWxPR_DUS5CN2RQQY4R9i48vBPWwA5gsWxLVDNVBhfuXzPn4bZEp3UFt9KXpG1w6DkO1SEJUkxyC31T3r4370qh11LJSuUKUV-a_oaB6PXQVBpWlrD1JX/s1600/julia-roberts-arm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590982645604457858" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 103px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCm3dJ882qAUXxlUA_Kcwm4sGWxPR_DUS5CN2RQQY4R9i48vBPWwA5gsWxLVDNVBhfuXzPn4bZEp3UFt9KXpG1w6DkO1SEJUkxyC31T3r4370qh11LJSuUKUV-a_oaB6PXQVBpWlrD1JX/s200/julia-roberts-arm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></p>I think I'll just stick with the razor. Sorry, Jules. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCm3dJ882qAUXxlUA_Kcwm4sGWxPR_DUS5CN2RQQY4R9i48vBPWwA5gsWxLVDNVBhfuXzPn4bZEp3UFt9KXpG1w6DkO1SEJUkxyC31T3r4370qh11LJSuUKUV-a_oaB6PXQVBpWlrD1JX/s1600/julia-roberts-arm.jpg"></a>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-31338516878259232572011-03-21T11:56:00.000+00:002011-03-21T17:57:41.390+00:00'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<br /><br /><br />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.’<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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.’Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-85934667556042050002011-02-15T18:42:00.000+00:002011-02-15T19:48:46.528+00:00THE F WORD: My Name is Alexandra Wilks and I am a FeministFeminists 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.’<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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'.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-32957696422944058182011-02-07T12:29:00.000+00:002011-02-07T16:17:40.162+00:00Girl, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHlQTx34rJ__9xZmT4DN9UTTDdnGDXlrJkiY5t6rTBZb4N_jsqtgQ9tYK0bFfBA7HukvFpUZBPBz9s-6i3GGXAEKCazfQGxIz6zZGcQUVvdh9z_hZWZIQHReQTcMIB3LtNbpvgZsM-zGKx/s1600/Picture0073.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570928166338334850" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHlQTx34rJ__9xZmT4DN9UTTDdnGDXlrJkiY5t6rTBZb4N_jsqtgQ9tYK0bFfBA7HukvFpUZBPBz9s-6i3GGXAEKCazfQGxIz6zZGcQUVvdh9z_hZWZIQHReQTcMIB3LtNbpvgZsM-zGKx/s200/Picture0073.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="center"><em>THE BRIGHT YOUNG MINDS OF BRITAIN TODAY</em></p>Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-87649955223835713852011-01-17T12:31:00.000+00:002011-01-17T12:47:17.654+00:00You're Not 19 Forever...Hello most cherished readers.<br /><br />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....<br /><br />Anyway, on the most depressing day of the year I am brought to face a rather scary reality that <em>I won't be young forever</em>. In fact I am already descending into adulthood.<br /><br />I no longer partake in the usage of recreational drugs (almost certainly a good thing.)<br />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.<br />I've had a full time job and paid income tax (on my 'gap yah').<br />I am in my first, proper grown up long term relationship with an older man (not obsecenely older but 3 and a half years.)<br />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.<br />I've nearly been alive for 2 whole decades.<br />I am legally (and have been for over a year) an adult.<br />I am at university: I cook my own meals, I pay my own rent (with a little help from a thing called a loan).<br />I can nearly drive a car.<br />I am no longer in compulsory education.<br />I do my own laundry and regularly at that.<br />I'm actually getting better at not blowing all my cash in Topshop.<br /><br />Thing is, sure, I won't 19 forever. But I hope I'm making the most of it.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />Although, that is all going to change...<br /><br />WATCH THIS SPACE.<br /><br />P.S I should be revising but I love you all so very much I decided to update the blog instead. Aww.Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-19104635051477470002011-01-12T22:01:00.000+00:002011-01-13T11:12:34.227+00:00BOOK 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 <em>read</em> 'The Princess Bride' but not seen the film. I don't mean this is in a 'superior-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">tv</span>-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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Capro</span> 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 <em>dislike</em> 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).<br /><br />So leads me on to a book versus film debate.<br /><br />So here goes (if you disagree with me, feel free to tell me, but I'll just shout you down)<br /><br /><strong>AMERICAN <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">PYSCHO</span>:</strong> Christian Bale is outrageously good in the film, but overall Bret <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Easton</span> Ellis is the master. <strong>Book.<br /><br />FIGHT CLUB</strong>: Book's not bad. But, overall, Brad Pitt in the '90s? <strong>Film.<br /></strong><br /><strong>THE BEACH</strong>: Both brilliant. But<strong> book</strong>.<br /><br /><strong>TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD:</strong> Gregory Peck is wonderful, but Harper Lee is such an excellent writer. <strong>Book.