My name is...

I should point out that Joocey is now Mary Poppins... I just fancied a change of name. So there.

Movin' on...

Having been made aware of the fact my more politically-based rants are 'boring' (a fact I readily accept)I am moving anything that has a hint of liberal lefty-ness over to another blog on:

http://arewescunneredyet.blogspot.com/

Which leaves more space for random thoughts and stories from my little life in Jooceyville....

Which means this blog will be infinitely more eccentric, fun, quirky and plain ol' random from now on. Lucky you.

Just one question...

How can guys watch a movie, like, once and still remember every single line? Yet girls can watch a movie, like, a million times and remember maybe two or three major quotes and the colour of the main protagonist's shoes, but nothing more significant than that? Is this a genetic difference designed to make men remember more things? And if so, why can't they remember their mum's birthday, but they can recall every set of weekly football results for their local pub team from the year of it's inception, in 1802? In fact, why are their memory skills reserved purely for useless facts such as world cup results and movie scripts, rather than anything useful or practical such as, say, shopping lists or things that are really really important and vital to do ASAP. Is it just that we girls are merely designed to remember vital dates and times, and our role on this earth is to remind our good men-folk about their duties as and when required? Or are we girls actually designed to remember the colour of the main protagonist's shoes and dress style just so we can go shopping later and get the exact same match for half the price in the sales?

This week I'm mostly loving...

Britain's Got Talent. What's not to love? Well, sure the flatulist, Mr. Methane, was more than a tad disturbing. How can farting to classical tunes be anything more than a crude pub joke? I love a good well-timed fart joke as much as the next immature idiot, but even I can't justify farting as a 'talent'. Blimey - I should go on the show and write with my feet (Which, incidentally, makes me quadridextrous... and I even invented that word myself. Oh yeah. I'm that fantastic.) because I personally believe that's far more talented than being able to control one's sphincter in time to music.

But anyway, apart from the God-awful Mr. Methane and his rotten stench, I do adore the combination of the almost clinically deluded and the unfathomably talented. That, and the sight of Antn'Dec's post-performance poker faces when they interview the unlucky rejects, who almost always look bemused or enraged at being told their act was utter shit (and smells of it - in the case of Mr. Methane). Gawd bless them; they never giggle or sneer at the performers in the face of their deluded rants that usually follow Simon Cowell's very public dressing-downs. Now that guy really knows how to call a rubbish spade an utterly crap spade, doesn't he? As much as I'd love to hate them, I really can't bring myself to do it. They just seem sooo... lovely.

And of course, there is the genuine undiscovered talents that appear, too. I mean, it's just astounding. Yet they inevitably appear ever so slightly dumbstruck at the possibility that they might be really-quite-good. Even when Simon says it. Which is high praise indeed. He even managed to liken some chap's singing to a dog miaowing, and still somehow transformed that into a completment. In any other alternate reality someone would have lamped him. In fact, in an alternate reality he's probably been murdered in a frenzied rage by some disgruntled pop reject. That, or Dannii Minogue will have taken out a mafia hit on him. She looks like she might have dated some dodgy chaps. (For any lawyers present - Obviously she's a lovely girl in reality, I'm sure of it. She's probably a really nice person with not a hint of an unsavoury ex in her past. Honest.)

Oh yeah, and how come all the ace performances are preceded by little vignettes of them saying something humble, like: "Well, my nan likes my singing, so I thought I'd give it a go.", while the deluded half-wits with no discernable talents inevitably precede their performances with gems such as: "I've got the best dance moves in the universe, and I've won fifteen disco-dancing competitions at Butlins." or "I've been told my singing can move people to tears."? Tears? My tears certainly didn't come from the sheer beauty of your vocal range, I can assure you.

Hmmmmm.... Anyway, on another point - how is it still acceptable in this day and age for someone like Amanda Holden (she of very little 'talent' and much plastic surgery) to consider it her duty to 'preserve' someone's less glamourous image, lest their popularity be spoilt. Why is it any of her business (or ours) if a performer wants to dye their hair and buy a new top? I certainly don't issue press statements regarding Beyonce's new 'do... and if the truth be told, I find Beyonce more than a little over-done. In fact, every press photo I see of her seems to make her look like she's wearing bacofoil and has raided her mummy's jewellery box for the biggest and most garishishly tacky jewellery ever. Plus, how utterly self-satisfied must Amanda Holden be if she feels so compelled to issue sartorial advice to us non-celebs? I could accept the advice from Gok Wan, sure... but from a woman whose facial expressions range from vapid to slightly gawping (and not a hint of wrinklage in-between)? I don't think so.

This week in little ol' Britain...

OMG, this is, like sooo exciting! I mean, OH MY GAWD! I've never actually seen a real proper pandemic. Is this what it looks like? Cold drizzly windy weather and a hint of sunshine in the South? Is it, like, really dangereous? Because the papers say its gonna be HUGE! How cool is that? We might even NOT have a cup final. Is that even allowed? Won't the FA strike about that or somethink?

Yup peeps - this week we are on standby now for a flu pandemic and the big pharmaceuticals are literally skipping for joy. Well, there won't be any redundancies this quarter for those guys, eh? Yup pharmaceutica big-bosses and bankers can now count themselves as the only two professions to remain relatively redundancy-safe in the recession, as the bankers have awarded themselves a payrise, again. And justified it by sending a toffy yah-type with a voice straight from the home counties (and a bank account is Switzerland, no doubt) on to the news channels to tell everyone what a great job they were doing. Yes, yes... of course you deserved it... and the yacht... yes... and the private chauffeur... private school for the kids? Heck, why not? Its not like I'm stuck for cash...

It is now univerally acknowledged that everyone pretty much despises Brown for being a generally curmudgeonly type of leader whose only skill is... no, wait, what is his only skill? (Poor chap. He only wanted to be loved. He's a bit like one of those really unfortunately charmless puppies that end up spending their lives being re-homed because their lack of charisma or ability to do anything vaguely entertaining is mistaken for a more workman-like nature. Its only when the owners take him home and realise, no, he really is a bit crap and boring, and not only lacks the ability to do anything useful, but also doesn't entertain them in a puppyish way, that he finally gets returned to the RSPCA and is perpetually doomed to be returned, unwanted, forevermore. Because, lets face it, no-one wants a puppy that shits on the carpet and doesn't even look doleful or apologetic about it.)

