Made For CiF?

Inspiration struck, picking the worst time possible as usual. I decided to have a little fun, even if this will likely never grace the pages of CiF...


'Why Comment is most certainly not free'


Theoretically, you can say what you like over a page of the prestigious Guardian. But who really reads the paper editions that much any more? If you want to be heard, you'll submit your words online. Then stand back and watch your free comment become encumbered by the foamings and slobberings of a million (or more like 200 if you're doing well) half-wits.

The most astonishing aspect of the whole comment-submitting process is also how ultimately pointless your little comment will make you feel. Depending on the topic of your comment and exactly what you said, you'll get a whole range of commenters. Comment on big political issues tends to have straight-forward ideological smack-downs, with people essentially arguing over the fact that neither can convert the other to their point of view. Of course, it won't be that obvious - nit-picking over facts, spelling, grammar, punctuation or layout could be (and usually is) the way to do this. These commenters will usually spell correctly, come across as terrifyingly tuned-in and sneeringly haughty, and are at the high end of the intelligence level. Presumably some of these people don't mean to present themselves that way, but the Internet's faceless wonders come at a price, and that is of sounding as distinctly mechanical as the computer you're channelling your thoughts through.

After that come the quasi-loons. These are usually people who can, for the most part, manage syntax, grammar and spelling enough for you to believe that they might well be a real person. Then they go and spoil it all by showing that they haven't really read the comment, or if they have, have completely misunderstood and decided to plough on regardless without even a second glance. These are probably the sort of people who, in the real world, would tell you that Margaret Thatcher is worthy of respect because she was the first female British Prime Minister, but wouldn't be able to tell you much else about her or even why they agree with that particular sentiment. One fine example would be a commenter on a very recent CiF article about alcohol consumption and rape, who claimed that 'Rape can be less harmfull (sic) than serious assault.'

Another type of quasi-loons is the variety who doesn't actually say anything directly, but strings together a bunch of vaguely nonsensical sentences to hint at something. Another example is offered by the article I just mentioned, where a commenter insinuated that what Britain needed were 'common sense rules' regarding drinking so that 'It is understood, (not condoned) what may happen to women who get drunk and behave drunkenly', just like India where s/he is apparently from. Considering that that ran counter to the whole point of the article, such a misappropriation of the information presented therein was almost impressive.

Last but not least are the out-and-out trolls. These are the 'eye-swivelling nutrags' as Charlie Brooker once put it in his own 'Screen Burn' column for the Guardian. These 'people' (can they honestly be real?) have the barest grasp of language, which is fitting as their comments will have all the intellectual complexity of a child's storybook. They will be the ones who immediately resort to ad hominem insults in order to convey, with all the finesse and discretion of a steam-roller, that they don't agree with the comment. What stating this achieves is a mystery to most, but presumably it is simply a way for the troll to get what they desperately need: attention. Guardian readers are stereotypically renowned for their 'liberal guilt' and didactic tendencies, but trying to explain things to a troll is akin to punching yourself repeatedly in the face.

Saving for the best for last, in amongst the rubble of cybergabble will be some real and proper commentators. Whether they be people who offer intelligent and informed critique of the piece at hand, or simply polite and supportive readers who try and engage, they're rare but useful, and definitely appreciated. Considering how damaging the comments of one particular type of commenter can be for a 'new' writer (let alone the multiplied effect of accumulated lunacy), these are what we need more of. The types of commenters I've listed above aren't generally good for much other than helping 'new' writers develop a thick skin. Comment is free, facts are sacred, but debate is essential and something that we are SORELY in need of considering that authoritarianism seems to be increasingly fashionable all over the world. So, to the sane among you, I urge - bring it on.

Right-On Lurve *squirm*

This is a fun little post (not) so that I can do some of the navel-gazing I so roundly condemned last time. That's because I'm a HYPOCRITE, A DIRTY LIBERAL/LEFT LIAR.

Um. Sorry. Been reading this, which made me get a bit carried away.

I figured it was time to pose a question, and in doing so, get an answer for myself while simultaneously drawing out anyone who actually READS this blog.

What does it take to make one attractive and/or attracted to right-wingers? I don't just mean in the, er, physical sense here but as a friend too, because... whatever it is, I seem to have it (especially in terms of the former).

Is it because I seem soft? I don't think I'm a token leftist, although in some ways I am. I can be a snob and a smartarse, and I'm dangerously academic. The closest I get to 'keeping it real' is living where I do (hah!) which is an aesthetically unsatisfying but not too dangerous area. However, we all know that news narratives aren't the most honest, so I would be hard-pressed to tell you anywhere that really is a bad area and/or worse than where I live.

I'm generally not that combative (which is new for me, honest) because I'm pathologically terrified of making the hardcore swing from left-right that those with trumpeted convictions seem to do as they get older. The thought of myself with all-grey hair screaming 'WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!' while brandishing my walking-stick is fucking terrifying. I don't want to be a mean old mama, terrorising the skool yoof with my Freedom Pass-abusing ways.

Er... anyway... back to the topic. I try not to be fixed about things because I genuinely believe that there is always more learning that one can do. However, like all normal human beans, I do have a gut reaction to some things and I can be sentimental. I just fight it, because it's dangerous; a subtle and easy form of intellectual complacency.

So can somebody please suggest where I might be going wrong? I'm not saying right-wingers aren't good people. Some of 'em are. However, you're not going to get very far if you're a fairly passionate person and a lefty, especially in the romance stakes - good Lord.

I'm starting to get scared that maybe Ruth Fowler was right.

(Fucking hell, it looks like we've been thinking along the same lines! Albeit she got there first).

Politics and 'the game'

OK, I said I would talk about this in my last post, and so I’m trying to honour my word. Regardless of my single-digit readership, this is something I have to talk about for my own sake. It’s never impressive to be a writer and then not be able to express yourself properly, as seems to happen to me all the time. Starting regular posting again on this blog was intended to help me with that a bit. I have to remember to take Gege’s advice about joining the debating society at my uni also...

The concept of ‘politics/the game’ is not new at all (though I don’t know how old it is), but I think it helps to have watched The Wire to be able to understand it more completely (or The Thick Of It and similar shows, for that matter). In short, the way I see it, ‘politics’ is kind of an amalgamation of what Confucius and Aristotle think (or rather, what Wikipedia told me they think...): public service. The problem is that nowadays ‘politics’ is depicted as glamorous and its public service aspect just isn’t as important as it should be (I’m NOT saying ‘oh, the good old days’!). A lot of what I feel has come from the ‘Westminster village’ development in British politics. This is where London and news about London is given greater importance in the media, therefore creating the impression that the capital is ‘where it all happens’ politically.

So: London is ‘where it all happens’, not just socially (being the capital lends it glamour, and it has a buzz and allure regardless of that) but then politically too. Obviously, that isn’t true because hello, we’re still attached to the rest of the country (despite the hopes of some of us, hehe). It’s also quite dangerous. Showing people that all political power (read: ‘power to change things’) lies solely in London creates resentment, it generates apathy (‘why bother doing anything outside of the Westminster bubble?’) and then people disengage from politics. Meanwhile, the populist right-wing media tell them that everything is ‘going to the dogs’ and (this is implied, rather than said directly, I feel) because all the power lies in Westminster, they can’t do anything to improve things. So they continue to simmer and boil until eventually, in places like Barking, they vote in the BNP. Great.

To understand this, one must also look at the type of people inhabiting the Westminster bubble. They are generally white, middle / upper-class males, who went to public school and then to Oxbridge (though there are some women who have too – step forward, Ruth Kelly). It’s sad that the likes of the Mail and the BNP don’t see the true irony in this – Britain has a lot of ethnic minorities and yet very few of them are prominent in the Westminster bubble. However, that would require thinking which the Mail and the BNP just aren’t capable of! To this disastrous mix, add in the fact that even though apparently London is where all the power is at, even we can’t do anything, because nobody’s allowed to protest about anything un-government-sanctioned anymore. Just wonderful!

Add to all that the fact that we live in an increasingly celebrity-obsessed culture, and the way that information regarding those in charge of our country is accordingly presented. British politics has always had elements of the playground with rival sides shrieking at each other – but now, when increasingly, nobody cares? The state of play (intentional pun) is reaching Shakespearian levels of theatricality, with both wings (left and right) competing to seek attention like their livelihoods depend on it (which I suppose they do). On the one hand, British politicians ARE trying to get our attention more, because membership of their parties has declined considerably over time and they’re up the creek. On the other, we’re not trusted to handle pure politics in action, because *drumroll* it’s not that interesting! Well, running a country is always going to involve some work, isn’t it?! So we had politics-as-edutainment which seems to be losing its scruples and heading for politics-as-entertainment now, with all the squabbling on the left about what exactly to do with ‘new’ Labour, plus the fights with the right.

