Strangeways Here We Come

Christmas was... Christmas. I think the festive season somewhere along the way lost its appeal for me. I eat a lot, I get stuff I asked for, am sometimes pleasantly surprised by the things I get that I didnt ask for (hello David Casssidy fridge magnet, Best of Smash Hits, 'Gods Gift' pocket book, watercolour painting set) and then it's over. Now what? Well, as it happens I'm being a right nerd and 'playing with all my new toys' as I am wont to do. This means when I haven't been reading my Andrew Collins books I've been watching the Russell Brand DVD (two days, two viewings and I have a feeling I will keep watching till I know his routine off by heart). (Seriously). (Also, please note, I'm becoming more and more obsessed with radio personalities. When Sazz starts a new hobby she really goes all out). What is so weird about these items is that what I love most is that I can really relate to what these two, ostensibly polar opposite, individuals are talking about (plus, you know, they're GUYS). And yet... I get it... reading Andrew's diaries from when he was 15 makes me feel like I'm reading my own diaries from that age... we didn't even grow up in the same decade! AND HE'S A MAN! Yet it's all very nostaligic for me. It also makes me feel better that I wasn't a child prodigy with language or observation. Andrew gets paid to write for a living now and he was just as self-obsessed and rubbish with words as I was in the crazy, heady days of youth (and, you know, now). Maybe life isn't like in TV when it's only the extremely-gifted-yet-somew

hat-awkward ugly ducklings who grow up to be the self-assured and successful winners. Maybe the average-recognised-as-being-quite-good-at-most-stuff-but-unlikely-to-blow-anyone-away-with-their-talent-yet-somewhat-awkward ugly ducklings ALSO grow up to have their dreams realised. (At some point). (Maybe). (One day). (Hopefully). (Oh god, my life is going nowhere).

Similarly, on the surface I couldn't be more unlike Russell Brand if I tried (I don't backcomb my hair, I don't wear skinny jeans, I don't sleep with a host of different women at every given opportunity) and yet, for instance, when Russell talks about the 'pixie of embarrassment' who, just as he is about to fall into a slumber, comes and reminds him of the painfully embarrassing things he's said and done... I GET THAT! IT HAPPENS TO ME ALL THE TIME! I have this mild tourettes reaction to recalling embarrassing incidents; 'Remember that time in Year 6 when you were sat in the school hall and you were falling off your chair and for some reason decided to haul yourself up by pushing yourself up with your hands, only problem being your left hand was placed atop Paul Gradiges right leg, yet this didnt register until the hauling up process had been completed?' Yes! Shitfuckshit! He MUST have thought I was coming on to him (as much as an 11-year-old CAN think that)! s'barrasing! The other times this happens is when a song comes onto my MP3 player which reminds me of embarrasing incidents and as I am mostly in public when I have my MP3 plugged in I have the double whammy of flushing with embarrasment about the recalled incident AND my tourettes reaction to it." I [insert embarrassing moment here]? OH SHITFUCKHIT I just said 'shitfuckshit' in public, I'm going to get myself a rep as the twat-in-a-hat (I bought a beret, did I tell you that? It's awesome) mentalist girl."

The other thing that confuses me is that I LIKE feeling connected to these two disparate individuals. Just as, when you watch a film or a tv show or hear a song and you're convinced that 'this was made just for me' thus making the feeling of not belonging just an illusion - because, look!, these people have created things that express the same feelings that you feel! Or reference the same cultural points that make you the person you are! You're not alone! If connectedness (its a word) is so important to me then it begs the question of why do I despise conformity quite so fervently? If I could go back in time and talk to my 13-year-old self (the one that was forced to move secondary schools at such an evil age) I would be like; 'Seriously kid, I don't think anyone here is truly happy with themselves. Conformity isn't something you want to pursue in any way really. Make sure you question e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g, from stuff your teachers tell you to pretty much all the guff your peers will tell you. They might pick on you as you stand out a little; you don't know the 'implicit rules of cool'* that distinguish the popular kids from the sad, you're kind of smart and shy [the most lethal of all personality traits at that age], and you don't know a soul here so you have to make a good impression on everyone right from the get-go [never gonna happen] but it really doesn't mean anything. All of this... it means shit. Don't try and impress anyone, like all the things you want to like and don't give a fuck what anyone else has to say about it. But, to be on the safe side here's a copy of 'Strangeways, Here we Come' as well as a list of other bands you will want to become aquainted with BEFORE your 17th birthday, some GHD straightners [if these had been readily available in 1996 my appearence would have been VASTLY improved], and some outfit choices that don't make you look like Karl Howman from Brush Strokes [waistcoats? dungarees? PURPLE cord flares? REALLY?? Sadly the answer is yes]. Now go out there and just... enjoy it as best you can. I know that's virtually impossible but not caring REALLY improves your chances'

