tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29981709880426496522024-02-21T15:09:57.564+00:00Andi Osho's Life BlogA blog on life by writer and performer, Andi OshoAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-59975666091091896892017-02-20T14:31:00.000+00:002017-02-20T14:31:22.584+00:00Trump is right about US news media<br />
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From what I can see, Trump is right, the American news media are the enemy of the people because they're partisan, pass off opinion as fact and rarely have impartial commentary. </div>
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How the hell are people supposed to stay educated on the world around them if the organisations pertaining to be a reliable source of information have political affiliations. </div>
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If news media outlets are satisfying their own agenda above disseminating facts and truth then they are not for the people they are against them and therefore an enemy. </div>
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Why, for example, are newscasters giving me their opinion? This is an egregious abuse of power and position. And don't start me on the ones that use their slot to promote their own books. WT actual F.</div>
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For someone who grew up on BBC bulletins, American news is almost unwatchable because of all this. </div>
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The US is starved of impartial news sources. BBC World News was pretty good as was Al Jazeera but they don't broadcast in the US anymore. </div>
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And yes, I know the Beeb aren't perfect but you try watching and hour of MSNBC and you'll see what I mean. </div>
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So what does that leave? Facebook? Twitter? The Internet-at-large?</div>
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We are in trouble when the best source of factual information is the Daily Show and Last Week Tonight with John Oliver. </div>
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Fox is as useless as CNN but how do you re-educate so that people stop screaming inside a box and thinking their own echo is the voice of reason?</div>
</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-76693704222888921872016-03-27T22:49:00.000+01:002016-03-27T22:49:06.686+01:00A blog about why I'm making this film<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: normal; text-align: justify;">
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<b><i>I stepped off the campaign trail for a moment to think about why the hell I'm doing this...</i></b></h2>
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As some of you may know, I’m in the midst of an Indiegogo campaign for a short film I’m directing next month. It’s been both exciting and nerve-racking wondering where the money will come from or even if it will come at all. The day before we launched I barely slept. When I did, all I dreamt about was tweeting and facebooking about the campaign!</div>
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We’re now approaching the home stretch with less than 10 days to go. If this were a roller coaster, we’d be on the slow ascent towards that final peak before the adrenaline-fueled descent to the end. </div>
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So in this quiet before the storm, I’ve had some space to reflect.</div>
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In getting this project off the ground, I’ve been completely focused on the how - as in how the hell are we going to pull this off, but recently, I’ve been thinking about the why. Why am I embarkin<br />
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When I was 11 I tried to write a feature film. Convinced it would be a walk in the park, I just started writing. The story had something to do with a kid and two heavies, who, as I recall, looked like James Belushi and Dan Ackroyd from The Blues Brothers. </div>
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After about ten pages I got confused about whether I was supposed to write what the camera did. This sent me into such a tail spin I gave up. </div>
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You see, I’ve always loved film. I just didn’t know what to do with that passion. </div>
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Fast forward many (many) years and unsure what was next in my life, I took a leap of faith and headed to Los Angeles. </div>
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I had no job, knew a handful of people, I didn’t even have an agent. After a few months of floundering around, a friend and I started working on a web series which we wrote, shot and co-produced. We cast our friends in the lead roles, we cobbled together a minuscule budget and just did it. This was the happiest I’d been in months. My attention was off auditions and networking and was on creating something. </div>
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/SdTpkn3U_UE/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SdTpkn3U_UE?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>This was the start of something important. I realised there was more to me than just performing. I loved great story telling. However, ‘great story telling’ isn’t a class you can take or a Matrix-style download you implant in your brain. You have to learn it and so began the lengthy journey to do just that. </div>
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I’ve been to classes, workshops, panels, studied film and still the process continues (I suspect it might be never-ending). I even went to film school last year and while the education was invaluable I could feel I was getting stuck between wanting to start making more of my own projects and being scared to make the leap.</div>
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But late last year I had a moment of clarity. I realised I’m the kind of person who likes to create from the ground up. Whilst the idea of being cast as a series regular in something would make life a lot easier, I actual have a passion for generating projects and that I would be denying myself something if I didn’t pursue that. If you are only a performer, you have to wait for the opportunities or projects to be created before you can work and I’m kinda impatient! </div>
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I’m so inspired by people like Shonda Rhimes, Ava Duvernay, Gina Prince-Bythewood, Regina King and Amma Asante who are out there telling great stories. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxlfny4_8DXj35cMCVtkPyEFLkIKPlTviEpFOXkNru8lQFjjQNLF0s2Ddyz6eNdjlB3qPeBwngzfcp5wwr1ymHj98hRMYb6Zzl6a6hoMD8Xm9itQTorwewi3UUAmn3rpXAdORz_O45e8/s1600/Untitled.001.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxlfny4_8DXj35cMCVtkPyEFLkIKPlTviEpFOXkNru8lQFjjQNLF0s2Ddyz6eNdjlB3qPeBwngzfcp5wwr1ymHj98hRMYb6Zzl6a6hoMD8Xm9itQTorwewi3UUAmn3rpXAdORz_O45e8/s320/Untitled.001.jpeg" width="320" /></a>They always tell actors to keep training, keep busy but actors never know if anything will actually result from the hours of classes, networking or whatever. With directing, writing and producing, you are more likely to have something tangible to show for your efforts. It might be shit but at least it exists. </div>
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And this is what excites me about directing my own film. I had an idea and now it looks like it might actually happen. And thats my why, that’s what this Indiegogo campaign is about and that’s what’s driving me at the moment. </div>
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If you’d like to contribute to this campaign and see it happen, it’d be great to have your support. You can check out our <a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/amber-the-short-film/x/13542849#/" target="_blank">campaign page here</a>. There’s a teaser trailer, you can meet some of the cast and crew and we have a ton of fun perks.</div>
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Thanks so much and have a wonderful week!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-42090101156821078222015-08-02T01:00:00.000+01:002015-08-02T01:00:11.909+01:00Cecil's dead. Now what?<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(35, 35, 35); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaEguoTjQoYZhD3GKeeHBgKDn3lHjwJeoBC03Vy93EyVE3JqX9Jxe27bkLu9iVolO2cED0Eky-W8-UscgRWropGMa9Txw3FNgEJFOuKn7AeM4W9Qs00eWIEIniF4QHdn8lyTar6_1z7S8/s1600/File+01-08-2015+11+32+30.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaEguoTjQoYZhD3GKeeHBgKDn3lHjwJeoBC03Vy93EyVE3JqX9Jxe27bkLu9iVolO2cED0Eky-W8-UscgRWropGMa9Txw3FNgEJFOuKn7AeM4W9Qs00eWIEIniF4QHdn8lyTar6_1z7S8/s320/File+01-08-2015+11+32+30.jpeg" width="267" /></a><b><i>Last week, Zimbabwe’s talisman of natural beauty, Cecil the lion was brutally slain by part-time hunter and full time dentist and prick, Walter Palmer causing worldwide condemnation. In fact the outpouring of grief is approaching Princess Diana levels of hysteria. </i></b></div>
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The guilty dentist, once the hunter now the hunted is in hiding, trying to slither out of extradition to Zimbabwe for the illegal hunt, his dental practice and home besieged by angry protesters, politely requesting he “rot in hell” and let’s not even talk abut his Yelp reviews. </div>
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Personally, I simply cannot understand the headspace of anyone who would want to hunt. To take a bow and arrow to a living creature is abhorrent. To shoot then behead and proudly display your quarry, heinous, however the hysteria surrounding Walter Palmer’s actions does leave me scratching my head over one thing. </div>
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It strikes me as strange that people are so vocal about the death of the lion yet most of us will happily be munching on burgers, sizzling bacon and chowing down on chicken in the same breath we decry Palmer’s actions.</div>
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Seems we love animals but just not enough to stop eating or wearing them. It’s like we pick and choose the animals we want to feel terrible about. Some justify the discord by explaining that hunting is brutal and purely for the huntsman's pleasure. </div>
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Have you been to an abattoir recently? They’re not massaging those creatures to death, non free range animals living their entire lives in confinement, pumped with antibiotics and growth hormones, fed the cheapest gruel (remember when farmers got caught feeding animals faeces??), then stunned and killed in front of each other for our consumption. </div>
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Unless you are some nomadic neanderthal roaming the wilderness living a hunter-gatherer existence none of us need to eat meat so really, we’re only eating it for our own pleasure. </div>
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In terms of protecting animals, is there really much difference between a man who hunts and us eating animals not because we need the meat but for our own satisfaction?</div>
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Most people and I include myself in this, are reluctant to convert to a plant-based diet because we don't want to make the personal sacrifice to save those farm animals (not forgetting it's been proven that it's better for the planet, requiring less resources, water and farmland to provide more food). And that’s fine but how quickly we point the finger at others indulging in terrible practices, such as the Yulin dog meat festival in China, Nordic whaling and yes, big game hunting in Africa (which, by the way, occurs year round ‘legally’ but that doesn’t seem to bother anyone anywhere near as much as when it involves a lion we happen to have given a name to) but those pigs, those sheep, those goats, those chickens we didn't give a cute name to, screw them they're too delicious to give up. </div>
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Don’t we in the west have our own questionable practices. If the Blackfish documentary makers got their facts right, SeaWorld should be shut down immediately but people still attend. I went to a zoo recently for research and my overarching sense was depression. It felt like One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest for animals. And isn’t fishing just hunting at sea? Donkeys at the beach, circus animals, elephants in Indian holiday resorts lugging westerners around, it could all come under the banner of maltreatment, the measure of which is purely and utterly subjective. </div>
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Personally, I couldn’t be as strident and vitriolic as some have been towards dentist, Walter Palmer. Not because I condone in anyway his behavior but because I know that I am not beyond reproach when it comes to animal welfare. I still eat em!</div>
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Perhaps the one good thing that may come from the death of Cecil the lion is a more honest conversation about our relationship with the animal kingdom making us think twice about the destruction we are causing in pursuit of our own needs. </div>
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Maybe Cecil’s was a noble sacrifice as I'm sure at least a few hunters are reconsidering their choices regarding their next planned hunt regardless of the legality. </div>
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Ultimately I hope all this is not just an outcry over one incident but an opportunity for all of us to really think about our relationship with all animals not just the ones with a cute face because none of us are above scrutiny when it comes to their welfare.</div>
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<b><i>If you want Cecil's death to count for more, donate to the <a href="https://support.worldwildlife.org/site/Donation2?df_id=11060&11060.donation=form1&s_src=AWE1200GDGA8&gclid=CjwKEAjw3PGtBRCWgajpu_uY9hYSJAAICRalYxN9hSpoc8iBiObtvxZ5JRemvB9Rjg6FUNn9QLFh8hoCdirw_wcB" target="_blank">World Wildlife Fund</a>. </i></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-37628458100190065212015-07-26T01:00:00.000+01:002015-07-26T01:00:05.445+01:00Procrastination - What is it good for?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><i>A couple of years ago a producer asked me to write up a sitcom idea I’d recently pitched to them. Let’s say, for the sake of argument it was called, 6 Black Friends Hang Out In Unfeasibly Large Apartments (it wasn’t but writers are secretive). It was one of those bottom drawer ideas writers often have that we’ve fallen in love with years before but have never gotten around to doing anything with. </i></b></div>
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But now, here I was with someone not only keen on the idea but asking me to write up a treatment (a pitch document describing the characters and their world) as soon as possible. </div>
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Every writer knows this is potentially the start of a beautiful relationship. First comes the treatment then comes marriage (or a screenplay) then comes a baby with a horse and carriage (and a nice big cheque) as the saying goes - or at least it should. </div>
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So I set time aside in my diary to begin work but for some reason over the following days I found myself reluctant to start. Instead of committing my idea to paper I found a plethora of other things to do. The producer would gently nudge me every few days to see how things were coming along and I’d assure them everything was going to plan. In my head I’d scramble together excuses and justifications for why I hadn’t started and why I absolutely would - just as soon as I’d organized my shoes. </div>
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Recently I was thinking back to this episode and in general about procrastination. I often see articles about how it's a negative trait and one we should seek to obliterate but perhaps, I pondered, it serves a purpose. </div>
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With this treatment I was supposed to write, I realised that the reason I was reluctant to get started was because I didn’t know what the end game was. When the producer, in one of their nudging emails, gave me an indicator of how they’d like to proceed, I finally felt I had a clearer understanding of their intentions and after weeks of delaying, cupboard cleaning and towel organizing, I completed the treatment that afternoon. </div>
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But what made the difference - It was that I ‘felt’. I could feel in me that it was the right time to get cracking. The resistance had shifted because things were clearer now and I was able to work unencumbered, towards my goal. </div>
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Perhaps, procrastination is just preparation time, thinking time, getting into the right headspace time, rather than time wasted. </div>
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When I’m planning on writing a screenplay, it can be months, sometimes even years before I get to it but in the interim, I’m considering it, coming up with great characters, story beats and twists all in preparation for when I finally commit the thing to paper. </div>
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Now that I’ve seen this process time and time again in myself, from leaving thirty minutes to pack for a three week trip, to writing this blog an hour before I’m suppose to post it, rather than fearing my procrastination I kind of enjoy observing it and trusting that at the right time a switch will flick in me and I'll know it's time to begin.</div>
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I don't know if I can recommend this to everybody but I've started to trust my own internal clock. I like the idea of moving on something when it feels right not just when I think I should, like when a gut instinct tells me the time's right for black friends in big apartments and I think, ‘now I can begin’.</div>
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It’s all part of a bigger process of trusting your own instincts about what’s right for you. I call it 'navigating by heart'. I believe our heart knows what’s best for us, is set to our true north and will never steer us wrong. I’m learning everyday to listen to those quiet thoughts and instincts that are there to guide us towards what’s in our best interests, the quiet word that says, go on that date, don’t buy that dress, trust this person, write that treatment. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-28509966777734599172015-07-19T01:00:00.000+01:002015-07-19T06:47:41.098+01:00Perhaps Serena can help change our perception of women?<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(35, 35, 35); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #232323; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitW-btee2bVwc6Xv_vU8eXAJ24yRMx8Ja_dYbYLrgcM8LWHjC_DHL4mvtJXP-ivwDOfd7EeK56Oris2pyf3848DGKME0Jetw-obKcdP-_4pP-Y8XTqSSDLhOIwBHK_j6U-7MiEOD7PcXI/s1600/Serena+blog.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitW-btee2bVwc6Xv_vU8eXAJ24yRMx8Ja_dYbYLrgcM8LWHjC_DHL4mvtJXP-ivwDOfd7EeK56Oris2pyf3848DGKME0Jetw-obKcdP-_4pP-Y8XTqSSDLhOIwBHK_j6U-7MiEOD7PcXI/s200/Serena+blog.jpeg" width="188" /></a><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Following Serena Williams’ Wimbledon triumph last week, the conversation about her physique </i></span></b><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>lurched into life once again. Like the psycho killer in a bad b-movie this topic refuses to die.</i></span></b></div>
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J.K. Rowling issued a perfect sniper shot at a troll who claimed Serena’s win was down to her being 'built like a man'. In the parchment dry wit we've come to expect, J.K. retorted “Yeah, my husband looks just like this in a dress”. And accompanied the tweet with a photo of Serena at her most glamorous. </div>
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The post received north of 93,000 retweets and that troll is probably still treating the burn marks from the flaming he received from the Twittersphere.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9XFBHK-PqBKzrQnMpoVo-dZY_YncyHPwrVD_enAlCbusueIQnEOC-iWwLo01Wtem_m4ngYyVU6-hxse-Vz3DR-La_M4fmpA9eq8YQj-H9m0r6JviJY_hVrRjRd9YcEoN-VQN_fiXjFJQ/s1600/Screenshot+2015-07-17+12.25.20.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9XFBHK-PqBKzrQnMpoVo-dZY_YncyHPwrVD_enAlCbusueIQnEOC-iWwLo01Wtem_m4ngYyVU6-hxse-Vz3DR-La_M4fmpA9eq8YQj-H9m0r6JviJY_hVrRjRd9YcEoN-VQN_fiXjFJQ/s320/Screenshot+2015-07-17+12.25.20.png" width="189" /></a>It both surprises and disappoints me that people (mainly men I’m sorry to say), have such narrow views on what womanhood should look like, dismissing Serena as unattractive because she doesn’t adhere to their idea of femininity. There were, of course, many who spoke out positively acknowledging her athleticism and stunning looks, not seeing them as opposing factors but yet we’re still in this broken-record dialogue about her body.</div>
