In case you were wondering, the current strapline (spin spin sugar) is the title of a fantastic choon by the Sneaker Pimps. It's one of those tracks which has a beat that you just can't ignore, that gets you moving to the bass line. Though I'm not a die-hard clubber, there are a few tunes that you just can't not dance to - I hear them, and it's a disco in my living room. Though you can't compare it with the vibe you get when the dancefloor crowd are all sharing the energy, and all they're aware of is the pumping rhythm - sometimes getting on down at home as the whim takes you is pretty cool.
I stumbled across Blogstreet Boys - what a lovely set of eye candy to behold! And I have to say, that I think En Blogue would be a fantastic name for a female equivalent, but I'm cheesy like that. I know Jerwin said he has reservations about doing a girlie one, for fear of putting certain noses out of joint, but I for one think it would be a wonderful laugh, and utterly inoffensive as long as people take it for what it is - a tongue in cheek gem of fun. But it's great that he's being so sensitive about it - come one now everyone, go awwwww........
My cam is semi-working. In that I have it. It's just not uploading to the web. So I'm doing the next best thing, and having the very-long-interval-between-refresh cam (read: picture). Good things come to those who wait...
A new survey shows the young have less money and take more drugs than ever before. Take this quiz to find out how old you really are. Amazingly, it got my age spot on: apparently I'm doing all the usual 18 year old things. How old are you?
I stumbled across kitschykoo.com via This Island Earth, and I have to say that it is the most perfect URL ever (as well as a site with groovalicious stuff). My Mum and Dad used to call me Katy-Koo when I was little, and I am the kitsch bitch, so how much better could it be? This is yet another moment of geek realisation when I notice that I am extremely excited by a URL. Erm...
Sometimes you do things you thought you would never do. Things you always thought were Bad. Things you were always a little afraid of, a little wary, more than a little unsure. Things for Other People. Judgemental. Not for You. Wondering what all the Fuss was about. Why? Then you do the things, and you wonder why you thought it was such a big deal. That you were worrying about nothing. And that all you had to do was relax and enjoy the ride...
Current design fave: 120degrees.com. The simple layout, eye-catching photo, sunny and bright feel all make me want to go back. It makes me feel so upbeat - and makes me want to re-make kitschbitch again, from dark and moody to fresh and funky. Anyway, go visit now!
I am very excited. I have a habit of getting prematurely excited. And annoying everyone with my excitedness. Did I tell you I was excited? I am going on holiday. In September. Watch out kids, I'm coming Stateside again! And I got the tickets this weekend, so it's all official. That's right, there's no escape: I'm hitting DC, Chicago, NY and Boston. Any bloggers/psychos/lunatics/stalkers who want to welcome a couple of British chicks, get in contact. Woo! Much as I would have liked to head west and visit all the SF peeps' fave spots, time and budget just won't allow. But I'm v. excited nonetheless. Despite having lived in the US, I've seen so little of it. And my partner-in-crime-good-mate Rachel and I were having a coffee for the first time after my return from the States, when I said:
"I don't suppose you'd fancy travelling a bit round America this summer would you?"
And yes, she was getting itchy feet as well. So we did. I mean, we are. Isn't it cool? Oh dear, I'm getting all flingy in my excitedness. Did I mention that I'd booked a holiday?
So I'm reading Anne's daily dose and she mentions her annoyance at girls whose ponytails have no bumps. Praise be I am not the only one who feels this way! It's trivial, but who said this was Philosophy 101? How the hell can they just sweep their (pristine) hair back into a bobble and have it look that perfect? It's unnatural! Surely I can't be the only one who spends ages brushing and clipping and gripping and smoothing her locks, only to have it look like a pile of shit. I am highly jealous of, and do not understand, these people with their hair that does what they want it to.
I also am jealous of, and do not understand, people who do not break a sweat on the tube. This is mildly icky, but true. Wall-to-wall people in close proximity, plus rushing due to lateness, plus tight enclosed spaces, equals one sweaty mess when going to and from work. So how do these people stand there in their oh-so-trendy layered-look togs, looking matt and glam, when I am dishevelled, greasy, and frankly quite paranoid about any stray whiffiness?
