Thursday, 28 January 2010

Less boys! Less whining!

(The title of this blog is pleasing me greatly, because it reminds me of the beginning of Sylvie and Bruno, the first in the less-well-known of Lewis Carroll's duo of books for children, in which the villagers are marching outside the town hall (or some such) and are chanting, but have got their chant slightly mixed up, so that they are saying 'Less bread! More taxes!'. I read those books for the first time I was about 17 and in the grip of a mild Lewis Carroll obsession, during which I dreamt (day and night dreams both) that I was Alice Lidl and that the March Hare was living at the bottom of my garden. I devoured them both (the books, not Alice and the hare) in several days, while all the time listening to Low by David Bowie (my favourite of his albums). Still, to this day, when I hear Always Crashing in the Same Car, it makes me think that I'm back in the genuinely magical world of Sylvie and Bruno, and it fills me full of hope that there's treasure everywhere after all. And whenever I think of Sylvie and Bruno, it makes me think of David Bowie. So all in all, this is a good start.

In fact, here's a little link to the very chapter I mean, because I think more people should read these books...

I've been reading this blog back over and over quite a lot in the past few weeks. It is a sad fact of my narcissism that whenever I write anything, even a mundane post on the daily thread on the forum I use every day, I read it back four or five times at minimum to congratulate myself on how bloody clever I am. Shameful, isn't it? However, on reading this back over, I have noted two things which have saddened me. Well, actually, that's a lie... one of these things hasn't really saddened me, but I know perhaps it should. So what are these things?

1. This blog is all (or mostly, to a statistically significant level, I'm sure) (not that I'm gonna do a t-test or anything, but that's my guess) about boys.

This is the point that makes me sad, as I think that makes me look pretty shallow. And I'm not shallow, I'm not, I'm not! At least, that's what my manicurist told me. There is more stuff that goes on in my head that fretting about boys though. Really, really, there is. It just tends to be fretting about boys which brings out the melancholy in me, and when I get melancholy, I get a vast urge to splash it everywhere and tell everyone. And if there's one place you're really allowed to get away with being that self-indulgent, it's in your own blog, right? But still. There is more to me that heartbreak!

And as a sub-point, it also makes me sad that I've only ever written in this blog when I've been single. Which is also a bit pathetic. However, since I have made a new year's resolution to stay single for at least a year (more on this later, perhaps) (so you can stop battering the door down now, boys!) (a-hardy ha ha), that's unlikely to change any time soon.

2. It's all (and I really mean all this time) WHINING!

(This, in truth, bothers me less. I know myself. I whine a lot. I think people who are happy all the time are vile. But it might make people stop reading, and I couldn't live with myself if you weren't - all eight of you - on the edges of your seats, hanging on my every word. Which of course you all are, right?) (Just say yes... the shock at discovering I'm NOT the centre of the universe might put me into a coma, and none of us surely wants that.) (What was that I was saying about being shallow?)

So ANYway...

Here is a post which has less boys! Less whining!

My favourite place in the world is exactly where I am as I write this. My bed. In my room. In my house. Generally, I've noticed, when people are asked what their favourite place is, they give very exotic answers (such and such beach in Kenya when the sun is going down) or at least outdoors type places (some hill in Wales or something)... but while I like outdoors an acceptable amount, there is just nothing to beat my bed, in my room, in my house. My bed is deliciously comfortable, for a start. Everything I could possibly want - glasses, drink, gameboy, book, computer, TV remotes, Joseph Fiennes bear, phone, snacks, radio, super-cool Hello Kitty light - is right within reach. And I'm generally alone here, which is what I like best cos then I can watch all the lame TV I want without having to apologise for it, and I can wear my pyjamas and wiggle my toes and dream the crazy, extended-plotline, technicolour dreams I have just about every night of my life, and I don't feel I could want for anything more.

