So I had my hair cut this week (don't worry, this is scene-setting happening here, I promise not to linger on this, there really is nothing worse than people talking about haircuts. I mean there is, obviously, but on a domestic level its up there with stealing your last bag of wotsits, or someone explaining the back story of a TV cop drama that you're obviously never going to watch again, and frankly, are only watching in the first place this time because THEY chose what was going on the tv EVEN THOUGH they KNOW you've never seen the damn thing before and will never again, but you're far too polite to say 'actually, the inbetweeners is on channel 4, sure its an old series but hey, you never get tired of laughing, right?' and now you're stuck valiently asking things like 'so he was the one who's drug ring got taken down by the prostitute spy?' whilst secretly thinking 'GOD why dont they all just DIE')
So I had my haircut this week. Always the same hair dresser, always the same place. Joanne. and My House. She is the Chicken Korma of hairdressers. Never let me down yet. I mean sure, you have to wash your hair in the downstairs sink before she arrives, and sweep up all the old bits of hair after she's gone, but hey, for a cut and colour for 35 quid, who's compaining? Not I. The thing is, with Joanne, talking to her isnt an absolute hideous nightmare, as I find it is with almost every hairdresser in the world. Oh sure, stick me in a bar with some murderers, I'll chat away like a drunken fig, but put me in a chair with someone holding a brush in one hand, and the gesture that comes with the question 'so have you been watching Big Brother?' in the other, and its like I'm Bond under torturing. Nice try darling, but you'll have to rope ma goolies a LOT harder than that I'm afraid.
So yes, with Joanne its much more like a vague aunt has come to visit, and, loose as they are, the threads of conversation from the last visit are still there to be sewn into the deep tapestry of Mutual Banal Conversation. And it happens in the kitchen, so there's the off chance of a cup of tea if my dad somehow tears himself away from the excitements of the pond.
The point is, however, that Joanne was telling me about her daughter, Libby, who is 13, in her 2nd year of high school and currently studying for her whatevers (She was chopping rather vigorously at that point and my concentration slipped somewhat as I saw what appeared to be most of my scalp falling onto my own knees) Libby was doing English, and had been given Dracula to read. Now this made me look away from the knee-bound back of my head rather suddenly.
'Hold on, she's studying Dracula?'
'Oh yes, all about vampires isn't it? Was a bit worried for her really.'
'Yes, vampires, yes they are.. rather scary...'
I'd be rather worried too, i thought, as I'm pretty sure from studying it at A level and then in my degree that actually its more about gang-rape than anything. I mean, obviously they're not going to tell the 13 year old kids that Bram Stoker was in fact a mentalist sexist woman-phobe who wrote a book basically to live out his own fantasies of literally sexing them all to death. but still.... I mean.. We did Skellig when I was 13. It was about an angel. I'll give you a small extract from the book just to illustrate what I mean:
'Lucy rose up in her casket, looking pretty much like a massive slut. What a whore. I mean really though, her lips looked like they could take a truck covered in hog grease. Van Helsing grabbed a nearby stake in order to stab that fucking bitch right in the HEART, and then one of the other men, brian or carl or someone said 'my main man Van, is it just me or is this metaphor too complicated?' Helsing cried 'you know what, you're right! This is all getting a bit subtle for my liking! its time to fuck this bitch UP, Renfield style!' Then he threw away the massive stick and they all did her. And it was awesome.' (page 324)
So yeah. You see what I mean? Trying not to put too fine a point on it, I mentioned to Joanne that the book might not be.. well... savoury, for a young impressionable mind. She furrowed her brow, and said that so far they'd only done the first few pages, and that it seemed alright. I shrugged and thought it best to say nothing more. Partially because it didn't seem right to interfere in her child's education, but mainly because all this brow furrowing business was playing havoc with her depth perception. I nearly lost an ear. I tried to remember the first few pages of Dracula, and whether it had hinted at any of the crapness to come. I found a copy post-sweeping (a very soothing experience, its as if you're cleaning away your old, significantly less awesome self) and had a look at the first page. The first line of Dracula is as follows-
'Jonathan Harker's Journal
3 May. Bistritz. __Left Munich at 8:35 P. M, on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.
Jesus Christ. Doesn't exactly set you up, does it? By the sound of this, you're settling down for a 14 hour conversation with the world's most boring dinnerguest. The teacher probably read the first 3 pages, knew there'd been a 'twilight' craze amount the young and nimble and thought bosh. Done.
Dangerous stuff, these first impressions.
Got me thinking though, we're not allowed to judge books by their covers- fair play, there are a LOT of pretentious graphic designers out there who will do anything to get gothic-y typewriter fonts onto front pages everywhere. But, can we judge them by their first lines? Surely, an author's first line is basically the most carefully thought out introduction you can ever have. Imagine the brilliance of crafting word for word the things to say to people upon first meeting them, without fear of vommitting, violent angry laughter or accidently asking them if they'd raped your grandma. That is what a first line is. Sure, thats a lot of pressure, but at the same time- there's a lot of books out there. If any of them lines should count, the first one is the one to go for.
With this in mind, I had a little poke around some of my favourite books, and snooped away at their first lines to test the theory. I print some for you below. If you like the sound of any of them, I'll give you the title. And please add your own. I love a good mystery line and it sounds like Joanne might need a few suggestions for Libby's 3rd year- 'Crack Pimps Uncovered', anyone?
This is by no means a comprehensive collection, but rather lovely old friends I happened to have around me at the time of writing. Enjoy-
'It's hot as hell in Martirio, but the papers on the porch are icy with the news'
'It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imgine, they still think he or she is wonderful'
'The snow in the mountains was melting, and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation'
'Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy'
'Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.'
'Mrs Rodice perched herslef on the edge of her spartan desk and sucked her watery afternoon tea through sullen lips.'
'In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me sine advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticising anyone,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in the world haven't had the advantages that you've had'
'On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.'
'My desert island, all-time, top-five most memorable breakups, in chronological order, are as follows: Alison Ashmore; Penny Hardwick; Jackie Alden; Charlie Nicholson; and Sarah Kendrew. Those were the ones that really hurt. Can you see your name on that list, Laura?'
and finally
'These very old people are the father and mother of Mr Bucket. Their names are Grandpa Joe, and Grandma Josephine.
No amount of TV Cop backstory can destroy how these unimaginably wonderful objects make me feel. The Inbetweeners can wait. And besides. There's always Channel 4 +1.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The Hidden World of the Optician.
I, unfortunately, would never survive in the wild.
Yes, this is partly because I am generally terrible at being outdoors. Really. I'm not even ashamed of it. I am rubbish at nature. I give a big thumbs up to the old 'from trees to cave' category we picked as a species way back when we gave that glitzy ol' evolutionary wheel a spin.
Its also slightly because I don't feel I'm prepared enough in the ways of knots- it seems so vital to be an excellent knot do-er in the wild, though I do remain unsure why. Perhaps you can knot yourself a meal. Or knot a sword in times of battle. I'm not judging the world of knots, to be sure, but there are very few times when i REALLY NEED something to attach to a rope. But not just need, but need TO THE MAX. To the point where the knot that everyone does (under over squeezy squeezy until its bigger than your fist) is no longer sufficient.