To finish with what constitutes ‘the game’ i.e. ‘modern British politics’ aka ‘much of what I hate and am now complaining about’: back to the news narrative. Where the populist media hawk a very simple and emotional news agenda, the more highbrow publications offer in-depth analyses and expert commentary designed to make you feel like a hopelessly ignorant moron. When doing my YAP on the British and French daily press earlier this year, I remarked on how the British daily press is very indicative of our gaping class divisions – and how! For me, this isn’t generally much of a problem: I eye up the terrifying-looking Guardian before me and think ‘This’ll get better with time, bitch’ before reading the whole thing over about a week and understanding maybe 5% of it. I consider myself an eternal student, a ‘Sikh’ if you will (ironically enough), but without actually being religious, so I stick with it, even if I feel confused and apprehensive.

The class cleavage (as I like to call it) is something that really can’t be ignored, though. Papers are not just unreliable because they rush to break stories and beat the Interweb at its own game, but also because they always have an agenda. This never used to bother me, but now it does. The BBC is the closest thing we have to an impartial source of info on the news, and that is why most of the population loves it. However, the right-wing media hate it and take every opportunity to slag it off. What with people increasingly unsure about having to pay the licence fee, its future is not as certain as it should bloody well be, and this is terrible news for all of us who do, and want to, give a shit about what goes on in the world.

All of this bullshit makes up ‘the game’ as far as I’m concerned. I know I probably sound like a complete fucking hippy in this age of free-market-instilling reforms everywhere you turn, but I do think that politics should be about public service. I’m not saying it should be a fucking depressing dredge where your only enjoyment is the occasional word of thanks, and occasionally meeting people from other countries, BUT –

*here comes the big but*

The glamour and ‘revolving door’ advantages have got to stop. ‘Career politicos’ need to be snuffed out. People getting into politics just because of their ambitions can fuck right off. OF COURSE, that is easier said than done – how are you supposed to tell what people are planning? Season 4 of The Wire knows exactly what I mean :-). At the very least though, stop treating politics as a game, because there is no real victory. Right now, the victory is only for those who win the spin war and/or those who slink off to make money away from the sidelines. Less well-known politicians often tend to reach the spotlight as ‘pubic figures’ – people who ‘blow up’ thanks to their sex lives. Enough of that.

We need something other than the BBC to give us the background to the ongoing ‘serious’ news narratives. Less spin and more communication (we all know politicians are out of touch, but it’s really gone too far now – when the BNP are spotting opportunities you’ve missed, it’s fucking SHOWTIME). The irony of all this (sorry to sound like SUCH an English student by always using that word!) is that self-introspection is greater than it was before, probably thanks to the increased information flow, but we need to look AT EACH OTHER TOO. Everyone is complicit in creating this apathetic, self-absorbed, class-riddled, half-true state of affairs, and as somebody who is desperately battling the urge to turn apolitical, I say – ENOUGH!

Required reading for this post: Charlie Brooker's article, which put into words what I felt before I could do it myself.

More reason for me (and you!) to love Armando Iannucci:

'"I've always been a political nerd, reading copies of Hansard when I was 12," says Iannucci. "I'm fascinated by how politics works, but have become increasingly appalled by how the truth is quite unashamedly contorted in political debate."


He is the win.

A True Pirate Daughter

My father had eye surgery on Wednesday (to remove a cataract) and has been wandering about looking distinctly more dishevelled than usual with a clear plastic disc taped to his eye. I like to imagine that I am the daughter of a pirate when I go out in my shorts and waistcoat, with a scarf tied round my head and now that particular little fantasy is one teeny step closer to coming true...!

Though that is not urbane, witty or particularly sophisticated, everyone needs a little stupid something to get them through times of stress. My eldest sister has come to stay with us for a few days, and although I have tried hard to ‘be good,’ it’s been bloody hard because she’s my eldest sister.

Allow me to explain (even though no-one reads this blog regularly other than myself!). There is a ten-year age gap between my sister and I and she regards me as ‘her’ baby, out of my brother and I, because I came before him. This means she can be REALLY patronising at times; she acts as a second mother. A mother who refuses to accept that I am (becoming) an adult. That would be bad enough as it is, but add in some fundamental personality differences and you’ve got the ideal combination for a passive-aggressive nightmare.

Yesterday, for example, we went food-shopping so we could make something ‘fun’ because it’s my brother’s birthday. Desperately short of ideas, I suggested Mexican. She murmured ‘I was thinking about making enchiladas... Enchiladas with Vegemince are quite nice, but you know, Dad doesn’t like it very much.’

AAARGH!!!! I wanted to let that out of my head through my mouth, with all the inherent blaring frustration. My dad, as an amritdhari Sikh, doesn’t eat anything even haunted by meat, fish or egg. As a Punjabi man, however, he is dead traditional and thus he doesn’t enthuse overtly about the meat substitutes that make our sparse vegetarian existence somewhat more bearable. And guess what, because we’re an Indian family, if he doesn’t like it, my sister’s not going to make it! I think that, as the oldest child, she suffers the need to try and please our (absolutely impossible) parents much more constantly and acutely than we do. So we lose out, all because Dad doesn’t sing hymns of praise to Vegemince. We ended up having ‘enchiladas’ which were not only protein-free (other than the vague sprinkling of cheese on top) but contained mangetout and baby corn within. MANGETOUT AND BABY CORN, I ask you.

See, if my mum had done something like that, I would’ve forgiven it because she grew up on Indian cuisine and nowt else... but my sister? My sister actually knows a bit about food, and that’s why I was so disgusted with her monumental cop-out. Most of all, it represents that attitude I hate so much: ‘I’ll conform to the needs of others so that they don’t need to conform to my needs.’

As an Indian girl, you get that bollocks rammed into your head all the way through your childhood and right up until marriage. Keep your nose clean! Keep your head down! Learn how to cook, and don’t expect help because Indian men aren’t going to give it to you! Eventually, you get to the level where you’re so hopped-up on fear and insecurity that you kowtow to the smallest of things, and by doing so, you allow other people to see that they can treat you a certain way.

As S--- said, when I tried hopelessly to communicate what all of this meant to me, it’s a question of degree. Just because you’re getting a bit of flak and rudeness from your husband now (as my sister has been for a long time) doesn’t mean that you’re safe! You shouldn’t hold that up against men who murder their wives and say ‘Well, it’s not that bad.’! What we have, in Indian society, is a scale of acceptability, and that in itself is absolutely fucking abhorrent. NONE of it is right. NONE of it is acceptable. Don’t have a scale, don’t have points on the scale which constitute ‘unacceptable behaviour.’ Do away with the whole thing and acknowledge that abuse of ANY KIND is INTOLERABLE. Today’s name-calling husband could be tomorrow’s murderer. By having the scale system, we are instantly implying that a wife could be to blame, somehow, for the way she is being treated – and even when parents or relatives have good intentions, this is hugely damaging to the victim.

Why do I feel so strongly about this? I really don’t know. Even before my sister’s marriage and my discovery of some of the skellingtons in our family’s closet, something about this really stung me. I am an egalitarian feminist – I want us all to be equal, but I acknowledge that right now, that involves improving the lot of women much more than it does improving the lot of men. Yesterday I read ‘Shame’ by Jasvinder Sanghera and it made me incredibly angry and sad. At first I felt annoyed with her for being so mopey about her family and for picking men who would treat her badly. Then I thought a bit more and got angry at the real culprit – the Indian family unit (though you could say it of the family in other cultures too) which often fosters a kind of unhealthy co-dependency between the child and the rest of the family that is regulated by fear, just as much as, if not more so, as by love. I think she mentioned both these things in the book, but I don’t think she tied them together as I just have.

Actually, I do know why I feel strongly about this. It’s because my family (both immediate and extended) are a lot more educated than some Indians, and I suppose I expected better of them than to go on mindlessly endorsing the traditions of a place where they don’t even live any more. The most annoying of my aunts has been through a lot of shit, I found out only last year: married into the family of a patriarch who brain-damaged his own daughter for whatever reason (!), impregnated by a husband who had someone else before and after the marriage and put on a train to London alone when six months pregnant, with very little English. When she gave birth to her daughter, the family then tried to disavow all responsibility and attacked my father when he attempted to make them face up to the consequences. There were the eye-opening marriages of my two sisters, in particular my eldest sister’s, where everyone’s tears were symptomatic of a heavy sense of regret and loss rather than joy at her marriage, and the fallout from their continual arguments. Last, but definitely not least, there was the murder/suicide of my cousin in India (who I only met twice in my life). Like so many others, she mysteriously caught fire and died from the burns without anyone being able to help at all. People may say the practice of Sati is dead, but on the evidence of that and several other similar deaths (such as that of Jasvinder Sanghera’s older sister Robina), I would beg to differ.

On a slightly lighter note, I appear to have strayed from the spec yet again! I PROMISE I will explain my politics/game thing and talk about trolls next time.

A Pickled Post-Mortem...

Why it wasn’t that great: The sun shone on my face till I was a little bit red-boiled-looking (like a newborn baby, and only marginally less grumpy), felt ready to drop asleep any second and I was absolutely starving for maybe about an hour. Also, at times, I felt like I had all the charisma and intelligence of a potted plant.

Why it wasn’t half bad: I got less shy with time (comme d’habitude!), met some very friendly and interesting people and just generally TOOK A CHANCE FOR ONCE. Yay.

