This is Halloween

Hope everyone had a great Halloween.




Chocolate cake, with marzipan decorations (except the fence, which is made of cocktail sticks painted with black food dye), took two days in total, but worth it.

 



Didn't deter the Trick or Treaters.




Only just remembered where I put all the cobwebs around the house.



Some of the world in union.

Let me preface this post by saying that while ranting and current events are not my normal style (there are loads of other places on the Internet to listen to people self-righteously claim that they know what is best for the world) this is an exception as it allows me to crap all over football.

My fellow Britons, or anyone else who has an interest in British sport (no, I'm serious), imagine this... It's the day after the final of the football world cup, lets say Brazil vs. France, not England but still, two countries who like their football. It is also the day after Sale Sharks have won a match, not a championship match or a final, just a match. You buy the morning paper and there's a nice big picture of the Sale Sharks on the front page of the sports section. Having trouble envisioning this particular scenario? Me too.

So why, the day after the final of the rugby world cup, was the outcome of the Manchester derby top news everywhere from the papers to Facebook? Now just to clear up something, I am not a bitter Manchester United fan, I actually come from a family of City season ticket holders. But my mother is Welsh, hence the rugby brainwashing from a young age.

 I'll admit, football is more widely followed than rugby in England, it sells papers, it makes huge amounts of money, and the final score was more interesting than the rugby final. But to channel my whiny inner voice, rugby is just better.

Rugby players don't get paid such ridiculous amounts of money or feel that they are entitled to whatever they want. Rugby fans don't need to be segregated in the stands. There is respect for other teams and other fans. For example, there is no shame in losing to New Zealand, and if you meet another rugby fan in this country, chances are you'll become friends rather than enemies, no matter which team they support. The fans are incredibly loyal and yet accept that it is just a game. Anyone who has ever seen the Welsh supporters will know that an evening match is a night out and an excuse to dress up. It's fun, it's a celebration. And, as the song suggests, in rugby there is far more of a sense of the world celebrating as one.

So, congratulations New Zealand, you deserved it.

Dun Dun Duuuuuun.

There are moments in life that redefine the way we view the world. whether it's witnessing historic events, people entering and leaving our lives, or a new album. For me these events include leaving school, watching E.T for the first time, the worst day of my life, getting over a long-term illness, any time I see photos from outer space, leaving home, and learning that twinkle twinkle little star and the alphabet song had the same tune.

But last night I came across a new discovery that would shatter the very foundations of all that I knew to be true about the world... Agatha Christie surfed.

QI, rocking my world since 2003.

Contestant #4: Bradley

Today's contestant I have named Bradley (he looked like a Bradley), and he was buying butter. Just butter. nothing else. No bread to go with his butter, no flour to make a cake with it. And it wasn't just a 'damn I'm out of butter, better nip out to the shops', this was four packs of butter. Just butter.

This lack of other purchases has left me rather stumped. What was the butter for? There were no clues, no hints, not even one of those free recipe cards that they give away at the supermarket. Never have I been so curious about fat? All I can tell you was that it was good butter. This cluelessness has led me to some rather wild speculation. Maybe he has a cat that had become stuck in the banisters, maybe he's part of a coffee morning and is responsible for the bagels (Bradley, you forgot the bagels), maybe he has developed an automobile that runs on butter, maybe he is allergic to everything but butter, maybe he is a butter sculptor, maybe he is planning some Home Alone -esque trap by buttering all his floors. who knows? But as Julia Child said, 'with enough butter, anything is good'. Except heart attacks...

Contestant #3: Jeremy

Today's contestant I named Jeremy. He looked like a Jeremy. He was dressed in his finest garb, sported a haircut that would probably pay for my grocery shopping for the whole year, and to top it all off wore the smug expression of a man who knows exactly why everyone else in the queue finds him annoying to look at, and has gone out of his way to achieve this.

If he wants to look like a prick for his own personal satisfaction that's fine by me, each to his own. But the shameless display of carefully arranging his purchases along the conveyor belt in a manner that allowed, nay forced, everyone else in the line to observe them (and made me feel far less sneaky and spy-like) was another thing altogether. Yes, we can see your organic vegetables, your baguette, your fancy pasta, your truffle oil, your sun-dried tomatoes, your bruschetta, your pate, and your Gü desserts. Yes, I am slightly jealous, you have nice food. Again, I have no problem with that, but take that superior look off your face. And don't you dare give my fried chicken and Monster Munch the stink eye.

M. Night Shyamalan should really do a film about this...

I can't believe I forgot this one, although to be fair, it's more of a 'notice', and therefore wasn't stored in the sign compartment of my brain. I came across this sign last summer. I laughed, and then I felt a little bit guilty.



Fredericksburg, TX, USA (2010)

I hope your surgery went a planned.

Also from the same trip...



Somewhere in Texas

Hmmm.

And yes, I know they are most definitely signs. However, I think my brain was concentrating more on this at the time, hence why the internal filing system didn't quite work:


 Happy Sign Spotting, folks.

Sign language

Having completed my summer travels I have made memories, taken photos, experienced new things, and best of all learnt some new travel games. In my opinion a travel game need not be limited to the time spend in transit reaching your destination, and they can range from the simple 'counting the steps as I climb them to take my mind off the pain' to a personal favourite...Sign Spotting.