But I'm getting off the point. Knot my best opening. ahaha well done me and all is forgotten. Anyway, my point.
My point is, I cannot see.
Not even a bit.
My talent for seeing is slim to none. Its not on my CV and I dont boast about it to my friends and colleagues.
I find this very frustrating, as personally, I really enjoy seeing. I bloody love it. And I cant do it. Embarrassingly, I need eye crutches. And I've never been happy about this.
So you can imagine, upon entering an opticians at any time, I'm a little on edge. I always feel a bit like I'm about to enter an exam, and I didn't revise nearly enough. No, its not even that, I feel like I'm about to enter an exam, and I know that they're going to give me a towel to write with. Its the injustice of it all. But there's no getting around the damn thing, I need an update on how supremely crap my eyes are, and they are the only ones who can give it to me. In I go.
Now, my Mum, who is sympathetic about the failure of my eyes, as she too has suffered a similar fate, is generally very good about getting me to and from the opticians. However, she does make me go to Asda opticians so she can get a shop in at the same, and considering she GAVE me the damaged optical goods in the first place, you think we could splash out on specsavers. I don't know what it is, but sometimes I just really, really feel as if I should have gone there. Who knows why.
But anyway, I'm only so grouchy about it because I hate the opticians so much, and to be honest, the prospect of an off the cuff kinder bueno post eye raping is enough to keep the forced smile on my face at any time. The problem is, and the reason I write this to you today, considering what a horrendous ordeal going to the opticians is (and it is, lets not get all spoonful of sugar about this) the women who worked there genuinely seemed to believe they had not only the most wonderful, but bizarrely, the most hilarous jobs in the world.
It began with an attendant type (eye nurse? who even cares) making me sit in a chair and among other things, have a machine blow air suddenly and violently into my eye. Over and over again. As it made a shooty, foamy noise. I know machines can't be rude. But this one really, really did try. I felt someone had instructed a rogue young thug of an extractor fan to spit in my face repeately. 'It might be a little startling!' the young nurse (?) said with a grin. Startling. I'll say. I never thought I'd feel like I was being taunted by a piece of optical equipment. Every time it spat I jumped, and the nurse would giggle away, as if she'd just told a really amusing joke, and the punchline was me getting spat in the face. Excellent.
Thankfully though, it couldnt last forever, and I was able to stand up, my eyes feeling like the underside of a desert vole. I was taken into the sanctuary of the appointment room where the friendly optician lady took my chart, looked at it, paused for a minute as I sat in the waggly feet chair and looked up.
'did you do this test with your lenses in?'
I replied in the affirmative, as I'd told them I had them in when I arrived, and no one told me to do otherwise.'
She burst out laughing.
'AHAHAHA HAHAA oh dear oh dear, yes! You see, it says here that your eyesight is perfect! And that, well, that doesn't happen a lot does it? HAHAHA'
'ha. yes, i suppose that.. that would be classed as some sort of jesus mirac-
'JUNE! JUNE COME IN HERE. Did you do her test?'
June nodded with bated breath.
'she's got her CONTACTS in!'
HAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHA
HAHAHA
I laughed away too (it seemed only polite, no one wants to be the only non-laugher in a room of hilarity, its like turning up to a great fancy dress party wearing jeans and a satirical name tag) but couldnt shake what this would actually mean.
'HAHAH, oh dear.. oh dear. well, back out you go! We'll have to do all the tests again!' She grinned. June grinned. That bastard smug little extractor fan drop out grinned. And we did it again. Only this time I didn't even have my eye armour on.
Post this, I had the fun of actually doing the 'now read the bottom line.. the bottom line, I said. Oh sorry, that is genuinely what you thought it was? oh. oh, oh dear...' and being told with glee that i had indeed slipped further down the eye ladder, and was now approaching the kind of vision a bowl would reject as useless.
Still, I had glasses to choose, and my Mum had turned up, meaning I had exactly 3 minutes to choose which ones I wanted before she started breathing in the way that meant if I took any longer, I wouldnt need them anyway as I wouldn't have a head. So picking two up (it was one for 60 pounds, or two for 70 pounds- and you know you dont need two pairs of glasses and yet... 10 pounds... I could never have lived with myself). Now the fun really began.
June looked devestated. 'I'm so sorry. But these are on different deals. This one here' she waggled a pair I'd given her 'are only 40 pounds. And you want the 60 pound deal'.
I was getting the warning mum breaths on my neck.
'Oh its fine' I said hurridly, 'I'll just pay the extra anyway, I don't mind.'
I was met with silence. Another attendant rushed up as if Gondor had just called for aid.
'I'm afraid-' started June
'You can't override the deal' said the New Attendant in a hushed tone.
'Oh, ' I said, 'but.. but I dont mind paying extra. These are only forty pounds, yes? And I'm willing to pay as if they were sixty. So. So its better, yes? For everyone?'
June and New Girl looked at each other. They looked back at me.
'But thats not the deal', said June. 'They are part of a seperate deal.'
I really wished I had my dealing with ridiculous situations knot to hand.
'But I'll be paying more' I said. 'More. By twenty pounds'. I almost added, 'surely Mr Philip Asda would bloody love a hand-out?', but I didn't think now was the time for fictional characters based on acronyms.
June and N.A looked at each other again. And suddenly, a strange smile dawned on NA's face. It was a curious mix of glee, exhilaration and fear. 'You know what,' she said
'what?' asked June breathlessly
'Those glasses' she pointed at the offending 40 pound lepers, 'were made for a customer. and he never picked them up. We could', she swallowed, 'we could just put them through as sixty pounds, as the register wouldn't know where they came from, as they were specially made for a customer!'
June about shat herself.
'Yes! Yes we could! We could do it!' They both turned to me, where I proceeded to thank them excessively for letting me pay them extra money.
As she was putting the order through, June turned to the other girl and said grinning wildly 'I tell you what, we'll never work at SpecSavers, will we?'
The other girl hooted and replied with relish 'Ohhh no, they'd never let us!'
I suddenly caught a wonderful glimpse of an underworld I'd never imagined before. An opticians mafia, opposing gangs in a west side story type setting, where administractive hitmen got tattoos of their chosen branch on their cornias and bombarded their optical opponants with midnight lens raids. Bi-focal bomb shelters and suicide pact saline nightmares. Specsavers vs Asda. Other name of an opticians vs a different other name of an opticians. Marvellous.
Drifting into this dream as I walked out with my Mum, whose breathing was now back on track, I barely even realised that I'd forgotten to buy my celebratory kinder bueno. Ah well. On the mean streets of the optician underbelly, there was no such thing as chocolatey treats. Just monacle maniacs, untrustworthy red and green circles and eye tests with such tiny letters that any man trying to work them out goes instantly mad. Cripes. No one ever had this kind of trouble in a tent. Forget my past, nature, I'll tie you my best forgiveness knot and lets start this again.