What am I on about?

Yesterday, that is to say, Saturday 2^nd August 2008, I went to my first-ever Pickled Politics meet-up. This may have seemed a fatal mistake if I had even dreamed that the majority (i.e. everyone apart from me and two others) would be seasoned writers/bloggers. I spent a lot of time just listening and not saying anything much for a good while at first (which makes a change, I have to admit – I’ve got a bit sick of being with people who expect me to do all the talking all the time).

I’m going to use either a person’s real name or their online name, so as to respect people’s privacy – this may be the same for some people, as it is for me (on PP, anyway). I was the youngest there, which didn’t surprise me, but I wasn’t made to feel it too much. Once Sunny arrived, things seemed to get a fair bit more relaxed, probably because he was the organiser of the event and also because he ushered in the arrival of at least three other people. After that, I don’t think anyone else was really expected, so y’know... it all just kicked off.

I wish I had tried a bit harder to talk to Sid and Sonia, but... I suppose things don’t always go how you'd like. It was quite fun talking about music and Queen Mary with Gege, and really interesting talking a whole load of assorted breeze with Nyrone. There was the revelation that MaidMarian may be a friend of Sunny’s, the semi-revelation that Avi Cohen is either a self-loathing Jew or a Muslim in disguise (I figured something like that, but I can never read his posts without my brain shutting down) and the non-surprise that Sunny wants to move into politics proper, as opposed to being ‘just’ a commentator. Sunny seemed rather chilled for someone who’s always working (apparently :-P), Sonia was tiny and elegant (no offense intended, I just thought you’d be really tall for some reason!), Nesrine Malik was regal, Nyrone was kind, Sid was dressed cool (his friend seemed cool too, but I didn’t really talk to him for some reason, probably hunger) and Rumbold was... a shock. He was a lot younger than I expected, and quite charming (for a libertarian, hur hur). The only person who I was really scared of (at first) was Tom from Boriswatch, because he REALLY knew his stuff and he speaks really fast. I tried to make small talk with him, and he must have thought I was simple (almost everything he said dived right over my head and into the sunny sky).

I am awarding myself brownie points for sharing my paltry pretzel remnants out, and also for speaking up when I was about to pass out from hunger. I spent the length of a debate between Sunny, Sonia and Sid growing gradually more catatonic, until I found myself wondering what the hell I was still doing upright (Thank you M&S, for restoringmy sanity on the Tube home). There were a few disappointments. Firstly, that there was not that much real non-politics discussion – but I suppose that wasn’t much of a surprise given that it was a meeting of political bloggers, who are about as hardcore as you can get (outside of politicians) I suppose. Secondly, that no-one seemed to have heard of The Wire. WTF, mate?! That almost made me lose a bit of respect for them! Third and finally, I was disappointed with myself for not responding to people’s questions better. I never got to explain fully what I meant by ‘politics and the game.’ That’s what I think I’m going to do in my next post. I will also be dealing with trolls, as I found the NY Times article on that particular topic very interesting. Adieu for now.

This post was brought to you by Freda Payne's Unhooked Generation.

Debunking the 'community mindset'

I’m sure it’s been said many a time before, but it struck me today, while watching an episode of the American sitcom Girlfriends, how damaging and hypocritical the ‘community’ mindset is for the protection of women (among other issues). Advocates for this mindset (such as my father) essentially consider ‘the group’ and ‘being part of the group’ (whichever group that might be) as much preferable to an ‘individualistic’ outlook or society. The ‘community’ mindset is apparently better because when you’re part of a group, you all support each other, and it’s a huge, selfless love-in.

This is, of course, so breathtakingly deluded I don’t even know where to start. I couldn’t help thinking to myself that the kind of people who are communitarians often tend to be Indians, Africans, Arabs, Chinese etc... The list goes on (I’m focussing on Indians myself, whether Indian Indian or British Indian, because that’s where my experience lies). In many cases, one will often find that the defenders of this sort of mentality are also usually men. The ‘older generation’ in general, tend to be vocal supporters of it (I’m thinking of those sections of Indian families that are usually in the 40+ group, though there are exceptions).

Now, I feel it necessary to run through the positive aspects of being in a group. To avoid the ‘racialising’ of this, I’m not talking about being in any one group in particular; this is a one-list-fits-all deal. So:

1) You have a strong and established support network.

2) An overarching sense of identity is established (you are not just yourself, but you also become yourself as part of something bigger, which is of course irresistible to us humans, as social animals).

3) Er... that’s it.

It seems rather unfair to list only two positive things, but looking closely at them shows that they encapsulate everything good about being part of a group. I’m not going to break those points down, because I don’t think there’s any real need for anyone with half a brain.

So now let’s consider how and why those two things might fail, or turn out to be a load of old tripe.

1) Society is neither equal, nor fair (a lot of the time). Cordoning yourself off in a little section of it, screaming ‘THIS IS WHERE I BELONG!’ sadly does not change that fact.

2) Er... that’s it.

In just about every country in the world, a small and powerful assortment of people is in charge. The reasons for their being in charge will vary from place to place, (wealth/popularity/skill/knowledge/ancestry). Nonetheless, the overall list of reasons will always be applicable, and more often than not, it will involve the first two and/or the very last, reasons. This is the way it is the world over – wealth, popularity (usually beautified as ‘social standing’ or, more honestly, ‘contacts’) and ancestry are what rule the world. THE WORLD.

So what in hell makes you think that your ‘group’ is going to be immune to this? In every group too, there is a particular ‘elite’ of people who look out for the reputation of the group above all else, and when individuals show themselves to be human, they will be sorry. It’s dark, but it’s true, and it’s one of the things humankind routinely tries to ignore about itself wherever possible. What comes to mind in particular here is France’s myth of nationhood, developed after World War II. De Gaulle is a national hero even today, viewed as a father of the country almost.

Yet in reality, the support for the Resistance was scant and the collaborationist Vichy regime was not the hated oppression that people like to imagine today. Apparently, many regular French people adopted a ‘wait and see’ attitude during wartime, which didn’t really surprise me that much. Though we try to reduce history to individuals (thereby exonerating ourselves completely), ‘the group’ is much more responsible than anybody likes to admit.

To finally make my point about the protection of women, I’ll use a famous ‘historical’ example from India – that of Draupadi, the wife of the 5 Pandavas, who was gambled away in a game of dice. The man who ‘won’ her, their cousin Duryodhana, claimed the right to disrobe her in public. By a convenient religious miracle, he didn’t succeed; however, all those seated in the gambling hall were guilty of looking on and doing nothing, as Bhishma Pitama (a prominent elder of the clan) would regretfully observe later.

Not much has changed. We continue to ignore the fact that ‘the group’ wants to have its cake, and eat it too. It wants to benefit from the advantage of having a collective of individuals, without actually making them equal. When ugly issues arise – child abuse, domestic violence, incest – more often than not, people will be rejected instead of receiving the support they might expect, because at the end of the day, individuals’ problems are a PR disaster. Quarantine off the infection, and leave the infected part to moulder!

Oh, good Lord

After my last post, I actually backpedalled and properly read the post-before-that, that I put up at the end of January.

My neuroticism is funny at first, then the whole thing just becomes a horrible mess, because I start raving about 'what I have to do' and the tone suddenly creaks towards private.

I must not list my chores to anyone again. Ever. Not even to my blog.

I see how my boyfriend felt all this time. I'M SORRY, ----!

A break with the past

I have made my blog open to all once more, and that means that previous posts can be read by anyone.

I could easily have chosen to delete them all, but I don't want to. Pretentious as it will inevitably sound, they were an essential part of my formation and growing-up - which is not yet complete, but I'm getting there!

Anyway, from now on, I'm going to try and be a bit less... teenage.

I've added a fair few links: Between East and West, which is a blog I really like by Ala Abbas, and Ariane Sherine's blog. Ariane's is a lot more light-hearted than Ala's on the whole (well, she is a comedy writer), but they're both excellent writers.

I hope to join that particular 'A'-club someday by becoming a skilled (and read) writer myself! At the moment, I'm stuck with addressing you, my purely fantastical audience.


Well, this does make me feel a bit better than all my recent future-based panic, so... I'll try and keep it up!

Must work...

Written yesterday.

This is a kind of combination email / blog post. I am so knackered today, it's awful. It's that horrible, misty kind of tiredness when you have so much to do, and you want to do it, and yet you can't. What I need, above all else, is sleep. I can't help feeling that if I had got home early, as planned, and had a nap, I might feel more inclined. What I do feel like doing now is curling up with Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (which arrived 2 days ago - at last!), and then sleeping at about 11. That would mean having no dinner, but that might not be such a bad thing, seeing as how my stomach is distinctly paunchier than it was (and I have been noticing it, big-time).