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Die hards insisted Serena’s muscle mass is ‘manly', commenting “Serena’ is manly - fact”. No, it’s not a fact because there are no absolutes. You’re just referencing off your own ingrained beliefs. You just don’t see it.<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> Going beyond my immediate impulse to defend her, I tried looking at her objectively. I found that, she is, unarguably a sturdy girl with a musculature normally associated with men but does that actually make her manly?</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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For example, just because Kevin Hart is 5’ 4”, we don’t dismiss him as ‘childly’? We know there are tall men and short men and height has nothing to do with manliness. (That’s penis length - kidding). </div>
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Perhaps rather than leaping to label people we need to broaden our views.</div>
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Dialogue around our perceptions of gender is gaining prominence and we’re seeing greater pushback on traditional views as we fight against being boxed in by perceptions that are dated and reductive.</div>
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Rather than telling us how a women should think, what work we should do, how we should dress, we’re now starting to say, what I am is what it means to be a woman. If it doesn't fit your perception, change it! Don’t expect me to change to make you comfortable. </div>
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The conversation prompted by Serena is about people expressing a deep desire to be themselves, to live and let live and accept each other as we are. </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/EFjsSSDLl8w/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EFjsSSDLl8w?feature=player_embedded" style="clear: left; float: left;" width="320"></iframe>In <i>Break Free</i>, a short film by <i>Orange Is The New Black star </i>Ruby Ro<i>se</i>, she explores breaking out of preconceived ideas of femininity to be her authentic, androgynous self, something she has battled with from a young age. </div>
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Just look at the largely positive reception Caitlin Jenner has received where she’s being welcomed not only as a woman, but as a fashionista, pioneer and role model and even received the Arthur Ash Award for her courage through her transition. </div>
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And guess what, through accepting her, we immediately broadened our view of what it is to be a woman.</div>
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The pushback is happening around body image too as we refuse to let the media dictate what we should and shouldn’t wear or whether we have a 'beach body' or not. </div>
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On a personal level, this shift is welcome. I am not a petite girly girl. I can't wear hipsters. They barely cover my ‘shelf’ (and don’t get me started on thongs!). I’ve got hips, lumps and bumps and I won’t stand for anyone telling me muscular arms or sturdy legs somehow make me less of a woman. </div>
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This is a really important conversation which I hope gains momentum. In years to come we’ll see what a major shifting point this was in how we perceive and treat each other and how we grew as a society. </div>
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The brain loves to categorizes to help it understand the world but we are more than those primal impulses and as we continue to grow, the need for labels may become superfluous. We won’t worry about sexuality, gender, race or class. We will notice it but we’ll connect with people beyond that stuff. I mean this is a long way off but if we continue as we are, it’s a real possibility for the future. </div>
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In the mean time, check out this video made by comedian, Angela Barnes as she looks at her relationship with her own appearance. </div>
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<b><i>By the way, my new show Super Shoppers is on Ch4 tmrw night (Mon 20th July). A cunsumer show with added silly!</i></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-75739117373485879712015-07-12T19:54:00.001+01:002015-07-13T23:34:10.844+01:00How To Fix The Hollywood Diversity Gap in One Move<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1c27di-pIcCsCeDjuhGeTd1gyssfAEc7Z-l4u4Ka8jI58nhS-UnURjS1CwveRuBoVk8vNkolyh5zhkhDfJDnW4t2lk_lGscQ3JIXBfWdLB6rZwzjtLBXecBh7cRjT4X3mnhW4NEbRrw/s1600/IMG_2117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1c27di-pIcCsCeDjuhGeTd1gyssfAEc7Z-l4u4Ka8jI58nhS-UnURjS1CwveRuBoVk8vNkolyh5zhkhDfJDnW4t2lk_lGscQ3JIXBfWdLB6rZwzjtLBXecBh7cRjT4X3mnhW4NEbRrw/s200/IMG_2117.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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<b><i>From Patricia Arquette’s impassioned demand for equal pay for women at this year’s Oscars (You go Patsy!) to the many panels and discussions on equality, the conversation about diversity in Hollywood has been placed front and centre. </i></b></h3>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ethnic diversity in Hollywood is pitiful </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">as a short film series I recently came across demonstrates. In <i><a href="http://everysinglewordspoken.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Every Single Word</a></i>, actor and playwright Dylan Marron re-edits Hollywood films showing only dialogue spoken by people of colour. <i>Wedding Crashers, Black Swan</i> and <i>Fault In our Stars</i> all tap out at about 40 seconds. It’s pretty depressing viewing. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #232323;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(35, 35, 35); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; background-color: #b2b2b2; background-image: url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/lTKdAfqZlhY/0.jpg); background-position: 50% 50%; clear: right; float: right; height: 266px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; width: 320px;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/lTKdAfqZlhY/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lTKdAfqZlhY?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #232323;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(35, 35, 35); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But why do we have this problem? </span>Ethnic groups make up around 15% of society but are a fraction of that on screen. <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(35, 35, 35); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I believe it all comes down to finance. Unlike TV, Hollywood money comes from wealthy individuals and companies who are often part of an old, white establishment who have no real interest in supporting diversity. Subconsciously they’re predisposed to back stories that reflect themselves and so Hollywood is dominated by stories about white guys. Female talent is undervalued, black-led films are rare and become labor-of-love passion projects (such as <i>Lee Daniels’ The Butler, 12 Years A Slave</i> and <i>Selma</i> - which, by the way, often go on to dominate during awards season). </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">All this started me wondering. If Hollywood’s money comes from this relatively small pool, how do we get them to take the diversity gap seriously. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Simple. They're business people. Hit them in the pocket. Every film is entitled to apply for tax credits and incentives from the local state or country they film in, some productions relying heavily on this ‘soft money’ as it’s called meaning that of the budget they spend, they might receive 20-30% of it back as a tax credit from the government provided they meet certain criteria like ensuring a certain number of the cast and crew are local. I say, let’s go a step further. Let’s make these tax incentives dependent on diversity. Let’s have every production have to provide evidence of diversity in front of and behind the camera be it gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation or culturally. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">No company would turn down the opportunity to recoup a percentage of their enormous budget if all they had to do is ensure women are fairly represented in the film or that there’s cultural diversity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Furthermore, switching up diversity can only add depth to a movie. Place an LGBT character in a supporting role, just because, or make a character’s partner a person of colour - just because. Perhaps changing the lead from a woman to a man could introduce a new dynamic that you’d previously not thought of. Take the <i>Alien</i> franchise for example. Originally intended to be a man, Sigourney Weaver’s Ripley has become one the most iconic sci fi characters in film history. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Obviously the application of this is dependent on the film and when and where it’s set but many times films are set in major, diverse cities and yet somehow the cast are predominately white. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As shows such as <i>Empire, Scandal</i> and <i>Being MaryJane </i>clearly demonstrate, people of color can carry a show and importantly, audiences respond very favorably to that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">One thing we learned from the Sony email leaks is that some executives feel black talent-led films won’t sell as well in international territories. In this instance, surely you cast the actor, back black talent because if you want to break down stereotypes you don't panda to those groups, you show them how amazing the talent is and what the hell they're missing out on!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Of Denzel Washington in <i>The Equalizer</i> an unnamed producer wrote to Sony Chairman, Michael Lynton:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“I believe that the international motion picture audience is racist — in general pictures with an African American lead don’t play well overseas,”</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The film made $191m worldwide (47% coming from the terribly racist international market). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not every country has the same relationship with race but if America considers itself a developed country it has to operate by developed standards and be the leading edge on ensuring all groups are represented in films. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This is critical. We must not be naive and dismiss movies as simply entertainment. Through representation in film we are making a declaration about how we feel about ourselves and each other. When we delve into film archive of the thirties and forties we are peering through a window on that society and how they regarded women, people of color, people with disability and other social and cultural groups. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We are well overdue change but Hollywood may not come willingly. Personally, I’m tired of seeing women that look like me in a limited number and type of roles, with only a select few being permitted to break through. I want to feel I have a shot at any part because Hollywood realizes that all people can be all things - lovers, teachers, artists, police officers, spies, pilots, criminals, assassins, wizards and warlocks, angels, scientists… I mean it’s an endless list when the imagination is set free. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-46748840600447317202015-07-05T01:04:00.000+01:002015-07-05T06:02:49.277+01:00Noisy Neighbours - The Horror.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><i>When I lived in East London my neighbour had a drain that gurgled loudly every time they flushed the toilet. It sounded like an alien creature choking on its prey. It became my ungodly morning alarm clock. </i></b></div>
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I also lived behind a bread factory and every time there was a flour delivery the drivers would bang the containers to get the flour out. Why? Because Britain needs toast, people. </div>
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After a year of this, I couldn’t take it anymore so went online to find out who I could complain to. I shit you not, the only contact name I could find was a 'Dr Din'. </div>
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Eventually I found an actual manager (not a Marvel baddie), explained what was happening after hours and after several phone calls, emails, meetings and a totally pointless but enjoyable tour of the bakery (it’s really interesting. You should go), the noise stopped. </div>
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Though the gurgling drain monster wasn’t vanquished at least Premier Foods midnight performance of Stomp was over.</div>
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Fast forward two years and I'm lying awake listening to my neighbour coughing up what sounds like every organ in their body. Starting around 5am, their phlegmy dawn chorus continued all day, echoing off the tightly-packed apartment buildings surrounding us. The only relief was joking about it on twitter. I even started a hashtag #coughwatch. </div>
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Then one day, I thought, oh my god. I’m being an arse hole. What if this person is dying of some terrible disease and here’s me mocking them. </div>
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However, my sympathies quickly dissipated when, sat by my window one afternoon, I realised that waft of cigarette smoke I occasionally smelt was coming from Coughatron’s apartment. “F*** them” I thought. “100% f*** them”.</div>
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Listening to Marge Simpson’s sister cough up a lung was bad enough but below me, when my downstairs neighbours weren’t having blazing rows, their dogs, which they left unattended for most of the day sounded like they were raping each other. </div>
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I had to move and so I found a cute little apartment a few miles away and settled in. At first it seemed perfect. Lots of space, off-street parking, a balcony…. the rumble of the elevator and automatic gate for the garage below my bedroom, the garbage trucks that stopped outside my window six times every Friday and of course, the <i>piece de residence</i>, my upstairs neighbour Danny who made so much noise I suspected he was building a terminator from girders. </div>
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When he wasn’t constructing his T1000 he was selling dubious substances out the front of the building where a stream of ne'erdowells would whistling to get his attention or throw coins sometimes missing Danny’s window, hitting mine. </div>
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Other times, there'd be a thudding emanating from above me, sometimes in the middle of the night. “Ah the blind man juggling competition must have started”, I'd muse. </div>
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I spoke to the building manager, who should be in the Guinness Book of Records for most laidback human. He told me my best bet was calling the police. </div>
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oh yes I'd love to see how that goes down. “911 what's your emergency?”</div>
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“Drilling…”</div>
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Click……</div>
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As it turns out, the police are the people to call in such instances. Despite the plethora of Hollywood mansions here, most people in LA live in densely packed accommodation and noise nuisance is one of the things the LAPD regularly deals with. </div>
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So, after a year of listening to Danny river dance in concrete clogs, and after one particularly egregiously noisy night where I didn’t sleep a wink, I called the cops. I was really calling them on Coughatron and the Alien drain and all noisy arse holes everywhere.</div>
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The police were very helpful and after they left… Danny went into full drilling, thumping and DIY mode. It was like an episode of Pimp My House was being filmed up there. My heart sank as Danny’s thundering fuck you came through loud and clear but then… around 6pm that evening… it stopped. </div>
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The banging, the drilling, the stomping…. stopped. </div>
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I actually thanked God. I did. </div>
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Noisy nieghbours seems like a comical non-problem until you’ve had to deal with them. They caused me many, many sleepless nights, stress and depression because I knew deep down the problem may never go away because they didn't really care or they wouldn't be making the noise in the first place. </div>
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That evening, after the police had gone and silence had finally descended, was magical. I don’t know how long it’s going to last but I’m enjoying it while I can. </div>
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I’m also desperately searching for a new apartment. One of my criteria is that there’s nothing above me other than a roof and the Californian sunshine. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-19905516993729841652015-06-28T01:00:00.000+01:002015-06-28T01:00:18.512+01:00A Blog on the recent comments of Tim Hunt - A new rhyming slang??<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(35, 35, 35); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #232323; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: justify;">
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<b><i>It’s a few of week’s since esteemed biochemist Tim Hunt was fired from his position at University College London following his remarks about women in science.</i></b></h3>
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It has subsequently transpired that his comments about how the problem with women scientists is that they fall in love with you and cry when criticised, were a joke. As jokes go, it's not the greatest. In fact, Sir Tim, if you're planning on doing a tight five minute spot at the Comedy Store, I wouldn't open with it. </div>
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Thing is, even if it was said in jest, it does point to the fact that we still have this perception that women are sometimes over-emotional in the work place and, indeed prone to the odd weep. </div>
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I have to confess, once, in a meeting with my boss while discussing a possible promotion I felt myself welling up… and he was being nice!</div>
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But my predisposition towards blubbing doesn’t invalidate my ability to do my job or be a viable candidate for a promotion. </div>
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Look, you don’t need to be a statistician to predict that women probably cry more in the work place than men but if you think we’re the only ones that get emotional, you’ re sorely mistaken. </div>
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EVERYONE is susceptible to an emotional flare up now and then. It may show up as anger, frustration, jealousy or a myriad of other emotions. We have to not see tears as a sign of weakness or failure. They’re a sign of vulnerability and if you see that as a problem, that says more about you than the person having a moment. </div>
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And furthermore, just because there are tears doesn’t mean we’re not able to comprehend, listen. Tears come out of our eyes after all, not our ears. </div>
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Even in science, emotion is permitted. Didn’t Archimedes jump out of his bath screaming when he made his discovery?</div>
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It’s a shame Tim Hunt was forced to stand down from his position because, as Professor Brian Cox points out, that response may have been disproportionate to the offence however, we must never forget the power of language. Even when comments are made in jest, they have an impact and send out an implicit message. I’m sure he meant no harm but while we’re in the midst of a difficult battle against misogyny, one must choose one's words carefully particularly those used on a public platform. By example you are demonstrating to those who look up to you, what is appropriate.</div>
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Here’s the thing, in the future, when all things are equal, comments such as Sir Hunt’s will be of no consequence and can be taken as simply a silly and mistimed quip, but let us be under no illusion that we still have a long way to go in terms of equality. Don’t be surprised if more and more, people get called out on language that undermines, be it used in humor or otherwise. </div>
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The words we use, the things we say are an indicator or our underlying intent. </div>