Yes, this is partly because I am generally terrible at being outdoors. Really. I'm not even ashamed of it. I am rubbish at nature. I give a big thumbs up to the old 'from trees to cave' category we picked as a species way back when we gave that glitzy ol' evolutionary wheel a spin.
Its also slightly because I don't feel I'm prepared enough in the ways of knots- it seems so vital to be an excellent knot do-er in the wild, though I do remain unsure why. Perhaps you can knot yourself a meal. Or knot a sword in times of battle. I'm not judging the world of knots, to be sure, but there are very few times when i REALLY NEED something to attach to a rope. But not just need, but need TO THE MAX. To the point where the knot that everyone does (under over squeezy squeezy until its bigger than your fist) is no longer sufficient.
But I'm getting off the point. Knot my best opening. ahaha well done me and all is forgotten. Anyway, my point.
My point is, I cannot see.
Not even a bit.
My talent for seeing is slim to none. Its not on my CV and I dont boast about it to my friends and colleagues.
I find this very frustrating, as personally, I really enjoy seeing. I bloody love it. And I cant do it. Embarrassingly, I need eye crutches. And I've never been happy about this.
So you can imagine, upon entering an opticians at any time, I'm a little on edge. I always feel a bit like I'm about to enter an exam, and I didn't revise nearly enough. No, its not even that, I feel like I'm about to enter an exam, and I know that they're going to give me a towel to write with. Its the injustice of it all. But there's no getting around the damn thing, I need an update on how supremely crap my eyes are, and they are the only ones who can give it to me. In I go.
Now, my Mum, who is sympathetic about the failure of my eyes, as she too has suffered a similar fate, is generally very good about getting me to and from the opticians. However, she does make me go to Asda opticians so she can get a shop in at the same, and considering she GAVE me the damaged optical goods in the first place, you think we could splash out on specsavers. I don't know what it is, but sometimes I just really, really feel as if I should have gone there. Who knows why.
But anyway, I'm only so grouchy about it because I hate the opticians so much, and to be honest, the prospect of an off the cuff kinder bueno post eye raping is enough to keep the forced smile on my face at any time. The problem is, and the reason I write this to you today, considering what a horrendous ordeal going to the opticians is (and it is, lets not get all spoonful of sugar about this) the women who worked there genuinely seemed to believe they had not only the most wonderful, but bizarrely, the most hilarous jobs in the world.
It began with an attendant type (eye nurse? who even cares) making me sit in a chair and among other things, have a machine blow air suddenly and violently into my eye. Over and over again. As it made a shooty, foamy noise. I know machines can't be rude. But this one really, really did try. I felt someone had instructed a rogue young thug of an extractor fan to spit in my face repeately. 'It might be a little startling!' the young nurse (?) said with a grin. Startling. I'll say. I never thought I'd feel like I was being taunted by a piece of optical equipment. Every time it spat I jumped, and the nurse would giggle away, as if she'd just told a really amusing joke, and the punchline was me getting spat in the face. Excellent.
Thankfully though, it couldnt last forever, and I was able to stand up, my eyes feeling like the underside of a desert vole. I was taken into the sanctuary of the appointment room where the friendly optician lady took my chart, looked at it, paused for a minute as I sat in the waggly feet chair and looked up.
'did you do this test with your lenses in?'
I replied in the affirmative, as I'd told them I had them in when I arrived, and no one told me to do otherwise.'
She burst out laughing.
'AHAHAHA HAHAA oh dear oh dear, yes! You see, it says here that your eyesight is perfect! And that, well, that doesn't happen a lot does it? HAHAHA'
'ha. yes, i suppose that.. that would be classed as some sort of jesus mirac-
'JUNE! JUNE COME IN HERE. Did you do her test?'
June nodded with bated breath.
'she's got her CONTACTS in!'
HAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHA
HAHAHA
I laughed away too (it seemed only polite, no one wants to be the only non-laugher in a room of hilarity, its like turning up to a great fancy dress party wearing jeans and a satirical name tag) but couldnt shake what this would actually mean.
'HAHAH, oh dear.. oh dear. well, back out you go! We'll have to do all the tests again!' She grinned. June grinned. That bastard smug little extractor fan drop out grinned. And we did it again. Only this time I didn't even have my eye armour on.
Post this, I had the fun of actually doing the 'now read the bottom line.. the bottom line, I said. Oh sorry, that is genuinely what you thought it was? oh. oh, oh dear...' and being told with glee that i had indeed slipped further down the eye ladder, and was now approaching the kind of vision a bowl would reject as useless.
Still, I had glasses to choose, and my Mum had turned up, meaning I had exactly 3 minutes to choose which ones I wanted before she started breathing in the way that meant if I took any longer, I wouldnt need them anyway as I wouldn't have a head. So picking two up (it was one for 60 pounds, or two for 70 pounds- and you know you dont need two pairs of glasses and yet... 10 pounds... I could never have lived with myself). Now the fun really began.
June looked devestated. 'I'm so sorry. But these are on different deals. This one here' she waggled a pair I'd given her 'are only 40 pounds. And you want the 60 pound deal'.
I was getting the warning mum breaths on my neck.
'Oh its fine' I said hurridly, 'I'll just pay the extra anyway, I don't mind.'
I was met with silence. Another attendant rushed up as if Gondor had just called for aid.
'I'm afraid-' started June
'You can't override the deal' said the New Attendant in a hushed tone.
'Oh, ' I said, 'but.. but I dont mind paying extra. These are only forty pounds, yes? And I'm willing to pay as if they were sixty. So. So its better, yes? For everyone?'
June and New Girl looked at each other. They looked back at me.
'But thats not the deal', said June. 'They are part of a seperate deal.'
I really wished I had my dealing with ridiculous situations knot to hand.
'But I'll be paying more' I said. 'More. By twenty pounds'. I almost added, 'surely Mr Philip Asda would bloody love a hand-out?', but I didn't think now was the time for fictional characters based on acronyms.
June and N.A looked at each other again. And suddenly, a strange smile dawned on NA's face. It was a curious mix of glee, exhilaration and fear. 'You know what,' she said
'what?' asked June breathlessly
'Those glasses' she pointed at the offending 40 pound lepers, 'were made for a customer. and he never picked them up. We could', she swallowed, 'we could just put them through as sixty pounds, as the register wouldn't know where they came from, as they were specially made for a customer!'
June about shat herself.
'Yes! Yes we could! We could do it!' They both turned to me, where I proceeded to thank them excessively for letting me pay them extra money.
As she was putting the order through, June turned to the other girl and said grinning wildly 'I tell you what, we'll never work at SpecSavers, will we?'
The other girl hooted and replied with relish 'Ohhh no, they'd never let us!'
I suddenly caught a wonderful glimpse of an underworld I'd never imagined before. An opticians mafia, opposing gangs in a west side story type setting, where administractive hitmen got tattoos of their chosen branch on their cornias and bombarded their optical opponants with midnight lens raids. Bi-focal bomb shelters and suicide pact saline nightmares. Specsavers vs Asda. Other name of an opticians vs a different other name of an opticians. Marvellous.
