Friday, 30 May 2014

Charlize, I've got your back

I’ve always been one for having strong opinions, but today is one of the few times when I have felt strangely unsupported in an opinion by the vast majority.  As a left-wing feminist I come across a lot of debate, but I generally find a huge number of people on my side.  Today, however, I seem to be entirely alone!

Apparently, Charlize Theron said something a little…misguided today.  Something about comparing press intrusion in her life to being raped.  HERE is the story in everyone's favourite newspaper.

Understandably, the use of the word ‘rape’ provoked a very strong response from the world of the internet, however I completely respect the comparison Theron is making.

Bear with me here.



1.      Being a celebrity is HARD.  I’m, thankfully, not a celebrity, but I perform for a living and literally singing for one’s supper every day is not the luxurious, carefree life most people believe it to be.
2.      I don’t believe it is acceptable for anyone to compare any bad experience to any other bad experience if they have no knowledge or experience of that experience.  (If that makes sense…)
3.      Rape, actually, happens to as many as 1 in 3 girls in their lifetime.  (It's difficult to ascertain the exact figures because so many people keep the information hidden.  Those who haven’t been raped will, at least, have been sexually harassed and extrapolating from the feelings they had during that harassment gives them, albeit some, knowledge about what being raped would be like physically and emotionally.  Charlize Theron has apparently campaigned for rape charities in the past, and it seems to me like she would not have used the term lightly.
4.      I very much doubt that everyone who has commented on Charlize Theron being ‘stupid’ and ‘ignorant’ has experienced being a celebrity or a performer.
5.      How, then, do these commenters know that her comparison is not a valid one?

Remember, not all rape involves being kidnapped and taken to a dank dungeon and held hostage, and not all rape even involves violence, as bizarre as that might sound.  Having this narrow view of rape only makes it more difficult for young girls to identify when it is happening to them.  “Is this rape?” They might ask themselves while it is still going on, worrying that their rape is somehow not as ‘valid’ as someone else’s rape because they were not worried for her life.  This point is very well-expressed HERE.  I will reiterate that it is my understanding of rape as something horrendous and life-altering that causes me to believe that it should be less of a taboo subject to talk about freely, with no fear of judgement or misunderstanding.

I’ll say it now; I’ve been raped.  I’ve also had a very unpleasant experience while performing.  One of these caused me to feel an underlying fear and anger towards our mysonginistic society.  The other gave me weight gain, extreme anxiety and insecurity, severe depression, borderline alcoholism, and flashbacks involving panic attacks and vomiting in the middle of the night, replaying over and over certain incidents and how I could have prevented them.  I tell you now with complete honesty that I would rather repeat my rape experience than the other one.  Bandying the word rape around with no authority is foolish, but a person declaring that rape, by its very definition, must be far, far worse than something they have not experienced, is speaking with sheer ignorance.  All this, I think, plays into a broader issue regarding how people in so-called ‘real jobs’ view those in the arts; some comments internet-users are making imply that they don’t consider acting to be a difficult career.

Someone asked me recently how I justified being an actor. They wondered why it is that people look up to singers and actors as role models rather than celebrate the work of soldiers, doctors, or teachers, who are actively helping people who are vulnerable or suffering.  The idea that some jobs are more ‘worthy’ than others is interesting, and I used to believe that being an actor or a singer was somewhat of a ‘selfish’ career, but actually now, I couldn’t disagree more.  (Bear in mind, I’m not trying to argue that acting or singing are MORE worthy than other careers, just that they are not UNworthy.)

I respect real talent in all areas.  Real talent is rare.  I’m not being a snob here, just realistic, but I would bet money that relatively few people on this earth could say what exactly was so special about Stevie Wonder’s voice: his songs are catchy and memorable, and are perfect for any party, but his voice cuts right to my core; the purity of it, but also the emotional complexity behind it, and the perfect word painting he uses on every single note…most people can sing to an extent, and they all have potential to be singers, but I doubt many of them would ever sound like him.  It’s the same with acting; anyone can act, that’s what makes it so accessible as a hobby for amateurs, but finding a true artist is extremely rare, and the audience don’t often recognise true talent when they see it. It’s not just about making the audience laugh or cry, even though that’s important; it’s about knowing that the artist has given their whole self to everything they create.

