And not just in their 20s...

A friend of mine once told me a great story.

He was studying english at Cambridge at the time (of course) when a charismatic professor took an interest in him. Professionally. Okay, sort of professionally. My friend was young and nubile at the time, but presumably a bit brilliant. The professor was older and on his way to becoming a bit of a coke fiend but he was also brilliant and charming. So one night he invited this friend of mine around to "discuss his work". Naturally they ended up having a few drinks and it got a bit late and then, well, I'll draw a curtain over the night for delicate readers (thank me later, Spiteri) but one assumes you can join the dots.

Now, my friend didn't know me well enough, at the time he told me the story, to know how much it would thrill me, but I suspect one or two of you could guess. Because as you, and indeed most of the readers of this blog, have figured out over the years I have a thing for ho-yay.

Five or so years ago I had no idea what ho-yay meant. And yet I felt exactly the same. Only when I stumbled onto the term on the brilliant Television Without Pity website did something click on in my brain and I thought "holy shit, I too want to see Sylar and Peter* get together".

The reasons for my interest in all that is hot boy on hot boy action remain unclear but, if I'm honest, don't particularly interest me: it's just the way it is. Over the years I've met a (rather small) handful of people who share my enthusiasm for all that is hoyatastic, even if most people just look at me a bit weirdly or dismiss the brilliant Y Tu Mama Tambian as "soft porn" (no, I haven't forgotten and, yes, you know who you are).

Anyway my point, because I'm getting there, is that the internet has completely revolutionised the way these things are. Without the internet I would have no name to put on this strange sense I have for say, Spike and Angel to just tear off their shirts and fucking Do It Already, or my glee at the aforementioned Y Tu Mama Tambien when *SPOILER* the smoking hot Gael Garcia Bernal finally snogs the hell out of his (also wouldn't-throw-him-out-of-bed-for-eating-biscuits-hot) best friend.

Nor would I have the delight of stumbling over remarks buried in the comments section of a you tube video featuring The Smiths' very good William It Was Really Nothing like this:

"What is it about skinny fags in their 20s that makes them so fucking appealing to all genders :-)"

I mean I could live without the first f-word but I love the sentiment. And if anyone has the answer, do let me know.

(*Meanwhile, I'm rewriting history here because Heroes actually came years after this discovery, but jesus the day those two boys make a go of it will be a bloody good one. And such hot babies).

UPDATE: The person mentioned in this has pointed out both that 10 years is not just an awfully big age gap and, furthermore, that my definition of "coke fiend" may be a tad harsh. I think his ideas of what makes a CF are slightly looser than mine but one must never piss off a ho-yay provider so I have amended appropriately.

Actually the most awesome circle of all

Everyone has different methods to cheer themselves up.

Some people go in for gooey, creamily-centred chocolates and hot, salty chips, consumed en masse. Others favour lots and lots of lots of booze, consumed in a short period of time with little thought for the hangover waiting for you. A certain kind of person goes shopping.

Personally I go in for all three - I've never met a chip, drink or shop I didn't like, or at least been on civil terms with. But lately I've discovered a new weapon for the arsenal, something quite ingenious to be taken out immediately next time I'm feeling bad about myself: Morley Galleria.

Only here, in this semi-distant shopping centre is the full length and breadth of all that is detestable about humanity on display every which way you care to turn. By which I mean not, of course, that anybody's getting fed into a gas chamber or practicing racial segregation. The abhorrence of this place is nothing to do with anything Proper or Serious. There are just a LOT of improbably unattractive people. Mother. Fucking. Everywhere.

Here, among waves of undulating arm fat, screeching sticky-fingered children and obscene teenagers concealing unfortunate faces behind hoodies, ill-advised headwear and masses of over-processed hair with the all the appeal and approximate texture of steel wool, you can but stand and marvel.

Trudging in front of you are the slowest moving people in the southern hemisphere, wobbling on their over sized flesh stilts in search of a new appliance to do this or a new top to conceal that. Scampering at your sides are the doomed progeny of the slow-walkers, their faces already beginning to twist in the sneers of their parents, their sugary mouths demanding another Coke. Most disturbing of all are the teenagers: not the lithe, gaggles of sniping malcontents you remember from your own high school years but a combination of smug petulance from the 12 year old who dresses like she is a 45-year-old hooker in a music video, and sullen aggression
from the spotty white douchebag wearing a do-rag.

What the hell is this place and where have these people come from? This is what I found myself asking today when, in search of work-appropriate accouterments and only mildly hungover, I stumbled in with Lindsay.

The immediate desire was to protest: this can't be happenning, this is not normal. The impulse to check the space above the glass entrance doors for the words "abandon hope all ye who enter here" was overwhelming. I did. The sign said simply "entry". Which seemed, somehow, even more ominous.

The second impulse was to flee, to put some sort of distance between myself and the people patrolling these gleaming white corridors. Lindsay knew better. "It's okay," she said gently, taking me (figuratively) by the hand. "This is where you come to feel better about yourself."

She was right. I'm going back next week.

In which I learn my lesson

Ohmigod you guys I am going to have SUCH a big night tonight. Everyone’s going to be there and it’s free booze all night. I’ve got some awesome new shoes and I’m going to do my hair all fancy and shiny – this is seriously going to be the best night of the year(!)

No it’s not and no you’re not, you fuckhead, because you’ve just doomed yourself to a night that will be the equivalent of being date raped by your physics teacher on a fun-to-fun ratio.

For a start you won’t be able to decide on an outfit because everything you try on makes your arse look tiny and your tits massive, or visa versa, depending on your inclination and the size of any junk in your trunk. I wouldn’t worry about that yet, though, because only when you arrive at your destination will the mirror in the bathroom tell you what your bedroom lighting did not – your top is see-through. And you’ve left your coat at home.

But that’s okay because by this stage at least one member of your group has cancelled at the last minute anyway, so that’s one less person to witness your shame (and your aereola). Meanwhile another friend has just had a huge fight with her boyfriend and is busily alternating between slurring drunkenly that she’s too good for him anyway and disappearing with your mobile to call him. Don’t get too worried about her, though, because she’ll ditch you before midnight to catch a taxi to his house anyway.

If you haven’t had your drink spiked by now then don’t worry you’ve probably drunk so much you’ll throw up out of the window of your own taxi on the way home anyway. That’s after you’ve spilled your kebab down the front of your top, been called a slut by a group of passing bogans and destroyed at least one and possibly both of your shoes via an ill-advised shortcut down a back alley. You’ve lost your wallet so the taxi driver has to wait for you outside your house with a highly suspicious look on his face while you ferret around the change bowl and eventually have to pay him off in five cent pieces. If not the hairy chequebook.

My point, if you can even get your head around such incredible subtley, is that SAYING you’re going to have a great night is the one thing guaranteed to NOT let you have a good night. Much like fight club, the first rule of having a good night is you do not talk about having a good night. A really good night out cannot be managed or planned, not properly. You can do your best to blow dry your hair, shore up good company and start the night off with a really quite sensationally good nip of booze but nothing you do will stop it from all falling into a shit pile if you look at it too closely.

It is with this mind that I assure you all I am going home from work right now not to have a delightful lazy night reading my book with my doona over my legs, a bottle of wine at my elbow and creamy pasta to soothe my slightly store throat. Oh no, I’m well aware that when I get home the house will be a tip, burgalrs will have stolen the entire contents of my bookshelf and young Andy will have run off with a cocktail waitress whose name is Tiffanii-with-two-is at the end. Probably.

Because my parents were pretty hazy on the birds and bees front

First question: How long do you think it takes the average person to dry his or her naked body post-shower while in the privacy of his or her own home?

Second question: How long does it take the average person to perform the same actions in a crowded work gym hangeroom surrounded by colleagues with whom they may later share a cubicle?

For most people, I should say, the answers vary somewhat. For myself, at home the drying process is a lazy one which can, when the weather permits, turn into a drip-drying affair. But put me in a work changeroom after a gym session and shower and I can do the full body dry-and-change in the time it takes the naked woman next to me to pluck out that stubborn ingrown hair from her right buttock (because, oh yes, I'm getting to her).

But if you ask this ingrown-hair-chaser (who happens to be in the changeroom more or less every time I am)the two questions above, her answer would be the same: Too Fucking Long.

