Welcome to Dumpsville

I've spent the last few weeks moping. Well, that's not strictly true as I've had a lot of fun the last few weeks. But the times I haven't been having fun, (namely the times I've been alone) I've been moping. Why you ask? Or you don't, we've been through this before, I'm going to tell you anyway. Because it's my self indulgent, narcissistic, self-therapising, (don't think that's a real word, but what the hell) blog. Anyway, I've strayed off topic. I got dumped by the guy I was dating. It was early days, nothing serious, but the circumstances were fairly traumatic. Really, any time you feel close to someone, only to find out that they really weren't that into you bloody sucks, quite frankly. So, let me set the scene: I'm about to move house so my bedroom is packed into boxes and black bags and my bed has been taken apart so I am sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Obviously not feeling the most settled, when I get a text informing me I'm undateable (it didn't actually say that, but that's what I saw). I mean it's a fecking text. Even Taylor Swift got a 27 second phone call from Joe Jonas. Right there and then felt rock bottom. In true dramatic fashion, I was sure I wouldn't sleep a wink that night on my mattress on the floor, but, well, I did. I guess in my case my desire to sleep beats my desire to stay up all night and weep. Free poetry for you there readers. Even in the depths of despair, I'm that good.

Essentially, after that trauma I've moped around like a little bitch. My friends have literally acted as babysitters, realising the need to keep me occupied. Unfortunately that has led to me absolutely chewing their ears off. If there is anything worse than being the dumpee, it has to be being the friend of the dumpee. You have to be sympathetic and kind, when all you really want to do is tell them to shut the fuck up and get over it. I actually have a few friends who do take that approach, one friend (who shall remain nameless) told me she wasn't going to reply to me anymore and to get a dildo. I like to think the first part of that statement was a joke. I know the second part wasn't. I've also eaten like a pig. I mean I'm obviously so unattractive anyway that a few million jaffa cakes won't make much difference right?! Whoever said jaffa cakes won't solve the problem obviously just didn't eat enough of them. I've got very drunk and put stupid messages on twitter. Worst case being this weekend when my housemates had to go into my twitter to ensure said messages were removed. They were sober and trying to watch Match of the Day at the time. Not sure it was their idea of a great Saturday night. I also wrote a poem, but we're going to skim over that fact. Of course there is the essential indulgence in break up songs (cringe). I'm not revealing my playlist because quite frankly, that's too much shame, even for me. What I will say is, if you have been dumped and your road to recovery doesn't include Whitesnake 'Here I go Again', I don't think you'll make it. Crank it up, jump on your bed and suddenly being 'a drifter born to walk alone' will seem quite cool. Disclaimer: this might just be me, so if you try it and it doesn't work, I apologise that you have wasted 4 minutes that you could be crying and listening to Adele.

To add insult to injury, he'd borrowed one of my favourite books and even though he said he would, he hasn't returned it. I guess he couldn't figure out how to return it via text message. Maybe I should expect it in 2062 when they develop that technology. I decided to go the dignified route (when all I really wanted to do was text saying 'GIVE ME MY FUCKING BOOK BACK') and not nag for it but buy myself a new one. I then found out my best friend also bought me a replacement copy. So now I have two books where I had one. I love my friend for the thought, even though I suspect her main reasons for purchase were to read it herself and to stop me moaning about it.

As I write this I realise I have achieved what I set out to. It is embarrassing what a twat I have been. If feeling sorry for yourself, having a wounded pride, raging low self esteem and being a whining bitch were Olympic sports, I would be Team GB's biggest hero this summer. But they're not. Nobody likes a crybaby. So that's it. No more moaning (well, not about this anyway), no more jaffa cakes (well, for a little bit anyway), and no more break up songs (well, until the next time). Mission accomplished. Time to pick myself up, wounded pride and all and get back in the game. Dildo girl also told me I need a rebound. So, if anyone wants to be my rebound, apply within. If you have read this blog and still want to sleep with me, the chances are you're a keeper.

To anyone out there who has been dumped, put down the jaffa cakes and stop boring your friends. You were doing okay before you met that person so you'll do okay again. To anyone planning on dumping someone - don't do it by text, arsehole. 

To end, if you are asking yourself why I would write a blog about the humiliating experience of being dumped you obviously didn't read the first paragraph, so please refer back. As F Scott Fitzgerald said 'what people are ashamed of usually makes a good story'. But ultimately, as my Nan always says, it's better to laugh than cry. Especially for me, I'm a really ugly crier.

A sonnet for the critics

I have not revered Will's cunning wordplay,
Nor shall my musings be so numerous.
Somewhat self indulgent, slave to cliche,
A rare place, no bid to be humorous.
Be sure that my words come straight from the heart,
I purely seek to bare my restless soul,
I seek not acclaim, rather stand apart,
Cannot feign style, I have not the control.
My fealty lies with Shakespeare, night and day,
Reading a Petrach is a transgression,
I know my loves, there is no need to stray,
Let this be clear, there is no concession;
If you like your poems risky and new,
Be warned: my blog is not the place for you.

A sonnet for the disappointed

As sweet sleep evades my weary body,

My mind drifts to a place shielded by day, 

A savage madness, vicious malady,

There are no means to keep these thoughts at bay.

Words unsaid, a bitter pill to swallow,

Mine own artless actions make me a fool,

But mine conscience has no cause to wallow: 

Better give freely than nothing at all.

And yet these feelings are stronger than due,

To thou, whose fair presence was so fleeting,

Old wounds opened from disappointment new,

A lesson ill learned means much repeating;

That which first appears both unfeigned and true,

Is as inconstant as the sky is blue.