Houston, TX, USA (2010)

Whether they be stating the obvious or missing the point...

Prague, Czech Republic (2007)

Humorous...



Edinburgh, Scotland (2010)

or unintentionally so... 



Fredericksburg, TX, USA (2010)

Unusual...

Salzburg, Austria (2009)

Or telling you how to avoid death...



Olympic National Park, WA, USA (2008)
Don't forget to fight back aggressively, pick up your children, and throw them.

Sign Spotting is a great way to keep annoying children occupied, and have something more interesting than yet another photo of yet another mountain when you get back home.

For more Sign Spotting fun, visit http://www.signspotting.com/

Why does the kitchen smell of raccoon?

Despite being 20 years old, having the house to myself for the weekend is no less exciting than it was when I was 15. And despite the fact that I am too lazy to actually call my friends and get them round, having the house to myself is still a face-slapping, bed-jumping, stair-sledging good time.

I of course do all the ironing that my mother left me, but once those crazy antics are out of the way, then the real fun can begin. So here's a check list (nothing says fun like a check list) of the vital components for a weekend free of parental supervision, and friends, and a life.

1. Take away menus. Be it pizza, chinese, indian or a combination of the above, no weekend to yourself is complete without food that comes served in cardboard. The pizza boxes on Monday morning will also let the bin men know that this resident had a real crazy weekend. So that's your reputation on the line there too.

2. TV. With great take away comes great entertainment. Why eat by yourself when your friends from the lands of the small screen and the big screen can keep you company? Without chilli fried beef and Bruce Willis it's just not a Saturday night. Welcome to the party pal.

3. Revelling in the fact that now I'm 20 that constant feeling that I should probably start my homework before Monday, is nothing but a long distant memory.

4. Number 3 of course leaves plenty of time for YouTube.

5. YouTube tends to lead to the losing of all sense of time. Which leads to not realising that it's actually 3am. This of course would have been the whole point of a parent-free weekend when I was 15, but after one too many years of knocking back caffeine for too many days straight just to reach essay deadlines, I need my sleep. So this one is really a personal judgment call on sleep deprivation Vs number of brain cells left.

6. Doing things you can't do when your parents are at home. I may be 20, but my mum will still shout at me for jumping on the furniture. So cue sofa gymnastics and science experiments (mostly just setting fire to stuff if I'm honest).

7. Dancing round the house. Okay, I do this even when the house is full, but for some reason it's just more fun when you have an empty house as your stage. And as that audience in the mirror isn't going to mock you, you can also practise oscar speeches, etc.

8. You can also play single player games you probably haven't had the time for, what with all that ironing, such as Hot Lava, re-enacting your favourite movie scenes, and which is the highest step you can jump from.

9. Another game in which I regularly partake when home alone, is called 'scaring the bejesus out of myself'. That highly over active imagination from my childhood has certainly not been damaged by all those caffeine-fuelled sleepless nights, to the point where I did see a face at the window. I swear.

10. Of course if you are Macauley Culkin a visit from Joe Pesci is actually not paranoia. Which does however just lead to even more joyful shenanigans, and a nice taking at the box office. So there's a weekend well spent.

11. And finally, after all this tomfoolery, you get to play that final game of tidying up, getting dressed, and guiding that stray raccoon out of the kitchen before your parents get home.

Who needs to go clubbing on the weekends?

Contestant #2: Dave

Contestant number 2 in my ongoing game of Supermarket Snoop I decided to name Dave. He looked like a Dave. And by that I mean that he looked like pretty much the most average kind of guy you can imagine: white, 5'11"-ish, dark hair, medium build, and no multicoloured cloaks or anything. Now just to set the scene, I was in Costco, so already the chances are that the shopping basket (read massive trolley) is going to have a some fairly unusual items in it. Even if you don't buy the full size sail boat that was set up in the middle of the store, a 100 pack of toilet roll or half a cow's worth of steaks can look a bit odd.

Dave was at the next till over so I had a fairly good view of his purchases; a massive tub of washing powder (which we were also buying), a 100 pack of cloths, and two huge bottles of bleach. The only possible conclusion... Dave has murdered someone. I've watched enough CSI to spot evidence of a clean up, washing powder to clean the blood off his clothes (but not in our case), cloths to wipe up the huge blood pool, and bleach to clean the floor, walls etc. It all fit.

However, I wasn't worried. CSI has also taught me that the body will inevitably turn up in an unusual and dramatic reveal. The good looking corpse will then provide a singular hair that will lead us to Dave. Once in his house, a spray bottle and a fancy light will reveal the huge blood pool that he thought he had cleaned up with all that bleach (clearly Dave doesn't watch CSI), and a ghostly version of the good looking corpse will re-enact how he killed her.

So no worries.

Contestant #1: Joyce

Having been relatively housebound for the last couple of months, venturing into the outside world is now a lot more interesting than it previously was. For example, last week I went food shopping and couldn't help but notice what everyone else was buying. This soon turned into a competition with myself to find the most interesting selection of items being purchased (it was a long queue and there wasn't a whole lot else to do).

