Musings on being a growed-up

So this whole being independent thing is a little weird.

Yes, before you ask, it has indeed taken me a little over a year to come to this conclusion. Shut up. It would take its time to hit you too.

And I am talking about real independence here, real living-on-your-own and occasionally ending up a little bit homeless and having to earn your own money and being well and truly screwed if you can't, kind of independence. Not going away to do a nice uni course and having people give you the requisite money for free, kind of independence. I am sure that can be pretty tough too. But I haven't done it so there is little point in me going on about what it is like. Because I simply don't know.

In any case. Basically what brought this on is this sudden sense of amazement I got today that I have managed, on a basic day-to-day level, to keep myself actually alive for the last fourteen or so months. You know? I've had to buy my own food, cook my own meals, put Mickey Mouse plasters on my own boo-boos... ok, no, but you know what I mean. For the last year, I have got up, almost every day, and dragged my ass to work, through wind, or rain, or scorching heat, or the occasional light and rather wussy Southern attempt at a flurry of snow. I have sat there and done my goddamn job, boring and horrible as some of them (although happily not the current one) have been, and I have come home afterwards, and done my own washing, and cooked my own food, and somehow managed to conduct a flourishing social life (and also watch a lot of Most Haunted, Walker; Texas Ranger, and, more recently, House).

Please don't get me wrong, by the way! Independence is a seriously brilliant thing. I live in a house with some pretty awesome people. And many other awesome people knock on the door and come in quite a lot. We quite often convene in the kitchen and have funny conversations which ALWAYS end up with one of us saying something about a giant willy. Also we leave messages for each other in alphabet magnets on the fridge ('benny smells a lot like a monkey from darren') and in the steam on the bathroom mirror ('flaps'). We have barbeques and sing loud songs. Occasionally songs called "Fuck her gently." In the direction of the neighbours' window. At stupid 'o' clock at night. We drink quite a bit sometimes, and do silly things. Dancing around the living room to the music channels, whilst wearing a tambourine around our necks. Dancing on a genuine, professional pole dancing pole which Darren bought for his girlfriend and erected in the living room.
I can cook whatever I feel like. I can go out whenever I want with no warning and don't have a curfew. I can stay out at the Dungeon until 3am on a Wednesday and nobody cares (except me the next morning when I have to haul myself out of bed to go to work). I can stay up typing useless crap on the internet until 5am if I wish (yes, I have done this, yes, realising it was light outside and having to go to sleep was a horrible experience).

Also there are a whole lot of brilliant people around to keep me happy. Including a particularly brilliant person with spiky hair and a sexy black car. And more of a tan than I will ever have. So, please do not misunderstand me when I say 'independence is scary' because I am not really scared, and I am really very happy, and I like people, and I like things, and stuff. I am ok. I am good, in fact, despite admittedly some shitty things happening recently. I like to think I have dealt with and recovered from them admirably.

It is just a little scary that I've been doing the whole grown-up thing for two years now. Two years, people! That's a very long time. I kind of miss doing the whole not-grown-up thing.

It is with this in mind that I gleefully announce that I am applying to do a degree in Writing Popular Fiction at Southampton Solent University next year. So I can actually be a normal 19 year old, at last.
Actually, I will be 20 by that time.
Fuck.
But anyway. Student discounts, here I come!

Also education and blah.

In other news... Catherine is making me lasagne tonight. And then there will be a party.
I heart my life.

More fish food disgust.

Ok, the more I think about this fish food/fish issue, the more disgusting it gets.

I mean, it is like me buying a packet of cornflakes (which I don't do, by the way, because frankly cornflakes are shit and there are cereals out there which contain chocolate and other such tasty breakfast foods), and finding a label on the side that says "Now! Made with 30% more baby!"

I mean really.

In other news, 'House' is easily the best program on TV anywhere in the world at the moment. Possibly ever. I cannot stress heavily enough, though, that Walker; Texas Ranger is still a pinnacle of awesomeness not yet seen in the whole of humanity. What with Chuck Norris being the only person in the WHOLE of Texas who can shoot a fucking gun. And the black cop always getting injured, but being fine. Because it's not racism if he doesn't die!

"Yes, we did run over the black sidekick with a truck. The truck may or may not have been on fire at the time. It may or may not have exploded; and this, hypothetically, may or may not have propelled him into the air in a highly amusing, flailing, screaming-like-a-little-girl manner. But he is not dead. So it was technically not racist. Because he's fine. Please file complaints under 'F' for 'Fuck off'."

