Career Girls, The Unorthodox Guide To …

Posted On July 24, 2012 By jadeangelesfitton In Blog, Mystery box... /

Career girls, they’re young, they’re smart, they’re pretty, they’re successful.
Career girls are pretty great.
I serve career girls every day. As I serve them coffee and they talk about money that isn’t theirs and what their next “move” is, they look at me as if I have no idea what they’re talking about. I am a waitress, therefore I am a student or a blogger (ahem, I have credentials now, I prefer the term ‘writer’) and it’s very likely I don’t have a brain in my head, because if I did, surely I would be a career girl, not a waitress.

The thing is, I do know what they’re talking about. I’ve talked that bullshit, I’ve cocked that walk.

There are many things I haven’t experienced in this life, being 6ft tall, having wings, an addiction to pharmaceutical drugs, the crusades; but being a career girl, I have. However, I can’t point out to them that at one point in time I was a producer at one of the best productions companies in the UK producing adverts for Cadburys, Kelloggs, Burberry, bla bla bla …. I can’t tell them this as I hand them what they haven’t ordered, because it would seem very insecure, not to mention a little unnecessary.
Instead I add up their bill in my head to annoy them. I’ve gotten it wrong once, but the girl was too busy looking through me to notice.
I don’t mind much, I’ve done it. Because when you’re a career girl you have so much on your mind: you’ve missed a deadline, you have to fire someone, you’re in charge of hundreds of thousands of pounds and yet you’re behind on rent. You need to get your change and get the hell out of there, but not before …
“Oh, and a skinny latte.”
“Single or double?” I ask automatically.
“Double.”
They say this as if they’re being naughty; little do they know I’ve already had four fucking doubles and I’ll probably have two more.
Uh huh, and a cigarette. Bad to the bone, baby.
I have friends who are career girls, but they are fantastic at it, they glide through it. They’re the career girls that make you want to be a career girl. Their progress is effortless and elegant. I always had a rather clumsy air. I felt an imposter, and no one else seemed to find the whole experience totally surreal.
“You mean I can say yes to a goat being in a pantyliner advert that millions and millions of girls in Russia will watch?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fantastic. Get the goat my friend, that we can afford.”
Unfortunately, the majority of the time it’s incredibly dull and I didn’t have the patience for it. I would usually be found throwing satsumas at models or smoking whatever was going round the back. After witnessing a director punch his fist through a wall and an after effects guy have a mental breakdown (on the same job), I decided it was probably time to start winding the producing down a bit.
If you are not doing what you want to be doing. So should you.
Even if you, like me, absolutely hate your career girl vocation, leaving the security of a high profile and or well paid job takes a combination of balls, blind faith and stupidity. But if jumping off a ladder you don’t want to be on in order to snake your way up the one you really care about is what is necessary, then that is what you must do.
The following steps may not be the orthodox route to the top, but I’m not aiming this at those after orthodox careers …

Get a mindless part time job ….
However hard you try you cannot avoid the necessity of money (believe me, I’ve tried) but you also want the most time possible to work at your new career. Having a part-time job, a la student, gives you the time you need to put your all in to your new career and just enough money to survive. If your gut instinct was right (as it usually is) and what you really want to do is what you’re really good at, you want to have done two years work in a year, a year and half max; and jump on the new ladder a fair few steps up. In order to do this you have to be prepared to put in the hours, without the hindrance of out of office responsibilities. Having a mildly degrading job will also do wonders for your ego, having been working as a very important career girl at quite a young age you will inevitably have a slightly inflated sense of self-worth, no matter how hard you try not to. Chicken soup is good for a cold, humble pie is good for the soul.

Put yourself out there …

Take initiative, do some of your own projects so you have something to show for yourself and make sure they’re as good as you could possibly make them. When people ask what you do, do NOT say you are your part time job. Don’t be afraid to tell people what you are, or you are trying to be no matter how many stigmas are attached to your desired profession.