Contestant number one I decided to call Joyce. She looked like a Joyce. She appeared to be in her late 60s, neatly dressed, with pristinely coiffed hair. She began to unload her shopping onto the conveyor belt one space in front of me, and it all looked relatively normal. As you would expect of many elderly people, Joyce was purchasing bran flakes, prunes and wholemeal bread. She also had a punnet of strawberries and a carton of cream, nothing unusual during Wimbledon. Just when I thought this game had failed before it had even begun, out came the vodka.

Good on you, Joyce.

In my day.

The week before last, while on a rather tiring journey, I was half dozing (don't worry, I wasn't driving) and half listening to the radio. The mention of a certain Mr Paul Simon caught my attention, and the news that he was turning 70 brought me out of my semi-unconscious state like a particularly brutal shot of espresso. 70! This shouldn't really surprise me; my mother is now two and a bit years off getting Senior discounts, some of my best friends are now living in different time zones, and we are only 4 years away from flying cars according to Dr. Emmett Brown. My generation is suddenly becoming the next generation of 'adults' *gulp*.

But therein lies the problem. It's not sudden. It happens so gradually, so quietly, that you don't even notice it happening. It's only when the radio tells you it's happened that you actually realise it. So to prevent any heart attacks, I suggest you sit down and take a deep breath as I give you a run down of some of the most shocking realisations of the year 2011.

1. Ferris Bueller took the day off a quarter of a century ago.

2. Audrey Hepburn ate her breakfast outside Tiffany's half a century ago.

3. Harry Potter was brought alive on the big screen ten years ago. (He should really have finished school in 2008. Slacker).

4. There are kids starting high school in September who were born after the millennium.

5. The Simpsons have been on TV for 21 years. Bart should be 31...

6. My friend played a recording of the sound that dial-up Internet used to make, to someone a few years younger than him. The response...'what's that weird noise?'

7. The first Toy Story film came out in 1995.

8. Friends finished 7 years ago. (Although you wouldn't know it with 2 re-runs a day).

9. I have X-Men 2 on VHS.

10. Sarah Michelle Gellar was 19 when the first episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer was aired. Oh how I miss Sunnydale.

11. I also miss phones that had curly chords.

12. Alfred Hitchcock was born in the 19th Century. He would be 111.

13. Weezer released 'Buddy Holly' 16 years ago. Nirvana and Red Hot Chili Peppers respectively released 'Smells like Teen Spirit' and 'Under the Bridge' 20 years ago.

14. Dirty Harry is 81.

15. I know how to read a map.

16. I remember storing all my friends' phone numbers in my head.

17. I have a PS1.

18. I remember having to announce to the house that I was going on the Internet, and did anyone want to use the phone before then.

19. Turns out mini-discs weren't the next big thing.

20. I haven't used my tape deck in 15 years.

So now that we all feel suitably old, remember...there is no need to be sad. Soon we'll have teleports, holograph phones, and colonies on the moon. And to the people who are sat there thinking, 'big whoop, I saw Star Wars in the cinema, I remember man walking on the moon, yadda, yadda, yadda', that's very nice.

This is the 20th century calling.

It happens just once a year. It unites people with a sense of excitement, brings laughter and celebration. I am of course talking about Eurovision. For those unfortunately unaware of this phenomenon of television, The Eurovision Song Contest (to give it its full name) is an annual competition between every country in Europe, to find the crème de la crème of musical entertainment. After each act has displayed their talent, people across the continent frantically phone in to vote for their favourite act, these public votes are then combined with a score given by a panel of judges from each country. Finally each country is represented by one charismatic individual whose job it is to award their given scores from one to twelve, the more points each country gets the higher it climbs up the leader board, until every country has announced their points, and a winner is announced. If you are European you are probably familiar with the above procedure, if you are British you probably had the common sense to set a bowl of some description beneath your monitor to catch the sarcasm dripping pouring from my words.

For the rest of the world, yes, the above description was an accurate outline of the evening's proceedings, now just imagine each act is performed by mental patients, dressed in clothes made by blind four year olds from the 80s, attempting to sing a song that would be a crueler alternative to waterboarding, while surrounded by uncoordinated epileptic dancers. Yet, despite all of this, you watch the entire thing, and thoroughly enjoy it.

However, in years gone by, the contest has given the world such acts as Lulu, Celine Dion, and most notably, those heroes of Eurovision, ABBA. Even the entertainment provided by the host country has occasionally managed to make a name for itself, with Riverdance stealing the show when the competition came to Ireland. And indeed hosting the contest is itself an act. Each year it is broadcast live from the home country of the previous year's winner, where a venue is decorated and filled with spectators, pyrotechnics are organised, and the hosts must keep smiling all evening. Even scaled down versions are held in people's houses, where 'Eurovision parties' give us all an excuse to dress up in berets and lederhosen (you know you want to).

But Eurovision is so much more than just a search for musical talent. It is politics. Norway will vote for Denmark, Ukraine will vote for Belarus, Latvia will vote for Lithuania, and so on. This is serious business. Should World War 3 break out, sides will not be drawn as a result of current events or past alliances, but due to the results of the Eurovision Song Contest. So give your 12 points wisely, Europe.