So... yeah.

Tasty

Hands up who here knew that fish food is made out of, well, fish?

Cannibalistic little bastards. I let you stay under my roof...! Etc etc.

"Yes, I really am immature enough to make this joke."

As part of my ongoing campaign to stay on top of the news (otherwise known as Common Office-Worker's Addiction to BBC News Website), I came across a page about Gordon Brown and his aides (not to be confused with 'AIDS' - I am not in the business of making allegations about prominent politicians' sexual health). The article, which can be seen here, amusingly refers to them as 'Team Brown'.

Nothing there to cause hilarity, right? Wrong!

First on the list: Ed Balls.

HIS NAME IS MR BALLS. And as the article points out, in delightfully biased BBC fashion, he is the kind of person who says things like "post neo-classical endogenous growth theory." I don't know about you but I'm not holding out much hope for this lot.

Did I mention 'balls'?

Also, did I mention 'LOL'.

...

(Actually, on reading that article again, the BBC really doesn't seem that impressed. And only a week after they published an article about a report which said the BBC needed to be less biased... tut tut.)

Oh dear.

The house next door has finally been let, and they have taken down the very distinctive "To Let" sign by which I set my sights for home, and now I don't know where I live.

I expect to spend an embarrassing and frustrating few weeks accidentally walking up to the wrong door.

I should have seen this coming.

Balls.

Emergency o clock

The washing up has reached critical mass.

There is nothing left that DOESN'T need washing up.

If only I were less exhausted from a day's hard work (read: lazy). Oh well. Maybe later.

Things that get said in our kitchen:

"Abortion cheese." I don't remember why.

I think communication is a really fascinating thing. For instance, even within my house, we have a plethora of methods of communication. Most prominently, our fridge, which is covered in magnetic letters, and those magnetic words you get for poetry or whatever - one of the 'romantic' sets.

The fridge has been used to express a number of sentiments - most notably, for some weeks, "c*nty romantic long gush" (please don't ask - you don't want to know). Recently, though, it became yet another arena for Benny and Darren's ongoing 'smelly' insult war.

This started with Benny writing "Darren smells, from Benny." The other night, I decided to spice things up a bit and swapped the names, so it said "Benny smells, from Darren." Then, a couple of days later it was pointed out that there was a considerable surplus of letters, so I changed it again, so it said "Benny smells like a gay, from Darren." Today, Benny finally discovered this, and changed it to "Darren smells like a wet gay, from Benny."

See? Communication is utterly fascinating.

Also, following a drunken discussion about words which are just funny with no context or explanation, I wrote 'flaps' in the steam on the bathroom mirror. This was instantly discovered and blamed on Ryan, who responded to my gleeful text informing him of these events with "Disgusting! I would at least have drawn a giant cock." Since then, the word 'minge' and more recently the word 'hairy' have been added above my original message. (Note: I do not condone these actions; I simply recount them. Please bear this in mind when deciding whether or not to dump/disown/excommunicate me.)

Also, the other day I withdrew £10 from a cash machine, and someone had written "Hello!" and drawn a little smily face on the note. Which I thought was really sweet. In fact I fully intend to start writing on all my notes - maybe one of them will come back to me, even!

Yes, I'm boring, I know.

Go away.

Modern Feminism...

As defined by Dave, in one sentence, following news about new public breastfeeding laws:

"Ok, you can get your tits out in public, but we're still not paying you equally."

My boyfriend is the shiz.

Urinal sculptures.

Yep, you heard me.

Observe.

Urinal sculptures? Really? Ok, you find me a guy who wants to urinate in a fucking ceramic orchid.

Sheesh.

I apologise for the content.

Ok, I meant it. I really, really do apologise to anyone too young, or innocent, or, well, my mum, if she happens to read this.

I just wanted to recount a particularly amusing rant I had the pleasure of having, hilariously enough, in front of an old woman on the walk home from town with Catherine today.

We had been talking about Quakers, and how Cornflakes were originally developed as an anti-aphrodisiac, and sexual repression in general.

C: The flaw in their argument is the clitoris. If it's not there for pleasure, what is it? It doesn't DO anything else.
J: I think maybe it kind of evolved.
C: For what?
J: To give women a reason to have sex!
C: Haha! How do you mean?
J: Well, there's not much in it for a woman otherwise, is there? 'Great, so, you get to poke my organs from the inside for a few minutes, possibly resulting in me carrying an incredibly heavy squirmy thing INSIDE ME for nine months, and dealing with all the related nastinesses, then having to expel this thing, now the size of a football, out of a hole smaller than a penny, and look after the result of the whole mess for the next twenty or so years.' If that process doesn't at least start with a fucking good orgasm, frankly, I'd feel ripped off.