Same goes for shoes. As much as I might like to exude it-girl-inate-funkiness, with my oh-so-trendy and up to the minute fashion sense and individual style, I have a problem. Feet. You see, my devotion to brand-new-day, brand-new-Katy image is sadly tempered by a lack of funds, a tendency to spend funds on computer geek stuff, and feet. By which I mean, I can never quite bring myself to wear the snazzy little Gina-esque shoes I bought in a fit of madness, despite knowing that they would go some way to helping me achieve the look that I crave, when my trusty old
Acupunctures or my kick-ass boots are waiting for me. See, I don't understand how these stylish gals, who flit across town leading their desperately trendy lives, actually do so in these shoes. Fact is, they HURT. I am very jealous of, and do not understand, these people who manage to function in their daily lives, and actually move from point A to point B, even with copious amounts of taxis, cars, other transport than I don't have, in these silly shoes.
Lazy day. Mmmm. Went to see Deception (aka Reindeer Games) with Tom. Guy outside cinema tried to get him to buy some joss sticks for his 'wife' (me!). Bwahahahahaha! Sorry babe, but the idea of you and me being married is just hilarious, and would involve more than a major lifestyle choice. Excuse me while I burst into hysterics.......
There has been a lot in the UK media this past week about the problem of body image amongst young girls, which was brought to a head when a group of magazine publishers and people from the fashion industry came together at a government summit in an attempt the find a solution.
This article, which appeared in the Guardian earlier this week, was particularly interesting to me, as it touched upon the issues of early sexualisation of growing girls, and the pressure that body image presents. Body image is something which concerns the vast majority of females, and as a teenager, it's a topic which has been omnipresent at every stage of my adolescence. It's great that the issue is finally being addressed by a symposium of influential people, but it's also far from a cut and dried matter. Whilst one side claims that levels of anorexia and bulimia are at an all-time high because of the androgynous, heroin-chic models that grace the pages of the publications devoured by the typical teenager, the other cites the buxom, voluptuous, highly sexual, image put forward by teen icons such as Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera as problematic, resulting in all-time high levels of teenage plastic surgery and breast augmentation. I've seen close friends suffer from anorexia, which is a terrible, horrible disease - though principally unrelated to actual issues of body image, but much more so issues of control and dealing with pressure in other areas of their lives. I've had major issues with body image of my own. Something that very few people actually know, only my close friends and a few others, is that about this time last year I had my nose done. It was not a decision that I came to lightly, but neither is it something I regret. It's something I'm reluctant to admit to people because I'm worried about their reaction - that they'll think I'm superficial, trivial and shallow. Which I very much hope I'm not. But it's something that made the world of difference to how I felt about myself. I don't see an elephant's trunk when I see a photo of myself, and I'm not afraid to wear sunglasses for fear they'll draw attention to my nose and everyone will see how huge it is. I still don't think 'Wow I look great', but I don't think 'Sheesh that's hideous'. Whilst I am massively favour of the fashion industry broadening its horizons, and highlighting men and women of all shapes and colours, I think it's naive to think that this will cure many women's body neurosis. It's going to be a long personal struggle for the female populace before that happens....
FIU I didn't really feel like a proper student, because I wasn't working towards anything specific, gaining no solid credit - merely my own personal satisfaction from learning lots of new stuff. The when I came to work at
The Guardian though I quickly became part of the team, I was still in between, being by far the youngest in the department, and being the only one yet to go to Uni, as opposed to being able to fondly look back on my halcyon student days. Last night, whilst having dinner with Pippa, Luke and Evil Nick, Luke (who'd never met me before), was surprised to hear me mention that I was starting at college this October, and said "I assumed you were about our age - mid-late twenties. How old are you?". Should I start getting really worried that I look about ten years older than I actually am? Should I be flattered? Does this post make any sense at all or is it just another one of my disjointed ramblings? It's a funny one, and one I'm not entirely sure about...
I'm really freaked by the fact that newhairgrowth.com appeared in my referrer logs. Eek.
thursday, june 22
Well there's a huge surprise: BT is the laughing stock regarding its claim on the patent for hyperlinks. Bwhahahahaha.