Be prepared to work for free …

… Only at the beginning. I know this is controvesial and in an ideal world we would not have to. But take a look around you, anything seem ideal here? Console yourself with the knowledge that if you get to the top, you can change this. And I would recommend asking for basic ammenities at the very least — food, travel, etc. if they aren’t paying you a proper wage. Appreciate any opportunities given to you while you’re getting started, accept all of them and do them to the best of your abilities. Once you start to progress in your new career you can become more discerning as to which free jobs you accept. There will soon come a time when you are offered one paying real, actual money and if not, know when to start asking for some.

Stay motivated …

This is what you have chosen to do, it is an exciting period of your life. There will be weeks and even months (years!) where it may feel like you are treading water, but stay hungry and have patience. The most exciting jobs are the toughest in which to succeed, it’s a good way of separating the wheat from the chaff.

Time’s a tickin’, so no matter what your job, if it’s not what you want to be doing and doesn’t make you happy then get out of there and start again. Don’t just settle for the money or the stability if doesn’t make you happy. Let’s have it all, shall we?

Take a deep breath and take a walk on the wild side, and prepare for it to be a long one. You keep at it, and you’ll get there.

Make Poverty Hysterical (or mildly less agonizing….)

Posted On November 11, 2011 By jadeangelesfitton In Blog, Mystery box... /

Poverty is the zeitgeist, it is just so. fucking. now.

So, ever the prophet of what is ‘in’ I have been experimenting with poverty for years.

Fortunately I’ve had just enough sporadic bouts of wealth to make sure I don’t end up sleeping in a doorway on Mare Street; but who knows what the future holds.

Much like segways, being poor can have an eccentric mystique, but it can also be quite hard to handle.

Here are some truths on the realities of poverty, and how to do it well.

There is nothing romantic about being poor …

Candles are surprisingly expensive.

You are a fountain of wealth …

Now, I’ll be perfectly honest here, no one wants to hear about how miserable your life is for longer than 10 minutes (max). End your tale of woe with a punch line and save your tears for a vial, when full, sell them on eBay as Jeremy Paxman’s.

Where there’s a Will there’s a way …

Get in with the rich and the old, and advise against a flu jab.

Like a leper …

Ok, you probably don’t have leprosy, which is a great start, but you will feel on the fringe of society when you are lacking funds. Money is a strange thing and without it you find yourself watching everyone else with different eyes, in its absence you see it’s overwhelming presence in our distorted version of this world. It’s become so habitual it’s almost innate. Retain this knowledge when your pot is full, you’ll be the wiser for it.

Tattered rags to rugs ….

A delightful shag-pile rug can be fashioned from your last shreds of dignity.

Seek refuge with the religious (and the homeless) …

As impious as you may be, churches are a sanctuary of silence and among the most reassuring places you can go when you are poor. Light a candle for whatever you want (I suggest hope) and relax. No ones trying to sell you anything you ‘aint buying here.

The world isn’t against you …

It just doesn’t really care.

Inanimate objects however, are against you and are prejudice against the poor …

The coffee you spilled, the table that you stubbed your toe on, the bike pedal that hit your shin, again, the cup you smashed; they’re all out to get you. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you you’re overreacting when these things bring tears of fury to your eyes. They’ve probably got money, and didn’t see the way that coffee looked at you.

Do whatever it takes to pay your rent …

With a roof over your head, you’re less likely to lose it.

Save the pennies ….

You never know when you’ll need a pound for the electric.

Soup kitchen …

A bag of lentils, some garlic, onion, stock, carrot and potato could feed the 5,000 and cost less than £5. Invite round Dirty Mike and the boys and you’ve got a dinner party, you trendy prole. Just make sure they know it’s BYO.