I don't find naked bodies abhorent. Nor do I insist everyone, or anyone, do that high school thing of getting changed pretty much under their clothes. But neither do I dream of the days when I am exposed to the inner (and I mean INNER, inner) thigh of someone who works in my building. I don't need to admire the soft undulations of her ageing arse cheeks or admire what's going on over the other side. I can live without an in depth examination of her improbably large nipples and more probably sized boobs. Similarly I feel I have explored the depths of every crevice in her body just about as far as I care to explore them.

Again, it's not that I care about the nudity per se. It's more of a proximity issue. Because the thing is that half the time this woman stands SO CLOSE TO ME that if we both put our hands on our hips at the same time our elbows would just about touch. That is not too close to be to an elbow. It is, however, a smidgen closer than I care to be to any stranger's pink bits. I do not WANT to flinch every time she bends over to retrieve some (unseen, possibly imaginary - she may be mental) object, fearing her arse cheek will graze my upper thigh, or have to watch my every hand movement lest they slip into some dark unwanted place.

I don’t want this. Nor do I want to be the person I am right now: the prude who shudders like a tit in the wind at the thought of, well, a tit in the wind. I like tits. I like bottoms. I even like women. But so help me I'm scared that any day now I'm going to go to the gym, shower, get dressed and only realise months later I've inadvertently knocked up my changeroom neighbour. Bet the little shit would be a nudist, too. Typical.

If she was dead she'd be spinning in her grave at the reference

If you'll forgive the use of an ugly and hackneyed phrase I have always admired people who Put Themselves Out There.

Presumably this is because it's something I just don't do. My motto, such as it exists, being do nothing now to avoid disappointment.

There have been exceptions. Why just a mere eight years ago I asked a boy out for the first (okay, and pretty much last) time. I was in year 11 and he was in year 12. Nursing an embarassingly large crush since we'd worked on the school musical together I was also achingly aware that he was beautiful, very cool and smart while I was, well... smart. Ish. My year 11 ball was coming up and a)being a pussy, and b)sporting coke-bottle-lens spectacles I'd planned to escew the boy thing all together and go with some friends. But somewhere between that plan and the ball I must have had a stroke or something because from absolutely nowhere I plucked up the courage to ask The Object of My Affection (OMA) to come with me. Remembering it now, many years and more boys on, still gives me the chills but at the time it was so simple: I found his number, dialled it and asked him to come to the balll. Fuck knows if he even knew who I was but he said yes. I resisted the temptation to ask him if he was fucking ith me. My most vivid memory of that time is drifting out distractedly to the family kitchen with a shit-eating grin on my face to find dinner: lamb chops. "What's up with you? my brother asked.

I'll spare you the ball and skip right ahead to, by way of comparison, one of the first times I was asked out. Properly asked out, anyway, in a way that was completely unambiguous in an i-would-ultimately-like-to-have-sex-with-you fashion. I was living in London and on my way to my shitty temp job at the time. A man who looked slightly like one of those school teachers in the movies who get done for sleeping with their students was walking the other way. Apropos of apparently nothing he stopped, said hello, sort of apologised and asked if I wanted to get a drink. Flushing, and confused, I said I had to work. He said what about after work? I said I couldn't. He said what about another day? Bright red by now I managed to mumble something like "my boyfriend probably wouldn't be mad keen about it" before an awkward thanks anyway/sorry (me/him). But the net result was that I strolled off down the road feeling pathetically chuffed with what I fancied was my arresting beauty. Of course in reality the stranger was probably either a serial date rapist who, on spotting my puny arms, thought I was unlikely to be able to defend myself, or someone with a freezer full of party parts at home but in my head I was Lauren Bacall.

Why do I bring this all up now? To relieve the jaw-clenching pain of discovering my gloriously hot ball date was actually sort of a pretentious douchebag? To recall exactly what shad of red my face managed to achieve that day in London? Not so much. No, what I've assembled here is evidence, of a sort. A bit of a character reference, if you will, to try to prove that I DO in fact admire a bit of courage when it comes to putting oneself out there so I won't sound like so much of a bitch when I say the next bit.

Because THIS fucking little situation is just about killing me. I no longer CARE what it is or what he wants but I know I don't want anything to do with it. I know, I know: save a seat for me in hell, please - just don't make it two.

It is so on...

“A broken heart is a very pleasant complaint for a man in London if he has a comfortable income.” (George Bernard Shaw)

Conundrums

Life is a funny old thing sometimes isn't it? Sometimes you just don't know how to react to something.

Take the news that the lovely Robert Downey Junior is to play the titular role in a new Sherlock Holmes movie. On first look: awesome. I love, love, LOVE Sherlock Holmes in all his drug-taking, patronising, totally-in-the-closet glory. His smarmy deerstalker hat-wearing shenanigans have always fascinated me and the original books were completely smart and funny in a way that a lot of the movie and TV adaptations haven't been (I think Rupert Everett came the closest to getting it right, but he just can't resist hitting the 'camp' switch just one too many times).

Furthermore, as has been well documented here, I love RDJ with a similarly deep abiding passion. He charms me. He intrigues me. I think he'd be just generally really fun to hang out with. In the bedroom. Ahem.

Anyway, so, on the surface: it all sounds good, great even. But supposing you want to know more. Who, for instance, you might ask yourself, is directing this movie? And right about the time your eyes reach "...Guy Ritchie..." the heart sinks and you want nothing but to gouge out your eyes to save them the future pain.

I mean I liked Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels as much as the average teenager who had a giant crush on Nick Moran but... really? Mr Madonna? He's still getting plum work in this town, is he? Nobody ever quite made the effort to see if Swept Away was as godawful as it was supposed to be, eh?

All of this scepticism, obviously, doesn't mean that I won't see this movie at least once, assuming it gets made and all. No doubt I will see it and no doubt I will make others see it with me. It does, however mean I reserve the right to roll my eyes, cluck my tongue and say things like "Oh Mr Doyle, they have done you wrong, sir". As I shall.

Hmm

So the New South Wales Office of Liquor and Gaming has given club and pub managers a list of 39 Signs of Drunkeness. Yes: 39. Who knew?

The idea is apparently to give staff guidelines to know when someone is drunk enough to be refused service. I guess.

Of course the list is (unintentionally?) hilarious, including such gems as slurring words, rambling or unintelligible conversation, staggering, bumping into or knocking over furniture.

Then there's simple innocent ones that could happen to anyone like spilling drinks, a lack of co-ordination, offensive language and inability to find one's mouth with a glass. And haven't we all been there?

My problem with the list is not that they're all ridiculously obvious suggestions (please, why not "throwing up on your shoes, telling you they love you and then bursting into tears") but that they take all the romance out of a proper bender. Sure you can tell someone's had a few if you find them quietly vomiting into an ashtray at a crowded bar but how do you recognise a true drunk?

Well Modern Drunkard has the answer, and it's a hell of a lot better than anything the State Government's come up with. You get lost crossing the street is a good start, your blood will run a lawnmower is cute and my personal favourite: You called the cops on yourself but refused to testify because you “didn’t want to get involved."

Because the issue is not whether you're going out and getting hammered every weekend, or indeed every week, it's whether you're doing it stylishly.

Rita Hayworth never had to put up with this shit

So I knew it was going to be bad, possibly even really fucking BAD but I couldn't have guessed how godawful sad it would be. And depressing in a way that not even reading Jean Rhys after you've had a few drinks can be. So depressing, in fact, that right now I'm actually hanging myself from the ceiling fan with a pair of old stockings. And I don't even have a ceiling fan.

Yes, I'm talking about the insanly terrible TV show How to Have Sex After Marriage. Which should come with a razor blade and/or a picture of Milo Ventimiglia with his shirt off, in case you should a)decide it's just not worth it after all, b)wish to regain the desire to live.

Clearly the name of the show tells it all: This Is Shit, but I couldn't resist. I just couldn't. It had been a long day. I'd finished my book. It was on after Ladette to Lady. I was tired damnit.

What the name doesn't tell you about the program the title sequence does: all ridiculous moaning noises that nobody in the history of sex has ever made and words like 'foreplay' and 'orgasm' floating onscreen in large print with such cold precision they render both the words and the acts they describe about as erotic as a small kitten doing a shit on your chest. Permanently.