So yesterday I'm at work, and I'm just about ready to throttle one of my colleagues, who is suceeding is pissing the rest of the department off as much as is humanly possible. And
Tom and I are ICQ-ing at work as part of our own (miniscule) rebellion against the shackles of corporate culture, when I mention that www.killyourcolleague.com would be right up my street. We chat about what a cool idea this would be, and Tom then blogs
some kick-ass details about the machinations of this service: valuable to each and every member of the web community. And then I get into work this morning, and said coworker is still intent on being top target on everyone in this office's hit list. So I get to thinking more about said idea, and extend the discussion:
In order to ensure maximum reliability, and optimum delivery of service, a system much like that of
Epinions could operate. Once completion of the deed has taken place, a ratings system (speed, efficiency, style, MO) would allow you to rate member X's execution of the task in hand, thereby demonstrating to others who should be best be avoided if a match is made for a future job: possibly building up a tiered system, with the highest rated users alloted the most difficult and risky jobs.
As far as the business model is concerned, as well as the target advertisers mentioned by Tom (rope merchants, gun lobbies, samurai sword manufacturers) and the possiblity of mercenary recruitment, it's also worth considering covert partnerships with private health companies and medical supply organisations for when it all goes a bit pearshaped, and an unsuccessful hit takes place - thereby providing revenue for all parties.
Do we think the Mahir-esque 'ikillu.com' is just a tad too cheesy? Comments welcome...
Lookit! Kitsch was the word of the day on Wednesday 21st June. I love the expression 'atomic kitsch' - just tickled me for some reason (thanks to Chris for being a total star and pointing it out to me!)
wednesday, june 21
Despite attempts to purport myself as being goddess of all that is funky and fabulous (you did?) I must admit that I am no fashion maven. Much as I would love to be one of those people who stroll down the street exuding style and poise from every pore, it just ain't gonna happen. However, this does not mean I don't reserve the right to comment or pass judgement on others fashion sense. Stetsuns. What is up with stetsuns? No longer solely reserved for Dallas wannabes or country singers, stetsuns crept their way into the realsm of ubertrendiness, as all manner of celebs were snapped, stetsuns perched atop their perfectly-coiffed heads, adopting that trend now known as cowboy chic (no, I don't know who makes up these stoopid crazes either). So, inevitably, the average Jane on the street thinks "Hey! I want to be trendy! I want to look exactly like that generic All Spice Backstreet Girl! Then I will be Cool. I will be Popular!". And lo, it came to pass that every other high street shop sold that highly original piece of millinery that was intended to be worn to look Different and to Stand Out In A Crowd, and you would see a veritable sea of pink sequinned cow-print stetsuns at the party you went to on sunday night. Wow! You all look so original! Can't say I've ever seen anyone trying out a stetsun before - that's so postmodern! Can you tell I'm not a generic fashion/stetsun fan?
tuesday, june 20
Shitting buggering arsing frigging BOLLOCKS. I am not going to talk about this (even though we all knew it was going to happen anyway).
Well, nearly back to your regularly scheduled programming. Apparently the tournament is bad business for the Amsterdam sex industry: the (mostly British) fans are either more interested in the football than the local talent, or they're too drunk to rise to the occasion. Hehe.
Oh yeah...ENGERLAND!!!!! Sorry, had to be said - beating Germany in an international tournament is a Very Big Deal, and even though we played absolutely shite, we still opened up one great big can of whup-ass. OK, back to your regularly scheduled programming.
Phew! What a weekend. It's been a great one, and - dare I say it - good to have some time away from the computer. I'm absolutely knackered, but it was wonderful to be away from the stuffiness of the city; to be able to enjoy the scorching heat lazing around by the river, lying on the grass. And the main reason for the trip, last night's ball, was an absolute blast. Three different dance arenas, live bands, drinks flowing a-plenty, a bouncing castle, a chill-out room with video games, inflatable sofas everywhere, twister games, decorations like you wouldn't believe...just fantastic. Dancing away under the starry sky on a balmy midsummer's evening, partying till 5am, getting tipsy on fluorescent-coloured cocktails, being with old friends...magical.