And the gold medal goes to.....Great Britain

When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life - Samuel Johnson

The Olympics are over (cue tears). So what is left to do except write about them?! The last time I was writing about a sporting event and the British public, I was feeling disappointed. You will be pleased to know that in this blog I will express no such sentiment. The last couple of weeks of Olympic festivity has restored my faith in our country. Is that over dramatic? Probably, but I'm not one for half measures.

Everyone was sceptical before they started. People were complaining about the special road lanes, public transport being under prepared, the money it was costing (approximately 12 billion pounds in case you are interested) and the farce that was the ticketing system. The latter I will confess to having moaned about because I didn't get tickets, so of course that means it was a terrible system. The whole thing was so typically British, heaven forbid we should express a bit of pride at hosting  and think that we might actually do a good job. No, it was sure to be a disaster. The tabloid press certainly didn't help, with their endless stories of shortfalls, overspending and other problems. Special mention has to go to the Daily Mail for taking it's shoddy reporting to a new level and attempting to whip up its readers into an anti Olympic frenzy. As if that wasn't bad enough, we had to cope with Mitt "only slightly less dumb than Bush" Romney using his presidential candidacy trip to stick the boot in, saying 'it's hard to know just how well things will turn out' and describing there being a 'few things that were disconcerting' about the Olympic build up. This coming from a man who once said 'Corporations are people, my friend....of course they are. Everything corporations earn ultimately goes to the people'. I'll tell you what's disconcerting Mitt - the fact that you could be elected President of the United States. I don't want politics to hijack my Olympic blog, but if you fancy a bit more Mitt bashing then check out http://mittromneyisatool.com/, it's pretty amusing (not to mention scary).

Loving the opening ceremony

Cue the games start. The opening ceremony might have gotten off to a slightly shaky start but with star turns from Mr Bean, James Bond and even Queenie herself (and didn't she look happy about it!), it soon picked up. So what if the rest of the world 'didn't get it'? Seeing as we spent billions on it a little self indulgence is not too much to ask, surely. Besides, the opening ceremony should reflect the hosting nation and as far as I can tell it did. Irreverent, humorous and unconventional. As one blogger said 'a triumph of punk over pomp'. From that night on, I was hooked. The next 16 days passed in a blur of cheers and tears. For me a few moments really stick out. Andy Murray winning the tennis men's singles gold after Wimbledon heartbreak (I must confess, I developed a little crush on him this summer too. Irrelevant I know but I needed to get it off my chest)....Mo Farah winning double gold on the track and when asked by a reporter if he would prefer to have run for Somalia answering (in his cockney accent) 'Look mate, this is my country. This is where I grew up, this is where I started life. This is my country and when I put on my Great Britain vest I'm very proud'....Bradley Wiggins topping his Tour de France win with a road race gold and celebrating in his inimitable style. But really, there are too many to mention. It's fair to say I cried. A lot. And so that brings us to the closing ceremony. At times repetitive (with a wealth of British music to choose from did they really have to play five songs on repeat for a section of the show?), but always surprising, it maybe fell slightly short of the spectacular I was hoping for, but I wanted to like it so much that I did regardless. Besides, any event that begets a Spice Girls reunion is more than worth it. I cannot recall the exact number of times I said 'when are the Spice Girls coming on?' that night, but it was a fair few. I was a bit disappointed that Geri didn't wear her Union Jack dress again but to be fair she hasn't got the boobs for it now. Also noteworthy was Boris Johnson (who appeared none the worse for his embarrassing zip line debacle) getting on down, dad style, to Spice Up Your Life. He's such an adorable buffoon, it's easy to forget he's a bloody Tory.

This Olympics has certainly been a triumph for Great Britain and not just because we were the host with the most but because our athletes also brought it to the table - the medal table to be precise. With a total of 65 medals; 29 gold, 17 silver and 19 bronze, we surpassed our Beijing haul of 47 medals and finished third in the medal table. It is our best gold medal tally since 1908. The athletes seemed to feed off the amazing support from the home crowd and the success of each other. Where do we go from here? Onwards and upwards - bring on Rio.

Can we keep this feeling of national pride going? Can we remember how good it is when we come together and forget skin colour and race? Can we seek to not only appreciate what we have achieved, but strive to achieve more? Tough questions. The theme of the Olympics was 'Inspire a Generation'. I don't think I'm the generation they were aiming for, but I'm feeling pretty damn inspired. Are you?

Ik hou van Amsterdam

My experience in Amsterdam is that cyclists ride where the hell they like and aim in a state of rage at all pedestrians while ringing their bell loudly, the concept of avoiding people being foreign to them - Terry Pratchett

I try not to visit the same place twice on holiday. It's a vague rule I have because there are so many amazing places in the world and I like to try somewhere new each time. However, Amsterdam is one of those rare destinations where I have no qualms about breaking 'the rule'. I loved it from the moment  we came out of central station and that's not even the nice part of town. Even though Terry Pratchett was right about the cyclists, I managed to avoid being rammed and enjoy the city. Aside from the typical tourist attractions such as Anne Franks House (very moving and informative, I'd write a blog on that alone if I felt I could do it justice) and the Rijksmuseum (like the V and A but not free, a must for art and history buffs) here are some of my highlights.....


Firstly, if possible, stay on a houseboat. Four of us stayed on an amazing houseboat in a beautiful part of Amsterdam. It wasn't the tourist area which was a blessing because I didn't like that part of town too much. It was also great because, as opposed to a hotel where we would have been confined to our rooms, we had a kitchen, living room, dining room and boat deck to spend time on. So it's particularly handy if you are going with a few friends. Our houseboat was http://www.houseboatbedandbreakfast.com/. It was very swish and Wim (the owner) was very friendly and accommodating.