It seems I would have quite the wordy diatribe to bestow upon my younger self. If I am honest, up to the age of about 21, everything I did was done to try and be the sort of person that that 13-year-old would be impressed by and less because I actually wanted to do certain things. Now I am the sort of person my 13-year-old self would be impressed by so it seems less important and I can just 'enjoy it as best I can'. A curious chicken-and-the-egg situation.

It's funny, because, even having said all of that I still had a really stong gut reaction upon hearing that Marianna's boyfriend Ricky thinks Chloe and I are weird. It was neither a good nor bad reaction but just utter disbelief on two levels; one - Am I really 'weird'? (Well... yeah) and two - the paranoia that people are thinking what I think they're thinking is true (at least in this case). I kind of suspected he wasn't my biggest fan which was only confirmed further after our house Christmas party (see pics for evidence). However, firstly it shouldnt surprise me because, to a guy like Ricky, I am weird. I've built my whole persona on the back of wanting to appear weird to the likes of Ricky. I don't listen to the music I listen to or read the books I read or wear the clothes I wear to get on the good side of the 'Rickys' in the world (we've already established that all this was done, at least inititally, to appeal to the construct I have of me at 13. Happily it turned out that I do genuinely like all these things). This isn't a personal attack on poor Ricky - he's just not someone I would ever spend any time or effort trying to impress as he is one of those people to whom conforming is just... what you do. Fitting in is the be all and end all. And I guess that's fine if thats how you want to live your life but I DON'T want to live my life like that and, more importantly, I CAN'T live my life like that. I passed the point of no return into 'Weirdsville' and burnt all bridges leading back into the safer land of 'Normalcy' a looong time ago now.

I guess I'm a little reflective (no, nothing to do with the luminous kind of reflective) due to it being the end of the year. This year has been, all in all, pretty great. My state of mind is definately in a more positive place than it was at the start of last year. There's two ways of looking at this - either, the fact that I'm finally happy with myself can only be a good thing, or, the only way from here is down. We shall see.

*The author of the book 'Queen Bees and Wannabees' (which the film Mean Girls is based on) says that, in High School, kids have to follow a strict set of rules laid down by... God knows who... and if these are not followed exactly and to the letter then you will be given a hard time. The only problem is that no-one actually explains the rules at any point. If you unknowingly go against them then you set yourself up as a target for the rest of the kids ire. Anyone who didnt realise that you could only wear short white socks and not long white socks with your black woolly tights in winter should know how true all this is.

Cliff Richard Can Shove It

Ok, so the Christmas present thing is going better now I've freaking got it all freaking well done (thanks Cap'n!). Now I just need to wrap them. I love and I loathe wrapping. Of course this is qualitatively different to the way I feel about 'rapping' which only has positive connotations. Evidenced by my latest composition 'Rush Home to Rusholme' (this is the area of Manc my bro lives in) which is gritty and real. It goes a little bit like this:

Rush home,
Rush home,
We gots to,
Rush home,
to Rusholme.

What do you think? Am I the next Eminem? Only time will tell.

Anyway, the plan this year is to wrap the presents BEFORE 4am on Christmas Eve. I learnt the hard way that doing this does not endear you to any members of your family, especially your mother, when you are so tired having stayed up till 5am to wrap (not rap) that you fall asleep at the Christmas dinner table. But when Trev-the-semi-professional

wrestler invites you and a couple other pals back to his pad after Christmas Eve pub drinks - you go. You go and you have a great time. Thems the rules. But yeah, won't be doing anything that zany this year.

This has nothing to do with anything BUT I love this mulberry sweater dress. It looks awful on me but it's so darn comfy. AND it has front pockets. God I love front pockets (thats not a frightening euphamism).

Anyhoo, a very Merry Christmas y'all.

