All I Want Is A Female Brian Cox

I love Brian Cox. I think he’s great. Properly, honestly great. He sort of vaguely wondered into our lives with the force of a Sherman tank, and then refused to leave. He sat down on the living room sofa of England and said “You need some science. Here, here is some science, delivered from the top of a gorgeous mountain which you too will want to stand on, but only after I’ve finished with it. And trust me; you’ll be able to, because after I’ve finished with it, this mountain won’t be able to walk for three weeks. Stand on my mountain, and love science.” And all of England immediately made him a cup of tea and cried “Of course we shall stand on this lovely mountain, you insanely beautiful man! What fools we have been, to believe in homeopathy and the apocalypse before we gazed upon your lovely face.” And then Brian Cox nodded, and wondered off to drink his tea, and play a bit of dodgy piano. 
I’m really glad we have Brian Cox. He’s bought science to the normal people, made physics cool, and worn an All Saints polo shirt while doing it. Really, very cool. 
But I’m greedy, and now I want a female version. As a raging feminist, I think women need a female Brian Cox. The closest thing we have is Mary Beard, lovely, quirky and interesting, but still not science, and still not shaggable. I don’t mean that in a way that want Scarlett Johnson running around in a lab coat, pointing at the sky and screaming “Wow! Gravity!”, but more in the way that I want a woman who you can fancy, and is still really, profoundly clever. 
Watching any program at the moment that has a bit of a science-y segment, and that has a female presenter, it is guaranteed that she will end up in a lab, looking a little bit lost, asking an actual scientist what the hell is going on, before turning to look doe-eyed into the camera, and announcing it’s time to go back to the studio. 
Nope. Defo not what’s needed. No seems to have yet managed to bridge the divide between ‘female scientist’, and ‘female presenter’. I want someone who a ten year old girl will look at and go “Wow! I bet loads of boys fancy her, and she knows the theory of relativity inside out. I wish I could be like her when I grow up.” I want a bird who throws on a McQueen sports bra to go inside an anti-gravity chamber – which she helped build. If she climbs up a mountain to observe the Northern Hemisphere in winter, I want her to snow board back down, without first having to get a bloke to strap her into her ski boots, and give her a push. 
Is that too much to ask? I like to think it isn’t. If a bloke can do it, why can’t we? Maybe, out there somewhere, there are thousands of women with PhDs and big hair, jostling to host their own physics show, on prime time BBC. Maybe the media think that no one would watch it, it would be a novelty for all of five seconds, before burning out like an asteroid entering the atmosphere. And of course it wouldn’t. Loads of people would watch it, and it would be wonderful. A wonderful new role model to sit our daughters down and say “You can be feminine, and love science, and you should, because you’ll be able to actually work out which face creams will work just by reading the ingredients.”  A lovely, big haired chick in walking boots and kaftan climbing up hills, and knowing stuff, and wanting to tell everyone about it, because science is just so incredibly wonderful that the only rational thing to do is to scream it from the top of a mountain. 
And if she just so happened to play keyboard in a series of truly alarming bands in the 80s, well, that would just be a bonus. 

Jumping On The... Horse And Cart

In January, some scientists found some horse in a burger. I had a very strong initial response to this, and it was one of AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

See, I'm a vegetarian, and while I'm not the sort to go around slapping people eating KFC, screaming "YOU BASTARD, THINK OF HOW MANY CHICKENS YOU'RE IMPRISONING  TORTURING AND MURDERING. THEY HAVE FEELINGS TOO YOU KNOW!!1!", I do feel a little bit smug. 

It's not so much that I think people who eat meat are 'finally getting what they deserve', as such, it's more that  sort of smugness that crops up when something bad happens to people who aren't you. I sat in a corner with my salad, and cackled as the media descended into an infernal outrage.

Which I think was the best bit about, what Wikipedia has dubbed, the 2013 Meat Adulteration Scandal. The press treated it as if the manufacturers were playing a nation wide game of Russian Roulette, by sneakily sprinkling horse into one burger out of every ten, and that the only conclusion was that everyone would somehow be horribly poisoned. They had to call in 'top scientists' (the majority of which were students with lab coats) to reassure all England that there was not actually enough horse meat in anything that could be in anyway harmful. None of the horses that had accidently been dropped into the mincer contained drugs, and everyone was going to be totally fine, honest, cross our hearts and hope to die.