If you want amazing steak head to http://www.restaurantred.nl/. This was recommended to me by my foodie ex boss as a place for good food and Dutch celebrity spotting. Not knowing any Dutch celebrities we went for the food! It basically only serves steak or lobster for main but when they serve steak like that they need nothing else. I have eaten steak in some of Australia's best restaurants and this was up there with them. They also have a very good wine list. After all you need a good glass (or bottle) of red to wash your steak down right?! Rather amusingly even though everyone in the restaurant looked rather hip we couldn't tell if any were celebrities but when we left and got into a taxi we got papped! There were about four photographers hanging around outside who took photos of us leaving. I have no idea who they thought we were and I've tried not to think about how awful those photos would have been. Maybe I should have done a Britney and attacked them with my umbrella but surely that would have been letting my new found 'fame' go to my head too much. Plus I didn't have an umbrella...

I'm not going to say too much about the Red Light District itself. I didn't like it much. It was seedy (surprise) and to be honest without jumping on my soapbox I felt sorry for the poor girls standing in the window trying to attract custom while being ogled by all and sundry. Of course hypocrite that I am I  couldn't not see a sex show. When in Rome and all that. Going on my experience of hecking out a ping pong show in Thailand I was ready to be grossed out BUT it wasn't like that. The people on stage going at it were actually rather attractive. Unfortunately they were also rather like robots. Watching guy after guy pounding some girl while he looks like he's waiting for a bus is a bit strange. I can't really blame them, having sex with a colleague in front of approximately 100 people in varying degrees of intoxication probably wouldn't rock my world either. It's a fairly surreal experience, like any other night at the theatre except with naked people doing naughty things (although some might say that's just like a Daniel Radcliffe play). I'm not sure what was more disconcerting, the middle aged Indian lady that sat next to me and then kept asking me about moving closer to the front so she could sit next to her friends (I think she just wanted a better view) or the two young German guys that took her place and started making small talk about where I'm from and where I'm going after the show. Of course all of this is happening while the revolving procession of 'performers' plays out on stage. The show must go on as they say! Seeing as I've never made small talk while watching people have sex on stage before even I was slightly discomfited. Bravo to the performers though, they certainly gave it their all physically, if not mentally. We went to Cassa Rosso, in case you are interested: http://www.casarosso.nl/.


It would be unfair of me not to also mention the small (but important) fact that everywhere I looked there were beautiful men. Amsterdam has more than it's fair share of hotties I can tell you. Mainly though, I think I loved the fact that I could imagine myself living in Amsterdam very easily. It is a beautiful city to meander around and I could admire the houses lining the canals all day long. I didn't see anywhere near as much as I would have wanted to, I know there is a lot more to discover. The people are friendly and fun which came as no surprise to me because my Dutch friends are exactly like that which is why I am so fond of them. Amsterdam definitely captured my heart and I will be back for more.

If football really is coming home this time does anyone care?

The year is 1996. I'm 13 years old and England is football mad. We haven't won anything since 1966 and as Skinner and Baddiel sang it's been '30 years of hurt'. But we still believe. And with a team as passionate as Gazza, 'Pyscho' Stuart Pearce, Alan Shearer and David Seaman (just to name a few) how could we not? But we all know how it ended, Gareth Southgate missed that crucial penalty and went on to make his fortune endorsing Pizza Hut. Fans across the UK cried. Well, I did anyway. But from that summer on I was hooked and I haven't missed an England tournament game since. 


It only got better as I got older. We would head to the pub in big groups, drink copious amounts and chant and sing 'It's coming home' and 'Vindaloo' (to name a couple of classics) until our voices were hoarse and they kicked us out. Win and we'd sing some more and people would throw beer around until we were soaked. I've never quite worked it out but England winning seems to be the only time this is socially acceptable and even welcome. One time I caught a pint right on the side of my head but all I did was smile, cheer and hug the large hairy man that had thrown it. You see when England win all is well. Lose and we'd file out dejected and someone would start a fight. But we always came back. Somehow every year we did still believe that it was our time. 


So, imagine my surprise when after living in Australia for a couple of years (and might I add getting up for games at 4am with a die hard contingent of fellow ex pats) I get back and find that all is not as I left it. Cars aren't streaming tacky but patriotic England flags, my favourite pub to watch the games isn't totally buzzing two hours before the game, people aren't decked out in flags and face paint, there aren't a huge amount of chants and people don't really stick around after the game to celebrate and throw beer on me. TV viewing figures show large viewing audiences of people tuning in, meaning we have an army of 'armchair supporters'. Have we really decided a win is so unlikely we won't even bother to leave the house for it? What's happened?

I can't help but think there could be a correlation between the falling levels of passion in fans and in the England players themselves. Sometimes you have to wonder how much they want it. Gazza has done some Umbro adverts for Euro 2012 and while it's sad to see his current state there is no doubt he is as passionate about his country now as he was all those years ago. Talking about scoring for England brings a tear to his eye (again). How many of the current players show that level of pride in playing for their country? In 2012 we had players like Michael Carrick and Micah Richards refusing to go on the standby call up list. When there are players that would give anything to represent their country in any way then shame on them. 


Whatever the reason, I refuse to give up hope that the glory days will return. Win or lose, getting out and supporting your country is a good thing. We should be proud to be English. Having lived in Australia I can tell you they are proud to be Australian and they're not afraid to show it. For the World Cup 2010 I went to an Australia game in Darling Harbour at 4am one morning and it was packed with supporters who remained optimistic even though we have to be honest that football is not really their strong sport and even when they got thrashed 4-0 by Germany (sorry Aussie pals). They sure know a thing or two about national pride and I say it's time we take a leaf out of their book. 


