Last time I sat down to write a post it was when the Pope was in town. I was all set to write a critical piece (with a brilliantly humorous, sardonic take on things, of course), throwing in some references to the letter in the Guardian by Stephen Fry and companions expressing their distatste for the Pope's visit being funded by the public, and a smattering of the complete - and hilarious - irony of the Daily Mail lecturing anyone for having any form of so-called prejudice.
And then Stephen Fry wrote this. http://www.stephenfry.com/2010/09/16/dailymailhate/
The most brilliant piece of writing ever. I may be wrong, but it reads as though he's just gone, "Fuck it, I am voicing my opinion here and now. Someone pass me an iPad, I will blog it!" Maybe in the back of a black cab on the way to a QI rehearsal... anyway, there was no way I was going to follow up that. I refuse to compete with Stephen Fry. It wouldn't even be a competition, it would just be the literary equivalent of a Christmas roast turkey with all the trimmings beside a cold leftover turkey sandwich from a garage. But do read the article. Especially if you think the Daily Mail is a sanctimonious, out-dated pedlar of bollocks that, if it - oh, the joy! - stopped circulation, could save a vast portion of rainforest that instead of becoming tiresome droning about immigrants in print form could support a bountiful reserve of beautiful and probably dangerous wildlife in a foreign country, something it is to be hoped Paul Dacre would go into hiding to avoid.
Anyway. That is all for now - I just wanted to share the love momentarily, and I'll write something proper very soon. xxx
Monday, 11 October 2010
Friday, 3 September 2010
I Bought A Hardback Book
I have been negligent, tardy and downright rubbish at blogging in recent times, and for this I am excessively sorry. However, the impending school term (or, for those of you who are aware of the eccentricities of my old high school, the term that began today, on a Friday, for some reason) seems to have put me in an academic sort of mood that has provided me with some motivation to write. Or, more precisely, to transfer the meandering stream of whimsy from my brain into something understandable and interesting (though hopefully not particularly useful).
Yesterday I did something insanely geeky and somewhat ridiculous. After discovering through The Guardian a man on Twitter masquerading as Dr Samuel Johnson reincarnated into a modern world, I then followed this genius's tweets, which as well as putting a seventeenth-century vernacular spin on current affairs provides us with original Johnson-style definitions of decidedly 21st-century phenomena such as Facebook, Will Ferrell, Britain's Got Talent and my personal favourite, MySpace - "a barren electronick Tundra haunted by lost Souls in Search of whiter Teeth or unsign'd Minstrel-Acts". These are actually now part of a book, the publication of which was yesterday and a day waited for in anticipation by me. Then I went on to Amazon and bought it in hardback. Now, waiting with unbridled impatience to buy an inconsequential book IN HARDBACK on the day of release is an activity that I normally reserve for Harry Potter books alone. I am not entirely sure what persuaded me to give in to such frivolities, except that in my new-found freedom as a graduate without a compulsory reading list I have gone slightly overboard with excitement about reading whatever the hell I like; last week I involuntarily spent £36 in Waterstone's on American Psycho, Dara O'Briain's Tickling the English, a fabulous history book called The Time Traveller's Guide to Medieval Britain, which is a lot more interesting and humorous than it sounds, and the entire works of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes in one volume (prompted, no doubt, by Benedict Cumberbatch's excellent turn as Sherlock on the BBC recently, something that could clearly only be achieved by someone with such a bloody brilliant name). I didn't even know I had a particular yearning to read Sherlock Holmes - or, indeed, to learn more about the Middle Ages - but there's something about the 3-for-2 offers at Waterstone's that sends me into a sort of frenzy of literary focus as I search for that elusive third book that I get for free. I am now waiting for Dr Johnson's almanack of modern stuff (I cannot be arsed to look up its long-winded title at this time) to arrive, along with a Doctor Who boxset, safe in the knowledge that I am a massive geek, albeit a massive geek who's got a parcel full of enjoyment arriving on my doorstep any day now.
And so back to the afore-mentioned new school term. I find it strange to be at the beginning of September with no excuse to go out and buy a new pencil-case, folders I won't bother to fill and an academic diary. So far I've managed to deal with this, but it's only September 3rd. There has been a small pang of longing and upset already, involving a Roehampton Freshers' Week event on Facebook on which I can't (and really shouldn't anyway) click ACCEPT. But dwelling on the past helps me in no way at all, except perhaps the bit of the past that taught me to appreciate literature in all it's glorious forms (something that will get me through the current habit of sluttily thowing money at people in return for books) so I'm going to pretend for the next few weeks that there is no way in hell I'd like to be back in halls, eating toast for living and ticking 'student' when asked for my occupation on forms and suchlike. I am, as Fayeski informed me recently, a Young Professional now. And if someone would like to tell me what I'm supposed to be a professional at I'd be hugely grateful... Thank you, and good night.
Also - the link to the Guardian article on the book I bought. It's entertaining, I promise! http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2010/aug/14/guide-feature-twitter-book-johnson
Yesterday I did something insanely geeky and somewhat ridiculous. After discovering through The Guardian a man on Twitter masquerading as Dr Samuel Johnson reincarnated into a modern world, I then followed this genius's tweets, which as well as putting a seventeenth-century vernacular spin on current affairs provides us with original Johnson-style definitions of decidedly 21st-century phenomena such as Facebook, Will Ferrell, Britain's Got Talent and my personal favourite, MySpace - "a barren electronick Tundra haunted by lost Souls in Search of whiter Teeth or unsign'd Minstrel-Acts". These are actually now part of a book, the publication of which was yesterday and a day waited for in anticipation by me. Then I went on to Amazon and bought it in hardback. Now, waiting with unbridled impatience to buy an inconsequential book IN HARDBACK on the day of release is an activity that I normally reserve for Harry Potter books alone. I am not entirely sure what persuaded me to give in to such frivolities, except that in my new-found freedom as a graduate without a compulsory reading list I have gone slightly overboard with excitement about reading whatever the hell I like; last week I involuntarily spent £36 in Waterstone's on American Psycho, Dara O'Briain's Tickling the English, a fabulous history book called The Time Traveller's Guide to Medieval Britain, which is a lot more interesting and humorous than it sounds, and the entire works of Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes in one volume (prompted, no doubt, by Benedict Cumberbatch's excellent turn as Sherlock on the BBC recently, something that could clearly only be achieved by someone with such a bloody brilliant name). I didn't even know I had a particular yearning to read Sherlock Holmes - or, indeed, to learn more about the Middle Ages - but there's something about the 3-for-2 offers at Waterstone's that sends me into a sort of frenzy of literary focus as I search for that elusive third book that I get for free. I am now waiting for Dr Johnson's almanack of modern stuff (I cannot be arsed to look up its long-winded title at this time) to arrive, along with a Doctor Who boxset, safe in the knowledge that I am a massive geek, albeit a massive geek who's got a parcel full of enjoyment arriving on my doorstep any day now.