We don’t directly help people in the same way that doctors do, but we (at least attempt to) provide emotional nourishment. 

A good friend showed me THIS video recently and in it you can see and hear a couple of greats: Ethel Merman and Judy Garland.  I don’t know if either could really be considered as ‘role models’ because they both lived fairly emotionally unhealthy and unhappy lives, but this is the very point… these amazing women, along with other people, such as Marilyn Monroe, effectively sacrificed themselves to provide inspiration and happiness to millions of people.  By giving us a part of their soul, they allow us to let out any sadness or anger we are keeping inside- who hasn't enjoyed self-indulgently listening to Radiohead while allowing a solitary tear to dramatically roll down their cheek?  This, in some ways, is what being an artist is, even on a small scale like mine; I have got crazily better at singing and acting over the years, not because of training, but because of life experience.  It’s not necessary for me to think of how every song I sing precisely applies to my own life, but just being alive for a while has given me the emotional basis I need to understand things I never would have done when I was very small.  I don’t write songs, but I do write stories, and these have also got much more interesting and eloquent as I’ve got older, at quite a great emotional and mental cost to me, but I would not trade any of it in for the world.  To truly perform, (and I’m not being wanky or pretentious here, just honest,) one must effectively cut open their guts and spill them all over the stage for everyone to see.  Recently I performed a piece for a crowd of about 100 or so people, and afterwards I had to go off and cry for half an hour, not because I was upset or embarrassed (because I actually sang pretty well,) but because sometimes when I perform I get the distinct feeling that everyone is staring directly into my soul and picking it apart.  Another audition experience I had recently felt as if I was naked on the stage and everyone was judging my body.  There are few careers more exposing than performing, and most performers I know would understand the comparison between having a particularly bad time on stage and somehow being sexually abused in some way.   Art is so incredibly exposing it can feel unpleasant at times, but also exhilarating, so I automatically respect anyone who has a career that involves this kind of performing, and once you get into it, it can be both overwhelming and addictive.  I’m no Ethel Merman, who voluntarily took to the stage the day after her daughter’s suicide to perform in ‘Gypsy’, a show where she played a pushy stage-mum, but I know enough to understand how sacrificial this career can be.  When artists draw attention to how sacrificial they are being this somewhat diminishes the effect of it, (I would never claim to have sacrificed more than most people for my acting career,) but it is still important to discuss.  It seems that, perhaps, a lot of the time the people who constantly and bitterly complain about negative media attention are the people who most deserve it, but this is not necessarily the case with Theron.  The vast majority of actors and singers take this kind of press attention with grace and good humour.  Theron was maybe a little misguided in using the words she did, but only because she should have predicted that people wouldn’t understand or sympathise, when high-profile acting is so often portrayed as something hugely desirable.

On the contrary, performing is bloody hard work, especially when you are just starting out.  I think that artists get the reputation of being rich, lazy and self-absorbed, but this couldn’t be further from the truth; acting in a show every night, for example, might seem like just pottering into work at 7, banging out a few tunes and leaving, but usually they will have rehearsals during the day, since people will be coming in and out of shows all the time, and they may work other jobs, like office work or teaching, for most acting and singing jobs are not particularly well-paid. 

Actors and Singers do not ask to be photographed or swamped by fans in the street.  Some of them, to be fair, do seem to thrive on it, but, for a lot of them, this is something they must deal with to be successful.  It’s dreadfully unfair when you think about it; Steve Jobs was very successful, and, though he got quite a bit of negative press over the years, I doubt he ever had areas of his fat circled and zoomed in on, or was helpfully informed by a magazine that he was looking a little old.  This is, almost certainly, more of a problem for women than it is for men, but you wouldn’t see Michelle Obama or Kate Middleton getting this kind of treatment, or if they did it would have a huge public backlash.  The difference for artists is that they are seen as fair game, especially the women, because public perception is that they 'chose' it.  Beyonce’s job description involves her performing for people; she should not be required to look flawless 100% of the time; be polite to every photographer she meets; or to have nothing but successful and fulfilling relationships with other people, but you’d never know this from what the media has said about people like her.  Some would say that it is the responsibility of someone in the spotlight to provide a good example for young people, and this is certainly the case.  But hounding her, calling her fat, ugly, or ignorant, or implying that she has no right to use a word which, as a female, she would almost certainly have had either direct or indirect contact with, is absurd.