The only problem was, that for once, no one actually needed reassuring. The entire population, as a whole, seemed to just shrug and go "Well, these things happen.", before carrying on moaning about the weather, and slagging off Micheal Gove. The only food that contained horse was, and is, dirt cheap. The people who were actually eating it quietly agreed that they probably should have seen it coming, and looked a bit sad. Everyone in the middle class tutted, in a "As if we'd shop at Tesco's" sort of way, and went back to staring at the free range washing powder in Waitrose. 

And I think everyone knows that the upper class has been nibbling on polo pony on cracker for decades. They're not called Hor(se) d'ourves for nothing.

The other thing that surprised me was the we were all very rational about the whole thing. Everyone seemed to recall the fact that, just because we are not culturally inclined to eat horse, doesn't mean that others aren't, and it isn't necessarily all that unethical. We don't make a habit out of it, but we made a habit of eating cow. 

So, y'know, thanks a lot British press. It's time to move on now.

A Brief Intermission: At Home With The Family

It's just gone nine o'clock. Mum and I are in the kitchen, the Step Daddy is in the living room, trying not to have anything to do with us. We're both tired, and giggly. The oldest of the cats is in her basket. The smallest is picking over the remains of a fish pie. The other two are violently staring at the one that got to the pie first, and are silently plotting ways to send him to a speedy demise, without damaging the fish. 
Mum is sat next to the fire, with a text book about the history of art on her lap, which she's doing a very poor job of reading. I'm sat on the floor with the cats, in a small blanket pyramid while eating some jelly. The cats edge closer to the pie. 
"Bob. Bob." Mum waves at the cats. "Bob. Look, Bob." She waves her pencil up and down, in the manner of one trying to make it look like it's made out of rubber. She drops it, and it hits a cat on the head. He doesn't notice - there's pie to be had. I laugh, snort, inhale jelly, and the sneeze it onto a cat. Mum bursts out laughing, and tries to grimace. "Gross. Now shut up, I'm trying to be grown up." 
We both laugh for ten minutes straight. 


Neither of us notice the cats clubbing the smaller one over the head, and loading the pie into a transit van, before driving away. 

My Bipolar Relationship With Knitting

I do not claim to be very good at knitting. I can do a decent amount of work, and I can do it kind of quickly - as long as I'm not doing anything too complex. But that doesn't mean I'm good at it. However, I do enjoy it. In the same way that a recovering crack addict enjoys a relapse. That's a horrifying, but shockingly good metaphor. 
I go through phases - two, to be precise. First, I won't really knit at all. I'll look despondently at the needles and yarn on my floor, and sign, and carry on my way. Maybe every now and then I'll have a bit of a guilt trip, pick them an old project, knit a couple of stitches, sigh again, and carry on my way. This is a very vague state. I'll feel annoyed at myself. I'll end up doing a lot of heavy breathing, and thinking you could be doing something so much more productive right now. The needles will gather dust, and my messages will build up on Ravelry, until people just assume I've died, and been eaten by my gazillion cats. Then'll I'll forget for another three months and go back to frolicking heavily on the internet. 
The second phase is rather akin to a very crafty grandmother finally being let out of prison and being allowed pointy objects again. I will seize those needles, rip away any former projects I had going, and start afresh. God forbid anyone tries to hug me for the next few weeks, as certain death becomes a threat with every pair of needles and yarn I have stashed in every bag and pocket. Suddenly, any and all money I have will be thrown into buying nicer yarn, and better needles, and books about how to knit jackets that I don't have anywhere near the skill level for. If I'm given a free thirty seconds I will have whipped my wool out and done as many stitches as I have time for. I ill knit in lessons, on the bus, in bed, and in the cinema (but only if the film's really boring). 
I'm all or nothing when it comes to knitting. I'm either clean, or high as a kite.
And I've learnt something, writing this post, something very important.
Trying to make drug analogies with knitting really doesn't work. 
Sorry. 

Summoning Brian Cox Like A Demon (But Sexier)

Three background points you need for this story:

1. I am currently deeply infatuated with Brian Cox
2. Brian Cox lives in Manchester
3. I went out in Manchester the other night with some friends.