And so back to the afore-mentioned new school term. I find it strange to be at the beginning of September with no excuse to go out and buy a new pencil-case, folders I won't bother to fill and an academic diary. So far I've managed to deal with this, but it's only September 3rd. There has been a small pang of longing and upset already, involving a Roehampton Freshers' Week event on Facebook on which I can't (and really shouldn't anyway) click ACCEPT. But dwelling on the past helps me in no way at all, except perhaps the bit of the past that taught me to appreciate literature in all it's glorious forms (something that will get me through the current habit of sluttily thowing money at people in return for books) so I'm going to pretend for the next few weeks that there is no way in hell I'd like to be back in halls, eating toast for living and ticking 'student' when asked for my occupation on forms and suchlike. I am, as Fayeski informed me recently, a Young Professional now. And if someone would like to tell me what I'm supposed to be a professional at I'd be hugely grateful... Thank you, and good night.
Also - the link to the Guardian article on the book I bought. It's entertaining, I promise! http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2010/aug/14/guide-feature-twitter-book-johnson
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Roehampton - This Is For You
This is my first post as a normal person. I am no longer a student. I am a graduate. Or, as I’m going to have to start admitting to on forms and suchlike, unemployed.
It’s a curious sensation. Despite the fact that this is my first day as a normal adult inhabitant of this country, I’m startlingly aware that I don’t have the support net that is university life anymore. When I first started university after doing two years of A-Levels followed by a pretty chilled out gap year at home, university seemed to me like an explosion of independence and opportunity the likes of which I’d never encountered before. I lived in a hall of residence comprised entirely of people under 21, could cook (or, more often, heat up) whatever I liked for dinner, could wake up ten minutes before any given engagement and still be there on time and never had to worry about drink driving. It was even refreshing to be told off for being “a lightweight pussy” when suffering the hangover from hell instead of being berated for being on the brink of alcoholism by a parent who considers spending time at real ale festivals a worthwhile pastime. I definitely wasn’t alone in experiencing this new lease of life away from parents, teachers and any other adult I ever had to ask permission to do something from; it never occurred to me that, at the age of nineteen and a half, I was pretty much an adult myself. Now, three academic years on and suffering the consequences of my last university night out ever as I write, I’ve realised that whilst all of the above is true there is a degree of dependence to being a student that goes unnoticed. My beautiful interest-free student overdraft is being turned into a gradually diminishing graduate overdraft. The possibility of having a social engagement every hour of every day (or night) if I so wish has disappeared due to the doubly problematic situation of a) my mates having to get proper jobs now and b) having to move back into my parents’ house because I haven’t managed to get one of these proper jobs yet. Even just the comfortable knowledge of certain constants that are no longer there – that I will spend several days of each term feverishly writing essays that I started far too late, that I’ll always know someone serving in the bar, or that there will always be approximately twenty mates within walking distance of wherever I am at any given time – surrounded me in a happy little bubble of contentment, shielding me from the reality of life outside of uni that everyone knows about but refuses to consider until they’ve handed in their final assignment. You just never realise how quickly three years will pass away until they have.
So far, so pretty much every university in Britain. But the thing that makes university so amazing is that wherever you go, even if you only went there because it was the only establishment to offer you a place through Clearing, by the end of your first Freshers’ Week you will hold the firm and never-ending belief that you go to the best university in the world. The reasons behind this belief will never make sense to anybody that wasn’t there at the same time as you, but that’s fine. Roehampton, taking all the benefits of a collegiate system and disregarding the hierarchical elitism that is often perceived to define certain other collegiate universities, lives up to this sentiment. It was apparent from my first day that nobody gave a flying fanny what grades anyone got at school or how much money you had as long as you weren’t too much of a knob. My own Freshers’ Week passed in a blur of alcohol consumption, preparatory ballet classes and the confused negotiation of a campus where you never feel as though you’re walking in the right direction to anything. I discovered that you can make better friends with people just by living with them for three days than I did from five years of secondary education together, and that it’s possible to have an inordinate amount of fun in what is essentially a school hall at night with a temporary bar. My floor rep was absolutely quality. As well as dishing out invaluable advice, like how to get to Asda and how to deal with breaking up with a long-distance boyfriend, I am proud to say that we were once escorted home from the Bop in Jon Foley’s car, where she was so pissed I had to take out her contacts lenses and put her to bed whilst I, for some unknown reason, thought it would be a great idea to sleep on her floor... in the room next door to mine. Being a dance student herself, she gave me the low-down on the lecturers, the modules and how to avoid being any of the horrific dance student stereotypes that became apparent as lessons progressed. Probably most importantly, she got me involved in the Roehampton Players.
I have mentioned the Players before. They are the society to which I have devoted three years of Sunday rehearsals, committee meetings in the bar, entire afternoons putting up posters and hours upon hours of painting sets. For them I have relinquished all possible qualms about getting sweaty and unattractive in front of lots of people, have pretty much prostituted myself to get people to buy tickets, have spent entire birthdays rehearsing until the early hours and have managed to successfully perform a run of a show in which I was required to pull off fourteen costume changes. Through this society I have met people I’ve got a huge amount of respect, admiration and downright love for, and without sounding sickeningly thespian about the entire thing, I literally don’t know what my uni days would have been without them. There is no other situation where it is acceptable to spend a well-earned break singing along unashamedly to selections from Les Miserable or, during a duet that that to the audience demonstrates sexual tension that could be cut with a knife, to be considerably more concerned that you’re sweating like a pig on heat under the lights and might get dropped on your head because your partner can’t get a good grip to lift you properly. I’m completely grateful to have had the opportunity to realise that, despite popular opinion, it’s perfectly possible to do a quite astounding amount of drugs and still pull of a brilliant performance. On a more selfish point, I’m also very grateful that if it weren’t for permanent rehearsals I’d probably be the size of a hippo by now, and would go as far as saying that I’m concerned for my dress size now that I don’t dance about twenty hours a week. It’s impossible to say everything I could say about this, or to mention anyone individually because I would literally be here until I’d mentioned everyone I’ve ever performed with. All I will say is this (and please forgive me if you’re reading this and aren’t particularly down with outrageous statements of luvvie affection): working and performing with the Players has made my time at Roe, and if I don’t get to see you all again very soon then my life will be a little bit worse because of it. Oh, and one more thing – 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... LET’S ALL HAVE A DISCO, LET’S ALL HAVE A DISCO, LALALALA WHEYYY, LALALALA WHEYYY!!!! Phoebe and Hose – three years – I salute you.
So what else will I miss? This is a difficult question as I could ramble on for pages and already have. But for my own personal enjoyment, I'm just going to reminisce a little more... The Belfry, with it's shit chairs and fairy lights, and our winning Frigby legacy on the walls... Frigby itself, where it is acceptable for grown adults to drunkenly hurl buckets of water at each other whilst watching other grown adults play football... bus rides back from Fez or the Grand singing outrageously rude (but entirely accurate) songs about Froebel... chilling out on Digby lawn in the empty days after Easter whilst making sure you're not lying in goose shit... Toby Bennett telling me to "be a DIAMOND!!!!! You're a DIAMOND FAIRY, not a MARSHMALLOW FAIRY!!!!"... Mamma's pizza... waiting on the steps outside Jubilee for security to open up the rehearsal space... Oh Christ. I'm getting emotional.