Next, and I say this for the benefit of those lucky fuckers who didn't stay up to watch it, the couple of the episode are asked to rate each other on emotion(?), sex and looks. Out of ten. And they're, well, how should I say it? They're not that nice. Coming about ten minutes in I figured this must be the worst part of the show (it wasn't) - it had to be (it wasn't). And the mind boggles because I could not imagine WHO THE FUCK would honestly want his or her partner to deliver this kind of cold hearted assessment? Psychopaths, that's who. Feeling okay about your soft bits are you? Wait until you see your partner holding up a "2" for appearance and see how good you feel then, eh. About as happy as the poor saddos in this show, actually. 0So, unsurprisingly, this spirit-crushing venture... well it crushes the spirits of the participants, rendering them soft play-do-like characters who can then be rebuilt in the image of the show's creators.

Which means it's time for the hideous life coaching bit in which a shrill hyena of a woman attempts to patronise the unfortuante bint of the couple into submission. "You're an amazing woman," the hyenna tells the woman she met twenty minutes earlier. "You are beautiful and strong and sexy". Whatev. And did I mention she has the eyes of a cold-hearted killer?

The saddest bit is that at the heart of the show there are some basic truths: men and women do often miscommunicate. Men and women do often have different attitudes to sex. Otherwise good relationships can be ruined by bad ideas about sex and a complete lack of communication. Blah blah blah. But all of that is covered with some sort of ridiculous shlock in which relationship woes are smoothed over with a bit of slap, a suit and some painful (not even like that) attempts at bondage. Uh huh.

It also has a surprisingly high Ew factor in which two guys with rictus smiles are made to watch as some random women demonstrates oral sex techniques which are, she claims "30 years in the making". Jesus Christ. I tell you, you've not lived until you've seen this woman fiddling about with a plastic model of female genitals. And again in theory, or on paper, it's not the worst thing in the world. It's even vaguely sensible and instructive, maybe, but... really? This is what we've come to is it? A plastic model? The end result is that sex, in this show, reduced to a piece of latex, two blushing men and some fake moaning of the top of some bad music is all about as much fun as watching a porno with your creepy Uncle.

And I did I mention the use and abuse of my favourite phrase in the world "make love"? Bleh. Do yourself a favour and watch it next week: your own sex life will never look so good.

And find me a white coat

I had a very weird experience on Sunday morning: I awoke without a hangover.

This is not to say (steady on, Mum) that I habitually wake with a hangover of a Sunday, though perhaps I sometimes do, but that on this particular Sunday I deserved a hangover. More than that: I deserved a whopper of a hangover.

Having supped the previous night on a concoction of champagne, white wine, red wine, mulled wine and some suspicious clear liquid that appeared in a cup by my chair sometime shortly after 2am I was prepared for the worst. I was also willing to accept the worst, having had a brilliant time at a party thrown by one of my favourite people about.

So I woke on Sunday with some trepidation. Was it here already? How bad was it? I sat up in bed. I felt... okay. I rolled about a bit. I felt... not bad. I got up to get a glass of water. I felt... quite good. A bit wobbly, maybe. A teensy bit thick headed but nothing particularly special. I felt... well fuck it I felt quite good actually.

The solution was obvious once I thought of it, and it made my heart sink: I was still drunk. Brilliant. Clearly my hangover was in the post and I was too dumb and still too drunk to realise it. Even so I hauled myself out of bed, padded about to the couch and returned to my napping state. I woke up later and felt... good. Rested even. Still no headache. No nausea. No sweats. No vague sense that I might the previous night have killed a man just to watch him die.

I waited for the hangover all day. I took it slowly. I half heartedly drank some water. I cooked an unnecessary hangover breakfast. Nuthin'.

The weirdest thing is that by contrast light-of-my-life Young Andy was in a bad state. He lay on the couch, groaning occasionally and napping often. But he'd been drinking water half the night before to enable him to prepare himself for an early morning bike ride. Yet while I could have ridden a quick country mile (so long as I were heading somewhere enticing, such as a country pub) he was in no fit state to do so. What the hell was happening?

Two days on my solution is simple: Somehow I gave my hangover the slip. I don't know how I did it or where it went (though Andy's head is a distinct possibility) but I managed to pull it off. Out there in the ether, somewhere, the hangover probably still drifts, having lost its way completely, searching for its rightful resting place: my body. I should feel guilty about the poor dude and how lonely he must be but, on the contrary, I feel bloody great about it - if all drinking could be this consequence free I'd do a hell of a lot more of it.

Clearly this is a discovery of some kind. Men in labcoats must be told. The CSIRO should be alerted. More importantly, the boundaries of this new-found booze immunity shall be tested. Someone hand me the mulled wine - I'm on the edge of a flipping scientific breakthrough over here.

Question time

How do you tell someone you don't want to be friends with them?

In my book unless they've just slept with your boyfriend, stabbed you in the kidney or called your mother a whore the answer is you don't really. You just treat them a bit shittily: avoid them, never return their calls and constantly cancel "catch-ups". Cut to a few months later and you no longer have a friend.

Obviously there is absolutely nothing nice about this. It's shitty. It's cruel. It's also incredibly gutless. But even so it seems, to me at least, somehow gentler than saying outright "I don't really like spending time with you because you're (insert ugly truth as desired)". In my mind, at least, the person involved can believe we just drifted apart, or that I lead an improbably, ridiculously busy life with no time for them. This is also my preferred MO because, of course, I am an absolute pussy who loathes confrontation and would walk a mile in the snow before deliberately provoking a shitfight.

I find myself thinking about these things because I am currently trying to not be friends with someone (obviously not anybody who is reading this blog and mmight I add that I do frequently break appointments and not return calls for reasons entirely unrelated to trying to ditch anybody so, please, don't be offended).

The person in question is a perfectly nice guy. At least he was the one time I met him. Six monhs ago. And when I talked to him on the phone and in emails afterwards. He knows I have a boyfriend so I don't have to take care of things on that front. He is a smidgen socially awkward and a bit of conversation dominator but he is also a nice guy, friendly and smart: there is nothing at all 'wrong' with him. And yet I don't really want to bring him onto the friendship team.

There are a variety of reasons for this, and I won't bother going into them but my problem is that I have tried the methods detailed above to give him the idea and... it's not working. I never initiate contact (though I can't quite bring myself not to be friendly when I talk to him, honest I've tried, guv). I constantly break the 'catch-up' dates I am sporadically cornered into making. I leave his calls unanswered. I am, in short, a complete fucking bitch to him.

But he still calls. And messages. And emails. And I feel AWFUL but I don't know what else to do but continue to be a bitch, even more so. Today, for instance, having non-commitally said I might be up for a drink while under duress I have so far ignored about six calls and three messages. Yes: IGNORED. I haven't even given him the brush off, because I'm way too gutless. And he continues to call because he's too clueless to realise I'm not flaky, just a total cow.

Anyway, the point of all this is not to whine about my gutlessness or share my horrible, crushing guilt but to plead for some kind of advice from the readership. What do I do now? I could continue to be a bitch to this poor guy for the rest of my life. I could catch up with him to ease my guilt and force a friendship for the rest of my life. I could run away and raise goats in the wild, returning to civilisation only to stock up on soy yoghurt and festive scarves. I could suck it up and say "thanks you're perfectly nice but I'd just rather not, if it's all the same to you". But of course I never will. So... suggestions? Is there an option d here or am I just screwed?

Token Smokin Hottie: Sam Riley

There a certain kind of science to choosing the Token Smokin' Hotties that go up here, you know. Despite evidence to the contrary it's not just about picking someone blessed with great genes - it's about telling a flipping story... or something.

Maybe not. Okay, if I'm being stricly honest then sometimes, yes, it is just about seeing James Franco in a wet shirt, but at other times, at least, there is something more than looks involved.

Enter exhibit... whatever-we're-up-to-now: young Sam Riley. Sure there's his big pouty lips, so plump and yielding you could use them as a waterbed; his delicious forelock of a hair-do that makes you want ruffle it until some sort of cows come home and his very aesthetically pleasing cheekbones suitable for use by primitive man as a cutting tool but there's something more there.

Take that look in his eyes - what IS that? Is it a amug what-are-you-looking-at-bint-face-I'm-running-late-to-fuck-a-supermodel gleam, or a nervous fuck-I-have-no-idea-what-I'm-doing-or-whether-my-new-film-is-any-good sort of a thing he's got going on?

