Motherisms ….

 

Well, here we are again. Motherisms on Mothering Sunday I hear you chortle. How apt of you Jade.

It is rather isn’t it.

Today is a day we should all be thinking about our mothers, be they passed or still alive and worrying. It’s also a day we should be thinking about any of our friends or family who have become mothers, you are incredible, I admire you beyond words. But because words make up this page, on this hallowed, hallmark day I have selected a few words from some lexical dons to help me describe mothers ….

Mothers are a testament to men and women, to loving when sanity would have intervened way before. They are stronger than any man I know (except Chuck Norris) and will risk their life to save yours. We are all guilty of neglecting our mothers from time to time, allowing them to support us, when really it should have been the other way around but make sure that you do not do that today. Life is short, this includes your mothers, make sure she knows you’re thinking of her.

So, let’s all pat ourselves on the backs for being good mothers and children, make a cup of tea and snuggle down to read some examples from another lexical don, my mother. Here are two days worth of her quips – which are all, slightly insane  ….

We are in the car, my mum is congratulating me on my writing, I am whinging, she dishes out words of encouragement. ….

Mum: This is how Sylvia Plath started.

Me: Yeah but did she make any money?

Mum: She killed herself.

Part of the fridge falls off …

Mum: Oh great, I’d been waiting for that bit to come of since you broke it at Christmas. When I make some money I’ll buy a new fridge, a new washing machine. In the mean time I rather enjoy living in squalor. Very down with the people, we’re all in it together. Though I don’t really get that feeling ….

Talking about going to Cambridge and watching a film …

Mum: Didn’t we watch that in Cambridge?

Me: Watch what?

Mum: That film about Hugh Hefner?

Me: Um … I don’t think that was me.

Mum: No! No! Sorry, Howard Hughs. Different guy.

Mum is leaning on the windowsill watching cars go over the new bridge ..

Look at all those people zipping backwards and forwards over that thing. Going nowhere.

Mum puts the cheese away without offering me any.

Me: Can I not have some?

Mum: Yes sorry, darling. I’ve been living alone so long I’ve …

Me: Forgotten common courtesies?

Mum: Yeah, pretty much.

Mum does (of course) trump my wisdom tooth story …

I had my wisdom teeth out while Ringo Star’s surgeon did my knees. My face swelled to an enormous size. My vanity took a real blow. And then the Sharon Tate murders happened. I got very depressed.

Mum and I are both holding pens.

You have a pen, I have a pen.

Mum talking about all the Syd Barrett stuff that’s going on at the moment …

I think it’s all very strange, Syd would’ve run a mile. But it’s good. This is how we’ll make our money, out my memories. When I’m dead you can publish all this stuff. People like the past. They know what happens.

My mother talking about various people …

You know, they say the hardest thing to get over’s a good childhood.

Mum shouts from the other room …

Mum: Scientists have genetically modify cows that can produces human breast milk.

Me: Oh my God, that’s not good.

Mum: Very little is.

Mum is reading while half listening to the TV, she mishears  …

TV: The Paralympics next week on Four

Mum: Oh is that that comedy thing? That was quite funny.

I’ve scolded mum for getting worked up about nothing …

Mum: I have impotent rage, but Barnaby tells me it will dissolve into passive cynicism.

Me: Way ahead of you mum.

Mum: That’s a bit worrying.

Mum and I reveling in Ferrero Rocher …

Mum: They’re absolutely disgusting little things, but at least I know what’s in them.

Me: I think they’re wonderful.

Mum: Oh, I love them!

Mum talking about me getting my act together ..

Mum: Yes, but you’re very punctual.

Me: I’m not punctual.

Mum: You’re going to have to be punctual.

Mother giving some delicious advice …

This romantic melancholy is all well and good, but it doesn’t butter the parsnips.

I love you ever so much mum. Enjoy those daffodils while you can – next door will probably want them back ……

How To Get Fresh With Death …..

Recently I was struck with, what was initially the horror of my mortality, and what is now a sort of schoolgirl reluctance to accept that in this instance, I am no exception.

Bugger.

I think it came as such as a surprise because for the last 20 odd years I’ve been blinkered by the preoccupation of preventing a premature death (my only slip-up here was accidentally swimming with sharks – needless to say, I didn’t do it twice.) So I had never really contemplated a natural one, growing old and slowly having to accept it. It came as quite a shock. But now the shockwaves have passed, I am no longer at the epicentre of this bombshell. Now it’s just something else fucking annoying I have to accept and deal with, like tax or water bills ….

“Really? I have to?”

“Yeah there’s no way out.”

“But people told me I was special.”

“People told Martin Luther King and the cat bin lady they were special. Still got to pay tax.”

“Fuck man. And there isn’t a loop hole out of this whole death thing?”

“No. And if there is, we’re keeping it very quiet.”

It’s not really death I have a problem with and the aging process I can get over, wrinkles are set to trend in 2040.

It’s the frustration of trying to contemplate and understand nothingness, what it is and how my consciousness is going to be nothing.

This thought BLEW MY MIND.

So I’ve decided it’s impossible; as everything I know or everything I can comprehend is something. Even the expanse of space, which I am yet to be introduced to (but I’ve heard is lovely) is something. Nothing is not blackness or silence or white or white noise. It’s nothing. So, learn from my mistakes people, don’t bother trying to contemplate what nothingness is, you wont be able to and your friends will get bored of your mortality crisis very quickly, as it does tend to put a bit of a downer on the evening.

The other day I (wasn’t following my own advice) and was discussing this with a friend. She is quite remarkable and has far more scope on what mortality is than me and it made me realise that this is something that you can only, not necessarily understand, but accept through experience; not through thinking or reading.

This was when I realised, unlike in matters of the heart, in matters of mortality one should never punch above one’s weight. So, with this in mind, I have created some baby steps to help you obtain marital, sorry wrong blog, mortal bliss with a sense of humour (mine failed, and it wasn’t very funny …)

Go out with someone who takes themselves very seriously …

You will never match up to the idea they have of themselves – a nice reminder of your general irrelevance, which is important. This information will be very useful later in life when you’re old and in a nursing home. It wont come as such as surprise when no-one calls and you’re treated like a degenerate.

Turn yourself into a diamond …

I’m aware this is something Paris Hilton might suggest but there is something quite beautiful in making your whole life crystal clear.

WARNING: Do not attempt while alive.

When faced with ‘The Fear’ make sure you’ve taken the acid …

A terrible consequence of thinking about mortality to an unhealthy extent can be as in ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’ to see people as animals. Though, not lizards or Moray Eels, but seeing people as humans and realising that humans are nothing but animals, no matter how many sun blushed tomatoes you put in your pasta. Public transport becomes a nightmare. If you’re going to freak out and see people as animals make sure you’ve taken some sort of psychedelic first and that it’s not your own psyche. That’s when it really starts to get trippy.

Take a walk through Shoreditch on a Friday night at 2 am – nothing puts life into perspective like that …

This is only advisable once in a stable mental state. If suffering from ‘The Fear’ this could push you over the edge.

N.B Also avoid Clapham Common at this time if suffering from ‘The Fear’.