The trouble with good things is that they always have to end. The trick to overcoming this is to always have a good thing within your sights. I'm never going to be able to hold on to absolutely everything I treasure from university. But if I make sure I keep the important bits, and the important people, close by... I'm pretty sure I'll find a new venture to keep me happy and the banter flowing. This is indispensible advice for when you leave university - remember it.
It’s a curious sensation. Despite the fact that this is my first day as a normal adult inhabitant of this country, I’m startlingly aware that I don’t have the support net that is university life anymore. When I first started university after doing two years of A-Levels followed by a pretty chilled out gap year at home, university seemed to me like an explosion of independence and opportunity the likes of which I’d never encountered before. I lived in a hall of residence comprised entirely of people under 21, could cook (or, more often, heat up) whatever I liked for dinner, could wake up ten minutes before any given engagement and still be there on time and never had to worry about drink driving. It was even refreshing to be told off for being “a lightweight pussy” when suffering the hangover from hell instead of being berated for being on the brink of alcoholism by a parent who considers spending time at real ale festivals a worthwhile pastime. I definitely wasn’t alone in experiencing this new lease of life away from parents, teachers and any other adult I ever had to ask permission to do something from; it never occurred to me that, at the age of nineteen and a half, I was pretty much an adult myself. Now, three academic years on and suffering the consequences of my last university night out ever as I write, I’ve realised that whilst all of the above is true there is a degree of dependence to being a student that goes unnoticed. My beautiful interest-free student overdraft is being turned into a gradually diminishing graduate overdraft. The possibility of having a social engagement every hour of every day (or night) if I so wish has disappeared due to the doubly problematic situation of a) my mates having to get proper jobs now and b) having to move back into my parents’ house because I haven’t managed to get one of these proper jobs yet. Even just the comfortable knowledge of certain constants that are no longer there – that I will spend several days of each term feverishly writing essays that I started far too late, that I’ll always know someone serving in the bar, or that there will always be approximately twenty mates within walking distance of wherever I am at any given time – surrounded me in a happy little bubble of contentment, shielding me from the reality of life outside of uni that everyone knows about but refuses to consider until they’ve handed in their final assignment. You just never realise how quickly three years will pass away until they have.
So far, so pretty much every university in Britain. But the thing that makes university so amazing is that wherever you go, even if you only went there because it was the only establishment to offer you a place through Clearing, by the end of your first Freshers’ Week you will hold the firm and never-ending belief that you go to the best university in the world. The reasons behind this belief will never make sense to anybody that wasn’t there at the same time as you, but that’s fine. Roehampton, taking all the benefits of a collegiate system and disregarding the hierarchical elitism that is often perceived to define certain other collegiate universities, lives up to this sentiment. It was apparent from my first day that nobody gave a flying fanny what grades anyone got at school or how much money you had as long as you weren’t too much of a knob. My own Freshers’ Week passed in a blur of alcohol consumption, preparatory ballet classes and the confused negotiation of a campus where you never feel as though you’re walking in the right direction to anything. I discovered that you can make better friends with people just by living with them for three days than I did from five years of secondary education together, and that it’s possible to have an inordinate amount of fun in what is essentially a school hall at night with a temporary bar. My floor rep was absolutely quality. As well as dishing out invaluable advice, like how to get to Asda and how to deal with breaking up with a long-distance boyfriend, I am proud to say that we were once escorted home from the Bop in Jon Foley’s car, where she was so pissed I had to take out her contacts lenses and put her to bed whilst I, for some unknown reason, thought it would be a great idea to sleep on her floor... in the room next door to mine. Being a dance student herself, she gave me the low-down on the lecturers, the modules and how to avoid being any of the horrific dance student stereotypes that became apparent as lessons progressed. Probably most importantly, she got me involved in the Roehampton Players.
I have mentioned the Players before. They are the society to which I have devoted three years of Sunday rehearsals, committee meetings in the bar, entire afternoons putting up posters and hours upon hours of painting sets. For them I have relinquished all possible qualms about getting sweaty and unattractive in front of lots of people, have pretty much prostituted myself to get people to buy tickets, have spent entire birthdays rehearsing until the early hours and have managed to successfully perform a run of a show in which I was required to pull off fourteen costume changes. Through this society I have met people I’ve got a huge amount of respect, admiration and downright love for, and without sounding sickeningly thespian about the entire thing, I literally don’t know what my uni days would have been without them. There is no other situation where it is acceptable to spend a well-earned break singing along unashamedly to selections from Les Miserable or, during a duet that that to the audience demonstrates sexual tension that could be cut with a knife, to be considerably more concerned that you’re sweating like a pig on heat under the lights and might get dropped on your head because your partner can’t get a good grip to lift you properly. I’m completely grateful to have had the opportunity to realise that, despite popular opinion, it’s perfectly possible to do a quite astounding amount of drugs and still pull of a brilliant performance. On a more selfish point, I’m also very grateful that if it weren’t for permanent rehearsals I’d probably be the size of a hippo by now, and would go as far as saying that I’m concerned for my dress size now that I don’t dance about twenty hours a week. It’s impossible to say everything I could say about this, or to mention anyone individually because I would literally be here until I’d mentioned everyone I’ve ever performed with. All I will say is this (and please forgive me if you’re reading this and aren’t particularly down with outrageous statements of luvvie affection): working and performing with the Players has made my time at Roe, and if I don’t get to see you all again very soon then my life will be a little bit worse because of it. Oh, and one more thing – 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... LET’S ALL HAVE A DISCO, LET’S ALL HAVE A DISCO, LALALALA WHEYYY, LALALALA WHEYYY!!!! Phoebe and Hose – three years – I salute you.
So what else will I miss? This is a difficult question as I could ramble on for pages and already have. But for my own personal enjoyment, I'm just going to reminisce a little more... The Belfry, with it's shit chairs and fairy lights, and our winning Frigby legacy on the walls... Frigby itself, where it is acceptable for grown adults to drunkenly hurl buckets of water at each other whilst watching other grown adults play football... bus rides back from Fez or the Grand singing outrageously rude (but entirely accurate) songs about Froebel... chilling out on Digby lawn in the empty days after Easter whilst making sure you're not lying in goose shit... Toby Bennett telling me to "be a DIAMOND!!!!! You're a DIAMOND FAIRY, not a MARSHMALLOW FAIRY!!!!"... Mamma's pizza... waiting on the steps outside Jubilee for security to open up the rehearsal space... Oh Christ. I'm getting emotional.
The trouble with good things is that they always have to end. The trick to overcoming this is to always have a good thing within your sights. I'm never going to be able to hold on to absolutely everything I treasure from university. But if I make sure I keep the important bits, and the important people, close by... I'm pretty sure I'll find a new venture to keep me happy and the banter flowing. This is indispensible advice for when you leave university - remember it.
Friday, 4 June 2010
Small Interlude
So I haven't written a new post for ages, and for that I apologise. I have been a busy bee. Since the end of the Easter holidays about 6 weeks ago I've been in rehearsal for two separate shows and also trying (and failing) to sort my life out to the extent that I'm not an unemployed waster this time next week when I'll be snivelling into a pillow because my university life is over.
