New Year's Revelations pt 1

...or ‘Don’t Be Hating’

I recently had a short brush with the world of ‘urban’ entertainment reporting. What ‘urban’ actually means is another question altogether, and one which I’m almost certain no-one can really answer (except for it being the opposite of rural; but let’s face it, very few grime tracks are about not shooting foxes, not chilling on a farm and having little use for wellies). Either way, I am undoubtedly the least urban brown person I know, and as the New Year was seen in and the project petered out, I was able to enter 2012 with my eyes opened to a whole new world, and a whole new set of (urban) myths to mull...

Urban myth #1 Twitter represents how big a deal you are

Revelation #1 People actually think this

I hate to sound like a technophobe (though it’s one of the less horrendous phobes to be, as I’ll discuss in my next post), but the concept of Twitter had me in stitches before entering the business of show (that would be showbusiness). And that’s exactly what I couldn’t grasp: what could there possibly be to show? It’s fast become apparent that once engulfed one genuinely feels the need to show a lot more than is even remotely necessary; and though the concept in principle still has me in stitches, these stitches are now tinged with a dash of ‘no, but really’.

I get it, Twitter is a revolutionary force in the diffusion of information. My Arab Spring understanding was infinitely heightened by the twittosphere, and a sneak peak at what’ll be gracing the pages of *insert publication title here* lets me know whether to bother buying this week’s edition (which I invariably won’t because I have no money). It also serves as a sterling promotional tool for whatever it is that you’re working on, and a medium for making valuable connections (I hate the word because it’s not a word, but basically: ‘networking’*). But then there’s the other side to it; though I admit, my perspective is skewed by the fact that apart from Wikileaks and the handful of my friends who joined the bandwagon (in case we can’t ever speak to each others’ faces?!), I only really follow paragons of the urban scene.

There are the hyper-prolific tweeters who habitually insist things are going down and blowing up, who could fool you for a second into thinking that the world is on the brink of destruction (I also follow some Mayans btw) at the hands of the new record they’re dropping (butter fingers).

Then there’s the banal. The office/bar/sitting-next-to-one-another banter that once upon a time was verbal, amusing and confined to a fleeting moment in time is now conducted with our thumbs, archived and made visible to a host of unknowns who’d be weird to care.

Then there’s this (and at the risk of offending anyone, I’ll use my own tweet as an example, because – yes, yes – I am as guilty as the next vaguely attractive attention-seeker): ‘RT @****** @VickyNHope Your gawjus hottie. Luv ur show #followback << Thanks ;) Keep watchin!’ So yeah, that’s a thing. Enough said.

And then there’s the follower-count. And the follower-to-following ratio. And Follow Friday. And oh my gosh, the word follow has just stopped meaning anything (I mean that symbolically, but also because I just did that thing where you say a word too much then it doesn’t sound right any more. Yeah, that thing.)

At the height of my self-promotion window, I was told off for not tweeting enough, but I maintain that in no way, shape or form would this make me a better presenter. And furthermore, from the above exhibition, I think we can all agree that’s it’s probably for the best that I don’t. (I’ll tweet this blog post though. And wot?!)

Urban myth #2 Haters are gonna hate

Revelation #2 I think it’s called criticism

Taking criticism can be hard, especially when you’re doing something that you think you’re good at. But then the word ‘hater’ popped onto the scene, and all of a sudden we didn’t have to take criticism anymore: Result!

The first bout came as a shock and in the form of Youtube comments (Youtube comments: finally, people have a platform for all those views that they’d otherwise be rightly sectioned for allowing themselves to express! Hoorah!): ‘Dem bottom teeth r fucked, but Id still smash’. I was advised to ignore this, they were just haters. The first part of this advice was spot on: ignoring was certainly the best course of action. However I’d like to query deeming this particular gent a ‘hater’. After all, he did say he’d still smash (an un-hateful compliment if ever I read one, and read it I did...so did my mum, unfortunately). Furthermore, correct: my bottom teeth aren’t at all perfect. He didn’t need to point it out, no, but he wasn’t wrong. It’s OK, because there’s not a lot I can do about it with only £16.26 to my name.