<br /><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">REBECCA</span>:</strong> My boyfriend thinks the Hitchcock film is genius but I would go for book <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">everytime</span> because of 'Last night I dreamt of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Manderley</span>' if nothing else. <strong>Book.<br /></strong><br /><strong>GREAT EXPECTATIONS:</strong> Brilliant story but I really don't like Dickens. Sorry. <strong>Film.<br /><br />HARRY POTTER:</strong> Now, this is a controversial one. I love Harry Potter books and films. But overall, it's got to be <strong>Films</strong> for me. Sorry.<br /><br /><strong>REVOLUTIONARY ROAD:</strong> Richard Yates- loved the book. Saw the film- most boring pile of wank. <strong>Book.<br /><br />THE READER:</strong> Both excellent and I do really enjoy Kate <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Winslet</span>. Overall, <strong>book</strong> though.<br /><br /><strong>THE LORD OF THE RINGS:</strong> Reading the book was like wrestling with someone I couldn't see. Difficult. Watching the film was brilliant escapism. <strong>Film.<br /></strong><br /><strong>MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA:</strong> One of my favourite books as a teenager. Absolute monstrosity of a film. <strong>Book.<br /></strong><br /><strong>MATILDA:</strong> Not even going to have a debate here. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Roald</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dahl</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">everytime</span>. <strong>Book.<br /></strong><br /><strong>ATONEMENT:</strong> I do like the film, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Keira</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Knightley</span> 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. <strong>Book.<br /><br />TRAINSPOTTING:</strong> I found the Irvine Welsh book difficult and irritating. The film is brilliant. <strong>Film.<br /></strong><br /><strong>BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S:</strong> I like Truman Capote. I really do. But, I love Audrey Hepburn. <strong>Film.<br /></strong><br /><strong>I CAPTURE THE CASTLE:</strong> 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, <strong>book.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />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.Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-47567292773109454042010-12-31T14:21:00.001+00:002010-12-31T14:54:53.929+00:00An Ode to the Joy (and pain) of Twickenham and a healthy dose of anger about 'NYE'Well hello there dear readers (all 4 of you). I am sorry for the delay in posting. The end of term crept up upon me as it is wont to do and deadlines, alcohol and the horrendous C word (Christmas) prevented me from posting mindless anger on the internet. Perhaps that is a good thing? I am still, by the by, unsure about this whole blog expedition. I feel it is rather like smoking: I am unsure about the benefits of smoking (if there are any) but it has become a rather bad habit and being the lazy and unmotivated git I am I don't hate it enough to quit it. Much like the blog. I am unsure where it is going (at least it is unlikely to kill me, unlike cigarettes) or indeed what good (if any) it is bringing to the world but I am reluctant to quit it. Which is obviously super wonderful to all you beautiful (and odd) people reading it!<br /><br />Anyway, Christmas happened, turkey, presents, cracker yada yada yada. It was, on the whole, uneventful. I worked Christmas Eve so I didn't even go out and get ridiculously drunk which is a crying shame. Oh, I am back from the commuter belt (as I fondly like to call Surrey) and securely in the middle of the M25 again. (Really, it is much like moving from one commuter belt to the other but this one has the prefix of Greater).<br /><br />Where I live is en masse unexciting. It is on the very edge of a very large city which you may have heard of called London. The town does have the feel of being slightly overshadowed by something it will never quite be. We are just about on the London Underground (if you count Richmond, which I would say I do, as it is technically walking distance from my house) and very much in the oyster card area. It is known for one thing and one thing only: Rugby. (I am not, of course, from Rugby... I believe that is in the Midlands.) It has a plethora of grotty pubs (and the odd decent one), a selection of places for less than fine dining and an oasis of charity shops. The most exciting thing to happen in Twickenham over the last year was the opening of a Tesco Metro where the Red Lion used to be. I'm not sure how I feel about this because of the whole Socialist tendencies etc. However, its usefulness I cannot quibble. Anyway, when I was at Surrey I held Twickenham in an almost omnipotent glow. Now I am back here I am of course shining a light of similar calibre on Guildford.<br /><br />Naturally I can see the faults in Twickenham. To name but a few: it's full of chavs; the shops are shit; the whole place needs a throughly good clean; its over run with school and college kids... etc etc. However, it is my home town and in a sort of A E Housman-esque manner I adore it and could sing its praises all day. (A E Housman- A Shropshire Lad, try On Bredon- it'll blow your bollocks off). To suffice to say, I am enjoying being at home. However, Jade and I are LAG TIL WE DIE when we get back to Guildford (after the exams of course). I am more than excited to be back in GTOWN where dreams are made and poets are woven.