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As Emerson said, “People do not seem to realize that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character.” I believe this also applies to the things we speak into the world. So we must choose wisely and represent our highest intentions everyday. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-77371891348056486122015-06-21T10:30:00.000+01:002015-06-21T10:30:02.303+01:00On The Charleston Shooting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><i>This morning I was all set to write a blog about women crying at work following the comments of senior scientist and professional bell-end, Tim Hunt but then I watched Jon Stewart’s powerful and deeply moving monologue on the despicable behavior of Dylann Roof, murderer of nine people at a South Carolina church. </i></b></div>
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Watching Stewart’s earnest statement on The Daily Show, I was blown away that he was willing to use this huge platform to speak some very unpleasant truths directly into the ear of the American people. Although to some degree he is preaching to the converted as I’m sure his show attracts a more liberal-minded audience, still, it was an important message that needs repeating as America seems to be in denial over its, as Stewart put it, deep racial wounds. </div>
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As inspiring and heartfelt as his statement was though, it was ironic that the voices most heeded over these events are those of white people. As far as stand out commentary goes, Stewart’s is streaks ahead. I've seen this particular Daily Show clip shared several times on my Facebook timeline. But it also demonstrates the inherent prejudice in the system, implying that, now a white guy’s calling out the problem, it’s real. </div>
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I know discussions around race still make people painfully uncomfortable, angry even. Even in comedy, I occasionally get ‘accused’ of framing everything I say around race (my advice to those people is look up ‘confirmation bias’) and that some people would like to think that it’s an issue that shouldn’t be on the table any more, but as recent events prove, that is far from the case. </div>
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In fact, I would like to coin a new phrase, ‘splendid ignorance’ referring to those who have convinced themselves they are blind to race therefore everyone else should be and anyone that brings it up is actually causing the problem. </div>
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If one accepts a status quo that is detrimental to a large section of your community, that is splendid ignorance. If you are willing to accept the absence of certain sections of society in situation that are supposed to represent all, be it at work, on TV or government, that too is splendid ignorance. We are all guilty of this to a degree but splendid ignorance around race has gone on long enough and must end. </div>
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Though we’ve come a long way in race relations, there are still light years to travel in terms of anything resembling equality. Major firsts for African Americans are reported all the time and it still stuns me. </div>
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But America is not the only western country with work to do. The UK is definitely not in a position to finger point. While I was back in London last Christmas, I saw a photo in a newspaper of a giant St George’s Cross flag hanging from the side of someone’s house across which they’d scrawled, “Dear Santa, please can we have our country back?” </div>
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Wow. Having been born and raised in the UK, England is my country too and what a way to welcome new arrivals. </div>
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Imagine the same thing being done to another minority group such as disabled people. “Dear Santa, please can we have our parking spaces back?”</div>
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Sadly, the shooting in Charleston is but the tip of a deep and dangerous iceberg, a mere indicator of the huge disparity which shows up in the most insidious but subtle ways. The careful way the police arrested the Charleston murderer while black teens are terrorized by police at pool parties, unarmed black men shot in the back by the very police paid to serve and protect all US citizens, how when black protesters become violent they are thugs yet when white people cause damage or destruction “things got a little out of hand”. </div>
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This is by no means a one way street but for the healing of this wound to take place, the bulk of the heavy lifting will be the changing of hearts and minds within certain sections of America's white community and establishment. </div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/mjzrvRKv6Ks/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/mjzrvRKv6Ks?feature=player_embedded" style="clear: right; float: right;" width="320"></iframe>Black people have their responsibility too, to not respond with hate no matter how strongly they feel. But that is a challenge for any people who have for decades seen their kind oppressed, mistreated and misrepresented to not occasionally allow that frustration to spill over into a physical response. Doesn’t make it right but perhaps it gives an alternative perspective to the media demonisation of angry black people as ‘mindless thugs’.</div>
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Racism is real, present, dangerous and capable of eating America alive. </div>
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The only hope is that the proliferation of stories recently on racial violence and tension is not about these events being on the increase but being exposed as part of the healing process in the way that when you have a cut, you remove the Band Aid exposing it to air so that it can finally heal properly. </div>
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I can only hope this is what is happening because the alternative is too unbearable to imagine.</div>
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<b><i><span style="color: blue;">God rest the souls of those taken in this cruel and hateful act, deep sympathy to those who lost loved ones and love and compassion to those who still hate based on race. I hope one day your hearts open to your fellow man. </span></i></b></h3>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-14519149736696227122015-06-13T20:19:00.000+01:002015-06-19T21:00:33.195+01:00You Know What's Weird....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><i>Of late I've come to the conclusion that I might be weird. It wasn't a sudden epiphany but more a growing suspicion that despite my best efforts to be normal, I'm just one of those people afflicted by a severe case of the weirdos. </i></b></div>
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Even from an early age, the weird dye had been caste. During the summer holidays, whilst other kids were skmming stones and nicking Wham bars from the local newsagent, I was in my back yard in the widst of a highly organised nature project. </div>
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And when I wasn't tracking the slightly repetitive migratory patterns of my grumpy neighbour's homing pigeons, I was cooking up plans with the kids next door to fake a meteor strike in our back gardens or the devastating impact of a giant troll. Our weirdness knew no bounds. Once, inspire by <i>The Way We Were</i>, an excruciatingly dull World War Two documentary series, we decided to build an underground bunker. Like a scene out of <i>The Great Escape</i> we discretely distributed the soil from the massive hole we were digging around my mum's garden. Every day, we'd secretly dig a liittle deeper until one day, we hit the sewage pipes and in a blind panic frantically filled in the hole. I only recentlty confessed all to my mum who had been none-the-wiser. </div>
<br />
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At school, when I was probably at the height of my weird-dom, I fought and lost a valiant battle to fit in. The feral nature of school means there's safety in the anonymiity of sameness but I could never quite get it right. I was in the choir, I liked homework, I wore the shit out of national health glasses and I didn't own a stick, blob or puff of make up even though most of my class mates were already rocking frosted pink lipstick and blue mascara. </div>
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And ever since, I've felt myself in this perpetual battle between trying to be normal and being weird 'me' that spills out when I could do without it frankly. The one that says the wrong thing at the wrong time, that goes to work in odd shoes or my skirt tucked into my knickers. </div>
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And the whole thing is complicated by the fact that normal isn't just about being the same as everyone else but also about being what people expect someone like you to be. </div>
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Other people's expectations is a web that you can so easily get yourself tangled up in.</div>
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There's so many ways we try to catogorise and compartmentalise each other and it's easy to be railroaded by the ideas others have of you or even how you think you should present yourself to the world. Like how people berrate Madonna for being unashamed of her sexuality when everyone knows women over 50 are dead below the waist or how if you're black obviously you love <i>Empire</i> and hate the police or if you're disabled your life must be a living nightmare. </div>
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Its so important we break free of other people's ideas of who they think we should be because these criteria only exist out of fear, people fearing their own weirdness will be exposed so they compensate by fabricating an idea of normality and judge you when you don't meet these made up criteria. </div>
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The fact is, we're all weird and it's a glorious thing when we embrace it. In fact, the most boring and unoriginal thing you can possibly be is a copycat of someone else. When we unleash our 'me' into the world, unadulterated, it can be a thing of beauty. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKzVGt8xLFUt2HvOsIFB-MM60p5vA3GZOf2iCox8WayexMmTCyya6TjniVFT97TNXBa86hChX7dCKRyt8b3GGSDh0S6heUUhIP5zfrgQotuzIkvcGX0ZlAdE395Q9AtEI5XM3edGH5QlQ/s1600/Courtney-Barnes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKzVGt8xLFUt2HvOsIFB-MM60p5vA3GZOf2iCox8WayexMmTCyya6TjniVFT97TNXBa86hChX7dCKRyt8b3GGSDh0S6heUUhIP5zfrgQotuzIkvcGX0ZlAdE395Q9AtEI5XM3edGH5QlQ/s320/Courtney-Barnes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Luckily many people break free and we thank God or there'd be no Ed Sheeran, Laverne Cox, Ade Adepitan, Eminem, Grayson Perry, Richard Branson and Courtney Barnes who gave a fantastically out-there eye witness account on local news recently. </div>
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That's where the variety of life comes from and it ensures life's rich and varied tapestry. Therefore you have to embrace your weird. Your planet needs yo and in fact, I'd go as far as to say I suspect 'weird' will one day be the new normal. </div>
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Click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/WLBT3/videos/10152810543110653/" target="_blank">here</a> to watch Courtney's glorious eye-witness TV debut. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-25991445835469146882015-06-07T00:30:00.000+01:002015-06-07T00:30:01.130+01:00I'm Baaaaaaack!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA0-1ZQqSXkZ7R9VSOO6nNWKb__r9OtvW0LgbeNE5fQ6eZj0NKfEMoGKhguE89JnYXAEaTn6oVdv2aHfjGSo28tq3w7eZ2wXGFoqY5UdEIDfn8_n8ucZdU8YbbA5g3opobu4mGeMzedc8/s1600/here%2527s+anfi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA0-1ZQqSXkZ7R9VSOO6nNWKb__r9OtvW0LgbeNE5fQ6eZj0NKfEMoGKhguE89JnYXAEaTn6oVdv2aHfjGSo28tq3w7eZ2wXGFoqY5UdEIDfn8_n8ucZdU8YbbA5g3opobu4mGeMzedc8/s200/here%2527s+anfi.jpg" width="148" /></a></div>
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<b><i>It’s been a long time guys, but I
thought it was time to dust off the old craptop and start cluttering up the
internet with my ramblings once more.</i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I stopped the blog back in October
because even though I love writing them, they’re surprisingly time-consuming.
If only there was an app for that…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
This time they’re going to
be shorter offerings than my epic 1500 word missives. I’m going to attempt to
get to the point basically. I always feel that in conversation, when someone
says, “to cut a long story short…” I could have done with them saying that
twenty minutes earlier. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
There’s actually a campaign
called Five Sentences which encourages people, as the name suggests to <o:p></o:p></div>
use five
sentences or less when they email. Here’s their website. <a href="http://five.sentenc.es/" style="text-align: justify;">http://five.sentenc.es/</a><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I HATE long emails. It takes me
at least three attempts before I can take in the information they contain. I’d
go as far as to say, if you can’t condense what you want to say in to five
sentences you should probably be calling the person instead. Oh bloody hell.
I’ve just realised, I sent someone a really long email the other day… and I
told a really long story early. Shit. Alright, starting from today, I’ll be
keeping it brief. Gotta practice what you post, as I saw on Facebook the other
day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Another reason I needed to pause
the blog was because earlier in the year I went to film school. It’s something
I’d wanted to do for a long time. Like a few people in my class, we felt like
we had stories we wanted to tell but didn’t have the skills to do it. The
course was two months so we cut right to the chase getting hands on practical
experience straight away. No lectures with bearded film nerds in angora
cardigans puffing on a pipe while explaining the difference between directors and
auteurs. No, we were out shooting within days. In fact, if you visit my <a href="https://vimeo.com/user19542611" target="_blank">Vimeo</a> page you can take a butchers at some of the stuff I produced. Bear in
mind, these are all student films (just thought I’d better manage your expectations!).
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJobEhr05RkhAeHgt4TbCEYDhED8hXnX6521CACdrnrPUCsE7DvBqWudWhnZHlzMhpz530DydiApHbsbL0LtRu8FwMDsDcyFnJPu2oz3MvvbU2y8F1UMrdN0mrQXpW98bBLiZPgB_znBc/s1600/here%2527s+andi+too.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJobEhr05RkhAeHgt4TbCEYDhED8hXnX6521CACdrnrPUCsE7DvBqWudWhnZHlzMhpz530DydiApHbsbL0LtRu8FwMDsDcyFnJPu2oz3MvvbU2y8F1UMrdN0mrQXpW98bBLiZPgB_znBc/s200/here%2527s+andi+too.jpg" width="189" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
As well as working on becoming
the next Spielberg (obvs), I’m still setting up in Los Angeles, Hollywood, to
be precise which, to the British ear, may sound glam but trust me, isn’t.
Hollywood Boulevard, in parts, is like the very worst of Leicester Square and
the area of Hollywood itself is more like Kings Cross than Knightsbridge but
it’s home for now. My long term plan is settle in a
quieter part of town and work both at home and abroad (so for those asking
me when I’m coming home, the simple answer is – ALL THE TIME). What I’m saying
is, to cut a long story short, wherever I am, I’ll be blogging. It’s good to be
back, gang. It’s good to be back. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-73148846745102573272014-10-26T10:30:00.000+00:002014-10-26T10:30:02.344+00:00Ayahuasca? No She Went Of Her Own Accord!<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNzApD06_Zr0aCDxGkMln5-BKxmCIabZeUzW3Qeu29G36Np4fi9FFZCps6yUYysiIWvg0R9s-00TC3Ld7g9wkMdhNh-AXgVKFR7tD_bobMKkX-x36ujV-eN3EEdWW4S3nVcSjT8-iJvo/s1600/aya+b+and+w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNzApD06_Zr0aCDxGkMln5-BKxmCIabZeUzW3Qeu29G36Np4fi9FFZCps6yUYysiIWvg0R9s-00TC3Ld7g9wkMdhNh-AXgVKFR7tD_bobMKkX-x36ujV-eN3EEdWW4S3nVcSjT8-iJvo/s1600/aya+b+and+w.jpg" height="320" width="225" /></a><b><i>When someone asks you if you want to take a trip, make sure you know which kind they're talking about. </i></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m lying in a sleeping bag looking up at a painting
I can barely make out in the late night gloom. To my left are two more people
in sleeping bags. To my right, my friend Brig and beyond her, a woman shaking a
rattle, smoking a cigarette and ceremoniously puffing the smoke in our general
direction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m wondering, when is this stuff gonna kick in?
I think I see the portrait above me warp a little. Is that a trick of the eye
or is this “it”? Is ‘the plant’ starting to affect me? Every visual anomaly
makes me wonder, is my psychedelic journey about to begin, my own mentally-generated
episode of <i>Jamie and The Magic Torch</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Everyone in the room is quiet. I pass through
difference mental spaces. This is exciting. This is fun. This is scary. This is
stupid. I feel sick. Shut up, Brain! I feel sick. Our shaman, Ariana had told
us the concoction she had given us may indeed bring on nausea. Ah, the power of
suggestion. I sat up and Ariana shook her rattle, blew smoke in my face and then
spat something onto me or more like sprayed it on me. I lay back down, bewildered.
The nausea slowly subsided but what the hell had I gotten myself into?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">A few months earlier and Brig is excitedly
telling me about Ariana, a second-hand story about a woman who’d forsaken her
busy, London life and media-orientated job to head to Peru to learn shamanism, as you do. But props to this lady for not only becoming
a powerful master of the craft but bringing these acquired skills back to
the UK and offering small workshops to people that would like to work with “the
plant”. “Work with the what?”, I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Basically, what Ariana was offering was a
milder version of the experience many people have had with Ayahuasca, a South
American concoction made from plants with hallucinogenic properties that
shaman’s administer to people seeking clarity in their lives, healing of past
pain and spiritual experiences. The drink has even been known to be an
effective treatment for PTSD. Who knew that what a war vet with violent
flashbacks needed was an acid trip?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve seen videos of people who’ve taken Ayahuasca
and one of the more memorable side effects is its propensity to make imbibers,
purge. Not energetically, but physically, both ends by all accounts, projectile
in some cases. And all this while in the depths of the Peruvian jungle. It certainly sounds like fun, what with you shitting like a fire hose, vomiting up
your last eighteen meals and tripping so hard you think the world has turned
inside out. What larks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK9cOK5NO6kMfGCiZ8JZIymWvm62acGZ4syEdrph6uHWrUN6Q9jYchl8aSjjOoz4QVoO5dDjCBcR59AqHt8E-BonzlPpJfNv6d6zIkxnirtYmPrvLo8IxeQPFD9LjMqzEshKX55GC-o1Q/s1600/aya+blue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK9cOK5NO6kMfGCiZ8JZIymWvm62acGZ4syEdrph6uHWrUN6Q9jYchl8aSjjOoz4QVoO5dDjCBcR59AqHt8E-BonzlPpJfNv6d6zIkxnirtYmPrvLo8IxeQPFD9LjMqzEshKX55GC-o1Q/s1600/aya+blue.jpg" height="200" width="140" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Luckily, the substance Ariana had brought into
the country and was using for her ceremony was considerably milder but, she
assured us, would still do the job. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Brig got together a group of four of us and we
all went to Ariana’s swish London apartment to discuss our intention for the
ceremony. As I trotted up the carpeted stairs to her first floor Marylebone flat
I thought to myself, hmm shamanism pays well these days. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Of course, this apartment was just one of the
remaining remnants from her days working in media. Ariana came to the door. She was a petite,
young English woman. I’m not sure what I was expecting, for her to be wearing a
bear’s head or have a bone through her nose whilst casually sacrificing a lamb? I
don’t know. But I suppose I expected something but she was very… normal and very
nice. “Come in”, she trilled and all of us sat down in her minimalist but homely
living room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Here Ari talked through exactly how the ritual
worked. She told us a little about the plant and how we would work with it (The
phrase intrigued me. I’d never thought of a plant as a colleague.) and that it
would take place in a country home near ley lines which we’d visit before the
ceremony. She explained that she was not a smoker but smoking helped her work
with the plant as well as using a rattle. She then asked us what our intentions were
and what we wanted to achieve. All my desires only ever seemed to revolve
around work and that most elusive of things (to me), a relationship. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She told us that part of the process included
getting present to the idea that we may gain nothing from it. For the first
time, anxiety crept in. Clearly I was staking more on this than I’d imagined.