Then there was: ‘them eyebrows are distractin. Stop movin dem!’ Again, someone’s not loving my work there; hater. But wait, he’s giving some pointers... So how about taking them on board, learn to control that face a little bit more when presenting and Bob’s-your-uncle, an improvement!

‘Haters’ are talked about as though they’re a pack of jealous lions out only to tear you down because they just want to be you. I’m just going to put it out there, but when you say that aloud, you really appreciate how ridiculous a notion it is. The word hater appears to have become a way for people to justify utterly disregarding critique. And that’s not a good move. Of course you can take it or leave it when it comes to criticism, but at least it prompts you to reflect, and at the tender age of 22 I don’t believe I am in any position to proclaim: ‘Say what you want, I am what I am and I ain’t gonna change for no-on’. No, I have a lot of changing to do; criticism helps you to learn and grow, and my God do I still have room to grow.

I’ve heard it said (in fact this is the mantra of urban life, and I don’t mean that in the flat-by-the-canal-advert kinda way): ‘Behind every successful person lies a pack of haters’. Call them what you want, but they’re probably the very people whose words taught you to hone your craft and achieve that success.

*Just typed this into (the aptly named) Microsoft Word (other programmes are available...but not many), and shit, yes it is a word.

Coming up: pt 2, in which 'urban' culture ...er... embraces homosexuality and Shakespearian English.

New Year's Revolutions

...or ‘the dubious state of Western morals’

...or why I’m championing spinning tops, merry-go-rounds and...erm...wheels

Over the course of the past week I have found myself faced with two people (each on a separate occasion) on the verge of tears. One was upset about the state of emergency declared in Nigeria as protests over fuel subsidies became horribly violent; the other felt his happiness was unjustly jeopardised by having been asked to take some household responsibility. Life’s hard.

Amidst adamant protestations of ‘but I’ve got to just think of my happiness; the main thing is that I’m not happy and I have to do whatever is necessary to make sure I’m happy (sorry, I missed that, were you saying something about being happy?)...I shouldn’t have to empty the bins, I don’t use the kitchen (I shouldn’t have a teenage daughter on my hands here, I didn’t give birth to one)... Those pictures of Argentina in the corridor make me feel unwelcome (those pictures are of Paris, but all hell might have broken loose had I pointed that out)... I don’t agree that in signing a contract I make a commitment that I should work/try to keep; it’s like marriage, if someone’s not happy you get divorced...’

...WAIT A SECOND, I can pardon – feel sorry for, even – the mild social retardation and unfortunate psychotic tendencies that said subject eventually admitted to, but viewing a get-out clause as a go-to over putting in some effort is just not right. I am not against divorce; that would be ludicrous. Relationships break down, differences become irreconcilable, situations change. But ‘for better or for worse’ doesn’t mean ‘if it gets worse, find something better... I deserve to be happy...Time for a U-turn...’ a little revolution, if you will.

And I don’t doubt that said subject felt he was staging a mini revolution in mustering the balls to drop us a facebook message (apparently acceptable because he also sent an email; not a human conversation, no, but an honourable email...copied and pasted from the facebook message) announcing the termination of his contract a whopping 10 months early, because he’d found something better; something that would make him happier... ‘What’s wrong with that???’

And thus, I am beginning to worry (am I massively late on the uptake of this one?) about the moral state of our society; a worry infinitely heightened last night when I watched Mamma Mia while on the cross-trainer.

The thing about the cross-trainer – Aquaterra gym’s finest – is that it is facing 4 screens, all showing different channels. So whilst despairing at the shambolic personal conduct-promoting Mamma Mia, out the corner of my eye I was also able to see Kim Kardashian upset and complaining on one screen, and footage of Nigerian rioters upset and complaining* on another (in the far screen I could also see a naked baby sheep being pulled out of a huge woolly sheep’s arse, but that is another story, and not one of any relevance to my rant).