So come Sunday's quarter final against Italy I will be heading back to the pub and hoping that coming through the group stage will have reinvigorated people's belief. I have a flag I've been wearing to the games for 12 years now, that flag has seen beer, sweat and tears and I won't wash it. The last three games I haven't had it with me but it's coming out next time and hopefully it's the lucky charm we need to win not just the game but the hearts of the England fans back. It been a long 16 years on this roller coaster ride with England. I've felt hopeful, ecstatic, angry, cheated and disappointed to name just a few emotions (so quite like my love life really) but I wouldn't change it for the world (well that's a lie, if I could change it I'd make it so we won at least something but you get my drift).

Football is coming home (at some point) - make sure you don't miss it.

Narrative, desire and the death-instinct

                               ‘Desire is death’ – William Shakespeare

When we read narrative fiction do we, as readers, want the knowledge of our own death? We do according to Walter Benjamin. His argument is that because we are denied that in our real lives we seek it from narrative. We are searching for the total comprehension of what went before. What drives us through the desire to read on is the anticipation of that act of retrospection. As we read on we read meanings that only become final at the very end. When we look at it like that we can understand the subconscious things we do as readers of narrative fiction. The act of flipping back through the book to re-read parts that suddenly take on a new meaning or level of significance. The way we can read a book several times and actually come away with something new each time that maybe we missed in previous readings. As Peter Brooks discusses in Reading for the Plot ‘Anticipation of restrospection is our chief tool in  making sense of narrative: we read on in confident dependence on the idea that what remains to be read will end in restructuring the provisional meanings of what we’ve already read’.

Brooks also believes that the reading of the plot is a form of desire. The reader has a duplication of the desire of the protagonist of the story. This links back to Freud’s work Beyond the Pleasure Principle. His theory was that there is always a psychic battle going on within each of us between the pleasure principle – eros – and the death instinct – thanatos. His argument is that yes, we all wish to gather separate beings in one totality but we also all want to return to a state of peace. Brooks believes that this battle is played out again in the act of reading. The last page of a book is both a moment of fulfillment and a moment of death. Both the pleasure principle and the death instinct together. The French saying for orgasm is ‘la petite mort’ which translated means ‘the little death’. Roland Barthes, theorist and literary critic once used this concept to describe the feeling you should get when reading great literature.

How death and desire exist together in a narrative was looked at by Dennis De Rougemont in his book Love in the Western World. He looks at love stories like Romeo and Juliet and traces them back to what he calls the origins of this kind of story,‘Tristan and Isolde’ an ancient Celtic story (on a side note the 2006 film version of Tristan and Isolde is well worth a look). Their love can never be satisfied and can only end with their death. He explores the founding myth of love – does love actually want the obstacles that are thrown in its way because what love actually wants is death? Is this where the idea in Western culture comes from that the truest love ends in death? The ultimate sacrifice and the noblest end. Jonathan Dollimore explores De Rougemont’s work in his book Death, Desire and Loss in Western Culture when talking about Tristan and Isolde ‘Parting is an obstruction, and the passion of the two lovers creates such obstructions because these are what it really wants. And behind the desire for obstruction is the desire for death, which passion ultimately serves’. He also looks at Romeo and Juliet in depth and he views this as a good example of death and desire bound together ‘That this is a play about the paradoxical binding together of desire and death is clear enough: in the Prologue the passion of the young lovers is described as a “death-marked love”’. It is clear when reading this play that desire and death are threaded together throughout the narrative side by side before reaching the climactic end. Dollimore’s take on the ending is also very interesting ‘It has been said that Romeo, when he incites ‘love-devouring death’ (II.v.7), is desiring and not defying death, and that his belief that Juliet is dead in the tomb is less the cause of his own suicide than the excuse for it’. Death and desire become as one and it is hard to find where one exists without the other or where one starts and the other begins. 

The Lonely Prince

One beautiful day in a faraway land, a young prince stood looking out of his castle. He was a fine prince, fair of face and with a gentle nature. He enjoyed living in his land which his parents, the king and queen, ruled fairly. The family were beloved by their subjects and the kingdom lived in harmony. The prince was not entirely happy though, for he had one question he could not answer - where was his princess? It was the law of the land that his wife must be a princess. He met many girls, beautiful and royal of birth but still, he knew that he would know in his heart when he found his true princess.

The king and queen, who loved their son dearly, knowing that this would complete his happiness, decided to help by throwing a ball and inviting all the princesses from the nearby lands. The prince was so excited, he felt sure this would finally be his time. He ran to tell his dearest friend Rosa the news. Rosa was a maid at the castle; she had been found alone in the woods crying as a child and the king and queen, kind as they were, had taken her to the castle and allowed her to live as a maid servant. The prince and Rosa had grown up playing together and he trusted her with all his hopes and dreams. He found her, as usual in the cellar scrubbing the floors. He looked at her fondly, in her maid’s uniform, covered in dirt ‘Oh dear Rosa, I have such exciting news! I am to find my princess at last!’ and with that he told her all about the plans for the ball. Rosa smiled sweetly at her prince for she was happy for him but when he left she allowed herself just one tear, for she loved the prince herself and knew that when he found his princess he would be lost to her forever. True love as it is though; she would place his happiness above her own.

The day of the ball came and the prince was so excited, he did not know how to pass the time until that night. After being fitted for his grand suit he decided to ride his horse for a while. He stayed out longer than he thought and before he knew it he was late! Alas, on his haste to ride back to the castle he tore his new suit on a hanging branch. As he rode back into the castle grounds he saw Rosa carrying some milk across the courtyard. She saw the look of dismay on his face and rushed at once to him ‘What is it my prince?’ she exclaimed, ‘Oh Rosa I have torn my new suit and the ball is about to start, there is no time to get the tailor to repair the suit! How will I meet my princess like this?’ The prince rested his head in his hands. ‘Fear not my prince, I can mend your suit, here pass me the jacket and I will get some thread’ and just like that Rosa quickly and deftly mended the prince’s jacket until it was as good as new. ‘Oh Rosa, what would I do without you? You are always there just when I need you!’ the prince beamed and then raced off to the ball and the waiting princesses.