Anyway, Joanna Lumley has been elevated to national treasure status for her celebrity support of the Gurkhas (fair do's - they DID fight for the UK, so why can't they live here? It does seem fair to let them stay here...). The Daily Mail has, for once (cue sharp intake of breath as all white van men countrywide read this), actually supported the concept of immigration (though they make the exception only 'cos these great Gurkha lads fought for Queen and Country, mind...). Nick Clegg managed the unprecendented move of acting more like the leader of the opposition than the leader of the opposition. And the leader of the opposition is now openly being referred to as 'probably the next prime minister' by the press. Its true. Even Jon Snow uttered it. A bit presumptive of them (they clearly haven't considered the might of the Monster Raving Loony Party) but we'll let it go, but only because it might actually be true. Unless Joanna Lumley decides to stand, that is.

And bless, as if they haven't got enough to contend with - wot with having a short-but-simple life scratching around in muck, and then having it all ended just 'cos we fancy a nice bit of bangers and mash - the poor wee piggies are being blamed for flu now. Its hardly their fault. Its not like they can carry a set of kleenex around in their trotters ready to catch a straying sniffle.

So the papers (amidst their mass-flu-panic headlines proclaiming the end of the world is nigh) are reporting that the whole swine flu thing is causing untold political correctness headaches in the Middle East; I guess the concept of a flu virus originating from pigs isn't really not a popular thought there, eh? So the Mexicans are getting the blame instead. Which is does make the whole thing sound a smidging more exotic and glamorous, to be fair, and I might just adopt the name Mexican flu, too. It really does sound ever so much more like something you'd just pick up at duty free, especially if you call it Influenza Mexicana...

Mmmm, in fact it sounds like a rather delightful cocktail: "What did you get in Cancun, darling?", "Oh, just some Influenza Mexicana, and a bottle of tequila for Bob down the road for looking after the cat." "Lovely thought. Who's the Influenza Mexicana for?" "Well... I thought I'd share it with everyone down the local when we get back. I stocked up while I was there. Its soooo cheap out there, I kid you not. Got quite a bit." "Sounds delightful. Do you mind if I try some as well, then?"

It's official - I haven't got a big gob

After a week of complaining to any poor soul that would listen about my toothache and earache, and taking copious amounts of painkillers and antibiotics for my sinusitis, I traipsed back to the doctors with frustratingly sore teeth and he confirmed what I thought was always true: I have very definitely got a small gob. In fact, so small that there probably isn't enough space for my wisdom teeth. I'm going to have to find a dentist to sort it all out. *Sigh* I'm on the waiting list... I'm not holding my breath though (certainly not if there's an 18-month wait).

Nevertheless, I'm still quite chuffed to be able to say that any accusations of me having a big mouth are unfounded and distinctly untrue. Even the doctor says so, so nah nah nah nah nah.

Thankfully I seem to be responding well to the litres of lovely cups of tea my dad has been making. Bless him. He's got the milk-to-tea ratio just right now, although it did take a few tantrums. There's nowt like the combination of tea and codeine to make one get a delightfully fuzzy warm glow. Lovely.

The only downside is the fact I can't drive anywhere - I'm a dippy enough driver without the help of medication. It would be true disaster to combine myself, my forgetfulness, and the spaced-out effects of codeine with driving a vehicle... I shudder to think of the consequences. Of course, as I perpetually attempt to avoid driving anyway, my family think this is all an elaborate ruse on my behalf to get them to act as my chauffeurs.

Naturally that is true - I'd much rather be ferried around like royalty - but I'm hardly going to admit that to them, am I? Plus, this week has been the week of shit weather and interviews in inaccessible places. So I have been reliant on the generosity of family members. Which means my usual illness-induced narky temperament has had to be suspended - and despite feeling like I want to throw myself on the floor and wail loudly at the unfairness of my situation and generally be quite vile and unreasonable, I have had to instead be on my best behaviour.

Its just not fair.

This week I'm mostly loving...

Dr. Who. David Tennant manages to play a time-travelling genius with more than a hint of the unhinged, but somehow makes him sexy, human and has every loveable feature of everyone-in- the-world-ever's best mate. And, despite the fact the doctor's assistant is inevitably placed in huge life-threatening danger in every single episode, they never seem to think he's a monumental pain in the arse. Conversely, he never seems to bitch about them getting themselves into life-threatening danger and irritatingly expecting him to sort it out for them, either. Plus, who better to have on your pub quiz team?

The fact I no longer watch Eastenders. Why in God's name are the Mitchells so damn proud of their 'faahmillee vahlyoos' when the bunch of them appear to be the biggest collection of machiavellian, amoral, self-centred, psychotic, drunk, cheating, lying, arrogant, violent and sadistic fuckheads to ever grace this earth. There appears to be a fractional shred of goodness between the lot of them, and that is apparantly shared round each character alternately, so we only ever get to see a multi-dimensional Peggy Mitchell about once a decade. That, of course, applies to EVERY Eastenders character - but especially applies to anyone of an ethnic origin other than white east-londoner.

Sedatives in the operating theatre. It's like being drunk, but with no hangover. Lovely. Not quite sure if, like when I'm drunk, I loudly mentioned the nice arse on the male nurse. I might have. I can't quite remember. But who cares?

Cups of tea. Who doesn't? But how much nicer is a cup of tea after enforced starvation? And somehow, somehow, the mere existence of tea makes everything just lovely...

Cottages in Gloucestershire. Cottages anywhere are fab. Who wants to live in some rather dull identikit terraced house carefully designed and churned out by Barratt homes? OK, so you get the straight walls and fitted carpets and innoffensive decor of a new home, but where's the cozy eccentricity of something old and slightly decrepit? Give me old and slightly higgledy-piggledy over shiny and new any day. As for cottages in rural Gloucestershire - well, anything overlooking lakes or hills can't possibly be disappointing, can it?

Alan Davies trying to do maths. Its almost funnier than QI, but vastly more educational. Plus, its always fab to see the poodle-haired funnyman trying to look intelligent and passing himself off as more like a bemused puppy eating a wasp.