Go and stay with your French friend in Paris without any moisturizer …

… Your gay french friend. Be you man or woman, he will hand you expensive anti-wrinkle cream. This will instil a fear of smiling in you while you’re there (for fear of losing your lovely eyes to wrinkly flaps of skin) creating an aloof lugubriousness that goes down very well in Paris. It will also remind you, you’re getting old, you hadn’t realized, but you are.

Now, there’s no point getting your knickers in a twist and crying over spilt milk (you messy bitch,) start writing that will and picking out funky funeral songs. I recommend a healthy mix of uplifting soul aka Aretha Franklin and James Brown, then a bit of sad, ‘The Stranglers – Golden Brown’ (It’s about heroin it turns out, but I could’ve just been on holiday) then really bring them dooooown with ‘The Smiths – Well I Wonder.’

Having said this, also balance up how much of a dick you’ll look for playing ‘The Smiths’ at your funeral, I’ve weighed it up and I’m happy with the odds.

N.B. Once home avoid texting your mother asking for best anti-wrinkle recommendations, some things are just too depressing.

Hang around with other people’s children – all of the perspective, none of the mess ….

You realise they aren’t terrifying little aliens but an amalgamation of two people, which is quite lovely (and only slightly odd.) Children are little people who can have a sense of humour. I advise hanging out with 2 years plus, otherwise it’s like talking to a fleshy brick wall. This is only really enjoyable if it’s your fleshy brick wall.

Wear Skulls Don’t Think About Them ….

Thinking about skulls doesn’t get anyone anywhere – unless it’s part of your job, then it has furthered medical science exponentially. Well done you. But if you’re a regular Joe thinking about it too much is not going to make you a happy bunny. I remember watching Scrubs in the throws of my crisis and bursting into tears at the sight of a skeleton. Ridiculous, but true.

Thanks to Alexander McQueen wearing skulls is no longer just for the cheesy rocksters, the punks, the goths. This is now beautifully fashionable. We can throw these fleshless heads around our necks in wonderful colours and patterns, like it’s never going to happen to us. Magnifique!

If skulls on clothing seems like an easy way out to you and you’d like more of a challenge, why not follow the Alice Dellal crew and wear your own. Shave your head. This is one of a couple of areas where men are still ahead of women, they have probably already shaved their heads, but rest assured most of them looked hideous. You look edgy and deadly, but probably should’ve done it 2 years ago. If anyone in Devon’s reading this, now’s the time.

Never believe your own hype, it’s called hubris …

… and it’s only downhill from there. Poor old Edward II had a red hot poker shoved up his bum for being an arrogant arse. Ouch, the irony.

Be a bull in a china shop …

Go to Antiquarius on the Kings Road and fall face first on the floor. Physical pain is an essential reminder of your humanity. At the same time it’s comforting to know you’re not made of glass. So you might as well discover this in a really good china shop. Trust me, I did it on hard, cold terracotta. Ancient china would have softened the blow.

Do a Zeta Jones – marry an over 60 …

You’ll have insider and in-depth knowledge of the aging process – be ahead of the game. Mentally prepare yourself.

Fly alone ….

First Class if you can blag it and while there sipping champagne, contemplating whether the seat is real leather or not, contemplate a crash. Hey, why the fuck not – you got hours to kill. It’s quite stressful and a tad melodramatic but an interesting exercise nonetheless as there will probably at least be 4 or 5 people who spring to mind and spring tears to your eyes that you are not with – if not, where have you been? If so, take heed of this, know how much you love them, and attempt to show them. This will probably only last a day or two before they piss you off, but it’s better than none. The one anomaly in this exercise is if a new “love” pops in to your head. Like a pop-up she/he will in time, when the crash doesn’t happen, probably prove to be irritating. Shut it down and replace it with a more deserving friend.

If your Grandmother’s passed away go to Liberty or somewhere else with a nice parfumerie and spray on some of her perfume …

The only grandmother I knew died when I was 2. But she used to wear Anais, Anais. Recently I sprayed some and instantly hundreds of memories flooded back. None that I could really pin point, but it was a nice hazy place for a few seconds.

Throw salt over your shoulder not a Mulberry bag  …

The world and it’s mother has a Mulberry, not everyone has superstition (it’s so exclusive). Superstition I think of like an engrained, sage form of OCD and a more sensible form of religion. It’s a very comforting routine while you’re alive, and it’s logic is that it will aid good fortune and help prevent death (unlike a Mulberry.) However, superstition is not going to help you when you’re dead (unlike religion).

Oh, sorry. My bad, neither’s religion.

Listen to early 90s hip hop ….

Not only will you be down with the kids, but most of these cats have died, giving a certain reverence to those lyrical dons. Biggy saying “fuck all you hoes” suddenly sounds insightful. Sort of.

Keep keepsakes and take photos …

… Throughout your life. Some call it hoarding, some are wrong. It is amazing what you forget. Especially if you like the odd doobster.

Smoking …

Now if we learned anything from Grease, we learned smoking’s cool and John Travolta’s chin is a distraction. But again, that’s distracting from the point. Smoking’s cool not because it’s sticking two fingers up at death, that’s just being ignorant about it.  Nothing cool about cancer. Smoking has always been inexplicably cool even when it was thought of as healthy, from peace pipes to Lucky Strikes. It has little to do with the masochism involved and if it does, mo’ fool you.

Paint your nails blue – they’ll look like that one day …

Aesthetically, I’d recommend a deep midnight blue, but for a more realistic un-dead look go for a nice cornflower blue.

Have close male friends and keep them close …

This is obviously alongside your close female friends, but that goes without saying. Male companionship I believe to be very important and sobering (when they’re not pissed.) I have a few male friends that I consider to be very close. These male friends should be kept close throughout your life, no matter what your husband says because they will inevitably out live your marriage and/or your husband.

(Men, I’d say flip reverse this but it doesn’t work. Statistically, your wife will out-live you  – so I advise being one of her friends instead…not sure how that works, but not my problem.)

Go for a walk in the park ….

Or preferably the countryside. If I spend too long in London as much as I love it and consider it home, I start to feel claustrophobic. I was listening to Radio 4 the other day (no surprises there) and KT Tunstall explained it better than I can. “I loved growing up where you compare yourself to your landscape; and then now, I live in London where really all you can do is compare yourself to other people, that’s all you can see. And I think that’s really unhealthy, where people just constantly, well, their only mirror is another person. I think it’s great and humbling to be in a landscape that can make you feel small and inconsequential. I think it’s good for you.” I couldn’t agree more KT, and for that I forgive you the spelling of your name.

Turn up to an after, after party totally sober – there you will encounter the walking dead …

Nothing will make you feel more alive.

 

 

Motherisms …

 

It’s Christmas, time to hang out with the mother. She’s a smart lady and I don’t think realizes how funny she is. So it’s time take note of all the bizarre and strangely insightful things she says over the festive period, then publish them on my blog, cheers mum xx ….

My first night down there, while watching Northern Exposure …

Mum: Ahhh yes Jewish doctors. Why can’t you find a nice Jewish doctor?

Me: I don’t know mum.

Mum: No … shame. You should.

Me: I’m trying!

I get ready to go out, admittedly looking a little odd , complete with my new tweed grandpa hat ….

Mum: Oh. You look like a latter-day Annie Hall, crossed with Madonna’s ex-husband.