Somewhere in my psyche, I needed this spiritual cleansing or whatever it was. It wasn’t that she was preparing us for
disappointment but more that she was helping us let go of the outcome so that we
could be free to receive whatever knowledge came our way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqE4PixR8tqyQQ-W0b0qjArpCBPCEn0-OatxTzMkKWmwCFluSfi81oPjsyB9EDDabByQXo0rVFs3i_5OVrmn0QyjtMIBbjEPI6Snsav_NbeJqLwTNWkpiw_VngA3Ibn1MbytxBWr_i0Y/s1600/aya+pink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqE4PixR8tqyQQ-W0b0qjArpCBPCEn0-OatxTzMkKWmwCFluSfi81oPjsyB9EDDabByQXo0rVFs3i_5OVrmn0QyjtMIBbjEPI6Snsav_NbeJqLwTNWkpiw_VngA3Ibn1MbytxBWr_i0Y/s1600/aya+pink.jpg" height="200" width="140" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">There was an excitable buzz in the room as we
left and made our plans for taking a trip to the countryside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">A few weeks later, on a train out of London, the
four of us were again talking in excited, hushed tones about what lay ahead of
us. Ariana had a good friend who lent her their country home for the ceremony
and that’s where we were headed. We would stay the night and return to London
the following afternoon. Though we tried to manage our expectations, we were
still curious about the possibilities awaiting us on the other side of this
psychedelic adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"> Upon
arriving, Ariana collected us from the station in her very normal car (again, I
don’t know what I was expecting, perhaps a giant hawk or psychic bear) and took
us to the house. She showed us around. I love big homes. It wasn’t quite a
mansion but it certainly wasn’t just a house. It had several bedrooms upstairs,
an indoor pool at the back and stunning views across rolling hills at the
front. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">As the sun set, Ari took us for a walk into the
surrounding countryside so we could go to the ley lines. At the back of my
mind, I really just wanted to get on with the ceremony. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">As we walked back, I thought, here we go. However
there was still more preparation to come. Once inside, Ari told us to write
down what we’d like to learn, heal or achieve from the ceremony and we had to
write several reasons why it would be good if something shifted. But then, much
more challengingly, we had to write why it would be good if nothing happened.
This was so much harder but, as she’d said before, it was an important part of
the ritual, part of the letting go of the outcome. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Eventually I managed to write ten reasons. “Good”,
she said. “Now write ten more”. My lip curled in preparation for an expletive
but instead I wrote ten more, eventually. “Really good, guys. This is so important.
Now” she said, “let’s have ten more”. A lip curl later and we were done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The ceremony began. One at a time, she gave us
a bottle of the potion she had prepared. Brig was the first to go. She took her
swig, got a puff of smoke in the face and then was asked to get inside her
sleeping bag. We were in a row, lying on the floor in the drawing room of this grand
home. I was next. Just like in the movies where the witch doctor hands out
their libation, the drink tasted vile. How about a little sugar or agave, that’s
South American, right? But I didn’t have time to think about serving
suggestions because I was getting a massive puff of smoke in my face. I got
into my sleeping bag. Ari went along the line and once each of us had taken our
drink and laid down, she turned out the light. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I don’t know if it was coincidence, but that
night there was a glorious and bright full moon which shone straight through
the patio doors, quietly creeping across the room as the night went on.
Eventually, after much wondering about if the plant was taking a hold, it
changed up a gear and my thoughts went from, is this it to yes it definitely is.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">It had started. Ariana had told us that we
would be flooded with thoughts and experiences and that every person’s encounter
with the plant would be different. Just then Brig broke out into laughter. She couldn’t
stop. So the plant had kicked in for her too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I became aware that my temperature was shooting
up. I pushed my sleeping bag off and went and sat at the window by the stairs,
staring up at the stars. With Brig’s laughter, quiet moaning coming from the
other two and Ari occasionally shaking her rattle and blowing fag smoke into
the room, if anyone had walked in at that point, they would have thought it was
the weirdest sleepover since Mel B and Eddie Murphy got together. Yeah, I know,
that totally happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I came back to my sleeping bag and crouched
down, staring at a shaft of moonlight that was slicing across the floor. I put
my hand on it and immediately it became a panther’s paw. I crossed the other hand
over the top and that was a panther’s paw too. Interesting, I thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The night pretty much continued in that vein.
It wasn’t that I was hallucinating as such, it was like these things were being
generated by my mind’s eye rather than my physical one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">It didn’t feel like I was high either, probably
more to do with the environment than the potency of the substance we’d taken. It
just felt like I was in an alternative, weirder reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">After a while, and honestly, I had lost track
of linear time at this point (it could have been the following week for all I
knew), Ari took us through to the kitchen where she served us what I assumed
was some magical, ancient, healing broth. I later discovered it was just lentil
soup. We ate at the table while Brig quietly warbled a song to herself, the
rest of us giggling like stoned students in a lecture, trying to keep the noise
down. Like Ari told us, it affects you in different ways. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">After we’d eaten, we went back into the dark
yet moon-lit room and the psychedelic journey continued. I was together enough
to make notes. Things were coming to mind thick and fast that I didn’t want to
forget. I was getting bombarded with insights about my life, my history, my hurts.
I made peace with some very deep and personal pain which had hung with me for a
long time. That in itself was a gift that made the whole process worthwhile. I
couldn’t have known this is what I needed when I’d originally written down my
intentions back at Ariana’s flat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">After what I’m assuming was a few hours we
headed upstairs. Brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed all happened in a
strange haze. I was still in my alternative, timeless reality. I wasn’t sure I
would sleep but when my head hit the pillow I realized how tired I was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGITF6wQr39dv3pPL4O-Ha76f9_0ygrzJXHwJcrwOAWl9D5TZ7GVzv7EB9vXCELPB_kUVF8zyzLa3z7A4HPJkKACEYDfhHdcW2CVGrHtWNbZ_-QzQu8pThiNMoENHlMKZqH-f3ICwCHFY/s1600/aya+one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGITF6wQr39dv3pPL4O-Ha76f9_0ygrzJXHwJcrwOAWl9D5TZ7GVzv7EB9vXCELPB_kUVF8zyzLa3z7A4HPJkKACEYDfhHdcW2CVGrHtWNbZ_-QzQu8pThiNMoENHlMKZqH-f3ICwCHFY/s1600/aya+one.jpg" height="200" width="140" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The following morning, Ari cooked us breakfast
and we completed the whole process by talking through what we’d gotten from the
whole thing. I shared some of my experiences as did the others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">In truth, even to this day, I’m not really sure
what happened to me or what the lasting impact of this experience was but as
someone with an interest in exploring my own consciousness, it was certainly a
memorable journey but one that’s made me think, if this is the milder
alternative, what the hell would happen if I took Ayuhuasca?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-52572533552744781532014-10-19T12:30:00.000+01:002014-10-19T12:30:01.408+01:00I wish X Factor was Awesomer<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXE8LAzKryEua7G1V-qw_DZ32sA9RuOkDgE7oCIzU4Y9Ih9aLOikQrx9e0Qee6eA5cQ3bomb2-7bcOrsH0tnbllQhGdsZnlP6um68GagbLN0V8O-mUbmthObnjYINCO6jjQlLeXZh0d2E/s1600/X+Factor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXE8LAzKryEua7G1V-qw_DZ32sA9RuOkDgE7oCIzU4Y9Ih9aLOikQrx9e0Qee6eA5cQ3bomb2-7bcOrsH0tnbllQhGdsZnlP6um68GagbLN0V8O-mUbmthObnjYINCO6jjQlLeXZh0d2E/s1600/X+Factor.jpg" height="320" width="181" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i>My
relationship with The X Factor, is like a market stall trader's favourite
tattoo, love and hate. It's a pretty good show but I really want it to be awesomer!</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">For at
least five years, I’ve tuned in, every Saturday night from late August, loyally
following the journey of thousands of wannabes desperate to be crowned that year’s
soon-to-be-forgotten champ. In fairness, there’s a lot to love about the show as its league of fans will testify. The journeys, the stars that are born (or formed),
the characters, the great judges such as Nicole ‘The Schertz’ Schertzinger and
even the terrible one-offs like Alexandra “OK.com” Burke, the glamourous wardrobes,
the pizazz of big Saturday night TV and of course the small matter of the
competition, watching people compete to win the biggest amateur music
competition in the country. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A
couple of years ago, I started tweeting during the live shows which added
another entertaining element, bantering with fellow viewers on the delight and disaster
of these nervous contestants and their make-or-break Saturday night singing
showdowns. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I
realized, however, that my tweeting wasn’t just about making gags and
entertaining myself and others, I was also
bleeding off frustration that I was experiencing while watching the show. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">You
see, as much as there is a lot to love, there was also a lot that was starting
to piss me off. Now, whenever you air these thoughts, invariably
someone will always tell you, just stop watching it. Yes, good idea but it’s not that straight forward, because like I say, there’s a lot I love about
it and once you buy into the journeys of the contestants, sometimes you don’t
want to bail on them even though you have to sit through eight hours of saccharine
Christmas adverts during every live show. I love the <i>idea </i>of X Factor it’s just
that sometimes, it falls short of my expectations. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This
year, something shifted for me. I was looking forward to this year’s
competition. There was a new judging panel (apart from Louis who, at the time
seemed to have the permanence of a tectonic plate) and there isn’t a lot of
great event TV these days, programmes that it’s more fun to watch at the time
of broadcast rather than on catch up or a DVD binge after the fact. (my God, imagine binge-watching X Factor like you watch <i>Breaking Bad</i>. You would most surely go
insane). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So I tuned in to the first show. We met the new judges, there were some glossy VTs about
what they’re looking for and everything was being teed up to pique our
anticipation of this new crop of potential finalists then they wheeled in the
first of the contestants… one of those ones that aren’t very good and all four
judges start stifling laughter and unsubtly wiping away tears as said
contestant pushes on trying to ignore this rotten display going on in front of
them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
We’ve seen this time and time again on previous shows, in fact, there are so
many left field contestants that the producers have managed to make whole
spin-off shows based entirely on that. But it’s one thing to get people who
are delusional about their ability or have been lazy in their preparation such as the
adorable Bun and Cheese and people who are mentally unstable or worse unwell.
This year, in these opening stages, I felt like X Factor crossed a major
threshold on that front. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Because,
let’s face it, we all know that logistically, not all auditionees can possibly
perform in front of the panel. There simply wouldn’t be time. Instead, they’re
vetted by a team of producers who decide who they’d like to send up to ‘the big
room’, no doubt with show notes about who they are etc (so no need to pretend
you recognise anyone from previous years, Judges, no one’s buying that any more
OK). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So,
given that the producers are sending up untalented singers, they are basically
sending these people to the judges to be ridiculed. This process seemed at its
most vulgar and transparent this year and for the first time, I really was at a
loss as to what to tweet because it seemed apparent to me, if not the judges,
that some of these people weren’t deserving of their ridicule but the phone
number of a good health care professional. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Let’s
face it, we’ve all had a bit of a giggle at the guy who thinks he’s Usher than <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Commits
homicide on Usher’s greatest hits but as I say, a line was crossed this year as
we at home watched a panel of multimillionaires snicker behind their hands at
people chasing their dreams not understanding what was really going on. Call it
what you like but to me, that’s text book bullying – created for our
entertainment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Obviously
not all performances were like that but there were enough for me to reconsider
if I wanted to sit through 50,000 adverts occasionally broken up with this type
of television.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I just wish X Factor was better… by which I guess I mean, more honourable. It’s a naïve and
foolish desire but here’s what I would do with X Factor to make it more awesomer.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>Be less
greedy<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I’m
reliably informed there is now a show on Friday night. We don’t need three shows. What the hell wasn’t
being covered in the Saturday and Sunday shows that now requires the attention
of a Friday night audience? This has got to be about either advertising revenue
or generating more telephone voting. Either way, it smacks of greed and is wholly
unnecessary. I don’t mean to be a Quaker about this but I really think the X
Factor Loyal could survive on one weekly show. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>Credentials</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The
show needs to up its relevance and that means, getting judges that have actual successful,
recording careers or have managed artists who have. Thankfully, Louis is
talking about stepping down because he has become an absolute parody of
himself. If he does one more weird comparison in the “you remind me of a young
so so” vein, I will ram my head through my flat screen. His claim to fame was making
a cookie cutter boy band out of Irish yarn 100 years ago but this surely
cannot qualifying him to comment on contemporary music, a man who put singing
broom handle, Jonny Robinson through to the live shows, a man who, when he says
“I like him” about act has effectively given them the kiss of death. It’s not a
moment too soon for Louis to hang up his blue rinse kit and retire to the cheap
seats. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Simon’s
the boss and is the strange, high waist-banded Svengali holding the whole circus
together but the other judges must be relevant recording artists or producers. Being married to a musician doesn’t qualify
you to judge a music competition. Especially if said musician is better known
for eating rodents, taking drugs and being the star of a reality show. Look at
the US version of <i>The Voice</i>. Pharell, Levine, Stefani, all relevant current
recording artists and producers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">They shouldn't be in a hurry to replace Louis but instead should pay a premium to entice high-end guest judges such as Adele, Kylie, Elton, (Rule of thumb, anyone you know from one name i.e. Prince, McCartney, Jagger.... Chico doesn't count).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Also,
no more judges' performances. It’s a 'hopping across the counter' that devalues
the show. You don’t want your teacher taking your exams next to you. If you
were running the 100 meters, you wouldn’t want the starter crouched down at the
starting block with you. Either you judge or you perform, you can’t have both. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>Care</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Start
caring about the contestants rather than treating them like fleshy props.
Simply put, no more inviting mentally unwell people to audition simply for the
“great TV” possibilities. There’s enough bad or delusional singers out there
that you don’t have to pick on the unwell to satisfy your comedy quota for the
show. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>Sob
Story ban<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I’m
susceptible to the odd sob story, I am but come on! As an audience we are
actually capable of caring how someone does without seeing them blub their way
through telling us that they’re doing all of this for their dead aunt who’s
spirit watches over them whenever they sing in the shower or their
dead/deaf/disabled/estranged mother/sister/daughter/son/ pet lama who would be
so proud if only they weren't six feet under/ in Iraq/ London Zoo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The
contestants aren’t doing anything wrong, it’s just the show producers
continually trying to manipulate our emotions so we give a shit. Well, if you
just made it a competition, we would give a shit. We don't need sob stories to get behind Mo Farah. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">If everyone’s crying all the
time, all I’m thinking is, she’s a bit snotty now. But perhaps, so that people competing
keep their shit together, we may need a crying ban. If you cry more than three
times you're out of the competition. Now that would make the elimination
show interesting. As contestants discover they’re in the bottom two but they’ve
already had two cries, they’d be pinching their arms, biting their top lip to
make sure not one single tear drop or snot blob leaves their bodies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And
while we’re on it, I would ban the use of certain phrases. Things like, “This
is my last chance”, “I've given 100%” and “Just give me a chance”. In fact any
reference to efforts exceeding 100% would lead to automatic
disqualification. If you’ve given 110% you’ll be doing it back at the local
Tesco Metro you work at, my warbling friend. You’rrrrre out. Further more, this isn't your last chance unless ever single open mic and live music venue in the world has been closed down and you're relying on the "Fairy Dust and Lucky Breaks" business model of success?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And
finally, let’s really make this a true competition instead of what it currently
is, a TV show about a competition which is very different. How? Well, I’d like
to see Simon Cowell offer the winner a straight up five year deal, a two year deal
to two runners up, and a one year deal to a wild card.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This
means the contestants know they’re competing for longevity not just a chance to
release a Christmas track of someone else’s choosing and a dodgy debut album
before they’re unceremoniously booted out into the unforgiving world of
corporate entertainment and PA’s in regional night clubs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This saves
the dignity of the acts so that, when the time comes, the papers can simply report that the contract
ended rather than they we’re dropped or dumped like they did with Leona Lewis and Joe
what’s his name, Matt thingy and James Who’s it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Truth
is, at its core, X Factor is a great show in concept, it’s a lot of fun to watch </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> but I do so long for it to raise its integrity so that I can watch without feeling manipulated, cheated or deceive. Why can’t they trust that
contestants competing for a great prize is enough to keep us engaged? I’m sure I’ll tune in
as the competition progresses occasionally firing a snide remark into the
Twittersphere but it’s all coming from love ;)</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-20468265281000130012014-10-12T12:30:00.000+01:002015-06-23T03:05:50.060+01:00What Have You Done For Me Lately - the NHS<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubzsckxqmOMMsjjCFCJO9FnOqmKX1O3S5sF3pxlhTGXUOPZPKKhJDhzVlHGf4RMCp64_bkoEdwbYpoRb6EB8nmuwGY809ncegLeZCz5-Bl05vqKVluwCvecd_IafbcjHJMowNug5LWwE/s1600/nhs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubzsckxqmOMMsjjCFCJO9FnOqmKX1O3S5sF3pxlhTGXUOPZPKKhJDhzVlHGf4RMCp64_bkoEdwbYpoRb6EB8nmuwGY809ncegLeZCz5-Bl05vqKVluwCvecd_IafbcjHJMowNug5LWwE/s1600/nhs.jpg" width="145" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"><b><i>What does social responsibility mean and how far-reaching does it need to be?</i></b></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbUGJUBk202FuBIslQI90MO6h3l31KFcMo094wWoRp66SBSn3Gumes1fu3ZEXlHLEoVZeiDx40wat6anVFpG7QgjWXKcnYXExQCqw7QvBrfImDW1P51xgIIJW4XxxiNsacq9QciJMzfY/s1600/Photo+09-10-2014+17+51+36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbUGJUBk202FuBIslQI90MO6h3l31KFcMo094wWoRp66SBSn3Gumes1fu3ZEXlHLEoVZeiDx40wat6anVFpG7QgjWXKcnYXExQCqw7QvBrfImDW1P51xgIIJW4XxxiNsacq9QciJMzfY/s1600/Photo+09-10-2014+17+51+36.jpg" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s 6pm.