Drifting into this dream as I walked out with my Mum, whose breathing was now back on track, I barely even realised that I'd forgotten to buy my celebratory kinder bueno. Ah well. On the mean streets of the optician underbelly, there was no such thing as chocolatey treats. Just monacle maniacs, untrustworthy red and green circles and eye tests with such tiny letters that any man trying to work them out goes instantly mad. Cripes. No one ever had this kind of trouble in a tent. Forget my past, nature, I'll tie you my best forgiveness knot and lets start this again.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
How To Protect Yourself (Or Your House) From Ninjas (Or Similar)
When I was a young girl, at the wee age of an age where you have no idea what your age is, I woke up to the sound of my parents being attacked by ninjas in the garden.
Now this, as you can imagine, was fairly upsetting. The noise was coming from outside, and was the kind of high pitch 'hiiiiiYAH YAH HIIIII' sound you'd expect from any respectable ninja. Like in the films. The ninja films. With ninja noises ACTUALLY in. There could be no other explanation. Too frightened to look out of the window in case I was spotted by a laser ninja eye, I decided that my parents needed to be called into action. A fairly ridiculous idea, now I think about it, as I'm pretty sure my dad's samuri experience was passable at best, and Mum's never even been a whizz with a fork, never mind anything else. But hey, I was.. however old I was, and at that time, most of life problem's were resolved by asking my parents for help, (rather than now, where all of my problems are solved by asking them for money.) So, foolishly confident in their Eastern combat abilities, I tiptoed quickly to their door (you cant RUN when there's ninjas around, they'll HEAR you), and popped my head through the door.
'Mum,' I said, quite calmly I thought, considering the grave situation the family was in, 'I think there's some ninjas in the garden.'
I waited for a sleepy response along the comforting lines of 'alright poppet I'll get my death rifle', but none came. There was silence. I stretched my wee (but even then already quite powerful and attractive) arm up and turned on the light. To my surprise, the bed was empty. No parents, no death rifle to be seen, and no chance of me going back to sleep. I was surprisingly calm as I stared at the bed, I think because actually, this situation made a lot more sense. Why would ninjas be crying out in a fighting and angry manner if they had no one to fight with? A ridiculous notion, to be sure! Obviously, my parents were outside, and fighting with their fighting skills! In many ways, the logic of the situation was quite reassuring. I only hope mum wasn't grappling with a fork.
So, with the sitatuon at least comfortingly clear in my mind, I did what any child does when she is awaiting the results of her parents death match with subburban garden ninjas, I sat on the stairs and contemplated my future life as a ninja child. I considered waking my brother, sleeping soundly in the next room, then contemptuously dismissed the idea- after all, if anyone in this house was going to be a a ninja child- it was me, and bloody Joe wasn't going to take that away from me like he took away the sippy sippy cup with the clown on it JUST BECAUSE he was younger and 'needed' it more than me. So I sat with my head in my hands, listening to the 'HIIIIYAA! YA YA YAA! HUP HAHA YAYAYA' from in the garden, twinned with the growing noise of my parents shouting a bit and muttering angrily to each other. As I recall it, I sat on those stairs for 7 hours. However, memory is a tricky thing. It may only have been 6. Anyway, eventually, after an unspecified amount of time, the front door suddenly swung open, and I gasped, my heart pounding. A ninja! In a white Cloak! And a Samuri white belt! Unfortunately, he then stepped into the light and what was a dazzling ninja ensemble became rather disappointingly similar to my father's dressing gown.
"DAD!" I yelled, suddenly flooded with relief that he had won the arduous battle against worthy foes, and had claimed me as his prize. I rushed down the stairs and flung myself into his arms, the daughter of a ninja slayer. He gathered me up proudly and placed me firmly back into bed, telling me that everything was OK now, I was safe, and by golly, did I sleep soundly and proudly that night.
Unfortunately it turned out that actually, some of our chickens had gotten out of the coup at about 1am, and mum and dad had chased them round the garden for about an hour and a half in their pyjamas, trying to get them to shut up by yelling at them quite loudly. Still. An eventful night, nevertheless.
The reason I tell this life-altering story (coyrighted, in case you're thinking of turning it into a film), is because tonight I sit alone in a large house, ready to hunker down and brave out the night. There's something about being in your old family home alone that takes you back to a time when ninjas lurked behind every chicken, and for some reason, I can't shake the feeling that if ever there was a night for me to hone my fork skills, this is that night.
Of course, I am well aware that it is ridiculous. And yet I feel compelled to make sure that that sound that I just heard that sounded rather like a dog drinking some water in the kitchen wasn't in fact a man breaking in through the roof with a saw. It also isn't really my fault, as my parents haven't really fostered much faith in the world around me. Any woman who keeps a baseball bat under her mattress under the pretence of 'you'll never know when you might fancy a game' isn't to be trusted, in my opinion. I have in fact woken up to the sound of my mother shouted 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING' storming down our drive, wielding a bat in one hand and a dog in the other whilst some young ruffians attempted to scale our gate. Needless to say, they scarpered. I'm pretty sure the dog was trying to do the same, but it did come off as menacing rather than terrified, so thats the main thing.
Anyway, the point is, no matter how unlikely and ridiculous it seems, you just don't know when ninjas might descend. How can you? So, with this in mind, I decided to write up a quick, efficient and easy to use guide entitled
'How To Protect Yourself (Or your House) from Ninjas (Or Similar)'
I think brackets in titles are really going to catch on.
So, for the safety and well being of you, your family, and those you know who aren't ninjas, I give you my advice. Use it well.
If you suspect a ninja (or similar) is entering your house, make sure you immediately do the following-
1. Make your bed- I know it would seem like tidying up should be the last thing on your mind at a time like this, but trust me, a proud housewife is a significantly alive housewife. A scrambled bedsheet is the mark of a panicked inhabitant. If you make your bed- you're as good as not home. There's no looking for you. And you also seem like a person who cares about cleanliness, and ninjas appreciate that. They wear all black dont forget- so stains wont show up.
2. Hide in a wardrobe- BUT (and this is the vital part) DON'T CLOSE IT COMPLETELY. Like most University educated people, i learnt almost everything I know from films about pirates. Closed wardrobes is the first place they check. If you leave it a bit open, with some clothes kind of sprawly, its casual-open-chic, cool man, your room is practically having a cigarette its so chilled out.
3. Take your glasses- damn. that probably should have been number one. Don't go back and get your glasses now if you're already in the wardrobe, but if you have them on you things will be a lot easier. I once groped my way downstairs (not in the fun way) whilst checking out a strange door banging noise, and my lack of sight made things such as walls and carpets look rather more like murderers then I would have liked.
4. Phone your mum- as we've discovered with last week's post, phoning the authorities is not always the way. Often, your mum will supply you with a button or a lever that will fix everything. Don't ask me how it works, but they do it.
5. If the lever is out of reach inside the wardrobe, have a quick search for narnia. You just never know, and it does always seem to turn up at the most bloody useful times.