Me: Guy Ritchie?

Mum: Yes him.

Me: Thanks.

Christmas Day, mum looks wistfully out the window at the snow and silent streets ….

Mum: It’s so lovely and quiet out there – there’s a lot to be said for the neutron bomb.

Doing the Observer Boxing Day quiz, trying to find the answers to the questions about songs …

1) Observer Clue: We meet a young lady recovering from an abusive relationship. Confused and lonely, she seeks solace in an all-too-familiar cycle of sexualty and victimhood, inviting back into her life the very man who left her blinded.

Me: That’s …

Mum: That’s life darling.

Answer: Britney Spears ‘Baby One More Time’

2) Observer: This plucky chap was born during a spell of terrible weather and it’s all downhill from there – he’s abused by his bearded toothless mum and nobody cares when he nearly drowns. But, with irrepressible spirit, he can look back at the hard times and laugh.

Mum: Jesus.

Answer: Irrelevant after that clanger.

I ask mum to heat up my coffee, she huffs about it ..

Me: There’s no need to looks so pissed off.

Mum: I don’t look pissed off this is my natural face now.

Mum looks up from making an omelette ….

Mum: I’m an anorcho-syndaclist.

Me: What’s that?

Mum: Look it up.

Me: Why are you talking in a German accent?

Mum’s listening to the radio…

Mum: What’s R Kelly?

Sitting down, watching a wildlife documentary – one humming bird is eating nectar but another larger one turns up, the smaller one must stand his ground. Mum’s words of encouragement to the little hummingbird …

Mum: Go on babe, don’t let him piss on your parade.

Mum buys a copy of Life of Brian from a charity shop, it was £1.99.

“I can’t believe it. £1.99, for such genius!”

In reference to God ..

Yes, well, I haven’t seen much of this heavenly compassion lately mate.

Mum has the camera, I strike a pose ..

Mum: Try not to look so arrogant in photos darling.

Mum talking about someone useless she knows …

Mum: He couldn’t slide shit down a shovel.

Just about to leave the house I am asked out of the blue …

Mum: What country in Europe has the highest crime rate?

Me: I don’t know …

Mum: The Vatican City.

Me: Really? Are you sure?

Mum: Yeup. And the youngest age of consent.

Me: How young?

Mum: 13.

Me: That’s pretty odd.

Mum: It’s very odd.

Mother speaking words of wisdom…

” Loyalty, it’s a great quality – not just in spies.”

And some more…

“If in doubt – call an ambulance.”

In reference to me breaking things …

Mum: Like that bloody computer you had that Jack chose, that was over a grand … Didn’t last three years.

Me: It lasted from before college to my third flat it Brixton.

Mum: You could’ve got a car for that money.

Me: No I couldn’t and that was 7 years, it lasted 7 years.

Mum: Car would have lasted longer.

Me: What car of yours has ever lasted 7 years?

Mum: This one.

Me: No it hasn’t.

Paolo Nutini comes on …

Mum: Oh this is Louis Nutini!

Me: Paolo Nutini?

Mum: Yeah – I thought he was a shrivelled old Jamaican.

Mum admires her fruit bowl…

“The fruit looks good, I hope you noticed I picked lemons and limes, Caravaggio would’ve liked that.”

Mum asking Jesus…

What would Bob Marley do?

Mum get’s her fill of choirs while watching the young boys choir at King’s College …

 “That’s the thing about choirs and tv – the close ups. They sound like angels and you don’t want to see they don’t look like them.”

Later in the day when another beard has been thrust in mums face …

Mum: It’s the time of year for men with beards, every time I look up there’s a man with a beard. I blame Jesus.

Mum’s been out for a walk…

Walking does seem a purposeless activity unless you’ve got a dog.

Mum eating stilton and crackers …

“Oh chutney. Yeah, man.”

A friend has contested that I go to the loo more than is normal. I put this to my mother.

Mum: Well darling, I think it’s the same as with everything, you’ve got to get it while it’s there.

Mum loses the pepper …

Mum: That’s the trouble, you’ve got to know where you’ve put things.

Me furiously tidying, try to force mum to join in …

Mum: Haven’t I told you I’m an anarcho-syndicalist?

Me: I’m an anarcho-syndicalist on facebook now – ner.

Mum: You didn’t even know what an anarcho-syndicalist was!

Me: Doesn’t mean I wasn’t one.

Mum: You’d never stand up in interrogation. Your knowledge of the unions is very dodgy.

Me: So is yours.

Mum: No its not, I used to hoot for the firemen.

 

Motherism

Happy Happy Joy Joy  ….

 

I was going to write a blog about coming to terms with my mortality, but I decided it wasn’t all that festive so I’ll save that gem until after Christmas. You lucky things.

Instead I’m writing about that one big thing that everyone’s talking about, no, not Christmas, but the wikileaks scandal.

 

Just fucking with you, I’m going to write about Christmas. And for once I’m going to keep it very brief because for me the message is pretty simple (and I’m late for my swim) ….

Make a conservative effort to be genuinely happy. For a day or two forget about what you lack, what’s making you worried, stressed or sad. Remember what you have and who you have. And remember that they want to see you happy.

To aid you on this journey to euphoria, I have a step by step guide for mind blowing Christmas fun ….

 

Things to do …… (because Christmas is extreme, like in Spinal Tap it goes up to 11 …)

1)   Put up and look at fairy lights – never underestimate how festive they will make you feel – providing they’re clear. If they’re coloured and flashing they’ll make you feel depressed.

2)   Go for walks, that don’t involve shops.

3)   Contemplate and talk about going to midnight mass, whether you go or not is arbitrary.

4)   Take a moment to appreciate the people in your life and a moment to appreciate the people who aren’t any more.

5)   Give Mariah Carey the respect she’s due.

6)   Read. I hate Catcher in the Rye – the guy in it’s a dick, but it’s a nice book to read this time of year. He mentions hot chocolate and snow – among other things.

7)    Watch films – see below.

8 )   Give monks props – nothing spells Christmas like singing monks.

9)   Get tipsy but not totally pissed – Christmas is not the time people. It’s not about you.

10) Eat stuff – I don’t really like Christmassy food but have a mice pie and smile through the pain.

11) Be happy. You’ll have a better time.

 

Things to watch …

 

1)   Mrs Doubtfire

2)   The Snowman

3)   Life of Brian

4)   The Queens Speech – not the alternative one, you’re not a try-hard, pre-pubescent rock band

5)   Black Adder

6)   Lord of The Rings

7)  Background noise – whatever’s on tv at Christmas

8 )  The Red Shoes

9) An old Simpsons episode

10) Great Expectations

11)  The turkey, don’t want to burn it …….. ahhohoho.

 

And remember, Jesus isn’t just for the religious, that’s why he comes from an unconventional family, he’s fun for everyone. Yay for Jesus!

 

Shock, horror! We’ve created a monster …

Horrorsville is a town I haven’t been to in a while. I’ve been avoiding it. Something bad has happened there ….