Hungarian Goulash. The main advantage of even the briefest hospital visit is being able to demand, upon return home, a variety of yummy foodstuffs I would ordinarily have been refused on the grounds of taking too much time or being too unhealthy. Hence the fact I have been able to demand hungarian goulash (a childhood comfort food) and cold ambrosia custard, although not at the same time, of course.

A great big shout out to the En-Haych-Ess

Mlle du Gers just blogged recently about the sheer volume of people who bitch and whine about the UK, ranging from its culinary abilities to the public services, and weather to what to watch on TV. Well, I just spent a very brief day-patient visit in one of our UK hospitals yesterday, and all I can say to such detractors about our NHS is pfiddlesticks. You lot are boring, moaney gits with bugger all else to talk about, I'm sure. My visit (apart from the fact no hospital visit is ever going to be as much fun as, say, a trip to Alton Towers, or a nice day out at Blackpool) was as stress-free as it could have been, and was staffed by an entirely professional, cheerful and considerate group of nurses and doctors (with one particulary nice male nurse's bottom to appreciate, too, which made the whole indignity of being in an operating theatre in a flimsy gown slightly less terrifying, but still - sooooooo not the place to start telling it like it is under anaesthetic, eh?) . I doubt they ever hear much in the way of thanks, but they bloody well should. Through the medium of dance, perhaps... A whole cabaret of showgirls and men in top hats and penguin suits tap-dancing to some great music hall classics should just about do it...

As if to compound the fact my NHS experience was nothing but pleasant, I spoke to my neighbour on returning to the house, and she was telling me about the expenses her family have to pay in basic healthcare in Eire. She then went on to describe the further expenses on daily living that we as UK citizens consider part and parcel of our social rights, and sadly our discussion strayed onto the severe lack of cancer care afforded to Irish citizens in the east of the country. Yes, that's our neighbour, Eire, the Celtic tiger that was not-so-long-ago lauded by the SNP as a major example of what Scotland could look forward to, should we ever become independent from the rest of the UK.

Now there is talk of severe unemployment in Eire, a potential country on the verge of bankruptcy, and much more in the way of doom and gloom. By this reckoning pestilence, famine and rivers of blood are next on the list. Now I'm no genius, but that doesn't look promising for anyone, and regardless of your political preferences, I'm guessing no-one could argue that was caused by Brown's maleovolent hand of doooooooooom... Not even the Tories could blame Brown for that much chaos, as much as they'd like to. Heck, even the bank bosses couldn't get all the blame for that... well, OK, we could at least try...

Who's feeling sorry now?

So Fred 'The Shred' Goodwin's house and rather nice car got vandalised. Not that I condone violence, should I add. I'm an upstanding citizen and all that. On the other hand.... the only thing funnier than watching the TV anchor trying hard NOT to cheer publicly and go "Whoops! Isn't that a shame?" sarcastically was watching the fine, upstanding citizens of Edinburgh say "Not that I condone violence or anything, but, well, he was kind of asking for it, wasn't he?". Sadly, its only funny because, lets face it, he's our current scapegoat. But when the axes start to fall on RBS jobs, he's still going to be sitting there with his massive pension... he's not getting repossessed, is he? And no amount of vandalism will sort that out.

Even Oxo mum Linda Bellingham got in on the anarchy by encouraging a revolution. On lightweight housewife's staple diet 'Loose Women'. Hardly the beginning of a massive revolt, then. On the other hand, a revolution's all and good as long as uhm, no-one gets hurt and they stay away from me. By all means go for mass anarchy, as long as there's some kind of organisation involved (let's say, via the PTA?), and it's all over by 3.30 so people can collect the kids from school, OK?

Seriously, though, this is Britain. We couln't get anarchic unless there was a timetable, lunchbreak and a cup of tea with a sarnie involved. Perhaps we could court real controversy by... ooh.... I don't know... refusing to queue at the Post Office? Or panic-buying things that would actually be useful in a crisis? Or stoically continuing through snow-storms without letting the capital grind to a halt for three days?

Your my idol, baby...

Ah, like some kind of lovelorn teen, I have finally been re-united with the only true source of passion in my life! Yes, it's true... American Idol is back on TV, and I'm crazy in love again. I'm such a sucker for its evil charms, its ability to totally numb the senses (especially hearing) and the way it makes one feel unnaturally euphoric. Holy smoke, I think I must be an Idol addict.

I can't help myself, I really can't. And no, before you have me off to rehab quicker than Amy Winehouse on a trip to 24-hr Asda's to stock up marker pens, cheap cider and Uhu glue, I can categorically deny that it's not Simon's unfathomably high waistband that does it for me, no no no. Nor is it his hair that resembles the bastard offspring of a neatly trimmed toilet brush and an explosion in an 80's shoulder pad factory. It's not Paula's bizarre combination of delusional self-belief that she is somehow still hip and relevant with the youth of today, and her quasi-prophetic allegories ('You sang like a comfy pair of old jeans'; 'You can dance like a magnificent peacock' - really what does that mean?). It's not even Randy's insistence, despite all evidence to the contrary, that the contestants are dogs (well, with some notable exceptions). Nope. No sireee. Neither is it that other girl (the vaguely attractive one) and her rather anodyne, almost terminally coma-inducing bland observations that amount to someone saying 'you sing OK' to every single contestant.

I mean, blimey, you can really tell if someone is utterly crap, because she actually strays from the being zed-inducingly dull zone, and might say something like 'you could do better', which is like the reality TV equivalent of a teacher saying 'I'm very disappointed in your behaviour', after you've deliberately blown up the chemistry lab, and letting you off with a five minute detention. Lets face it peeps, you know that what you really really want her to say, on prime-time US TV is: "You fucking moron. Seriously. You come on this fucking ace A-list TV show, with INTERNATIONAL coverage. That's INTER-FUCKING-NATIONAL, you dick! And you completely and utterly fuck it up by being so shit even Celine Dion would suggest you took singing lessons. That's Celine Dion, for Christs' sake! She can't even order a McFlurry without warbling unintelligably into the speaker-phone. Are you fucking kidding me? You sang (let me borrow Paula's allegories here, please), like a stinking, shit-soaked pair of Levi 501's on a tramp's arse, and you danced like a peacock getting its cock sliced off with a meat cleaver. You've brought shame on yourself, your family, and this fine country of the US-of-A. You should be locked away, in a soundproof cell, for life. And I mean LIFE. Now go away, and never let me see you're fucking hideous face ever again, or I swear I'll cut out your vocal chords with a rusty spoon and eat them, fricaseed with garlic, in front your whole bastard family. Who spawned you? Satan's music teacher? You're a sorry motherfucker, you really are. Go now, and hang yourself before you bring more shame on your family. GO! BEGONE!"