As he arrived at the ballroom and looked around, he was astonished at the array of beautiful princesses in their colourful gowns and opulent jewels. He felt dizzy as he was swept around the room and introduced to more and more of them. Why yes, he thought to himself that they were indeed very beautiful princesses, but not the most beautiful he had ever seen. And yes, certainly they were very amiable and pleasing in manner but their company did not give him the joy that he knew his princess’s would. He felt more and more forlorn as the night wore on. How did he know these feelings he was so sure of feeling for his princess? How could he know that they did not have what he was looking for? Then he realised....Rosa! It is Rosa’s beauty, wisdom and kindness he was searching for all this time. He ran from the ball to her and confessed his feelings and his despair at knowing he could not be with her. As much as he loved Rosa, and he now realised how much he did, he could not marry a maid servant and go against his family and the law! His tears of sadness and her tears of joy at realising his love for her mingled and before them appeared a fairy king and queen. Thus it was revealed that Rosa, as a young fairy princess, had seen the prince as a sweet young boy and fallen so in love with him that she begged her parents to let her be human so she could be with him. They had acquiesced and let her grow up in the castle as a human girl. At learning she was indeed a princess and they could be married, the prince was too happy for words. He had his princess all along and he did not need to find her, for she had found him.

                                                THE END 

Speed dating for dummies

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. With this in mind my friends and I decided to go speed dating. I use this line as ironically as the original author (Jane Austen, for you lit retards), as in truth I didn't for one minute think I would meet my future husband. However the lure of a night of booze and fifteen men for four minutes each was just too enticing to say no to. 


As if you don't feel you might be somewhat approaching desperado status by going speed dating, the companies promoting such events do nothing to reassure you. I booked on-line and the page straight after confirming a place for my two friends and I, was headed 'the following books may interest you' and then showed a list of books such as 'flirting for dummies' and 'successful internet dating'. Obviously if you go speed dating you need such guidance on how to deal with the opposite sex. 


Not to be deterred, we set off, clad as the website advised in jeans, nice tops and accessories (yes, really that was their advice, heaven forbid we forget our accessories). First port of call was a pub near the venue to knock back a couple of glasses of vino for dutch courage. Whilst we mulled over the potential for disaster the night had, we also became rather paranoid that every male in the pub was potentially headed to the same destination as us. This resulted in us whispering and looking round the pub maniacally, thus preventing any sane man who would have wanted to approach us normally from doing so. Was speed dating actually sabotaging our dating chances? After a while of this there was no putting it off any longer and we headed to our fate.


I had decided to apply my usual motto to the night 'if in doubt, get hammered' and so proceeded to prop up the bar and run to the toilet in equal measure before things got under way. The girls were then all assigned a table while the boys moved round every four minutes. What followed was pretty standard making of small talk. I mean four minutes is not a lot of time, really you can talk to anyone for that long. Slightly embarrassing moment in the middle of one date when due to my colossal wine consumption I had to run to the toilet and leave the poor guy sitting there. Comparing notes after the event he was the guy that told me he was a horse trainer, one of my friends that he was a show jumper (not likely as he was the size of a horse) and my other friend that he was a mini bus driver (obviously not trying too hard to impress her), so I don't feel too bad about that now. 


As the night went on and I took every possible chance to visit the bar (these guys were so much more entertaining after a lot of wine) things went downhill quite fast. One cheeky chappy, car salesman asked me why I was there and when I said I thought it would be fun he warned me not to say that because the guys would think I was just there for sex. Of course with my humour (and drunkness) I gave a little shrug and laugh and said something along the lines of 'and?'. This was a mistake because when we had a midway break he went around telling everyone I was there for sex.  I mean really, isn't everyone?? This then resulted in one guy sitting down for our date and saying 'ah you're Donna, we were talking about you in the corner'. Making an impression as always. 


An hour of dates later, it's the end of the night and whilst I plan on comparing notes and joking with the girls about the night we are converged on by the men to join us. Unfortunately we are the only girls that stay and so an awkward little situation occurs with pretty much all the guys trying to join the table and talk to us. I'm too drunk at this point to care who I am talking to or what about. Apparently I did okay though as afterwards one of my friends describes it as me holding court at the table. Can't think what she is trying to say there. I do know I had a very fun night though.


I know what you're thinking. It sounds a disaster. Did I even match with anyone? Well, yes actually, but that's another story.....

Falling out of love with Facebook...

I'll be honest, I'm a bit of a Facebook addict. It's a rare day I go without stalking people to pass some time. I used to be a frequent status updater too. Probably at least once a day. I really felt that 300 plus people wanted to know that I was 'looking forward to the cinema' that night or was 'very drunk'. Lately though, my love for Facebook seems to be diminishing. I never thought this day would come, in fact I used to get a little panicked at the thought that other people wouldn't use it anymore and I would be left in Facebook world alone. But recently I just can't bring myself to find the same joy in it I used to. The updates from people don't interest me so much, I can't be bothered to update so much. I've lost enthusiasm.


On that note, I have a confession to make. My affections have been engaged elsewhere. I'm sorry Facebook but I think I love Twitter. When I first started using Twitter I was completely bewildered. I felt like my 89 year old Nan probably did when she got a mobile phone. It didn't look good (like Facebook), I didn't have lots of 'friends' (like Facebook) and I just generally had no clue how to use it. Now however I'm getting to be a bit of a pro. I must confess to taking advice from my uni friends who are all of course completely adept at it. Now I'm going to be controversial. Twitter is the new Facebook. But why?