I’d been wondering recently why I had been avoiding it, why my horrorence (horror tolerance) had decreased so dramatically. If one were to put it on a scale it’s gone from about an 8.5 to a 1, or a 2 at best. As an over thinker, I started to think. I wondered if it’s because as you get older, thanks to an experience called life, you feel more empathy towards the idiots who go to psycho’s houses. You’re aware it’s probably been you at the psycho’s house once or twice – but you made the whole situation so awkward the psycho decided to wait for someone more breezy. By you, I mean me. Or is it possible that you can overload on horror? Can you watch so much you reach your limit and then BOOM in the middle of ‘Saw II’ – your threshold is reduced to zero. And you’re in tears. You had a horror quota, you watched too much so now you can’t even watch ‘I Am Legend’ without covering your eyes. Again, by yours, I mean mine.

But I think there’s more to it than that. Well, not more, just the fact that I don’t think it’s me. I think horror, generally speaking’s, got shit.

What right do I have to say any of this? Firstly, I am a girl or in horror films also known as – Victim 2 (usually second to go after the black guy) and on top of that, I’ve already admitted I’m a scaredy-cat.

But everyone is entitled to their opinion; providing it’s an informed one. So can I get a Craig David “REWIND” on this and I will tell you what right I have to say this …..
My first foray in to horror started at the Devonshire Film Mecca, also known as Spar in South Moleton – it’s where all the ‘industry’ people go. I rented out classics like ‘The Relic’, ‘The Exorcist’ ‘The Birds’ and ‘House IV – The Repossession’. Life was sweet, I couldn’t get enough. I got so scared the first time I watched ‘The Exorcist’ with my friend we ended up in hysterics – you know the kind of insane laughter you get when you have just been through a truly terrifying ordeal? The only other time I’ve laughed like that was in the South of France, after we got chased through a cornfield late at night by a group of men in a car. We ran back home after escaping, ended up in fits of hysterics and covered our faces in chocolate mouse. As you may have guessed there was something strangely fun about it, the fear, the risk and in turn the survival. I think they call it adrenaline. Like the rest of my species I am programmed to want more.

So I gorged. I grew to really appreciate the horror genre and it’s sub genres, the subtleties that split each in to their own little genre. I’ve broken a few of my (self-named) favourites down for your reading pleasure …

Arty Horror:

While trawling through amazons DVD selection I stumbled across a director called Dario Argento, recommended to me by Amazon (thank you Amazon – you are eternally thoughtful.) So I bought a couple of his DVDs and watched ‘Suspiria’. Which is cinematically very beautiful. The lighting, the framing, the music, the chiffon, it’s look is all very calculated, it’s not just there to make you scared, it’s there to make you want to frame screen grabs on your wall. Think Fellini with horror. This kind of film has it’s own official sub genre, known as Giallo, “Giallo films are typically Italian and are characterized by extended murder sequences featuring excessive bloodletting, stylish camerawork and unusual musical arrangements.” Though, ‘Suspiria’ adhered less to these rules than some of his other films like ‘Deep Red/Profundo Rosso’ and allowed it to get a bit more surreal, letting styling and music take over from narrative. Other great films like this include ‘Don’t Look Now’, based on a short story by Daphne DuMaurier it’s a British and Italian collaboration using beautiful imagery of a haunting little girl in a red coat in front of various iconic backgrounds in Venice and other locations (and also the reason for a minor freak-out of mine in Amsterdam at the sight of a little child in a red coat, after one too many hash cakes.) There’s ‘Rosemary’s Baby’, though not subject to the Giallo genre, written and directed by Roman Polanski it was always going to be a stylish horror. Based on Ira Levins 1967 novel it follows a pregnant Mia Farrow’s decent into madness as she approaches her due date of 26 June 1966 (6/66) and increasing suspicion that the baby inside her is evil. The shots of Manhattan, lonely prams and lingering shots on candles make for a wonderful watch, as it scares you shitless.
As an after thought, I would also like ‘Jason and the Argonauts’ added to this category if only for the wonderful and freaky stop motion skeletons.

Next came ….

Horror Comedy:

Now this was a revelation. Discovering that horror can not only be scary, but funny too? Laughter and fear are two emotions that aren’t easy to combine simultaneously. People seem to assume that because something’s funny it’s not as good as something sad. People are stupid. It’s easy to make someone cry – watch the ‘Notebook’ for a step-by-step guide on how to do this. It’s much harder to make someone genuinely laugh and to do it while freaking them out is no mean feat. Comedy horror is traced to ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ not the film but the novel by Washington Irving all the way back in 1820. Through a shaky period of miss-balanced films between the 1920s and 50s, the 60s through to the 80s is where they got this genre down to a fine art. My favourites of the comedy horror genre vary in their artistic credibility but all do the job I think.
I was first alerted to this genre at very young age (7/8) and missed the satire in ‘Beware! The Blob’ it was to me at that point, just terrifying. A few years later I remember watching it again and seeing the funny side; I got the melodramatic acting and the futility of the giant red jam ball. But when I really felt I got this genre was when I watched Sam Raimi’s ‘Evil Deads’ – the already great script’s are aided massively by the dead pan humour (and damn fine face) of Bruce Campbell, the ‘Evil Deads’ will in turn scare you and make you laugh and do it very well. Other wonders of comedy horror are courtesy of Peter Jackson (director of ‘Lord of the Rings’) who in no way compromised the gore fest in ‘Bad Taste’ or ‘Brain Dead’ – a classic moment is when someone’s boil puss goes in to custard, which the freaky mother proceeds to eat – it is also, somehow, funny. Then came Matt Stone and Trey Parkers ‘Cannibal! The Musical’ I mean, the title gives the game away. Loosely based on the adventures of Alfred Packer on his trip from Colorado to Utah, in which 5 of his friends were left dead and partially eaten. The story adapted and sung by two comedy geniuses is well worth a watch.
My all time favourites of this genre are ‘Toxic Avenger’ and ‘Toxic Avenger 2’. Smoke a doobie with these bad boys and you’ll laugh harder than you did at Braveheart. Need I say more?
It’s all got a bit boring now with zombie comedy (sorry Simon Pegg, it’s just not very good …) Out of the hundreds of detritus in recent history from this genre two comedy horrors have emerged that have done the genre justice. These in my opinion are the first “Scary Movie’ and ‘Zombieland’, with Bill Murray’s cameo among the best I’ve ever seen.
There’s a fine line though with comedy horror, as those two emotions are such juxtapositions as it is, it’s very easy to get just a little confused. ‘Meet the Feebles’ – a puppet, sex, gore fest, and the wonderful John Waters’ ‘Pink Flamingos’ – in which a transvestite called Divine eats dog shit … were just over that line.

Then there’s Horror Horror ….

The Japanese are really good at this, the original ‘Ring’, ‘Dark Waters’ and ‘Battle Royal’ are all triumphs of truly terrifying horror. Mixing twisted psychology, and often the paranormal with amazing effect. A possible reason for the Japanese being so good at this is that ghosts and spirits also known as Yokai (creatures in Japanese folk law varying from the evil to the mischievous) are engrained in Japanese tradition. And a good explanation as to why they are so masterful at possession, exorcism, ghosts and tension building. But it isn’t just the Japanese who were good at this, back in the good old days when they lacked CGI, having built the tension to a certain degree, they relied on your imagination. With CGI, like Frankenstein, they created a monster, and it’s a lazy one. There’s less need to build the tension and that aside horror should feel tangible, not computer generated. Forty years ago zombie horrors were pretty terrifying. Think ‘Night of the Living Dead’ in which it’s actors actually eat raw livers, which is pretty disgusting anyway, but put in to the context that they’re zombies and have just ripped this real raw liver out of someone’s stomach is really gross. Because of films limitations back then if there weren’t visual effects, there were sound effects (think Texas Chainsaw Massacre) and your own imagination. A very effective combination. Where I felt I’d maybe delved a little too deep in the horror horror genre was when I watched ‘Salo, or 120 Days of Sodomy’. As my mother always told me, know when to leave.