My favourite radio show in world (uncontested now that Adam and Joe have gone on holiday and been replaced by (boo! hisss!) Danny Wallace) is Shaun Keaveney on 6 Music in the mornings. He's on from 7 til 10, and even though I don't need to get up til 8.30, my radio comes on at 7 so I don't miss any. I didn't have a radio for years when I first moved into this house. My old stereo, which was all one big thing, broke, and I got separates. Remember, back in the good old days, when your amp and your tuner were all in one piece? (and you could buy it and still have change for the bus home etc. etc.) ;-) Well, not any more, kids!! (Not for some time now, in fact, since this was five years ago) All I could afford was an amp, a CD player, a record deck and a tape player (inheritance from my nan... thanks nanny), I couldn't afford the tuner as well. Looking back, the tape deck may have been less of an investment than the tuner was, but however, I wasn't to know that at the time. ;-) When I had my old stereo, I would listen to Christian O'Connell on XFM every morning, and I was so fully in love with him, I thought he was the best thing ever. But without a radio, I soon forgot how good radios are, and got into the terrible habit of watching snatches of episodes of Friends or SATC as I got dressed in the morning.

So when I bought myself a DAB radio (which I mainly got cos I discovered that listening to talking cures me of insomnia, so I listen to radio 7 when I can't sleep), I took advice from my best friend and DJ life partner, and started listening to Shaun in the mornings. I can't work out if this is a coincidence, or some kind of conditioning, and I'd be the same with whoever was talking to me from a little box first thing in the morning, even if it was Maggie Thatcher, but now I'm totally, 100% in love with Shaun and think HE'S the best thing in the world ever. He likes Prince! And Morrissey! And he's so dry and funny. He loves Christmas and snow, and he hates Lenny Kravitz, and the way he dotes on his son is the cutest thing ever. It's always a bit of a wrench to leave the house before the show is over.

My favourite book in the world is (I think) the Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, by Mark Haddon. I believe, as a general principle, that if art can convey BIG emotion with small stuff (words, images, sounds... whatever) then that is gonna be the best art. I love economical art. Anyone can use fancy long words and make big points with big brushstrokes - but it takes a true genius to insinuate, to hint at the iceberg below the water while only showing us the tip. And this book is the ultimate example of that. How the hell he got so convincingly inside Christopher's mind I will never understand. It's just... perfect. What a shame A Spot of Bother was such a let-down.

Anyway, I think that's enough unbridled joy for now, wouldn't you say? Is this what Morrissey would've wanted? I don't think so. Have some more poems and leave me alone. ;-)


Oh DJ Mittens, you have a dinosaur hood,
D'you want pink or brown, Lamborgini, or fruity good?
Let's go duck crawling, but don't throw a shoe...
What, no cheese?? I will really miss you.


My favourite psytrance pixie has mad hoola-hooping skills,
she's so clever with the camera that it gives me the chills.
The best gin-drinking, youngest member of the fabulous Team Ginger,
Rachel, my beautiful Ozora buddy, you are such a winner!

Monday, 25 January 2010


"Communication skills, Cognac, technofear, traffic lights,
Blue skies, Ravel, agit-prop, acid, jewellery, flamethrowers,
Softly softly
These stupid fucking things remind me of you
They stick in my head like hope and glue."

Chris Roberts

I am heart-dented. I'm not heart-broken. I've been heart-broken three times in my life now, and I'm too old to do it again, it's so tiring. If you really wanted to fuck me up, you should have got to me sooner, as Nick Hornby would say.

I've just got back from Tescos. Hardly the site of nostalgic longing, you might think, but there's a Tescos near me and a Tescos near him, and due to his finickity eating habits and the fact he never had any food in, we seemed to go to Tescos pretty much every time we were together. Now if that's not romance, I don't know what is. ;-) It's the first time, though, I've been to Tescos for a while as I haven't been very organised myself recently and have been mainly living on chocolate left over from Christmas, cheese bought hastily and naughtily elsewhere, and some toast when I feel like a proper hot meal. So I found myself skulking sulkily around the aisles, picking up squash and remembering how we liked the same squash, or buying lots of vegetables and thinking about how he would never have eaten them. The whole experience has left me feeling sleepy. Not exhausted. Sad, not beside myself. Jaded, not broken. It's all just so mundane.

This lessening of emotion is something I've noticed spreading across everything in my vision, at least in recent weeks. It's like someone's drained all the colour out of life. I can't think of a single thing I'm looking forward to, not really... but there's nothing I'm really dreading either. My heart is dented, my head is bored. I'm suffering from ennui, but only a little bit... I can't be bothered with any more than that. I'm not sure I can dredge up the strength for real emotions any more.

