The ‘No Idea’ Post

I feel this post is likely to rapidly deteriorate into a disjointed jumble of words. The fact that I’ve accepted this before beginning, however, means less expectation and thus less disappointment – something I, as ever, am all for.

I’m going to attempt to stumble my way through regardless, purely because I’m in the mood to write and feel this cluster of pixels is in need of something new.

My problem now is that I’ve approached this post very differently to how I usually would. I have no idea.

 

As a philosophy, I tend to regard the world with a certain amount of ‘Pleh’.

(Pleh: the onomatopoeia I have recently dubbed as “that which can be used when a situation demanding a response that exudes indifference and the subject of which is in need of casual dismissal arises”

…if I were to use the noise ‘pleh’ in real life, I imagine my face would look something like the image above. Hopefully less round, bald, and made of lines though.)

If ever I come across something that has the chance of becoming the inspiration or ideas behind any sort of creative creation, I tend to end up oblivious to it and instead pick up on the things that have absolutely no possible way of helping the right side of my brain to get into action.

I have multiple long lists of subject matters and snippets of strangers’ conversations that intrigued me at the time, but now, when I feel I want to expand on something, there is nothing.

Now this may just be a temporary funk, but I can’t help but that think that maybe the world has lost its cinnamon.

Rest assured, I’m certain that I’ll wake up tomorrow, take a big bite out of the apple pie and feel my taste buds explode with flavour, but for now, there seems to be something missing.

Over my (few) years of life, I’ve decided that my frequent dips into this mindset are the result of a new, and technically undiagnosed, mental state I like to call ‘Fluctuating Cynicism With An Unhealthy Attachment To Desserts ’.

During moments of weakness and media-susceptibility, I have taken part in quizzes to diagnose myself mentally, all of which came out with some rather worrying results, some implying I have the ability to become an axe murderer. This enlightenment concerning my unstable state of mind made me, being the smart ass I am, set on deciding my own condition – who better to claim there’s something wrong with your brain than the one who has to live in it everyday, eh?

And so F.C.W.A.U.A.T.D. came about. It is the only way I can think to accurately describe my mind. There’s also the added bonus that it can be abbreviated, and we all know that abbreviation makes everything more official. Maybe I could find others who are in the same boat and have F.C.W.A.U.A.T.D.A meetings. We could sit in a circle and discuss the nonexistence of magic and ghosts, before sharing with each other how long we’ve been cake-free.

I think I may have had an idea. All because I decided that a disgustingly cheap rhubarb crumble was the perfect analogy for life, the universe and everything. Can’t think how I got that from a 42p dessert.

A Haiku for a Friend…

 

Obnoxious laughter:

Always loud, forever warm.

Brighton loves it too.

I think my fear of queues comes from more than just being British.

So, I just got back from a week at the Edinburgh Festival which, for the record, was absolutely amazing. The place was buzzing and I saw some great shows – granted there were a few that made me want to rip out my vital organs, but pish posh.

Anyway, something happened while I was there that made me question much of what I’ve learned over my life. It left me confused and, honestly, slightly scared.

I was waiting at the venue for the Russell Kane show that would be starting in half an hour or so when suddenly, I felt my bladder was getting a little overwhelmed.

(That wasn’t what “confused and, honestly, slightly scared me”, don’t worry.)

I headed off in search of the toilets , only to find a few people waiting. “That’s fine”, I thought and stood there to wait also.

TIME FOR A SUB-STORY

What happened next put me in a sticky position…more people came in and joined the queue. The queue that it now seemed I was not a part of. I had been isolated from my fellow toilet-goers.

I had ignorantly assumed that it was a mental queue in operation and so stood, blissfully unaware, as a physical queue began to form. I found myself on the opposite side of the corridor to all of the other women: segregated.

So there I was, completely unaware of how to get myself back into my rightful place and it was getting closer and closer to my turn (or what would have been my turn had I been in the queue).

I muttered encouraging words to myself and in an odd and ungraceful motion did what can only be described as a pirouette-minus-the-ette into the line, mumbling an explanation and an apology to those behind me as I went.

Needless to say, it was an uncomfortable few moments as I waited for the cubicle to be free once again.

END OF SUB-STORY

Once I’d finished relieving my bladder, I headed back outside to find that people were getting ready to go into the show. I hurried up the line to inform those I was with of this so that we could join our fellow comedy-seekers.