The king the queen and I

After weeks of anticipation, the Royal Wedding is over. The bunting is being taken down, plates washed up, and that post-Christmas feeling is settling in. When I'm old, frail and can't remember my own name, I won't remember the time I spent watching TV, the internet sites I visited, or phone calls with my friends, but hopefully I'll remember the history I lived through, the memories shared by millions, so I can say 'I remember where I was'. Sadly the human brain seems to have a filter that saves the saddest events, so here's a peek into that day for my withering old self, I better make a note of my Blogger password...

After an 8am start I grabbed some breakfast and sat in front of a TV that my mother had fired up hours ago. With the smell of food creeping out of the kitchen, and the sight of a small group of people dressed in their finery entering Westminster Abbey, this historical event was finally underway. The reassuring voice of Huw Edwards announced their arrival, naming various friends and family. Other reporters were out on the Mall meeting those members of the public who had camped out to secure a good view of the couple, tired but excited, their faces reflecting the mood of the nation. Politicians and officials smiled at the camera, proclaiming their best wishes, such joy only added to the surreal sense of the whole thing. Footage of previous royal ceremonies offered a glimpse into the history of the day, and the nationwide street parties harked back to a time gone by.

Views of Buckingham Palace and Clarence House showed little activity yet, offering me a perfect window in which to get myself ready for the day. My mother and her friend also took it upon themselves to use this time to transport the food and such round to a neighbours house, which would be our HQ for the day. So as to avoid the inevitable talking that would drown out any television commentary the BBC was offering, I chose to watch the majority of the build-up and service at home. A choice which I have since learned was a wise one, as the gathered 50-something year old women unable to contain their excitement apparently lived up to my expectations. With my cynical father cleaning the roof, I had the TV to myself.

The arrival of foreign dignitaries and royal families brought with it a feeling that things were really starting to happen, upping the pomp by a palpable amount. A series of almost comical minibuses announced the arrival of our own royal family, and Westminster was almost full. Finally a sighting of two figures resembling toy soldiers signalled the start of what would be a proud day for the monarchy and Britain. As the future King and his best man made their way up the aisle I was reminded of my secondary school history lessons. While they may be seen as Wills and Harry now, future generation will talk about them as we do previous monarchs, suddenly the significance of the day was evident against that most historic of backdrops. Yet amidst the grandeur was a man on his wedding day. And as this man's grandparents set off to see their grandson be wed, their exit announced to the gathered crowds by a short fanfare, they passed by statues of his other ancestors. This was a family event. A family event shared by billions.

With only the most anticipated of guests now absent, the excitement was at a high, as the nation held its breath to see the most discussed and speculated about piece of clothing. Then the cameras switched from the abbey, to a shot of a car and awning, a flash of white just visible. While craning my neck every which way wouldn't make any difference with a televisions screen, I couldn't help it. This was it. My personal loathing of bridal fashion over the last few years, had left me with just one thought. Please have sleeves. As the bride was helped into the car and her train arranged on the seat (another clue) the world was given its first view of the dress. It had sleeves! Beautiful lace sleeves. Good girl.

The crowds who had being cheering at every car and squirrel were given their first money shot of the day, and reassurance for those who had been roadside for days. The steady drive from the Goring Hotel offered little more information on the dress despite the large windows, but her relaxed smile was enough for now. As the car slowed to a perfectly lined up halt and the door opened, I feared for the sound men. For those who had declared their territory around Westminster, this was their moment. Stepping out of the car, Miss Middleton looked like a princess. Poised and elegant, serene yet assured, regal was the word. The crowning glory of her consistently impeccable style. The 1950s silhouette with its perfectly cut pleats, and the 2 metre 70 cm train exquisitely decorated with embroidery done by the Royal School of Needlework, complemented the top half and completed the vision, . Thankfully having ignored the fashionistas pleas for something 'modern' we were presented with a classic design, that unlike fashion will not age. I'm sure my elderly self agrees. 

The noise from outside having announced her arrival, Westminster prepared for yet another chapter in the history books. As the 1900 guests laid eyes on the bride, only one person was yet to see her. A quick glance from Harry accompanied by a grin and a whisper in his brother's direction, left me wishing I could read lips. Finally as she reached the alter, and joined her soon-to-be husband by his side, William saw her for the first time. My wish had been granted, 'You look beautiful' he mouthed. The Archbishop of Canterbury took the stage, and so it began.

When the Kate finally said 'I will', proclaiming her entry into that most famous of families, the roar from outside could be heard in the abbey. It was official. Overjoyed, those both inside and outside of the service belted out a rendition of Jerusalem, that most patriotic of songs. Thankfully 'England's green and pleasant land' had held off on the rain, and so as the newlyweds took their first steps outside as man and wife, they were greeted by the open top carriage, the perfect vehicle for such a fairytale. Winding through the streets of London, flanked by the Household Cavalry, the couple's happiness was clear as they smiled and waved to the cheering masses. As they disappeared into Buckingham Palace, they reporters set about dissecting the morning's events while the crowd surged forward down the Mall. Spotting yet another gap in the broadcast, I dashed round to my neighbour's house where the champagne and bacon butties had been flowing for hours, just in time to witness the kiss(es). The Duchess' reaction of, 'oh wow', as she stepped out onto the balcony to the assembled Union Jacks below, was a reminder that here was a girl raised like every other, now stood shoulder to shoulder with the Queen on her wedding day. And she didn't even have to kiss a frog to get there. The Battle of Britain Memorial Flight, led by the impressive Lancaster bomber, soared over the palace signalling the final salute to the couple. The Royal family and the Middletons headed back through the doors, with the Duchess taking one final look over her shoulder at a sight that she will surely never forget.