Tuesday, 6 May 2014

Foofy's bird problem

Just a little something that I happened to find hilarious recently; if you consider unlocking a boyfriend's long-buried childhood trauma hilarious, which I do.  It all came from a discussion about birdhouses where you can put a camera inside and film the birds laying their eggs and such, but Foofy felt that such an item was pointless.








HA HA HA HA HA! Brilliant.


Thursday, 6 March 2014

Losing Weight; my 30 day 'shred' and my run-in with carrots

I have put on weight recently.  I’m sick of people saying things like- “You look GREAT!” Because I already know that.  I just want to make sure I catch any weight gain or unhealthiness while I can still do something about it, and when you go from 9 and a half stone to 11 and a quarter in a year, it’s a sign you should make some changes.

In the past I have tried dieting.  I have tried a lot of diets, and not one of them has worked.  The only thing that ever did work was being on a Cruise ship for a month, but that’s another story.  Possibly the worst ‘diet’ I ever tried was throwing up everything I ate, and this had the added effect of making me constantly sore-throated, miserable and smelling of vomit as well as not losing any weight.  The trouble is, I know, in practice, how a person is meant to feed themselves, but I just don’t do that.  I’m far from lazy, and can make incredibly elaborate dishes when I want to, but other times I do unspeakably bizarre things with food and regret my decisions even while I’m making them, but some strange force compels me to continue.  Take Wednesday 26th February 2014, pour example:

7:15am Wake up
7:20am Make an omelette, serve omelette to Giraffe
7:30am Have Lemsip with honey to fight my never-ending cold
8:00am Have breakfast of a quorn fajita wrap, Satsuma and tea
10:00am Do 45 minute Yoga routine
2:00pm Decide to peel a 1kg bag of carrots
2:30pm Chopped carrots won’t fit in the giant roasting tin, so I juice the remainder and drink the juice.
3:00pm Carrots come out of the oven greasy and delicious.  I eat a sensible portion.
3:15pm I take an hour-long nap
4:30pm I decide to eat another portion of carrots
4:45pm I go out and run some errands
5:30pm I am compelled to have some more carrots
5:45 pm For reasons unknown to me, I continue eating the carrots until they are gone.  I’m not enjoying them anymore, but mysteriously their continued presence is bothersome to me and I will not be able to relax until they are eaten. 
6:00pm I feel EXTREMELY ill as I make my way to my friend’s house for a sleepover.
8:30pm My friend makes me a delicious risotto but I am unable to eat the chocolate eclairs she offers me afterwards.  We do, however, manage to force down two bottles of wine.
The next day: I experience intense physical discomfort and conclude that it is not particularly conducive to anything to eat a kilo of carrots in three hours.  To this day (even though this incident occurred only a week ago,) I cannot so much as look at a carrot without feeling a withering sense of despair and helplessness.

THIS IS A TYPICAL DAY

THUS, I have decided to complete this thing called a 30 day shred.  Will I be successful? I DON’T KNOW.

Day 1: Woke up feeling pumped.  Did Level one.  Thought- “hey, this isn’t so bad.” Didn’t have weights so used two water bottles.  Afterwards I felt ready to take on the world.

Day 2: Woke up in SEVERE PAIN.  Managed to do the workout; was fine.  FELT GREAT!

Day 3: Woke up in EVEN MORE SEVERE PAIN.  Workout was actually easier though.  Vaguely considered upgrading to Level 2.

Day 4: Woke up not in pain, and workout was almost too easy.  Thought to myself I may need heavier weights.  Attempted using wine bottles, but this didn’t end well.

Day 5: Drank a bottle of the wine last night, therefore working out felt like there were little people crawling inside my body and sticking pins in the backs of my eyes.  After the workout and the shower though, I felt a lot better, then I fell asleep on the train (for the very first time in my LIFE) and woke up at Cambridge covered in my own drool.

Day 6: Decided to upgrade to Level 2 under Foofy’s watchful gaze.  He kept telling me my ‘tush’ was too high in the planking moves.  I told him to fuck off.  I didn’t manage to do all of the moves properly due to feeling as if my lungs were about to explode.