Again, I'm sorry.

I'M SORRY!

Interesting.

It's just occurred to me that my new colour scheme (and sexy heading!) look like the Matrix.

Hmm.

In other news! Today I have spent most of a lovely sunny day - well, I say that, it was on the verge of a storm until about an hour ago - inside, signing up to cool internet things, in a frenzy of geeky joy having watched the video I linked earlier and gotten all excited about Web 2.0. Which is, as Drew so accurately pointed out earlier "Basically a buzz word... meaning AppleMacness and MySpace." But still, it gave me something to do for a day.

Third post in about as many minutes. BALLOONS!

This video is proof that I have had the privilege of knowing some of the coolest people on Earth.



How. Cool. Is. That.

Dear Tracey... eeeeeverybody hates you.

I'm getting a little bored of having the odd one-minute-long rant, often to myself inside my head, about you, so I'm just going to have one gigantic, seminal rant, right here, that I can refer people to in future if they ask what I think of Tracey Emin.

You get upset when people take the piss out of your accent? Well here's the deal. I am not taking the piss out of your accent, or the fact that you were abused, or even the fact that you constantly look pissed. We are all imperfect. Get over it.

My problem with you is that you have this huge arrogance about everything. Almost all the answers in this BBC Q&A article are either patronising, just plain don't make sense, or are contradictory. "Are you going to be producing any more Christmas cards?" "No, I'm not going to... I will be doing a Christmas card next year of my local church." MAKE UP YOUR MIND.

Also, a filthy unmade bed IS NOT WORTH THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF POUNDS. If it was, I could just sell the contents of my bedroom and never work another day in my life. However, even for the money, I would think twice, because I have some dignity (people who know me, cease your laughing), and frankly would not want to show off any stains. I mean, congratulations, you have bodily fluids, which occasionally escape the confines of your body, and you don't clean them, instead seeing the perfect opportunity to make a quick forty grand! Clever you. Personally, I like to think that people who have any knowledge of me at all are able to deduce on their own that I menstruate, I own a bed, I occasionally drink, and have a sex life of some description, without being presented with the evidence - and that people who don't have any knowledge of me at all just don't care, and certainly wouldn't queue to get into a gallery to examine the evidence for themselves. If there are people out there who would actually do this - well, frankly, they are clearly Tracey Emin fans, and as such I find them slightly disturbing.

Still on the subject of the bed, I don't quite see how it's considered feminist. I wasn't entirely sure, but apparently, feminism is about having the right to be a complete skank and make stupidly large amounts of money from it. Hmm. Interesting. (Lucy... any thoughts, from an educated perspective?) Seriously though, what is it supposed to say? "I have a vagina. You can have sex with it, if you wear one of these, and sometimes it bleeds, which looks a lot like this. It really is very interesting. You will also notice that, although I am a woman, I sleep in an actual bed (albeit an awfully dirty one), as opposed to on a pile of hay on the floor! Clearly I am equal to a man. I am woman, hear me roar!" (Perhaps more appropriate would be "I am Tracey, hear me make common-bodily-function noises.")

Honestly the most positive thing I can think of to say about your work is "She's ok at sewing, I guess." Perhaps you should have stuck to fashion? Although I dread to imagine the kind of thing you would have come up with. Perhaps a hat resembling a used condom? Lovely.

You also said of some nude self-portrait drawings, "I wanted to show that I can really draw, and I think they're really sexy drawings." Let's see what she's talking about: click here.
An example of really being able to draw? The pinnacle of human sexiness? You decide!
Jessica Rabbit was an example of 'being able to draw' and she was a hell of a lot sexier than that. I guess that wasn't "art", though, was it, because it wasn't prompted by years of psychological trauma and abuse, etc etc.

Also, not that I have any involvement in the art world at all, and not that I consider myself patriotic - I certainly don't - but the following quote makes me feel frankly embarrassed at how Britain chooses to represent itself to the rest of the art world:
"Work in progress for [Emin's] 2007 show at the Venice Biennale includes large-scale canvases of her legs and vagina."
Of course. This is obviously the way in which a country which apparently prides itself on its dignity and modesty wants to portray itself to the rest of the world. Silly me.

In the sketch-show that is my brain, there is a sketch featuring Tracey Emin going through her day to day life and proclaiming everything she does 'art'. Allow me to subject you to a sample.