With the Royals retreating into privacy, we ventured outside with trays and plates to begin our celebration. The red, white and blue bunting strewn over the front of the house gave away our not-so-secret location, and the addition of tables, chairs and a barbeque on the front lawn only highlighted us to the passing motorists, all of whom were having a good nosey. From miniature flags in the fairycakes, to a white chocolate dessert bedecked with raspberries and blueberries, and even a small bride and groom topping the main cake, there could be no doubt what we were celebrating. With the tables threatening to collapse under the weight of the food, we toasted William and Kate and began to demolish the assorted sausages and trifles.

With our stomachs suitably red, white and blue, we reclaimed our seats in front of the TV for the action replays and analysis. We recited the various facts we had heard all morning; who had designed what, how many horses there were, what Boris Johnson was giving them as a present (a tandem bike - I love that man), and judged the outfits. Suddenly an announcement from one of the commentators told us that the couple were about to leave the palace in their mystery machine vehicle. The cameras found the Aston Martin driven by the Duke himself, his bride sat next to him, still in her dress. A learner plate, balloons and ribbons covered the car, and the registration plate read 'Just Wed', decorations which we felt were probably the work of one Prince Harry. Escorted overhead by a search and rescue helicopter flown by William's RAF colleagues, which seemed to be a welcome surprise even to the royal couple, they made their way to Clarence House. As they disappeared from view behind the gates, the television announced that this would be the end of their broadcast, and so we set about clearing up our abandoned plates, and bringing in the chairs.

A few days later and my sugar high is starting to wear off, but the nation is still basking in the joy on a sunny May Day Bank Holiday. Leftovers are being eaten up, and speculation about the unknown honeymoon destination is still running riot. But for now William will be returning to work like the rest of the country, with everyone feeling maybe just that little bit happier. If nothing else, this occasion proved that a common happiness can still bring people together as much as a common tragedy, a reassuring thought in these times.

For just £200, you too can pretend to have a good time.

With the first Facebook posts regarding festivals starting to crop up, it's that time of year again. No doubt tents will soon be being purchased, wellies packed, and showers missed. Teenagers and students up and down the country will be trying to figure out how much beer you can fit in a rucksack, and counting down the days til they can act like complete tools. And while the festival websites do make them look like bohemian, sun-bathed havens. They are in fact usually the opposite. Beware the lies of the festival websites.

Lie #1: You will get to lie in the grass, with a drink in hand, while the strains of an acoustic guitar waft in on the warm flower-scented breeze. 
FACT: There is no grass at a festival after the first 5 minutes. There will be no space to lie down. If you do manage to find a square foot of mud in which to plonk your arse, some drunkard will inevitably fall over you straight away. 
Top tip: Take a square of turf with you.

Lie #2: Sunshine.
FACT: There is no sunshine at a festival.
Top tip: Be albino.

Lie #3: Despite the sun, everyone is wearing wellies (because after you have taken this photo is will rain), but these happy revellers will still have the time of their lives in their cold cold wellies.
FACT: Despite wearing wellies you can still get wet feet. Rain + gravity = rain raining into your wellies.
Top tip: Become a hobbit.

Lie #4: You too can be stalker length away from your favourite band.
FACT: Unless you want to stand in the pit for 8 hours while being crushed by large smelly boys, Elvis himself could be on that stage and you wouldn't know, because he'll still just look like a tiny blurred dot.
Top tip: Take a photo of Pete Doherty with you.

Lie #5: There will be working porta-loos!
FACT: They will only be usable slightly longer that the grass, then they too will just become large mud pits.
Top tip: Don't take your bladder with you.

Lie #6: Everyone is happy and friendly, united by their love of music.
FACT: People will drink, people will get drunk, people will invade your private space, throw drinks on you, scream in your ear, and try to get a little too friendly.
Top tip: Avoid eye contact. 

Lie #7: Everyone looks like a model. So you should wear your latest pristine summer trend. Afterall, this is a festival, this is where all the cool kids hang. 
FACT: Mud wrestling; not always optional. 
Top tip: Remember, you're not Kate Moss. Stop kidding yourself.

Lie #8: Your hair will look, like, totally awesome. That boho chic, surfer thing you've got going on, will last the whole weekend.
FACT: You leave on the Thursday, You return on the Monday. You don't shower inbetween...
Top tip: Take a wig.

Lie #9: Everyone is dancing around having the time of their lives.
FACT: Unless you have a damn good head nod, you will not be dancing. You will be getting crushed. 
Top tip: Roll in dog poo. This should create a nice space around you, suitable for dancing, or building a hamlet.

Lie #10: You will sleep in a tent.
FACT: Okay, I slept in a tent, but that's probably because my friends and I were the only ones at the whole festival who set it up while sober. Every other tent was reduced to a pile of poles and canvas by the first night.
Top tip: Build an elaborate Swiss Family Robinson-style tree house. This can't be opened with a knife either!