You will inevitably draw the short straw at one point in time …

And the likelihood will be it’s the final one. Take whatever it is as personal attack form the heavens above. This moment in time will only be amusing in hindsight, when you’re rich. Promptly buy yourself a packet of high tar cigarettes and smoke as many as you can. Why prolong your stay at Bleak House?

Every morning dress in mourning ….

Show life the grim respect it’s due and dress in black, it’s the best friend of the beggared. Better to look somber than cheap.

This isn’t a myth ….

There really are people all over the world dying and starving. Unless you’re doing both take your situation with a pinch of salt, then add it to your plain rice supper.

Losing weight? Become a well rounded person …

If you’re doing poor well, you’re spending your last 99p on refined literature not refined sugar and are therefore approaching ultimate wisdom (and emaciation.) Without a job you find a lot of time on your hands, don’t let them become idle. Take this opportunity to add to your attributes. Learn to play the piano, bake bread, write a short story (not a novel – you’re not planning on being poor that long) watch all of The Empire 500, read the poor greats (there are many of them). Do whatever you feel improves yourself. The work will come and who knows, it might come from one of these.

If all else fails just lie on the floor and wait for something to happen …

Invariably it does, just do it at home so it doesn’t involve a rapist.

Make light of your situation…

Nothing brightens up a little squat hole like a few fairy lights. Shove them on your dead tree that you couldn’t afford (be bothered) to water and bask in its warm glow, saves on heating too.

Waste not want not …

If you’re on the breadline, why on earth aren’t you eating it?

“Awight gowgus?”

Next time a builder asks you this, stop and explain all of the reasons why you’re not. He won’t cost a penny and is therefore much cheaper than a therapist. So, offload on him, he’s used to a weight on his shoulders.

You are not a failure …

And if someone calls you one, take it personally but do not get offended. Poor and angry is common (trust me). Hope they didn’t mean it and have enough faith in yourself to know that you’re not.

You’re making headlines …

You’re one of a record breaking 3 million unemployed! Congratulations! Bet your friends with jobs aren’t on the news.

“Take a load on me” ….

Learn from my mistakes. As hard as your situation may be, as many bad things that hit you one after another, if you are incredibly lucky, and have someone who loves you enough to share some of your burden (make you feel safe, feed you, keep you warm, make you smile at your most morose…) stop wallowing and thank your lucky stars you have them. In reality that is a lot more than most people. But because humans are stupid and self-engrossed, we tend only to realize this when they’re gone.

Move to Zimbabwe …

You’ll be a billionaire.

Once you’ve exhausted this list, it might be time to swallow the pride, the ego, whatever it is and just get any job. There is always one going somewhere and it will invariably be more interesting, in whatever variation, than the dole.

15 Ways To Leave Your Lover ….

Posted On August 17, 2011 By jadeangelesfitton In Blog, Mystery box... / 1 Comment

If you have been embroiled in a love malais this may help you. Once an admirer of la doleur esquise, I am now jaded by it. As a sage fishwife once said to me “all this romantic melancholy is well and good, but it doesn’t butter the parsnips.”

This how to leave, taking pain in your stride and butter those parsnips …

Marilyn monroe once said “A wise girl kisses but doesn’t love, listens but doesn’t believe, and leaves before she is left.”

Man or woman, if you failed on the first two counts make sure you don’t on the last. Even the smart can be fooled a couple of times, but only the stupid wouldn’t notice the pattern. The leopard doesn’t change its spots.

When faced with someone who only wants you to have done wrong, you can do nothing right ...

Let them satisfy their martyr complex with false injustice. No point crying over milk you never spilled.

Don’t make a scene …

If ‘The Pocket Oracle and Art Of Prudence’ has taught me anything. You gain nothing from retaliation. The dissemination of a love should not be witnessed by the rabble. When gauded, hold your tongue, for it can be ferocious. Keep it clean to lick your wounds later.

Wear a hazmat suit …

To protect yourself from the fallout.