I'm in Cambridge, it's been a glorious day, punting on the river, chilling in the sun, drinking with friends. Life is good.
friday, june 16
All sites should have 'bitch' in them. Such as this new site I just found, which is just ubersexywunderfaberoony
Oooh.....Wonder Woman!!
You know you're a child of the 80s when you:
know all the words to "Ice, Ice Baby."
believed that "By the power of Greyskull, you HAD the power!"
spent hours in the basement building and re-building Lego cities
could breakdance, or wished you could
pondered why Smurfette was the ONLY female smurf
sported at least one tie-dyed shirt
denim cutoffs, or cut sweatshirts seemed really cool
had Wonder Woman or Superman undies
Is it bad that I really want Wonder Woman knickers?
thursday, june 15
Firda just blogged London Slang. And scarily enough, as I read it, someone in my office was saying "It's all gone a bit Pete Tong". Yowza.
Beautiful. Highly jealous of this, because it is stunning.
Katy's recipe for a kick-ass dinner (generic v2.0)
For the following purposes:
to get sex
to cover your ass after you've buggered up
to cover your ass before you bugger up
to get forgiveness when person eating said dinner realises you've buggered up
Said person will then either be so impressed they will drag you to the bed before they can finish their meal and/or forget all about given problem, as dinner will wipe all memeory thereof, and you will be absolved of all blame. So here's how you do it kids....
Choose recipe. It will look fabulously easy in book/on tv show, and celebrity chef will make it seem totally effortless
Get ingredients. Do not have to be expensive but must be very hard to get hold of (thereby proving this to be 'special', and gets extra brownie points)
Prepare ingredients. In book/tv show, ingredients will be all chopped/diced/peeled/weighed in little glass bowls by vast team of assistants, who actually do all work so said celebrity chef doesn't actually have to do anything. Preparing said ingredients will take at least four days, so book the week off work, and use the extra day for slobbing out in your sweats, watching bad tv, and drinking lots of beer.
Get kitchen extension. In book/tv show, chef will employ several hundred metres of work surface area, about sixteen stove burners and approxmately twenty seven pots and pans. Unless you are said chef, you will need to adapt home environment. Take out second mortgage, bank loan, and employ building contractor to make current box-room-esque kitchen into fantastic farm-house-esque kitchen. (NB may necessitate moving into new home if extension is not possible in your fourth floor apartment)
While you're on the spending spree, get some funky new furniture from Ikea for your new pad. It'll stress you out, but you know that you really want those Swedish home fittings...
Preliminary steps will often involve techniques such as marinating, searing, sealing, sauteeing, steaming. Easy-as-pie 'cooking for morons' book/tv show will assume prior knowledge of these steps, and you will have to know how to do these.
Realise that said book/tv show was not designed for someone whose entire culinary repertoire consists of toast and cup-a-soup, or anything ending the suffix '-a-roni'
When smoke alarm goes off, and all food currently on stove is burned to a cinder, chuck away.
Call in pizza.
And there you have it - everyone loves pizza, especially if you order extra pepperoni, so person-of-honour will be so touched by your getting yummy junk food, you will attain your goal. If that ain't a plan, I don't know what is!
Bork Bork Bork! Ooh, I came over all Muppets for a moment.
wednesday, june 14
Today I had one of those moments where I realised that actually I'm not so run-of-the-mill. We were all sat around drinking coffee at lunch, and we were chatting about our little claims to fame/TV appearances, and I added mine:
- hi-jacking a v. famous UK sporting celeb's car when I was 13 - being on Crimewatch
Then I realised people were looking at me strangely, trying to work out if I was bullshitting/insane/dangerous/mad. I guess these little crazy things are what make me me.
Mmm. heatwave projected for this weekend. Let's hope my pleas are answered (like those in Megnut), and it's lurvely and warm for my weekend in Cambridge. I'm going to be offline from Saturday till Monday, so if anyone fancies doing a riothero on me and filling in for a bit of guest-blogging, then let me know!
tuesday, june 13
Oh, I can't be all moany for long.. Even when you're feeling poo, with a drippy nose and throbbing head, you can still have a great morning. I'm walking to the station, as I do every morning, and suddenly I realise that I'm just going through the motions. And I suddenly become aware of everything around me. The hubbub of the mishmash of people scurrying to-and-fro, going about their own morning routines; the weird and the wonderful characters that you encounter every day in this city; the sound of Chinese hymns coming from the Chinese church a few doors down from my flat; the cheesy Sherlock Holmes motifs on the walls of the Sherlock Holmes Hotel a bit further down. I see it every day, and yet I never see it. I'm listening to my CD player, and it's all I can do not to go with a spring in my step to the rhythm of the music. So I do. I'm striding down the street, marching to the beat of my own drum, as it were. And I smile.