Sadly, the only real commentary that even reaches this level of vitriol is from bog-brush headed Simon, and even Simon isn't rich enough, or arrogant enough to actually brave the potential lawsuits from that kind of outburst. Shame.

Anyway, no. The reason I so wholeheartedly love the glorious American Idol is that, for some unfathomable reason, the calibre of the American is not only cheesier, more musically adept, and more glitzy, but also the advisors and themes and guests are just so much more, well, A-list. Last week was Motown week, and Stevie Wonder played... I mean, who would we get? Lulu? That's not even Motown.

Even the contestants are infinitely better (again, with notable exceptions), and come across as almost professional before they've even started. They get Jennifer Hudson (who didn't even WIN... how?) and we got Gareth Gates (who's only really famous now for shagging Jordan when she was 6 months pregnant with some footballing scumbags child). And for all you American's in the audience that's Jordan the unnaturally large-chested glamour model, not the sweet, innocent squeaky-voiced Jordin Sparks.

Then again, just about every winner since the year dot has churned out a succession of bland, lazy, pop/r'n'b efforts that make Avril Lavigne's lyric-writing almost Shakespearean in quality. Is this the price of fame in the USA? To sound like James Blunt? Is it any wonder that no-one British (and half-decent) ever cracks the American market? And don't you dare tell me about the terminally popular Leona Lewis. She's so very not a shining example of all that is great about UK music. She's a Beyonce clone, who sounds suspiciously like every other pop princess does once the high-waisted one gets his evil pop-claws into them... and she positively murdered a magnificent pop-rock anthem when she started warbling 'Run'. Good God woman! That was NOT a song to be quiveringly warbled in a ballgown in an atmospheric forest - THAT was a stadium anthem to be sung euphorically at festivals, like Glastonbury, where people actually wear wellies and get covered in glorious mud, and have a fucking blast. You RUINED that song. Ruined.

But still, the USA winners still get to make a phenomenal amount of money, get ridiculous amounts of exposure and churns out some bizarrely (Or not so bizarrely, if you consider that the UK X-Factor/Pop Idol route has produced such alumni as Steve 'Psycho killer' Brookstein, Michelle 'McMuffin' McManus, Leon 'Babyface' Jackson and others so memorable I can barely remember them) some pretty big names, such as the stunning Jennifer Hudson and the omni-present Kelly Clarkson. And where did our winners go, huh? Woolworths isn't even around anymore, so they can't end up in its bargain bin... Oh wait... that creepy little Ray Quinn just won Dancing on Ice... but that's only because he promised to NEVER sing another 50's ratpack swing hit ever again. Thank God.

And so here is my addiction paradox: I passionately hate the come down; that post-final-show realisation that whatever the winner produces will inevitably make my ears bleed (Just for the hell of it. Its just something for my ears to do with the tedious time period between the winner releasing their first album and waking up one day and realising they are leading an ultimately futile and pointless musical existance and eventually descending into a drug-fuelled mental breakdown and the subsequent reality TV show charting their pathetic demise.). On the other hand, I love the shownmanship, the 'themes', the glamour, the transition of nerdy music geeks into pop-cultural swans, the fake smile on Paula's face as they hit bad notes, Simon's utter disdain at each and every one of them for even attempting to sing in tune, the TV-show vocabulary ("Thank you for your support; for letting me take this wonderful journey." Did you go anywhere nice? No. You had Simon Cowell glowering/leering at you. That's not a journey. Thats a form of torture. They use that in Gitmo.), and most of all Ryan Seacrest and the never ending super-grin. I mean - he's awful... but strangely, I can't hate him. He's so utterly cheesy (and puzzling... is he gay?...is he straight?...does he even care?) and yet he almost relishes the role. Especially when he pisses off Simon Cowell. And in my books that makes him a hero, dammit.

So until the next episode... I'm off to watch re-runs and savour those Motown hits. Keep 'em coming.

I've forgotten what I was going to blog about.

I have. It's true. Five minutes ago I had an inspiring idea - I started to edit a blog and 'whooooomph' ... the idea has gone. Shame really. It was going to be life-changing.

Anyhoo, in the absence of something actually interesting to talk about, I'll tell you about my new job. You see, I've been working recently in a sandwich making emporium. Well, less of an emporium and more of a ... cupboard. Seriously. Its not even big enough to swing a cat. Which would, on the other hand, be quite ill advised and unhygenic. Thinking about it - in the interests of public health and the cat's sanity its probably quite fortunate one can't swing a cat in there.

You would think, of course, that sandwich making was a simple affair, what with having a basic set of ingredients and the like. Nooo nooo - how wrong you'd be. It takes great skill to apply the correct thickness and even spreadability of the butter, for example, so that one doesn't get a big chunk of butter in one bite, and a gloop of filling in the next. I'm a bit of a sandwich-making expert by now, and have become more than a little picky when eating the products of rival brands or establishments. I am, in fact, a sandwich connoisseur. That's something to put on the CV.

I have, as a matter of course, already covered the learning stages - such as dropping a toasted sandwich on the floor just after spending five minutes cooking it (At home I would usually apply the three-second-rule, but thats just not the done thing in a catering establishment is it?), and the inevitable 'oh shit I just tried to pack up this sandwich and it disintegrated in my hand and I now have mayonnaise running down towards my elbow' moment. I've come to realise that I will never consider sandwich eating in the same frivoulous light again.

Of course, as I'm also on one of those dreaded diets (aaaaaaaagh! - you know the type - its one of those where you feel perpetually hungry and irritable, and would gouge your own eyes out with a rusty spoon for just the merest hint of chocolate), the daily temptation to consume my own body-weight in sandwich-related produce is becoming overwhelmingly torturous. I think I need hypnotherapy. Or a patch like what those cigarette smokers have that feed you nicotine - except in my case it would most definitely be chocolate and cheese. Yes. Very definitely cheese. Mmmmmmmmm. Of every flavour (except blue, 'cos mould just seems a bit 'yeuch' to eat).