Has Facebook not just become a little shallow in a 'look at my fabulous life' kind of way? I mean we even get two profile pictures now instead of one. Because one just isn't enough to show who you are. You also need one 'that best represents you'. Cue everyone spending hours trying to figure out which photos to use. It all started, in my opinion with the rise of the 'like' and 'comment' button for statuses. Now your status isn't successful if you don't have a heap of likes and comments. Whereas Twitter you can tweet away all day with pointless drivel and it doesn't matter if no one cares at all. This is perfect for me. On Twitter people 'follow' you because they are interested in what you have to say.They don't become your 'friend' because they met you for 5 minutes at a party and decided that made you buddies.


The friends issue really is a minefield right? Pet hate number one - people who add me and then proceed to never message me/like or comment on my status/not even to wish me happy birthday. Why did you add me then? Pet hate number two- people who say that they don't really use Facebook but actually they are always on it, they just stalk people all the time and don't update their own status. I'm all for a bit of stalking but don't lie about it. Own it. Pet hate number three - people who use Facebook to moan all the time. 'I'm having a really crap day' 'my life sucks'. Well it must do if you feel the need to tell 300 people, the majority of whom you barely know. As I type this I think, wow, I'm such a hater! It's a wonder I have any friends. But I do actually. I have 327 of them, so there. I will also admit to being fond of a regular cull. I convince myself (falsely, obviously) that culling my friends list by about 10 people a month means that I am keeping my list to a genuine circle of friends. Ahem. Yes sure, 327 genuine 'friends'. It's not that simple. I have to ask myself, will I see this person again? In which case rejecting their friend request/removing them could be a bit awkward. If I don't know  them that well but they are interesting that's also a reason to save them. Also if you use Facebook as an online Jeremy Kyle Show I will not remove you. You are very interesting and go to the top of my favourite 'friends'. Whenever I see one of these such events happening, I feel the urge to jump in and type 'fight, fight, fight!' but I refrain in case they should turn their cyber rage on me. Instead I sit in rapt attention refreshing my page every minute and watching it unfold. Then the next day they are 'friends' again. We all love a happy ending.


So I think I will continue to invest more time in Twitter. I get to stalk celebrities as well as real people. Totes amazeballs. If you are on Twitter I am @donnawrightson so follow me. I only have 40 followers which is pitiful compared to my 'friends' on Facebook. I guess that shows how many people are interested in what I have to say. Today's blog has been controversial, I know. If I wake up tomorrow with two Facebook 'friends' I guess I will know why.

It's a hard life being a bus wanker

I miss my car. I have had a car since I was 17 except for the few years I was living in Australia and then I pretty much walked or got a taxi everywhere. Embracing student life and living in central Brighton meant getting rid of my car and getting on the bus.

After 6 months of it I can honestly say I hate getting the bus. I kind of knew it already but yesterday while on the good old number 25 bus to uni it really hit me. As a student bus user you seem to be a second class citizen. The bus drivers hate us. You can tell. They grunt in reply to anything you say, shout at anyone who dares to enquire beyond the norm and seem to deliberately pull away from the stop just as you get there, even though they can see you running and they can't possibly pull out into the traffic. Mean. For me though, their biggest crime is the refusal to acknowledge my thanks. I'm a polite person. My Nan always taught me that manners cost nothing. I always say please and thank you. So when I get off the bus and say thank you, I expect to receive an answer. Even if it's just a grunt. But no, now that I am a student 8 times out of 10 they say nothing back. So what, are my thanks not worth anything now? Should I not bother? I wish I was rebellious enough not to but I'm not. It seems to come automatically as if I have no control over it. I'm such a good girl (ahem).

I spend about an hour a day on the bus each way to and from uni so it's no small part of my day. The one bonus I can see with the student bus is that it's a lot more interesting than the average bus. The number 25 is a hive of gossip and scandal. I have spent many a journey eavesdropping (although I am not sure it can be called eavesdropping when people are talking so loudly it's impossible not to hear) on people bitching about their flatmates, classmates and lecturers. I'm almost sad when we reach our destination and I have to stop myself chasing after them and asking 'and then what did she say?'. If you miss Jeremy Kyle in the morning just hop on the number 25 for the live show.

For the most part though it's pretty miserable. I don't know who designs buses but they are ridiculously impractical. Particularly those stupid little 4 seats where you sit facing each other. There's nothing like sitting knee to knee and trying to avoid staring at some stranger sitting opposite you for half an hour. What were they thinking when they designed those? That little groups of 4 people like to take bus trips and might want to sit together and chat? I'm sure this happens every now and again but it usually just makes 4 complete strangers really uncomfortable. It's like when you get in a lift with strangers but an extended session. Yesterday, as I sat in one of the aforementioned little 4 seats I looked around me and realised that everyone looked as miserable as I felt. They hate the bus too. They might just be unhappy but I would bet it's the bus. I say everyone, but there were two Japanese girls in the seats opposite that were cheerfully chatting and marking their journey on a London tube map. I hoped it wasn't their current journey for obvious reasons, but felt it best not to enquire as such. That would have meant putting on my loud, patronising voice I seem to acquire when talking to people with limited English and I really don't like to use it too much.

In case I was in any doubt, while standing at the bus stop at uni the other day someone actually drove by and shouted out 'bus stop wankers' at us. To be fair it was more amusing than anything due to the fact that he couldn't even get the line right, which makes him a bit of a wanker himself, but still. I guess there's no avoiding it. My name is Donna Wrightson and I am a bus wanker.