I don't kvetch very often, but today I'm going to have a little moan. My current pet peeve is the phrase "dot.com". Not "dot com" or even "dot-com", but "dot.com". I'm being a total pedant I know, but for some reason it really gets on my tits to see this repeated over and over and over again in the press (my current
employers included). You've already got the dot by including the '.', thereby eliminating the need for the "dot"! Oh dear. I'm becoming dead pernickety in my old age.
We couldn't resist. The britgrrls snuck into the ladies' loo for an impromptu mirror shot (l - r back row: Katy, Jen, Meg; front: Johanna)
I am very stupid and would welcome any advice as to how to get my table borders working in Netscape. Clever People?
Kottkecomments on the weblog phenomenon, and feels that there's nothing new being produced as more blogs develop. I know the intra-blog conversations do get too much, but being a very new blogger (six weeks), and someone who hopped on the bandwagon when already at full swing (mixed metaphor?) I'm going to add my two penneth worth. However, I think that there are two clearly different aspects to the points raised by Jason:
Is anyone out there doing anything interesting with tools like Blogger
Regarding the former, whilst the format itself may be repeated in various permutations, and it may be true that many (kitschbitch included) do not have any distinguishing USP, what each does have, is personal character. On first glimpse, it might seem as though each is a refill, but at the same time, each blog has its own personality. At the basic root of things
SixKill, ThinkDink, SwallowingTacks and Not So Soft all contain bios, links, and weblogs with link and personal commentary. But to me they are entirely different, by virtue of the fact that Billy, Jessica, Elise and Meg all share their daily lives, thoughts, feelings, opinions and so on. As long as webloggers continue to interest me with the personal content they are providing, I know I'll keep reading.
However, I think this is somewhat of a different question to whether this is all
Blogger is used for. The scope for Blogger to be used across so many different kinds of projects is mind-boggling, and I look forward to seeing what creative ideas are put forth. But unless the (loose) definition of weblogs changes, there's no reason why weblogs as they exist in their current form shouldn't continue to flourish - whilst other new projects using Blogger also develop. Does the latter have to be to the exclusion of the former - or vice versa?
Dratfink coins a new term. I love it - kitschbitching. I kitschbitch, you kitschbitch, he/she/it kitschbitches. We kitschbitch, you kitschbitch, they kitschbitch.
Am I the only that finds the idea of the Queen rolling a fattie abso-bloody-lutely hilarious?
I've stumbled across what could possibly be one of the weirdest blogs I've ever seen. Neighbour Sex, the "chronicle of the nextdoor neighbors and their deafening and oddly-timed sex". There really are no words to describe a site at the top of which is a table documenting the date, time, length, and number of orgasms experienced during this person's neighbours' sex sessions. I am totally speechless.
Those of you who came along to the UK bloggers drink-fest this afternoon will be happy to know that as of yet, I have not received any mail from Lloyd Wood. Props to
Dan for organising the whole thing, and thanks to Jen, Meg, Tom, Luke, Johanna, Giles, Dave and anyone else I've forgotten for an interesting afternoon, and my first introduction to roast ox flavoured crisps...
I confess, I'm feeling a little fragile. Summary of last night:
Arrive at The Edge. Meet Peter, Max, and Tom. Get several rounds of drinks. Imbibe vast quantities of alcohol. Make the move to Manto. Too crowded, so we head through Soho. Am dragged into
Ann Summers where it is suggested that a naughty nurse's uniform would be just my thing (I disagree). Queue up at The Yard, then imbibe yet more alcohol. When it is chucking-out (note: not chucking-up) time, we wander through Piccadilly. Decide that we're too pissed and too knackered to contemplate going clubbing, so we call it a night. Collapse back home where flatmates and about 10 of their friends are sat, and find my enebriated state very amusing. Hmm.