Day 7: Stuck with Level 2 and it was SLIGHTLY easier.  Used baked bean cans as weights this time, but still couldn’t force my way through some of the moves.  Jillian Michaels a LIAR when she says some of these moves last 30 seconds when they clearly last 30 HOURS.  Have not sworn at a DVD so much since pointing out all the historical inaccuracies in Braveheart.

Day 8: This Level 2 workout was completed after approximately no hours sleep and miraculously made me feel 100% better.  Working out is fun! Back to the water bottles again.

Day 9: I almost skipped the workout today due to having an extremely busy morning and having to take a Valium meaning I was feeling all floopy, but I not only managed it at 6pm, but for the first time I did it all the way through without stopping! I must have been working very hard because when Foofy entered the room halfway through he paused, looked thoughtful for a moment, then said in a curious tone:



And left.

Day 10:  Foofy continues to watch me exercise, offering advice here and there.  He needs to stop this or we will be having words.

Day 11: This was the day Foofy joined in, but he only managed five minutes before complaining that his ‘shoulder hurt.’  He then had the cheek to blame me because I hadn’t given him enough space in the bed the previous night.  A bad workman always blames his tools.

Day 12: This was the first time I managed what I think are called ‘cheer squats with a V raise’ without screaming with rage.  I decided to engage my abs a bit and it totally helped.

Day 13: Again, this felt pretty good today- perhaps I should move onto level 3?

Day 14: Much easier because I was doing it with my best mate, who was the brainchild of THIS JOKE.  She was much better than I was at the beginning of Level 2 but she isn’t carrying around 2 stone of extra weight on her.

Day 15: Since starting this regime I have GAINED weight! WHAT?? I’m convinced it must be muscle because my arms look freaking amazing.  On the other hand, today was torture because I was hungover and it was very early.

Day 16:  Why is it getting harder? It shouldn’t be getting harder!!!!

Day 17: I can’t do some of these arm exercises- what the hell?!? They were fine at the start.  Considering taking a day off because my muscles are fatigued.

Day 18: I managed today- looked at the mirror while doing it to watch my tummy fat bouncing around.  I’m incredibly impatient.

Day 19: I’ve decided this will be my last day on Level 2.  Good riddance! I hate a lot of the moves- not because they’re too exhausting, but because they hurt my knees.  Now onto level 3!

Day 20: I HATE Jillian Michaels.  I HATE my body.  I HATE THE WORLD.  I HATE EVERYONE!!!! Now to do my daily workout.

This was actually- fun.  I mean, I had to take several ‘five second rests’ and one of the exercises I had to modify drastically because I am using water bottles instead of actual weights, (and what she was doing would have caused the bottles to burst.) but it was more varied and interesting and seemed to go past a lot more quickly.  Also, the exercises weren’t solely created in order to make my knees as sore as possible, like in Level 2.  All in all, I feel pretty good after that workout, but it may have been because I physically couldn’t do about a quarter of it and just stood there sweating and gaping at the screen like a deranged goldfish.

Day 21: I woke up today with my muscles screaming.  Apparently this is a good thing as it means that I’ve broken down muscles and my body is burning calories having to rebuild them.  I didn’t take any rests today but I’m still modifying some of the stuff.

Day 22: I woke up too late to do the shred today! Was probably good to get a day off to rest my muscles anyway…

Day 23: I’m really enjoying level 3- the only bit I really hate more than anything is the third strength circuit where I have to hold myself in the plank position and do various wiggly things for three whole minutes! Sometimes when Jillian tells me what to do and how I should feel I want to stab her in the face.







(On the off chance that Jillian Michaels sees this and worries for her safety, she should know that the second I turn the DVD off my intense hatred for her transforms into an unearthly, divine love.)

Day 24:  I’m just about getting the hang of the ‘mountain climber’ move but other bits are proving impossible still, like those bloody one-sided push-ups.  I was feeling confident enough today to upgrade my side plank so that both knees were off the ground, and I was feeling very good about myself before I over-balanced and went head-first into my waste-paper bin.  If that hadn’t been the last exercise of the work-out anyway I’d have given up there and then.