I've got no idea but it's a nice ambiguity: a little bit Lost Boy, a little bit Delicious Fox. And that's what I like. Oh and the pouty lips.

Forensic Partying: flashback #34

11pm: Convincing a chief of staff to unbutton his shirt to get faster service at the bar.

The gym dance

The night before: I'm totally going to go. Look, I'm putting my running shoes by the beside next to those running pants that make my bottom look quite good. See, there you go, I'm setting the alarm for 6.30am. *Yawn*

6.30am: Wha- the? Fuck no, snooze!

6.45am: It is FREEZING. My feet have actually turned to blocks of ice. Surely getting up in this temperature can't be right? I'll just wait for them to thaw...
6.50am: Probably still have time? Maybe?

6.55am: Maybe not.

7am: Okay definitely not.

7.05am: I could still totally make it. If I wanted.

7.15am: Bath instead?

7.16am: Oh yeah - bath instead. Where's my book?

Let's get physical

So I had a fitness assessment at my work gym today. It’s something that’s been on my to-do list for awhile and I finally got around to it.

Bizarely, and arguably uncharacterisically, I like gyms. I enjoy the simultaneously sweaty and sterile atmosphere, the opportunity to lounge on a bike while reading a book and the high that comes from finishing a very satisfying session.

I do not, however, enjoy fitness assessments. What sort of psychopath would?

As someone who was once fit enough to be aware of just how out of shape she is now (ie: on mere nodding terms with any form of propulsion more vigorous than a casual stroll to the pub) I was DREADING it. The bit where you have to ride on the bike? The bit where they weigh you? The bit with the SKIN FOLDS?

In the end, like most things we waste time dreading, it wasn't too bad at all: the lad doing it was perfectly friendly but not cute enough to make me embarassed by my lack of finesse, I didn’t have to have skin folds after all and, not having measured or weighed myself since the last time I had one of these things, I was not displeased with the results. What I was displeased with, however, was the subtle suggestion that I must want to lose weight. Bleh. Not that the dude came right out and said it, of course, but it was the little things that annoyed me.

For a starters: booze. Yes I had to tell them how much I drunk and yes I lied. Even with a lie (“oh maybe a small glass most evenings and a bit more on the weekends”) I got a telling off. “There’s an awful lot of calories in wine,” my tormentor said with a gentle smile that suggested I might like to just stick my finger down my throat right then and save us both the trouble. “Yes but the calories taste awfully nice,” I replied, to not even an amused eyebrow. Next thing I knew he was talking about cutting a lunchtime sandwich in two to cut down those – yes again – calories. What ev. I gave him a frosty look on the back of this unsolicited and unwanted diet advice and then, when he asked me for my reasons for joining the gym and I didn't mention weight loss he said "You must be the first girl I’ve had in here who hasn’t wanted to lose weight,” prompting me to jump up and drive his pen through his right eye. In my mind.

It’s not that I wouldn’t shave five kilos off the side (or better yet relocate it to selected areas) if I could do so without trying (indded I'd say most girls I know would, though whether that’s a good thing or not is another matter) it’s that even though I am well within the normal range for my weight and height the ASSUMPTION is that because I’m a girl and because I’m attending a gym I must be looking to drop a dress size in six weeks or something equally ghastly. I like to think I have – thanks more to a sensible upbringing and no complaints from the boys more than anything I’ve particularly done – a moderately healthy body image. Most of the time at least. But the gym assessor’s suggestion that I MUST want to lose weight made me feel slightly insecure. Was that an extra ripple around my belly? I wondered, studying myself in the mirror later as I lifted weights in time to the kind of music I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. And could it be my face was just a smidgen rounder than it used to be? It’s vile stuff.

All that aside I’m quite excited about getting back into the gym, which is a bit sad. True, I bet I will never ever do the programme my gym buddy mapped out for me (changing machines every five minutes? I just want to read a book and work the glutes, man…) but the prospect of feeling strong again is quite an appealing one.

Though as for the shithouse gym showers and changerooms in which people stroll about naked.. well that’s another post.

This, friends, is what a tool looks like

My day job requires that I deal with people more or less constantly. If I’m not pitching stories to my boss or begging someone else to explain to me again just how CFDs work (seriously – ANYONE?) I have to talk to contacts and potential sources. If I’m honest it’s not really a part of the job I like: sometimes I, like Greta Garbo, just want to be alone. Mostly, however, I flatter myself that I have grown better at dealing with colleagues and strangers: I can make chit-chat, I can crack a joke and I can idly pass the time of day with most people if I have to.

Today, however I spent a fairly ridiculous ten minutes or so in the toilet today that really underscored what a tool I am sometimes when it comes to the lengths I will go to avoid interpersonal contact.

Our story starts when, with a full bladder and scrappy hair I decided to journey to the work toilets (don’t worry, it isn’t THAT kind of a story). Wanting to spend a bit of time in the mirror to attempt to style my dark brown mop into something resembling a hairstyle I took care of the bladder first. And just as I was about the flush and scamper out to the sinks and mirrors the door to the toilets opened and someone else came in. Now, I don’t know if other people are like this or not but I don’t particularly like running into people in the toilets. Doubly so if they’re strangers. And the only thing I hate more than that is being stuck with them at the sinks while we’re both primping in the mirror and either doing that weird thing where you try not to make eye contact or smiling fakely at each other in a We’re-All-Just-Girls-Am-I-Right-? sort of a way

So, naturally I chose the completely sane and normal option of waiting behind the toilet door for the intruder to go into one of the other stalls and give me a free run at the mirror.

And I waited.

I could hear her moving about at the sinks, shuffling about, water running etc. Should I give up and just go out? I wondered. Suck it up, stop being such a pussy and just do my bloody hair in front of her? No, no, I told myself, she’ll be off any moment now. Aaaany moment now.

Then I heard the zip of a toiletries bag: oh brilliant now the silly bint is doing her fucking make-up. Still, I pondered, it wasn’t too late to go out there was it? Or was it? I mean by this time I’d been completely silent in the toilet for about three minutes or so. Either she thought I had died or suspected I was involved in some kind of terrible very-spicy-curry-the-night-before sort of experience. Okay, now I really didn’t want to go out there.

Of course the situation only got worse. Fuck knows who takes TEN MINUTES to put on some slap in the middle of the working day but this fucking genius managed to do it. Meanwhile I huddled, embarassed and pissed off, behind the toilet door, now well beyond the stage where I felt I could reasonably saunter out of the cubicle as though I’d merely entered 30 seconds before.

She left, eventually, presumably looking like she’d applied foundation with a trowel.

So I got about 30 seconds in front of the mirror before the door opened and someone else walked in. I did the smile-in-the-mirror silent greeting and waited for her to go into one of the cubicles. Then she came to stand beside me, shook out her long (semi magnificent) hair and started to (laboriously) re-style it.

I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror and got the fuck out of there.

Those kids were fast as lightning

I’m fairly sure I’ve blogged about my love of martial arts movies before now but here I go again. I just can’t stop. I love them. I love the fight scenes, the “humour”, the terrible, terrible facial hair and everything that comes with them. And last night I saw a true classic for the first time ever: Drunken Master. I’d seen Drunken Master 2 and practically everything else Jackie Chan has ever done but My God was this an undiscovered gem. Very questionable acting, uber suspect camera work but some bloody great work. (As a side bar: director Yuen Woo-ping has since gone on to do choreography on The Matrix, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon and Kill Bill so... you know, the man is talented.)

Indeed I’m so enthusiastic about this new find I would go so far as to say it represents almost everything I love about the martial arts genre. Therefore, for the benefit of those who have not seen it, and who want to know what they’re missing out on, I present to you: The Drunken Master formula for what makes the perfect martial arts movie…

1. Profanity. I don’t know if it was the (super dodgy) dubbing or not but holy shit did this mother manage to pack in the swearing. It was all “hey shitface” this and “you stupid bitch” that. At another time someone actually said “you’re the cat’s arse” and the weird thing is I think that was supposed to be a compliment.


2. Dodgy dubbing. See above. The weird combination of American, Chinese(?) and English accents in a movie like this is what really makes it. The very regular, very weird, very poorly translated lines ( “wow my balls are really busted”) only add to the hilarity.