Of course, I'm sure this is just temporary. Only a few weeks ago, I had a whole blog worked out based around how music controls my emotions so much (but got too busy to write it)... I can't remember exactly how it was gonna go, but it was inspired by the fact that I heard two songs in quick succession on the radio, one (The Thrill of 30 Seconds, by Skint and Demoralised, which I've only heard on the radio twice and never been able to track down... the first time was when I was first falling in love with the boy before this one, and it seemed to epitomise my feelings at the time... and then the second time some weeks ago as I was waking up and vulnerable... first thing in the mornings is always my most depressed time of day) which made me sob uncontrollably... and then another (which I've just discovered is called Bullets by Editors... I thought it was by them, am all pleased with myself for recognising his voice... not that it was much of an achievement, really, he has a very distinctive voice... but anyway, I noticed it because the lyrics went "If something has to change/and it always does/you don't need this disease/it is not love" which is a bit sweeping and idealistic, (no-one's perfect, or so they tell me, something's always gonna need to change, really) but none the less is true of that particular boy to the enth degree) which cheered me up almost immediately and made me want to stomp around like a Riot Grrl who holds the hearts of all the local indie kids in her powerful hand.

So yeah, plainly I'm talking nonsense and I can still scream and cry with the best of them (probably some way ahead of the best of them, I'm a slightly melodramatic person, it could be said) so I should probably be enjoying this period of relative numbness before it goes away.

More Christmas poetry...

Let’s be mates

Madonna and Morrissey and Pet Shop Boys
and Public Enemy, Bringing tha Noize.
My So-Called Life, Lost, Come Dine with Me,
Arrested Development, Sex and the City.
Cheese and crackers, sushi and wine,
Chinese and Tanqueray in the sunshine.
Ponies and high heels and Adam and Joe,
Faster, Twisted Kitten, Faster, go, go!


You and I are my best-loved pair of jeans
we are snug and worn and soft in all of the right places
we’re the colour I would try to paint the sky
We’re made of fabric that feels like it embraces.

You and I are my favourite funny film
the one that gives my ribs a deep and honest ache
and every time I watch our film, I see something new
Our movie is so great and gripping even I can stay awake.

You and I are my most uplifting, most kinetic tune
that takes me unawares when it blares out my radio.
We are the song that buries my black moods
Or gives already happy days an extra glow

You and I will dance together til the end.

Monday, 4 January 2010

Good night

After six months, going to bed without saying goodnight to someone is hard.

So, good night.

I hope this cold goes away tomorrow, and I hope you've all had a nice day.

Sunday, 3 January 2010

News and more poems

I don't exactly know what I did to New Year to make it hate me so much, but it must have been something really bad. I feel like one of those dense boys (sorry - I mean 'one of those boys'... that sentence was a bit of a tautology) (ho ho, of course I'm only joking) (...or am I?) to whom one has to say, 'if you don't know why I'm annoyed with you, there's no point telling you.' (not that I'D ever use such manipulative speak, for I am pure and perfect, ha ha ha) Oh, New Year! What did I do to you? I love celebrations and reasons to be cheerful (one, two, three) and to have big parties and generally behave like it's 1999. I'm the first to wag my finger when curmudgeonly scrooge-like types whine about Christmas or birthdays or Hallowe'en or Valentine's Day. Come on, people, life is dismal and grubby and muddy and drudgery-fuelled enough... let's grab at least a little of fun before reality comes crashing back in and ruins it all, please!

So you'd think me and New Year would be best of friends, right? WRONG! I won't bore you with the exact all the details of the past seven New Years cos we'd be here til next New Year, and that would ruin my plans to dig a basement under my house and hide in it, but the highlights include a beloved pet dying, my so-called boyfriend not wanting to be with me after I'd only three weeks hence given a kidney away, having to DJ alone to a really scary crowd with not one of my friends there to support me (aside from the lovely Ben. Who was working there.), thinking I was gonna actually die after having nostrils bigger than my stomach and so on and so forth.