Day 25:  Something was niggling today.  It didn’t feel quite right- I managed everything with no rest, but there was this slight underlying giddiness that tainted the whole workout.  I felt better after my shower, then went to a rehearsal for a show, and spent the whole evening feeling…odd.

Day 26: DISASTER.  Today, I became sick.  I managed to stave off the worse of it until after I’d been in the MRI tube, but in the evening the sore throat came.  I decided to take a day off to rest.

22 DAYS LATER:

I have finally finished the shred (managing to fit in the other 6 days), because that is how long my cold has lasted- what the frig?!? I hope I don’t have something awful wrong with me.  It is a shame I could not completely finish the shred in 30 days, but 24 out of 30 is not bad, and once I’m better I will start exercising again, and here is why:

All in all, I would say that doing the 30 day shred was only slightly less enjoyable than my most recent cervical screening test.  It’s horrible feeling like your innards are being roughly scraped with a jagged, rusty nail and slowly pulled out of your body, but then again cervical screening tests aren’t very nice either.

However, there is something to be said for an exercise regime that doesn’t make you lose any weight, but that makes you feel amazing anyway.  My aim was to lose weight, and over 26 days I actually gained it, but, boy, do I look and feel better! The most noticeable improvement is in my shoulders, sides, arms, bum and thighs, so pretty much everywhere apart from my tummy fat, which seems to be completely un-shiftable… for the first time in a long time I am wearing figure-hugging skirts and leggings without having, mysteriously, four buttocks, and my waist is even more pronounced than it was!  Another unexpected result of this regime was that it made me eat quite a bit less- when you spend a portion of your day feeling like you're killing yourself from the inside out only to burn about 400 calories, you start to think twice about everything you eat…is that Crunchie bar really worth negating the half-hour of hell I went through this morning? Of course, when it comes to Crunchie bars, the answer is ALWAYS yes, but hopefully I've made my point. 

I also can’t help but notice all the incredibly positive changes in my life since starting the shred:

·        I am finding it easier to focus on writing, and don’t have the same desire for spending hours randomly surfing the internet like I did before.
·        I am spending time every day practising my skills; I’m finding things like playing the piano fun again.
·        I have far, far more energy and have put it to very good use; I now have three new students and a job singing in a show in London.
·        I really, REALLY love my body now.  I’d love it more if my tummy was flatter, but it’s wonderful to feel comfortable in myself and not like a failure.
·        You get good at exercising really quickly, and it’s empowering to see how much you can improve at something in a short space of time. 
·        My confidence has increased ten-fold and I have made some wonderful new friends!

In conclusion:


DON’T DIET.  EXERCISE.  BUY WEIGHTS.  BUY JILLIAN MICHAELS’ WORKOUT DVDs.  EVEN IF YOU DON’T LOSE WEIGHT YOU’LL FEEL #AMAZEBALLS.  IF YOU DON’T YOU CAN FEEL FREE TO TRACK ME DOWN AND PERSONALLY SPIT IN MY FACE, THOUGH THE FACT THAT YOU HAVE MANAGED TO DO THAT MAY BE EVIDENCE IN ITSELF THAT DOING JILLIAN MICHAEL’S WORKOUTS HAS GIVEN YOU MORE ENERGY, RENDERING YOUR CRITICISM OF SAID WORKOUT MOOT.

Tuesday, 28 January 2014

In Which I lose some Blood and gain some Perspective

I had some blood taken yesterday.  It wasn’t nearly as stressful as the last time I had my blood taken, which was when I was having a sensible routine STD test and they said- “Hey; would you like an HIV test too?” And I was like- “Hell yeah; #YOLO.”



I’m all for people training on me because obviously they have to learn sometime, but when a nurse takes a needle out of your vein and goes “OH” and you look down at the crook of your arm to see a bruise rapidly spreading out under your skin and taking over your entire elbow area, it might put you off this kind of thing for a while.

So it was with trepidation that I ripped a ticket from this little machine that I associated with the shoe shops of my childhood then sat and waited until my number popped up on the screen. 

Earlier on I had been poked and prodded by a neurologist and apart from realising that I don’t seem to have any reflexes at all on the left side of my body (!), she doesn’t think there is anything wrong with me apart from TOURETTES, but she is putting me in an MRI machine soon to be sure.  I’m not looking forward to this one bit.  Can you imagine being trapped in a tube with me for 20 minutes with no other stimuli to entertain you apart from my mad thoughts? I can as well.  