Cue me sat in a pizza shop at half two in the morning, with my brother, staring at my phone and gently crying "Brian Cox never tweeted me back." In my defence, it was my brother's idea to tweet him in the first place. We were on Canal Street at the time, which is a part of Manchester which is world famous for it's gay village. I was talking (mostly to myself) about how awesome it would be to have Brian Cox in a gay club, and the tweeting him was suggested. Let's face it, it would have been hilarious. Unfortunately, as we were out clubbing, I ended  up a wee bit tipsy. I get scheme-y when I'm tipsy. And  then I came up with the idea that it's possible to summon Brian Cox, like a demon. Which is how I ended up outside TigerTiger screaming "D:REAM" at the sky. I have to admit, nothing happened. We walked back through the city to the hotel, and naturally, all spent most of the way with our eyes peeled, in case any unknowing physicists popped up anywhere.

None did.

However, When we got back to the hotel, OE and I got in bed, and stuck the telly on, only to witness Brian Cox, eating a curry. Coincidence? I THINK NOT. 

I take this as a sign from the universe that I need to try harder with my summoning.

Thats a stylised CERN logo on my forehead, there. The pink lipstick is in honour of all the  godawful bands he was in, in the 80's. All I need now are some candles, salt pentagram, and a large hadron colider.

Cats Are Great, Aren't They?

I have cats. I have five, to be precise. Four at my Mum's house, and one at Dad's. They are all sweet, and very, very mental. For the majority of our time, we stay out of each other's way, and this suits us just fine. It also means they never bother me for food every time I walk into the kitchen, like they do with Mum. I know a few people who have cats. The majority of them can quite neatly be grouped into three, quite neat, categories. (Cat-egories. Geddit? Huh? Huh? Oh God. Kill me.)

1. May or may not be from ancient Egypt. The cat is holy, and to be worshiped by all who dare to witness it. It is not allowed outside. It is not allowed to touch the floor. It has an eider down bed, and is regularly seen eating pasta and salmon from Waitrose. To be avoided. The cat owner will discuss the pros and cons of various feline grooming parlors for three hours at a time, and if you ever make the mistake of walking through their front door, you will be smacked in  the face with a pedigree certificate. 
2. Is 10% chocolate, 40% bad wine, and 50% regret. The one who always suggests you read Bridget Jones at bookclub, even though you're focusing on Gothic literature this month. Always female, aged between 30 and 40. Probably has a calender counting down desperately to their menopause. Will repeatedly go on dates in attempt to become fertilized in time, but unfortunately  mentions the cat every five minutes. Will claim that the cat is her one true friend, despite the fact that the tiny, evil bastard is ruing her life. 
3. Doesn't actually know they have a cat. One of two people: either has a farm, in which case; check the barn. You will be able to steal adorable kittens. OR, lives on a road that has a whore cat. Y'know, one of those ones that goes to about twenty different houses for food, cuddles and sleeps. This is the one you should be friends with; they aren't mental. Although at some point they will have had a deep and meaningful conversation with the cat, and told it all of their life secrets. Teach the cat to Speak English  Trust me, it'll be funny.  

Whatever. Have some stupid photos anyway.

And just because:

Coming To Terms With Class

All my life, I have said that I don't know what class I am. I have said that since my parents are divorced, my Dad's social standing does not apply to me. I have, on occasion, and when I was much younger, played up how much physical labor my family partakes in on a weekly basis. I admit, our family budget does not extend to posh cheese and any wine made before roughly five years ago, but it's not like we've ever had to choose between meat and heating. Well, I certainly haven't, but this may have something to do with the fact that I don't eat meat. That point may be void.
Even so, I do own Cath Kidson bedding. It was given to me by my father's friend, but none the less, my duvet is currently eggshell blue, and covered in roses.
So, here I am, for the first time in my life, standing up and admitting: I am middle class.
No you all have to say it as well - assuming that it applies to you.
The majority of people I know are middle class. In fact, I'm pretty sure everyone I know is middle class. And I don't think I've ever met anyone who actively admits to being so. In fact, as my media teacher said last year - "If you don't think you're middle class, you're probably middle class." And he has a very good point. No one wants to admit that they're middle class. No one wants to admit to having a degree education, being able to pay the bills on time, and being able to buy nice clothes on a whim.
I think this is because, for some reason, in the UK, we seem to like complaining. The middle class really have very little to really complain about. I'm not one of those people who goes around screaming "YOU'RE WHITE, CHECK YOUR PRIVILEGE, BITCH!", but I do often think to myself, "Yeah, you can't go out this weekend, but still, you ate three square meals today."
I think also people don't like admitting to being middle class (I nearly wrote male class, tee hee hee) because of the 'reputation' that goes with it. The wine-drinking, guardian-reading, politics-discussing reputation. Well balls to that. I like wine. I like the Guardian, and I like politics. I also like Radio 4, purchasing tea cups, and scowling at people on trains. I don't know which I am more; middle class, or middle aged. I have a niggling feeling that people feel that if we admit to being middle class, people will think we are boring, and angry. Of course we're boring and angry, we're British. Personally, I have become quite fond of being boring and angry - I can shout at Gorge Osborne on telly and no body cares. (Obviously this stereotypes does not apply to everyone... nah, come on, who are we kidding?)
My point is, I think we should start to actually admit that some of us may just be middle class, and embrace it. It's a blessing. I admit, some of us are much more middle class than others - for example, I live in a house that has no straight walls, and quite a small bath. I know some people who have only straight walls, and more than one large-type baths. With separate showers. However, at least I live in a house, and I have a bath.
Be thankful for being middle class, and stop being such a dick for pretending you're not. Embrace the films with subtitles, and cheese that smells of feet. Count your blessings (don't check your privilege).
My second point is that I'm going to wait till morning to post this. I had quite a lot of wine at book club, and drunk me is not to be trusted. Shut up. I'm 18. And middle class.