This year was probably the second best new year in the past 7, I estimate (it should be pointed out that I had a small and select party at my house about 4 years ago which was LOVELY), as all that happened was I went to a really expensive squat party that got closed down by the police in less minutes than the amount of pounds I had paid to get in there, travelled to a friend's house party, developed a blinding headache and nasty bout of nausea on the way there, spent about 6 hours lying very still trying not to puke or hear anything, and then went home alone cos my (then) fella was having too much fun to leave with me. Well, I exaggerate, I didn't actually go anywhere alone, thank Christ, as I probably would have topped myself if I'd've had to, as my lovely friends Millena and Michael saved me by taking pity on me and allowing me to go to theirs to be looked after while I watched my more, neglected, silent phone and wondered exactly what it is about me that inspires my various boyfriends to not want to come anywhere near me at new year.

Maybe New Year itself got together with them my boyfriends, past, present and future, and told THEM whatever awful thing it was I did to it, which it won't tell me, and they're so disgusted with me they don't want anything to do with me either? (Did I cheat on New Year? Kill its favourite puppy? Steal its shoes? Spell it wrong one year? Is it jealous that I like Christmas more? What could I have possible done???) That actually makes the most sense of all the theories I thought of so far! In that case, New Year, please, just tell me how to make it right! And I swear I'll do my best to comply... (points to whoever recognises THAT reference...)

And now, for the second time in two years, I find myself having broken up with someone in the first week of the year. Maybe in 2011 I can make it a hat-trick? I have asked that my two best friends pick my next boyfriend, should I ever be unlucky enough to want another one, since I keep making such a fucking hash of it.

But anyway. As well as having the good old fucking moan I didn't want to put on Face Ache or my bulletin board for fear of offending any of the above parties, I re-read my last blog and was reminded that there was some positive stuff going on in this old thing we call life as well... mainly that, since I am a skint student, I ended up giving a lot of home-made presents this year. These consisted of poems that I wrote for my friends and put in frames with pictures of them to show them I love them. You may all puke now. I hate people who force their poetry on others unasked, but since I'm not forcing any of you to read this, feel free to stop reading now, I won't be offended. I'm quite pleased with some of these poems, though, so I'll put a few up here from time to time in case anyone else in interested.

Meanwhile - happy January 3rd onwards - and New Year - GO FUCK YOURSELF!!!! (heh... that's probably not gonna make it like me any better next year, is it? Oh well, I intend to be asleep with an empty bottle of gin at the end of the bed when the chimes go off on Dec 31 2010, so who cares any more?)

Right - ART!!!!

These two are probably my favourites, so let's start with them and then, like life, the rest can slowly but surely let you down. winky face.

James and Johanna Take a Journey

In the beginning, we were friends.
You showed me things I didn't understand.
You showed me how to move my hands in planes,
and how to twist from front to back and round again.
And then a smaller you kept turning up at
times. Advising me on this and that,
and holding my head high.

And liquor.
There was liquor.
White hot, and dangerous,
we slid down in together, hand in hand,
down we splashed, quicker and then quicker.
Towards somersaults and sound systems,
towards the sunset.

And then we were lovers.
You were the sun and the moon and the stars.
And I was a satellite, orbiting around you,
at my luck.
And we played, and laughed,
and watched and dreamt and loved,
and talked and talked and talked.
(and then there were those parts that we

And now we are friends again.
You still show me things that I don't understand.
You fill my heart so full that I am scared
that it will
And still we laugh and talk and talk,
and then we talk some more,
through the movements of the moon and the sun and the stars.
And I know that we'll have laughter
(and liquor)
until we are no more.


We used to dart looks at each other
from the other side of the room
with eyes that were scared to see.
You were the girl I most wanted to be.
Your ink,
Your clothes,
Your air,
Your body.

It took us a while
to dance round each other
to relax and let coyness go.
Time fell away and I started to know
Your laugh
Your heart
Your gifts
Your glow.

Now we sit squished, upside-down,
arm in arm, feet entwined,
jumbled on the same seat.
And still I lust after your smile,
your soul,
your style
your whole,
You're the girl that I most want to be.

I'll put some more up later. Apologies to the people I didn't make them for. I wanted to make them for everyone, but alas I am only human and I ran out of time. They'll probably be birthday presents for everyone forever more as I don't think I'll ever actually have any real money ever again.

Also to Pootle and Polly - thanks for the advice re the last blog. One day I'll be grown up enough to take it on board. For now, staying angry is easier. How else will I know I'm alive? I'm gonna have to just not go on that holiday, sadly. Three ex-boyfriends is surely too much for any one girl to deal with. Man, do I make myself look good. ;-)