And that's probably what I'm going to ramble on about today. See, the musical I'm performing in this week is all about uni... my uni... and as sad as it sounds, when the run is over tomorrow night it's gonna hit home pretty hard that after three years of laughs, drinks, banter, all-nighters, shows and arguments over the washing up it's all going to end and I'm going to be released into society and expected to stop doing all the things that made the last 3 years so completely epic and unforgettable. When I left Sixth Form I was completely ready to leave and wasn't massively bothered about missing my mates because they were all either having a gap year as well or would be home every holiday. I just thought that leaving uni would be the same. But with me headed back to the Shire, whilst most of my mates are either still at uni or staying living in London, it's hardly like we can meet up for a pint on a random night. And this makes me very sad :(
It's also the end of having such easy access to performing, whether it's dancing in Jazz Hands or hurling myself about in every possible way with the Roehampton Players. I've been rehearsing for something or other almost every week of term since October, and literally don't know what I'm going to do without several classes and rehearsals a week to keep me perky, and, more importantly, able to drink as much cider as possible without gaining about 20 stone. It's also slightly upsetting that the majority of the people I've met through shows this year are still going to be at uni next year, meaning I'm going to be insanely jealous of the good times ahead that I'm not having...
Having said that, I'm pant-wettingly excited about going travelling with Bell in January. Based entirely on whether someone deigns to employ me, obviously. I'm leaving good times behind, but then there should be some amazing ones ahead - how can there not be when you combine two mates, a campervan, some sun and an open road? Ha, cheeeeeese... but so true. As sad as it is to leave behind such awesome mates and memories, there's always new ones to be made.
And that's probably what I'm going to ramble on about today. See, the musical I'm performing in this week is all about uni... my uni... and as sad as it sounds, when the run is over tomorrow night it's gonna hit home pretty hard that after three years of laughs, drinks, banter, all-nighters, shows and arguments over the washing up it's all going to end and I'm going to be released into society and expected to stop doing all the things that made the last 3 years so completely epic and unforgettable. When I left Sixth Form I was completely ready to leave and wasn't massively bothered about missing my mates because they were all either having a gap year as well or would be home every holiday. I just thought that leaving uni would be the same. But with me headed back to the Shire, whilst most of my mates are either still at uni or staying living in London, it's hardly like we can meet up for a pint on a random night. And this makes me very sad :(
It's also the end of having such easy access to performing, whether it's dancing in Jazz Hands or hurling myself about in every possible way with the Roehampton Players. I've been rehearsing for something or other almost every week of term since October, and literally don't know what I'm going to do without several classes and rehearsals a week to keep me perky, and, more importantly, able to drink as much cider as possible without gaining about 20 stone. It's also slightly upsetting that the majority of the people I've met through shows this year are still going to be at uni next year, meaning I'm going to be insanely jealous of the good times ahead that I'm not having...
Having said that, I'm pant-wettingly excited about going travelling with Bell in January. Based entirely on whether someone deigns to employ me, obviously. I'm leaving good times behind, but then there should be some amazing ones ahead - how can there not be when you combine two mates, a campervan, some sun and an open road? Ha, cheeeeeese... but so true. As sad as it is to leave behind such awesome mates and memories, there's always new ones to be made.
Monday, 15 March 2010
Pointless drivel plus some lovely links for you.
I am back in the Hoe after a swift weekend in the Shire for Mother's Day. Interestingly, and in this particular order, I managed to get drunk with (and spoon) Lady (who is a mother), have a drink and chats with her mother (my mummy number two), have Sunday lunch and watch Larkrise To Candleford with my own mother, and discovered that a mate of mine is going to become a mother this autumn. Unfortunately I didn't get to see Auntie, which is rather upsetting, due to the fact that she was at Blood Brothers, a show about a mother, with her mother-in-law, and pregnant.
Muchly enjoyed the weekend though. Instead of watching Wales lose and England scrape a draw in the internationals, myself and the Lady watched Upton 2nds comfortably beat, er, somebody else. Well, the last twenty minutes anyway. Was required to explain why "all those fat fucks are jumping on my little brother!!!" (it's a ruck, it's meant to happen) and why said little brother had to stick his arse out in preparation for a scrum, something she found slightly distasteful (I actually don't know the answer to this one). Having decided that a new rule should be brought in that only the fat ones are allowed to be jumped on top of in a pile on the ground, we witnessed a hilarious on-pitch scuffle then retired to the bar for a pint. Much better fun than watching England fuck about ineptly and listening to Jeremy Guscott whine about it being unfair.
This isn't all I did at the weekend, obviously, otherwise I really would need to learn how to have a life. I am just not about to record every moment of my life, and not really because I think it would bore you, but because I know it would bore me. I am, however, writing a travel journal when I go travelling, and blogging it if I get the chance, which I then plan on writing up once I am home. I can see this becoming one of those lifetime works thingys that people do and never finish, but hey, whatever. At least I have a smidgeon of ambition now, something that I really did not possess when I wrote the first post on this blog. But in far-flung, exotic places like Thailand and Kansas and Queenstown NZ every moment of my life there will inevitably be incredibly exciting and worth telling the world about. Of course.
Pretty short and slightly pointless post but what ho, never mind. This is pretty reflective of my life so far. Oh, look a bit of leftover teenage angst. Did not miss that whilst it was gone. Laters mofo, but first:.....
On an entirely almost separate note, Lady's rugby-playing brother who featured slightly earlier in the post is in a rather enjoyable band who I think many of you would appreciate (if you don't already), and so in the name of being the lovely person I am, and because I'm currently having a listen, here is the link to their website, http://www.bashroland.com/, where you can listen to some of their tracks. If you like them do inform them of this; they enjoy compliments :)
Actually, while I'm promoting things for people, this is a downloadable mix by my DJ mate Jennarate http://soundcloud.com/jennarate/pressure. Entirely different to Bash:Roland's perky ska-pop (and if that's not how you'd describe yourself guys, then I'm mildly sorry) - instead some bish bash boshin' hard trance/house. =D
Muchly enjoyed the weekend though. Instead of watching Wales lose and England scrape a draw in the internationals, myself and the Lady watched Upton 2nds comfortably beat, er, somebody else. Well, the last twenty minutes anyway. Was required to explain why "all those fat fucks are jumping on my little brother!!!" (it's a ruck, it's meant to happen) and why said little brother had to stick his arse out in preparation for a scrum, something she found slightly distasteful (I actually don't know the answer to this one). Having decided that a new rule should be brought in that only the fat ones are allowed to be jumped on top of in a pile on the ground, we witnessed a hilarious on-pitch scuffle then retired to the bar for a pint. Much better fun than watching England fuck about ineptly and listening to Jeremy Guscott whine about it being unfair.
This isn't all I did at the weekend, obviously, otherwise I really would need to learn how to have a life. I am just not about to record every moment of my life, and not really because I think it would bore you, but because I know it would bore me. I am, however, writing a travel journal when I go travelling, and blogging it if I get the chance, which I then plan on writing up once I am home. I can see this becoming one of those lifetime works thingys that people do and never finish, but hey, whatever. At least I have a smidgeon of ambition now, something that I really did not possess when I wrote the first post on this blog. But in far-flung, exotic places like Thailand and Kansas and Queenstown NZ every moment of my life there will inevitably be incredibly exciting and worth telling the world about. Of course.