Regular readers of Barbelith will note that Tom has had a few ups and downs in his love-life of late, the culmination of which seems to be tonight - when two exes are turning up for one night on the piss together. And this afternoon, whilst looking at really cool cuddly
Mr Hankeys in Forbidden Planet, Tom insists that I have to come along to tonights shindig for moral support. As I said to him - do the words Exxon Valdez mean anything to you?! (yes, stolen from
ER, before you all e-mail me and tell me I'm unoriginal). First of all, ex no. 1 is, apparently, scared of me. So as soon as I make my appearance tonight in the elected Soho bar, Max may go running for the hills. Eek. Watch this (or Tom's) space folks for how it turns out....
It's gonna be a bright sunshiney day.....which is why I haven't blogged yet today, and why this is only going to be a short one. Weather like this is so bloody rare here, you have to grab every chance you get. I got to wear my sunglasses folks, that's how nice it was!
ARSE. Still can't get the fucking shitting buggery bollocksy wanky borders to work in Netscape. Admittedly, I've only had about 2 minutes to look at it, but I'm not impressed.
Fab-a-roony! Just got me the Webcam Go - a l'il webcam that's also a portable digicam too! Won't take terrific stills, but until we get our proper, top-whack, full-on, all systems go digicam, this looks to be pretty cool. And I will have my very own KatyCam - watch this space.....
It doesn't take a lot to make a girl happy. I'm walking to the tube this morning, to catch my train to work, when I walk past some scaffolding, where a load of builders are working on some repair work. Wearing what could be considered a short-ish skirt (because, hey, it's nice out, and I don't often get chance to show that i do actually have legs) I turn round when one of them shouts down to me. "You've got a lovely smile!" he yells. What's not to smile about? I was grinning for the rest of the day....
I was in-house with a client I'm designing for today, and all around me French was being spoken (it's a French company). And I realised how quickly you can lose a language - though I could understand everything that was being said, in the year since I took my exams, my spoken French has seriously lapsed. And I really don't want to lose it: it's such a beautiful language. I think I'm going to have to re-read 'Le Petit Prince', if only because it's one of the best pieces of literature ever written. If you haven't read it, go read, and that's an order. Or I'll grab your crotch.
Lookit - Mirror Pictures! Though I'm more than a little concerned that it looks suspiciously like I'm grabbing Evil Nick's crotch in the piccy where we're doing silly poses. I'm not the evil-crotch-grabbing-woman, honest. I do not grab random crotches. Nor will I grab your crotch. My dad reads this blog. Oh dear.
Yes, I know it's poncey and wankey and poser-y, but I couldn't help myself. I'm a Bad Person. I succumbed to the temptation of YourPhone and got the theme tune from Mission Impossible as my new ring tone for my phone. I just always loved that theme, and couldn't resist. My friend Abi (equally as nutty as yours truly) and I used to slide along walls, kicking open doors Mission-Impossible-stylee at school, humming that theme. The headmistress was really impressed when I kung-fu kicked the door into her oncoming path. Mmm-hmm...
It's wallow weather here. Why wallow weather, I hear you ask? Because it's warm enough for pigs to start digging wallow holes, stoopid! I am reliably informed by my mother that our two pot-bellied pigs have been outside digging up their own little wallow holes, in anticipation of nicer days to come. When it gets warm, they start preparing to cool down, and get busy snuffling around. Sunny days mean happy porkers...
It seems blogs are mirroring each other all other the shop - just a couple of things I noticed while perusing my daily dose of weblogs:
All bloggers are called Tom. Especially those called
All blogs start with 'P' and end in 'recocious'. Especially those called PrecociouS and precocious.org
I'm seeing double!
I just noticed that I made a typo, and instead of instilling the fear of G-d into you as a result of my almighty wrath, it seems I've threatened to wreak vengeance on the wall. I'm sure that wall, wherever it may be, is just terrified. My debut as an arch-villain wasn't too hot it seems!
Yes, I know the site still does funny things, and looks weird in IE for Macs, but I've been away from my files all day, and dammit, there aren't enough hours in the day!