We are now entering a new(ish) age that goes hand in hand with good old CGI known as ‘Gore Porn.’ Can you guess what it is yet?

Let’s use good old-fashioned porn as an example – porn is basically a rom-com/chick flic lacking any of the (probably dwindling) subtleties and intelligence. Porn’s taken the sex element of a rom-com and run with it. And people love it. It’s the most carnal element of a rom-com, the easiest to compute. This is what ‘gore porn’ has done with horror, it’s taken the gore element, the most carnal, and run with it, leaving behind anything that would make it a worthy piece of filmmaking. And this is why I think horror’s got shit. It’s in your face, it’s obvious and it’s not very clever. But of course, people love it. You’ve got ‘Saw 1, 2, 3, 4’ and if that wasn’t enough you can have guts all over your face and watch it in 3D. Oh joy. There was Hostel – pretty much just ‘Saw’ in Europe, and Hostel II, which I wont waste my time going in to. Sorry Eli. Then I accidentally discovered a trailer for something called ‘The Human Centipede’ (100% scientifically accurate by the way, in case they hadn’t drilled that in enough in the trailer.) I was scarred by those 2 minutes of pure revulsion. What the hell kind of shit is this? Why the fuck do I want to watch a group of Americans go round to Bob the surgeons house and get their mouths and guts sewn to someone else’s anus until they’re in a long chain of shit eating (100% scientifically accurate by the way…) things. There’s no plot, it’s just gore. I don’t want to watch it. I’m eating. You want to see a mad science experiment go wrong that actually challenges you? Watch ‘Oh, Lucky Man,’ then come back to me and say that shit’s good.

But gore porn or not, what is it about horror that we enjoy? I remember reading a quote that said, “We don’t watch films to see the actors we watch films to see ourselves.” I really connected with that, I want to watch me be hilarious, make the same mistakes, blow up a building, marry Richard Gear; so why do we want to watch ourselves get torn apart and tortured? Is it the voyeuristic ability to toy with our natural relationship with life and death and laugh at things that in real life are just truly abhorrent? Why do we enjoy this? Is it like hiding behind the door and waiting for your friend to come in, you jump out and they scream in terror – you’re both fine so you laugh. “Haha I thought I was scared but I’ve checked my body for wounds and I’m fine. How hilarious.”
I thought I’d see what psychologists had to say about this …. They did of course agree. The logic being that “The hormonal reaction we humans get from responding to a threat or crisis is what motivates us to “like to be scared”. This is the same “fight or flight” syndrome which guaranteed our survival in more primitive times. At the moment we are threatened, we have increased strength, power, heightened senses and intuition. This increase in mental and physical capacity is commonly referred as an “adrenaline rush.”
No shit lady. Tell me more ….
“Basically, you can get this feeling defending yourself against a lion in the jungle or sitting in a theatre showing a horror flick.” It makes sense. I could relate to that feeling, it’s fun, because I won. Because I didn’t die, because I turned off the TV. This then lead me on to thinking “Is there anything else with which you can get this feeling, of being truly terrified and enjoy it at the same time, to be risking everything but kind of liking it?” Of course there is, there is love. You can be walking down the street, or if you’re really bloody happy, skipping down the street and the next moment you’re having your heart ripped out. So what happens when you merge these two most powerful of emotions. What happens when the person you love could literally rip your heart out?

Hello Romantic Horror:

… and all hail the immense force that is ‘Twilight’. They’re pale, they’re interesting, he’s troubled, she’s troubled, they love each other, but he might eat her. Oh God it’s so dangerous. She is literally risking everything to be with him. And people love this, by people, I mean ladies. Because? Well, I think women have a slightly masochistic attitude towards love (thank you childbirth) so when this girl is risking not only her heart but also her life by loving this man there is something so wonderfully absorbed and romantic about it. I, unfortunately found the whole thing a little OTT, too many swirling steady cam shots and too much emo/manga rock music.
A film I think combined these two emotions really well, and an exception to my ‘new horror is shit consensus’ was the Swedish ‘Let The Right One In.’ A story about two kids, a boy of about 12 and a girl, a vampire of about 200, they live in the same estate and they fall in love. It’s so wonderfully sweet but there are so many opportunities to get hurt. As with many good horrors ‘Let The Right One In’ doesn’t just thrust the paranormal on you, it doesn’t even just deal with the nuances of their troubled relationship, like ‘Carrie’ did very well it also focuses on bullying and everyday struggles. Things we can relate to, which as we’ve gathered, is very important in cinema. It’s a really interesting take on the sub genre, that is by no means new, but is definitely a new phenomenon.

Why then do I find myself unable to watch the majority of modern horror?

Because as you can see, it’s going through a phase, and with a couple of exceptions it’s a dumb phase, on a par with Lindsey Lohans post ‘Mean Girls’ career decisions. Horror has been through so many wonderful and bizarre stages I think it would be incredibly sad for it to end in Saw 3D or Twilight 4, it’s so lazy; when the art of horror and our confused relationship with it is anything but. We are however, unfortunately, simple beings, we enjoy easy things, we are naturally lazy, we strive to find the short cuts to the pleasure centres and with advances in technology, film making is becoming less precious and far more disposable (“let’s do it in post,”) it’s become far too easy to take a short cut and make a shit film.
I doubt horror would have ever become so popular if it hadn’t had to evolve from intellect and good story telling. As early as and earlier than Mary Shelly a decent plot has always been vital to a good scare. Do your adrenal gland justice. Watch ’The Fly’, go the long way round.

So as a plea to any film makers considering making a horror, please hear my cry because I would like to start watching them again …. no more zombie comedies, no more gore porn, less surgeons, more thought. Please sit down and think about it for it a minute.

If it only takes you a minute to think about, don’t bother.


Jobless Wonder

 

Jobless Wonder

It’s been two weeks since I last had work,

My mother keeps telling me it’s a vocational burp.

You’re freelance she cries, it’s no surprise.

You’re on the right track, cut yourself some slack.

But I dislike my work, why would I want more?

You’re a broken record darling, you’re becoming a bore.

So, what’s left for me JobSeekers Allowance?

I can picture the scene, imagine the glowers.

Please fill in your National Insurance number not your name.

Then pull up your hood to hide your shame.

So I sit and I write and I go to edits.

Check my bank balance, I’m still in credit.

I used to get up at half past seven,

Today I didn’t get up until a quarter to eleven.

In sleep I dream and I pass the hours.

Missing the dawn chorus, lazy as Dane Bowers.

It was only today, why all the guilt?

Because it is with lack of self discipline we start to wilt.

So I sit and I write and I got to edits.

Thank God for tomorrow’s meeting where I can regain my merit.

The Life Of Lester ….