There are plenty of reasons to be upset and complaining: the world’s in a fucking mess. But I don’t think that esaid subject is even remotely aware – nor in the slightest wants to be aware (after all, the words ‘I’m not interested in other countries’ did escape his mouth, though I think that was more in reference to the Argentina/Paris pictures** than anything else) – of the world beyond his peripheral vision, let alone the rest of it. The blinkers are on, and if me myself and I ain’t happy, then things just ain’t right. He’s not the only one, Kim Kardashian was certainly in the same boat, and I probably shouldn’t point the finger (though doing so works well for the whole ‘anecdote leading onto bigger picture’ format I’d thankyou-please like this blog to take). I’m a hypocrite for being critical at all: I was blinkered watching Mamma Mia (sweet baby Jesus why?!), pondering said subject and a blog post, when my attention really should have been on the travesty that had my mother close to tears on Christmas morning.

As the beginning of 2012 sees the Nigerian people face a very real revolution as they clash with (in spite of everything, the ever-amusingly-named) Goodluck Jonathan, so too do a series of celebrity break-ups abound in the press; a culture (celebrity-dom) which terrifyingly thrives (because we thrive on it) in the West. I know, because I read gossip news (there, I said it); hey, I even write it.

When the blinkers are on, and it’s only out of the very corners of our eyes that we can just about make out the beginnings of the bigger picture (and/or a naked baby sheep being pulled out of a huge woolly sheep’s arse), perhaps THAT’S when a mini revolution could come in handy. We could all do with a dose of precious perspective, and a wise man (Fred Durst, so let’s just say the line between wise and not wise is a fine one) once said: ‘Take a look around’: If our peripheral vision is limited (laugh all you want, horses, with your eyes on the sides, seeing all around; at least we humans have dexterity; how d’you like that?!), then maybe a bit of a U-turn could do the trick...check out what’s to the right and the left...go wild, a 360... I’m talkin’ ‘bout a revolution***.

*Choice of wording here purely for effect. Equating the two – even if simply lexically – does pain me.

** Fitting, as Buenos Aires is oft labelled ‘The Paris of the South’

*** Tracy Chapman: debatably wiser than Durst.

New Year's Resolutions

You know what they say: new year, new blog post in a desperate attempt to resurrect the last shards of literary prowess that we once prided ourselves on (‘they’, ‘we’ and ‘ourselves’ more or less just meaning ‘I’ and ‘myself’, but let’s not get exclusive).

Having grown into a woman and embarked on a career path (albeit one which steered me straight past the financial comfort and mundane-yet-mature daily routine usually associated with adulthood, and straight towards East London, a bright red overdraft, Justin Bieber and that shit film Twilight) there’s little time for whimsy, so –coupled with the fact that my ankle healed long ago – I find there to be good enough excuses to keep these posts short and sweet*.

So 2012: it’s a new year. Great, that is true enough. I just wish we would leave it at that; it’s a good solid fact. Unfortunately, people tend to follow it up with: ‘New You’, ‘Fresh Start’ etc etc, and that’s when the clock striking midnight becomes a whole new, ludicrous thing. Don’t get me wrong, that part when we all shake each other’s arms up and down and sing the words we don’t know to the tune of Auld Lang Syne is wonderful; I’m not convinced there’s actually anything better...

...But IF YOU WERE A BIT OF A PSYCHO/DICKHEAD/GODDAMN FOOL AT 11:59PM ON 31^ST DECEMBER 2011, CHANCES ARE YOU’LL STILL BE A BIT OF A PSYCHO/DICKHEAD/GODDAMN FOOL COME 00:01 ON 1^ST JANUARY. Fine, you could make yourself a healthier one, one who drinks their 8 litres-a-day (is that really it?! Seems excessive, dangerous even), frequents the gymnasium and finds themselves a partner, but – I’m just putting it out there – IF YOU QUITE FANCIED DOING THESE THINGS ANYWAY, WHY ON EARTH WAIT til the deepest, darkest winter when there are no flowers, no squirrels, nothing to frolic aptly and happily in the background while you bound around with a newfound sprightliness?

Needless to say, I’m not a massive fan of resolutions. Resolving to do things can only end one of two ways: success or failure; whereas there’s a fluidity to ‘loosely planning’ that leaves room for the unknowns. And hey, who (un)knows, the unknowns might even present us with some better options than those we scribbled down in an intoxicated mess after unhooking our fingers from the sleeves of one another’s woollen garments (post-Auld Lang Syne, in case you were struggling with that one).