3. Sensible messages about the danger of alcoholism. In Drunken Master the master can (surprise surprise) only fight when he’s wasted and even Jackie Chan does his best bits when completely belted. Plus they run around with giant jugs of wine CONSTANTLY and appear to suffer no ill-effects at any time. Now THAT’S realism.


4. Gratuitous upper body shots of a young Jackie Chan. Enough said. I have never been into muscles but he is one mean, lean motherflipper.


5. Killer fight scenes. I demand quick shuffling, knockouts and at least a smidgen of humour. Plus that bit where Jackie’s shirt was half on half off was really cool. More of that please.


6. Gore. This movie actually features a scene where one person twists off another person's nipple. It's pretty awesome.

Hoooly Shit...

I was going to blog about Paul Newman but the inestimable McPhee has beaten me to it. Doesn't mean I can't steal this pic from her though. Phew. Because two viewings are never enough. Gay girls and straight boys I challenge theee to remain unmoved...

Repeatedly

Two roads diverged in a fatty wood

There are times in everyone's life which represent turning points: seminal moments which offer us the chance to go in one particular life direction or another. Most of the time we don't necessarily recognise them without hindsight: only looking back down the road do we see where the road forks. And yet somehow I sense that my decision as to whether or not I watch a TV program, just advertised as coming on next, called Amazing Medical Stories: Half Ton Dad, represents some sort of point of no return.

THOUGHTS: Holy fuck is that guy actually a doctor and if so WHAT THE FUCK is he doing on this show? I mean I'm watching it but I'm sitting on my carpet with a bottle of wine, not rattling around with a motherflipping MEDICAL DEGREE.

Token Smokin Hottie: Penn Badgley

I have always had a thing for boys in uniform. Um school uniforms. Yeah that’s right and I dig Bill Henson’s art too ‘n everything. Clearly I’m not actually a paedophile but there’s something about the sight of an old school tie contrasted with the crispness of a white shirt and a shaggable (in every sense of the word) haircut that does it for me on a number of levels. And it makes sense. After all the first boys I ever had a crush on were pretty much those I went to school with. Like a slavering Pavlovian dog I am driven to equate the uniform with stupid teen love.

Hence, perhaps, my growing fascination with Penn Badgley, or “Dan” for those who have seen him on the trashilicious US drama Gossip Girl (no idea if it’s out here or still coming – I’ve been at the downloads, I’m afraid). There is nothing about Dan that I WANT to like. Nothing except his nut brown eyes, his ruffable (look it up) hair and a sideways glance he may or may not have perfected in the mirror that nevertheless speaks to me as loudly as a shout: take me now, Kate, it says, under the disco ball.

Sadly the character portrayed by Penn Badgley is kind of a douche. Or rather he’s made to be SO DARN LIKEABLE that I find myself driven to scratch ‘douche’ onto the side of his beautiful face just to vent some of my great, throbbing rage (memo to TV executive types: the boy is hot. He does not need to have ‘moody loner who is improbably unpopular given his unbelievale hotness’ tattooed onto his head for me to fancy him. Some subtlety – please!).

And yet.

What can I say? The boy fills out a blazer. Oh to be 16 again.

I can neither confirm nor deny

Some time back a fellow blogette and I floated the idea of starting an anonymous blog where we could store the things we can't air on a public blog where the people who read it know who we are. The idea being that, given we have friends, colleagues and family members reading our respective blogs, there are a great many things we would rather like to be able to blog about but cannot. It was a nice idea then and it's a nice idea still - I might get around to it one day but until then anyone looking for a blog devoted to one of those things I certainly can't blog about might want to check out Girl With a One Track Mind. And then you should probably thank your sweet, if nonexistant, God I don't write about that stuff.

Random pleasures

• Parties thrown by one of my favourite people in the world.
• Discovering someone I've known for a bit but never spoken to about books is into both science fiction and the lovely Evelyn Waugh.
• Not being the messily drunk person who has to leave a party early for "a lie down".
• Waking up on a Saturday to feel pretty bloody chipper actually thankyou.
• Loooong weekends.

"I don't care what consequence it brings, I have been a fool for lesser things..."

Like most people with no discernible musical talent but a love of music I am deeply, deeply jealous of anyone who can write a song and/or play anything more complex than the opening eight bars of Classical Gas on the instrument of their choice. I would kill to be musically talented, to be the 98th (or whatever they’re up to) member of Belle and Sebastian or even to be able to noodle about on a piano in a remotely cool fashion. Sadly, as my long-suffering guitar teacher can attest, I am bereft of both natural talent and a desire for hard work to compensate for said lack of talent.

The weird thing is that lately the object of my profound jealousy is not the adorable Stuart Murdoch, the love-him-or-hate-him Morrissey or anyone remotely cool by any standard measures of coolness as we know it. Instead it’s… Billy Joel.

Yeah I know.

Billy Joel makes me think of my parents, specifically my father and his extremely inappropriate desire to have Only The Good Die Young played at his funeral (for anyone unaware of what the song’s about… well it’s not for me to say but it doesn’t go hand in hand with, you know, death). And yet I sort of love Billy Joel. I love his smarm, I love his swagger, I love the way he writes gushy love songs for his latest wife only to break up with her two months later. I even love.. his music. Oh Come On you know it’s kind of good. Not startling, perhaps, not amazingly innovative but really rather GOOD: it has enthusiasm, it has passion, sporadically brilliant lyrics and it is all bloody catchy.

Even leaving aside the too-overplayed-to-be-taken-seriously-anymore Piano Man you’ve still got a rather impressive list via She’s Got a Way, the aforementioned Only the Good Die Young, Movin’ Out, Just the Way you Are and It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me. And don’t even get me started on my personal favourite The Longest Time, which is worth you tubing if only for the fact it has arguably the most (unintentionally?) funny 80s film clip ever. Seriously, kids, I’m talking rival gangs and whistling.

Billy Joel’s music is not the kind of music you have earnest discussions about at parties with cute bespectacled boys, it is not the kind of music you readily admitted to enjoying, it is not even the kind of music you play when company is present. It is, however, the kind of music (or, if you like, I) am pleasantly surprised by on the radio if I’m channel switching, secretly delight in a cheesy sing along to in virtually any situation and occassionally feel a strong desire for when a certain mood strikes.

Like oooh sayright now.

C.O.T.W

And the cunt of the week is... Mr Peter Kavanagh. Take a bow, Pete. Actually, come a bit closer to me so I can use a staple gun on your balls.

AN anti-abortion MP has sparked outrage after emailing Victorian colleagues a graphic image of a fetus being operated on. DLP Upper House MP Peter Kavanagh
yesterday emailed all state MPs an image of a then 21-week-old fetus being operated on. The fetus appears to be holding the hand of a medico, who was performing life-saving surgery. The fetus was not being aborted but was used by Mr Kavanagh as evidence that life does not start at birth.

You can read the whole story, and have an aneurysm, here.

The Road to... nowhere?

An hour or so after finishing Cormac McCarthy's The Road I'm still not sure what I thought about it, or whether it's provoked much of a reaction in me at all. Which is, I think, kind of the point. It was A Good Read: improbably pacy and engaging, not nearly as depressing as I'd feared and well written in McCarthy's perfectly serviceable style.

And yet. If I hadn't been told how brilliant it was I don't think I'd be thinking of it at all. If I didn't know it had won a Pullitzer Prize I think I would have said to myself, probably not aloud, "oh that was good" and then put it back on my bookshelf. Instead I'm forcing myself to write something about it because, so everyone tells me, It Is An Important Book.... is it though?

You can read the rest of this blog entry at The CNG Lending Library.

.

UPDATE: How brilliant is it, sometimes when you find someone who just agrees with you? I had emailed a literary-minded friendof mine about my views on The Road, expecting him to tell me I was an illiterate boob who didn't appreciate anything. Instead I received a reply along the lines of ‘the prose yells ‘I’m the bee’s knees!’ at you ALL THE TIME. Yes, Cormac, you’re the bee’s knees. Now go away.” True dat.

Quotable Quotes: Garbo

"There are many things in your heart you can never tell to another

person. They are you, your private joys and sorrows, and you can

never tell them. You cheapen yourself, the inside of yourself, when

you tell them." (Greta Garbo)

Sunday morning

There are few experiences that grip me with the same degree of horror as sitting in the back of a taxi, uncertain as to whether I can avoid throwing up before disembarking.