6. The ninja will be, by now, inside the room, searching for golden dabloons, his long lost father and the peace of mind that means he can go back to his village and carve that chair he's always wanted to carve. Its unlikely that these things will be in your room. Best to keep as silent as you can. If you have difficulty doing this, try to imagine that someone has just said to you 'yeah, but don't you think creationism just sort of makes sense?' And do the silence you would do after that.
7. Its nearly over now. The ninja, having spotted the cunningly made bed, will assume he is alone, and will therefore be off his guard. At this point, you CHARGE the ninja, bursting out of the wardrobe with your bat and dog screaming 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?'
8. Oh, and plant a bat and dog inside the wardrobe first. Unless you can source them quickly from Narnia at the time.
9. Chase out ninja with a triumphant battle cry, safe in the knowledge that you have defended your home, your livelihood, and actually did a bit of tidying up for once.
10. and finally, tighten up the wires on your chicken coup. There's no need for two night's battle in a row.
Yakmonster x
Now this, as you can imagine, was fairly upsetting. The noise was coming from outside, and was the kind of high pitch 'hiiiiiYAH YAH HIIIII' sound you'd expect from any respectable ninja. Like in the films. The ninja films. With ninja noises ACTUALLY in. There could be no other explanation. Too frightened to look out of the window in case I was spotted by a laser ninja eye, I decided that my parents needed to be called into action. A fairly ridiculous idea, now I think about it, as I'm pretty sure my dad's samuri experience was passable at best, and Mum's never even been a whizz with a fork, never mind anything else. But hey, I was.. however old I was, and at that time, most of life problem's were resolved by asking my parents for help, (rather than now, where all of my problems are solved by asking them for money.) So, foolishly confident in their Eastern combat abilities, I tiptoed quickly to their door (you cant RUN when there's ninjas around, they'll HEAR you), and popped my head through the door.
'Mum,' I said, quite calmly I thought, considering the grave situation the family was in, 'I think there's some ninjas in the garden.'
I waited for a sleepy response along the comforting lines of 'alright poppet I'll get my death rifle', but none came. There was silence. I stretched my wee (but even then already quite powerful and attractive) arm up and turned on the light. To my surprise, the bed was empty. No parents, no death rifle to be seen, and no chance of me going back to sleep. I was surprisingly calm as I stared at the bed, I think because actually, this situation made a lot more sense. Why would ninjas be crying out in a fighting and angry manner if they had no one to fight with? A ridiculous notion, to be sure! Obviously, my parents were outside, and fighting with their fighting skills! In many ways, the logic of the situation was quite reassuring. I only hope mum wasn't grappling with a fork.
So, with the sitatuon at least comfortingly clear in my mind, I did what any child does when she is awaiting the results of her parents death match with subburban garden ninjas, I sat on the stairs and contemplated my future life as a ninja child. I considered waking my brother, sleeping soundly in the next room, then contemptuously dismissed the idea- after all, if anyone in this house was going to be a a ninja child- it was me, and bloody Joe wasn't going to take that away from me like he took away the sippy sippy cup with the clown on it JUST BECAUSE he was younger and 'needed' it more than me. So I sat with my head in my hands, listening to the 'HIIIIYAA! YA YA YAA! HUP HAHA YAYAYA' from in the garden, twinned with the growing noise of my parents shouting a bit and muttering angrily to each other. As I recall it, I sat on those stairs for 7 hours. However, memory is a tricky thing. It may only have been 6. Anyway, eventually, after an unspecified amount of time, the front door suddenly swung open, and I gasped, my heart pounding. A ninja! In a white Cloak! And a Samuri white belt! Unfortunately, he then stepped into the light and what was a dazzling ninja ensemble became rather disappointingly similar to my father's dressing gown.
"DAD!" I yelled, suddenly flooded with relief that he had won the arduous battle against worthy foes, and had claimed me as his prize. I rushed down the stairs and flung myself into his arms, the daughter of a ninja slayer. He gathered me up proudly and placed me firmly back into bed, telling me that everything was OK now, I was safe, and by golly, did I sleep soundly and proudly that night.
Unfortunately it turned out that actually, some of our chickens had gotten out of the coup at about 1am, and mum and dad had chased them round the garden for about an hour and a half in their pyjamas, trying to get them to shut up by yelling at them quite loudly. Still. An eventful night, nevertheless.
The reason I tell this life-altering story (coyrighted, in case you're thinking of turning it into a film), is because tonight I sit alone in a large house, ready to hunker down and brave out the night. There's something about being in your old family home alone that takes you back to a time when ninjas lurked behind every chicken, and for some reason, I can't shake the feeling that if ever there was a night for me to hone my fork skills, this is that night.
Of course, I am well aware that it is ridiculous. And yet I feel compelled to make sure that that sound that I just heard that sounded rather like a dog drinking some water in the kitchen wasn't in fact a man breaking in through the roof with a saw. It also isn't really my fault, as my parents haven't really fostered much faith in the world around me. Any woman who keeps a baseball bat under her mattress under the pretence of 'you'll never know when you might fancy a game' isn't to be trusted, in my opinion. I have in fact woken up to the sound of my mother shouted 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING' storming down our drive, wielding a bat in one hand and a dog in the other whilst some young ruffians attempted to scale our gate. Needless to say, they scarpered. I'm pretty sure the dog was trying to do the same, but it did come off as menacing rather than terrified, so thats the main thing.
Anyway, the point is, no matter how unlikely and ridiculous it seems, you just don't know when ninjas might descend. How can you? So, with this in mind, I decided to write up a quick, efficient and easy to use guide entitled
'How To Protect Yourself (Or your House) from Ninjas (Or Similar)'
I think brackets in titles are really going to catch on.
So, for the safety and well being of you, your family, and those you know who aren't ninjas, I give you my advice. Use it well.
If you suspect a ninja (or similar) is entering your house, make sure you immediately do the following-
1. Make your bed- I know it would seem like tidying up should be the last thing on your mind at a time like this, but trust me, a proud housewife is a significantly alive housewife. A scrambled bedsheet is the mark of a panicked inhabitant. If you make your bed- you're as good as not home. There's no looking for you. And you also seem like a person who cares about cleanliness, and ninjas appreciate that. They wear all black dont forget- so stains wont show up.
2. Hide in a wardrobe- BUT (and this is the vital part) DON'T CLOSE IT COMPLETELY. Like most University educated people, i learnt almost everything I know from films about pirates. Closed wardrobes is the first place they check. If you leave it a bit open, with some clothes kind of sprawly, its casual-open-chic, cool man, your room is practically having a cigarette its so chilled out.
3. Take your glasses- damn. that probably should have been number one. Don't go back and get your glasses now if you're already in the wardrobe, but if you have them on you things will be a lot easier. I once groped my way downstairs (not in the fun way) whilst checking out a strange door banging noise, and my lack of sight made things such as walls and carpets look rather more like murderers then I would have liked.
4. Phone your mum- as we've discovered with last week's post, phoning the authorities is not always the way. Often, your mum will supply you with a button or a lever that will fix everything. Don't ask me how it works, but they do it.