People make new year’s resolutions every year, they worry about them, they don’t keep them, then they worry about having not kept them. Basically, they fail, then they do it all again. And thus today just becomes the tomorrow that we worried about yesterday.

A wise person (the Dalai Lama: wise, and also bizarrely a guest judge on a recent episode of Master Chef Australia**) once said: “If you have fear, pain or suffering, and there is something you can do about it, there is no need to worry about it; if you cannot do anything, then there is also no need to worry.” True dat.

So if you’re gunning for a ‘fresh start’, why not just loosely plan always to be fresh? (soap and deodorant, they help) If it’s a ‘new you’ you want to uncover, how about just being you? (and if you’re a bit of a psycho/dickhead/goddamn fool, that’s really tough luck). Either way, just because it’s the beginning of the year, I see no point in forcing an inordinate amount of pressure on things that should be worked on over time. There’s no point in worrying about life, it’s not like we’ll survive it.

*Which, according to a certain rapper I recently spoke with, aptly  describes myself... although – at the risk of being shot – I’d argue that sitting lofty at 5’8’’ I’m above average height for a girl, and having not-so-long-ago been called a ‘b*tch’ (gasp) by one of the tamest people I’ve ever met, I’m probably not all that sweet either.

**Apparently not just shrimps and barbies.

Day (T-2): Amendment

Yesterday, by 'four' I actually meant 'three'.

As I said, I always accept when I'm wrong: I was wrong...

...Rarely do I accept the blame: It wasn't my fault...

...I enjoy inserting Shaggy lyrics into my writing: 'It wasn't me'...

...though obviously it was, and I just miscalculated.

Numerical and temporal specificities aside, as of today only two itchy days of immobility remain. Couldn't be happier. Hence the scattiness. Bombastic.

Day (T-4): The North

It’s been a while. There is no denying that I royally failed to achieve anything close to frequency in my blogging attempts, and that – in spite of a long-held aspiration – the word ‘prolific’ couldn’t be less apt to describe my writing. Let’s face it, ‘prolific’ was a long shot, and I shouldn’t have set my standards so bombastically high. That’s right, bombastic: bad adjective, tough one to live up to when you’re on crutches, and ‘they’ certainly wouldn’t have thought Shaggy so ‘mmm fantastic’ had he been hobbling along to his claims of being Mr. Lover Lover. So how was I – crippled, sedentary, wouldn’t ‘catch me on the counter’ – to even begin to expect such accolades in the art of the article when, post-day 14, the daily demands of my degree were to once again take centre stage, but this time performed at half the speed? Granted, I could have re-prioritised, but given the old academic ardour, that just ‘wasn’t me’.  

I accept my failures, and this is no exception. But those who know me will also be aware that I rarely accept the blame. Again, this is no exception. The fault lies with my dissertation; I won’t bore you with the details, but believe me, it’s a bloody nuisance. So sorry to disappoint, there were so many exciting things to report on Parker’s Piece over the last few weeks: student protests, an army of yummy mummies equipped with Ralph Lauren pushchairs, a showdown between the burliest bus drivers, heroic (btw I’m biased) taxi drivers and anal traffic wardens, and of course, the snow. Alas, what’s done is done; the cast comes off in four itchy days and all of this ends before it ever really began. Thanks to the disso, I left you all in the dark, and watched my Pulitzer slowly fade into the distance. I hope it’s proud of itself.  

Rant over; to be fair, I still have a window. I may no longer be a resident of 4 Park Terrace, and although only four days remain for me as an invalid, my observations are indefinitely of the invalid variety. And thus, the show goes on.

I’m now installed up North. I reject insults about the North being grim, though I will admit that in the deep mid-winter, my God, it is bleak. So far, I’ve observed nothing as racy as frosty winds making moan (whichever of the many many nuanced meanings one may derive from this), and as the fluffy white stuff has melted to reveal treacherous, crutch-unfriendly sheets of ice, it’s less ‘snow on snow’ than ‘crow on crow’ as the hungry scavengers battle it out for the last scraps of road kill before heading off in search of warmer climes. Jealous, partly.