Last week I got a strange urge: I live alone and although I don’t get lonely (I actively prefer not living with anyone) I felt the need to nurture something that wasn’t a cactus. Barely capable of cleaning out my own litter tray; a kitten was out of the question and anyway, it would only sadly, turn in to a cat. So I chose goldfish. Loyal, trustworthy, low maintenance, will happily forget and forgive all of my wrongs. As some humans find with other humans, a goldfish will accept me for who I am.

I like to treat things like a military operation, or sometimes like a regular operations; whatever gets things done. So, ‘the mission’ started on a Friday at approximately 1400 hours. I met up with a fellow agent, had a delicious lunch, declared our mission statement and set off to find these illusive beasts. The mission commenced in Soho, which I swiftly discovered was not goldfish’s natural habitat. I checked in with DCI Google who instructed me that 400m north of Oxford Street a clandestine pet shop operation existed. I wanted to penetrate this ‘pet cell’ and see what they were hiding. We headed North – orienteering never a strong point we took many wrong turns but finally arrived outside a building that, apart from a small gold buzzer did not betray what lay within. My friend revealed she was of the opinion that goldfish were a poor-man’s animal and said …

“I don’t think they’re going to have goldfish, Jade.”
“Why not?”
“I think it’s just for posh dogs.”
“I don’t know what gave you that idea.”
I ring the buzzer, a camp American voice answers ….
“Hello.”
“Hi, do you sell goldfish?”
“No we do not.”

There’s a click of the receiver as the cell leader hangs up. My agent gives me an ‘I told you so look,’ and we head back to our headquarters disheartened. I send an SOS out to DCI Google who advises me there are plenty more ‘pet cells’ within a 4 mile radius of my current location and in coalition with my agent I discover there is one about 10 minutes from my house. I follow the scent.

That Sunday I head down, fully equipped with wallet, photo ID and high spirits. I arrive at Goldfish Base Camp, only to find it is closed. I retreat and wait. They can’t stay closed forever.

After protracted talks with Lieutenant Big Sister I decide to continue and execute the mission. I head down again on Monday and successfully penetrate the cell. There they swam, in all their burning, golden glory. Majestic beings of forgiveness and love; just floating around as if they were nothing but fish.

Having carefully referenced data reserves collected from The National Lottery’s probability figures, I allow another member of the cell to select my goldfish – I stand more chance of winning with Lucky Dip. He selects two perfect specimens, one slightly larger than the other. I purchase a huge glass bowl (recent studies have concluded goldfish think plastic ones are naff.) I am advised to buy different chemicals to keep the specimens alive. I buy them reluctantly as I recalled being able to just plonk goldfish straight in to a bowl and Fanny’s your nanny, they’re ready to get to work. But these babies are apparently of a finer constitution, which I can respect. So I leave the cell £40 lighter, balanced with the weight of my new responsibilities.

On my way back to Headquarters their names come to me as if from God. I look at them in their plastic bag and I know exactly who they are: the smaller one is Lester, the larger; a formidable beast is honoured with the name The Cracken.

I take them home, wash out their bowl and with horror stories of Hackney water still ringing in my ears I decide to fill the bowl with Evian. I measure the solutions accurately and pour them in. I allow the solutions time for osmosis (15 minutes) then in their bag, the creatures are placed into their clear, mountain water and allowed to acclimatise. Precision and steady hands are key in these high tensile situations. 30 minutes later I delve my (steady) hands into the cool, sterilised water and rip open the plastic bag allowing them to disperse. Happy as can be I feed them a pinch of fish flakes to celebrate this hallowed occasion. They are happy, I am happy. I cook dinner, I sing Toots and the Maytals ‘Dr Lester’ to them. I go to bed. My dreams are calm.

I awake. It is Tuesday. Tuesday’s child is full of grace and mercy, but mercy is absent this day. The Cracken has fallen. He rests lifeless at the bottom of the glass bowl. I peer in in disbelief. But his forgiving little soul has left the bowl. Lester is traumatised. Forgets he is traumatised, then is reminded again 3 seconds later. I must remove The Cracken in order to save Lester’s sanity, but I am also traumatised. I call an asset and cry down the phone. All my army training goes out the window, trained to operate a machine gun but I am rendered incapable of removing the dead goldfish from his bowl. This asset tells me to get a grip and to put him in the bin…

“But I caaaaannn’t.”
“Then flush him down the toilet.”
“But I caaaaaaannn’t”
“Ok, well take him down to the canal then.”
“Yeah, ok, that’s nice.”

I hang up and muster the courage to remove the corpse from the scene. I place his lifeless body on some carefully folded kitchen towel. I take a photo for later analysis. Then – a sucker for time efficiency – I coincide my run with the burial of the fish. I sprint like a loon through Clapton brandishing my dead goldfish until I reach the canal; arriving at the perfect location to bid adieu to The Cracken. I’m a bit unsure of the proper protocol here; I look at The Cracken and feeling that I can’t just throw him away without saying a few words I look down and say to him …

“You were very pretty, I’m sorry you died.”

Seeing that there were people within hearing and seeing distance I suddenly feel pretty stupid; so launch The Cracken in to the air in embarrassment. He sails nobly through the wind and reaches the canal with a little splash. I watch as his bright golden body sinks to the bottom of the murky waters. I continue my run, comforting myself with words of encouragement from friends that Lester, is definitely made of tougher stuff.

I go home, check on Lester – he’s doing good; forgotten the horror of the morning and continuing with his life. I continue with mine. A few hours pass. I am full of hope for the future that Lester and I will share. I look in to the bowl where my soul mate swims …. flounders almost, on his side, gasping for air.
No. Not again. I call the poor asset, again. Already inconsolable.

“The other ones dying!”
“Oh God. I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m a terrible mother!”
“No you’re not – take him to the pet shop.”
I call the pet shop, a woman answers, I am still in tears.
“I bought two goldfish from you yesterday. One’s already died and the other one’s swimming on his side, I think he’s dying.”
“If you’ve got the body of the dead one we can give you one for free.”
“I don’t have the body anymore.”
“Where is it?”
“In the canal.”
“Ok …. well, if the other one dies, bring it in and bring in a sample of the water.”

The oracle on the other end of the line knew what was to come. My efforts to preserve his life are null and void, Lester’s life slips through my fingers, as he does when I scoop the fallen solider from his pooey grave.

My agent comes and escorts me with my water sample and the dead body to the Goldfish Base Camp. We board the transit unit to Hackney Central. As we sit and discuss the short, unfulfilled lives of The Cracken and Lester I divulge that I had been singing to them, my agent suggests maybe this is what killed them. I am worried she may be on to something. I will investigate this later, on other animals.

We arrive at Goldfish Base Camp, fallen soldier in hand. I had lost a lot of good men that day, I was in bad shape. The Cell Leader, an old man with the personality I would liken to that of Ghenghis Khan laughs at me.

“You didn’t cry did you?”
My friend: “She did.”
“Oh dear. Well we’ll give you a couple of free ones.”
“I’m not sure I want any free ones. I want to know what I did wrong.”
“Goldfish die all the time. Have some new ones.”

He walks off laughing. Ready to quash the emotions of his next victim. Bastard.