5. If the lever is out of reach inside the wardrobe, have a quick search for narnia. You just never know, and it does always seem to turn up at the most bloody useful times.
6. The ninja will be, by now, inside the room, searching for golden dabloons, his long lost father and the peace of mind that means he can go back to his village and carve that chair he's always wanted to carve. Its unlikely that these things will be in your room. Best to keep as silent as you can. If you have difficulty doing this, try to imagine that someone has just said to you 'yeah, but don't you think creationism just sort of makes sense?' And do the silence you would do after that.
7. Its nearly over now. The ninja, having spotted the cunningly made bed, will assume he is alone, and will therefore be off his guard. At this point, you CHARGE the ninja, bursting out of the wardrobe with your bat and dog screaming 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?'
8. Oh, and plant a bat and dog inside the wardrobe first. Unless you can source them quickly from Narnia at the time.
9. Chase out ninja with a triumphant battle cry, safe in the knowledge that you have defended your home, your livelihood, and actually did a bit of tidying up for once.
10. and finally, tighten up the wires on your chicken coup. There's no need for two night's battle in a row.
Yakmonster x
Thursday, September 10, 2009
This post might save your life
I'd just like to take a second today, to have a little talk about fire alarms.
Now. Like many, my first introduction to the fire alarm was when an alarmingly wide bear came to talk to us in primary school about fire and the alarms thereof. Not a real bear. Sadly. If a bear really came to talk to us, I have a feeling the topic of conversation wouldn't actually be paramount to our entertainment. Anyway, for some reason, this bear (Tony The Fire Bear, or similar) was really, really interested in our being good at investigating kitchens, standing on chairs and pressing buttons. Which was funny, because almost every other adult at the time was telling us quite firmly not to do any of these things.
My second introduction was later on in primary school where, apparently having abandoned the fool-proof bear method, the school instead instructed us to crawl through a tent that had been filled with smoke, and get to the exit. Outside. A massive smoke filled tent. When you're ten. Like a ninja. Instead of doing maths. Now I dont know about anyone else in that class, but I spent most of the next couple of weeks looking hopefully at the stove whenever my dad cooked bacon.
My third introduction was some time after this, when I was about 15, I cooked some sausages on my grill (hold on, it gets even better). Why you ask? Because I wanted some sausages. Oh sorry, you didn't- I thought you asked, never mind. Anyway, I was making these sausages, turned away to look fleetingly at a flower perhaps, or a soft and lovely napkin, and when I moved my eyes back the oven was on fire. I stood looking at it for a moment, stangely sober, and then tried quite hard to remember which type of fire it was that made the girl on the advert have her face all burned off when she poured water on it. Chip pan fire, right. I wasn't making chips. But wait- does that advert mean just chips? Or things in pans? or.. or.. a specific type of oil? Oh God. Oh God I dont know. And it turns out there's nothing quite like having an oven casually on fire in the background to make your thoughts less than laser precise.I got the phone, and hesitated for a moment. The fire waited patiently. Did I call 999, or my Mum? Who would consider themselves the expert on things of this matter?
'Hello, Kay Ralph?'
'Hi Mum,'
'Hi Tash. '
'Hi. Erm.-'
'You're up are you? Finally? Have you fed the dog?'
'Well- yes. Yes, but Mum'
'Dont give him the cheese thats on the side.'
I looked at the side. The cheese had melted and was turning a blackened grey.
'No I won't. Mum. Mum- the oven's on fire.'
'What?'
'The oven's on fire.'
'The oven's on fire?'
I suddenly got a strange urge to turn this into a song and launch into a chorus of 'ohhh the oven's on fire and what can ya dooo'. Luckily, I resisted.
'Oh my God. OK. Get out of the house. Get Barney. Get Barney and get out of the house.
I looked at the oven. It looked happily back at me.
'It doesn't seem to be spreading, Mum.'
'It, it doesn't, oh god. Ok, Ok, listen to me.'
She then proceeded to guide me through a process I now cannot quite recall (probably due to some horrible mind trauma repression) which ended in me pressing a button and the fire going out- if only I'd listened to Tony back then, maybe I wouldn't even have needed help. Damn ninja replacement system.
Anyway, my point is, though you've probably already guessed it, fire alarms are fun. Which is why when, last night in Claycroft (a halls of residence at my Uni) when the fire alarm went off, I happily donned some boots, grabbed my keys and jaunted off to the exit. The fact that it also meant interuppting my watching of 'Bedtime Stories'- the worst Adam Sandler film since the last Adam Sandler film (think Nights at the Museum with slightly less money), was another reason for the spring in my step.
Me and my friends Katherine and Annalisa stood outside the building and breathed in the cooling night air. This, apparently, was the worst possible thing we could have done. The Offical Fire Woman of the building, who had mysteriously been yelling at a tree for the previous five minutes, stormed up to us and yelled 'what are you doing here? hmmm? this isn't the regulated fire spot!' She sounded very official, and her face was full of angry officialness. Unfortunatly, she was wearing a baby pink dressing gown with a floral design, some hairy slippers and very little else. Maybe she thought if she shouted loud enough, she's shout some clothes on.
'I have no idea where that is.' I said, very truthfully.
Her face turned red enough to almost be its own hat (almost).
'It's ROUND THE CORNER!' she yelled.
Now I don't do very well with people who are very rude for no reason.
'Ok, well THANKS FOR ALL THE HELP!' I shouted back and smiling at her hat-face off we skipped to the area where fire couldnt penetrate. Unlike where we were standing originally, which was by a large lake.
So, arriving at the Designated Fire Area, which stood proudly in its captial letters, we made casual friends with others who were victims of the fire. I thought about saying how I bet this was the kind of sitation that made people in concentration camps make friends. But then I didn't. Instead I stood making narky comments that amused me and me alone, and waited for my friend in the pink to show up. She did. It turned out, shockingly, that not everything on the world was on fire, and we could go back in. As we started to heave back, an official man in a glowly coat asked loudly 'who is in room 30, block A?'. A sinister silence fell. Slowly, as we all watched with judging eyes, a girl in a beige coat and confused and shocked expression lifted a hand shakingly. The perpetrator. Being as angry as we could be for a group of people who weren't saying or doing anything, we began to drift off. And the girl was taken away, presumably to be punished by Fire Woman opening her robe in front of her.
This story has a point, and it is this. On the way back to the building, I found 20p on the ground. I picked it up, and put it in my pocket. I might put it towards a bag of crisps. See what good come of fire alarms? Oh and also, on the day I burnt the oven down, mum got us another puppy to calm us all down. Probably should have mentioned that earlier.
YakAttack
Now. Like many, my first introduction to the fire alarm was when an alarmingly wide bear came to talk to us in primary school about fire and the alarms thereof. Not a real bear. Sadly. If a bear really came to talk to us, I have a feeling the topic of conversation wouldn't actually be paramount to our entertainment. Anyway, for some reason, this bear (Tony The Fire Bear, or similar) was really, really interested in our being good at investigating kitchens, standing on chairs and pressing buttons. Which was funny, because almost every other adult at the time was telling us quite firmly not to do any of these things.