There’s not a cloud in the sky and the temperature is holding at a steady 76
degrees. This is bad. Very bad. In the distance, I can hear the prolonged hiss
of a water hose. One of my neighbours is not water, but dousing his lawn. The D
word is in the air more frequently now in Southern California or SoCal as only
people on TV seem to call it. Drought. It strikes me as odd that the
authorities aren't taking more definitive measures to curb excess use of water. Attitudes
seem a little, well Californian, <i>dude</i>. Here in LA an alarming 40% of water
usage goes on watering gardens. You gotta respect the defiant spirit of the Los
Angelinos that, despite the fact that this city is built on desert
land, they still expect it to be as luscious as the Hamptons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I had a very
interesting conversation with my mum the other day about the NHS. As is the
case, often over breakfast, what starts out as quite pedestrian chatter
often transforms into big, topical discussions about everything
from theology to relationships, from
existential inquiry to why <i>Strictly</i> is better than the<i> X Factor</i>. Like I
say, we deal with the big topics. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That morning,
we were discussing the NHS and more specifically, the crippling deficit. As a
loyal employee of the NHS for four decades, mum had a thing or two to
say on the matter. Her observation was on waste. She said, for example, that in the old days,
equipment would be sanitised and reused and that now everything was disposable.
My thought immediately went to the plastic speculum they use for smear
tests instead of those evil duck-billed torture devices. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Mum also observed that in the early days, the hospital had a very
small and transparent management team but that now, the system was crawling with
them. She sees the introduction of the trusts as the beginning of this problem,
fracturing the whole into many parts, with managers of departments, managers of
managers and managers of manger’s managers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Necessary or
not, that’s a lot of salaries to find. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The NHS,
rather like the BBC is one of those institutions that has such an inconceivably
large mass that it’s impossible, due to its sheer size, to run efficiently. I’d
guess that probably 25% of money spent is wasted. That’s not to say that that’s
where the deficit comes from but it certainly poses a challenge when trying
to make economies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I saw a news
clip of George Osborne telling us that one of the strains put on the NHS is
that we are all living longer. “But not healthier!”, I blurted at the TV. It
prompted me to ask, do we have the right to expect all services to be free if,
not only do we not have enough money to provide them but also aren’t making even
a chink in the deficit? The NHS in its current form is going bankrupt. Now
obviously no one will let that happen but clearly something needs to be done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As me and my
mum are natural born fixers, we started tossing ideas back and forth as to what
the fix was. People who go into A and E with alcohol-related issues should pay
for their treatment. We both agreed that, with 70% of peak time admissions to A
and E being alcohol-related, we’d get that bill passed in the House but what
else? I tabled the idea that perhaps, low level procedures may need to be paid
for? But where do you draw that line so that one group or another doesn’t wind
u getting penalised? Mum proposed some form of means testing but then we realised
once again, there would be groups of people who straddled pay thresholds and
would be screwed by the new Osho rulings. Also, the danger of making people pay is that you to give insurance companies too much power. Once a charge is levied for some procedures, it's a slippery slope until all services are billed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I started to
wonder if the problem was more basic than we’d first thought. We speak often
about having the right to a free national health service and that evil people wearing
blue rosettas are trying to take it away from us but we don’t often discuss the
financials around providing such a service
for a growing population which may soon resemble a massive Cocoon live action
role play. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The balance
sheet doesn’t add up but what if the action that needs to be taken isn’t just
about what the government, the politicians and the trust managers are doing,
what if we too have a role to play. Beyond our tax contributions, what might
our further responsibility be as the beneficiaries of this globally envied
service? Well, it is simple. We need to start taking out own health seriously. This
isn’t me being a hippy saying “guys listen yah, your body is a temple” and
swigging bottles of homeopathic water, no this is about saying, OK, if you want
a free health service, you’re going to have to work for it. You don’t get to
live an unhealthy lifestyle and get a free health service. Perhaps we can no
longer expect this overstretched and often taken for granted resource to pick
up the pieces of a carefree, or maybe careless lifestyle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When the NHS
was initially conceived in 1948, they told everyone that though it was expensive it
would gradually become cheaper because the nation would become healthier. In hindsight,
that seems a little naïve. No pun intended but the service has become a
crutch rather than a safety net and we don’t even know it. The cost of lifestyle-related
illness is at an all-time high and will, unless we start to take our own
wellbeing seriously, continue to grow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We have a
social responsibility to see to it that we do all we can to look after our
health to preserve this service for when it’s really needed. At the moment, the
system is stretched to breaking point because so many people take no
responsibility for their wellbeing and simply expect the NHS to patch them back up
so they can carry on as before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This is no
longer sustainable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Type 2
diabetes, most commonly brought on by obesity, cost the NHS </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">£</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">9billion and will
rise to </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">£</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">20 billion by 2035.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Over a
million admissions a year are for alcohol-related issues and costs the NHS
nearly </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">£</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">3billion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">NHS England
has a budget of 108billion. The Foresight Report (2007) concluded that half
the UK population could be obese by 2050 at a cost of £50bn per year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And of course
the cost of smoking to the NHS is nearly </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">£</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">3billlion. And whilst drinking and
smoking bring in some tax income that doesn’t all filter directly into the NHS.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But look, I’m
not saying shame on you for not stopping smoking or enjoying the occasional
drink I’m just throwing out a different way to look at the problem we currently
face. People often disempower themselves by speaking about this mysterious
“they”, the government, police, teachers, schools, parents, who aren’t doing
enough, who could and should do more but they always forget that they
themselves are a “they” for someone else. We’re all “they”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Perhaps it’s
time to stop thinking about “them” and ask what can I do, what more can I bring to
the table? Rather than having my hand out, what can I offer? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For a society
to function, we must all tread a delicate line between maintaining our sense of
free will and autonomy while taking care of our collective obligations. That is
the only way a society succeeds. Without those two sides, it collapses. If we
exhibit too much autonomy and opt out or flaunt the rules (i.e. become lawless)
there’s anarchy, even as briefly as what flared up in the UK riots a while back.
Equally if we go the other way, putting society above self, sacrificing
personal need, the human spirit is crushed. We want to be able to do and have
nice things too! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Perhaps the
guy watering his garden was well within his rights but perhaps he could have
the best of both worlds i.e. have a garden and conserve water. With the <a href="https://www.ladwp.com/ladwp/faces/ladwp/aboutus/a-water/a-w-conservation/a-w-c-landscap?_afrLoop=162482060091000&_afrWindowMode=0&_afrWindowId=r6d0g6e4r_1#%40%3F_afrWindowId%3Dr6d0g6e4r_1%26_afrLoop%3D162482060091000%26_afrWindowMode%3D0%26_adf.ctrl-state%3D3fpzmm3nb_4"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Landscape
Incentive Program</span></a>, the Department of Water and Power is offering
homeowners $2 per square foot of grass removed. LADWP is also providing rebates for water-efficient landscape
equipment installed</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">. Now there’s an idea.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">One of the problems
with social responsibility is that we often worry we’re the only ones making sacrifices, that, while you’ve removed the verdant meadow from your
front lawn and replaced it with boring cacti, your neighbour is creeping out in the
middle of the night and draining the local reservoir just so his hydrangea stay
in bloom. We have to put these thoughts aside. There will always be selfish
pricks but does that mean we can’t do our part?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I think us Brits forget how good we’ve got it, sometimes. I’m spending a lot
of time in the States, a country where a free health service is practically non-existent.
Where 50% of all bankruptcies come from unpaid medical bills, where pharmaceutical
companies and insurance firms have America by the balls. If the America dream
is about happiness and wealth, then that is the American nightmare, its dark
underbelly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So in the UK,
we should remind ourselves that no matter what its shortfalls, the NHS is magnificent and wholly worth looking after but living a reckless
life is not the way to preserve it. If we want it to continue to be free, we need
to start stepping up. It’s as simple as that.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-84618368374278096402014-09-30T10:30:00.000+01:002015-06-23T03:28:30.751+01:00Stoptober's coming. Here's How I Acquired and Kicked the Habit<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhu51bIvu0m_vYekAHCVzhRFluApYtyLjz6_k_E3gUiJVdyXJIHpQL5P8yPyRJNyng-hCbVUJUpQP-5VxNJaTI7Op9kmSfZgwSNT6taLh5DXllPoAyVD9pYCGABjvcmDsijwfGjILIP5I/s1600/smoking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhu51bIvu0m_vYekAHCVzhRFluApYtyLjz6_k_E3gUiJVdyXJIHpQL5P8yPyRJNyng-hCbVUJUpQP-5VxNJaTI7Op9kmSfZgwSNT6taLh5DXllPoAyVD9pYCGABjvcmDsijwfGjILIP5I/s1600/smoking.jpg" width="150" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><b><i>How a secret code word and unbridled curiosity led me to blow thousands of pounds. </i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /></span></div>
A couple of
girls at school had been talking about going to the park for a Pepsi. Through
the day they’d talk about how they couldn’t wait to have this “Pepsi" and that they’d
been dying for one all day. Every time they mentioned this brown liquid, they’d
giggle secretively. It dawned on me that things perhaps weren’t as they seemed.
There were only two explanations for their excitement. Either they were Amish
and Pepsi was an unparalleled treat, the consumption of which required ritualised preparation or ‘Pepsi’
was a code word for something.<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But when
pressed, the girls refused to elaborate. We were at an age
where girls, annoyingly, looove secrets. Eventually they agreed to let me come with
them to the park to reveal all if I swore not to tell. Hearts were crossed and I hoped to die. Oh the irony. The
suspense was killing me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Eventually,
we got to the park. It was a sunny weekday afternoon. One of the girls reached
into her pocket. It always feels important when you’re brought into an inner circle
although in hindsight, the inner circle of two nine year old girls probably
holds less sway than, say, the Freemasons even though, at the time, that’s what
it felt like. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A thought
flickered through my mind. Inner circle or not, I will be seriously pissed off
if she pulls out an actual can of Pepsi. Someone would be going home with a particularly nasty Chinese burn. But she didn’t. Instead, she got out
the familiar rectangular box of a packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes. I was
stunned. Pepsi was cigarettes! Even Alan Turing wouldn’t have cracked this logic-free code. This was officially the naughtiest thing I had ever done. Even <i>looking </i>at cigarettes had pushed me, the perennial Goody Two-shoes into an unchartered
territory of vices. I was nine. The only vice I had up until that point was sitting
too close to the television, the price of which had been glasses from the age of eight. This was probably how it all began for Stringer
Bell. An innocent puff on a cigarette and the next thing you know, you’re a
drugs king pin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">My friend lit
the cigarette and puffed on it like a movie star or a builder, I can't remember which. I must have momentarily lost
my mind or forgotten that I had a mother who would kick the days of the week
out of me if she found out I’d been smoking but when it was passed to me, I
too, puffed away. Unfortunately, as this was my first go (even though I vehemently
claimed I’d smoked ‘thousands’ of times before), I didn’t quite manage anything
as elegant as my friend, and spluttered smoky laughter out into the crisp
autumn air. Hmm, disgusting, I thought. I’d like to do this again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPtc2fMLetcd63IHEegLC_WOz_Kpbvw3H4DRe4B-5YhDHVJalxOXXbTqFkpBy8QRGdHzV1jILmcLnuFVw-0riDO7wz9E5Q1Dv2Up25qV22i9VoWlYctUGPtyHrADwsqJwH4aEPF4vBKk/s1600/Special+-+6+people%5B4%5D%5B5%5D%5B1%5D%5B1%5D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPtc2fMLetcd63IHEegLC_WOz_Kpbvw3H4DRe4B-5YhDHVJalxOXXbTqFkpBy8QRGdHzV1jILmcLnuFVw-0riDO7wz9E5Q1Dv2Up25qV22i9VoWlYctUGPtyHrADwsqJwH4aEPF4vBKk/s1600/Special+-+6+people%5B4%5D%5B5%5D%5B1%5D%5B1%5D.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Stoptober team</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I went home smelling
like an ashtray and having no concept of how sensitive a non-smoker’s nose is to
cigarette smoke. After this nicotiney adventure, my friends and I filled our mouths
with gum, yakking on it furiously all the way home, like a cheating husband
trying to disguise the aroma of his mistress. I was sworn to secrecy about the ‘Pepsi’
and told that if I didn’t tell anyone I could do it again. I swore because I
definitely wanted to cultivate this disgusting habit. Why? Because, despite it
making me feeling slightly unwell, it also made me feel like I fitted in and
was one of the cool kids. My Roland Rat glasses undermined that a little but
not much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Having said that, I never did go back to the park. I wasn’t even tempted by the strange ornamental cigarette dispenser
my mum had for guests. It had a lever you pushed that made a cockerel bend down
as a tray opened perfectly meeting the cockerel’s open beak. As the lever come
back out, the cockerel would triumphantly rise with a cigarette in its beak. It
was the very height of 70s style and a feat in ornament engineering. I played
with it all the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Once mum disgarded this avarian monstrosity, my exposure
to smoking was limited to my neighbour, Sarah occasionally fling
down some money and telling me to go and buy fags for her. Aged 11, I’d practice
what I was going to say to the newsagent all the way there. Not that he wouldn’t
sell them to me, I just wanted him to think I knew what I was doing. “Please
can I have a packet of ten Silk Cut cigarettes, please. Thank you!” I squawked in my
prepubescent voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Of course, he
sold them to me because this was the 80s. A time of latchkey kids, where BBC children’s
presenters were cherished, where people thought nothing of smoking in front of their
kids, of giving them a sip of beer, where misbehaviour at school was met with a
swift boot up the jacksie by the teacher, or worse, the cane, a time when kids
and dogs roamed the streets unencumbered by anything so useless as a
responsible adult and where fish and chips was considered a square meal. Ah
innocent times. Sarah sending her 11 year old neighbour to purchase cigarettes
really was no big deal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I started my
first job, working for the (wretched) Golden Arches. I was 16 but being
surrounded by adults with mortgages and cars and responsibilities made me feel
about 12. I knew what would make me feel adult, smoking and so my five year hiatus
ended when I bought my first pack of Marlboro Reds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I still wasn’t
addicted and would go months without smoking, forgetting that it was
my new thing but then, college came around and my need to fit in came flooding
back. It was becoming a theme. Again, I was one of the youngest and so to gain acceptance I decided to do what everyone else was doing, no, not change my name to
Rainbow and wear sunglasses indoors, no, I decided to start smoking again and
this time I wasn’t going to let the offensive smell and expense get in the way
of becoming addicted. I succeeded. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">After leaving
college, I got a job in a post production company where I shared an office with
five smokers. These were the days when smoking was still allowed in the workplace,
and so we did, with a vengeance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The only
place we weren’t allowed to smoke was in the machine room where all the machinery was. The engineers were concerned that the smoke would damaged the
equipment. Ironically, there were no such worry for our lungs and the 6000
chemicals we were passing through our system with each puff. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">By now, I was
well and truly a smoker which, annoyingly, came hand-in-hand with an unhealthy
dose of guilt about giving up. Almost since I smoked regularly, I also had a
nagging thought that I should quit. I made several failed attempts, some
literally lasting the length of time I’d been asleep (yes, I counted those). There
were always good reasons (or excuses) for the failure. Upcoming parties that I’d want to drink
at (and therefore smoke). I had exams, stresses, I’d just
changed jobs, it was a full moon. Everything and anything, big or small was
enough to make me put off, putting it out, plus almost my entire social group
were smokers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I was never a
heavy smoker, usually getting through about a pack a day (or two when there was
beer booze involved) but the cost was starting to mount up. Again, there was
that nagging thought that this wasn’t doing me any favours but I felt strangely
powerless to make a change. In fact at one point, to alleviate the guilt, I
decided that the best course of action was, instead of quitting smoking, to
quit guilting. That would solve all my problems!<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">When I left
post production and started out as a performer, as I’ve mentioned in previous
blogs, I was broke and part of re-evaluating my financial situation was
switching to roll ups. Instead of the monstrous fiver a pack, per day, I could
now make a packet of tobacco last a week. They tasted nice and apparently
contained fewer chemicals. I’d practically gone organic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This lasted
for about two years and the quitting attempts subsided to nothing as I dug in
and accepted, I was a smoker for life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Then one day
as I lit a cigarette, a thought struck me, hard. In rolling your own cigarettes
there’s a kind of excitable anxiety you get as you work through the ritual so
you can finally enjoy your fix. Well, as I put the roll up in my mouth, I observed
myself. Before I’d even lit this one, I was already thinking about the next
cigarette and in that moment, I realised, this game is unwinnable. There is no
end. You will smoke and smoke and smoke and that’s it. Suddenly the purpose and
the pleasure of smoking was gone, in a puff of smoking. I knew, I would never
get satisfaction from cigarettes like I used to ever again and I stopped. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I’d like to
say it was as simple as that but that realisation was actually the culmination
of several attempts and a deep down longing to be free of the <i>desire </i>to smoke.