Despite the abundance of windows available to me here, it’s going to take a little more strenuous strain of musing to offer you something captivating in this most secluded spot of Hadrian’s Wall Country, but my days, I will try. If it comes to it, I’m willing to go so far as to set up hilarity-ensuing scenes around the garden, complete with actors, props and a live studio audience to up their performance...If not for your entertainment and wellbeing (which would once again precariously situate me on the cusp of failure), then at least, taking a leaf out of the shaggyman’s book, I am going behind the back of the dissertation that’s kept me whipped for so long, letting my eyes and fingers wander, and flirting with the thrill of taking a break to write about absolutely nothing of any importance. Bombastic.  

Day 13: Ice Skating

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, babes and oldies... in fact everyone (except those unwilling to splash the cash... or who are currently disabled): 'Cambridge on Ice' has, at long last, returned for its fourth year, offering skaters and merry-makers a winter wonderland right here on our very own Parker's Piece.

From Saturday 20th November until Sunday 2nd January, what could be more festive or fun than an £8.95 session spent gliding with friends and family under the twinkling fairylights and magical purple glow of this beautiful outdoor rink? Falling into both of the above categories of exclusion from such frolics, I can think of a number of alternative ways in which I'd prefer to (am resigned to having to) spend my time. But let's not be a Scrooge.

No, the two-week buzz of anticipatory excitement surrounding the erection of Cambridge on Ice will finally climax tomorrow, when the rink opens its doors to what will hopefully be a very satisfied public. I look forward to hearing screams of delight reverberating through the air, and to witnessing a flurry of exilharation as ecstatic kiddies and amorous couples take to the ice.

And if you're really old or really young, a) unlucky for you, and b) fear not: on Mondays and Tuesdays between 9 and 11am, the rink will be reserved for Parent & Toddler and Silver Skater sessions. At least I assume 'Silver Skater' refers to the elderly, as opposed to a more literal allusion to the city's rich and ostentatious, whose hard work has earned them not only high-paid jobs, but also the right to hassle-free, quiet skating. Either way, there'll be no riff-raff admitted during these times.

For those who like to follow who's who on the Oscar/Emmy/Bafta/Brit circuit, it may be of interest to you that Cambridge on Ice has been named a winner in the 2010 Cambridge 'Way To Be' awards, in recognition of their outstanding service and accessibility for disabled customers. They don't specify how on earth this accolade comes into play for the execution of a recreational activity almost entirely reliant on an able body. But who knows, perhaps every measure possible has been taken to make the rink a danger-free, more friendly and all-inclusive place: ice zimmer-frames, crampon-crutches, speed-bumps... grit?

For fear of a repeat of the shambolic dealings with last year's 'treacherous conditions', I wouldn't be surprised if the country were just sprinkling the stuff indiscriminately, ensuring no-one falls flat (on their face) this time round, regardless of whether the ice is a menacing force of nature, or a ludicrously priced fun-fest. It's a safer GB that counts, folks.

Or maybe they just got the prize because there's a ramp leading up to the cafe. So what if it's £4 a coffee and a sobering reminder that whilst physical fun is out of the question for me for 6 more weeks, the rest of the city is having jolly folly on ice?! After spending 3 minutes in veritable torment while stuck in a broken lift today, hand on my heart I can say: if it's easy access: fantastic, I'm there.

Day 12: See Day 5

That's right, before you know it, Thursday comes hurtling back round the bend, bringing with it the sharp shrill of a whistle signalling that yes, it is 1.15pm, and yes, let the most dangerous of non-combat activities once more instill fear in your soul.

This week, the Pink Panthers Ladies' Footbal Club took to Parker's Piece to the tune of  'Girls, we've got to really be more aggressive'.

Call me old-fashioned; call me a kill-joy; you know what, I don't care, call me soft; but I'd most certainly beg to differ: Er no guys, that's how accidents happen. Play nice.

And do not kick that ball over here.