My second introduction was later on in primary school where, apparently having abandoned the fool-proof bear method, the school instead instructed us to crawl through a tent that had been filled with smoke, and get to the exit. Outside. A massive smoke filled tent. When you're ten. Like a ninja. Instead of doing maths. Now I dont know about anyone else in that class, but I spent most of the next couple of weeks looking hopefully at the stove whenever my dad cooked bacon.
My third introduction was some time after this, when I was about 15, I cooked some sausages on my grill (hold on, it gets even better). Why you ask? Because I wanted some sausages. Oh sorry, you didn't- I thought you asked, never mind. Anyway, I was making these sausages, turned away to look fleetingly at a flower perhaps, or a soft and lovely napkin, and when I moved my eyes back the oven was on fire. I stood looking at it for a moment, stangely sober, and then tried quite hard to remember which type of fire it was that made the girl on the advert have her face all burned off when she poured water on it. Chip pan fire, right. I wasn't making chips. But wait- does that advert mean just chips? Or things in pans? or.. or.. a specific type of oil? Oh God. Oh God I dont know. And it turns out there's nothing quite like having an oven casually on fire in the background to make your thoughts less than laser precise.I got the phone, and hesitated for a moment. The fire waited patiently. Did I call 999, or my Mum? Who would consider themselves the expert on things of this matter?
'Hello, Kay Ralph?'
'Hi Mum,'
'Hi Tash. '
'Hi. Erm.-'
'You're up are you? Finally? Have you fed the dog?'
'Well- yes. Yes, but Mum'
'Dont give him the cheese thats on the side.'
I looked at the side. The cheese had melted and was turning a blackened grey.
'No I won't. Mum. Mum- the oven's on fire.'
'What?'
'The oven's on fire.'
'The oven's on fire?'
I suddenly got a strange urge to turn this into a song and launch into a chorus of 'ohhh the oven's on fire and what can ya dooo'. Luckily, I resisted.
'Oh my God. OK. Get out of the house. Get Barney. Get Barney and get out of the house.
I looked at the oven. It looked happily back at me.
'It doesn't seem to be spreading, Mum.'
'It, it doesn't, oh god. Ok, Ok, listen to me.'
She then proceeded to guide me through a process I now cannot quite recall (probably due to some horrible mind trauma repression) which ended in me pressing a button and the fire going out- if only I'd listened to Tony back then, maybe I wouldn't even have needed help. Damn ninja replacement system.
Anyway, my point is, though you've probably already guessed it, fire alarms are fun. Which is why when, last night in Claycroft (a halls of residence at my Uni) when the fire alarm went off, I happily donned some boots, grabbed my keys and jaunted off to the exit. The fact that it also meant interuppting my watching of 'Bedtime Stories'- the worst Adam Sandler film since the last Adam Sandler film (think Nights at the Museum with slightly less money), was another reason for the spring in my step.
Me and my friends Katherine and Annalisa stood outside the building and breathed in the cooling night air. This, apparently, was the worst possible thing we could have done. The Offical Fire Woman of the building, who had mysteriously been yelling at a tree for the previous five minutes, stormed up to us and yelled 'what are you doing here? hmmm? this isn't the regulated fire spot!' She sounded very official, and her face was full of angry officialness. Unfortunatly, she was wearing a baby pink dressing gown with a floral design, some hairy slippers and very little else. Maybe she thought if she shouted loud enough, she's shout some clothes on.
'I have no idea where that is.' I said, very truthfully.
Her face turned red enough to almost be its own hat (almost).
'It's ROUND THE CORNER!' she yelled.
Now I don't do very well with people who are very rude for no reason.
'Ok, well THANKS FOR ALL THE HELP!' I shouted back and smiling at her hat-face off we skipped to the area where fire couldnt penetrate. Unlike where we were standing originally, which was by a large lake.
So, arriving at the Designated Fire Area, which stood proudly in its captial letters, we made casual friends with others who were victims of the fire. I thought about saying how I bet this was the kind of sitation that made people in concentration camps make friends. But then I didn't. Instead I stood making narky comments that amused me and me alone, and waited for my friend in the pink to show up. She did. It turned out, shockingly, that not everything on the world was on fire, and we could go back in. As we started to heave back, an official man in a glowly coat asked loudly 'who is in room 30, block A?'. A sinister silence fell. Slowly, as we all watched with judging eyes, a girl in a beige coat and confused and shocked expression lifted a hand shakingly. The perpetrator. Being as angry as we could be for a group of people who weren't saying or doing anything, we began to drift off. And the girl was taken away, presumably to be punished by Fire Woman opening her robe in front of her.
This story has a point, and it is this. On the way back to the building, I found 20p on the ground. I picked it up, and put it in my pocket. I might put it towards a bag of crisps. See what good come of fire alarms? Oh and also, on the day I burnt the oven down, mum got us another puppy to calm us all down. Probably should have mentioned that earlier.
YakAttack
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Thank Goodness, eh?
Welcome, you glittery little handbag you,
Its what you've all been waiting for. The Return of Natasha Yak.
Whilst I trekked the crazy town that was noo york city, with nothing but a dodgy accent, a see through dress and a song in my hair, I never imagined I'd have such an impact on the world. Tens, literally tens of you joined me on my quest, and I like to believe, bonded not only with me, but with each other, along the way. Relationships were kindled, my mum nearly had several heart attacks, I still have a few tender answermachine messages from Abdahl- there's talk of a motion picture, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.
So, after 6 weeks of Manhatten Madness, what could possibly tempt a sprightly young reader such as yourself to delve back into the reccesses of my mind? Well. Sure you've had the secrets of New York displayed like a naked sandwich, but what about the secrets of... Warrington? And possibly even Wigan- (Mum might need me to go with her to the vets later- my dog Barney is getting seriously skilled at weeing on antiques). Yeah? YEAH!
Ok I'll be honest. I'm bored. I'm dangerously bored. And I have a dissertation due in less than a month. The only thing that makes any sense is to start a blog. And anyway, I have a few bones to pick with this so called planet 'earth' (if that is its real name), that I'd like opinions on. So consider this my page of me talking about things that probably don't really matter, but DO actually matter in a massive way. And if I somehow end up near Astley or Bootle, so much the better. (Those reading from the South- dont worry. These places you've never heard of can't come and get you.)
So. I'd like to raise a question.
There's been a lot of films lately focussing on the 'bromance'- I'm talking the Judd Apattow films, the Knocked Up, Superbad, The Hangover. We've all seen them, we've all laughed, cried, all wondered at how a cinema can physically charge £5.80 for a box of 7 nachos and some cheese sauce and not consider itself a criminal establishment. My question is, and I know it seems obvious but I dont care, where are the girls? really? A Judd Apatow film (not including Funny People, which i've not seen) seems to go thusly-
A weird looking but hilarious guy + Another fatter weird looking but hilarious guy + A slightly disapproving but unbelievably attractive girl + an adventure she has no part in= Lots of male bonding, drunken frolicking and the happy conclusion of sex to come.