It’s one thing to use willpower to deny yourself but then you just acquired
a new burden, denial, which feels horrible, like resisting
drunk-texting an ex. What I wanted to be free of was the <i>need</i> for cigarettes, the association with pleasure. The only reason
this moment, this revelation was possible was because of the many unsuccessful attempts
to give up I’d made previously. I’d read Allen Carr’s<i> Easyway to Stop Smoking</i> books,
I’d tried cold turkey, I’d tried quitting with other people. I’d tried inventing
rules for myself, all kinds of methods that at the time, when they’d gone
wrong, had seemed like failures but in
hindsight, were the prep work. I’m not just putting spin on this. I reckon
sometimes, it needs a few goes for the commitment to take. Like loosening a tight lid on a jar, it pops once but only after several goes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ldn3IXwYX_iW8K6vIATKpVRl9_yZm6gx5m9XUnx8gLpHVg7B_Gkt-7_qYyIkygXFd16yiDUXwH80sKbOPD3A3OMXSaRE7Nttc8ctKY4EVvQdJAz1VEiWkc7S1oZnWLLCMCeAFXr58O8/s1600/STOPTOBER_INFOGRAPH%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8ldn3IXwYX_iW8K6vIATKpVRl9_yZm6gx5m9XUnx8gLpHVg7B_Gkt-7_qYyIkygXFd16yiDUXwH80sKbOPD3A3OMXSaRE7Nttc8ctKY4EVvQdJAz1VEiWkc7S1oZnWLLCMCeAFXr58O8/s1600/STOPTOBER_INFOGRAPH%5B1%5D.jpg" width="143" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">That’s why I’m
backing Stoptober. Because I was a smoker and I know how hard it is, but also because
I see it as one step someone can take on the road to popping that lid.
Stoptober could be the thing that helps someone push through to long term
commitment to a smoke-free life. It could also be one of several run ups someone
else makes at loosening the lid. Either way, you have my full support. I know
it ain’t easy but I also know, it’s so worth it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Stoptober isn’t
about demonising smokers (as some random trolled on Twitter recently) it’s just
about backing anyone who’s up for chipping away at the desirous relationship
they have with smoking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Since
quitting in 2006, I’ve smoke about ten cigarettes. Do I chalk that up as a
failure? Hell, no! That’s probably 10,000 cigarettes fewer than I would have
smoked in that time, if I hadn’t given up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Statistics
show that you’re five times more likely to quit if you go smoke-free for 28
days, which, conveniently, is how long Stobtober is. If you’re up for giving it
a try visit the <a href="https://stoptober.smokefree.nhs.uk/registration-c" target="_blank">website </a>to sign up. It starts tomorrow. Good luck and be happy
either way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This post is dedicated to anyone up for giving Stobtober a try and those who've already kicked the habit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Other posts you might like: <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/change-narrative.html">Change the narrative</a>: About changing the stories you tell about your life, <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/just-do-it-me-and-exercise.html">Just Do It</a>: About me and exercise and <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/the-power-of-intention-baby.html">The Power of Intention</a>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Remember to subscribe to receive notification as soon as posts go online. You: How do I subscribe ?Andi. Me: top right hand corner. Piece of piss, innit. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-60272479618739315632014-09-28T12:30:00.000+01:002014-09-28T12:30:01.297+01:00Brit.i.am at the Red Dirt International Film Festival<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUUA-rpbx3tiZwV7mkcmWGFOrLExR7qUt3DYLRk5AcnS5jaHfYnMgoCCH1H7I3MJ6tGsi-Vujhw-lwm_1t170ghyphenhyphen0CyN1qcXVUBJY-EbNP12Nj7drf8EqOcN2urxUy7SpbNB-twgzWUs/s1600/Red+Dirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUUA-rpbx3tiZwV7mkcmWGFOrLExR7qUt3DYLRk5AcnS5jaHfYnMgoCCH1H7I3MJ6tGsi-Vujhw-lwm_1t170ghyphenhyphen0CyN1qcXVUBJY-EbNP12Nj7drf8EqOcN2urxUy7SpbNB-twgzWUs/s1600/Red+Dirt.jpg" height="320" width="280" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b>Last weekend, I went to my first film festival. Here's what happened. </b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">When I
got the email saying my short film, <a href="http://www.britiam.org/" target="_blank">Brit.i.am</a>, had been accepted into a film
festival, I was delighted but then sad that I wasn’t going to see it on
the big screen. The festival was in Oklahoma and it seemed an awful long way to go to watch a five minute film. In fact, my journey there would have been 129 times
longer than the actual film (yes, I just stopped to work that out. That’s how committed
I am to delivering the facts, dear reader). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Entering
film festivals is a lengthy and potentially expensive process which involves
hours of admin. Some festivals are free but many charge a submission fee and so
essentially you’re taking a punt on your film being good enough or what the
festival curators are looking for. Festival entries are really an admin-heavy
form of gambling and up until this point o</span><span style="font-size: 18.399999618530273px;">ur gambling was not paying off as </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">we’d received a heck of a lot of no’s. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">They
were all very polite but after a while you can sense a ‘no’ email from thirty
paces. I would read three words and know which way the wind was
going to blow. 'Dear filmmaker' and then I would scan the rest of the
text for the word 'unfortunately'. I had no idea if <a href="http://www.britiam.org/" target="_blank">Brit.i.am</a> was suitable for festivals, if we’d
entered into the right categories or even the right festivals. Many of them I’d
never heard of and if it weren’t for guidance from my friend and director of
the piece, Adam who'd already had work including in festival line ups, I wouldn’t
have had a clue where to start. There are over 6000 film festivals worldwide
from Cannes right down to Van D’or, a festival… in a van!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So when
we got the nod from the Red Dirt International Film Festival, I was more than
happy but for some reason decided it was frivolous to go all that way to watch
a five minute film. Then I discovered we were nominated for an award. Well, of
course that changed everything! Be it a 25 meters swimming badge or a film gong,
who would turn down the chance to pick up an award?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I was
more than a little anxious about going there alone. Where the hell was Stillwater,
Oklahoma, how would I get there and would I need to watch Oklahoma! the musical
as research? </span></div>
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIVG3ZrAjOa3pvzYAzVM94jVTnbpO0MgxFKLyLD3pzrDO9CSXp4iWs_JCnH_KLO2tvSh2aSEdRLJecX18CCv20yIWh7x_RvhUJ_EHp_c8XD7Q7s1di1ctmqHylBqqOv9cS__zc0u8HyaM/s1600/Photo+19-09-2014+10+55+25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIVG3ZrAjOa3pvzYAzVM94jVTnbpO0MgxFKLyLD3pzrDO9CSXp4iWs_JCnH_KLO2tvSh2aSEdRLJecX18CCv20yIWh7x_RvhUJ_EHp_c8XD7Q7s1di1ctmqHylBqqOv9cS__zc0u8HyaM/s1600/Photo+19-09-2014+10+55+25.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Even
though I came to Los Angeles alone I've always been a bit scared of solo
travel. It makes me nervous and I’m not even sure why. On previous holidays,
boyfriends have always taken care of the details, navigation was never my
department. I've only taken a few trips by myself since then (usually to places
I already know) and whilst I have gotten better at enjoying the experience, for
some reason this trip still made me anxious. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I kept
putting off booking and started wondering if I would ever really go but then I
thought, I'm already in the States, it seems nuts not to. So I let my fingers
do the talking, went online and booked a flight, hotel and car. Right then, I
thought. Oklahoma City here I come... Please don’t be racist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Fast
forward six weeks and I'm on the smallest plane I've ever seen heading east
like a back-tracking pioneer. The plane had two seats either side of the aisle
and the rows were so closely packed that anyone over six foot would have to be
a yoga master to get in them. I now understand why Americans complain about people
reclining their seats. On these planes you practically have the head of the
person in front of you in your lap. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The guy
next to me chugged a coffee then promptly fell asleep. Hmm, I thought. I think
I've been doing coffee wrong because that is not the effect it has on me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I had a
restless doze until we landed. I picked up my hire car and before long
was on the open highway, the wind in my hair and the air conditioning blasting an
icy breeze into my face. Luckily my phone had GPS because, like I say, map
reading is not my strong suit. If I'd been on Christopher Columbus’ boat, Guernsey
would now be known as the South Indies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I
tapped in <i>Oklahoma State University</i>
where the festival was taking place and about an hour later, after long
stretches of practically empty freeway, I turned into a narrow road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The
road got narrower as I approached my destination. On either side of me were
vast open fields but no buildings save for a few farm shacks. I was a bit
worried but trusted my GPS. If she says OSU is on Coyle Road then that’s
where it must be…even if all I'd passed in the last ten minutes were prairies.
I was more likely to see Laura Ingles than a sorority girl. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Besides, I was reluctant to ask for directions in case I was told to turn left at the
boy with the banjo. Finally GPS chimed, "you have reached your destination!".
I pulled over and looked around. Bloody hell. I hope not, I thought. Aside from
the odd barn, there was nothing. It looked like I’d been airlifted onto the set
of <i>True Detective</i>. Uh oh. I was
praying that Mrs GPS had misheard me, thinking I’d asked for Oklahoma State Farming
and Occult Murder Academy. I googled OSC and fortunately found a new address,
praying this wouldn’t take me into some <i>Deliverance-</i>type
situation but the place I actually needed to get to. Before long, I was back on
the main roads heading into Stillwater. Not, of course, before I'd passed a
pile of snake on the side of the road. Oklahoma clearly has a classier
type of roadkill, one that you can make a nice handbag out of. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In
hindsight, I’m glad I got that detour because I saw that Oklahoma is
very beautiful and much more luscious than Los Angeles, which isn't hard considering
its essential a city dropped in the middle of a desert. I also saw where
the festival got its name. The earth is a hearty, browny, red colour. It looks
so fertile and full of goodness that if you ate food grown here, you’d
immediately acquire super powers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fC0H2UNoXOtB-RVPspz29t-cjCawSROarbOtgW2dyefYxYelhBlqkSDNjNfonP5Gynk6plzQvizJlPzx9u-AdNl8Tj65qmqoUUwfSkUPbQ28yHzNim2B86Ra5L0i2f-lTvDa2SXUvX4/s1600/Photo+20-09-2014+11+51+56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fC0H2UNoXOtB-RVPspz29t-cjCawSROarbOtgW2dyefYxYelhBlqkSDNjNfonP5Gynk6plzQvizJlPzx9u-AdNl8Tj65qmqoUUwfSkUPbQ28yHzNim2B86Ra5L0i2f-lTvDa2SXUvX4/s1600/Photo+20-09-2014+11+51+56.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Finally,
I arrived. The university was stunning. The college I’d gone to was tiny so to
be on the grounds of such a vast intuition was impressive. OSU has several sites
and a lot more facilities than the place I went to. They had a huge library, a
student union the size of some council offices and their own stadium. The closest
my college came to having a stadium was a ping pong table at the SU bar. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDXivTvIaRRZezv4cqiB4ucsaI7paL6uz9J5CmGT-Gq8puiP7P-ticJMumXggLPFldgyl1ETnO9caxfXuOW3IljXMZ0ZUE2xuc5HnYjHyqSdFtWTZmpn6GFpTmzHOZUfVcnkXUwpcsQ8/s1600/Photo+19-09-2014+16+31+34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDXivTvIaRRZezv4cqiB4ucsaI7paL6uz9J5CmGT-Gq8puiP7P-ticJMumXggLPFldgyl1ETnO9caxfXuOW3IljXMZ0ZUE2xuc5HnYjHyqSdFtWTZmpn6GFpTmzHOZUfVcnkXUwpcsQ8/s1600/Photo+19-09-2014+16+31+34.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I immediately
got stuck into the festival and went to watch some short films (I also wanted
to check out the competition, of course). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">After,
I headed out to a local restaurant for dinner. It was a largely uneventful meal
although I was tickled by the fact that when I asked for the wine list I was
told “We’ve run out of our wine”. “No worries”, I said. “I’ll have a beer”.
When in Rome. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The
following day, in the back of my mind, I knew the awards ceremony was at nine
that evening. It was wonderful to be nominated but you can’t help entertaining
the idea of winning. Just in case, I did a trial run of my ‘I’m happy for you’
face in case another film won. Broad smile, gritted teeth, big clapping.
Perfect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhHyoeZTlDbO17Mim6i9qdVzHkrBViLRgVLQIkjjD3HULYdaLGfSnFA4o_IEh1k_fFamfoTijY0v1d_gyjBJFTrX9waOT0iwQFaEFDTLggdVn8w6aeoawZGxN5qmSM5jD2cBbj7rS4Xc/s1600/Photo+20-09-2014+15+27+07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhHyoeZTlDbO17Mim6i9qdVzHkrBViLRgVLQIkjjD3HULYdaLGfSnFA4o_IEh1k_fFamfoTijY0v1d_gyjBJFTrX9waOT0iwQFaEFDTLggdVn8w6aeoawZGxN5qmSM5jD2cBbj7rS4Xc/s1600/Photo+20-09-2014+15+27+07.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Brit.i.am
screened in the morning and after there was a Q and A. I was very proud to be
talking about the film and so pleased people were interested in asking
questions. The only downside was, the air-conditioning in the room was set to
artic so I was shivering throughout the whole thing. I looked like a proud Chihuahua. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Eventually
the evening came around and everyone filed into the main room. It was well-attended
and there was an air of excitement in the room. This was to be the close of
this small film festival and it was exciting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The
room was getting packed with only a few empty seats dotted around. An older
gentleman politely asked if the seat by me was taken. Not at all, I said.
Unbeknownst to him I had been practically willing him to sit there because he
was Grey Frederickson, producer of the <i>Godfather </i>and <i>Apocalypse Now</i>. 'No it's
empty. Please sit!' I said, in an overly-friendly way. What I should have said
was, “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The
experimental film category which <a href="http://www.britiam.org/" target="_blank">Brit.i.am</a> was in was third to be announced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"And
the winner is..." said the host and just as she was about to name the film, a
film maker who'd been in the bathroom when his category was announced, walked
in. The room erupted because they knew he'd won an award and he didn't.
Rightly so, the host playful did a repeat performance of the category’s
announcement and needless to say, the filmmaker was delighted. The room erupting
once again with laughter and applause. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And so
back to best experimental film and the winner was <a href="http://www.britiam.org/" target="_blank">Brit.i.am</a>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I was
beyond delighted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPK9vcKHI59Du1u-EQWo-19lf5dlkQcDM6J_5CkvYDCxnUjnwM-D6_D0AHRrw6i4jtSXFR6UlDMuGob6QyGLvk9mzm6Z9LLl-8r0rImA5CHw3lWsAd4JWYWp-HmaxWkfswrJuT1oYxDY/s1600/Photo+22-09-2014+11+57+05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCPK9vcKHI59Du1u-EQWo-19lf5dlkQcDM6J_5CkvYDCxnUjnwM-D6_D0AHRrw6i4jtSXFR6UlDMuGob6QyGLvk9mzm6Z9LLl-8r0rImA5CHw3lWsAd4JWYWp-HmaxWkfswrJuT1oYxDY/s1600/Photo+22-09-2014+11+57+05.jpg" height="320" width="220" /></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The
organisers of the festival had been so supportive of the film not only in
selecting it for their festival but in encouraging people to come and see it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">After
picking up the award and posing for photos I sat back down as Grey leaned in.