Treat them mean, keep them keen …

… Works a a couple of times times. Beware the game of cat and mouse. Triumph is not synonymous with power.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

If it’s never been you, at least this time it is.

Midnight break up and a dawn raid …

If for whatever reason you’ve had to leave someone you still loved, do it late and have something to distract you, the loneliness of walking the dark streets home is sweetly complimented by a battering ram through the door at 5am. 15 armed police officers should distract you from the pain, momentarily.

Dutch courage …

… Is sometimes necessary. Have a pancake, sorry whiskey, calm your nerves and say what you have to say. Don’t have too many or you will say too much.

If struggling to do what you know is best for you and what everyone else seems to know is best for you (run for the hills and never turn back) …

Think again of all they have done, and then of all they are not telling you.

Mirror, signal, maneuver …

Mirror …. Do exactly the opposite of those who’ve had their heart broken.
Signal …. People playing games always have a tell, observe the signs, they aren’t indicating anywhere pretty.
Maneuver … Now turn around and put your foot down.

If it’s as simple as you just want out …

Don’t make it someone else’s fault if it’s not. Don’t pick holes in someone and chip away at them to dig your own way out.

Do to others as you would have done to yourself …

Force yourself to be empathetic at your most enraged. Put yourself in their shoes; if you could not forgive yourself and still think they have truly sinned, let all hell break losoe.

Hold on tightly to hope …

… There is a lot you will have to let go.

Don’t spend your life sewing a shadow on Peter Pan …

…He never grew up, and she died alone.

Close the door, raise your head and feel the breeze. It might hurt, but it’s still beating.

How To Play The Game …..

Posted On June 27, 2011 By jadeangelesfitton In Blog, Mystery box... / 3 Comments

I’m starting to worry about myself, more than normal; because normally it’s ..

“Why is the light so bright? Maybe I have meningitis ..”

“Why am I so hungry? Maybe I have tape worm.”

“Why is this eczema so bad? Maybe I have necrotizing faciitis.”

I’m worried because it appears (though I am sweetness and light most of the time,) I am angry at the world. If I was 16, this would make me cool, a rebel, a lone wolf if you will. I’m 24 going on 68, so it makes me bitter and slightly immature.

Things I really struggle with are death, misogyny and well; that’s about it. I can appreciate a smart joke about them, but the jokes are rarely smart so more often than not I fail to have a sense of humor about them. Whatsoever. And as the world is filled with death and misogyny it is proving to make me a pretty grumpy person. It’s not a glamorous grumpy either – it’s not a Poe-like melancholy, it is, what I think it’s called “ansty” in some circles.

A recent example of this is when my partner in crime said he was going to become more and more misogynistic the older he got. He was joking, but being a couple of glasses of wine in and having had a whole life of it, I failed to see the hilarious side and instead went on a mission to prove a point. We went to the local corner shop so he could collect some mead and pipe tobacco. I walked in and proceeded to objectify the male clerks. To be fair it was quite a brutal objectification and as my partner pointed out afterwards, they were quite probably Muslims.

Guilt was quick off the mark, but pride was faster as I hastened to add …

“When has misogyny ever taken in to account your race, your religion or your creed? It doesn’t.”

Point proven, with unintentional irony, I decided it was time to stop wasting time going around proving points because there’s always going to be something, and start taking steps to enjoying what’s good.

Having previously written a step by step guide to coming to terms with your mortality – what better time to write a step by step guide to start enjoying your mortality?

There isn’t one. It is now, bitch.

Know when to leave …

Whether it be a party, a job or a relationship. If you feel it’s time to leave, it probably is. Get out while you still can.

It is all significant, until you say it’s not ….

Shakespear, the old sexbot, wrote a wonderful quote …

“Good Lord how bright and goodly shines the moon. I say it is the moon.”

“I know it is the moon.”

“Why then you lie, it is the blessed sun.”