Geeks required. Apply within.

Does anyone want to do my dissertation for me? Not the whole thing. Just the stats bit. It's doing me head in. I tried to escape it by going to Manchester and watching TV with my brother for three days (there ain't no party like a Mulholland kids party cos the Mulholland kids party don't stop) but I come back and it's all still here. Looking at me. Doing my head in. A bit like Rod Stewart at EVERY SINGLE TRAIN STOP from Reading to Manc AND BACK AGAIN. If you make that particular journey don't sit in Coach C. Coach C appears to be where the train driver likes to be lined up with Rod Stewart posters. Whenever I loooked out the window there he was - sat there, legs akimbo, sleazing his sleazy look, smirking his smirk-worthy smirk, making me be sick in my mouth. Stewart - put it away. For the love of all that is good and holy. Put. It. A-W-A-Y. Or at least take a leaf out of Wogan's book - (ha! LITERALLY). (I crack myself up). All he needs is a witty tagline ['Warning: Contains mild irony'], a lifted brow and a whimsical look to camera. That's what captures my heart Stewart. Not you drawing attention to the outline of your cock underneath your tight, tight trews by crudely placing your knees as far apart as they will go like some cheap hooker trying to drum up buisness. Try and remember that next time mmkay?

Right, ok, it's nearly Christmas. I still haven't finished my Christmas shopping. I am now starting to F-R-E-A-K O-U-T. And not in the 70's disco 'le freak, c'est chic' way neither. Trouble is, I havent got much money. Actually, scratch that. I havent got ANY money (this may or may not be connected to the number of ridiculously priced gingerbread lattes I've been consuming* and party dresses I've been acquiring). But yeah, I want people's presents to count and to mean something, quality not quantity is the aim of the game this year. Only thing is; what the hell do these people WANT? I'm normally the most awesome gift buyer around. This year, more than ever, all I can see is stuff that appeals to me (this does not bode well for the state of my soul). See, these Wonder Woman coasters and Moomin snowglobes are not the sort of thing that everyone covets in the same way that I do. I KNOW! IT'S CRAZY! But it's true! And what's worse is that even for the people who I have got an idea about what to buy them I CAN'T FREAKING FIND IT ANYWHERE. Like, for instance, Papa Mikey (If your name is Papa Mikey stop reading now). I want to buy him some kind of robot building kit. Cos that'd be awesome. Who DOESN'T want to build their own robot? No-one! (Cap't B - I know you're with me on this). Everyone loves robots (as long as they are the kind that are not programmed to take over the world). We've all watched Short Circuit 1 and 2. We all know how fun it is to have a wacky robot pal to gad around town with. Yet can I find a robot building kit anywhere? No! LITTLE BABY JESUS WHY DO YOU PERSIST IN MOCKING ME? He loves making my life harder.

I fear what the brother is getting me. He keeps saying 'I hope it turns out alright' which for some reason has me convinced that he's been making me a macaroni-based collage. Although I did get him a Vin Diesel calendar last year so I suppose this would be what's known in the revenge buisness as 'payback'.

By the way, while we are on the subject - for Christmas can you get me Andrew Collins? He's my new-old hero.

*This does mean I get to see my two new BRAND NEW FOR CHRISTMAS crushes - Wolfman and Owlboy. They are actually barristas in a well known coffee providing chain that rhymes with barbucks* and not a new cartoon crime crusading combo.
*In 'Trev and Simons Stupid Book' that I have had since I was eight and still have (in fact I have two copies as I stole one from Andrew McGregor) they suggest that putting a 'b' in front of all words makes it instantly funny. I'm not sure bow buch I bagree.*
*To be fair, that does make that sentence more fun to say.

Oh dear.

I just ate microwave popcorn out of a saucepan for dinner having spent the entire day playing a late 90's videogame.

It might be time for one of those 'life makeovers'.

Dude, seriously?

Let me get this straight. This new film 'Flushed Away'... am I right in thinking that it's about a couple of be suited smooth-as-ice RATS that through some quirky twist of fate find themselves FLUSHED AWAY down a toilet? I saw about 47 seconds of a trailer about two weeks ago. It's only just hit me now: this is the plot of children's film? Seriously?