I need to say something here, because this is my blog. I regret buying those cropped cardigans off ASOS. I do regret it. Everyone telling me they don't like them doesn't help. They don't always look so bad, but they're too big, and they just make me look fat and lumpy-breasted, rather than sculpting my chest the way Kirsten's do (unless she just has the one? I don't know...). It doesn't help that the one I wear the most is mustard yellow - and of course, light colours make you look bigger. I generally try to avoid wearing anything very light on top - 'pale' is always a disaster - but sometimes it's not possible! That colour is great, and I've had no luck finding any other cardis in that shade. So I'm stuck with it for now. The dark brown one, though boring, at least has the advantage of looking smaller because it's dark. I'm not a huge fan of my uber-pale pink cardigan either but again, it's one of those 'go-with-everything' colours and I'm pretty limited out here in -----.

God, I can't believe I've just moaned extensively about cardigans. Still, we all need to vent a little, and that's something I can feel 'spafe' about. Spatially safe - which is kind of retarded, because I mean I feel safe moaning about it because it's an issue can put aside for a long time. That therefore makes it about time rather space. Substitute with 'stafe.'

This is what happens when I talk to myself - I rave on about cardigans and space VS time. Christ. OK, I'll try to be constructive, and make a list of what I need to do this week:

1) Email Dr McMorran about my YA plan, asking how it's meant to be done, if there is any kind of regulation for it.

2) Email out surveys to people - my family included - and start collecting, reading and collating the responses people give me. Instead of getting about 10 'French' responses and 10 'English,' I'll just send out as many poss. The more responses I have, the better. Besides, I can, for the time being, advance on the grounds that the first wave of responses seems to be confirming what I think more or less so far. French people are much more incumbent on TV and radio than we are (we tend to be more paper & Internet-oriented). This is interesting because it suggests that we are more visually-oriented than they are, and certainly, the English language is more visual. Chance for cultural commentary here! They are definitely still closer to the Middle Ages and oral culture than we are, especially when you consider how much Middle Ages / Renaissance literature features on literature courses here.

3) Sweep my room

4) Wipe the:

- sink

- kitchen table

- desk

- bathroom sink

5) Mop the floor.

6) Work on my relationship. Fundamentally, nothing has changed about ---- for me. I love him, he loves me, it's beautiful, blah blah blah. I am right now listening to Fugitive Motel by Elbow. I have listened to this and thought of him many a time, but it holds more relevance than ever, seeing as how I am in another country. So here goes:

Oi - you. Yes, YOU. YOU reading this right now. I am thinking about you. The little soft hairs at the nape of your neck (that I have too). Your big, brown, trusting eyes that are fringed with long, long lashes. I would say you've got a dog's eyes, but there's a terrible knowledge in there that a dog's could never have. I look in them, and I am pinned harder than a butterfly on a botanist's wall. It might not have as intense a physical effect as it did, but I still feel love for you when I look at you, and when other things aren't hampering me and making everything harder than it should be. I know I'm still in love with you rather than just loving you - my greatest fear is when I get to the point when it's but the latter. I know because I still want to be your wife. I know because the thought of you standing by and letting me be with another man makes me feel a strange mix of anger and grief, though mostly anger. Why that turn of phrase, though? Because I would never let myself be with anyone else. (I would be severely tempted, were Wylie Times to propose to me, but that's so impossible that we will now forget I just said and laugh instead... ! But seriously - GET IT ON WITH DIZZY, FOR FUCK'S SAKE, YOU'RE SUCH A BEAUTIFUL COUPLE, I CAN'T STAND IT). Anyway, to return from that random tangent, you're still who I run off into the sunset with in my head. This year is testing us big-time, because I'm growing as a person, while you are being put under pressure and restrictions. But I'm just telling you, this is my attempt not to lose sight of what's important: us. We have had many a stupid fight recently, and the distance has been very damaging (among other things).

BIG HUG. I love you. Hurry up and start watching Heroes, so that we can geek out together, and I don't have to turn to A--. In all honesty I don't mind hearing about The Wire, but I get impatient and jealous when you go into raptures, and the temptation to go on Wikipedia and read all the storylines becomes dangerously seductive. I am going to listen to that !!! song later. The Internet here is not working (ha!), so I am going to post this tomorrow sometime, in the afternoon methinks.

And here's a big kiss for you. I really miss you physically. You've seen how much difference your being physically present makes - it's actually even a little dangerous, because I can relax TOO much. I feel so safe, I feel like an adventurer from a fictional world climbing inside the crooked elbow of a sheltered cave, safe but not bored, comfortable without being confined. OMG, this is brilliant, I may yet be able to return to the glorious descriptiveness of my younger days! I will speak to you soon.

Love, to you, and to myself (note to me: you needs to be kidnapped by a loving soul and pampered for days on end, so you can relax, sleep properly and get back on form!)

..... MWAH MWAH MWAH

Whew!

I just looked at my last post and I am so so embarrassed. I can't believe I was that mad at A---! Thankfully, that is all ancient history, now that I'm in France, and everything has changed so much. That was almost a year ago - well, about 5 months short of a year. So much has changed, but I don't need to go into that, because this blog is primarily for me and mines, and I know what happened. I upped sticks to France for my Year Abroad, and though there were as many trials and tribulations as you might expect with that, it's also been a huge learning experience for me. I got a lot closer to people I never thought I'd be friends with - Trish and Tom - and made new friends (Matt, Kirsty, Fahad, Sophie Cameron...). Trish, Matt and Kirsty are leaving - well, Trish went this morning - but it's not the end of the world, and I feel a lot more grown up than I was for dealing with it. I was really sad this morning when it hit me in full that Trish is GONE, PERMANENTLY GONE to Bologna. Mais c'est la vie... and so I have to deal with it. I'm treating the departure of my favourite people to chat to here as a blessing in disguise, because it'll mean I'll get more work done. I'm making slow progress on that front, but progress at all is something to be glad for.

Christ, I am KNACKERED. These 10.30 starts are a gift compared to last semester, but I haven't yet got the hang of sleeping before 1 or 2. Therefore, even a reasonable time like 8.30 comes on like waking death with head aching fuzzily and my eyes prying themselves open as if there's a crowbar at work. It is lovely to wake to sunshine though - yesterday was the first sunny day for some time, as is today, and it makes even the littlest acts of 'going about your day' something infintely more bearable, dare I even say, FUN. I'm very happy because I did a naughty thing which I can't talk about here for fear that S--- will read it. Well OK, it wasn't a NAUGHTY thing, but it was fun, and now I will shut up and say no more.

Comic of the moment: I won't necessarily always have one of these, seeing as I tend to binge on comics, much to my shame, but for now - 100 Bullets. Oh my goodness. This series has far exceeded my expectations of what a comic could be, and yet it does do complete justice to the term 'graphic novel' that is generally applied to all the comics I read. It is, in many ways, the total opposite of my first love in comics, Preacher. It has the sex, the violence and the one-liners, but that is where the similarities end. Where Preacher defined itself by being rude and crude, balanced with a hidden heart of gold - in short, strongly reflecting the main protagonist, Jesse Custer - 100 Bullets is subtle, complex, and extremely... disjointed. I'm not totally happy with that term, since it has quite negative implications. However, what I mean is simply that Brian Azzarello juggles a huge cast of characters, and several storylines simultaneously, without breaking a sweat. Stylistically, it is much more ambitious and ingenious than most comics try to be, I think. I don't mean to insult other books, but where most sell themselves on a new/individual style of, or particularly beautiful, artwork plus good writing - 100 Bullets doesn't.

See, I can't help thinking that this is not just for people who aren't so keen on books, and/or taking a break from films (some of the others give me that impression). This is a consummately literary masterpiece. Take the storyline 'The Crash,' for example. Nothing much happens. Agent Graves meets up with some of The Trust and is made an offer, while a young couple discover a crashed car and a dead man clutching the winning lottery numbers. And yet it turns into a masterfully disturbing look at humanity, with Agent Graves / Javier's dialogue overlapping into the 'crash scenes.' When the couple struggle to choose a course of action - take the money and run? Ease their guilt by paying some to the family of the crash victim? - it is a situation we have all been in, where to help ourselves is to deny another, and what should be an easy choice becomes a guilt-ridden nightmare once our sense of responsibility gets involved. The two scenarios reflect each other - in both cases, an offer of sorts is being made, a huge decision must be taken.

However, it doesn't end there. The very premise of the series is recalled - Graves presenting strangers with 100 untraceable bullets, a picture of someone who has ruined their life and proof of this in the signature attaché case. It is a troubling decision which has huge consequences for everyone who ever has to make it. The niggling question arises once more: just what is Graves up to? Whose side is he really on? And the plot only thickens when you proceed further, to where Graves attempts to stitch up his apparent associate, Mr. Shepherd, by inciting Wylie Times (who is BLATANTLY a former Minuteman, c'mon, I'm not stupid!) to use the magic bullets on him. I realised what was going to happen after reading 'A Crash,' but was still shocked - and delighted to be right - when it did.