<br /><br />Now, I feel is the time to, in a round about way, reveal the true nature of this post. I feel oddly gulity I've lured you all in to a romantic and rather charming account of how I love my town even though it's a shit hole blah blah blah and actually my real reason for this blog was to convey my deep hatred (no suprise there) of New Year's Eve.<br /><br />I can hear you cry, dear reader, 'But Alex! You hate everything!' In short, yes. However, the way I feel about New Year is paticularly special. I really don't bloody like it. I resent the idea of New Year's Resolutions. January's grotty as fuck without the addition of horrid resolutions to give up the things we love best (fine food, smoking, alcohol, unsuitable suitors etc.) The parties almost always turn out to be shit: everyone gets trashed early on, and someone always starts crying. I always kiss someone inappropriate at midnight. Or worse, as was last year, my New Year's kiss was a gay man who clearly pitied my being unkissed state. Shame.<br /><br />So my one and only New Year's Resolution was to spend New Year's Eve exactly as I want and the way I want to spend it is by cooking food all afternoon with Redburn, getting drunk and watching Jean Luc Godard films then maybe going to the place I work for a tipple and ending up at my friend Ciara's house at about 3. I refuse to go up to London, to go to a club, to go to a party or to do anything I don't definitely absolutely want to do. And I'm pretty fucking happy about it.<br /><br />Happy New Year, you beautiful people. May the next year treat you well but not so well that I am jealous of your successes. Love.Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7810693358142037320.post-51651921688900588772010-12-06T18:42:00.000+00:002010-12-06T18:59:00.072+00:00Hit ListWell hello there all 6 readers. How are we all?<br /><br />I have had exceptionally bad snow over in this region of Surrey. Now I hate snow. Totally hate it. Cold, wet, miserable and house bound are the four words which spring to mind when I think about snow. Less white Christmas and more fuck my life. I HAD to go home on Thursday and pick up Tristan's Christmas present. (It was gig tickets to a gig we attended on Sunday in Nottingham which was beyond fun). And I waited two hours in the blistering cold for a bloody train. Then more at the next stop. In total it took 3 and a half hours to go 3 stops on the train. At which point I was picked up by my parents. Awesome.<br /><br />Also, something I feel ashamed about. I hate Christmas. I hate 'good will'. I hate turkey. I hate spending all day in doors. I hate seeing my family stressed. I hate not being able to wander off. I hate buying people things they neither want nor need. I feel uncomfortable about this. Whilst talking to my lecture buddy Becky I said, 'I hate Christmas' and she simply responding with, 'Yeah because you're a miserable cow.' This led me on to thinking about things I dislike. And as you have probably all realised I like making lists so I thought I would list a few things I hate.<br /><br />1) The General Public- I hate people. Not everyone just most of them. Particularly those on public transport.<br />2) Which leads me on nicely to People Who Put Their Bags On The Seat On The Train. This is probably my number one hate. Either you have a seat or your bag has a seat. Can you not see that people are STANDING UP and maybe might just want that seat? In fact this irritated me so much that I rang Shoni and spoke very loudly about how much I hate this.<br />3) People Who Push In The Queue- wait your turn you bastard.<br />4) Bananas- seriously gross.<br />5) People Who Over Do It On The Internet- No one cares that you're lonely. Go home.<br />6) Public Transport- self explanatory.<br />7) Malibu- too sweet.<br />8) Dolminos- too expensive, albeit delicious.<br />9) Being Woken Up- if I'm asleep shut the fuck up.<br />10) People Who Enjoy Being Stupid- There is no pride in being an idiot. I hate people who become 'famous' because they couldn't pass GCSE RE.<br />11) Girls Who Are Always Naked on a Night Out- it's cold. Dress accordingly.<br />12) Jedward- No.<br />13) Tramp Stamps- No.<br />14) Certain People- I cannot mention names. But you probably know. Rascists, bigots, homophobes etc...<br /><br />I have to end it here because I'm getting angry.<br /><br />Here are the only things I love:<br /><br />1) Books- they will save your life.<br />2) The people I am lucky enough to call my friends.<br />3) Mr. T. P. Redburn. He's cynical and sexy. It's good.<br />4) Ivy's blog. Read it: <a href="http://brightonivy.blogspot.com/">http://brightonivy.blogspot.com/</a> It's so good it should be illegal. In fact it probably is in some countries.<br />5) The Smiths.<br />6) Philip Larkin- poetry makes me a bit woozy in general. Bit like getting drunk on intellectualism. Nice.<br />7) Spotify.<br /><br />And that is it.Alexandrahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104987955343018147noreply@blogger.com1