Anyway, the sandwichery pays a wee dose of beer money and keeps me in a life of modest comfort, as long as I have no ambitions to retire on a Fred Goodwin-sized pension (which is, quite rightly, a scandalous amount. Although the real scandal is that his pension is not considered exceptional for a corporate fat-cat. And these are the same people who create redundancies as cost-cutting excercises). I can afford, at least, a night out once a month and at least give Alfie (my new car - technically not new as he's 10 years old, but he's new to me) a few drinks of petrol every once in a while. It also meant that last Saturday I ventured out for a few bevvies with her lady-ship, mademoiselle Lara, and one of her good chums. The night ended for poor Lara thanks to a painful wrist which kept bothering her, but her chum allowed me to indulge in a wee trip to the local nightspot whereupon I realised two things:

A) I was ageing very untrendily, because I only knew 3 of the songs I heard all night, and two of those were at least 10 years old, I'm sure... and I was now definitely getting very old, because I couldn't dance like Beyonce ...

and B) (After encountering another friend drunk and swaying, talking to herself in an animated fashion) Being drunk and talking to oneself is never ever going to be an attractive image - and one I shall endeavour to avoid at all costs in the future.

A retro moment to savour...

Sometimes life just makes you smile. On the way to work the other day I encountered some people (grown-ups, mind... not ickle lickle kiddies) on space-hoppers bouncing into town. Dressed as fairies.

Now - if you can't smile at that thought, then you're a miserable bastard and there's no hope for humanity.

Mushroom Magic

In an attempt to become self-sufficient, I've recently attempted to grow my own veggies. To be fair, I'm not the most green-fingered person I know, and I can usually kill a cactus within 7 days or so, so I figured it would be best to start the drive for all that self-sustaining eco-hippiness malarky with a wee bit of mushroom growing. Nice and simple I thought.

Two weeks of fartin' about with logs, cardboard boxes, 'shocking' methods and clingfilm later, and the little funghi were ready to start growing in abundance.

The resulting crop has, unsurprisingly, been a whopping 2 mushrooms. Which, considering my lack of horticultural skills, is more than satisfactory to me. A resulting smug grin has spread across my face for the last couple of days, and I must confess to having a rather jaunty spring in my step to match an attitude of: "See, you chaps down at The Guardian aren't the only peeps to grow one's own veggies and feel good about it... us plebs can do it too, so nah nah nah". Plus, one of the mushrooms is (or rather, was) the size of a dinner plate - who knew funghi could be so impressive? And then, when I was relating to my friend about the size of the wee fellas, the resulting "Noooo waays" and "Nooo, reallys" made me feel like one of those people you see on documentaries that grow oversized prize-winning marrows and onions for agricultural shows... I had a true flush of pride at my skills.

So anyway, last night was the night of the BIG EAT... whereupon I was forced (for practical reasons -the 'shrooms had started to look less than thriving) to harvest the wee fellas and make something with them. The problem, of course, is that I am on a diet, which is never a good time to eat 'shrooms, as I am of the school of thought that the only genuinely fabulously best way to eat mushrooms ever is to smother them in creamy, cheesey sauce. I mean, after all that effort I does seem a little decadent to then throw them away, does it not? I did briefly feel a sense of queasiness, in part because it felt like eating one's cute pet fungus (if such a thing existed), but mainly because they are shittake mushrooms, and I never feel particularly comfortable eating anything with 'shit' in the title.

Nevertheless, they were delicious, and I found a low-fat creamy(ish) sauce on t'interweb, which I naturally added more creme fraiche to for added luxuriousness... Ahhh - who really cares if I never lose any weight, eh?

Snow

It would appear, if one was to refer only to newspapers and the media, that the whole of the UK is currently in a state of emergency and is completely overwhelmed by snow. That bastion of British media - the good 'ol BBC - kindly informed us on Monday that "Britain has ground to a halt", following a massive extreme weather 'event'. Which made the general observation "It's been snowing" sound like it should have been accompanied by fanfares, ticker-tape, two hours of fireworks, a couple of high-profile performing artists and a sell-out gig complete with merchandising. Naturally, as the event reached its artistic climax, resplendent with an outrageously decadent musical number and a cacophony of fireworks, ITV would, understandably, cut to commercial break and show, oh, a tic tac advert, perhaps...

Of course, England - and when I say England I really mean LONDON, naturally ground to a halt. Because of course, the tube couldn't cope with the masses of snow (hint, guys - it's underground...there's no snow there). And it would appear those city-types that holiday in Val D'Isere every year uhm, well... don't actually know how to deal with snow very well. It would appear the fluffy white stuff is harder to contemplate when one isn't in a five-star chalet surrounded by one's chums, quaffing eggnog.

Britain, on the other hand, didn't technically grind to a halt, because lo, large swathes of oooh, the rest of Britain (y'know, the parts that aren't England) were not actually inundated with snow on Monday. They are largely inundated now. I should add. Just not three days ago. And of course, as the lovely man from Aberdeen pointed out - Scotland didn't actually grind to a halt. People just decided to spend 2 hours getting to work instead of 20 minutes. And wear warmer clothes.

Teenagers are malevolent beings (from the archives of Japan 2007)

AAAAArgh. I HATE Tuesdays. They are much, much worse that Mondays because:

A. On Mondays I go for curry after work, so it never feels like the weekend was that far away.

B. My day off is Wednesday - so on Tuesday the holiday feeling is tantalisingly close...so close I can feel it...but I still have 6 hours left at work.

C. Worst of all - I teach teenagers on Tuesdays. If there is one species of student (mind you, they are all sub-species of ooominbeenz, really) I hate - it's teenagers.

I don't mind teenagers in their natural habitat - like parks, or car parks (why?-they can't even drive)... or shopping centres. They can look as menacing as they want, quite frankly. It's actually heartening to see them thrive in the wild - where they are able to roam free, as they hunt down their precious alcopops.

No, no ... the problem I have is when you get teenagers in confined spaces. Like classrooms. Such feral creatures are not designed for classrooms. They positively rebel against the very thought. Worse still, they seem just suspiciously too quiet in a classroom. It's a well known fact that the quiet ones are trouble - and all my teenagers are disturbingly quiet.