Shepherd himself is a gloriously seductive character who makes me think powerfully of Philip Marlowe (Raymond Chandler's uber-famous private eye). I suspect this is deliberate, what with his trench-coat, constant smoking, and wistful hangdog air. Also, if you look here, it lists some of the influences, and surprise surprise, guess who's in there? Shepherd is wonderful because you know nothing about, nobody seems to trust him completely, he is apparently playing for both teams - and yet the man has a downright graceful air of 'don't fuck with me' about him. He's not particularly menacing - not in the way that psycho-hound Lono is - but it's clear he's no rookie either, what with the fact that he's apparently 'on the fence,' and still alive in spite of it. He also becomes more appealing as we start to see him pitted against Graves more and more explicitly. Where Graves seemes to be defined by his ruthless single-mindedness, Shepherd seems to retain some sense of principle, some sense of right and wrong. And apparently he's got feelings for Dizzy, one of my other fave characters! In short, he is the man-in-the-middle, yet the only real 'moral compass' (thanks, A---!)... and apparently a former Minuteman. I look forward to knowing more.

Album of the moment is AIM's Hinterland. This fella is from the U.K (yay!), and he is on that trip-hop shit... but GUESS WHAT? He does it well! I also think that his is one of the few cases where you can legitimately apply that label, being as it is a blend of trippy, electronic and hip-hop elements. So you get insistent basslines, and braggadicio rapping (The Omen, featuring Diamond D) and soulful female vocals with sweepy classical violins. There is also a neat use of weird, slightly distant-sounding samples, such as during my favourite track of the album, Linctus, where a woman in the background croons 'Bay-beh'... or so I think.

Right, well the first 10 tracks are very good, with some utter stand-outs (The Girl Who Fell Through The Ice, Good Disease, The Omen, Linctus and Vipco come to mind here). Then comes the album's first - and thankfully, only - huge mistake. A Twilight Zone. What was he thinking? This could serve as the music to some mobile-phone or insurance advert, and I wouldn't care. The next one, From A Seaside Town, wasn't too memorable either, but the last track, Hinterland is better. I guess he had to get its name from somewhere!

Well, that's about it for today folks. I'll smell ya later (when I've got the time!).

Gift-Giving Systems

I was going to start writing this in my Asda Reporter’s Notebook. I decided, just fuck it, I’m going to type it up. I was bringing my PC down anyway, and at least that way, no-one can start trying to read what I’m doing. It’s harder when it’s just a screen, instead of a page, on view from pretty much all sides.

I’m losing my calm somewhat as we wait for some woman to arrive who apparently received us in her house in India (in Fatehpur, my recollection of events is very hazy as I was quite violently ill at the time). As usual, my mum is going into fussing overdrive, telling me to get the best glasses and shit, in case they want some juice. ‘You can’t just expect people to sit down and eat just like that,’ is along the lines of what my dad said. No – of course you can’t, that would be crazy, seeing as how you invited them to dinner and all.

******** THEY’VE ARRIVED ********

My mum kept asking me to do stuff in an urgent voice, and then when I had served the drinks, she had a go at me for forgetting the crisps (I didn’t forget them – there wasn’t space on the tray), and said I was ‘so slow.’ I came very close to socking her in the face and / or swearing at her at the very least. When she goes into her Hospitality Mode, I often feel as if I could comfortably kill her. I generally fucking hate Indian hospitality, and I’m not even the one cooking. I don’t plan on ever being the one cooking. It reminds me of Timon of Athens, and this fucking big-deal bond of ‘obligation’ that gets created whenever anyone does any little thing for anyone else.

That kind of thing messes me up. My parents installed in me a desire to not depend on anyone (both intentionally and unintentionally). Obviously, that isn’t realistic – you have to do so at some point in your life. This kind of thing really turns me off it though. It makes me like the service industry – all you have to do is pay, and you get what you asked for. None of this fulfilling-obligations-with-gritted-teeth-and-fake-smiles. My parents actually like very few people, and their friend-circle is tiny. It’s mostly my dad’s old friends, all two of them to be precise. That means about 95% of the hospitality we offer is forced. You don’t have time to feel resentment, because you’re too busy getting everything done. Well, that’s how it should work. I feel a LOT of resentment. Right now, we’re having our dinner delayed because Flora Auntie’s fucking son Laaddi is on his way. Last time I saw him, he stared at me a lot. Or so it felt. He’s like, in his forties or something.

I want to eat, and I do not want to hear stories about how I was constantly throwing up in Fatehpur (I was there – I lived it, and I missed seeing the peacocks every damn morning). I think that going to bed at half-midnight has not helped matters any in the emotional department. But will I stop doing it? Tune in next week for the final instalment (not). Called S--- to get a bit of relief earlier, because N---- was round here, doing her thing of ranting endlessly about every conceivable aspect of her marriage. She’s so fucking blind, it only makes me more angry. She did her routine thing of berating me when I dared show a bit of insolence towards my mum. I didn’t even swear or anything, but the stupid cow jumped on me like she always does. She instantly reprimanded me for saying ‘Oh bugger’ when I realised I’d spilt some tea – instantly, a second after it left my mouth. That should give you some idea. Pedantic bitch.

I’m currently trying to ignore and reject the usual ‘major players’ in my life. S-----, I’m holding at arms’ length with all I’ve got, because I’m sick of her noncommittal ways. She’s worse than A---, and that’s more than I can take.

Ah yes. Fucking A--- -----. I started to get the feeling that I was spending too much time with him, and that I was going off him a bit before he and S--- buggered off to Bremen, Germania for almost a week last Thursday. S---’s flying back today, at about 10 p.m., and he said he will ‘call me when he gets back.’ Ha! I think not, punk. When I called him earlier, I don’t know what I was looking for to be honest. To feel a bit less shifting? It didn’t work. He got all soggy on me when I said I didn’t want to hear about his friend V-- having a love-in about A---. I feel like I might kill A--- if I come across him. All the good work of some months has come undone – but I don’t care. I shall do my level best to slowly erase him from my memory and existence. S---’s feelings were hurt, apparently, when I abruptly declined to hear about the three-way love-fest (V-- thinks A---’s cool, but not as cool as her, and ofc Father S--- loves them both). Well, to use the words of Royce Da 5’9’’: ‘Fuck your feelings.’ I’ve had enough of his issues, he can have some of MINE. In fact, fuck the lot of them.

Oh sorry, do I sound bitter? Maybe I am, because SHE gets to go and swan off with my boyfriend in Germany while I am stuck here in a grey, wet Britain. The last two days, thankfully, I went out to see Steph, and then David. It didn’t help much though. I’ve got to start going for walks / jogs on my own. I have GOT to start reading French at the very least, before I forget everything. My grammar needs revising. Some French chat and films wouldn’t go amiss either. SORT YOUR LIFE OUT, YOU WHORE! I have Balzac’s ‘Le Curé de Tours’ which does akshully look interesting though, and is topical (haha). It’s not long either.

OK, OK:

- More sleep.

- Pay dentist. Get receipt – for the clean / filling and also for my appointment on the 7^th June. I lost the original, so I need a duplicate.

- Read Balzac. Go watch ‘La Vie en Rose’ with Z----. Speak French with Z----. Try watching some TV5.

- Try and make a plan of my YA project. I’ve started it already on the home desktop – perhaps I should look up books on the subject?

- Get counselling?

- Go for walks / jogs BY MYSELF. Who needs A---? He only slows me down, and takes me into the park every damn time. Plus, he is an emotional retard, and with my current fragile state, I can’t fucking hack that.

Ha, let’s see how much I’ll actually get done. I predict maybe 3 of those things at most.

Hello There Blog!

I have totally ignored you, but that's because I've been:
a) busy
b) trying to do a journal in French. It had unexpected side-effects, such as making me totally insecure about the level of my basic French. I need grammar revision, I need vocabulary revision - AARGH!

Perhaps if I make an effort to write more complex entries, then I'll manage to improve my vocab. As you know, it is Bank Holiday Monday. My sisters are over for dinner (unfortunately). The eldest, --------, is without her husband ------ because he found a way to get out of it AGAIN. He always plays the 'work' card and avoids interacting with us. Their marriage has always been rocky, and it appears to be reaching the point of divorce now. I can't say I'm surprised, and I am keeping my involvement as non-existent as possible. Basic rule #1 for my survival and mental health? Fuck the family.

Two men I have to thank extensively for helping toughen up my emotional hide to this point are - *drum-roll* S--- and A---. I was obsessed with A--- as pretty much any of my good friends could tell you, and I still am, but now it's in a good way. It's not fear, and I don't dwell on him to the point of sounding like a loony. We just hang out and I am neurotic no more. He is one of my best friends, and in the slightly-paraphrased words of S---'s good pal M--, I know that in future 'I will still love him and need him in my life.' Haha.

Just to remind myself, I am hell-bent on going to:

- Gareth Pugh: Fashion In Motion (Friday June 15th at the V&A). I need to book free tickets which will become available on Monday 4th June (i.e., in a week exactly). I am taking A---.
- Panic Attack! Art In The Punk Years at the Barbican (5th June until... er... who knows?). Tickets are £6 online. I plan on taking S--- and A--- to this.