'Congratulations', he whispered. 'Thank you!' I whispered back. Unreal, I
thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I had
such a great time and even if we hadn’t picked up our award, it was still very
much worth the journey in so many ways. I met great people, I attended my first
film festival, I saw a beautiful part of the country and the award was the
additional, shiny icing on the cake that made it even more worthwhile. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This post
is dedicated to the wonderful contributors and crew that made <a href="http://www.britiam.org/" target="_blank">Brit.i.am</a>
possible and to my good friend Adam who directed and edited <a href="http://www.britiam.org/" target="_blank">Brit.i.am</a> and
created this little gem of a film. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Other posts you may enjoy: <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.com/2013/04/cat-that-got-dream-part-8.html">An interview with Gary Goldstein</a> - I speak with the producer of Pretty Woman, <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.com/2013/12/fight-for-your-writes-some-writing.html">Fight For Your Writes</a> - a post on writing and <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.com/2014/03/loving-lupita-thoughts-on-african.html" target="_blank">Loving Lupita</a> - posted following Lupita N'yongo's oscar win.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/britiamthefilm" target="_blank">Britiam facebook page </a></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-25115544743096670342014-09-21T12:30:00.000+01:002014-09-21T12:30:00.127+01:00What Do People Mean When They Say They're Spiritual?<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCL2zcNQL_TzQ2iK5vm0wTR9DMPfYd3Okd-gyi_41Tu1g9b6DjZlNxN_exqJemQCVH4yZJD1cXustsO51ekrzr4hk0aO8IWXsXGnvOI9tZgW4_XwKIW7iSBkIwf5lZFiHkZ2HMtWkcoA/s1600/spirits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjCL2zcNQL_TzQ2iK5vm0wTR9DMPfYd3Okd-gyi_41Tu1g9b6DjZlNxN_exqJemQCVH4yZJD1cXustsO51ekrzr4hk0aO8IWXsXGnvOI9tZgW4_XwKIW7iSBkIwf5lZFiHkZ2HMtWkcoA/s1600/spirits.jpg" height="200" width="160" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><b><i>I’m calling
time on spirituality bullshit and here’s why.<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I went to
the Mind, Body and Spirit Festival in London a few years ago. If you haven’t
been, it’s like The Ideal Home Exhibition but with more pashminas. So instead
of wine tasting and magi-blending-slicer-dicers, you get healing and massage
tables and there’s enough crystals to give the average geologist a semi. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I used to
go because, I guess, I was searching for something. I didn’t know what but for
a few years the quest led me to this aircraft hangar-sized exhibition centre in
West London filled with kaftan-wearing hippies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">People at events
like this have a way of being that can weird you out if you’re not used to it.
Everyone smiles – broadly. “Hellllloooooooooow” they melodiously say as you
tentatively pick up a crystal from their display cabinet. “What’s a good
crystal to get?” You might ask and they’d reply with something utterly
unhelpful like, “oh, no. You have to let the crystal choose you” Really? It’s a
good job I don’t do my food shopping like that or my cupboards would be chocker
with sweet chilli kettle chips and Grey Goose vodka. “They chose me!”, I’d plead
innocently the next time my mum inspected the contents of my cupboards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"> In fairness, they aren’t all like this. There
are some normal people and I did get a lot of benefits from the things I
bought, experienced and learned there. Surprisingly, I had a pretty good
massage once. You’d think with the hubbub of people “finding themselves” and
inquiring about inversion therapy, it’d be nigh on impossible to relax but, all
credit to the therapist, I was, as it were, away with the fairies. I should
add, for the record, it was a clothed massage. I mean, I’m a pretty liberal
person but even I would draw the line at stripping off in the middle of an
exhibition centre. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve sampled
healing, meditation and even tried aura photography. The resulting picture of
you surrounded by a yellowy, greenish, reddish haze basically looks like a
really rubbish Instagram photo. Having said that, the photographer who interpreted
the image was pretty accurate in her description of me so perhaps I was a
little hasty to judge? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I even
tried to get a drawing of my “spirit guide”. I saw a guy in a leather waistcoat
(that should have rung alarm bells) offering to identify and draw your guide. I
walked past his stand a number of times but it seemed like the pretty blond he
was helping was taking up a lot of his attention...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was
reflecting on that sometime after and how people conduct themselves at these
events, in their long, flowing, white gowns, ethnic trinkets and jewellery,
like there’s some social agreement that they must behave like they’ve
teleported in from some other dimension even though were spitting distance of Victoria
bus station.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">They
introduce themselves with some recently acquired foreign-sounding name like
Shivasana-tantric-masala and you look at them thinking, come off it, your
name’s Keith and you probably worked at some anonymous head office in Slough
until you took a trip to Goa and accidentally found yourself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I met
someone the other day who came out with a phrase that made me have to suppress
a little chuckle. “You see, I’m quite a spiritual person”, he said confidently.
Ueerghhh. When someone says that, it removes all credibility from whatever
follows. In fact, instead of declaring they’re spirituality, they should just
say, “I’m full of shit but here’s what I want people to think about
me”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If you
really are a spiritual person, you should feel no need to issue a statement to
that end. It just is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You don’t
hear the Dalai Lama in one of his speaking engagements answer the audience’s
questions with “Well, like, first of all, let me say, like, I’m a super
spiritual person” in some Valley girl vocal fry drone. He just <i>is</i> spiritual, conducting himself with humility
and importantly, a sense of humour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s very
easy for spirituality to become nothing more than a deep space exploration of
your own rectum. In truth, it’s easily done. Any spiritual awakening can so
quickly become hijacked by the ego and turned into something to polish the
persona rather than be about being present. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">That’s
where all the stupid clothes, incense and trinkets come in. It’s not to say
that the use of these things themselves is borne of the ego, but it’s
very easy for something that once was authentic to become simply a way of
attempted to present an idea of yourself to the world. Rather than being about
the interior discovery that you are witness to, it all becomes a presentation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Human beings
are a work-in-progress, we are not a noun but a process. However the ego fights
hard for us to become a fixed thing, a known which is why we spend so much time
validating our idea of ourselves in the things we do and say, “Oh you know me,
I’m always late” or “I’m Labour. My dad was labour and his dad before him” or “There’s
something wrong with me”. Whatever the
story, it’s all about fixing (as it setting) our idea of ourselves and creating
a noun. And this can happen in people’s spiritual exploration too when they
start to believe it’s a destination to arrive at rather than a journey to be made, remaining ever the student.
Setting something in stone is a kind of death for the very thing that true spirituality
is offering. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When people
let go of the idea of what spiritualty should look like, that’s when they
really will have access to it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">For example
what’s with all the inane grinning or feeling like you have to be kind to
everyone? Yes, unconditional love for humanity will be the ultimate by-product
of true spirituality but if you fake it, then you’re just lying! A more awakened
thing to do is get present to where you’re really at and just be who you are,
be authentic, be real and not get caught up in the self-concern of how you
occur to other people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sometimes
people have this idea that being spiritual means being nice all the time, being
quiet, slowing down, not getting irritated or reactive and they try to
manufacture this (and certainly I’ve been guilty of that, particularly after
say, I’ve been on a retreat or something) but this is letting the ego dictate
how we should be rather that just being (it’s one of man’s greatest insanities!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There
really is no blue print for what it should look like, because it is whatever is
so at any given moment. The only goal is being present and being present
doesn’t necessarily mean blissing out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If we can
be present to whatever is occurring then we’ve won because that was all the
game ever was. Rather than searching for
some ecstatic state, just being OK with what’s so and not expecting it to be any
other way, is it. That’s it, that’s all it is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sometimes
it’s chaotic, sometimes it’s irritating, sometimes it’s peaceful, sometimes it
feels like sadness, but being OK with it all and not feeling the need to chase
something, to relieve ourselves of this experience, or, if it’s a good one,
trying desperately to hold on to it long after it’s expired, is it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">You’ve done
it, you’re “spiritual” but you won’t feel the need to declare it because you’ll
be busy simply being. You are it, there’s no look to attain, no name that needs
to be adopted to convince people that you are the real deal. The best way to
demonstrate spirituality is to be a living example of it and let others be the ones
to label it, if they’re so inclined. Thankfully, you’ll be so Zen that you’ll realise it’s irrelevant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And being
spiritual isn’t necessarily about having a recognised practice, be it one of
faith or of philosophy like yoga or Buddhism. I don’t need to point out that it
doesn’t automatically follow that being in faith will make you spiritual. Humanity
has been kind enough to give us several examples of this over the last two
thousand years. Of the people I know, the most spiritual ones are not always
the most religious or even religious at all. They’re simply able to see the
world in a broader context than just “me, myself and mine” and what they want or
can get. They’ve loosed the grip the ego has over their consciousness, they’re
in the process of taking responsibility for their lives, they challenge
themselves, they try to break free of the known or their comfort zones, they
know themselves, they laugh at themselves and don’t take it, whatever ‘it’ is,
too seriously, they get that they are a work-in-progress, they will never
declare themselves complete but remain the constant student, remembering
always, to continue beginning again. And deep down they know, there is no<i>, done – OK I’m spiritual now. Ask me any
question, I’ve got God on the other line. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">And the
ironic thing is that it’s available to us in an instant simply by being willing
to live in the present and go beyond the story we perpetuate about ourselves.
That’s all it is really, being present. Redeploying the energy that you burn up
in keeping the story going and letting yourself be freely and readily here
today and being with whatever that looks like, whatever that brings, however
that feels. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If you’re
really a spiritual person, all you’re saying is, “I’m here”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-43118964430583832822014-09-14T12:30:00.000+01:002014-09-14T12:30:00.091+01:00Facebook, Schmacebook!<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>What I love and loath about the
Facebook?<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc0KX146Ek2AESGnz_1nM8XRDqnfzcq7KAc_RkPI2lEaUMWPUDQ4oLH7kgXHrgVWrhchTmT9o51PCSV6oAt4WlabWGCm8MGphZze5h_8By8xzTdtnCCxU6dqHQT1zCfNM4jv_vhi1zBoY/s1600/facebook+loves+and+loathes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc0KX146Ek2AESGnz_1nM8XRDqnfzcq7KAc_RkPI2lEaUMWPUDQ4oLH7kgXHrgVWrhchTmT9o51PCSV6oAt4WlabWGCm8MGphZze5h_8By8xzTdtnCCxU6dqHQT1zCfNM4jv_vhi1zBoY/s1600/facebook+loves+and+loathes.jpg" height="200" width="145" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">So the other day I’m on Facebook, grumbling
to myself about how a certain someone is constantly changing their profile photo.
It feels like every week their putting up a new picture. Why? I barked, to no
one in particular. We all know what you look like! I know why, because you want
us all to tell you how very pretty you are, well I’m not going to. That’ll
learn you, you photogenic narcissist!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Once I’d gotten off my high horse
and had a little laugh at myself, I realised, we all use Facebook so differently.
In fact, not only do we use it in different ways but also see it as serving a
different purposes. From making work contacts, finding old friends, stalking
exes, sharing information and marketing, it can be used for all this and more
and we’re all meeting in this virtual blank-canvas with very different
intentions and desires.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">So how do you use yours? Are you an
“internet curator”, are you a “selfie slave” or a “politics pusher”. Here’s
what I love and loath about how people use this frighteningly ubiquitous
platform. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>Loves</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>1. Internet curation</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Internet curators – This is my very
favourite thing about Facebook. I have a couple of friends who have gotten it
down to a fine art, distilling the online detritus out there and posting the
most interesting and insightful material they’ve encountered. Often it’s information
or material that I would never have come across on my own but nonetheless would
still like to read or watch. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Internet Curators are the polar opposite of those
who are constantly telling you about their life and posting pictures of
themselves. I find the curators interesting because they are interested.
They’re interested in the world around us and go out of their way to carefully
select the most interesting articles and videos from it and share them,
judiciously on Facebook. More power to ‘em I say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>2. Good vibrations</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I feel very blessed to
know a bunch of people who, by and large post things chosen to inspire and
enlighten. These posts always seem to be so timely and applicable. I have one
friend who only posts inspiring quotes and while I wouldn’t want everyone to do
that, in the midst of moaning and selfies, it can be a welcome respite. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>3. Like, Funny haha</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The funnies. It’s painfully rare to
encounter a video which really is as funny as people say it is. Most of the
time, if I see the usual “Watch this, it’s hilarious” intro I’m already pissed
off, assuming it’s not going to be funny even before the Youtube page has
loaded. So when someone posts something that <i>does</i> turn out to be as funny as promised, I give them double kudos,
triple if it’s smart too, like the photo memes that are going around. They’re
punchy, short and to the point, everything I love about comedy. This is one of
my favourites. </span><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://www.funnybts.com/2012/11/i-dont-know-man-i-just-what-if-i-never-find-out-whos-a-good-boy.html">http://www.funnybts.com/2012/11/i-dont-know-man-i-just-what-if-i-never-find-out-whos-a-good-boy.html</a>. </span>And a Jon Stewart or John Oliver
clip is usually a sure fire win too.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>4. The Good news</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Great news – Of course Great news.
Who doesn’t love sharing in someone’s awesome news? I’m sure sometimes people share
reluctantly for fear of appearing to crow but when news is shared in a spirit
of gratitude rather than a tedious humble brag or disguised complaint, (and we
all know culprits) it’s always a joy to read. </span>For example, “Uuurrr. So annoying
that I have to take my brand new Lexus to the car wash this Sunday. Would
rather watch the Oscars #drag”as opposed to “Up yours TFL. I
finally got a car. So grateful”. I dunno about you but I like the
second person much more (and feel bad I didn’t give them a lift more often).</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>5. Check you out</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Check ins – The jury might be
out on this part of FB but personally, I like it. I have a friend whose work
takes her all over the world and so, every couple of weeks, she checks in and
its cool seeing where she will materialises next. To me, it’s like a very
low-key selfie, like, I won’t show you what I’m doing but I will tell you where I am. Which leads
me to my first loath<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>Loathes<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>1. But enough about me, what about me</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">A never-ending stream of photos of
you having an amazing time all the time, everywhere. The cynic in me thinks bad
thoughts about people who feel they need to let the world know what a
phenomenal life they’re having by documenting and posting about it all on Facebook.
Some people have HUNDREDS and HUNDREDS of photos online. If you’re busy taking
photos how present are you to what you’re actually doing? Research shows you’re
more likely to remember an event if you DON’T take photos. I’ve had to unfollow
a few serial offenders because, grouch that I am, I’m just not interested in
a slurry of self-portraits. Even as I write this, I can hear the bah humbugness of it
and look, it’s not like I don’t want to see images of my friends having a good
time, but every day, all the time? I tried having an Instagram account and I
lasted about a month. It was fun at first, finding things to take photos of but
I soon tired of it, thinking, I’m bored of looking at pictures of me so God
knows what other people think. I honestly can’t see the point of Instagram
unless you’re one of three things 1. Super famous 2. Super gorgeous or an
artist sharing their work. Otherwise…. Sorry but, who cares!? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<b>2. Have we met?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Friend requests from people I don’t
know – A couple of years ago I had a FB cull. As a comedian, you end up friending
every comic which turns your timeline into a stream of angst and self-promotion,
albeit usually funny. I decided to cull in a very particular and unusual
way. I decided to only use Facebook to stay connected with friends. I know
barmy, right. But what a breath of fresh air. My timeline went back to people
talking about ordinary things not scattergun invites to gigs and complaints about the state of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Personally, I think there’s too much private info on Facebook to share it with anyone other than people you know really well
and furthermore, research shows that no matter how many people we know, we can only maintain a meaningful connection with a very specific number, between
150 – 160. So that’s the number I kept
my Facebook friends at, with a strict one in, one out policy, what a bitch. (I just checked and
this is a total lie. I’m currently at 170 – I’m not a bitch!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>3. Politicking</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Self-righteous politics – I LOVE that
people are passionate about issues but I’ve had to unfollow a couple of people for angry politi-posts. Obviously caring is
better than not but sometimes I can’t help but wonder if the extent of their
caring is limited to the odd online rant rather than, you know, actually taking positive
action out in the, as Tim Minchin calls it, Flesh world. It’s great to be passionate
and share knowledge and information about injustices but better than bitching
and moaning on Facebook, why not get up off your arris and do something? These
political rants are only 50% useful anyways because usually they’re woefully partisan.
You rarely see objective or balanced
posts when passions run high. A little digging usually reveals that the situation
is often more complicated than it first appears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<b>4. Playbook</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
Games. Yawwwwn. Polls telling you
what animal you are, what part of the country you are or what type of food you
are, are as tedious as a game of chess with all the pieces the same colour. Honestly,
every time I see people post the results of these pointless polls I want to
unfriend them and I would, if it weren’t for the fact that I love them. But Jesus.