International Women's Day. Be inspired.

'How important it is for us to recognize and celebrate our heroes and she-roes!' Maya Angelou

Thursday March 8th was International Women's Day. Pretty cool kind of day and an excuse to appreciate all things female. Actually I don't really need an excuse to do that (not in a lesbian way perverts, unless it's Rihanna of course). I do think my friends are amazing. I know everyone thinks that but mine really are. I'm using this as a chance to honour some of them.

For anyone who thinks teaching is easy, it's really not. One of my best friends is a reception class teacher and she works her arse off. Her typical day, Monday to Friday involves leaving the house around 7am and getting home around 6.30pm. Plus at the weekends she often has prep work to do. Believe me she needs those school holidays when they come! Teaching the future of our country their first lessons is no easy task. Teaching them not to piss in the middle of the classroom is even harder. She does all that and still has time to be an amazing friend.


Danni, whom I met and became close to in Australia but is actually from the good old US of A is a true ball of energy who literally lights up any room she is in. Sadly her aunt was diagnosed with terminal cancer. This is devastating for anyone, we all know people affected by this in some way. But this girl refused to take it sitting down. She rode 160 miles in the Pan Mass Challenge raising over $10,000 for the Dana Farber hospital which gave her aunt pioneering treatment which prolonged her life. She's riding again this year in her aunt's memory with the goal again to raise $10,000. Truly amazing. For anyone who would like to donate the link is: http://www.pmc.org/profile/DW0128.


One of my friends was in an unhappy relationship situation. The decision to leave it wasn't easy and caused her much pain. She did anyway. She picked herself up, ran a half marathon and moved to the other side of the world for a fresh start. She is now with a great guy and I have never seen her so happy. She did that for herself. She's also one of the coolest chicks I know.


One of my best friends has the very important task of keeping my faith in love alive. While I pass the time with an endless string of fuckwits (much to her consternation) she is very happy with one of the nicest guys I have met. They get married this year and I'm so happy and proud. She, in the meantime, doesn't give up hope that one day I will come to my senses and give the nice guy a chance. Who knows? Maybe I will. Until then I know she won't stop trying to persuade me, which feels good.


A fellow traveller I met in Australia is one of the busiest people I know but always has time for her friends. She loves life and gets the most out of it everyday with new challenges she sets herself. She's leaving England in a few days to live in Japan and teach English for a year. On her own. She will be missed but more of the world deserves to experience a little bit of what she has to offer. We will wait to get her back.

Those are just some of my amazing friends. I couldn't fit them all in. I'm going to make the effort to tell them just how great they are more often. Every day they inspire me. I hope they inspire you too. Who are your friends who have done or do something remarkable every day? Remember to tell them how you feel.


So the message here, if you didn't catch it, is to believe in yourself. You can do anything you put your mind to. Sometimes life's not easy. But I guess that's the biggest test, how we deal with the crap that it throws at us sometimes. At the end of the day, it's down to you to make your life something special. Are you up to the challenge?

'I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life's a bitch. You've got to go out and kick ass' Maya Angelou

Fairy Tales....but not as we know them

It is a common occurrence in society today for single women in their 20s and 30s to lament that their love lives have been spoiled by the fairy tales they read as children (at least it is amongst my friends). We blame our inability to find a sane man willing to commit to us on our unrealistic expectations we learned from fairy tales. As Bonnie Tyler sang 'where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?....Isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed, Late at night I toss and turn and dream of what I need'. Oh dear. I've started quoting Bonnie. Time to move on.

Imagine my delight to find fairy tales the subject of study in my literature module recently. Even better, to be taken by my favourite lecturer who we shall call Richard, because that is his name. A man so charming and charismatic he packs out the lecture hall (even at 9.30am) and has boys and girls alike staring at him in open adulation for the whole one and a half hours. I kid you not. This is a man that makes religious poetry sexy. Imagine what he could do with fairytales. I was not to be disappointed. Except these fairy tales weren't quite how I remembered them.

Take Little Red Riding Hood for example. We all know the story, little red is off to visit granny, wolf tricks her, gets there first, eats granny and then eats her when she arrives (or the huntsman saves her depending on the version you read). Okay, we get the moral; don't talk to strangers and do as your mother tells you. There's nothing sexual about Little Red Riding Hood right? WRONG. In the Charles Perrault story of 1697 (one of the first published versions of the tale) that naughty little red takes her clothes off and climbs into bed with the wolf when he bids her. Unfortunately this gives fresh meaning to the famous 'What big teeth you have Grandmother' 'the better to eat you' exchange. So we already know her to be a silly little fool for being tricked by the wolf but then she goes and jumps into bed with him! Sound familiar? Uh-huh. So dear Charles decided to give us a little moral at the end of the tale, in case we didn't pick up on the message within. To be honest I might not have done but Richard was fortunately on hand to point it out. Nearly 430 years on the moral still rings true so here it is for your benefit:

One sees here that young children,

Especially young girls

Pretty, well brought up, and gentle,

Should never listen to anyone who happens by,

And if this occurs, it is not so strange

When the wolf should eat them.

I say the wolf, for all wolves

Are not of the same kind.

There are some with winning ways,

Not loud, nor bitter, or angry,

Who are tame, good-natured, and pleasant

And follow young ladies

Right into their homes, right into their alcoves.

But alas for those who do not know that of all the wolves

the docile ones are those who are most dangerous.

Hear hear! I've learned my lesson. I shall certainly not be letting any men, I mean wolves, into my alcove. Especially not the quiet ones. Not tonight anyway.