God, I'm such a boy-girl. It's terrible. I attract guys like a magnet, and seem to have less luck with females. That first part could be taken as arrogance - but I don't mean that because I'm so gorgeous or whatever. I just do, probably because girls treat me with more suspicion than guys. Rightly so - I'm something of a failure femalely (my coinage!). Make-up and 'pretty paints' (my coinage again... as far as I know... ha! On fire) exasperate me for the most part. Clothes are fun and all, but I often let my utilitarian streak keep my crazy-frilly-frothy-fun streak in check.

I changed my picture on Facebook to one of me looking rather pretty and got poked by two guys and messaged by two. Good Lord. It almost proves my point. A CERTAIN SOMEONE - who was obsessed with me for a while - proves the point.

Time to eat - I SHALL RETURN HENCE! I hope that makes sense. RHYME! :-D

So Much Goddamn Fear

Sorry I've been dead, o blog, I have had a good excuse. I name and shame it as two essays worth 50 and 60 % respectively. One was completed, along with its bibliography, today. The other will be significantly harder to get through, being a 4, 000-word 'project.' I feel now like there should be some pictures scanned in, or something.

But yes, the 50% essay remains. There is a lot of reading to do for it, since it is a research project, and I do not have the strength just now. I know I should - I keep doing less than I should, and feeling mad at myself for it. But I really, really can't face hours of reading critical texts endlessly. I'm a bit worried that I'm going to underperform again today, but I just can't handle it right now.The thing that was bugging me just now was how fucking afraid people are, especially as they get older. Why the fuck are we so ashamed of being honest about our feelings? It feels like there is no way to get any kind of balance - people either repress everything, or they overshare. Some would probably put me in the second category since I can be incredibly candid at times, but I say NO. I don't tell everyone every little detail of my life that ever happens.

I was just reading Kill Your Boyfriend, and then just a few minutes ago, my parents were discussing the marriage of Arun Nayer and Liz Hurley, which prompted this. My dad was saying how they could end up in jail over their wedding, and I went 'Yeah, I know. I can't believe they want to arrest them for kissing in front of the cameras. So bloody backwards-minded.' I have to admit, I found it a bit funny at first, in a Schadenfreude way... until I got to that bit. Then, I got angry. 'They have insulted our traditions.' Well, FUCK your traditions. Aren't you the lot who invented the Kama Sutra? Have you not had children? Hmmm... how did you know not to stick it in her EAR, with that great level of enlightenment you're showing?My parents were talking about it, and my dad (my mum too, I suppose) couldn't even fucking say the word 'kissing.' He didn't talk about that litle tidbit at all. My mum snarkily wondered aloud if their marriage would even last ('look at Jemima Khan...'). This was preceded by them talking about how if you want to marry a Muslim, 'first thing is convert. That's what happens if you get involved with a Muslim. You might as well die.'Oh, they're wonderful, aren't they? Just another fucking Indian couple mindlessly following tradition by being totally fucking irrationally able to handle the existence of sex and any form of sexuality. EVEN THOUGH THEY HAVE FOUR CHILDREN. And this. Don't you just fucking love it?!

Global Warming SO Exists

Well, what is there to say? Los Parentos (I know that is wrong, I don't need to be told, but the RIGHT way of writing it would be nice) have returned from Italy. They bought me a beaded purse, which was nice of them. It is in the shape of a very fat bunch of grapes, with three leaves and then the grapes all below. Unfortunately:
a) I have noticed that in some lights you can see these gold dots in the grapes (they are also outlined in gold), which makes them look like strange, periwinkle-y purple boobs. It's not even funny, just weird.
b) It's actually smaller inside than it looks. I was all excited about it potentially being able to replace my current purse, which has broken a bit, but I don't think it can fit cards, change and keys all at once without some kind of tragic accident.

Yesterday, because I had a bit of real free time for the first time in ages, I spent at least four hours tidying the house in preparation of the parents' return. I actually missed my mum, because living with my lazy-ass brother for four days does that to a girl. I hoovered the back room, the front passage, the downstairs bathroom and the kitchen (twice!). I mopped the kitchen floor. I loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the computer screen and dusted it, tried to clean the keyboard as much as I could, cleaned the mousemat and then the desk that it sits on. I tidied the papers round there too. I cleaned the TV and the glass shelf-thingy which houses the DVD player, Sky box and video (way to make myself sound overprivileged!), and cleaned the fronts of those appliances too. I tidied the area around the TV and cleaned the cabinet that holds our videos. I took the clothes upstairs, sorted and folded them (though there were only four...). I straightened out the sofa and plumped the cushions. I tidied the shoes, put whatever new mail I found in a magnetic clamp, and then stuck that on the fridge. I sorted all the random papers affixed to the fridge so that letters were in the clamp at the top, then random shite, then phone numbers and contact details for people below. I also wiped the surfaces in the kitchen, with spray, tidied the area near the turntable and TV and cleaned the microwave and the two racks and two metal protector thingies that came with it.

I think it is quite clear to see from that lengthy paragraph that I am Superwoman. However, my arse hurts rather a lot now. It feels rather bruised. It was a pretty wearying weekend for me when you consider all I did yesterday, plus the fact that I accidentally got up too early on Saturday (after not getting enough sleep). And after dinner on Saturday, I got really bad stomach pains due to something I'd eaten that was intent on tormenting me. I had to take Rennie Deflatine, for God's sake, and that did help, even though wind was not the problem. Something wanting to exit my stomach pronto - it would seem, preferably through my mouth - was the problem. The pain was making me writhe and sweat for a while, and I may even have prayed. Oh, the shame. Nonetheless, this has only made me more vehement about avoiding left-overs wherever possible, and heating stuff up properly. Laziness - especially when it comes to food - is unforgivable.

I shall end this rather pedestrian rant with a couple of mini-rants. Firstly, I really am not cut out to be studying Seventeenth-Century Literary Culture. Our seminar leader Rose went to Oxford, and can I say, it really shows. She's OK and all, but I just get that sense of slimy slipperiness from her that I always get from those people. I can't explain it at all. They just kind of remind me of lizards - perfectly-trained, smooth, diplomatic, hairless, CREEPY people. It is as if all the personality and individuality in them gets distilled out to make them smooth, efficient analysing machines who know lots of critical jargon but don't really seem to have their own opinions on, or passion for, what they're talking about. Rose was genuinely shocked that people in our class had come from 'such different academic backgrounds.' Steph muttered to me afterwards something about how she was probably shocked we hadn't all read the classics, or something, and I suspect she was right. Need I say any more about the Oxford / Cambridge production line? I'm sure some people must just be thinking I'm jealous and that I'd go like a shot if I had the chance, but in all honesty, even if I could go, I can't imagine staying. I could never be one of those people though, which rules me out. It makes me think of the first issue of The Invisibles, where they say something about being made smooth in their heads and between their legs, or something. It's all very Demon Headmaster.

Might I add that the major cause of my bitterness was getting 62 for a rather labour-intensive essay (trans: I laboured and laboured to make my relatively weak points, and it so showed), only to have what I already knew repeatedly pointed out to me. I pretty much always know what is wrong with my essays, but usually there is a proper reason for it. With this course however, it's because there's NOTHING I can do. I fucking HATE studying stuff that has mountains of criticism on it, it makes me seize up mentally and produce shite essays because my real control over what I say is already so diminished. It's just like Shakespeare last year. Fun to read - crap to write about. Also, the seventeenth century is really boring because - and I can just imagine legions of studious, conservative old farts spitting dust at me for this - it is so far removed from our age now, and me, as to be insensible. If you want to call our age self-obsessed, try looking at them. White men writing English epics about conquest and trying to turn London into a Rome or Athens? Women being publicly invisible? Religion virtually dominating mass culture (don't even try to link it to now, it's not the same.)? Fuck off. At least with Nineteenth-Century American Literature, we get to do people like Kate Chopin, who have more relevance to me and mines, so to speak..

A word on global warming before I go: how the hell can anyone really deny it exists now? I know that Britain's weather has always been capricious (to say the least), but suddenly going from 18-degree heat (well, apparently - I know it got up to 16 at least) and sunshine to 4 degrees this morning and sleet (apparently hail and snow will follow) is insanity. Anyone who thinks that God is sending it to punish us deserves to get sleet down their trousers. Seventeenth-Century and Milton are making me lose my already tremulous (read: virtually non-existent) appetite for God even more. Yes, he's a genius. Yes, Paradise Lost is soooo amazingly dense. So what? He's dead now, and I ain't no Puritan!

'And I Wake Up Alone...'

My title, and my mood, come from the song of the same name (Wake Up Alone) by Amy Winehouse on her fantab 'new' album Back To Black. It is excellent, please do buy it. I have been - and still am - hooked on it. It was great because I even got to see her live at Porchester House just last Wednesday - for free! I won tickets somehow. I think she might be lucky for me or summat, because I won a poster of hers as well once. We had the most annoying couple behind us, but I will post on that later if I can be arsed.