Sober, mid morning me thinks all of these point are valid. She has also realized that she needs to stop tweeting Brian Cox in the middle of the night, tell him how happy he makes her. Oh dear. 

An Incoherent Ramble About Pyjamas

If there is one  fashion trend that appeared in 2012, and that I actually like, it's got to be big pyjamas. I love big pyjamas. Proper 1940's, gentlemanly type pyjamas, with baggy trousers, and shirts with collars. I currently have one set, from River Island. It is dark blue, with mustard yellow polka dots. There's another set  on sale in Topshop, which is bright pink, and lovely. Some of the best, of course, are tartan, and are designed for doing nothing more than being worn while curled up in front of a fire, with soup and Radio 4. Then there are sets made of silk, or satin, for wearing around morning-after lovers, with floor length dressing gowns, in a contrasting colour. These look best while sprawled across a chaise longue, hair still in immaculate waves, while eating breakfast caviar off a cream cracker. 
Big pyjamas are possibly the most durable nightwear out there. They are suitable for summer, or winter, provided you have a suitable duvet, and you can answer the door to the post man without having to half duck behind a convenient wall, while peering out at a dodgy angle. They can be sexy, or cuddly, or just plain lovely. I have quite strong emotions about big pyjamas.
So quite often, when I'm having a day at home, or it's late and I'm tired, I'll wear my big pyjama trousers, and a shirt, and my red cardigan with the little embroidered anchor. For two reasons; one, it is a damn comfy outfit, and two, it makes me look a tiny bit like a 50's washerwoman from New York. I like this outfit. Which is why I'm questioning how socially acceptable it would be to wear it outside.  Not to a restaurant, or, I dunno, bowling or anything. And definitely not to any sort of large, social event. Possibly to meet David Cameron, but nor Nick Clegg. But on, say, an airoplane. I'm flying to Berlin at some point, and it really is very comfy. I quite like the idea of being on a plane, looking like a washerwoman, and if there was ever a place where it is socially acceptable to wear pyjamas, I'm pretty sure it's an airport. People don't care if you're dressed like a slob in an airport. You're about to be chucked in the air in a giant tin can. It's allowed. It also has the added benefit of nothing being made of metal, so you don't end up having to be shoved into a large tube, which stripes you naked using it's magic eye. Or an x-ray.
Whatever.

It's posts like this that make me realise that reading this blog has got to be a little like listening to a very drunk friend at a party, when they can't remember how to stop talking.

My Age Is Probably A Health And Safety Risk

So nearly everyone I know now has a combination of any of these three things: a job, a drivers license, and a an email from a university telling them they have a conditional offer. I have none of these things. That's a lie, I have two jobs, but both of them routinely forget that I exist. I have never had a driving lesson, so it's pretty clear where that's going, and I didn't apply to uni this year, because for some reason I feel the need to stay at home for another year, crying and clutching bank statements to my chest. That's what most people do on a gap year, right? (Note, gap YEAR, not YARH.) 