And thank fuck for that for it is not a pleasant feeling.

For the record I did indeed avoid throwing up in the taxi much to my - and presumably my driver's - relief. However it would be wrong to say that this weekend has been completely free of vice. Indeed as I sit here, at work on a Sunday, filled with what Orson Welles said were the only two emotions possible to feel on an airplane (boredom and terror: boredom because there is little to do, terror because I am responsible for my section of the paper and I'm scared I will fuck it up) I can't help but feel that this weekend I have indulged just about all of my vices. Shall we discuss?

1. Booze. Self-explanatory. I am, clearly, no alcoholic but I do seem brilliantly capable of ignoring the voice in my head that tells me perhaps I should switch to water right about now.

2. Book buying. This is what happens when I am bored and let loose near a computer. I have just blown a tremendous amount of money on bloody amazon. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

3. Food. Again self-explanatory. When a hangover calls there is no chance I'm not going to eat a bowl of potato gems for breakfast and, indeed, lunch. So what's my excuse for the rest of the time? Hmm not sure.

4. Wouldn't you like to know.

To conclude: I have used my pathetic one-day weekend extremely productively. And were someone to suggest, perhaps, that I have damaged my liver, my bank account and, arguably, relationship with anyone I may or may not have spoken to on Friday night, I would counter that nobody ever wished for more early nights and bigger savings on her deathbed. So far as I know.

I am not an animal

Who was it who said that insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results?

I can’t remember but I think he or she has a point.

How many times, for instance, I have banged on, both on this blog and to friends, about the time my skin reacted to some under-eye cream and blew up? How many times have I described the absolute disgusting state of my face at that time? (Seriously, to those who didn’t see me then… small children would have run from me if I’d actually made it out of the house. Think of the Elephant Man’s less attractive twin sister and you know where I’m coming from).

And how many times SINCE THEN I have discovered that my under-eye skin has become super sensitive?

So why, WHY did I decide it would be a brilliant idea to put some hardcore pimple cream on a harmless wee pimple just below my under eye area yesterday? And, more importantly, who do I have to blame when I wake up to find my treacherous skin has swollen one side of my face up so that half my left eye is effectively smooshed shut?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

How not to give your company good PR

Me: (Introduces self, paper etc) I was just calling to talk to (managing director) if he’s available.
Fuckwit receptionist: Uh what was your name?
Me: (Repeats it).
FR: (Managing director) is in a meeting at the moment. What were you calling about?
Me: (Explains I want to have a chat to him about a company project to do with a story I'm writing.)
FR: Is it to find out the reason for the trading halt.
Me: No. I already know about that. I just want to talk to him about the project.
FR: Uh huh well he’s really busy so I’m going to have to ask you to be a bit more specific.
Me: (Through gritted teeth) I just need. To talk to him. About. The project. I want to get some idea about what's going on now and what's coming up and how significant this latest upgrade is. So I can write A STORY.
FR: And is this story likely to be in the next couple of days.
Me: (Barely controlled anger) Yes. It’s for TOMORROW. Look, could I just leave a message and ask him to give me a call when he’s got a minute.
FR: Well look I just don’t think he’s going to call you back. He’s very busy.
(Silence)
Me: Right. Do you have, maybe, a PR who could help me out?
FR: He’s in Sydney for a few days.
Me: Does he have a mobile with him?
FR: No.
Me: (Almost weeping) What about email? Would he check his email.
FR: Maybe.
Me: Okay: CAN I HAVE HIS EMAIL ADDRESS.
FR: Oh. Okay.

Just wondering...

Anyone got my copy of The Line of Beauty? A jolly good read but I have NO idea who I lent it to. Bueller?

From the dictionary of Those Couples

Dramers (desc): Drama loving couples who equate screaming rage with passion. Generally can’t keep a full set of matching plates and tend to explode into fights at dinner parties while everyone else makes awkward small talk about which region of Margaret River the wine is from and is that lemon on the asparagus because it tastes a bit like lemon, cough, cough. Later, while the hostess weeps into the sink over the fact only one teensy piece of the chocolate flan has been eaten said couple will retire home to have hot monkey sex.

The Corrections

This is not a post designed to endear myself to my literary blogging colleagues or to make myself sound particularly brainy but I don’t always like, er, very thick books. They put me off. I’m sorry – pop a dunce hat on me and I’ll sit in the corner....

But every now and again there are exceptions and Jonathan Franzen’s truly divine The Corrections is one of them.

You can read the full entry at the CNG Lending Library blog.

An open letter to my colleague

Please, please, please shut the fuck up. No please, I'm begging you because I'm literally running out of ideas to avoid being engaged by you. The ipod? The ipod doesn't work - the white earphone in my ear apparently means nothing, presumably I'm just waiting about here for you to ask an INNANE question you could find out the answer to by in about ten seconds if you just looked it up. Sporadic monosyllabic responses appear only to confirm your suspicion that I'm a little deaf and a simple answer like "I don't know" destined to kick-start your daily prattle about... I have no fucking idea what.

So what's with the laughter? You are not the doctor from The Simpsons, you are not required to punctuate EVERY sentence with nervous laughter. I know that slamming someone for, well, laughing, sounds well harsh but Jesus Fucking Christ that is no ordinary laughter. It is, to appropriate Dylan Moran's lovely description of the Geman language, not unlike the sound of a typewriter being thrown down a flight of stairs.

Which brings me to... the questions. So far as I know, friend, we are on roughly comparable wages. Meaning we are both expected to earn our respective pays with hard work. Reasonable questions about things I might actually know about are perfectly fine, welcome even, but what is up with the endless string of questions about things I couldn't POSSIBLY deliver a proper response to? The worst thing is that you have only to look them up on the computer: it would, quite literally, take you less than five minutes. I have no idea what you're doing when the keyboard is banging away over there but, so help me, it's not work.

I know that you are harmless, I know you are probably a sweet person just trying to reach out to someone and, God help me, I have tried to be nice and friendly and patient over the past months but you are KILLING ME. By which I mean that if someone doesn't change I will have to kill you. Then possibly myself.

From your bitter and twisted colleague.

Baaaaaa

Oh readers. I am, I fear, in a smidgen of a pickle. Yeah, yeah it's one of THOSE posts.

I dramatise, naturally, but not entirely without cause. You see, I have a performance review at work this week. I'm dreading it, naturally, but I'm dreading it for one particular reason: I know my boss is going to ask me what I'd like to be doing in a couple of years and I have no idea what to say. The truth is that I don't know. I don't know if I want to be in the same field I am now - I don't even know if I want to be at the same paper. Of course I could be non-committal and say I don't know about three years but I'm happy where I am now. Except...

...just at the moment I am NOT happy where I am. The past week has been, frankly, shit. I am bored with what I'm writing about but the problem is that I can't actually imagine what else could possibly write about: there isn't anything else that appeals. At least not in this country. And I know that I have bad weeks and good weeks and I'll probably love it again next week but just right now, feeling like I couldn't give a toss about it, I'm dreading being asked to lie and pretend I don't want to fuck off to London and work for The Guardian writing... well okay I don't know what I'd write but, jesus, something.

This is nothing new, of course. It's exactly the same sort of wistfull gaze I get sometimes when it comes to other people's new relationships - because everyone's doing it, don't you know? I am frightfully happy, of course, that a handful of friends have recently found love. Honestly and quite sincerely happy for them. But at the same time... weeeell once you've been in a relationship for that many years, almost regardless of how lovely it is you've pretty much said goodbye to the days of having your organs clutter together in excitement when they text you or the giddiness of wondering if you should use the l-word or not. There are loads of plusses for established relationships too, of course, but it's hard to see them when you've been so close to them for so long: like some sort of selective short sightedness.

And that's exactly how I get about jobs. I currently have a job I like, that regularly genuinely excites and interests me, but that's not enough, of course. Seven months in it's all a bit familiar and I no longer have the giddy highs and crushing lows of the initial love-in period. Plus, I'm pretty sure the grass is a bit longer and greener over yonder. No, seriously, I'm pretty sure it is. Shall I just pop over there and have a quick squizz, eh? Yeah, yeah, I'll totally just be two minutes...

To conclude: I'm an idiot and my main job, come performance review day, should be to conceal that fact from said boss.