My training at the school of hard knocks enables me to continue my mission. Having regained my composure I arrive at the desk of the second in command. A hard faced woman who has seen her fair share of combat (and pathetic girls) in the field is unsympathetic. She takes the pH of my water as I carefully select my replacements. The woman shouts over the counter …

“It was your pH.”
“Oh.”

Her sidekick then plies me with more expensive potions to put in this foul water. As I am disputing whether all £15 of this is really necessary when the hard faced woman starts absentmindedly cleaning her counter. Spritzing and wiping, with a folded piece of kitchen roll; she talks of how all potions are absolutely necessary. The sidekick and my agent share a horrified glance. The hard faced woman looks to her sidekick, and dread washes over her face. Her hand jumps from the kitchen towel.

“This is the dead goldfish isn’t it …”

The sidekick and my agent laugh in agreement. The soulless woman tosses Lester in the bin. I walk out with my two new imposters, numb.

We reconvene at an undisclosed coffee outlet and discuss the days events – imposters by my side. The warm nectar of cow teat deftly mixed with ground coffee beans soothes me and I feel stronger and ready to face the world again. I receive a message from a secure source in regards to my deceased goldfish: “Poor thing, he was only alive for a day, barely remembered any of it and his name was spelt wrong.”

What?! This source doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Lester’s name wasn’t spelt wrong! I dial up DCI Google – he receives my transmission and confirms that yes, Lester had been spelt correctly. A flash of heat fills my cheeks ….

“Oh shit. Maybe he means The Cracken.”

I dial up DCI Google again, whose patience for these creatures is now waning, and with no emotion quips:

“Did you mean the Kraken you fucking idiot?”

Oh yeah, I did.

Embarrassed I relay this information to my agent. She has an eye for covert intelligence and delves a little deeper. After a few seconds of investigation she bursts out laughing; is in tears before I have even seen what is going on. She manages to get out …

“Look below….”

I look and I see:
Urban Dictionary – Cracken: A large, smelly turd.
I’m not sure I will ever recover from the trauma. Emotionally incapable of loving my replacements, too scarred even to name them. They shall never be my confidents. Merely yearlong baubles, swimming in the hope of a confession to absolve that will never arrive. (Suckers.)

Rest In Peace The Cracken and Lester. I apologise. But with endless gratitude accept that you would forget, and forgive me.

 

The Pigeon And The Pussycat …

The other day I came down with a nasty cold, it had been a long time coming (as a hypochondriac, it always is.) I made the most of it, really maximised that good lurgy time. I snuggled up in bed, ate pumpkin soup and watched an Edgar Allen Poe documentary. As I had with Earl Grey tea recently, I rediscovered Edgar Allen Poe – I’d forgotten how much I loved him and how much I had enjoyed writing brilliant (appalling) poems and rhymes at school.

The week before one of my best friends from school wrote me an incredibly sweet and timely letter, topped off with a mix tape. As my iTunes library is pretty limited on this computer I decided my offering in return would be a Poe-inspired poem in time for Halloween. I wrote it on the tube from Old Street to Balham and was pretty pleased with the result; just enough clichés to make it a recognisable homage to Poe and enough in-jokes so my friend could feel an affinity with it.

Recently I have found nothing I want to blog about and as this has been the first thing I’ve wanted to and had time to write, so I thought it might as well go on here.

A bit of back story to help you understand the poem more – Peter Kettle or PK or Pete Kitten, looks like a little kitten, he has little eyes and a cute bobbin nose, he loves cats, he taught me how to play guitar – cool guitar, I used to call him Pete Kitten and he used to call me Crazy Pigeon Lady (God knows why, I’m not in the slightest bit unhinged.)

Oh and Edgar Allen Poe’s dead gothic, in case you haven’t encountered him …..

 

The Pigeon and The Pussy Cat

Once upon a grey dark evening,

Through trees the moon came beaming.

A pigeon stood upon a branch like bone,

Through the trees the wind did howl and moan.

Then from a distance came a song,

The pigeon tilted her head and listened long.

The notes drifted through the air like spring,

The pigeon had to investigate this din.

So using the crochets and the quavers as a guide,

Towards the song the pigeon did glide.

As the pigeon came closer she made out a silhouette,

A feline shape, yet she felt no threat.

She fluttered down by the side of the pussycat,

And cooed “You’re just a kitten, how can you play like that?”

The pussycat looked at her and smiled,

And with his feline mouth replied …

“I have tiny eyes but dextrous fingers,”

“I have a button nose and little ears where songs do linger.”

Every night for weeks and weeks,

With the cat on that balcony the pigeon did tweet.

The cat would teach the pigeon country chords,

And they would dream of warmer shores.

One day as they danced and played ‘Jolene,’

A crazy lady approached with fox-tails in her hair and breath like bream.

She snatched the cat and smashed the guitar,

Threw breadcrumbs at the pigeon and coughed up tar.

The pussycat did squeal and screech,

But his smashed guitar was out of reach.

The pigeon hesitated for a beat,

Looked in to the dark forest and at the breaded treats.

But as the pussycat was dragged away,

She realised without him she could not stay.

And so she followed the crazy lady and the cat,

And with that breath, never looked back.

To Pete Kitten Love Crazy Pigeon Lady

 

From the more famous ‘Owl and the Pussycat’ by Edward Lear

Mad Men ….

Last week I had my eyes opened and my ignorance stretched in front of me like a cats guts over a guitar.

I’ll take it from the top … it was turning out to be just another Monday afternoon when a very kind friend of mine offered me tickets to the premier of ‘Made In Dagenham.’ I knew the basic premise, and when I say basic I mean I knew it was about a bunch of women working in a Ford factory. So with this deep insight in mind I gratefully accept the offer, get ready, put on my finest Uniqlo shirt and strut/run uncomfortably down the red carpet in to the comforting womb of the cinema.

We sit down and my word are we greeted with a plethora of goodies. Water, Popcorn and a Weight Watchers Flapjack – which I have to say was bloody delicious. “This is just great,” I think whilst revelling in the oaty goodness of my flapjack. “Oh fucking hell look, that’s Mark Kermode, God he’s a God.” I make a little joke about the row of oldies sitting behind us and I’m just about to make, what in retrospect would have been a pretty tasteless joke about a rather slutty looking middle aged woman who turned out to be Ben Kingsleys wife when I clock ….. Ben Kingsley. He sits down like an absolute player. Has a swig of water and then to my delight rips open his Weight Watchers flapjack. Now, although I could only see the back of his head, the bald creases at the bottom of his skull turned in to what can only be described as a smile as he tucked in to this heavenly low fat treat.

The director and producers come on stage and have a chat, the cast come on stage and have a chat, then the lights are lifted to the bunch of oldies behind us. They are not just any bunch of oldies, they are some of the women this film is based on. I’m impressed, but not absolutely sure why at this point.

The lights dim….ooo….premier….exciting!

The film starts and this is where my eyes are opened and my ignorance is exposed. For anyone who, like me, is unaware of the actual premise of the film. It is about a bunch of women who worked as seamstresses making leather seat covers at a Ford factory in Dagenham but these women were pretty remarkable. All from working class backgrounds, they had worked all their lives and lived, as was expected at the time, like second-class citizens. Even though it was the ‘60s and there was all this free love going on, women on a day-to-day basis were still treated like servants you slept with …..