So, point being, a week from today, I will be eighteen. That's like, big numbers. I will be old. I will be a "grown up", what ever that is. I seem to have convinced myself that on my birthday I will magically grow three inches, and the added height is what will make me gain responsibility. I have decided, I am not ready to grow up yet. However, in my eighteen (nearly) eighteen years of life, I have accomplished some things. I can:

• Treat a cat for fleas
• Do the the basic steps for a Charleston and a waltz
• Fix a bookcase using a complex balancing system
• Put on a duvet cover without getting trapped inside it for half an hour
• Send a text while going at speed on a horse
• Change a light bulb
• Do a cartwheel with one hand
• Write a semi-decent short story
• Fit inside my kitchen cupboard for an emergency hiding space
• Make really nice cake

I cannot fill a dishwasher properly, sew on a button, order anything in a restaurant without panicking, or have  a faux-cheerful conversation with a hairdresser but I think I have enough to be getting on with. 

In other news...

Look, punks and cats!

This song is very important

Some Quotes From The Nurses Who Were With Me While I Donated Blood

"That's a very interesting collection of rings. Please don't punch me."

"That's symbolically quite violent. A psychologist would have a field day with you."

"Oh my God. You have really great veins. I wish everyone had blood as good as this."

"I think that when people die, they shouldn't be buried. They should be made into black pudding."

"Right, just squeeze this cotton ball. Pretend it's Robbie Williams's neck."

"The cotton ball became David Bowie, stop squeezing!"

And finally, upon offering me a bag of my own blood: "Sausages?"

Then I Realized How Rural My Upbringing Has Beem

So I went to Whitby last week, which was nice. Just a couple of days away with Mum and the step father, to clean out the cobwebs before we all went back to functioning in society. We visited the abbey, and the museum, and did a lot of shopping. I bought a cardigan. Yes, it is very nice, thank you. It's red, and has a little embroidered anchor. We did a lot of walking, and nearly stole a dog. I fell down a lot of stairs, and Mum nearly cried at the amount of themed tea shops we visited. 

I also realized how very, very rural my upbringing has been. Where I live, if you need to get something useful, like bread, or toothpaste, you have to plan to go and get these things at least a week in advance, maybe a little less if you can drive. Most people are used to the fact that, half an hour before Boot's shuts, they can just walk there, get what they need, on the spur of the moment, and be home in time for tea, thank you very much. Not me. Oh no, I was baffled by this.  I needed face wipes. Boots would be shut in half an hour. Grabbed the handbag, ran down the road, and was back within about five minutes. I ended up staring at the wall for the entirety of the next day trying to get over the fact that I didn't need to catch a train, or a bus, or cycle anywhere. I'm going to be rubbish when I move out. I'll probably break when I discover Tesco Metro. 

I also fell in a lake, trying to escape from the Abby, then nearly threw up in a church, but that's a very different story.

Underwear Horoscope for... Um... Normal Women

So a while ago, Jenna Marbles, who I love and respect very much, posted this video on YouTube, where she gave horoscopes based on what knickers you were wearing on a day-to-day basis. And OK, fair enough, she probably has a point, but only if anyone is actually going to be looking inside your jeans. As someone who's jean content remains largely unknown to the majority of the world, I may have tweaked some of these...

• Cotton briefs. Today, you and your vagina will work as one. You will be so damn comfy, it is unreal. You'll get a lot of stuff done today that you've been putting off for a while, and you'll start reading that book you had your eye on, which will turn out to be really funny.
• Lady boxers. Otherwise known as boy shorts. At some point this afternoon you will find yourself in your pants and a shirt, lip-syncing to Beyoncé, into a hairbrush.
• Underwear from a pack. Today, you will be very comfy, and probably take a mid afternoon nap. Someone will question your choice of pant, but unless it's someone who you're about to have spur of the moment sex with, in a very brightly lit room, it doesn't really matter.
• Knickers with writing on the back. On the off chance that someone actually reads this writing, they will not notice how excellent your ass is, because they will be distracted by the slogans. This marks a down point in your life. You are probably trying to regain your youth. Stop it. You had really bad bangs back then.
• See through knickers. You will smirk knowingly to yourself while buying coffee, then wink at that hot barista who works here on Tuesday afternoons. Your coffee will be a bit cheaper than normal. Well done. Later you will drop a magazine in Coop, but luckily, no one will be watching.
• Thong. Your ass will have the aesthetic equivalent of a glittery rainbow unicorn covered in cake. However, you will need to do a strange little shimmy every time some string goes somewhere it shouldn't. 
• Lace. Today, you will not put on any other clothes. Instead, you will stay at home, lie on a sofa, and look very attractive. Your legs will look good enough to inspire an impromptu visit to a night club, where you will make out with someone, then do a very small sick in the taxi home.
• Shape wear pants. While your entire body will look amazing, you won't be able to sit down/bend over/raise your arms above 90 degrees/do Gangnam Style. Best just sand in the corner drinking a lot of wine and talking about George Osborne. 
• Matching bra and knickers. You will achieve superpowers for (1) day. 