Elementary

Audio books: you either love them or you've never listened to one in your life.

Personally I've been a massive fan since I was a young 'un with problems sleeping. Instead of tossing and turning and fretting about my inability to sleep I would simply whack The Giraffe, the Pelly and Me into the tape player and let Roald Dhal's prose lull me to sleep.

These days I use them sometimes for exactly the same purpose but also for a range of others: to keep me entertained on those rare occasions I dust off the running shoes for a leisurely stroll and to entertain me when I'm driving about/cooking/loafing about.

There are pros and cons, obviously. For a start, sometimes you get a complete freak reading a book and it doesn't matter how good it is you just can't stick with it. I believe I've recounted on here once before the classic Italian lessons I once downloaded, only to discover they were being read by a man who sounded like he was having a stroke. Good times. It's also somewhat easy to lose the thread of the story if you drift off or let your mind wander. I tend to drift off in bed only to wake up with the ipod in the small of my back, my earphone wrapped about my throat and no idea where the audio book left off and my dreams began.

On the other hand, there are fewer great delights like listening to Mr Dahl himself read that children's story classic Fantastic Mr Fox, ditto for hearing Stephen Fry plummy-tone his way through Harry Potter and fuck me if I wasn't captivated just the other day by Steve Martin reading some of his rather good short stories (yeah, who knew?).

The only real problem is that I have exactly the same bad habits with audio books as I do with regular books. By which I mean my ipod is currently cluttered up with Faulkner and Burroughs and plenty of brainy non-fiction type of books that I do honestly INTEND to read. However I tend to go in for relistening to old classics (while my electronic bookcase sloowly fills up) or (my current fetish) listening to the truly awesome (and often unintentionally hilarious) 1950s BBC adaptions of the Sherlock Holmes books.

Which brings me to my final point: the role of the audio book as An Event. No longer do we sit about the radio, darning socks while listening to a serialised drama. And a bloody good thing, too, because no doubt it would be enough to make one go out and contract bloody consumption just for something to do in the evenings. But although I may be reclining on my couch, rather than sitting in a straight backed chair, and I may be fecking about with cards, rather than doing anything at all with a sock, there is something truly delightful about putting on a Sherlock Holmes serial, dimming the lights a bit and leting oneself be carried away by the shoddy production values of the 1950s. Ahhh.

Sunshines, rainbows, etc.

I've been avoiding blogging properly for the last few days because I've just been in such a foul mood. And, regular readers will be well aware, listening to me in a bad mood is about as much fun as watching an emo cut him or herself. Or actually, um, probably a bit less fun. Aaaanyway, because my desire to protect my readership from the pain and sheer dullness that is Kate In A Bad Mood has, for today, been beaten by Kate's Extreme Boredom I present to you a list of things I hate more than being at work right now...

• Having to get out of bed on cold, rainy mornings
• People who use the word "lover" (unless they're singing along to The Smiths, as in "but I don't want a lover, I just want to be tied to the back of your car")
• People who use the phrase "make love"
• The fact I can't eat and drink exactly as I want and still look like Zoey Deschanel
• The fact that I'm not called "Zoey"
• Children whose parents allow them to leak snot from their nose - get the child a motherfucking tissue PLEASE
• The reality that I will have to get out of bed tomorrow, probably on a cold, rainy morning and come to work AGAIN
• Ponies*

*I don't mean it - I'm sorry Princess, please take me back, baby.

It's going to be a good one

Some days wake you up by taking a giant dump on your chest, thus letting you know it's going to be a truly shit 24 hours. Others prefer to start as Just Another Ordinary Day before hitting you with the bad news. The fuckers. But every so often some lovely day decides to kick things off by giving you a shiny present. Such as having the person you have been DREADING meeting this morning because you've not prepared for the interview call up, super apologetic to cancel on you at the last minute just as you are weeping into your soy mocha. Thanks, day - much appreciated.

UPDATE: No, no, no , bad day, why would you lie to me like that? Someone please kill me now and put me out of my misery.

Backburners

I’ve never been a fan of that Cosmo-slash-Sex & The City habit of coining annoying little phrases to describe certain types of relationships we have with other people. You know, like, um, a “frenemy” or, um, okay that’s all I can come up with at the moment but there are loads. And they shit me.

Nevertheless I seem to be intent on coming up with my own lately, having previously discussed the concept of a relationship Placeholder (someone who, funnily enough, holds the place in line until someone better comes along) and more recently having become consumed with the concept of a Backburner.

We probably all have Backburners and they’re a bloody comfort: those people we know (or perhaps misguidely believe) have always sort of fancied us, or been a bit fond of us, and who, we assume, will sort of always be there in the way a childhood toy or a sweet, sweet 4 litre emergency cask of wine will be. Perhaps we once went out with the Backburner and fancy we broke their hearts, or maybe they’re just a friend whose always wanted to be a bit more…. Either way, as I say, it’s comforting to have them about. They reassure us we’re fanciable when we don’t think we are and their mere presence convinces us we won’t die alone in an apartment with our face being eaten by hungry cats.

And, as I am finding out, it’s a bit disconcerting when the relationship you thought you had with them is forced to change. This has happened to me twice in recent weeks and it’s a strange thing.
Firstly an old friend of mine is getting married (and NO it’s nobody who reads this blog because I know a fair few people getting married, some of whom DO read this blog, but none of whom have any reason to panic, honest) which is lovely and nice. In theory. But a tiny bit of me thought, when I heard the news, Oh… really? Because in my arrogant way I’ve always thought this friend was a bit sweet on me. It never got off the ground for a number of very good reasons but I have, from time to time, thought fondly of him and even, at off moments, wondered if, years and year down the line when I’m a toothless spinster, it might be game on. Now, apparently, it is Game Over.

Another friend has recently fallen in head-over-heels in love (and nope, not you either – this is another non blog reader, I assure you) and is currently giddy as a schoolboy. Again, on the one hand I know this is lovely and I am genuinely happy for him. But on the other hand… well I’d sort of liked to imagine he might have been nursing a soft spot for yours truly. And apparently… well, he’s not.

Now I’m not suggesting either that I have been nursing dreams to run off with these two boys, nor obviously, that I expect them to sit about mooning after me for ever, doodling Mr Emery on their spiral notebooks. But. Still. Well it’s put my nose a little out of joint. More worryingly it’s left me distinctly short of Backburner material. I’ve lost contact with ex-boyfriends and most of my own fanciables have long since become coupled up.

Granted I do have a very dear boyfriend all of my own but a relationship without a Backburner is like abseiling without a harness and rope to break your fall: bloody stupid and dangerous too.

And fuck me if I’ve not got a terrible feeling I’m in line for a broken neck - somebody throw me a bloody rope.

And don't come out until you're ready to say you're sorry

That’s it facebook, that is just about IT.

I’ve had it up to HERE with you young lady and if you think you can sit there and look at me with that SMIRK on your face then, let me tell you, you’ve got another think coming.

I have put up with fending of friend requests from people I have never MET before, I have dealt with numerous fucking irritating requests to be a pirate, grow a garden or write something on someone’s super fun super fun wall but this may be the final straw.

Not only have you spent weeks – WEEKS – inundating me with a running update of exactly how my facebook ‘friends’ rate me compared to everyone else (ie: you are the 18th best dining companion – whatev) now you have had the gall – yes THE GALL – to compare my results to a random selection of facebook ‘friends’ - and yes that’s right I said ‘friends’ and I’m putting air quotes in there - and tell me who I am most like.

Who I am most like, apparently, are three ‘friends’, all of whom, admittedly, I know but none of whom I have seen in, say, six months. At least. First up we have a former school friend whose one claim to fame I seem to recall was that she once wore a really crazy pair of PANTS to school on a free dress day. That is, quite literally, all I remember about her. Yet apparently she shares, with me, the dubious honour of being a hard worker and, apparently, not very trustworthy. Again: whatev.

Second we have somebody I actually dislike in an I-would-almost-not-brake-if-she-was-crossing-the-street kind of a way. I have met her… oooh maybe three times and, frankly, I didn’t care for her. Not actively evil, so far as I know, and possibly perfectly nice but Not One of Us. Nevertheless she along with me is super confident (gosh, it’s like you’ve known me all my life) and, like me, isn’t a very good dinner companion.