Pretty short and slightly pointless post but what ho, never mind. This is pretty reflective of my life so far. Oh, look a bit of leftover teenage angst. Did not miss that whilst it was gone. Laters mofo, but first:.....
On an entirely almost separate note, Lady's rugby-playing brother who featured slightly earlier in the post is in a rather enjoyable band who I think many of you would appreciate (if you don't already), and so in the name of being the lovely person I am, and because I'm currently having a listen, here is the link to their website, http://www.bashroland.com/, where you can listen to some of their tracks. If you like them do inform them of this; they enjoy compliments :)
Actually, while I'm promoting things for people, this is a downloadable mix by my DJ mate Jennarate http://soundcloud.com/jennarate/pressure. Entirely different to Bash:Roland's perky ska-pop (and if that's not how you'd describe yourself guys, then I'm mildly sorry) - instead some bish bash boshin' hard trance/house. =D
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Weetabix and Beans
Having assessed the food situation, this was what was left.
Assorted carbohydrates e.g. rice, pasta etc
Approx. 5 slices of bread (including the crusts)
1 tin of tuna
1 tin of sweetcorn
1 bowl of leftover baked beans
Squeezy mayonnaise
Milk
Weetabix
Cup-a-Soups
Hot chocolate and teabags
Toast toppings, e.g. jam, marmite, honey, butter
1 green pepper
Several cereal bars
Box of jelly beans left over from Christmas
5 Activia yoghurts
Small misshapen block of cheese.
Sadly, unless my dear, darling parents gift me with a loan, I have a mere £200 to last me until April 26th, only £60 of which is actually in my account due to financial stupidities on behalf of Odeon Kingston-upon-Thames. Therefore technically, this food needs to last me four weeks until I go home for Easter (and please bear in mind that I had the cheese and baked beans for dinner). Luckily I am going home for the weekend in a couple of days, so I must consume many, many calories courtesy of mum and dad (pub Sunday lunch is a must) and retain them until the time comes for somebody else to buy me dinner... All I can say is, at least this is doing something for the losing-the-stomach-podge cause.
Was this the idea of graduates that Labour had when Tony Blair so eloquently ranted about "education, education, education"? Did they realise, when they brought in top-up fees, that students woud be so skint they'd be having a dinner of scrambled egg, spaghetti and processed salami, as Doodle did this evening? Did they realise that when I leave university in June 2010 with a 2:1 (here's to hoping) degree in English Lit with Dance I would be nearly £30,000 in debt and being rejected for jobs I was capable of doing when I was 18? (This last one hasn't happened yet but it's only a matter of time.) Also I am not quite a graduate yet, but you know. Nearly. I just don't understand the point of paying this much for a degree that doesn't actually help you get a job. Having said that, I have thoroughly enjoyed my years of study, possibly because the social side of things outweighs the studying slightly, and wouldn't have it any other way.
I don't really know what the answer is. And in the run up to the general election, I actually don't think the major parties do either. Nick Clegg's got it spot-on in terms of abolishing fees - avoiding the kind of debt I've run up just from tuition fees and maintenance loands - but what actual good will that do in the long run? I don't think anyone really knows. Although I know one thing for sure - the job market will never get better whilst the banks use the money they've been bailed out with to give themselves Christmas fucking bonuses. So much of that money coud be going on graduate training schemes. And, in the slightly longer run, allowing me to eat something other than weetabix and beans for dinner.
Assorted carbohydrates e.g. rice, pasta etc
Approx. 5 slices of bread (including the crusts)
1 tin of tuna
1 tin of sweetcorn
1 bowl of leftover baked beans
Squeezy mayonnaise
Milk
Weetabix
Cup-a-Soups
Hot chocolate and teabags
Toast toppings, e.g. jam, marmite, honey, butter
1 green pepper
Several cereal bars
Box of jelly beans left over from Christmas
5 Activia yoghurts
Small misshapen block of cheese.
Sadly, unless my dear, darling parents gift me with a loan, I have a mere £200 to last me until April 26th, only £60 of which is actually in my account due to financial stupidities on behalf of Odeon Kingston-upon-Thames. Therefore technically, this food needs to last me four weeks until I go home for Easter (and please bear in mind that I had the cheese and baked beans for dinner). Luckily I am going home for the weekend in a couple of days, so I must consume many, many calories courtesy of mum and dad (pub Sunday lunch is a must) and retain them until the time comes for somebody else to buy me dinner... All I can say is, at least this is doing something for the losing-the-stomach-podge cause.
Was this the idea of graduates that Labour had when Tony Blair so eloquently ranted about "education, education, education"? Did they realise, when they brought in top-up fees, that students woud be so skint they'd be having a dinner of scrambled egg, spaghetti and processed salami, as Doodle did this evening? Did they realise that when I leave university in June 2010 with a 2:1 (here's to hoping) degree in English Lit with Dance I would be nearly £30,000 in debt and being rejected for jobs I was capable of doing when I was 18? (This last one hasn't happened yet but it's only a matter of time.) Also I am not quite a graduate yet, but you know. Nearly. I just don't understand the point of paying this much for a degree that doesn't actually help you get a job. Having said that, I have thoroughly enjoyed my years of study, possibly because the social side of things outweighs the studying slightly, and wouldn't have it any other way.
I don't really know what the answer is. And in the run up to the general election, I actually don't think the major parties do either. Nick Clegg's got it spot-on in terms of abolishing fees - avoiding the kind of debt I've run up just from tuition fees and maintenance loands - but what actual good will that do in the long run? I don't think anyone really knows. Although I know one thing for sure - the job market will never get better whilst the banks use the money they've been bailed out with to give themselves Christmas fucking bonuses. So much of that money coud be going on graduate training schemes. And, in the slightly longer run, allowing me to eat something other than weetabix and beans for dinner.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
The 22 Club
By the time I've finished writing this and have posted it I will be 22.
This doesn't sound like a massive issue. And it isn't. In fact, I'm having a rather splendid week as of now - essays are written and printed, there is a bottle of rose in the fridge ready to crack open for breakfast, I am going out tomorrow night with mates, and on Friday myself and the Hose are having a joint merry bash with all of our lovely mates at uni. It's actually a double celebration in two ways - the 22nd year of life and also our 3rd anniversary as birthday bum chums Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. I don't know what I'll do next year... actually, yes I do, I'll be travelling with Bell, so ideally I can drink rum and puff some sheesha/hash (depending on country) and get merry in an entirely hippy backpacker manner.
There are, however, certain problems that come with being not 21 anymore. 21 is the last age where it is completely acceptable to be in girlish high spirits (drunk) and to be completely obvlivious as to a career plan. Now, my girlish high spirits still tend to reach St Trinian levels (and I mean the genius Ronald Searle illustrations rather than Rupert Everett in drag), and I my only office experience as yet is a week's work experience at an independent publisher's in Evesham. I feel like by now I should really have something I can say I can do that is useful to someone who would like to pay me lots of money for doing it (this blog and being able to do some exceptionally authetic Sixties dancing do not count).
This is why I'm going travelling, to discover myself and find out what I actually want to DO.
This is basically a lame way of saying that I have no clue and therefore wish to waste yet more time before I'm forced to pick something, or face the endless stream of rejection letters...