Fred informed me that my glam name is TYPHOON HOTPANTS. Villains of the beware, as attired in my sexy hotpants, I will wreak vengeace on you wall, bwahahaha... (NB. I have no idea what a glam name is, or how you work it out, but hell, I love it!)
Firda redesigned when my back was turned - looks lurvely
Bugger arse shit stinkbadger buggery buggery bollocks. New design look shite in Netscape as stylesheet needs fiddling with - something I would have spotted last night if I hadn't have been utterly knackered. And I want to be at home rectifying the situation but insted I've got to be at shitting bloody frigging work instead of at home sorting the mess out. Grrrrr.......
glitches here and there - please bear with me {gulp}
lookee here - I redesigned
So Meg and Derek have been talking about their memories of graduating from high school. And it's nearly a year since I left school, and I was thinking how we really don't have graduation over here. In the UK, lots of people don't stay on after their GCSE exams, and leave school at 16. Many people go to sixth-form colleges to do their A-level exams - only a few people will leave school at 18 having been there since age 11. I was one of these few, but even then, we didn't have graduation per se: we had two last days of school. The first was our last day before study leave - and the last day we'd all see each other. We partied all day, took our teachers to the pub, and took lots of silly snaps. Then came the big exams, and many people dispersed after that. Then about 6 or 7 weeks later, we had a symbolic last day of school: the last day of term for the rest of the school who'd not been doing A-Levels like us, but not everyone turned up, and there was certainly no kind of ceremony with mortar-boards and gowns or anything. There are so many teenage rites of passage in America - you have prom, graduation, yearbooks. We don't. Some schools put on a leavers ball, or make a yearbook, but it's not the kind of national institution that it is in the States.I'm not sure whether I think this is a good thing or a bad thing: never having experienced these ceremonies, I don't know if it would have been a better or worse an experience. Just something to think about, I guess.
A Briton wins the Monaco GP for the first time in over 25 years. I love the Monaco GP - it never ceases to amaze me when I see the cars tearing through the streets of Monte Carlo. When I was there a couple of years ago (for football no less!) I walked the circuit - great fun, but probably more so when zooming at very high speeds :)
Harry Potter. As he just said to me: "When it all gets too much, you can always turn to a bit of Harry Potter". Aww, bless.
sunday, june 4
So Tom, Evil Nick and I went to see U-571, and over dinner we agreed that it would have been a fine TV movie, but it was jingoistic, and did a bloody good job of rewriting history. Then came the fun part. We snuck around the O2 centre trying to find a toilet we could all sneak into, so we good get a couple of mirror snaps in for
Friends of Jezebels Mirror. We found the baby changing room, and took a few shots, then decided we wanted to find another mirror. Somehow, wandering through some corridors that we reckoned were supposed to be closed to the general public, we found this huge gallery-type room with an one wall covered entirely in mirrors. So we jumped around, prancing and a-dancing for the camera. Watch this space...
I'm finding commentary on drinks all over the place - and it seems I'm not alone in my current choice of tipple. Prol and Dink have both been sampling vodka-and-cranberries, and Heather's been singing the praises of similarly-flavoured 'girlie' drinks. I must confess to being more than a little partial to this bright red and not exactly subtle mix. And yes, I know it's frightfully girlie, and causes blokes to mutter at the bar:
"Two pints of Stella, a bottle of Grolsch,and a {whisper} vodkaandcranberry"
It's the kind of drink you could never have ordered as a 15 year old, desperately trying to act a (legal) 18, because it would have looked too much like fruit juice, and like a kiddie drink. 'Cause you were dead grown-up, and so only really strong (bad) cider would cut it. I think only underage drinkers consume Diamond White - G-d knows no-one would drink it out of their own volition. Now I don't care about bar-related embarassment. I even managed to keep a straight face when ordering a round of dodgily-named cocktails on a girls' night out:
For years, I'd wanted to be 18. It seemed a magical age. Hell, it seemed geriatric when I was 9. I think it was when I was about 14 or 15, when I started going out to pubs and clubs, that being 18 was all that mattered. Being 18 would be cool. Cool would ooze out of your pores. You could stride into that club (which seemed so funky when you were 16, but now seems really cheesy and tacky) and flounce past the bouncers without having to shuffle past hiding your face in case they wanted to ID you. You would be able to drive: wheels man! You could legally do pretty much anything you wanted. Not that joining the army or getting married were going to be top priorities, but you would know you could do them if you felt like it. And today, talking to my brother on the phone, I realised that I was closer to 19 than to 18. And being 18 didn't feel that different. I'd actually been able to walk into a bar without the fear of being carded for a couple of years now. Wheels were as great as they were cracked up to be, but I was 17 when I passed my test. It's actually not that exciting knowing that I can get married (it's still not on my priority list, and won't be for many years, if ever). I still want to ooze cool. What age is the magical age now?