Suddenly, I realised the line was moving, quite rapidly, forwards. I quickened my pace so we would not be left at the back, stuck seeing nothing but the particularly tall person in front’s dandruff.

This is when my world lost any form logicality it still possessed. I walked past a couple of members of staff, one of whom seemed quite distressed, and heard a little snippet of their conversation.

WHERE WERE THE PEOPLE AT THE FRONT GOING?!

If the queue was moving forward at such a rate (which it was, I assure you), where were all the people going? I honestly can’t get my head around this.

Was the reason this worked purely that everyone in the queue was really eager to  ‘get to know’ whoever was in front of them? Were those right at the front being made into pancakes right before the eyes of onlookers? Or was it something slightly more sinister?

I have my suspicions…

I really don’t want to have to eat Jeff.

Right, time for a bit of a rant and probably a great deal of cynicism, so to keep the mood nice and jolly, here’s a picture of a unicorn to start us off:

There, now that we’re all feeling magical, back to the point.

Life’s thrown something at me which I just can’t not moan about for any longer. It may seem silly, but what’s turned me into a premature grouch is this…

…and anything similar.

I just honestly can’t understand why anyone would say, “Oh look, I have a daughter who I kind of like. I know, let’s buy an annoying little sticker that tells everyone else on the road that we think our child is a princess.”

Just don’t do it. If the kid’s called Diana, then I can understand a bit more, but ‘little Jessica’ is not a princess ad never will be.

I don’t know whether these people think it’s cute or quirky, or whether they’re idiotic enough to think road-rage-fuelled drivers are less likely to ram into the back of them if they have one of these things.

Every time I see one, I want to grab the wheel and do just that.

To be honest, it’s just as bad as sticking one of these on your bumper:

Because seriously, if you can find me one fish-lacking person who, when sat in a traffic jam in rush hour, looks at the car in front to see that and doesn’t immediately think, “prick”, I’ll eat the unicorn.

Oh Look…Another Overused Pun.

Just My Luck I’d be bored one day, turn on the TV and there, brightening (ahem) up my screen is the one and only Lindsay Lohan. Hooray.

I find though, that Lilo is one of these people that I enjoy watching because she’s just so horrendously bad, that it’s incredibly easy to mock – and I like me some mocking. So imagine my joy to find that I’d stumbled across the film Just My Luck starring Lilo herself along with Chris Pine – aka. Captain James T Kirk (no complaints there, eh ladies?).

Seriously, it really was Just My Luck!

Yes, that was me pathetically pushing for that pun to go further. I’m thinking I may have worn it out now though. Just My Luck!

The film, is literally 103 minutes of advertising for McFly…with a few smooches thrown in for good measure.

(Has anyone noticed how I like to imdb runtimes of films and mention them during blog updates so as to sound knowledgeable?)

Just My Luck is about a girl (Lilo) who has incredibly good luck all the time. And then there’s the boy (Capt. K) who has – yep, you guessed it – incredibly bad luck…all the time. The two kiss, McFly members banter, switch luckiness, McFly members sing a song, live their lives, McFly members flick their hair, and finally fall in love, at which point McFly becomes big and famous and, fittingly, sings another song.

A riveting plot wouldn’t you say? Particularly because Lilo is throwing a tantrum throughout while Capt. K lopes around wearing a leather jacket and a duct tape enhanced backpack being a general Spiderman-before-Spiderman-Peter-Parker-male-lead (you know, the whole “I’m a nerd, hot, not a player and care about children and old people – yeah, you’re awake” vibe).

I do have a couple of questions about the film though;

1) When they were casting it, did they just jump in and hire every every single actor who has ever been on ER?

2) Did it not become obvious to them during the filming that Samaire Armstrong (short, blonde best friend of Lilo) was allergic to whatever was going in her coffee in the morning? I mean, seriously, the flailing should have tipped them off a bit.

Just My Luck is an amusing little romp though. Not a good film, but entertaining enough. Especially if you’re an up-and-coming Olympic hair flicker and fancy checking out the competition. I’d say Dougie’s the one to watch, he’s got all the Russian neck movements down.

It’s a shame, I really thought I had a chance at London 2012.

Ah, Just My Luck.

MJ v. JB

Whoa, check out the number of abbreviations in the title of this!