Enough digression. Since I admitted to ---- that I have felt a bit attracted to A--- in the past (not something I was happy about, I tell you. Talk about WRONG WRONG WRONG!), we went through a seriously rickety period that was the worst in recent memory for a long time, and then - we survived. It felt like there was a lot at stake here, and there was really, because we've been together for almost four years now. We are actually pretty good now, and I can't help wondering almost if we needed this in some way. I'm not trying to prettify the whole affair, but was it some kind of Fated Intervention? It has made so much difference to everything.

Par exemple, it has reminded me strongly of why only ---- is THE man for me. No-one else loves me like he does. No-one else will sit there calmly and let me rant about my work. No-one else is going to teach me how to cook, mess about with PCs or about the law. Most importantly, no-one else will make me face up to myself - and tolerate my abject weirdness - like he does. He totally gets me (God, I know, that's so Californian teenager, I'm sorry). We have a tendency to feel too alike at times, and completely alien at others, but I'd like to think we'll get the balance right eventually.

I have subconsciously been doing that thing of trying to 'replace' him with A--- (that I did while he was away). Except that now the element of attraction that derived from them being similar is not there because my hormones are under control and we are much more stable. This time, I've been constantly harassing A--- to talk to me, and then when I do get the chance, I realise I don't actually want to. He is a very good friend of mine - I'd daresay he's become one of my closest friends, but don't let him find that out! However, no-one replaces ----. It's scary to realise how much you love and need someone. I was wasting loads of time yesterday and then I was talking to A--- at 10.00 p.m., wondering why I couldn't leave him alone when I didn't actually want to talk to him.

Bingo - because the man I DID want to talk to was sleeping. I called him at 9 o'clock and he woke up and spoke in his 'asleep' voice which is heart-rendingly sweet. I couldn't bear to ruin his sleep (he NEVER sleeps that early, so he must have been knackered right out), so I let him go. However, he was the one I wanted and the one I still want. Not A---, not S-----, not any of my friends... but him. I feel a bit bad sometimes, because I do like my friends, but the way I am just means I can spend a lot of time alone quite happily, and then factor in that S--- is way more important to me than anyone else, and you get a serial friend-neglector. I have to stop being a disorganised, dim-witted flake, and then I will be better at keeping in contact with people.

Well, that was quite therapeutic. Another post may be necessary!

To close, I'll just say that you really need to be careful about making subliminal associations. I already have the terrible tendency to connect random things, which makes me a good English student. However, yesterday for some reason I was looking up that girl Kaavya Viswanathan who is my age but slightly older, and then I looked up other high-profile plagiarism cases where top-university (sorry, college :-P) students have fallen from grace, such as Aleksey Vayner. The whole thing was quite interesting to me for many reasons, like 'Why on earth do these people do these things when they are at such a high-profile place of study?' and 'If they're so clever, why do they get caught, and caught doing dumbass things?'

This all came back to bite me on the behind when my younger Jij (brother-in-law), -----, rang up pretending to be someone from my uni saying they had reason to suspect I had taken quotes off the Internet for my essay on Moby-Dick. I fell for it (!), because:
a) I had actually written a bit about that at the start of my last essay, and
b) I was trying to find the chapter where the quote I wanted was, so I Googled it and then located it in chapter 46 (I think) in my Penguin Classics copy. I was just thinking 'But that's not wrong is it?!!'
c) I was on general dumbass setting yesterday. My parents would have destroyed every last remaining shred of my self-esteem after I had myself, had they known or even been here to know.

Oh well, all's O.K and I had better get the hell going to wash my hair and maybe go to 8 Til' Late so that I can get some plain chocolate biscuits and some soy sauce. Dinner tonight is going to be good!

Vive la Rome! (Or something like that)

Can you tell I'm too tired to think up half-way decent post titles?

The parents have been safely packed off to Rome (they'll be gone until Sunday), and my brother and I are at home. How do I plan to celebrate this riotous occasion? Simple - I don't. I have been feeling increasingly anti-social over the past few days, dunno why. Maybe it is because I have a lot to do, and I want to do it, but I'm still not determined enough to devote myself to it? I have read a bit of Paradise Lost, book I though, which is all good, and I plan - yes, PLAN - on finishing the rest tonight. Tomorrow's homework on Yves Saint Laurent is so not happening.

Went to have lunch with S--- up in Angel today, where he is working for his placement. He had his hair down, as I have been pushing him to have the courage to do, and he looked SOOOOOOO CUTE. I almost wasn't sure what I wanted to do to him, but for some reason yanking his hood over his head and / or hugging and squeezing him very tightly came into my mind. What is wrong with me?!! The beauty of this first glimpse was, however, ruined by the sight of the flakage up-top. His hair is lighter than mine - well, it looks closer to brown than mine does - and is gorgeous. It is all obedient and soft, and not as shiny as mine (not necessarily to be taken as a good thing!) but this means that dandruff REALLY shows up.

Good grief, all I need to do now is lapse into my 'cool, young, female, probably a (fashion) magazine editor's PA' voice and start advertising Head & Shoulders. Instead, for my own private mirth (not that of my non-existent reader(s)), I'm sticking this in.

Anyway, we had a buffet lunch at Indian Veg Bhel Poori House (their spelling!) for £3.50. Cheap and cheerful is most definitely the right description. We couldn't help feeling smug about all the non-Asian (Indian) morons who thought they were getting something amazing, just because it wasn't the bog-standard South Indian dosa-bhel-sev-chaat jobbie. I have no problem with that particular cuisine, but I have to say, kudos to the owner(s) of Indian Veg for spotting that gap in the market. And for £3.50 - really a very good deal since you get a lot of veggies and it's all fairly non-greasy, blah blah blah. It's definitely better for you than going to many Chinese buffets, where death by grease is inevitable. However, no, it wasn't amazing, S--- preferred Sagar (though we got more potato than veg having the set lunch there, AND it cost more), and we were mildly amused / terrified by the vegetarian propaganda that was, quite literally, EVERYWHERE.


But ja, I went to see him, we had lunch, I produced my magic surprise of 'live' drinking yoghurt with peach pieces, we walked a bit, we kissed, I headed off to uni (amazingly only about 7 stops from there. If only it was 7 as opposed to 26 between uni and my home ...) and picked up my essay (worth 60%!) for What Happened To The Epic From Milton To Pope. I got 75. SEVENTY-FOOKIN'-FIVE! I was in shock - really - for about five minutes at least, and then I felt very, very tired. I don't know if I can tell Katy, my friend whom I took the course with (I pretty much took it to be with her, which sounds potentially lesbo, but I was just trying to ensure we would stay in contact somehow, living in Bow and ......... respectively (!), and I figured not many people would want to touch it with a bargepole. I was semi-right). She was well mad because Isabel 'yoh yoh' Rivers ('yoh, yoh' is how she shows assent) accused her of lying about her word count, refused to take into account that she got evicted shortly before having to write this essay and therefore could only come in once to get whatever books were left (Kent to east London is THREE HOURS!), and gave her 54.

I have no idea what to say to Katy, because I.R seems to love me, even though I was mostly just b.s-ing all the way and paraphrasing her thoughts back at her... or so I thought. Either way I have a solid First for this module, since I got 70 in the other essay. Whoa, baby. Poor Katy, I don't get why I.R disliked her so much. She couldn't even get her name right for about 5 weeks or something.

Anyway, now I shall come full circle by explaining why I am tired, and then leave because of it. I stayed up till midnight for some absurd reason last night, couldn't sleep, woke up about 5 times and got woken up to say goodbye to my parents who I think left at 7 (cue me mumble-yelling to my mum in a sleep-fogged voice: "Muh... muh. Muh! Bread and Pro-activ!" Don't even ask). I stumbled downstairs in my teddy-bear pyjamas, hugged goodbye to them (or rather let them hug me, I was still undergoing pre-wake-up rigor mortis) and mistily registered that I had to turn on the dishwasher and put a washing load in and that dinner was taken care of. Beautiful. I woke up at 9, and I have been out since. Time, I think, to take a nap and speed on (I hope) with PL book I!

Milton, Kate... and Thomas N-

Since I have not posted on here for a high old time, I figured I would today. I have un petit peu de temps to breathe, since I have pretty much given up on being super-diligent in French. Quoi faire? If I can't get the critical article on Inch'Allah Dimanche (excellent film, by the way) done, or Thursday's homework, (which looks set to be about fashion. Fuck off) then OH WELL. I have so much to do anyway. I will rant on this topic as I am now too lazy and vague to have the Life Discussion I had planned.

D'accord, well. I have to read the first book (or is the first two?!) of Paradise Lost for next Monday, plus a pack of secondary reading. Yes, that's right... 'a pack.' Moan, whimper, mumble, etc. Now, I have read Paradise Lost already (hallelujah! Hallelujah!), as anyone unfortunate enough to know me in real life knows. It was a near-deathly experience which took so long, I can't actually remember how long. I fell asleep about 20 times through though, which BODES ILL.

Ironic thus that the second book I have to read (for Tuesday!) is called The Awakening. Kate Chopin, breast-exposing woman on the front cover (no... not Janet Jackson... though you can bet those SuperBowl spectators - and Justin - sure came to their senses pretty fast). Apparently, we'll like it. We'd better, is all I can say! Still, it is shorter than The Bostonians, which wasn't actually too bad, so there is hope for me.