Lack of linkiness here on kitschbitch. But I just feel like writing.
It's time for me to open a big ole can of whup ass around here. Dan has stated outright that the magic eight ball predicted that Mark would beat a tag team of Tom and I hands down. I beg to differ. Much though I love dear Mr Olynciw, I feel it is only fair to point out that I could take him. Firstly, I am a northern bird. They breed us stronger and harder up there. And scarier. You don't mess with northern birds. Secondly, previous experience has taught me how to take down a guy when necessary. It's happened before and I reckon I can repeat it. Thirdly, well, I just can, alright?
Woo! Friday night - which means WEEKEND! And it's my friend Parul's birthday tomorrow, so we're going out for a big night out tonight. After hvaing already sunk a couple of drinks after work with colleagues (feeling very Mediteranean, sipping our beers outside on the patio bit of the bar) it's off for drinks at Fuel in Covent Garden, then on to dance away the night at Subterania. I fear it will be a late one, as we're not meeting till 10.15...but I promise to be good,as there's no worse start to the weekend than waking up with a raging hangover. Famous last words.....
Meg has been commenting on her experience with bombs. And it's true. When the last Manchester bomb devastated the city centre, the first many people knew about it was from worried friends and relatives ringing to ask if they were OK. Admittedly, this was a bigger one than many before, but the prevailing attitude is often one of 'Oh not again'. When your journey to work is disrupted because a station has had to be closed during yet another bomb scare, it's frightening to think that you actually find yourself thinking 'all that fuss and for nothing', when the all-clear is given. But then when you see things like
I love how random city life can be. I'm on the tube this morning and suddenly this bloke turns to me and says:
Bloke: "You're tall" Me: " It has its advantages" Bloke: "Hmm. Do you like cats?"
thursday, june 1
Everything seems to be about breasts today! Following yesterday's article entitled 'Fried Eggs', I've been getting e-mails from people assuring me that baby boomers can be just as delighful as big kahunas - the theme 'more than a handful is a waste' was quite popular! And then I tune into
uber.nu for my daily dosage of all that is better...daily - only to see that it was also on the boob theme. Who else is going to hop onto the breast bandwagon...
And yet another bomb, this time in West London. No injuries, and relatively little damage, thank goodness. People are surprised to learn that I have have grown up with bombings as part and parcel of normal life. Not for one moment am I suggesting that my life is in any way comparable to life in Sarajevo or on the Gaza Strip - but nevertheless, I've always been aware of them. I can recall seven bombings within 6 years, within ten miles of my home in Manchester. I remember walking through the city centre, seeing parts totally gutted and destroyed from the IRA bomb in 1996. And previously to that, seeing the flowers laid in Warrington city centre in memory of the two children killed when another IRA bomb exploded. Or the day in 1993 when a small bomb exploded in the heart of Manchester, and we had a bomb warning at my school, resulting in us having to follow the much-practised bomb-drill - in every classroom there were instructions as to what to do in case of a fire or a bomb. Listening to my parents tell the story of when their block of flats was bombed; the blast forcing them out of their seats, sucking out walls, and the fear in racing down 11 flights of stairs to escape what might happen next. It's not that frequent, and lord knows I'd rather live with that threat than know half the population was carrying a gun. But it's there, and it's things like this which serve to remind us of it.
I'm guessing that the sleep-walking balloonistreally wished cartoons were real - then he could wander out the balloon and keep walking,and would only fall when he woke up to look down.....