Please Stop Force Feeding Me Red Wine, I Can Feel My Kidney's Melting

I am almost certainly not going to see The Hobbit. I realize that this post may get me more hate than anything I will ever have to say on gender politics (or get me killed), but I feel that I need to put this out there. I am almost certainly not going to see The Hobbit. 
I never did the Lord Of The Rings phase as a child. Most of the people I know got into the books around the age of five, and never came out again. At my primary school, there was an after school club dedicated to Lord Of The Rings War Hammer  run by one of the year five boys. Every Thursday, three girls and four boys would bring in all of the models and scenery that they had made at home and spend an hour rolling several dice, to decide which character would die first. I used to try and work out the real life trajectory of the elves bows and arrows, to see of they would actually wound any of my class-mates, on the off chance that they suddenly came to life.  
I did, briefly, attempt to read the books some time last year. I borrowed my step-dads copy of all three books in one, and had a real go at the first one. I gave up. The book now makes a very handy door stop.
Truth be told, The Hobbit is just another tick on the long list of things that Things That Society Thinks I Like Because I'm A Bit Of A Nerd, But I secretly Hate (OK, terrible list name, I know.) It includes things like Star Wars, Ghost Busters, and red wine (I have no idea how people like red wine. It tastes like alcoholic cat piss that's been poured over coal.)
These are the things that I sort-of-pretend to like when talking to someone I just met, and am trying to impress, and will later sheepishly admit that I've never really had all that much to do with them. People then end to scoff and say something along the lines of, "Don't be silly, everyone likes red wine. You just haven't tried enough of it. You're a freak if you don't like it." and then they force feed me red wine, leading to metaphorical liver failure and a mental breakdown. 
So I'm not even going to try this time. I do not like The Hobbit. I have tried it, I did not enjoy it.  Deal with it. I will not go on about how much I dislike it outside of this blog post, that's just rude. But likewise, please do not go on about how broken I am for not liking it. That's also rude. Rude. There's a song that goes along the lines of "It's OK to not like things/it's OK but don't be a dick about it". Likewise, it's OK to like things, just leave me out of it please thank you very much. I've tried The Hobbit, and Star Wars, and Ghost Busters, and they did nothing for me. To end, if I may, with a quote from Daniel Radcliffe, "I tried, and therefore no one can criticize me."

There Are Six Year Olds Who Can Draw Better Than You

I'm in an art gallery right now. Like, literally, as I'm writing this. I've gone old fashioned and acquired a notepad and a half chewed Biro (the Biro wasn't half chewed when I bought it, just when I fished it out of the bottom of my hand bag.) I'm meant to be watching a scree, which is showing video clips of Sheffield and the surrounding area, but if I'm honest, it's really just a video of some damp trees. I'm just taking advantage of the bench space. Also, I'm listening to Adele, and she doesn't really fit with pictures of rainy council estates (would it have killed them to do some filming when it was sunny?) 
Since I've sat down, everyone else who was watching the screen has left. I can't tell if this is because the film is really boring  or because I look a bit like a really annoying art student, who may want to engage them in conversation about 'how the piece makes them feel'. The sort that takes black and white photos with cameras bigger than their heads, and sit in coffee shops discussing the methods of oil painting, and how they prefer digital art (ugh.) 
Art students are currently making up a surprisingly small percentage of the people in here. They're probably over the road at the potato print exhibition. This exhibition is full of charcoal sketches of weather, and a large, multi-coloured tent. Most people in here look like rather lost hikers, who have tried going for a walk, and accidently fallen into a painting of the hill they were meant to be up. It's a mixture of them, and middle class mothers, desperately trying to expose their pre-school children to culture. The children couldn't care less. They're more interested in the fact that they can do a little drawing and stick it up on the public display board. So am I. I just did a landscape sketch of Camelot, from Monty Pythons 'Quest For The Holy Grail'.  It was awful. I still stuck it up on the wall. I captioned it 'It is a silly place'. You're welcome.
There are three types of picture up on the wall, each (roughly) as awful as the next. There are the ones done by bored three year olds, who have desperately attempted to do a professionalism water colour of a mountain side, covered in trees. Then, there are the neat little drawings of perfectly shaded fur trees, done by grown up, who were probably just try to show off in front of a date. Finally, there are the worst ones; stick men captioned "By Ben age 17" or "By Clara, aged 17". No. You are not being funny by pretending to do a child's drawing. It's just annoying. And probably quite offensive to the children. Theirs are much better.