Lie #11: There will be food for sale.
FACT: Okay, again, I was able to eat food, but that's because we were the only customers I saw at the nice Oxfam pizza place all weekend. Everyone else ate the £7 'burgers' because this didn't involve walking the extra 30 feet or so to the Oxfam tent.
Top tip: Take your plumpest friend. Inconspicuously season him/her on the journey there.

Lie #12: The campsite will have a friendly atmosphere, where you can sleep soundly and replenish your energy for the next day of dancing and merriment.
FACT: The campsite is a scary place. You will be robbed, stalked, and introduced to some rather unsavoury characters. And you will get no sleep, courtesy of music, air horns, and idiots with megaphones. You will freeze at night and boil in the morning. Try as you might to stay away from dips, hedges, toilets and the bit nearest the arena, you are doomed.
Top tip: Learn to apparate from the arena to your SOUNDPROOF tree house.

So, what have we learnt today?
Lie: Festivals will be the highlight of your youth.
FACT: They won't
Top tip: Don't go.

Feel free to call me a miserable cynic, but when I'm sat at home, on a comfy sofa, in my PJs, with free food, a roof, a warm bed and a way better view of your favourite band thanks to my TV, I may still be a cynic, but a happy one at that. And £200 richer than you.

Little house not on the prairie

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the garden suddenly requires a lot more attention. Spring has officially sprung. While this might seem like the perfect way to jinx the glorious weather of the last three days, I think the countless people wearing shorts have already taken care of that. The safest bet during yesterday's Grand National was that every male in the country between the age of 4 and 40 was probably wearing something that it's still not quite warm enough to wear. But that is what we British do. We see blue skies and we throw on the sunglasses, and get out the barbeque.


Short of a barbeque, we settled for eating our lunch outside, where we were able to feast our eyes on the visual treat that is the washing line on one side and the surrounding houses on the other side. Time to set up a Flickr account I think. For my mother who grew up in a house where the nearest neighbour wasn't even visible, this is hell. But this is what we British do. We build our houses as close together as possible, then build more houses, then add a Tesco.

Not only was I treated to the sights of the surrounding houses, but also the sounds. As a rule anyone who plays their music loud enough to be heard several gardens (cars/rooms/bus seats) away also has awful taste in music. While the obvious solution would simply be to eat inside, it does seem rather a shame on the rare days where we have sunshine, and cake. So out we went; chairs, newspapers and plates in hand. We successfully basked in rays, with only the sounds of the traffic, some unknown pop star, and a pretty hefty bee to disturb us. Like pathetic sunflowers we sat eyes closed and faces pointed towards the source of the warmth, until my mother realised that we were in fact relaxing. A crime second only to murder in her court. 

So in we came; chairs, newspapers and empty plates in hand. Plates were put in the dishwasher, papers were left on the kitchen table, and my mother set off in search of some housework that she hadn't yet done. I too began to leave the kitchen, pausing only to glance at the topmost newspaper section; property. Much like the prediction that up and down the country shorts too are getting their first outing of 2011, you can bet that every weekend my mother and I will stare longingly at these pages, dreaming of a garden where there are no unwelcome sights and sounds. A garden made for the 10 days a year we get sunshine. Because this is what we British do. We head outside as soon as it hits 18°, then wonder why it rains the rest of the year.

Take one Kangaroo tail

Yes, this is a real instruction from a real recipe. A few days ago I was flicking through some old cook books and discovered 'Kangaroo Fritters'. Clearly written at the height of the British Empire and the Commonwealth, I imagine it would now be somewhat difficult to find such ingredients at the local supermarket. However, as is the nature of humans, we often take things too far. Having moved from such laborious meals, you can now find most food items in some variation of the 'instant' variety. While fans of organic, free-range, something-free, food are currently living in a (naturally coloured) golden age, the wealth of choice offered to today’s consumers allows the same shop to sell eggs with smiling chickens on the box and instant pancake mix (which probably doesn’t even contain eggs from sad chickens).

Don’t get me wrong, I consider microwave pizza one of mankind’s greatest achievements, I love Chinese take away, and believe that, in the UK at least, bread should be shop bought (bread machines are the Devil’s pungent work). But ham shaped like a bear, really? Food is so much more than fuel. While I will agree that smell is probably the most stimulatory of the senses when it comes to memories, taste isn’t far behind. Food is such an important part of our lives, my parents once vowed, were we ever to find ourselves in financial trouble, we would sacrifice almost everything, but good food.  

With my mother’s parents being one of six and seven children each, cooking for a large table has become a continued habit, despite there only being three of us two generations later. This has led to me being able to eat portions meant for an entire family, and as such I have always left restaurants and friend’s houses feeling like I’ve just been nibbling at the bread basket. No matter how often I am exposed to other people’s eating habits the thing that I still find most shocking is the lack of home cooked food. It with increasing frequency and increasing disappointment that I see people attending cake sales with shop bought cakes! This is nothing short of blasphemy in our house. A house where cook books have their own bookcase, and are read as bedtime reading, huge folders full of recipes and cuttings fight for space on the shelves, and the omission of a familiar seasoning from a much loved dish can be tasted straight away, and suitably condemned. While it is a joy to see people’s delight as they sample my mother’s desserts (they are her speciality), the look of surprise on their faces and their exclamations of amazement are almost sad. Home baking should not be such a rare treasure, except for Kangaroo Fritters perhaps.