Is this an unfair judgement? I realise the 'point' of these films isn't 'wahey, all the genders ROCK! Every one of them!' But I do wonder why these film-makers don't seem to have any friends who are girls. It is because they are 'geeks but awesome in their own way'? Cos I gotta say, I have a lot of geekish but awesome in their own way boy friends, who I love and honour dearly not only as a human, but qutie literally as a girl. Is this a strange and freakish occurance, or have I been deluding myself all these years? When I walk out of a room to get beer or crisps, or a pen, or any number of the small objections that can fit inside my tiny girlish hands, do people turn and ask 'ok sure she exists, there's no doubt about that, but seriously, why is she here?'
The only reason I ask this question is because I had a conversation with some male friends whilst we were getting ready to go out to manchestaaa, where we were discussing the film 'The Hangover'. I merely stated that I didn't think the film was hilarious, more a jazzed up version of 'Dude, where's my car?' - a claim that I dont think is massively unfair. Come on. It wasn't that good. The bit with the tiger was pretty cool. And thats about it. And I was shot down like a mis-directed sparrow-hawk being attacked by a squid. The criticism was that 'you're a girl, so you don't really understand nights out like that.' Admittedly, the person who said these words is a complete moron. But it did get me thinking (NOT like Carrie Twat. NOT EVER LIKE HER)
I'm not questioning whether girls have the capacity to act like complete dicks, be freakin hilarious, drink, vomit, bond and looking like complete arseholes in front of the people they are attempting to seduce. I know this to be true. I painfully, shamefully, scars-on-my-legs-and-arms-and-more-importantly-in-my-soul know this to be horrifyingly true. My question is, why doesn't the world? Are these films just not getting written, do you reckon? Genuinely?
Personally, I have a theory:
that men and women will never be equal until boys believe, and i mean really, properly believe, in their minds and brains, that women poo. Simple as that. Until that toilet pedestal gets knocked down, the women of show bizzz and the women in boy's hearts will be the ones with the shiny teeth, the hair of spun gold and no history of bowel movements. Yeah sure, you can make pay the same, you can fight for women's sports, you can do all of these things that I can't think of another example for. But I'm telling you now. Until boys relinquish the poo-secret, we ladies aint got nothin.
Perhaps next time I shall have a tale to tell of Birchwood Asda and its hidden fascist depths, or the truth behind the Gregg's sausage and bean pasty, but until then, its just an angry rant about the lack of my people on the big screen. Carrie Twat and Co Do Not Count. Any takers?
Yakky x
Its what you've all been waiting for. The Return of Natasha Yak.
Whilst I trekked the crazy town that was noo york city, with nothing but a dodgy accent, a see through dress and a song in my hair, I never imagined I'd have such an impact on the world. Tens, literally tens of you joined me on my quest, and I like to believe, bonded not only with me, but with each other, along the way. Relationships were kindled, my mum nearly had several heart attacks, I still have a few tender answermachine messages from Abdahl- there's talk of a motion picture, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.
So, after 6 weeks of Manhatten Madness, what could possibly tempt a sprightly young reader such as yourself to delve back into the reccesses of my mind? Well. Sure you've had the secrets of New York displayed like a naked sandwich, but what about the secrets of... Warrington? And possibly even Wigan- (Mum might need me to go with her to the vets later- my dog Barney is getting seriously skilled at weeing on antiques). Yeah? YEAH!
Ok I'll be honest. I'm bored. I'm dangerously bored. And I have a dissertation due in less than a month. The only thing that makes any sense is to start a blog. And anyway, I have a few bones to pick with this so called planet 'earth' (if that is its real name), that I'd like opinions on. So consider this my page of me talking about things that probably don't really matter, but DO actually matter in a massive way. And if I somehow end up near Astley or Bootle, so much the better. (Those reading from the South- dont worry. These places you've never heard of can't come and get you.)
So. I'd like to raise a question.
There's been a lot of films lately focussing on the 'bromance'- I'm talking the Judd Apattow films, the Knocked Up, Superbad, The Hangover. We've all seen them, we've all laughed, cried, all wondered at how a cinema can physically charge £5.80 for a box of 7 nachos and some cheese sauce and not consider itself a criminal establishment. My question is, and I know it seems obvious but I dont care, where are the girls? really? A Judd Apatow film (not including Funny People, which i've not seen) seems to go thusly-
A weird looking but hilarious guy + Another fatter weird looking but hilarious guy + A slightly disapproving but unbelievably attractive girl + an adventure she has no part in= Lots of male bonding, drunken frolicking and the happy conclusion of sex to come.
Is this an unfair judgement? I realise the 'point' of these films isn't 'wahey, all the genders ROCK! Every one of them!' But I do wonder why these film-makers don't seem to have any friends who are girls. It is because they are 'geeks but awesome in their own way'? Cos I gotta say, I have a lot of geekish but awesome in their own way boy friends, who I love and honour dearly not only as a human, but qutie literally as a girl. Is this a strange and freakish occurance, or have I been deluding myself all these years? When I walk out of a room to get beer or crisps, or a pen, or any number of the small objections that can fit inside my tiny girlish hands, do people turn and ask 'ok sure she exists, there's no doubt about that, but seriously, why is she here?'
The only reason I ask this question is because I had a conversation with some male friends whilst we were getting ready to go out to manchestaaa, where we were discussing the film 'The Hangover'. I merely stated that I didn't think the film was hilarious, more a jazzed up version of 'Dude, where's my car?' - a claim that I dont think is massively unfair. Come on. It wasn't that good. The bit with the tiger was pretty cool. And thats about it. And I was shot down like a mis-directed sparrow-hawk being attacked by a squid. The criticism was that 'you're a girl, so you don't really understand nights out like that.' Admittedly, the person who said these words is a complete moron. But it did get me thinking (NOT like Carrie Twat. NOT EVER LIKE HER)
I'm not questioning whether girls have the capacity to act like complete dicks, be freakin hilarious, drink, vomit, bond and looking like complete arseholes in front of the people they are attempting to seduce. I know this to be true. I painfully, shamefully, scars-on-my-legs-and-arms-and-more-importantly-in-my-soul know this to be horrifyingly true. My question is, why doesn't the world? Are these films just not getting written, do you reckon? Genuinely?
Personally, I have a theory:
that men and women will never be equal until boys believe, and i mean really, properly believe, in their minds and brains, that women poo. Simple as that. Until that toilet pedestal gets knocked down, the women of show bizzz and the women in boy's hearts will be the ones with the shiny teeth, the hair of spun gold and no history of bowel movements. Yeah sure, you can make pay the same, you can fight for women's sports, you can do all of these things that I can't think of another example for. But I'm telling you now. Until boys relinquish the poo-secret, we ladies aint got nothin.
Perhaps next time I shall have a tale to tell of Birchwood Asda and its hidden fascist depths, or the truth behind the Gregg's sausage and bean pasty, but until then, its just an angry rant about the lack of my people on the big screen. Carrie Twat and Co Do Not Count. Any takers?
Yakky x
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