You see, this is why getting old is not fun. I would like to skip to the bit where I go travelling, and then skip again to the bit where I get a job I vaguely enjoy, even if it's only because I have a hot colleague to flirt with when I get bored. I don't know, just... oh good lord, 10 minutes.
Also, once you are a responsible adult, are you allowed to have pictures of hot dancer men on your walls? Or is this only allowed until you leave university? Answers directed via the comments box please...
This doesn't sound like a massive issue. And it isn't. In fact, I'm having a rather splendid week as of now - essays are written and printed, there is a bottle of rose in the fridge ready to crack open for breakfast, I am going out tomorrow night with mates, and on Friday myself and the Hose are having a joint merry bash with all of our lovely mates at uni. It's actually a double celebration in two ways - the 22nd year of life and also our 3rd anniversary as birthday bum chums Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. I don't know what I'll do next year... actually, yes I do, I'll be travelling with Bell, so ideally I can drink rum and puff some sheesha/hash (depending on country) and get merry in an entirely hippy backpacker manner.
There are, however, certain problems that come with being not 21 anymore. 21 is the last age where it is completely acceptable to be in girlish high spirits (drunk) and to be completely obvlivious as to a career plan. Now, my girlish high spirits still tend to reach St Trinian levels (and I mean the genius Ronald Searle illustrations rather than Rupert Everett in drag), and I my only office experience as yet is a week's work experience at an independent publisher's in Evesham. I feel like by now I should really have something I can say I can do that is useful to someone who would like to pay me lots of money for doing it (this blog and being able to do some exceptionally authetic Sixties dancing do not count).
This is why I'm going travelling, to discover myself and find out what I actually want to DO.
This is basically a lame way of saying that I have no clue and therefore wish to waste yet more time before I'm forced to pick something, or face the endless stream of rejection letters...
You see, this is why getting old is not fun. I would like to skip to the bit where I go travelling, and then skip again to the bit where I get a job I vaguely enjoy, even if it's only because I have a hot colleague to flirt with when I get bored. I don't know, just... oh good lord, 10 minutes.
Also, once you are a responsible adult, are you allowed to have pictures of hot dancer men on your walls? Or is this only allowed until you leave university? Answers directed via the comments box please...
Monday, 22 February 2010
Thespianism
It is over. Rehearsals are finished, the shows are done, the aftershow party and after-party aftermath are mere memories (if you discount the mystery bruises and apparant trashing of bedroom). There's something so delicate about stage shows - you rehearse for months, sacrificing time, social situations, money and health, for a grand total of about 7 hours of performing which are gone in a flash of greasepaint. So why do we do it? What is there to actually get out of it?
Well, loads. I get asked this a lot because I don't live with any stagey people (they are all Art History/Classics/Anthropology people, although Lala did help out backstage), so I have many reasons ready waiting in my brain.
1. Showing off. Whether you're in it for the dancing, the singing or the acting or a mixture of them all, anyone who likes being on stage likes showing other people what they can do. In fact, everyone likes people to know what they do, except that if you're writing a book, for instance, you are relatively disconnected from the public eye - they only read the book. But if you're on stage, there's nowhere to hide. Everyone knows it's you because they can see you, so you are putting your supposed talent out there and inviting everyone to judge the harsh (or beautiful, if you're lucky) reality of it.
2. Doing something you love. You only get up on stage if you really want to - it's not like an office presentation that you do because you have to and just overcome your fear of it because it's your job. Like, I love dancing, so I want other people to see it the way I do and to love it too. This isn't even in a pretentious look-at-my-beautiful-art way, I just want people to have as much fun watching as I do doing.
3. Having a massive amount of fun with people you love. Even if you don't know anyone at the start, you'll end up knowing these people even better than you actually want to. You'll see each other at the very extremes of emotion - stressed, euphoric, angry - and then go to the pub for post-rehearsal drinks and see everyone chilled out, happy and drunk. If you're lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it) you get to kiss someone, or dance with someone, or do something with someone in front of loads of people that you'd never normally do, and you have to just jump in blind. This involves putting a lot of trust in each other - and actually, this applies throughout and entire production. If one person fucks up then the entire show is that tiny bit worse than it would have been. So you put everything you have into that one show and that one group of people.
Then you have the tiny things that might be just me...
4. Getting to be someone you're not, even if it isn't real.
5. Wearing loads of make-up (inlcuding massive false eyelashes), having massive hair and wearing what might be a really strange outfit, but knowing that even if you look like a knob up close you look amazing to the audience.
6. Applause. This probably falls under the showing off part.
7. That moment. There's always a moment. Usually a few, and not just in performances. It could be a dance that suddenly clicks and is just amazing to perform even in rehearsal. It could be when you suddenly get through a scene with no mistakes. It's almost always the first time you do a run and suddenly realise you have a show. It's definitely always when you hear the first audience reaction to the first number of the first performance.
Having read these back, they do slightly cross over each other but what the hell, they're all still applicable. There's just something about musical theatre, and I think it takes a certain sort of person to enjoy doing it. It's completely different to performing straight plays (as the Drama lecturers at uni are continually telling everyone in no uncertain terms) because it's never, ever realist - it's never real to burst into song and dance at the drop of a hat, although I wish every day that it was.
Once you've got the rehearsals, tears, tantrums and finally some epic performances out of the way, you can concentrate on the aftershow party. It's my belief that a show without and aftershow party is a complete waste of my life. We've spent (in this case) several months getting to know each other, shouting at each other, flirting with each other, causing each other accidental injuries during dance rehearsals, losing our voices 2 days before opening night, hearing those immortal words "Act 2 once more, please!" at midnight after several hours of dress runs, and generally working our thespian arses off, so why oh why would you not have a massive shindig to celebrate it? I know that some of the best parties I have ever been to have been aftershows... I think it must be a mixture of alcohol, pent-up adrenalin, a tendency for everyone there to want to sing, dance and show off, several inter-cast flirtations to reach their peak and an exceptionally luvvie habit of everyone kissing everyone else's bums and telling them how fabulous they were and are. I believe I spent a large proportion of the night/very early morning playing SingStar(why I ever thought I might win considering who I was playing against is a mystery, but that's cider for you) and taking various photographs of imaginary scenarios...
I am completely aware that this last sentence probably deconstructed all the good work of the preceding paragraph by making it look fucking lame, but this just proves the point that you had to be there... so go have an aftershow party of your own. Except you have to have an actual show first. So go join a drama society. Trust me, you won't regret it.
Well, loads. I get asked this a lot because I don't live with any stagey people (they are all Art History/Classics/Anthropology people, although Lala did help out backstage), so I have many reasons ready waiting in my brain.
1. Showing off. Whether you're in it for the dancing, the singing or the acting or a mixture of them all, anyone who likes being on stage likes showing other people what they can do. In fact, everyone likes people to know what they do, except that if you're writing a book, for instance, you are relatively disconnected from the public eye - they only read the book. But if you're on stage, there's nowhere to hide. Everyone knows it's you because they can see you, so you are putting your supposed talent out there and inviting everyone to judge the harsh (or beautiful, if you're lucky) reality of it.