I'd like to buy myself a Coke

I said that this would be a blog to house my day dreams, and all I can think about right now is Coca Cola. I am unable to drink my beloved Coke at the moment, and have discovered that absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. Coke and I have a long and happy history together, from hot summer days, to late night revision, and every Christmas dinner in between. As far as the hallucination-inducing effects of sleep deprivation during exam time go, Coke was pretty much the only thing that kept me standing. Despite my love of wandering into Whittard’s just to smell the aroma of coffee beans, I am not a fan of coffee where my taste buds are concerned. In fact, I am not a fan of any hot drink really; even tea, much to the disgust of the rest of England. If the weather calls for it I can be partial to the odd hot Ribena. But I find that in general hot drinks just make me more thirsty, where as I was under the impression that a drink is supposed to quench one’s thirst. Enter Coke. Caffeine booster, refresher, taste bud pleaser, and friend to all.

This life long love affair with Coca Cola has never faltered, and every time I gaze upon that classic, never bettered, glass bottle design, I am swept off my feet. And I still believe that Coke from the bottle is far superior to Coke from a can. The whole Americana of the product is enough to make me swoon, a look and style that has influenced pop culture and become part of a heritage beginning in 1886. Sweets have been dubbed ‘cola-flavoured’, many shops have tried unsuccessfully to imitate its unique taste, and its Christmas advert signifies the start of the festive season. Some people will even claim that it was due to Coke's advertising campaigns that Santa is now depicted wearing that signature red suit, a myth which Coca Cola themselves deny, yet year after year jolly old St. Nick is often still plastered across billboards with a bottle in hand. One of the most universal brands in the world, that famous red and white logo is instantly recognisable, and found everywhere from the Amazon rainforest to Zimbabwe.

If you still doubt my devotion to this drink, I must inform you that I have in fact visited the Coca Cola shop in Las Vegas. In the form of a giant bottle, this shop is like a monument to the brand, rising out of the desert. Yet before you start to worry about what seems like a slightly startling obsession with a beverage, this was not a pilgrimage, merely a pleasant surprise discovered whilst visiting the town. Although I did buy a T shirt and a fridge magnet... But really, who doesn’t love this carbonated delight? So please forgive me if you ever find me face down and nose covered in Coke, Tony Montana style.  

‘Yes, I was really upset when they stopped drawing the deer’ – Chandler Bing

My previous post got me thinking, just how many times has Walt Disney killed off someone's parents? So here is my fun list of cartooniside.

1. Let's start with the obvious...Bambi's mother. Widely believed to be the ultimate in Disney deaths and responsible for sobbing children the world over.

2. Mufasa. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe he was the first Disney character to die onscreen. Yet it is Simba's discovery of the body and futile pleads for his father to wake up, that make it so overwhelming .

3. Snow White's mother I presume. Hence the evil step mother.

4. Penny from The Rescuers. The song ‘Someone’s waiting for you’ is actually incredibly sad. Again, see previous post.

5. Oliver and Company. An animated version of possibly the most famous story ever written about an orphan. Featuring a dog in the title role.

6. Quasimodo from the Hunchback of Notre Dame. A film which sees his mother, cradling her infant son and begging for sanctuary, murdered on the church steps.

7. Aladdin. Well, according to lyrics heard in the film, ‘I'd blame parents except he hasn't got 'em’.


Now that I have covered death (if I have forgotten any I have probably blocked them out due the trauma of it all), I shall move on to less fatal yet similarly upsetting situations.

8. Toy Story sees the ideas of replacement and possibly one of the most terrifying thoughts to ever cross a young mind, being separated from your parents in a strange place. This stuck in my mind so firmly that I lived in fear of leaving my toys behind. They would have been so scared! And not only that, but the impact that this story has on people, will leave you with a sense of shame should you ever put your toys in the attic, or worse still, a yard sale. And quite rightly so. Shame on you.

9. Dumbo. Despite Bambi generally regarded as holding the title of saddest Disney moment, I've always found the scene in which Dumbo’s mother gently rocks him in her trunk, through the bars of her cage, the most heartbreaking Disney scene ever portrayed.

10. The Jungle Book’s Mowgli. As in Toy Story this again explores the theme of separation, however being extremely young when it happens, he retains no memory of his parents, and for this reason I find it a little less emotionally effective.  

11. The aristocats. Again, separated from their owner.

12. Despite the title, we only follow the story of Pongo and Perdita’s litter of 15 dalmatians being kidnapped. And the idea of skinning them to make a coat is actually more horrific now that I think about all these years later. I mean really, that’s just sickening, even if you do have the (I’ll admit, rather brilliant) name of Cruella De Vil.

13. Hercules. See number 10. But Hades was cool.  

14. Tarzan. See number 13. Minus Hades.

15. Monsters Inc.’s Boo. A close second to Toy Story in the separation stakes. And basing a kids film around the idea of monsters in the closet; relatable, suspenseful, genius.