Next Year Is Going To Consist Of Gay Bars And Radio 4

So in less than two days time, it'll be 2013. That's well crazy, cause I'm pretty sure it was 2008 about five minutes ago. The last Harry Potter book came out over five years ago. I can remember queuing up round the back of Waterstones at midnight, dressed as Bellatrix Lestrange. I swear that was only last year....
Anyway, anyway, anyway, I make new years resolutions every year, and never, ever keep them (mostly because I've forgotten what they are by February.) But this year, I am determined, determined goddamn it to keep them . Mostly by making them really, really easy to achieve.

1. Don't start doing heroin. Do start doing heroines. They're well fit. But the lady sort, not the drug sort. I'm kicking off with this one, because I know I can keep it. There's no chance of me doing heroin. I listen to too much Radio 4.
2. Cut down on tea. Ahahaha, this won't happen. But the sentiment is nice, right? I need tea like a nun needs cock. If I go too long without it, I do get cravings. I wouldn't go as far to say that I have a caffeine addiction, because it is only tea. It's just.. really, really nice. Shush. I love tea. It's just turning me into a bit of an insomniac.
3. Don't make a tit of myself in another country. I'm going to Berlin next year, just for a few days. It would be nice if I didn't mortally embarrass myself there. Also, not getting lost in a German sex club would be nice. Damn, those things are scary.  There is a high chance I won't actually get there anyway, I have terrible organisation. 
4. Do more writing. This is actually quite likely, I like writing, it is fun. I want to learn how to write proper stoies, and have characters that talk to me, and get a column published in a newspaper. Also, it's really useful for picking up girls.
5. Get off with a transvestite. No real reason for this, I just have a bit of a thing for drag queens.

Your Fetish Confuses Me

So quite recently I saw an advert for a website called uniformdating.com. Does pretty much what it says on the tin: it’s a dating site for ‘people who work in uniform’, or people who ‘fancy those who do’. Despite the fact that it’s using language more commonly found in the play ground, it could have cut to the chase by just saying ‘we cater to those with a uniform fetish’. Using the word ‘fetish’ generally makes things much clearer, especially when the alternative is ‘fancy’. 
This is a concept that I (personally), find quite odd. In our society, uniforms are just another thing that have been grotesquely parodied and exaggerated into a fantasy land for sexual gratification, just like, well, most things, actually. And this is fine, there is nothing wrong with fantasies, kinks or fetishes. But uniforms? In reality? Let’s just a quick peek at the four main fetishised uniforms out there:

1. Policeman. The idea of a strong, masculine authority figure, someone to disobey and be punished by. Slightly ruined by the penis hat. I think the idea here is not so much the uniform itself, but rather the idealist image of the person wearing it. This could almost come into BDSM culture, and the dominant, commanding figure (no, get out Fifty Shades, you are not welcome here). But there’s still the issue of the penis hat, avec wild-west style sheriff badge. 
2. Fireman. The modern day knight in shining armor  Someone to come rescue you from your burning tower (the fire being started by a fearsome dragon, and definitely not because you left your hair straighteners on the bed.) Again, it’s the head wear that spoils it. I think it would be pretty hard to make out with someone required to wear a gas mask. 
3. Nurse. OK, I get this, but only if we’re in the 1950’s. Nurse’s uniforms were great back then; demure, knee length dresses, fitted blouses, the little caps? Adorable. But then the 80’s happened (doesn't it always), and scrubs appeared. Scrubs are the medical equivalent of feetie pajamas for bedroom wear, and one of the most sexless items of clothing out there. No stars.
4. School girl. If you like this, you’re probably a pedophile.