Anyway.  I popped a Valium and waited in a drug-induced haze for twenty minutes until my number was called, upon which I stumbled over to the room and appeared with a glazed, terrified look on my face.  This would have been the time when I broke down and started screaming out of fear, humiliating myself in front of everyone in the neurology department at Ealing hospital, but I remained calm.

I remained calm purely out of embarrassment: from where I had to sit and have my blood taken, the entire waiting room of 50 + people not only could see me, but seemed to be actively staring at me to see how I would react to someone plunging a needle into the depths of my arm and sucking out my innards.  Self-consciousness took over fear, (though the Valium probably helped too) and I sat there gleefully smiling at the entire waiting room during the horrifying procedure.



After it happened, I said to Foofy (who was waiting in the waiting room but kept switching seats in order to confuse me, but this, again, could have been the Valium.) “That really wasn’t so bad! It barely even hurt!” Taking the plaster off later, however, was an entirely different matter.

And thus I (probably only temporarily) cured myself of my fear of needles.  It only took some Valium and a room-full of people staring at me.

Ironically, it was my self-consciousness that got me into this medical mess I’ve found myself in… since writing my last entry about a million years ago I basically retreated inside my own head and became this very odd self-loathing machine who only seemed to have three settings:





It’s not difficult for me to imagine where these feelings came from, seeing as my life for nine months (with occasional intervals for rest and refreshment) was basically this:






My problem is that I listen TOO much.  I listen and absorb every single insult and compliment that comes my way.  Although a lot of stuff I was told was completely valid, a lot of it wasn't, and the sheer amount of it I received was so overwhelming I no longer became capable of distinguishing between the two, and it made me question whether or not I wanted to perform on the stage or even if I wanted to be around people anymore. As I've said previously, if there was a job involving playing with puppies all day, I'd probably take it.

I used to think you only got post-traumatic stress disorder from going to war or losing a loved one.  Who knew you could get it from a theatrical tour? What a world! 

After this happened to me, my brain got very scrambled and I started to believe I was all these dreadful things, and I began to wonder why it was I had any friends at all.  I started to push them away and refused to see people, and when I did see them I acted like a belligerent arse for no reason in particular.  However when life gets to the point that you have to down a large whisky at 11am in order to get out of bed for a full day of watching television and hating yourself, perhaps something should be done.  In my case, this something was registering with a doctor and getting some lovely pills which changed my life, even though I felt so faint when I first took them on the first day that I almost collapsed in Morrisons.  I don't feel I've had some kind of bolt of inspiration that's instantly made me a healthy, happy person, because I'm under no illusions that it'll take a short amount of time to reverse the damage that has been done to me, and the damage that I did to myself.  I am still hurt and delicate, but I am appearing in a production of HMS Pinafore soon, so it's not all bad.

Thus begins the journey to make myself into a vaguely normal human being, starting with sitting in an office and being lightly hit with a hammer and hopefully ending with me not having to nod my head every ten seconds and feeling like I actually belong on this planet.  HUZZAH! Not only this, I did another theatrical tour, and it was FABULOUS.  I’ll try and write a post about it soon.

Monday, 1 July 2013

Some of my favourite Pokémon fusions

In a, perhaps misguided, attempt to improve my drawing skills on 'Paint', I have taken it upon myself to copy some of the most hilarious Pokémon fusions that I have come across in the considerable amount of time spent on THIS WEBSITE.

Some people might argue that I have too much time on my hands.  I have very little to say to this.  Others might argue that it was time well spent.  Please take a few moments to peruse the list, and let me know what your favourites are.

What are their stories? What would they say or do? Here are some of my thoughts:




I like Exeggcute combinations because most of the surrounding eggs look so cross (one has apparently exploded with rage) apart from the one at the back that looked like it had some good in its life at some point but is now wistfully singing the song of his people, completely unheard.  The addition of Slowbro to the centre egg amuses me because he adds an air of positivity to the mix; he's a shining beacon of hope amongst his desolate and unwilling companions.  I think I've stumbled across something rather powerful here.  