In fact, I think they are plotting something. I wouldn't be surprised if the world suddenly becomes dominated by spotty oiks with half a brain and monosyllabic linguistic skills.

Anyway, sometimes they are so quiet I forget they are there. Have a little doze...quick forty winks. That's when they pounce. They start doodling in their books, throwing balls against the wall, picking their nose, planning strategies for world domination... things not permitted when they should be talking, goddamit. How am I meant to teach conversational English if the little horrors never speak?

Other teachers claim they can be trained, coaxed out of their shy shells, even. I just don't believe them. I truly believe that something has happened to them upon becoming a teenager. I think there are malevolent forces at work.

I think... that evil fairies come in on the eve of their 13th birthday and climb into their grimy ear canals. Then, they drill holes into their brains - precisely in the area that controls language - and let the holes drain away all the knowledge they've acquired before this age. Slimy black gunk oozes out of their brains, slowly haemorraging all previous lingustic skills and any semblance of intelligence.

On waking on the morn of their 13th birthday the teenager becomes monosyllabic - and manages at most a grunt for hello. They also lose the ability to comprehend other people speaking (like some kind of enforced temporary deafness - which would also explain why their music has to be so loud) and resolve the issue with the ubiquitous "Uh?".

Don't be fooled, though. The "Uh?" doesn't mean they are asking you to repeat yourself, it means that regardless of what you say (in any language, speed, phonetic form, volume or intonation) they will be unable and unwilling to understand you. Moreover, unless you, too, undergo drastic measures (drilling a hole into your brain, and the like) then you will also be unable to understand them. Frightening.

Then they join my class, and collectively grunt and mumble and plot to take over the world and replace it with an online role-play game. And I have a little nap while they formulate their plans.

That's what I think, anyway.

Farting. In school. (from the archives of Japan, 2007)

OMG - have been most suitably mortified.

I should explain that I'm currently suffering from some nasty cough/bronchitis/asthma which has attached itself to my lungs and has been holidaying there for about 2 months. It results in the most riduculous coughing fits in which I cough and hack like a 40-a-day smoker til tears stream from my eyes and I can't breathe.

Sounds dramatic? Yes, it does rather, doesn't it? Weel you can't have it.... it's MY dramatic illness, so there.

Anyhoo, the paraniod hypochondriac in me thinks I have TB - I keep having melodramatic thoughts about Moulin Rouge and Ewan MacGregor falling in love with me - only too realise it's too late and I make my final exit following a spectacular finale involving elephants and trapeezes.

However, I'm usually brought down to earth by the horrendous bill at the Doc's... 30 quid? You MUST be kidding. As a result, the prohibitively expensive Doctor's bill means I've only been twice this month - despite being told to go every week.

Still, no-one here has thought to ease my pain by supplying me with chocolate, the unsympathetic selfish toads. Pah.

Righto - I should actually explain that this is a diversion, a digression, from the original topic - that of my mortification.

OBVIOUSLY, I haven't actually died of shame, just felt like it. You see, I farted in class t'other day. And that's just not cool. It's especially not cool when you barely know people (farting amongst friends is actually extremely cool - if they think it's funny - less cool if they don't, but then, why are you still friends?). It's even less cool when it is in front of the dreaded TEENAGER. Horror.

See, even if you hate teenagers as much as I do, you still want to be a groovy, hip person in their eyes. Not that saying 'groovy' or 'hip' is ever going to endear yourself to them - but 'wicked' and 'phat' sound equally ridiculous. In fact, what are the cool words for 'cool' nowadays? Any ideas? I'm using cool as a word for 'cool' far too much - need to expand the old vocabulary a tad.

Hmmmm, I digress. Anyway, I should also explain that on top of having a ridiculously nasty cough, I also had trapped wind - which I'm sure you'll agree is a terrible combination. The potential results are unthinkably vile. And, of course, mid-coughing fit I released a little 'paaarp'.

"So, what did you do?" - I hear the world ask in horrified shock.

WEEEEEEL, I did what every normal person in this situation does - I pretended NOT to hear it. In fact, I felt it would be best just to hide the fact I'd farted by going.......bright red.

Little voices inside my head started screaming:

"AAAAAAARGH, YOU IDIOT!"

Uhm. Oh. That's a bit of a giveaway, huh? You guessed? Damn!

"....OK, IT's FINE. WE CAN SALVAGE THIS MOMENT OF HUMILIATION. YOU WILL BE FINE IF..... you cough like you meant to do a silly noise. That's right - make a 'paaarp' noise come out of your mouth."

So, I did. I made the most ridiculously highpitched and fake cough - completely unlike the hacking chesty TB cough from minutes before - in a veiled attempt at disguising a fart.

Did it work? Did it hell! The student looked at me in disgust and continued to glare contemptuously from under his half-sleeping eyes. I gave up and resumed teaching/talking to myself for another 30 minutes.

Thoroughly mortified, and definitely very very uncool.

Multi-personalities (from the archives of an old blog I found from 2007)

After a long and ardous evening in the company of several TEFL teachers (to which some, the title 'teacher' can be loosely applied) I came to realise that I was in fact experiencing deja-vue.

You see, almost every 'character' (of which there are many) appeared to be remarkably similar to someone else I had met before.

I began to slowly realise that after seven years of working in various foreign countries there was a set of unique characters that appeared in each social group of travellers. And these characters seemed to exist in the exact same proportion to another social group. So, for every entertainer in each social group I've encountered there has been an equal amount of solid-types... and so on. And here they are:

(I won't mention names, but if you've met me in the course of working/travel abroad, then you can always try and guess your character. I think it is safe to assume that if I still speak to you, then you're definately one of the more pleasant ones. Myself, on the other hand, well - I'm definately something nasty, don't you think?)

First up - the entertainer. The life and soul of a party. Bright, sparkly and charming, yet beset by personal issues and insecurities that often surface after a few drinks. You want to hate them, but you can't. They're too much fun. They alternate between being your best mate and barely recognising you in the street.

Next - the dour git. Alternates between sour and unapproachable and just unapproachable. When asked 'How are you?' the reply ranges from a grunt to a 'Don't ask'. You question why they bother even getting up in the morning. Nothing in their adopted country could possibly be as good as their home country. Which makes you wonder why they left at all.