So no, I was never born to understand the uniform fetish. With a lot of imagination, and a dash of questionable morals, maybe a uniform could be considered attractive. But I don’t think it’s really the clothing that people find desirable  it’s the stereotyped person that belongs in the uniform. The authority figure, the rescuer, the carer (I’m going to ignore the school girl for the good of everyone’s sanity.)
I hope you all had a very sexy Christmas.

Things that are great this week:
Ben Whishaw in damp knitwear
Ben Whishaw in a short film
Archaeology in Rome
How to make a glow stick with Mountain Dew

Check out my Tumblr

Benefits of Wales

So I go to Wales a lot, if I haven't already made that obvious enough. And, y'know, Wales gets a lot of stick, mostly from me. So I tried to think of some benefits of being in Wales, and what wales brings to the table. More for my own sanity, than anything else.

1. It's really far away from everyone you don't want to see. Wales is far away, this is how Wales works. You can be in Wales, and still be really, really far away from everyone else in Wales. This is useful when you're not that fond of a lot of people, or if you've just committed a murder.
2. You can not shower for weeks, and no one will notice. The single benefit of rain. If you think it rains a lot in England, just wait till you get to Wales. It's just bloody silly.
3. I ran out.

Sorry.

How To: Bad Decision Christmas Earrings

It's Christmas (almost). The world hasn't ended, and for three whole days, it's socially acceptable to be drunk at ten in the morning. To celebrate, I have made some earrings. I've never really done the whole 'Christmas apparel' thing (mostly because I wear glitter year round anyways), but I'm making an exception for these, because I really, really like them. Also, I was bored. And we bought new tree decorations.

SO
You will need:

• Jewellery pliers (available from most craft shops)
• Earring hooks in gold or silver (see above)
• Baubles of your choice (Mine are from a garden center. They cost £8 for 20. Living it large.)

Making these is literally the easiest thing in the world. If you fail, you are an idiot. Use the pliers to open up the tiny loop on the end of the hook, slot in the bauble... circle-y... thing... and fasten the loop back up. LE DONE. 

Wear with pride, and do your best to not look like a tit. You will fail. You will look like a cockney pirate who got smacked in the face with... well, with some baubles from a garden center  probably. Best of luck.

You will also blend in with the Christmas tree.

Then Suddenly, Nope.

Me: Y’know, I always get really confused between Dulux, and Durex.
LB: Right? Same thing.
Me:  I mean, double glazing will not protect you from unwanted pregnancy.
LB: I think Dulux makes paint...
Me: What? Do who the hell makes double glazing?

I still have no idea. Help me.

You Should Probably Avoid Me On Trains

I go visit my Dad once a month, and he lives roughly a four hour a train ride away from my house in Derbyshire. I spend a lot of my time on trains. I do three things while I'm traveling, and they are reading, looking out of the window, and staring at my fellow passengers like a massive creep, and generally being terrified, because I have to spend four hours inside a moving tin can with these people, and, oh my God, what if one of them's a murderer.
Last time I went up, I spent my train journey organizing my fellow passengers into neat little packages; I have finally come up with five sub-categories.

1. The confused, creepy one. Can be spotted by the cheap shirt, anorak  and overall kicked-puppy look. Usually hasn't shaved for a few days, and smells like vodka cheese. Will probably attempt to watch porn on his phone, before getting too nervous and calling his mother instead. Will sit close enough to you that he can look down your top, but not close enough that you can actually call the police.
2. The loud, child bearing one. Hard to miss, due to the amount of noise she's making. Will have one or more screaming children sitting on her lap, which she occasionally drops into one of the (many) Primark bags at her feet. Will, at some point call her friends to gossip about last weeks party. Big earrings, questionable colour of fake tan.
3. The knitted one. Doesn't actually know how to knit, but dressed from head to toe in knitwear and denim. Boys have fringes bigger than their faces, and converse with holes in. Girls have cheap, black eye shadow, and are wearing very uncomfortable looking shorts.  The ones that you irrationally hate for being skinny. also the only group that refuses to travel alone. 
4. The quirky one. Usually Japanese fashion students. Have manicured crew cuts, designer purses and nice shoes. Could be male, female, both or neither, but you fancy them anyway. Will go the entire journey without saying a word, and but will instead read on their iPad, while listening to foreign hip hop.
5. The nervous one. Will stand right next to the door, ready to jump out at a moments notice. Also doesn't want to take up seat room for other passengers, because he's the type you want to bring home to your mum. Will wear a well cut shirt, carry a computer bag, and have cuff links you can only dream of. Looks as scared as you feel.