The addition of Oddish's face to Weedle just makes him look like the kind of bug you'd want to pick up and give a big hug to.  The fact that he'd be totally unable to reciprocate the hug due to his lack of arms only makes him more adorable.


I know exactly what sound this Pokémon would make, and it pleases me.  The thought that it could fly up to me and make that sound in my face at any given time is, on the other hand, alarming. 


This is perhaps the most beautiful Pokémon I have ever seen, and it also looks like it's doing a dance.  (I added some extra eyelashes for effect.)


Like 'Slowcute', I enjoy the positivity the middle face brings to this bunch of, quite angry, birds.  The fact that they are attached to each other makes this more brilliant, and just this one picture I feel tells quite a story...I smell a sitcom!


This is about the scariest thing I can imagine playing 'peekaboo' with.  I keep imagining that it's going to suddenly jump out at me; perhaps not in real life but certainly in my dreams.


I sense this would also be a good topic for a sitcom; hilarity ensues as two young men struggle to cope with their older brother's excessive alcohol and drug consumption, and try their best to ignore the devastating downward spiral that occurs.    


This one strikes me as the kind of beast that wouldn't know it's own strength and would stumble chaotically into you looking for some affection, accidentally pulverising you in the process.


I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want to come across Lickisprout in a dark alley.


I included this one because when Foofy saw it he spent about five minutes literally rolling on the floor laughing his ass off.


This one knows where you live and spends every moment of its time plotting your eventual demise.  Just wait...time means nothing to Geosey. 


This is about the saddest thing I have ever seen.



WARM REGARDS,

Singing Duck
















Tuesday, 18 June 2013

Oh, CANADA!

After two weeks of extensive research, this is Canada (specifically, Toronto) in a few points:

1.  I have just realised that ‘Canada’ is very difficult to type, so this post is going to be a ball-ache.  I wish it was called something easier, like ‘Canand.’  Do Canadians have trouble with this? 

2.   I like Poutine




3.   Canada made me a little fatter than I was (see point 2), and owing to extrapolation, this is what would happen if I lived there for a year:



4.  It is almost impossible to buy alcohol in Toronto, and when you do find it, it is obscenely expensive:



I ended up buying the most cost-effective thing when a went into a liquor store; a 1.14 litre bottle of whisky for $37, which I drank over a period of eight days while blogging, watching Netflix and hating myself.

5. In fact, everything is expensive.  The transport system especially, and they only take cash, which I saw very little of because as soon as I got any it vanished in a blur of poutine and Reece's peanut butter cups from the vending machine where we were staying. 

6. Speaking of the transport system, the announcements on the Toronto Subway, while very clear, sound as if the woman reading them is very depressed and has practically given up on life.



7.  People are very nice in Canada, especially my lovely friends, who had all sorts of crazy stories:



They also do pretty incredible things like taking me to the most delicious macaroon shop I've ever been to and buying me TWO CAKES.  



8. Air Canada used to have the best radio station I've ever heard in my life; not only did it have a song called the 'Name Game' which involved rhyming names thus:

Katie Katie Bo Batie
Banana Fana Fo Fatie,
Fi Fi Mo Matie...
KATIE!

But it had, also, this weird song that went something like this:

My Family is different from yours;
We eat breakfast, lunch and dinner
Sitting on our mothers' laps...

And a poem called "The Queen, the Bear and the Bumblebee" which pretty much explains itself.

9.   Canada is the perfect middle-ground between the UK and the USA: it has all the spirited fun of being in the USA but not, it seems, as much of the crazy patriotism and pushing of children.  (Pushing them with regards to education and skills, not pushing them into an on-coming train or something.) They share the British apathy and self-deprecation to an extent, but seem to possess it along with a delightfully positive attitude, eh?

In conclusion, Canada is a wonderful place, but living there would be very bad for me indeed, owing to the fact that I have no willpower and most of the little money I would earn would go on buying poutine and root beer.  My friends assured me that it was just Ontario that had the weird alcohol laws and just Toronto that was ridiculously expensive, so perhaps I would live in a different province, like Newfoundland, which has the best accents of anyone in the entire world.  Having said that, there are many, perfectly good reasons for me to live in the UK forever: 

1. Marmite.

2. Do I need a second reason?

3. No.