Yeah, abbreviations FTW!

Are you impressed? ty.

 

When you walk past people who are talking in a rather animated fashion about some unknown topic (that, or a subdued one – so basically just talking) do you feel that unexplainable urge to know said topic? I do. And I think most people would feel the same. It’s the natural curiosity that comes with having more brain cells than a squirrel. But the fact is, despite the lack of context, those few lines one picks up when drifting slowly past a conversing group of unknowns tends to spark a new conversation, whether with someone else or yourself in your head. Of course if you’re me, with yourself out loud. Or the unknowns out loud. Not the unknowns in your head though.

There is a point to this tangent, I promise. And, it ties fabulously in with the earlier abbreviating.

I realise that by saying that I’ve given any unfortunate  reader something called ‘expectation’. Bad idea.

Anyway, I was walking past a group of girls (about thirteen years old if I had to guess) who were discussing – or maybe ‘debating’ would be a more fitting description of what they were doing – a certain tattooed(?), floppy-haired teen heartthrob. Yes, that’s right; Justin Bieber.

Now, I’m not here to share my opinions on him because to be honest, I have none. I couldn’t care less what he does and doesn’t do. I’m not his mother.

Or his boyfriend*

So, as I was walking past, I chuckled quietly to myself at the subject over which they were arguing, That was, though, until I heard something that made me come to a horror-struck halt. One of them had the nerve to say this…

“Well, at least Justin Bieber can sing! Unlike that Michael Jackson!!”

OMG, I was horrified.

I couldn’t ignore the comment.

So, I turned round and forcefully joined their debate. I argued strongly and passionately, sending them into a bit of a stunned silence. Though, I’ll admit, that may have been to do with the fact that I had jumped spontaneously into their conversation at all.

I honestly don’t understand how they can compare the two, let alone say that JB beats MJ. WTF?!

 

Hey, I just realised something. JB is a white sixteen-year-old who got invited to the black music awards. Identity crisis? MJ was a black child who grew into a white man. Identity crisis. And both can somehow be blamed on the world’s intolerance.

 

So yeah…G2G.

 

*Just as a side note/disclaimer to save myself from hate mail, I know nothing of Justin Bieber’s sexuality and I’m particularly impartial towards it. This comment was not based on opinion, evidence or anything as staple. Purely on other people’s opinions and jibes that I felt the need to bring up here due to an incredible opportunity. I couldn’t exactly pass it up, it’s like the joke wrote itself.

Inception

Ok, so I went to see Inception the other day – you know, the film that’s been getting pretty much all round amazing reviews and and has been described as “like The Matrix mated with Synecdoche, New York — or a Charlie Kaufman 007”. I think it’s safe to say the critics like it.

And, if I’m honest, I can’t help but agree with them. Obviously, as with most films, it had its flaws (the continuously prominent, and somewhat overbearing, brass section that made up the soundtrack being one point). I mean, I hate to agree with people, but I loved it. It was on of those films that you can walk out of feeling all high-and-mighty because you’ve gotten in touch with your ‘inner philosopher’. And due to my horrendously large ego, I love my inner philosopher. There’s something so satisfying about a film that makes you feel as though you’ve actually gained some sort of insight into the working of the world, no matter how untenable said insight may be.

The details of the film were it’s greatest strength and it’s most textbook weakness. The fact that there were so many vital points thrown in as nonchalantly as a you like makes the film a difficulty for those who find a trip to the cinema as a chance to not have to think. The fact that the film requires strict concentration throughout paired with the - in my opinion, all too frequent - car chases, explosions and fight scenes, makes it a struggle to understand quite what is wanted of yourself as an audience member before the credits roll.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve said I loved the film, but I think that the psychological depth to it could have been further explored. Leonardo DiCaprio plays his part superbly and alongside Marion Cotillard, it’s impossible for anyone to not feel the pain and confusion along with them. The constant fighting took away from this and wasn’t needed. Large action scenes tend to drive viewers into a state of half-watching where they’re observing the action, but not processing the happenings and throwing twists into the middle of these brought on a whole new level (no pun intended) to the term ‘juxtaposition’. One that can become a little too much at points.