2. Doing something you love. You only get up on stage if you really want to - it's not like an office presentation that you do because you have to and just overcome your fear of it because it's your job. Like, I love dancing, so I want other people to see it the way I do and to love it too. This isn't even in a pretentious look-at-my-beautiful-art way, I just want people to have as much fun watching as I do doing.
3. Having a massive amount of fun with people you love. Even if you don't know anyone at the start, you'll end up knowing these people even better than you actually want to. You'll see each other at the very extremes of emotion - stressed, euphoric, angry - and then go to the pub for post-rehearsal drinks and see everyone chilled out, happy and drunk. If you're lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it) you get to kiss someone, or dance with someone, or do something with someone in front of loads of people that you'd never normally do, and you have to just jump in blind. This involves putting a lot of trust in each other - and actually, this applies throughout and entire production. If one person fucks up then the entire show is that tiny bit worse than it would have been. So you put everything you have into that one show and that one group of people.
Then you have the tiny things that might be just me...
4. Getting to be someone you're not, even if it isn't real.
5. Wearing loads of make-up (inlcuding massive false eyelashes), having massive hair and wearing what might be a really strange outfit, but knowing that even if you look like a knob up close you look amazing to the audience.
6. Applause. This probably falls under the showing off part.
7. That moment. There's always a moment. Usually a few, and not just in performances. It could be a dance that suddenly clicks and is just amazing to perform even in rehearsal. It could be when you suddenly get through a scene with no mistakes. It's almost always the first time you do a run and suddenly realise you have a show. It's definitely always when you hear the first audience reaction to the first number of the first performance.
Having read these back, they do slightly cross over each other but what the hell, they're all still applicable. There's just something about musical theatre, and I think it takes a certain sort of person to enjoy doing it. It's completely different to performing straight plays (as the Drama lecturers at uni are continually telling everyone in no uncertain terms) because it's never, ever realist - it's never real to burst into song and dance at the drop of a hat, although I wish every day that it was.
Once you've got the rehearsals, tears, tantrums and finally some epic performances out of the way, you can concentrate on the aftershow party. It's my belief that a show without and aftershow party is a complete waste of my life. We've spent (in this case) several months getting to know each other, shouting at each other, flirting with each other, causing each other accidental injuries during dance rehearsals, losing our voices 2 days before opening night, hearing those immortal words "Act 2 once more, please!" at midnight after several hours of dress runs, and generally working our thespian arses off, so why oh why would you not have a massive shindig to celebrate it? I know that some of the best parties I have ever been to have been aftershows... I think it must be a mixture of alcohol, pent-up adrenalin, a tendency for everyone there to want to sing, dance and show off, several inter-cast flirtations to reach their peak and an exceptionally luvvie habit of everyone kissing everyone else's bums and telling them how fabulous they were and are. I believe I spent a large proportion of the night/very early morning playing SingStar(why I ever thought I might win considering who I was playing against is a mystery, but that's cider for you) and taking various photographs of imaginary scenarios...
I am completely aware that this last sentence probably deconstructed all the good work of the preceding paragraph by making it look fucking lame, but this just proves the point that you had to be there... so go have an aftershow party of your own. Except you have to have an actual show first. So go join a drama society. Trust me, you won't regret it.
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Fat Dancing
Evening all. Lovely day.
I say lovely. In reality I have had a rather strange day, involving a bizarre mood change from enthusiastically bothering to do my hair and stuff this morning, to tired and disinterested during Cunningham this afternoon, and then, circumspectly, to finding everything hilarious during rehearsals, which is neither practical nor whimsically entertaining (as one might hope it is) when negotiating jumps and a shiny floor. That said, it was a pretty constructive rehearsal, and with three weeks to go have learnt all the dances we need to. That also said, they do need polishing somewhat... and also we need to learn to actually sing the songs we dance to.
Considering I haven't even had any essay questions yet, and so no actual work other than reading to do, I feel I've been insanely busy recently. This might have something to do with the approximate 16 hours of dance I have done over each of the past two weeks, although until Doodle pointed out that most normal people don't even do one, I thought this was a pretty poor approach to my fitness. Which brings me in a fairly shit and un-thought-out manner to a point relatively close to my heart: this idea that dancers are fitness and food obsessives.
Well. I am a food obsessive. I love food. I can't think of a better evening that spending it in a nice restaurant with good company and fantastic food (and an unlimited budget ideally). And I'm also slightly obsessed with my fitness in a weird way; I think I'm not as fit as I should be but then when it comes down to it I hate the gym and therefore do not go. And these thoughts seem to be at the forefront of my mind a lot of the time. But what can you do. Anyway, I digress as usual. People seem to think that ballerinas eat nothing but lettuce and follow a punishing fitness regime in order to gain the slender body required for the Royal Ballet Company. In reality, this is not the case. The girls who stop eating at ballet school never make it to the companies because they can't dance properly, because they don't have a nutritious diet - you can't build the muscle to hold yourself on pointe without eating some protein. Darcey Bussell couldn't work the magic she does if she starved herself. And that's another thing - ballet is the only form of dance or fitness training that provides you with lean muscle whilst getting rid of all body fat; the skinny body is a result of the training rather than a requirement before you start. Of course you have to eat healthily and train an insane amount, but that's what happens at a dance company - you're job is to dance for an audience, and therefore you have to practise. It's no different to doctor training and being on call at the hospital 24/7 (although in this case you're inflicting pain on yourself rather than on other people - standing on your toes is most definitely not the graceful sylph-like elegance it looks).
Anyway as you might have guessed, I feel particularly strongly about this subject, which is surprising considering I'm one of those dancers who would be looked at like a fat alien if I ever entered the Royal Ballet School because I have nicely placed areas of podge around my body (i.e. a normal one). But I just hate the stigma against dancers when we're all actually very different. Much like most things in life when you think about it.
I haven't had to dance since yesterday and don't need to until Sunday morning... bliss. I am going out for lunch on Saturday and will definitely be eating everything in sight, alongside quaffing some wine and then probably some saturated fat infused stodge on the train home. And I will love it.
I say lovely. In reality I have had a rather strange day, involving a bizarre mood change from enthusiastically bothering to do my hair and stuff this morning, to tired and disinterested during Cunningham this afternoon, and then, circumspectly, to finding everything hilarious during rehearsals, which is neither practical nor whimsically entertaining (as one might hope it is) when negotiating jumps and a shiny floor. That said, it was a pretty constructive rehearsal, and with three weeks to go have learnt all the dances we need to. That also said, they do need polishing somewhat... and also we need to learn to actually sing the songs we dance to.
Considering I haven't even had any essay questions yet, and so no actual work other than reading to do, I feel I've been insanely busy recently. This might have something to do with the approximate 16 hours of dance I have done over each of the past two weeks, although until Doodle pointed out that most normal people don't even do one, I thought this was a pretty poor approach to my fitness. Which brings me in a fairly shit and un-thought-out manner to a point relatively close to my heart: this idea that dancers are fitness and food obsessives.