In between this delightful reading fun comes the shock of actually having to THINK FOR MYSELF, otherwise known as my radio project with Thomas N-. Let me take you on a little tour of Tom. He is gangling (tall-ish, incredibly skinny), very intelligent and unbearably formal. I like him, but sometimes I am caught in the desire to terrify the hell out of him by rubbing his head very very slowly. Why, you ask? Well...

The formality can be a bit much for sure. I have times where I feel like sticking my hands in my back pockets and going "Well gee Tom, why don't you lighten up a bit?" like some 1950s American-schoolkid-gone-Enid-Blyton. Tom is lovely, but he tends to be impatient - something that doesn't come across at first, because he has a stammer (I think). Thus, he takes ages to say something. Cruel people in our class (Therese, Nesh) smother laughter when he speaks up. To be honest though, I think it is simply because, like me, his brain often moves faster than his mind. In his case, MUCH faster. I do like him a lot, but sometimes I just feel like going 'Tom, I know you're very smart and etc., but please shut up a second and let me talk, and while you're listening, formulate a bit so you won't struggle to express your ideas.' He also tends to interrupt / talk over you sometimes. I'm certain it's one of those things people have constantly forgiven him (because he is sweet), thus he doesn't realise he's doing it. Did I also mention that the boy is so goddamn diligent, he makes me look like some Courtney Love-style layabout? It verges on the bureaucratic. Bad girl, you will not - no, you will not pull his ears! Aha, um yes, well, I need a bit more patience too.

But ja, this radio project basically means we have to actually prepare a script, interview some specialists, give the whole thing a proper analytical backbone (it has to make some kind of clear argument) - AND THEN RECORD IT ALL IN NINE MINUTES!

I tell you, nine minutes? I know that dear old Nicole is a bit nuts (apparently her husband was in the Hungarian Revolution of 1956...), but this takes the biscuit. Personally, I am all in favour of our being replaced by those chipmunks that can be heard when a tape malfunctions / is played speeded-up.

Attempt

I am writing this to try and express myself, because that’s what I need to do more, apparently.

I don’t know if I am so capable of that any more. Nowadays, when I feel intensely emotional, I just get very nauseous. The past couple of weeks – or maybe for about a month now – I’m not too sure what’s happened to me. Whatever it is, it’s cleverly subtle – it’s not at all paced or regular. Happy times become far too prominent in my memory. I hung out with A--- (a good friend of S---) last Saturday and it is still burned into my memory. Part of me fears that I’m getting a bit attracted to him, because of the way I am at the moment. I read a text by Tzvetan Todorov, which is basically a theoretical text on the fantastic in literature. He talks about how very young children, druggies and mentally-ill people (chiefly psychotics and schizophrenics especially) find the limits between physical and spiritual matter (or somesuch) merging. This is what forms a key part of the supernatural element in fantastic texts. That is how I feel at the moment. I feel like I have become very permeable, so that everything penetrates me with even more force than usually. Perversely enough, all this does is make me reject life even more. I hate people. I hate my life. I got the Central line yesterday, after uni, as usual, and instead of reading Todorov or listening to music, I just stared into space. The carriage was packed, and I was kept close to the side where the doors don’t open between Mile End and Holborn. I was so close, it was fascinating. I looked at the yellow line and thought about what it might be like to tip backwards when the doors opened. I think it was at Chancery Lane, I looked at the gap between the wall of the tunnel and the side of the train. The size of it captivated me. I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be squashed between there. How would you die? Would you die? What would be the use if you didn’t? It made me smile.

I feel like I’ve become slightly more provocative. I don’t feel like humouring people’s feelings. I don’t care about them. Being all alone while other people in my French / Modern Languages classes are all chummy together still hits me, but I feel even less like talking to them. I hate them for the effort they would exact from me. People are fucking stupid, dull, hypocritical, selfish morons. I am not sacrificing anything for anyone. I wish I could die. I do not want to have any links to anyone. People are such useless, inconstant things. Everyone has to go and live their own fucking life – well, go on. The world does not have time for the likes of me; I know that. But who cares? It’s just as Cee-lo says in the song of the same name – who cares? I’d like to melt a bit and feel all like a bit of attention from my boyfriend and/or my cousin would make a difference. Maybe it would. The thought of it makes me feel sick. I don’t feel able to relate to my boyfriend at the moment. The thought of him confuses me too much. Any kind of sexual desire (HA!) usually lasts about 2 minutes – literally. No fire in these loins! Not even a spark. He irritates the hell out of me, to be honest. My bad mood will infect him, and besides, he’s got his own life and problems (fucked-up finger to worry about). I feel like cutting myself off from him completely – let him continue to live his separate life. I don’t see how the gulf between us can be negotiated. I am a totally different person to the one he fell for.

My family – let’s not even go there. Living torture is the best way I will describe it. Being a female is only another disadvantage. It makes me feel cold and really sick. I cannot be anyone’s mother and I don’t want to be anyone’s wife or mother-in-law. I hate the thought of sacrificing myself for others. Fuck you, if you’re so bothered about what to eat, go to a fucking restaurant. Get take-away. Hire a maid. Don’t ask me, I’d rather die. I wish it would just happen already. I wish I could deaden my mind and die peacefully to all the things that trouble me. If I live, I will become my sister, always stressing and whining about everything with cessation. If I die, I might get some peace. I wish I cared enough to take an overdose. I kind of wish someone would just murder me already. That’d at least be an interesting way to go.

I can just imagine people’s eyebrows raising, thinking “Oh, how selfish.” Oh, how fucking selfish indeed. Go fuck yourselves. What amazing merits have people shown me, that I should cling to them? Why should I trail round after them, in constant need of reassurance, while they try and bat me off to live their own lives? I'm bored of being a reliable coper. 'You'll get through. You'll get through.' FUCK YOU, NO, I WON'T! What do you say to THAT, eh?

I hate them. I hate them all. I hate you all. Humankind is a stupid, self-contradictory mess which will always damn itself when it looks like there might be hope. We don’t need a God to blame for the mistakes we make. Fucking morons. To Hell with us all.

Death Is Certain - Royce Da 5'9

ROYCE DA 5'9" LYRICS

"Something's Wrong With Him"
(feat. Carlos "6 July" Broady)

[Royce Da 5'9" + (6 July)]
Uhh, yeah, my conference calls with 'Los and Kino
consists of - (Nigga tone it down, there's way too much killin)
Of course I ignore 'em, a poor man talk
I don't give a fuck if I throw my poor fans off
Pathetic war done entered my brain and permanently changed me
Now I'm angry so FUCK a metaphor
FUCK hip-hop, hip-hop sucks!
You got, niggaz on top swingin from 2Pac's NUTS!
It's like, I could go in the lab
and try to write somethin that's nice or bright but I will be holdin back
My scripture's in the dark
Deep-rooted soldier inside my soul, uncontrollable temper like "The Hulk's"
My wife don't like my album, it's way too dark for women
She say it sound like I hold grudges
She rather listen to Joe Budden's, no disrespect aight?
But FUCK a party now and everybody like

[Chorus: Royce + (6 July)]
(What's wrong witchu nigga? Every song you killin)
(Every rhyme you spit is violently put)
Lethal, BUT - I have no problem
with puttin this gun down and beatin yo' ass up
I was taught rhyme from the heart, they will feel you
I like the dark, you cut on them lights, I will kill you
(Something's wrong with him)

[Royce Da 5'9" + (6 July)]
(Just like his pops
He don't give a fuck if you like him or not
He's a major problem) I will slap yo' ass in church
And apologize to Jesus later, punk!
Why am I hot and you not, and why is you rich?
And why I ain't got SHIT in my pocket but lint?
This ain't rap no mo', this not a flow
This is beef, there's a couple street niggaz that got to go (bloaw!)
My name is Nickel (haha) I'm from the suburbs (yeah!)
It's only a ten-minute drive to come and get you (yeah)
TIRED of you hoes
I will slap snot side-ways outta ya nose, PARTNAH! (partnah!)
I know we got drama
But I will still show up at your funeral and hug yo' ugly-ass momma
Everybody wanna know why the flow is so bad
(Why is you so mad?) Everybody askin

[Chorus]

[Royce Da 5'9"]
I'm a natural since - I wrote "Black Girl"
I hope that you don't think
that I won't smack yo' bitch
Cause I will clap her if she happen to be witchu, when I kill you
You can get ideas, nobody compares you thugs
I will put out the bub on top of yo' head
This .22 rifle, be shootin them bouncin bullets
The enter into your head and exit out yo' foot
Ride off as soon as my clip turns, you click and
[click click, BOOM] them choppers is lookin for eyeballs (yeah)
You could bring yo' roughest toughest thug
that's jealous just tell him to touch me, I will fuck him up!
I will knock his ass OUT
And if I can't beat him I will grab my heater and POP his ass!
FUCK yo' life, stripes I will shock yo' hood
And I ain't never dyin, knock on wood - whattup 'Los?

[Chorus]