Overall, however, despite my mocking and critique, I know for a fact I will most definitely be watching Inception again and enjoying it as much, if not more, than the first time around. Christopher Nolan is the very essence of creativity and the way he binds together the science fiction with the thriller creates two hours and twenty-eight minutes of excitement, suspense, and more than anything, a dream-like escape from reality.

Where’s Wally? …mocking me.

I have a theory.

I have established that the ability to find Wally in the books ‘Where’s Wally’ (or for those Americanised souls among us, Waldo in ‘Where’s Waldo’) slowly but surely deteriorates with every year we live.

I say this because I used to be great at it, but I find that as I grow older, it takes me longer and longer to find that annoyingly stripy little man. Now I know you may dismiss my troubles, putting it down to lack of interest or something else just as, if not more, trivial and ordinary.

But, this is wrong. For a start, I’m incredibly competitive so when my seven-year-old cousin challenges me to a game of ‘who can find Wally first’, I want to win. Forget the fact that as the older and wiser (clearly not when it comes to finding Wally though) of us I should be nice and let her win so as to avoid upset - something I often do, yet am always happy knowing in my own little mind that I’ve won, an idea from which I get a worryingly large sense of pleasure. But this time, I just couldn’t find Wally! And when I handed my baton over to my brother, he had even more trouble than me. The book was then passed from person to person within our family; uncles, aunts, sons, grandmothers, the whole shebang. Through the careful observation of these many different people of many different ages attempting to find Wally, I have come to the conclusion that the older one is, the harder the quest for Wally.

And that, is why Wally always wears that smug little grin that you only begin to notice once you pass the age of thirteen and becomes more and more obvious and more and more mocking with every year you age.

And to be honest, the hat’s just silly.

Why do people say, "Ta very much"?

Is that not just saying, "Thanks a lot very much"?


Double emphasis anyone?
Crazy!

Uptown Girl

 

She sat at the bar, staring into the brown liquid in the glass before her.  Her eyes were glazed over with the tears – the only indication that she was any more than a shell - that had not yet spilt down her pale cheeks. Her hair was tangled and knotted, the expensive dress she wore, creased. Yet, despite her current appearance, she possessed an obvious air of elegance about her and it was clear that, at a point in the evening, she had been the very epitome of class and sophistication. The opposite of what one would expect to find in a dirty little back-street bar. A true ‘uptown girl’.

The only other customers were a group of middle-aged men in suits occupying a small booth in the corner - all far too intoxicated to consider this woman may be anything more than a game that got more exciting with each wolf-whistle and cat-call ignored.

The barman stood leaning against a dirty wall, far away from the woman. His grey face holding dilated pupils above large purple bruises.

As she slowly moved her hand towards her drink, the the tears finally fell and she grabbed her glass, throwing back her head and downing its contents. She then stood and glided, gracefully out of the door.

The next day, press surrounded the home of a well-loved socialite, all hoping for a glimpse of the body for their front page.

“Old People Mobiles”

Today, while sat on the bus, I saw an incredibly amusing sight.

There was an elderly woman travelling along on one of those golf cart-like old person transportation things. You know, the ones that go up the pavement incredibly slowly except every-so-often when you’ll see a daredevil old person who’ll be zooming along and you’ll think, “Whoa. That is who I want to be when I’m seventy”?

Anyway, what amused me was the size of this thing compared to her. She was a small old lady, barely three foot and pretty darn thin. The frailty of age wasn’t doing anything to help the image either. What she was travelling in though, was huge! An absolute beast of a thing, covered from top-to-tip with a large, see-through tarpaulin to keep out the sun, I’d assume…?

So, there she was, blocking up the whole pavement and half of the road with her monstrosity of a vehicle – I regret to say, she wasn’t being very much of a daredevil -  and I was just sat there, staring, and thinking, “Whoa. That is who I want to beat up when I’m seventy.”

A Little Rebellion and a Rabbit Metaphor.

Yo, yo…sup homies!

Yes, because I’m that cool.

Anyway, this is a quick little blog in which I’m going to share with you a story from the past week which I found rather amusing.