Well. I am a food obsessive. I love food. I can't think of a better evening that spending it in a nice restaurant with good company and fantastic food (and an unlimited budget ideally). And I'm also slightly obsessed with my fitness in a weird way; I think I'm not as fit as I should be but then when it comes down to it I hate the gym and therefore do not go. And these thoughts seem to be at the forefront of my mind a lot of the time. But what can you do. Anyway, I digress as usual. People seem to think that ballerinas eat nothing but lettuce and follow a punishing fitness regime in order to gain the slender body required for the Royal Ballet Company. In reality, this is not the case. The girls who stop eating at ballet school never make it to the companies because they can't dance properly, because they don't have a nutritious diet - you can't build the muscle to hold yourself on pointe without eating some protein. Darcey Bussell couldn't work the magic she does if she starved herself. And that's another thing - ballet is the only form of dance or fitness training that provides you with lean muscle whilst getting rid of all body fat; the skinny body is a result of the training rather than a requirement before you start. Of course you have to eat healthily and train an insane amount, but that's what happens at a dance company - you're job is to dance for an audience, and therefore you have to practise. It's no different to doctor training and being on call at the hospital 24/7 (although in this case you're inflicting pain on yourself rather than on other people - standing on your toes is most definitely not the graceful sylph-like elegance it looks).
Anyway as you might have guessed, I feel particularly strongly about this subject, which is surprising considering I'm one of those dancers who would be looked at like a fat alien if I ever entered the Royal Ballet School because I have nicely placed areas of podge around my body (i.e. a normal one). But I just hate the stigma against dancers when we're all actually very different. Much like most things in life when you think about it.
I haven't had to dance since yesterday and don't need to until Sunday morning... bliss. I am going out for lunch on Saturday and will definitely be eating everything in sight, alongside quaffing some wine and then probably some saturated fat infused stodge on the train home. And I will love it.
Friday, 8 January 2010
Cracked Ice
Well, I must apologise for being thoroughly rubbish and not posting anything for about forty years. I have an excuse for last week, but that's it. I am a bad person.
So I guess everyone's excited about snow and that. I must say it's beginning to grate on me a little bit, but that's my fault really, for not finishing uni work and therefore feeling too guilty to go out and play in it. We got home from holiday (eventually) on the 6th to find our lane beautifully snowploughed but with the drive under a foot of snow and the SmartCar nearly buried (ha, good). I've been having trouble adjusting to these ridiculous temperatures after a week of steady 30C heat, enjoyably cold showers, Caribbean steel bands and watermelon consumption. I'm not down with the mercury being permanently below freezing, having lukewarm showers because anything hotter feels boiling on my freezing cold hands and toes and eating massively stodgy hot food like chilli (although I do love chilli). Best thing about this weather is the view out my window, which looks out across to the Malverns and is amazing, and the fact I get to wear the best in winter fashions; altogether much easier to do well than summer clothes that require flat stomachs, a tan, and perky breasts that don't need a bra. Also, they cover up the ridiculous tan lines I acquired by falling asleep on a sunlounger during the hottest part of the day on the first full day of being there. Sometimes I think I need sending into the corner wearing a dunce hat.
So - the Christmas season. A week of drink-fuelled hilarity and riot, followed by a couple of days of sobering family gatherings (sobering due to the intense insanity of my family, and kept in check by redressing the sobering balance with Stowfords), followed by a completely - no joke - sober week in the Caribbean, followed by a week of minus temperatures and snow, which brings us to now. I tell you what, New Year's Eve on a beach drinking fruit punch is a bit weird. Like, it isn't cold. I wasn't drunk. I didn't know any of the people I was with apart from the three I was related to. I got up at 9am the following morning and had an alfresco swim followed by a civilised breakfast. And I think I could quite happily spend every New Year's Eve like that. When I found out I was going to be away over that particular night I felt an overhwelming sense of relief that I wouldn't have to make a decision about what to do and where to go to celebrate. At least on Christmas Day everyone knows you're going to be with your family, but on New Year's Eve there's all of a sudden about 4 different places you could be, with 4 slightly different sets of people, but the few people you would like to spend it with are scattered throughout those 4 events... Oh it is stressful. And considering you normally wake up with your head on the loo seat and no recollection of the night anyway, it hardly matters. Next year I intend to be in some far-flung country (a hot one), wearing flip flops, a sarong and dreadlocks, with my travelling buddy as the only person I need to worry about being in the same place as. I feel this will help me on my way to becoming a chilled out and entirely stress-free hippy; a necessary measure before I enter the horrors of career-driven job hopping.
As usual, I have rambled off the beaten track and onto a cunningly hidden bit of frozen pond - similar, in a way, to something I did whilst walking the dog in 8 inches of snow earlier. But, again like earlier, the ice didn't break, it just cracked, and I continued along on my way unscathed... See you anon.
So I guess everyone's excited about snow and that. I must say it's beginning to grate on me a little bit, but that's my fault really, for not finishing uni work and therefore feeling too guilty to go out and play in it. We got home from holiday (eventually) on the 6th to find our lane beautifully snowploughed but with the drive under a foot of snow and the SmartCar nearly buried (ha, good). I've been having trouble adjusting to these ridiculous temperatures after a week of steady 30C heat, enjoyably cold showers, Caribbean steel bands and watermelon consumption. I'm not down with the mercury being permanently below freezing, having lukewarm showers because anything hotter feels boiling on my freezing cold hands and toes and eating massively stodgy hot food like chilli (although I do love chilli). Best thing about this weather is the view out my window, which looks out across to the Malverns and is amazing, and the fact I get to wear the best in winter fashions; altogether much easier to do well than summer clothes that require flat stomachs, a tan, and perky breasts that don't need a bra. Also, they cover up the ridiculous tan lines I acquired by falling asleep on a sunlounger during the hottest part of the day on the first full day of being there. Sometimes I think I need sending into the corner wearing a dunce hat.
So - the Christmas season. A week of drink-fuelled hilarity and riot, followed by a couple of days of sobering family gatherings (sobering due to the intense insanity of my family, and kept in check by redressing the sobering balance with Stowfords), followed by a completely - no joke - sober week in the Caribbean, followed by a week of minus temperatures and snow, which brings us to now. I tell you what, New Year's Eve on a beach drinking fruit punch is a bit weird. Like, it isn't cold. I wasn't drunk. I didn't know any of the people I was with apart from the three I was related to. I got up at 9am the following morning and had an alfresco swim followed by a civilised breakfast. And I think I could quite happily spend every New Year's Eve like that. When I found out I was going to be away over that particular night I felt an overhwelming sense of relief that I wouldn't have to make a decision about what to do and where to go to celebrate. At least on Christmas Day everyone knows you're going to be with your family, but on New Year's Eve there's all of a sudden about 4 different places you could be, with 4 slightly different sets of people, but the few people you would like to spend it with are scattered throughout those 4 events... Oh it is stressful. And considering you normally wake up with your head on the loo seat and no recollection of the night anyway, it hardly matters. Next year I intend to be in some far-flung country (a hot one), wearing flip flops, a sarong and dreadlocks, with my travelling buddy as the only person I need to worry about being in the same place as. I feel this will help me on my way to becoming a chilled out and entirely stress-free hippy; a necessary measure before I enter the horrors of career-driven job hopping.
As usual, I have rambled off the beaten track and onto a cunningly hidden bit of frozen pond - similar, in a way, to something I did whilst walking the dog in 8 inches of snow earlier. But, again like earlier, the ice didn't break, it just cracked, and I continued along on my way unscathed... See you anon.
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