However it's not freaking me out as much as this:

Two things:

1. PENGUINS DONT TAP DANCE (unless they are possessed by the Devil one presumes).

2. IT HAS THE COLD DEAD EYES OF A KILLER.

So these are my main gripes this week. I like to focus on the important issues.

Although even they pale in comparison to last night when some man, some swarthy dude, came up to me just as I had entered a cocktail bar and started stroking my hair saying how lovely it was in a very suspect accent. 'Don't worry I'm a haairdresser' he said. Yet, for some strange reason this did nothing to allay my fears. When random strangers come up and start stroking MY FUCKING HAIR whether they are purported hairdressers or not it still somehow I DON'T KNOW WHY but somehow still FREAKS ME THE FUCK OUT. Although that evening I did get three glasses of wine bought for me and I didn't even have to put out. Awesome.

So yeah, it's like December now innit? Jesus. (LOL literally lololololroflaolotflas). For some reason this has been making me a touch grouchy. In many ways I love December; it means I have a semblance of a social life. In other ways, having to be sociable and pretend I care about other people - it's tiring innit? Taylor likes to play my punk card when she knows I'm grumpy. I was told that prodding me was 'like poking a bear'. How often do you think it is advised that you poke bears? It's not. Because doing that makes the bear angry doesn’t it? And yet she persists. Playing 'Mistletoe and [fucking] Wine' in my ear. It's one of her fucking ringtones. Christ. (LOL LITERALLY LOLOLLOL)

I tell you what else; this egg nog business is bothering me. What is it? WHAT IS IN EGG NOG? Does anyone know? I associate it with American 'Christmas special' episodes of sitcoms. That's all I know about it - sitcom characters drink it at Christmas time, always and without fail. That and I'm pretty sure it's beige in colour. I am always, always suspicious of anything beige. Like, it's something that's just trying that little bit too hard to blend in to its surroundings you know? Like the SAS and camouflage. Sort of. Anyway, housemate Emma is threatening to make it for our house Christmas party. I have this overwhelming fear that I'm going to be forced to try it out of politeness and it'll have the consistency and taste of slightly warmed, slightly alcoholic, phlegm. I feel sick just thinking about it.

Procrastination Update

I have four essays due in on Monday. I have now completed two of them. The other two I have done 1000 words each for and typed up all the references I'm going to use - which is the most boring job in the world. You have to get all the commas and full stops in the exact right place...
e.g.
This is right:
Bradley, L. and Bryant, P. (1978). Difficulties in auditory organisation as a possible cause of reading backwardness. Nature. 271, 746-747.

This is wrong:
Bradley, L. and Bryant, P. (1978). Difficulties in auditory organisation as a possible cause of reading backwardness. Nature, 271, 746-747.

Spot the difference? NO COS IT’S A FUCKING POINTLESSY PEDANTICALLY TINY COMMA IN THE WRONG FUCKING PLACE. Jesus Wept.

So yeah. I've gone through all that. That's done. It’s on the table. We can sit back and forget about that and just get on and finish those two last essays can't we?

No.

Have you met me? The answer is of course NO.

The procrastination monster lives on in me. He refuses to let me do my work. He will not let me be until I finally beat Him into submission (normally around 4'o'clock in the morning) (Dirty!).

However, he is quite thoughtful. Today he has:
- Let me go and watch a 'departmental video' on Guns, Knifes and Children. Which was very interesting and He knows I fancy the lecturer who runs these video sessions so it was nice of Him to let me see said lecturer.
- Let me go and see 'A Scanner Darkly' at the cinema. Again, very thoughtful as it's a fucking cool movie and He must have also read my diary and knows I could watch Robert Downey Jr read out the phone book and still be awed by his performance
- Made me go and buy some milk from the garage which meant the garage man could allow me to have free pik'n'mix.

Oh procrastination monster. I can't stay mad at you for long. You only want what's best for me don't you? EXCEPT THE 'BEST FOR ME' IS TO GET THESE FUCKING ESSAYS FINISHED BEFORE TOMORROW SO I CAN HAVE MY FUCKING LIFE BACK.

I hate myself.

