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.