16. Nemo. Okay, this may well be a contender for joint second with Monsters Inc. While the likes of Toy Story and Monsters Inc. see it from the missing person’s point of view, Finding Nemo is told almost more through the worried parent’s eyes. Very effective story telling.

17. The Incredibles sees their youngest son Jack-Jack kidnapped by their arch nemesis. However, this tiny super can set himself on fire. So it’s fairly safe to say Syndrome comes away worse for wear. Well, until he’s chewed up by an aeroplane engine a few seconds later.

18. Ratatouille’s Remy. Once again, separation. But he is soon rescued by a young waiter, so our lost rodent ends up about as happy as a rat in a restaurant.

19. UP, tells the story of the elderly Carl Fredricksen. The opening ten minute were said to have critics around the world bawling. While the nature of the events taking place in this opening sequence may possibly be lost on the younger members of the audience, there are also some scary dogs. A sometimes overlooked aspect of this story is the revelation that Mr Fredricksen’s boyhood hero isn’t the idol he imagined. Again, not exactly scary for the kiddies, but a rather universally felt theme.

20. Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. Part of the three way contest for my favourite ever Disney film, along with The Lion King and Toy Story. Barrie’s timeless tale of childhood becomes more pertinent with every passing year. Again, not an obviously fearsome story, but one which I find myself dwelling on more and more, and which leaves me feeling increasingly melancholy as I grow older.

So, from brutal homicides to subtle sadness, there is no doubting that Walt Disney is the master of emotion.

It’s been emotional

Given that most of the developed world can now access gas simply by pressing a button or turning a dial, rather than getting out the trusty old flints, it isn’t really news that we have long since passed the point of merely surviving. We like to be entertained. No time is this more apparent than during the awards season. But I hadn’t really given it much thought until yesterday. Upon connecting to the internet I was greeted with my usual homepage; emails, weather, news headlines, and the list of the current top ten searches on Yahoo. News of President Obama’s forthcoming state visit to the UK: number ten. Coronation Street: number one.

So why is it that we are so much more interested in the on-screen world, than the real world? I’ll admit pondering such a question in cyber space is a tad ironic. But seeing as the highlight of my day was finding a pencil sharpener in my house that actually works, I have my excuse. Meanwhile, a recent viewing of Home Alone that reduced me to tears, may have answered my question. Music. Surely, were John Williams and an entire orchestra to follow me around, finding that pencil sharpener could have been something akin to finding Nemo. (Whoops, spoiler alert). It’s no wonder that the glorious Mr Williams is among the top three most nominated people in Oscar history. It is also no surprise that top of that list is Walt Disney himself. A man who, despite having a target audience with an average age of about seven, seems to relish in killing off parents and leaving poor defenceless youngsters to fend for themselves.

However, John Williams, apparently not content with merely making millions of movie goers sob like the afore mentioned seven year olds, decided to also score the music for several Olympic Games. While I’ll grant you that the Olympics are in fact real, they seem to be responsible for more edge-of-your-seat and heartstring-tugging moments than are necessarily good for your health. So emotional was Derek Redmond’s performance at the 1992 Barcelona Games that they later used it for a Visa advert featuring the voice of Morgan Freeman. Apparently, causing you viewers to suffer an emotional breakdown will prompt them into taking out a Visa card.

So, it would seem that the reason we are all so engrossed in the lives of fictional beings, is because we are all masochists. And the absence of a powerfully sweeping score from our mundane lives leaves us to seek out films and programmes carefully crafted to have us all popping Prozac. This will no doubt be confirmed at the approaching Academy Awards, where the last ten years have seen films about war, racism, poverty, and mental health, walk away with the Best Picture award. However, I can at least understand that no matter how depressing the subject matter, so long as there are some outstanding performances, a masterpiece of a script, and the essential music, these films are often more engaging and entertaining than the real world. But that still leaves me with just one unanswered question, why is Coronation Street the most searched topic on Yahoo?

We have water on tap

I love American food.

Regardless of the many wonders we have witnessed during each visit there, we will always have at least one travel anecdote regarding food. These include such tales as ‘The bottomless glass of Pepsi’ ‘The full rack of barbequed Everest’ ‘The tomato jar counter’ ‘The Canadian-hating burger’ ‘The generous gambling chicken’ ‘The fire alarm breakfast sandwich’ ‘The mountain top fries’ ‘The coma-inducing lemonade’ ‘The 42^nd Street pizza’ and ‘The desert pasta’, to name a few.

However, possibly my favourite beverage related story took place in a small deli in New York. My cousin was the last person at our table to order her drink, and when the waiter got round to her, she asked what they had. Big mistake. The waiter reeled off a list of drinks so long that it would have been quicker to go out, milk a cow, pick some strawberries, drive to Vermont and buy some freshly made Ben and Jerry’s, and make her a nice strawberry milkshake. She then proceeded to ask for water. He responded by asking which type of water she would prefer. Not a milkshake-worthy list, but still rather impressive. She asked for tap water. Yes, that’s right folks, tap water. Here we were, the land of the free refill, and she asks for tap water. I almost choked on my double colossal super-size cow sandwich. That very morning I had seen cheese in a spray can, but only now, as I stared at this sudden stranger sat opposite me, was I truly disgusted.