So now that we've learned that Little Red Riding Hood was a bit of a whore, what other fairy tale heroine could we move on to desecrate? How about dear Cinderella? As one of the most popular fairy tales around and the creator of the legendary Prince Charming, that every girl has been waiting for since she heard about him, it's hard to see how this could be so bad. Actually, you will be pleased to know that Cinderella herself remains largely unblemished by digging deeper into the tale. However, just when I thought we were going to leave the lecture just learning that it helps children deal with sibling rivalry, we have a little chat about Prince Charming finding that Cinderella's foot is the perfect fit for the glass slipper. Suddenly Richard breaks in with a little laugh and 'of course, I think that you all know that the foot and slipper is a metaphor for the male and female genitalia'. Um, no. Actually I think we didn't. But we do now, thanks very much.

So the fairy tales had it right all along. Prince Charming wasn't looking for his true love, he was just trying to find the perfect vajayjay for his pee-pee. Some things never change.

Born to Run? Maybe not...

Last year, in a fit of temporary insanity, I decided to run the Brighton half marathon. Crazy - I know. I could say it was part of an attempt to cling on to my youth but no that can't be it, I was never stupid enough to try it at 19. Anyway, it was such a traumatic experience that only now, one week on, have I recovered enough to write about it. Let me first be clear, I am not a complete running novice. I got into it while living in Australia recently. I managed a couple of road races in fairly respectable times with the help of my formidable personal trainer. Yes, shock horror, back in the day before returning to full time education I had enough disposable income for such luxuries! I would love to tell you more about my personal trainer but that's for another day. So, with past experience in mind I thought with the right training it would be a breeze. Silly, naive, fool. So I embark on said training and curb my binge drinking as much as possible to leave me feeling in good shape.


Race day arrives and I was pretty lucky that the start point was just down the road from me, so strolled down to line up, along with around 7500 others. Little bit of organised chaos ensues where everyone has to try and queue in the section for their predicted finishing time. Obviously pride dictates that most people are in the section which is a bit faster than they can actually do but they'll be damned if they let the other 7499 people know that. For those of you not familiar with the half marathon, here's a couple of things you need to know. A half marathon is 13.1 miles. When you sign up they give you a timing chip (in this case it was attached to the running bib) which activates when you cross the start line and records your total time when you cross the finish line meaning total accuracy (ahem!). Anyway, back to the start line. I'm queuing up and I'm suddenly struck by the level of body odour already emanating from people. How? Why? I mean they hadn't even started running yet, how could they smell already? Did they decide not to shower in preparation, or leave off deodorant? Is it some dastardly plot to throw other personal hygiene minded people off their game and thus finish with a better time than them? Either way it's wrong. After my stint in the stench pit it's off we go. All is well for the first 6 miles, I'm on target and feeling pretty damn good. I do have a slight crisis of confidence when a woman who is 60 if she is a day speeds past me looking way more comfortable than I do. I mean, respect to the lady but it's never good for one's pride to be outdone by someone over double your age. I make a mental note to train more next time. Surely there must be some miracle training plan out there that will stop me being outrun by OAP's? Anyway, back to the run. Miles 6 to 9 hurt a bit more, okay they hurt a lot but I style it out due to the amount of people lining the street saying encouraging things like 'you're doing really well'  and 'keep going' etc, etc. I'm even gracious enough to offer a smile/grimace to those kind enough to applaud and cheer me as I pass by. Then just past mile 9 what should happen but STITCH! Not just any stitch but the stitch from hell that literally feels like it's ripping me in half when I run. What a nightmare, heaven forbid I be given an excuse to stop and walk for a bit. That's it, I give in, telling myself I will just walk until the stitch goes. Problem is, it rather seems to like my diaphragm, so in the meantime my legs turn to lead. To cut a long story short (or maybe just shorter), the last few miles pass with me half jogging and half walking and being passed by all the people I felt rather smug about being in front of for the first 9 miles. At this point I want to cry (and maybe I did have a little tear of self pity in my eye) and give up. But I remember I am running for charity (Cancer Research) and my friends have made the effort to come and cheer me on. So, I suck it up. I do my walk, shuffle, run thing right to the end. Maybe half a mile before the end I am in so much pain I think I am going to walk across the finish line (not sprint triumphantly as I had imagined) and then I see my friends. Yes they came down a bit before the finish line and somehow because of them cheering me on (and the fact they were taking photos - I mean pain or no pain, walking in your half marathon photos is just not the done thing) I did manage to run to the end and across the line.

The aftermath is not so bad until my other friends waiting at the finish line come to greet me and enquire if I realise I finished just behind Katie Price. Talk about kick a girl when she's down. I'm not sure what was worse, finishing behind her or being informed she had a camera crew filming her and realising I will probably be in the next episode of her latest reality show huffing and wheezing as I stumble behind her. THEN (as if this tale couldn't get any worse) I manage to hobble home with my gang of supportive friends telling me I did great (those lovable liars), to get a text from the automated chip time service telling me my chip time was 2 hours 9 minutes. That would be amazing if there was even a remote chance of it being true. For a minute, in my fatigued and disappointed mind, I wonder if all the trauma was a dream and I actually did as well as originally planned. But no, there has obviously been some cock up. At this point I kick myself slightly and think if I hadn't milked the sympathy vote from my friends with my tale of woe I could have gone along with my 'official' time. What a naughty thought, I can only think I was delirious from exhaustion as such deceit would never cross my mind usually I assure you....


Anyway, what's the moral of the story? Don't run a half marathon? Don't get a stitch? Don't be honest with your friends? I don't know. What I do know is, it took a couple of days to be able to walk properly again. My final time was 2 hours 34 minutes (about 20 minutes more than my goal time). And you know what? I'll be back next year and Katie Price better watch out because this time she's going to eat my dust.

But isn't my medal purty?