I've done all the reading and the note taking and the drafting of these essays. They're all there ready. Ready to be typed up and just done and finished and then I can get on with my dissertation (or just, you know drinking and watching tv). Just type them up Sazz. That's all you need to do. Type. Them. Up. And yet here I am, procrastinating- writing about writing them up - BUT NOT WRITING THEM UP. Just going to get another cup of tea thinking 'ok after this tea, this one now, this is when I will start properly, stop faffing, stop internet surfing, stop finding things to wash up. Just go and sit at my laptop and write up my essays'. Will I? No. I come and write a blog entry. I am physically incapable of getting on with my work. When I spoke to my brother last night he was like 'you have a whole week left to hand them in and you're bothering to do them now?' as I was simultaneously freaking out that I HAVE A WEEK LEFT TO HAND THEM ALL IN AND I'M ONLY DOING THEM NOW. We lead very different lives.

Part of it is sitting in my room, I cannot work in my room. I need my room to be my place to chillax and I need somewhere else to work. The last couple of weeks I have gaily walked into the library every day to be an old-skool geek and draft these essays with pen and paper. Which I did. AND NOW I JUST NEED TO TYPE IT UP PROPERLY. It seems to help if I leave my room as I have much much higher chances of running into cute boys (I rarely trip over such creatures in my room). (Sadly). The rewards of the cute boys seem to motivate me into doing work. Unless I speak to one of them like I have done the last two Monday's in a row and find myself daydreaming about 6 foot tall Greeks that are probably a bit too old for me. But I still manage to get work done even then eventually. And yet now I can't. Today, I haven't left the house all day so I have nothing and noone to daydream about. But I can't get on and finish off these essays. Why why WHY?

I keep thinking of that bit in Office Space where Berg from Sex in the City (I can't remember his name in the film) is telling Dr Cox from Scrubs (I can't remember his name in the film) what his daily output of work is as they are assessing who in the office can be fired. By this point in the film Berg has stopped giving a fuck and doing things like turning up at his desk to gut the fish he caught earlier in the day. Therefore he is brutally honest in his self-assessment. He informs Dr Cox that generally his routine consists of him always being at least 20 minutes late and taking the back stairs to get to his desk so he isn't caught wandering in late by his boss, then he takes an hour or so to sit at his desk and just 'zone out' so it looks like he's doing something but really he's just, you know, zoning out. Berg concludes he probably does 15 minutes of real work, in total, per week. Yes. That's me. That's my life. I do that. I am that person.

This is my life. It hurts my soul.

In order to put off DOING THESE DAMN FREAKING ESSAYS TYPE UP THE ESSAYS DO IT DO IT NOW I'm finding things to worry about. When did I eat all those rice cakes? Didn't I buy them yesterday? When did I become a rice cake fan? They taste of ricey cardboard. How can you eat so many rice cakes? There's rice cake dust on top of your television. How does rice cake dust get on someones television unless they are leaving the ricecakes on top of the television? Why are you leaving rice cakes on top of your television? Why have the number of condiments in your fridge started to outnumber the actual proper food you have in the fridge? I currently own; pesto, sweetcorn relish, red onion chutney, light mayonnaise, cherry jam, dolmio pasta sauce. When did you amass such a collection? Are you Edward Norton's character in Fight Club? His condo blew up and all that remained was condiments? Is that going to be you? Does this maybe explain how you can eat so many rice cakes and not remeber doing it? Do you now have multiple personality disorder?

This is my brain. It hurts my soul.

Elsewhere... I love doing my radio show. I havent found anything I love so much since... well ever. I love every aspect of it, choosing the music and planning it out, designing the posters, and maintaing the myspace for it. I actually get to put my music collection to good use and have as a result fallen in love with music again. I didn't realise I'd fallen out of love with it but all relationships get neglected at some point don't they? You just take it for granted that [music] will always be there and you just fall into a familiar routine with [music] without even realising it and before you know it you're cheating on [music] with slutty [sitcoms] just to add some excitement to your life. But I've rediscovered my love of riot grrl and 80s indie and 60s girl groups - remembering all the things I have loved for years and just stopped listening to - The Fall and Ciba Matto and The Raincoats and The Crystals and Refused and The Slits. When and where and why did these things fall out of my life? How and who and what happened to make that happen?

The only thing is - the other radio station people hate me. Well not all of them. A couple like me I think. They compliment my show and say 'hi' when they see me. That's encouraging right? The others... not so much. 'Hate-filled looks' might be stretching the truth a little but you get the general idea. I seem to have this effect on people. Me and people, we just don't get on.