Then, there's the know-all. Rarely does the know-all actually know that much. But, posessed with a cockiness and un-bruisable ego they thrill at intimidating the 'greener' members of a group. Their opinions are not to be discussed. You are just expected to believe them in wide-eyed reverence for their superior knowledge. They would make good Scientologists. Or politicians.

Next up - the gabberwocky. Nonsensical and overly-enthusiastic - the gabberwocky thrills at having an audience with which to talk at. Conversation is a non-starter, as is communication, as it is invariably drunken gobbledygook. You might as well become a plant. You'd benefit more from being spoken 'at' that way. Their opinion (like the know-alls) is right. If you differ, then you are most certainly WRONG. Problems naturally occur when gabberwockies and know-alls clash. It's a fabulous sight to behold. The clash of the titans. Egotisical bollocks versus unfailingly stupid bollocks. A delight.

On to the next - our solid-type. An all-round good egg. There's always one person whose general niceness restores faith in humanity. The kind of person politicians should be made of, but aren't. There isn't much to say about the solid-type - they are just, well, solid. And, even if they never make your best-friend list, they are always thought of fondly.

Up next - the joker. Not so much an entertainer, more of a wit. The joker entertains by stealth, as they inadvertantly create mirth in an otherwise staid and dull environment. Their presence is invariably positive, as it is never created or forced. It just 'is'.

And so, on to the social butterfly. A peripheral member of a social group - the social butterfly picks and chooses friends of the week/day but never really forms close friendships. Less of an outsider, and more of a non-sider. Arguments usually become resolved by the social butterfly, because their lack of closeness to one or another person allows for a degree of objectivity.

Next - the lad/ladette. Out for fun, and little else. The lad/ette initialy appears to be vacuous and pointless. But their constant search for fun and entertainment can revive the older group members into doing new stuff, rather than staying in their comfort zones. Like a puppy - the lad/ette eventually grows up. In doing so, they evolve into entertainers and jokers. Alternatively, they return home to recount their tales of adventure to the lads and lasses down the local, and never venture further than Ayia Napa on the predictable lad's binge-fest holiday thereafter.

And thus we move to the opposite of lad/ette - the sage. A walking encyclopedia - they offer wise words and advice to all (even those who don't want it). Like the sages of old fairytales - this person is the source of all knowledge - or is constantly searching for more to enhance their minds. Life is one long and fascinating journey for the sage.

And so we find the strange spawn of the sage and the lad/ette - the fruitcake. Ranging from delightfully eccentric to completely bonkers - the fruitcake is sweet and soul-searching, yet tempestuous and hedonistic. A true odd-ball, who will never feel at home anywhere - but still manages to make the most of their adopted 'home'. You hope that they may find security and contentedness somewhere - but you know deep down that they probably don't even want that.

And finally we find - the mummy/daddy. Caring and nurturing is many ways - but sometimes to the point of smothering. A mummy/daddy is the one to whom decisions are often unconciously deferred. Their control can be comforting for the floundering new soul in a sea of foreigness, but it becomes constricting and frustrating eventually. Nevertheless, kindness is a speciality...and they can be wise, to a degree. But common sense is more practical than the search for enlightenment (in their eyes).

The question is - which one are you?

One from the archives... Japan 2007

So there I was, sitting in a cozy cafe, surrounded by the glitzy ladies-wot-lunch brigade. The 40-somethings in front of me (at least, I think they were 40ish, but numerous plastic surgery had made them immortally aged) had been sitting inside for 20 minutes without once removing their diamante encrusted sunglasses or fur hats.

The botoxed-one with the impossibly thick fur coat must have been silently dripping with sweat, because the heating was on full blast. But she remained ashen-faced, and only really became animated (well, her lips moved - the eybrows stayed exactly where they had always been) when showing her new pink sparkly talons to her slightly wrinklier friend. It seemed that 3D flowers and massive diamante jewels were the 'in' thing in nail art in Tokyo. The caw-ing and cackling laughter was positively eerie.

Anyway, as I sat and watched the immortally preserved do the ladies-wot-lunch show, it became increasingly apparant in my mind that animal rights stuff (I'm thinking of the whaling debate now) that drives that rest of the world mad with indignation must simply remain a non-starter in Japan.

I mean, I thought that maybe, just maybe - Japanese people weren't really that into whale meat, for example. But their obvious lack of concern for animal rights indicates that possibly, ever so slightly, that they just don't get moved or incensed by animal cruelty in the way that some people in other countries do.

I suspect that the majority of Japanese people just don't feel that whaling or fur affects them enough to do something (kind of like in the same way that many an international politician buries their head about global warming or famine, or tribal warfare and human rights abuses in a suspiciously oil-free country, or other equally inconvenient subjects...).

And how did I come by this theory (which I readily admit is based purely on observation and very little evidence) - I hear you all ask? Well, I realised that the animal-skin-wearing, surgery-loving, ladies-wot-lunch-brigaders were not a unique sight... and that, in fact, I had been steadily observing an increasing fur takeover bid. It was impossible to miss. It was taking over Japan.

Fur was on handbags, hats, coats, scarves.... hair accessories... and it was definitely real. I'll admit that a large proportion of the fur on coats was quite visibly fake (and pretty ugly, too). However, there were swarms of real fur additions everywhere. When I mentioned this to a Japanese colleague she simply couldn't see it - she couldn't believe that this volume of fur was unusual.

So, I thought...."Hmmm, fur is so common it's considered normal, and Japanese women simply wear fur because it is fashionable, and they think it looks pretty damn good, right?". And then my brain did a super fast leap forward to the conclsusion that:

"Consequently, they wouldn't really give two hoots if it was reviled by the rest of the (animal-loving) world, because the opinions of other people (excepting those designers who simply revel in fur-obsessed haute couture and, obviously, uhm.. P Diddy) will never affect them, right?" "Right" I said to myself. "I am soooo right".

I think.

It was then that, oddly enough, my mind made the mental leap to whale meat - which is a delicacy here, but is conversely considered by some gourmands to be a fatty, boring, tasteless meat. (Sounds familiar - how else can the boiled innards of a sheep and a concoction of herbs be considered edible, unless it's repackaged and sold as a delicacy with a Scots name?)

And here was my carefully thought out and scientifically not-proven answer - The reason whale meat and fur still exists here without mass protest, is because no-one in Japan really cared what the politicians and lobby groups did.