“I expect dinner on the table at 6pm Bonnie and a hand job at 9pm.”

“Yes Brian, would you like peas with that?”

That kind of thing. Women got paid about half what men did and this was never disputed because its absurdity was never questioned to any beneficial extent. That was until, these women stood up and said “Hang on a minute love, this isn’t right. What we’re doing is skilled labour and it should be paid as such.” They were initially laughed off, and ignored. They’re women, they’re just making a fuss, pay them some attention and they’ll shut up. They didn’t. They kept shouting. They went on strike. They went on strike for so long Ford ran out of seats to put in the cars. Ford has to close the factory. The men are out of work. The women start getting shit from the men because they’re out of work. As one woman perspicaciously points out after being berated for going on strike “All us women came out and supported you men when you went on strike, why is this any different?” It gets harder and harder the longer they’re out of work.

After months of speeches and protests and refusals to back down and be laughed out of the room these women are invited by Barbara Castle (a labour politician, the first female secretary of state and also a woman with massive balls) to the Houses of Parliament. Without permission from the man in power at the time these women that afternoon changed rights for women around the world as much as the Suffragettes did. Because it was recognised that day that women should be paid equally to men it was therefore recognised that they should be treated the same as men and respected to the same degree instead of being fobbed off as something nice to come home to.

How then – did I know none of this? I understand it’s my duty to educate myself but Jesus Christ, why the hell aren’t we taught about this in school? We’re taught briefly about the civil war, the abolition of slavery, the Suffragettes; why aren’t we taught about one of the most revolutionary occurrences to happen this century and it happened in this country! I’m honestly quite ashamed I didn’t know about this. I walk around with my iPhone, my flat and my job (from time to time) not just thinking I should be paid or treated the same as men but expecting it as my right. I’m not saying I should be grateful to be treated with the same respect as a man, but I should be grateful and most certainly aware of the people who made this possible. But then I get confused. Does this mean I’m not to expect chivalry and in line with equality go out and buy my man Milk Tray and Gladioli? I don’t know …. anyway, I’m veering wildly of course here.

So, as the film draws to its end I am busy trying to hold back tears, I don’t know if the fact that these incredible women were sitting behind me made the film all the more poignant but it really did feel incredible to be in such close proximity to these unbelievable people, who for some unknown reason receive barely any recognition for their achievements on a day to day basis. As like me, most people would think they were just any old ladies.

After some idiot from Strictly Come Dancing comes over to them and asks some pretty insensitive questions, we head over to the after party (after walking up and down Wardour Street 2,00000000 (zillion) times trying to find the place.) The after party is perfectly nice. Champagne. Salmon. Dominic Cooper ripping up the dance floor like some sort of crazed jive alien. The band finish and the DJ steps up. All attention is on Dominic Cooper and what turned out to be Rosamund Pike (I need to get some glasses) when ‘The Beatles – All You Need Is Love’ comes on. Now, anyone who knows me, knows I’m not a massive Beatles fan but to this song possibly the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen happened. All the old ladies got up from their seats, formed a circle all held hands and swayed and sang along to this, even one of their husbands who looked incredibly frail got up and joined in. I watched them and just thought “You can actually look back on your life, safe in the knowledge that not only did you achieve something with it, you achieved something that every generation of woman is thank full for and will be thank full for.” That must be a pretty incredible feeling.

The evening ended as ‘Nancy Sinatra – These Boots Are Made For Walking’ came on and one of the old women strolled over and danced with us to the whole song, as I serenaded her with my ethereal voice I thought “It can’t get better than this….” but then, the old frail looking husband prowled over and after a little boogie, grabbed my face and gave me a nice big smacker.

I couldn’t have been happier.

… And no, I am not suddenly anti-male and sadly, Weight Watchers aren’t paying me for this. It just was truly delicious.

Blade Runner – The Eternal Sleep

Blade Runner is a classic. A real cool classic. People with taste like Blade Runner, film buffs like Blade Runner, everyone likes Blade Runner.

I’ve never seen Blade Runner.

This is not through lack of trying. It’s just every time I try to watch it, I fall asleep. So through sci-fi induced narcolepsy it has unfortunately turned in to a film that for years I have lied about and pretended I’ve seen (I would like to point out this is the only film I’ve done this with – well, this and Dirty Dancing, but I think I already know what happens in that; Swayze and some baby have one hell of a party from what I’ve heard.)

The first time I “watched” Blade Runner was a good six or seven years ago, I got pretty stoned, thought “Hell yeah I am so ready for this, Scott it to me Ridley.” Next thing I know it’s Sunday morning, I’m still on the sofa next to a cold cup of herb tea and the dvd menu is running on a loop. “Oh well, never mind,” I think, “I can always try again.”

Years pass. I don’t try again. On numerous occaisions I end up hudddled in circles of cool, smart people and somehow, don’t ask me why, but someone always brings up Blade Runner.  Usually I’m too drunk or stoned (because I’m such a party animal) to be bothered to go through the whole:

Me: “No, don’t know, I’ve never seen it.”

Smart Person: “You’ve never seen Blade Runner?”

Me: “Well, I’ve seen the first 3 minutes ..”

Smart Person: “And…”

Me: “And…then I fell asleep.”

Smart Person: Look of dissaproval.

So I usually just nod along and smile in the right places, go “Yeah that bit was awesome” and hope someone starts talking about Withnail and I.

This social trauma has been part of my life for the last seven years and it kills me that Blade Runner’s entirety hasn’t been. Recently I made this admission to a lovely young man who, sympathetic with my plight kindly lent me his dvd, or his friends, either way nice gesture. I got home, thought “Ok – this is it. There’s been seven years building up to this. I cannot wait. I’m going to be in on this ‘in joke’ that’s not a joke, but I’m finally going to be ‘in’ whatever this clique is.”

Play.

This is great! God look at all those lights! Oh wow cool that’s Harrison Ford, I love Harrison Ford. Oooo .. he’s eating noodles. I’m kind of hungry …….

I fell asleep.

Fuck! How does this keep happening?!  But I’m no fool. I’m not taking this shit from myself. I am going to watch this. So, undeterred from my recent failure as a human I wait for an appropriate time for me to pounce on it, again, again. The time comes last Saturday morning. 10am, fresh from a night of sleep. I am ready for this. I make a coffee and turn that baby on.

This is great! God look at all those lights! Oh wow cool that’s Harrison Ford I love Harrison Ford. Oooo .. he’s eating noodles. I’m kind of hungry. Oh cool, he’s in a space ship. Some guys talking about a tortoise. Pete used to have a tortoise ….

I wake up, no joke, as the credits roll down. It’s nearly 1pm. I make the decision there and then that, like Pavlov trained his dogs to salivate, I have trained myself to fall asleep to Blade Runner. So I may as well give up. It’s over. It will take years of reconditioning to reverse this.

But that would make me A) a tad melodramatic B) a pussy, and more importantly that would be a waste of a dvd loan. So I’d like to announce that this evening my friends, is the big night. I’m keeping the lights on, I’m making coffee, I’m sitting up, like Clockwork Orange I will fasten my eyes open with metal prongs and I will watch the whole of Blade Runner, from beginning to middle to end.

It’s going to be worth all this, right?