“Then, God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun: But sun it is not, when you say it is not: And the moon changes even as your mind. What you will have it nam’d, even that it is.”

It is believed in certain circles (cool existentialist ones) that the meaning of life, is the meaning that you give your life. Your existence holds significance, the people around you’s influence is significant, the songs you love are significant, the things that move you are significant, everything influences everything else and it is all significant, until you say it is not. Because it is all up to you, there is no right or wrong answer collectively, only individually. How you perceive it. So, pick whatever helps you sleep at night and don’t fucking go on about it. If you chose to decide we are all insignificant, understand that is only in your eyes; and visa versa.

Never trust the masses ….

Because the majority of people are idiots. And idiots don’t make for a happy life.

Don’t be a Martyr …

If you’re still here, you aren’t one. The funny thing I’ve noticed is the people who have been through the most are the least likely to have a martyr complex. Funny that.

However hard done by you are, you should never be the judge of your own hardship. You will more often than not, get it wrong. We’ve all had bad things happen to us, they vary in their degrees but you should never feel worse off than any one else. Because thanks to life’s abrupt ends, everyone will experience an enormous amount of pain in their lives, it is inevitable, it just depends on when. So, whatever you’ve been through, remain safe in the knowledge that hardship does not make you great, how you deal with it does.

When you feel that all is lost, put ‘Metronomy – The Look’ on …

You will feel inexplicably happy, whatever’s happening. Put it on a loop if times are really bad.

Appreciate your friends …

And appreciate those people who are more than just friends (no, not like that) I mean those people whose true love for you makes your heart ache. Those people who forgive you for behaving like an unstable tornado, for saying things you shouldn’t have said, for treating you with nothing but kindness when you are at your lowest ebb, who feed you when you cannot afford to eat, who support you in whatever you do – however irrational, who are there when you call, who appreciate you. Because they are few and far between and you will miss them when they’re gone because you feel exactly the same way about them. So make sure they’re always close by and keep them close; restraining orders are nothing but paper.

Keep your wits about you …

If you don’t have sense of humor about all of this, you’re fucked. To put it lightly.

You are an animal ….

As cerebral as you are it’s important to remember this, wild thing. The best way to get down with your inner beast is through physicality, to be disconnected to your mind. I experience a great amount of pleasure going running and pushing my body, because it feels like something your body should be doing, you should be pushing your sallow limbs to move. We went around hunting and running and climbing once upon a time and that is still a part of you, your body is still designed to do that and what an incredible thing it is. What a waste for all it to do but plod from seat to seat. Also allow it to feel some pain once in a while. In small doses it’s a comforting reminder you’re still alive. I can highly recommend a 60% slap round the face after some home made ravioli. Delicious.

No one you loved ever wasted your time …

Bob Dylan has a brilliant line “You just kind of wasted my precious time, don’t think twice it’s alright.”

Bob, the legend, might have got it wrong on this occasion. Our time on this earth is fleeting and precious but no one you loved will ever have wasted it. No matter how bitterly it ended. Yeah it would have been great to have spent that time with someone with who it would have lasted, you’d have saved some heartache but you’d have missed out on quite a lot. These loves may not have been the right loves and they may have had their pitfalls but it was the nuances of them as a person that you adored and these nuances will have influenced you in some capacity whether you like it or not. You might have been introduced to incredible music, bizarre and hilarious experiences, new ways of thinking, you might have been told wonderful things, stories, met amazing people and you will have vicariously experienced different ways of living. And whatever happened at the end, you came out the other side. Though you may have experienced a sense of loss, trust me, you came out richer.

If you’re going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance …

Being the icons of responsibility and good time-keeping most of the time, we all have days when we need to go out, get a little wild, a little out of control. And if you’re going to do wrong you might as well do it right. Go all out, forget about everything and enjoy every minute of it. Just keep enough decorum not to vomit and reserved for blue moons.

Hope for a lot, but expect very little …

It’s nicer to be surprised in a good way.