Well, just possibly, it wasn't interesting enough, or it just didn't affect them enough personally. I guess that it is one giant mental leap from buying a product that looks good, tastes good, or makes us feel great, into imagining the total impact of one's behaviour on this world - and none of us are entirely innocent in that regard.

Think about it - we ALL shun the reminders that global warming is actually happening, despite the shocking concept that global warming is a threat to our very existence. And yet, we all still take jet planes on holiday and drive petrol-guzzling cars for convenience. We all still continue to produce massive toxic emissions (and not just after a McDonalds or a curry). And we just don't care that much, because we can't really imagine how it will affect us.

Just like the fur-obsessed fashionistas, or the whale-meat eaters, or the "what's the point, they're all the same" non-voters, or the people who think that buying fairtrade goods is pointless... we are all contributing to a general apathy towards the world and it's welfare.

Then again, I thought, how many causes can one person support, and who says the fur-clad ladies don't do charitable things or care about the world in other ways? Japan has, after all, one of the highest per capita rates of charitable donations. We're not looking at a 'me, me, me' society here. Even my own ladies-wot-lunch students are endlessly generous in their concern for charities like Unicef and its ilk.

Nevertheless, how much of an impact can one person make? How much do we have to do to make the world better? Is buying Fairtrade products enough? Will a bunch of do-gooders making themselves carbon-neutral really solve anything, when the big companies continue to spew out nasty toxins every day?

In fact, how much does one person have to do to make themselves feel better about the world? And how much does one person actually have to do to make the world a better place?

Anyway, I was dizzy with thoughts of whaling and global warming, and fairtrade practices, and famine (mostly mine - all this talk of food was making me peckish)...and so I picked up Vogue fashion magazine for some light relief, and innocently thought to myself, "Well, at least this resurgence of fashionable fur-obsession wouldn't happen in nice, sensible animal-loving Britain (or even the USA, where they, like, hunt stuff ALL THE TIME)"...

Ah bollocks.

Damn that Anna Wintour.

So you want to expand your vocabulary, huh...?

Each year, the Washington Post's "Style Invitational" asks readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition. Here are the 2001 winners (belated, I know, but still blog-worthy):

Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.

Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.

Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease.

Glibido: All talk and no action.

Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole.

... And my personal favourite:

Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

modern art + children = chaos

It's been a grand two weeks, sure it has. I've been stuck in a wee village school in darkest Siberia (ehm, well Cumbria - but it was bloody freezing). I've had not even an inkling of decent mobile phone coverage (ace), and hardly a minute spare to check my emails (fandabbydozie). In fact, I've been so devoid of contact with the outside world, that I've managed to miss the last two weeks of Dancing on Ice AND Celebrity Big Brother. Although, thinking about it, that's no great loss. I'm pretty sure that even without my presence as an audience Ulrikka was still moping around being grumpy (but strangely likeable), Terry would have been bounding around trying to act cool and re-create the zeitgeist of the Tube era (remember... the time when people actually knew who he was?), and Coolio would have still annoyed the hell out of anyone with even a basic concept of feminism.

And while I'm thinking about it, I'm feeling rather chuffed with myself, having helped construct the WWII display (cue lots of talk about bombs and guns, and some very happy little boys), as well as organise the school artefacts into some semblance of order and create a photo album and literacy materials. Oh, and on that note... why the hell do parents think its perfectly OK to allow 8-year-olds to play Grand Theft Auto, and then wonder why the sweet jesus their adorable little babies are suddenly psychopathically obsessed with weaponry?

So anyway, in an attempt to inject a little culture (other than the stuff wot you get on t'telly) into those enquiring little minds, the school decided a school trip to an art gallery was in order. And not any old art gallery, complete with old paintings and shuffling feet sounds, oh no ... this one was a full on modern art gallery - resplendent and shining in its white walls, glass lifts that go whooosh and bloody loud floors designed to amplify every.single.dainty.footstep.

In all fairness, it was a really rather fun day. If nothing else I thoroughly enjoyed the fact our students managed to destroy not one, but two displays. One nil to the Kids versus Arty Farty Guys. I really really don't think Yoko Ono is going to be too happy to discover one of her precious umbrellas has been squashed into a nice concave non-umbrella shape. Mind you, I don't think the kids really care (other than they got a bit of a telling off and felt very sorry for themselves for about two minutes) and Yoko Ono has never been one for breaking out into cheerful grins, anyway. And so onto a perspex case of poo (yes, really) - which subsequently got overloaded by enquiring little hands and arms, and collapsed. Cue much hilarity. Not.

Thankfully, the little darlings almost all managed to avoid observing the pictures of bums, and a full frontal naked woman. Mind you, I did discover a wayward gaggle of 7-year-old boys giggling hysterically at the sight of aforementioned picture. I managed to stay composed and just said very calmly "Well, it's just art, boys. No need to find it funny." Thank God they didn't find the photo of a woman doing something that should only be kept for very select porn mags. Oh, and a sign on the wall saying 'My mum is fucking ace'. Hardly something I wanted the little Year Two's proudly spelling out phonetically in a huge echoing gallery. Moving swiftly on...

I can only begin to imagine the scenes at home as parents converse with their little angels:

Mum: "So did you have a nice day today?"

7-year-old: "Weeeell, we played with Lego bricks. That was cool. Then we saw a picture of bums and naked ladies!"

Mum (slightly distrubed by this revelation, having thought her little darling was on a day intended to expose hunnykins to a bit of culture unseen in their rural community, rather than some pornographic field trip): "Uhmm... darling...what else did you see?"

7-year-old: "Oooh yeah... an army helicopter, and oh, Timmy and Andy broke a case of poo!"

Of course, all the bizarre and abstract stuff was bound to have some sort of influence, and of course my lunchtime group managed to coin a new arty farty phrase for themselves- the gloriously incomprehensible 'chihuahua lift expansion group'. Lord knows where they thought of it, and how, but I think they may have been secretly consuming either far too many E-numbers, or had a sneaky wee dose of the out-of-date medicines in one of the perspex boxes on the walls.

And so to home, and a sing-song medely of Queen and ABBA hits from the boys in the seat behind me, who did remarkably well on the high notes (well, they are only ten). It sure beats 'The Wheels On The Bus'.