Lastly, and don’t even THINK about answering that call, Missy, you will stay where you are until I have finished, we have a vague acquaintance who, apparently shares my misfortune of being low on the ‘nicest smelling’ list. Oh now come on – that’s just CRUEL. Really? I mean, I do bathe every morning, admittedly it’s in a piping hot bath so I’m pretty much surrounded by my own filth but I am OUT there and I am putting in the effort. What more do you want – BLOOD?

Now I want you to go up to your room, scrub that SHIT off your face and think about what you have done. Mummy’s going to have a drink and a long lie-down.

And I'm pretty sure this wasn't what the Velvet Underground had in mind either...

I’m having a bit of an emotional dilemma at the moment. But before you get concerned I should explain: I’m not in a crisis or trying to make a life-changing decision or anything like that it’s just that I, quite literally, am not sure I am feeling or, perhaps, how I SHOULD be feeling.

The reason for this is simple: I have been asked to work Sundays in my job. Now this, clearly, is not a cause for celebration. I love my two-day weekends, I live for my two-day weekend. Try to take my two-day weekends away from me and I will cut you. However, in this case, in my particular job, working on Sundays means working alone and putting my section of the paper together for the next day on my lonesome. It is, therefore, something of a show of confidence in my abilities. Given that I am pretty sure most of the time my boss thinks I’m an incompetent boob this makes me happy.

But at the same time: Sundays? Really?

So. In one corner we have: my crippling lack of self-esteem and a sad, desperate desire to feel I am good at my job. While in the other corner we have: my desire for long lie-ins, trips to the library and afternoons watching DVDs in my towelling robe.

Which is all a long-winded way of saying I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

Though I could live without the biting...

Most of the time I do not long for a life much more exciting than I currently have. I do not, it is fair to say, live a craaaazy life. I am in bed before midnight on school nights. I read books in the bath. A lot. I do not Have A Haircut. I do not live a romantic bohemian lifestyle in any sense of the words. And, as I say, most of the time, I’m happy enough with it.

Even so, listening to a friend recount a story of breaking up a fight between his new girlfriend and her ex-girlfriend, complete with, I’m assured, biting, gave me just a twinge, a little pang of envy.

I thought these sorts of things only happened to the French?

Quotable Quotes

"News is what a chap who doesn't care much about anything wants to

read. And it's only news until he's read it. After that it's dead."

(Evelyn Waugh)

This question time is OVER...

Sometimes it's nice to be realise, unexpectedly, that your non blogger friends do read this thing. At other times it reminds me I should be careful what I write.

Case in point, mere MINUTES after putting up my (ahem) Mark Hamill post I received a text message from my lovely sister being not so lovely: "Mark Hamill? I can't let that one pass - ew" or something along those lines. Fine, fine, I knew there would be people who could never understand our love. Then onto dinner at a friend's house where, between snickers, another friend recounts for the benefit of others, my little Hamill fetish.

The thing is that, explained on the blog in my own voice, I almost certainly say things I wouldn't generally make public knowledge. I have not, for instance, ever been known to shout "break me off a piece of that" during Return of the Jedi, nor discuss my breakdown in the frozen food section with those near and dear to me lest I sound like a)I have extremely suspect taste, and b)I am losing it.

Remove the context, though, and it all sounds a bit grubby. Listening to someone else explain it I slowly start to realise that a fair chunk of the people I know and see regularly, at least those who are computer literate, now think I'm some sort of weirdo who attends Star Wars conventions and dons a gold bikini in the bedroom to live out some weird Jabba the Hut fantasy.

Not that I could possibly comment on that.

What, I need a reason?

I call it the potato gem lining...

There is very little good to say about having a really shit day. They are, well, shit, with little silver lining.

Occasionally, however, a very bad day sandwiched alongside a very good day can give us a helpful lesson in the fact that maybe, just maybe we're overreacting.

Yesterday - which began with me in a mood of unbelievable smugness that I had written some good stories and worked super hard the previous day, and ended with me crying in a supermarket - is a case in point. Ridiculous, of course. I neither deserved to be so smug at the start of the day, nor feel so shit at its end but it does rather help one to remember how quickly things can turnabout.

Today, for instance, has so far begun with that horrible feeling that I just can't go into work, not after yesterday, please no. I would give, at the moment, almost anything to have the guts to pull a sickie. Or even to be, you know, genuinely ill. But if I learned anything from yesterday it's that the mood in which you start the day does not have to set the tone for what's left of it. I could certainly continue to feel sorry for myself and embarrassed at everything that transpired yesterday, but I could also suck it up, remember I'm 25 and no longer actually an actual baby and put a little spring in my step.

Of course just in case I'm ensuring things start off on the right foot by having an uncharacteristically lavish breakfast of veggo sausages, avocado and (wait for it) potato gems. Pretty classy AND healthy, I know, but then you can never be too careful.

And is there anything worse?

Than feeling absolutely, completely useless at your job? Negatory on that one too.

Is there anything sweeter?

Than receiving unexpected gifts? Surely not.

10,000 is…

• The number we mean when we say “a myriad”...
• The number of neurons to which each neuron in our brain is thought to be connected...
• The number of square metres that make up a hectare...
• The number of bird species thought to exist worldwide...
• The name of a movie so trashy even Thom said “enough!”...
• Also (almost) the name of the intrigingly titled movie 10,000 Black Men Named George which I have never seen but now really want to...
• The number of angels referenced in Reveleations in that great work of fiction known as The Bible (actually it’s “Ten thousand times ten thousand…” but when do facts matter when we’re talking about the bible?)...
• The number of hits on this blog. Shite. Hurrah and thanks to my long-suffering readers who deserve more than listening to me wank on about Mark Hamill.

Token Smokin Hottie: Luke Skywalker

Oh fine, you just wipe that smirk off your face right now will you? I won’t have my love mocked like that.

So presumably you, like everyone else, think Han Solo is the Star Wars hottie young girls lusted after, with his rogue act and improbably tight pants. But Au Contraire, friend. Once a nerd lover, always a nerd lover and for some weird reason, though I can understand the appeal of Han, with his leather jerkin-waistcoat thing rejected by Sir Elton as ‘too gay’ and all the best lines, I have always have a huge crush on Mark Hamill-as-Luke Skywalker. Sure he spends most of the trilogy flouncing about the desert in an ill-fiting ju jitsu outfit and a bad haircut, ill-advisedly fancying his twin sister, or being jammed inside the belly of some dead beast of burden but Come On. Return of the Jedi? You wouldn’t go there?

The fact that Luke gets to be cool is what makes Return of the Jedi, as I was forced to explain in great detail at the weekend, the best Star Wars movie. Yes, yes, while The Empire Strikes back may be TECHNICALLY the superior movie of the three, Return of the Jedi will always get me because it’s the film which marks Luke’s Turn to kick some arse, while the superficially much cooler Han fricks about either being frozen in carbonite or being blind. I mean that bit where Luke comes in to recue Han, all dressed in black with his Jedi mind tricks? And then out in the desert where he saves their arses while remaining cool calm and collected? Oh yeah – you’d TOTALLY go there. And so would I.

Schmorn

I have never had a particular problem with porn. I have had friends, and boyfriends, who like it, and friends and boyfriends who do not like it, and neither bothers me. I can understand the appeal and I can understand the arguments against it but I've never been able to articulate either side of the argument. So thank goodness for Naomi Wolf, who offers her own take, and a pretty fascinating argument on porn right here. Interesting readying whether you're into Debbie Does Dallas or Not and big thanks to Mike for the link.

Gladiators: the live blog

6.40pm: So I have come home a bit drunk and all I want is some trashy Sunday night TV viewing. Oh Gladiators. Hmm brilliant. I mean I haven't seen this since I was about 10 or whatever but surely it offers some schlocky fun... no? no?

6.55pm: This is, um, I mean, this is meant to be funny, right? I mean I thought so, given the ridiculous gladiator smack talk and the general, you know, RIDICULOUS concept but I'm no longer sure. Maybe I need another drink.

7.05pm: Instant replay? Yellow card?? So they're um, taking this seriously are they? Riiiight....

7.08pm: I don't know why people rag on wine in a cask. It's bloody brilliant.

7.17pm: Oh fuck this show is really, REALLY bad. I mean, it demeans everyone involved. Where the flip is the control? Somebody PLEASE...

7.30pm: (The sound of demented weeping)