See the wood for the trees …

Learn to see and appreciate what’s right infront of you. It’s incredibly important to have ambitions and goals, that’s part of what drives you, what makes you you. But don’t let this blinker you. Take a step back from time to time and take heed of what’s happening on the way, or you’ll miss it.

Dance, dance, dance …

You can dance. All you’re doing is moving your body. Fuck everyone elses ‘on-the-beat-slow-grinds’. You’re supposed to be having a good time, so have one. Just shake that little thing like there’s no one around and no tomorrow. I was told by my 6ft2 Nigerian ex-boyfriend I couldn’t dance, but I still like to think I gave him a run for his money at the running man.

Bond with your blood ….

Your family are variations of you. You are bonded by something very precious.. Get to know, they can tell you a lot about you.

Learn to relish nostalgia like a good Turkish Delight ….

It is hard to truly enjoy pleasant memories because of their transience. They were not necessarily generally happy times, but they are times that are lost to the ether. So because few of us are naturally good losers it stings a little. You will never be able to recreate it in it’s indescribable exactness. It’s sad, because it’s gone, but get over it and appreciate the romance of a pain that only life and love can bring about. It’s part of it. Better to appreciate it sooner rather than later. All of it, including the pain will be gone sooner than you know.

Follow your insects, sorry instincts …

Your instincts are usually right and if you don’t do what you think is right, you will never truly be happy. This isn’t to say you shouldn’t always be considerate of other peoples feelings and how your actions affect other people, because they do, but to be happy you ultimately need to be a little selfish. If your mum says you can’t be the next Chuck Norris but you truly believe you can be, then boy, you start getting so tough you make onions cry and tell your mum to bare with you. Because when all is said and done, you’re the only person living your life and it’s ultimately up to you to make it one you want to live.

Don’t be dickhead ..

Unless you actually have a penis on your face, there is no excuse. And even then, no need to be a cock about it.

Women! Stop buying cats …

You gotta get a goldfish. Trust. Cats are selfish, self engrossed, arrogant and couldn’t give a toss about you. Do you really need more of that in your life? Goldfish have no idea who you are but don’t take it personally, they have no idea who they are either. Enjoy their incandescent goldness and take advantage of their short-term memories. They serve as wonderful confidents.

Get out of the city …

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Get in to the rural expanse. Living in the City all you see is other people, they are your only reflection of the world and you start to lose perspective on it. Step outside, there’s a lot more to it. And by gum is that a relaxing feeling.

Don’t take yourself too seriously …

No one else is.

Love Larkin about ….

At the end of Philip Larkin’s ‘Arundel Tomb’ is the line “All that remains of us is love.” It’s pretty self explanatory really. When you’re gone, all you leave behind is love and the products of your love, your children, your friends, your achievements, your keepsakes, your memories shared with other people. Love is a wonderfully complex thing, but ultimately should be pleasurable and held in high regard. It doesn’t come around twice. I’ve tried not to sound too sentimental throughout this, but now I’m going to throw caution to the wind … I genuinely can’t think of a more beautiful way to think about your death than what you leave behind, and when what you leave behind is an incarnation of your love. That’s big.

Smoke while cycling …

…. Seriously. It’s just got to be done. James Dean knows what I mean.

I’m aware I may sound like a smart arse, but I’ve learnt all of this through my own mistakes (there have been many) and through other peoples; which doesn’t for a second make me clever, it just means I’ve learned ….

How To Get Fresh With Death …..

Posted On January 6, 2011 By jadeangelesfitton In Blog, Mystery box... / 3 Comments

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.

Shock, horror! We’ve created a monster …

Posted On December 9, 2010 By jadeangelesfitton In Blog, Mystery box... / 3 Comments

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.

The Life Of Lester ….

Posted On November 8, 2010 By jadeangelesfitton In Blog, Mystery box..., writing / 3 Comments

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.