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.
Monday, 13 June 2011
Sunday, 22 May 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
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 mysterymachine 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.
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
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.
Friday, 22 April 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
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.
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.
Monday, 21 March 2011
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
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.
Monday, 7 March 2011
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
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
If you still doubt my devotion to this drink, I must inform you that I have in fact visited the Coca Cola shop inLas Vegas
If you still doubt my devotion to this drink, I must inform you that I have in fact visited the Coca Cola shop in
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