[Spits toothpaste into sink.]
"Art!"
[Removes hair from hairbrush; leaves it on the floor.]
"Art!"
[Eats some cereals; spills them on the table, dripping onto the floor.]
"Art!"
[Goes for a walk; encounters some tramp vomit in a doorway.]
"Art!"

I frequently conclude this sketch/fantasy with a giant foot, a la Monty Python, coming down out of the sky and squishing Tracey Emin like a bug, followed by me popping into the scene and yelling "ART! BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL ART!"

Anyway.

In conclusion: a lot of people have been raped, had tough childhoods, had abortions, had bad relationships, grown up in poor areas, and, god forbid, experienced things a thousand times worse than the things you have experienced. And yet, I don't see many of them subjecting the public to a constant stream of egotistic, poorly thought out, pompously justified and hideously over-priced shit with an 'art' label tagged onto it.

Take a hint.

Thank you for your time.

(And for those who were wondering, the title is a reference to a Dylan Moran thing about bad housemates, the kind who leave notes about you drinking their coffee. "You start leaving your own notes. For instance: Dear Tracey - everybody hates you. Even people who haven't met you yet. Your mum called, just to say, she's so glad she didn't hear from you." Har har.)

Ah...

So that's Web 2.0.

'Cause, you know, I was starting to wonder.

On a serious note, though, I think that's a really good video.

Dancing Spleen (har har)

2am
Stumble indoors
Realise jumper fell off outside
Fumble with key to get back out
Retrieve jumper
Stumble upstairs
Disrobe
Fall onto bed
Decide to check email
Fall off of bed
Check email
Fall back into bed
Decide to open window
Fall back out of bed
Struggle with window
Decide to write blog.

Hobbit beer garden: awesome.
Drinking games: fun, but only once you've had a few.
Singing back at a guy singing Del Amitri 'Nothing Ever Happens' in the toilets: Funnier than it should have been.
Jesters: oven.
Playing 'I Have Never': Dear Self, please bear in mind before you play this, you have done a lot of stuff, so make sure you have a non-alcoholic drink next time.
Dancing: awesome. Especially when they played ska instead of shitpop.
Stealing someone's cowboy hat: awesome until someone else stole it from me.
Muscles: oww.

Sleep now.

Avast!

Right!

Everybody choose your pirate names!

I am 'Blind Dead McJones.'

And make it good, because you only get to choose ONCE.

Capture the Flag.

So. Hands up who here has heard of flash mobbing?

Really? That many?

Ok, well congratulations all of you for being so up with things (just in case you didn't know what flashmobbing was, you'll notice I've given you the opportunity, by blogging this instead of asking you to your face, to find out about it on Wikipedia and act like you knew all about it anyway).

Well. In any case, flashmobbing is dead. Get over it.

But! I have an idea. And by 'I have an idea' I mean 'Somebody else had an idea and I'm going to use it (with permission, insofar as it is not copyrighted anyway, of course) because I am just that awesome'.

I fully intend to set up a new tradition in Southampton: Capture the Flag.

And no, I'm not talking about video games. I'm talking about Capture the Flag, played by real actual people, in the real actual city of Southampton. With real flags. Or something that looks like a flag. Possibly one of those little sandcastle flags, to add to the difficulty factor.

I'm quite early in the planning stages (i.e. I got the idea about an hour ago), but so far, this is how I see it going down.

• We publicise the event underground, through the usual surreptitious channels (by which I mean, err... MySpace, mainly), collecting email addresses, but not giving out locations or a date.
• When we have enough people, we send out an email to all those concerned, giving the date - with a reasonable amount of notice, of course - and the gathering place. Which will be near, but not in, the playing area.
• We have a theme. Each team will be either a colour, or a separate theme. You will already have guessed, if you know me at all, that I am thinking Pirates vs. Ninjas.
• There will be referees. They will be dressed as whatever the hell they like. Giant teddy bears. The CN Tower. A bottle of ketchup. Whatever.
• Communication will be by mobile phone. Referees will have the numbers for the two team captains. The captains will phone two other people, they will phone two other people, etc etc, you see how this works. This is to notify of scores, of time left at regular intervals, of prisoners taken, and anything else of importance, including the end of the game.
  
• We will take a whole lot of really, really stupid photos. If anything goes wrong: we plead the fifth! Or not. I don't really know what that means. We just cite our right to assemble, our right to dress like idiots, and our right to get the hell out of there and regroup, I suppose.

So. Who's with me?