Due to a geography trip on Wednesday, many people were missing from my drama class. This, for which the blame lies with her attendance of a course, included my drama teacher. We, as a collective, decided that rather than try to hunt down the then non-present cover teacher, we would play some games, recite Shakespeare badly and tell ghost stories. Half-way through our rebellious antics, someone put forward the suggestion of a rather childish game of hide-and-seek. Completely impossible to refuse, I know. So, off we went, frantically searching for hiding places amongst the props, sets and curtains of the large drama studio. Well into the countdown, I established that the box I was attempting to fit myself into was all to small for any human (Don’t question this…I said ‘human’ not ‘contortionist’) and so. in a sense of anguish, took a risk and sprinted across the empty void that was the hall. Mid-way though, my journey was thrown off course by the door suddenly opening. I instinctively froze, the very picture of a rabbit caught in the headlights and stared – thoroughly worried we may have been discovered in our foul play – at the three figures standing in the doorway.

The woman I recognised as a member of staff smiled and said to me, “Don’t worry, we’re just on an interview. Carry on with what you were doing.”

With her permission granted, I – true to the rabbit metaphor - turned tail and darted back behind the curtains to find refuge inside a round platform that had been turned on its side to crate a wheel with a gap inside just large enough for me, a human. From my hiding place I could just about hear the rest of the conversation.

“I think they’re playing hide and seek”

“Why not?”

The sound of the door closing followed, and after a few long moments, the silence was broken by a small voice from behind a white staircase set across the other side of the hall;

“I don’t think they noticed us.”

 

From the time I was four until just after my sixteenth birthday, every day my mother would send me to bed at seven o'clock. Exactly twenty one minutes later, my door would open and she would walk silently in, gently lowering herself to sit at the bottom of my bed. She would stare blankly at the peeling wallpaper, and I would watch her profile in the dim moonlight shining in through my bare window. I would watch her lips as a faint smile ghosted over them and listened as she sighed almost inaudibly to herself, repeating the words I heard from her every day at this time; "One day, my darling. One day." She would then look down at her hands and sit quietly for a moment before rising and moving towards the door. She would stop, turn around and look at me. Our eyes would meet and she would smile. Then, she would turn around, rap her knuckles on the doorframe twice and leave the room,
closing the door behind her.

I never fully understood this ritual, I still don't. But I miss it, I miss that I can't see her how she was, how she should have been. Now, she doesn't come, though I wait for her, all through the night. I loved the times I could still see her in her eyes, not someone else just using her body. I know she can't help it, but I blame her sometimes. I try to tell myself it is not her fault and that I have to love her, no matter what happens. But the monster in me resents her for who she's not. I try to remember the times she was my mother, when she knocked on the door to exit my room and when she promised me, "one day". I know that if I let myself connect my mother with the woman I came home from school to find lying, confused and screaming, on the floor with the room in silent chaos around her, blood dried into tears on her face and crusted under her fingernails where she tore at her own skin, I wouldn't be able to hold myself together. I feel as though I am being held in one piece by a thin, old string that is bound to give out upon the slightest strain. The memory of her wild eyes, surrounded by dark, purple bruises as she stared up through me from the floor, unaware of my presence, still flash before me whenever I close my eyes.

But the warmth in her eyes as she looked at me for a single moment each night is what I hold on to, it is all I have to remember what she, and I, once were. She was my mother, the woman who always loved me and would do anything for me. Now, that woman is dead. And for this, I blame her.

Every night at twenty one minutes past seven, I stand up and I knock twice on the door. She comes me and smiles a sad smile, full of loss and hurt. I look through the small window in the steel door into her warm eyes.

"One day, my darling. One day" she murmurs softly before turning to a man dressed in white.

Why hello good people of the interenet.
See, I have a dilemma. I have created this rather dashing little spot for myself amongst a great number of fantastically written blogs about this and that, and am undyingly excited about it.
My problem is this; I have nothing to write (and yes, I see the irony in blogging about having nothing to blog).
My life is mundane, but I guess the most strange concepts come from the mundane. For example hoovers (vacuum cleaners to those of us not commercialised enough to call an invention by a brand name). Hoovers came about by someone somewhere deciding that it would be a good idea to suck dust into a large and intrusive plastic contraption. So if dust can be what brought about the hoover, why can't a mundane existance be the beginning of a vaguely interesting blog?
At this point I would like to believe that my waffling quota for the day is used up, but alas, I am so full of pointless strings of words that it is not. But, though this is the case, I do have empathy for those unable to stand any more of my useless ponderings to take refuge in their minds - most likely hiding from mine.
So, out of the goodness of my heart, this is where I leave you.
For now.