Who has THAT much spare time in their day?!</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b>5. FWP</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Constant First world problem
moaning. – No, no, no. It’s very easy to forget how lucky we are in the
“developed” world and that our problems are ones that 95% of the world wishes
they had so when FWPs pop up on Facebook, my first inclination and desire is to
slap the person round the face with an Ikea catalogue. So someone said a
spoiler about your favourite show, man up! You’re still eating this evening
though, right?! I know I’ve been a FWP culprit and it’s probably unavoidable because
we exist in a different context from those without fresh running water or
constant gun fire outside their door. I guess all we westerners can do is remember
that our FWP are not really a big deal and that if someone posting selfies or
giving away the twist to a movie we want to see is the worst we have to deal
with, then life is pretty sweet. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">So how do you Facebook?</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-6178475410561007672014-09-07T12:30:00.000+01:002014-09-07T12:30:00.737+01:00Don't Be Late For The Movies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Q_abmoyC0ynSR7hK-fsgkz3I4P76lKDl0p-1xdZrQlS8jWRB7gx0WqfzGIVp_NHrydeTKQU6d8-76ngxzliYUU5cjrYyj4pOdGEPMRROzGzJtBN1FqVJtus_ENaDVKM515Uis6Dtn9E/s1600/late.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Q_abmoyC0ynSR7hK-fsgkz3I4P76lKDl0p-1xdZrQlS8jWRB7gx0WqfzGIVp_NHrydeTKQU6d8-76ngxzliYUU5cjrYyj4pOdGEPMRROzGzJtBN1FqVJtus_ENaDVKM515Uis6Dtn9E/s1600/late.jpg" height="200" width="120" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-GB">If you turn up more than six minutes late to the movies, I say, don’t bother going in. Here’s why<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aside from the painful social encounter of
forcing everyone on your row to do the awkward knee shuffle so you can stumble
in the dark to your seat with the obligatory, “sorry, sorry” which is
invariably met with a passive aggressive “it’s fine” from the people already
seated, there’s an even bigger price to pay, for turning up late.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">In most (good) mainstream movies the opening
sequence is top-loaded with a wealth of information that sets up the film in terms
of themes, style, stars, content and story. Far from easing you into the movie,
these first few minutes are the most important part of the film and
missing them means you’re missing out on an vital part of the experiencing
leaving you half a beat behind everyone else (that, you know, turned up on
time). Some movies even go as far as to overture the whole story in those
first five or six minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Missing the beginning of a film is as
significant as missing the end. Imagine walking out of <i>The Usual Suspects</i> just before Verbal finishes giving his evidence.
You’d leave thinking, “that was a weird film”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The beginning lays out the film's stall, let’s
you know what’s in store, whetting the appetite for the
two hours ahead. Not seeing the start of a film is like a waiter taking your
order without first offering you a menu. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">To show you what I mean, here’s a breakdown of
the first six minutes of three of my favourite films, <i>Ghostbusters</i>, <i>Terminator 2</i>
and <i>The Shawshank Redemption</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfuH8Jw_M3W-zmd2kA4UHDszUtcmT7QGH2ROw9NGzMxY0MfpJzJTbAmpQySLozvbYbf5LJ-iJkYIisKpG0-BGiVSHKFYaOU2rnHC8hPz9UmZJ3Tt8Y8skVfcAfhmcsP6zT06t4sQuiuAE/s1600/Slide7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfuH8Jw_M3W-zmd2kA4UHDszUtcmT7QGH2ROw9NGzMxY0MfpJzJTbAmpQySLozvbYbf5LJ-iJkYIisKpG0-BGiVSHKFYaOU2rnHC8hPz9UmZJ3Tt8Y8skVfcAfhmcsP6zT06t4sQuiuAE/s1600/Slide7.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><i><span lang="EN-GB">The Shawshank
Redemption</span></i><span lang="EN-GB">, directed
by Frank Darabont (original show runner for <i>The
Walking Dead</i>) opens with the 1939 rendition of The Ink Spots’ “<i>If I Didn’t Care</i>” which immediately
places us in time – we assume the 30's or 40's, along with the Art Deco style
credits which also let us know Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman are the stars. This, in itself indicates, this film's unlikely to be a National Lampoon-style
comedy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4L_vZsFMckSs2Ftn797ub2gwX63RnFZRj1LUQHhlNgdg8KcpOrWiz_W2cQK4tzRCpuB03Aam_QJiuUZjEM5B3PV_zVvAPxzJ6B4Q1nF9rOWqI_ikLA7g8_GlW76CO0vpSB7uSek8inM/s1600/Slide10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4L_vZsFMckSs2Ftn797ub2gwX63RnFZRj1LUQHhlNgdg8KcpOrWiz_W2cQK4tzRCpuB03Aam_QJiuUZjEM5B3PV_zVvAPxzJ6B4Q1nF9rOWqI_ikLA7g8_GlW76CO0vpSB7uSek8inM/s1600/Slide10.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">It is night. The camera pans to show Tim
Robbins’ Andy Dufresne sitting in a car staring intently at a house. We don’t
know whose. He takes an item from the glove compartment. It's wrapped in a cloth
which he unfolds revealing a small revolver. The cloth is an important detail
as it suggests that he is not a thug but an everyman who probably has this
small handgun for security purposes only, tucked away at the back of his sock
drawer. Dufresne takes a consoling swig of bourbon, so, something has upset him – a lot –
judging by the gun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj25pBBQxunu39OftZkZcIKgvHSXN9GRhcqwwtvF2ZPpTC8iB4iSqxOyGrrrkrARvWpgoCp1qj41-I2O90USMu0zktKkuL-1DhOm9Vb-DBSMrgdAosiXyIEzVpDkXxtsN7OjiSYMGHi7Bs/s1600/Slide2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj25pBBQxunu39OftZkZcIKgvHSXN9GRhcqwwtvF2ZPpTC8iB4iSqxOyGrrrkrARvWpgoCp1qj41-I2O90USMu0zktKkuL-1DhOm9Vb-DBSMrgdAosiXyIEzVpDkXxtsN7OjiSYMGHi7Bs/s1600/Slide2.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">We then cut to Dufresne sitting in the witness
box at his trial which we learn is for the murder of his wife. Again, this
short scene is loaded with detail. We learn the specifics of the case through Dufresne’s
steely testimony and the prosecuting lawyer’s cross-questioning. We also
discover more about the type of man Dufresne is. Cold but according to him, not
a murderer. And smart too with a quiet defiance. He’s on trial for his life yet
when the prosecutor suggests it’s a little convenient that the unused gun Dufesne claims
to have thrown into the Royal River (placing the action in Maine) cannot be
found, Dufresne snaps back that as he is innocent, it is decidedly inconvenient
for him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVCfIKXx8m6oa40Rky3P1-yYALMCfcf34FwQi2jcT-9pg2rDnngvp1522jS0B_69ITF-Bzps_EosuJBNBA_kSKXSY7xoQTw8Q6k8ea7mM-wrfIu7TO2dBEwzuZN70OUFLfbs3ZvZoVEA/s1600/Slide11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAVCfIKXx8m6oa40Rky3P1-yYALMCfcf34FwQi2jcT-9pg2rDnngvp1522jS0B_69ITF-Bzps_EosuJBNBA_kSKXSY7xoQTw8Q6k8ea7mM-wrfIu7TO2dBEwzuZN70OUFLfbs3ZvZoVEA/s1600/Slide11.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">As well as setting up the pertinent details of Dufresne’s
case this opening sequence also suggests his subsequent innocence with the song,
<i>If I didn’t Care</i>, whose lyrics place a
question mark over his apparently obvious guilt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">We then meet Morgan Freeman taking the first of
four parole board interviews and with that we are introduced to two important
characters, Red and Shawkshank itself. And that’s what you’d miss if you
arrived just six minutes late. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRCfccYn7La6ueRUjmgOOUbU6z3x1yisbH0heZht5m05qo15rwg1DnvNl08DQJGIeTlRsEu2IaQOfGV78s8l0Wdtgf2oKSqLvMLD3eN-flWnqk4PHF5o-xqLqtsXqFJqsTKML0ZwNLY00/s1600/Slide4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRCfccYn7La6ueRUjmgOOUbU6z3x1yisbH0heZht5m05qo15rwg1DnvNl08DQJGIeTlRsEu2IaQOfGV78s8l0Wdtgf2oKSqLvMLD3eN-flWnqk4PHF5o-xqLqtsXqFJqsTKML0ZwNLY00/s1600/Slide4.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">The opening of <i>Ghostbusters</i>, directed by Ivor Reitman, is a masterclass in visual
storytelling. There’s a wealth of character and story information crammed into
this slick opening sequence beginning with a wide shot of a gothic-looking
municipal building. The camera slides past a stone lion, a reference to the two
lion-like monsters that will terrorise New York later in the film. The camera
settles on the engraved words, New York Public Library. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
We then see an atypical librarian complete with sensible
bob and drab cardigan, wheeling a wooden trolley between tables collecting
books. She descends the stairs to the basement as the eerie score creeps in. As
she moves between the cramped shelving, behind her, a book slides unaided from one
shelf to another. She is none-the-wiser but we, the audience know, something
very bad is about to happen. This is a perfect example of dramatic irony, where
the audience know more than the character they're watching. We want to scream “Lady,
get the hell out of there!!” but by the time she turns, the books are
already nestled in their new location. “Run lady!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Interestingly, there hasn’t been a word of
dialogue at this point and there hasn’t even been a funny moment. This confident
filmmaker is letting us know that, yes, this film may have several powerhouse
comedic talents among its number but it’s also gonna be scary too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5kNwh97SmWaLDxabfdd1Rcem3xmrMFqDtStr0ui4Jm2s0amcVX_K7liHclVRKB-8RVFsHpkKK9eKX8vqIe5f6U1UwHJMHe72uZzz_DyBlM-3cBbVAiSudR-ZGAYZTG6oVG4_xwjofVdE/s1600/Slide5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5kNwh97SmWaLDxabfdd1Rcem3xmrMFqDtStr0ui4Jm2s0amcVX_K7liHclVRKB-8RVFsHpkKK9eKX8vqIe5f6U1UwHJMHe72uZzz_DyBlM-3cBbVAiSudR-ZGAYZTG6oVG4_xwjofVdE/s1600/Slide5.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">In blissful ignorance our intrepid bibliophile
goes to the desk to complete her task but while she is occupied with her
filing, the neat little drawers beside her (of which we see there are many) begin to
slowly open, again, unaided, fluttering index cards into the air. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The librarian, now justifiably a little
concerned, hightails it but in her panic gets lost in the cramped maze of
shelves in the basement of this old, old building. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She turns a corner and is confronted by –
something. We don’t know what. All we see is her terrified face and her
hilarious scream. “Waaaaaaaauuugghhh!!!” OK, we know now, this movie might be scary
but it’s also definitely a comedy. The iconic <i>Ghostbusters</i>
sign comes into frame and the even more iconic theme tune strikes up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">It’s now time to meet the main characters.
Again this is a skillful piece of visual storytelling. Repeating the gothic foreboding
of the library, we’re now at the Weaver Hall – Department of Psychology – a
sign tells us. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJC1RvnQwwA1X6wiUnTSrwf-N7avj_vPFEu3gaBAkNXTGPEVEt3uWdQlNa5fovs_AULOmOmuBE70JHd2Vx9Kpd0cidoDaf_ZFtmMkTGvIjGwt-RIuO8TmJjgdaUwMLQth0c6ddGjN-PU/s1600/Slide1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJC1RvnQwwA1X6wiUnTSrwf-N7avj_vPFEu3gaBAkNXTGPEVEt3uWdQlNa5fovs_AULOmOmuBE70JHd2Vx9Kpd0cidoDaf_ZFtmMkTGvIjGwt-RIuO8TmJjgdaUwMLQth0c6ddGjN-PU/s1600/Slide1.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">We cut to a door that reads “Paranormal Studies
Laboratory” under which is daubed in red spray paint “Venkman – Burn in Hell”.
At the bottom of the glass, are the sign-written names of all three doctors and indeed lead
characters Igor Spengler, Ray Stanz, and last of all Pete Venkman. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">A hotel ‘do not disturb sign’ hangs from the
door knob, a nice additional detail indicating that whatever studies are taking
place in these offices and whoever these doctors are, they are far from orthodox
in their practices and they are royally pissing people off. This is verified
when we meet Venkman conducting his “experiment” with the beautiful blond subject
and her suffering colleague who has been electrocuted by Venkman several times,
in the name of science. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRX_W_saPv2WoV_zx_rfU368OexCc3-4Xkjj8ZZ8Ji84b1w-f09y65fMVqPdZvUr1eH-ifYZ40J-nbCyG07i8Mnlb5yUBuI1OKlwOO67I4JHYpAeq8zID0AcH7oOMioU3sBQALO1HYUrw/s1600/Slide6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRX_W_saPv2WoV_zx_rfU368OexCc3-4Xkjj8ZZ8Ji84b1w-f09y65fMVqPdZvUr1eH-ifYZ40J-nbCyG07i8Mnlb5yUBuI1OKlwOO67I4JHYpAeq8zID0AcH7oOMioU3sBQALO1HYUrw/s1600/Slide6.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">We learn that Venkman is manipulating the
results in favour of the pretty young test subject, leading her to believe she
has psychic abilities. This whole charade tells us everything we need to know
about Venkman. He himself doesn’t take paranormal studies seriously and is simply
using it as a means to meet gorgeous women. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Having had enough of being electrocuted, the
fuzzy-haired subject unplugs himself from the nodes telling Venkman to keep his
five bucks. “What are you trying to prove here anyway?” He screams hysterically
at Venkman. Even with this, Venkman is mocking him but offering a measly five
dollars to be electrocuted! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Enter Dan Aykroyd as Ray Stanz, excitably
telling Venkman that they finally have a real case to investigate and that
Venkman is coming with them this time. This subtle dialogue suggests Venkman
has managed to slither out of all the other encounters, implicitly setting him
up as the skeptic who wants to stay and finalise the details of his date with
the pretty blond non-psychic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ray tells us that Igor is already there,
obviously an organized man, keen to get cracking and with that we get a snapshot of all three characters who will be our heroes for the next ninety
minutes but you missed it coz you arrived seven minutes in!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">James Cameron’s <i>Terminator 2</i> opens with a shot
of a busy metropolis, cars, heat haze, a dusty urban sprawl, more than likely
American.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qs-PcWZpt1akI-LsNAKjFUPTdK4f5z4CyVnVHkzi7tihdghoN3Bkj0RNDtC1Ochsg57QMot9P8wz0-jrkZj6ABjkBpANhKmfcJP-FwWi_erpdzf5Iz78u_Ai2RoDIHeaBUMtHxpR-hQ/s1600/Slide3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qs-PcWZpt1akI-LsNAKjFUPTdK4f5z4CyVnVHkzi7tihdghoN3Bkj0RNDtC1Ochsg57QMot9P8wz0-jrkZj6ABjkBpANhKmfcJP-FwWi_erpdzf5Iz78u_Ai2RoDIHeaBUMtHxpR-hQ/s1600/Slide3.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">We cut to children playing on swings with a menacing
droning score in the background. The image whites out and cuts to a night time
scene. We see the shell of a burnt-out car with a skeleton in the driver’s
seat. As the camera pans left to right it reveals an urban desert and we hear
Linda Hamilton’s haunting voice over telling us that “three billion people’s
lives ended on August 29<sup>th</sup> 1997” in a war that would become known as Judgment
Day. The survivors, she tells us, now face a new nightmare, the war against the
machines. At which point a metallic foot slams into frame symbolically crushing
a human skull. Ouch. The ground is littered with a sea of skulls, the unburied
dead, as strong a statement about war as could ever be made. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">You can have no doubt as to the style, content and tone of this film by now. This ain’t gonna be no comedy. This bold
palate of images, voice over, the promise of a battle yet to be won, tell the
audience to strap in for a cinematic thrill ride. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">In the background, missiles and explosions
light up the night sky and we get a glimpse of this post-apocalyptic nightmare
where man is waging an almost unbeatable war against the very machines he
created. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">We see the same swing park from earlier, buckled, broken,
kids' bikes, a roundabout, all warped and damaged by war, by the apocalypse, or
by both, who knows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">We pan up to see the terrifying skeletal frame
of one of these machines Sarah Connor refers to in her voice over. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The humans are putting up a valiant resistance. We
see they have fight but may be no match for the fire power of these ruthless machines
as we see a soldier obliterated in one shot, by the enemy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqflZc1Nz3cmhwuVwYw2fyORpjuMblBAKj0IKpogR9MKwlpwgZEfJZjFpyxn12GGtjwM7IghNCHdWtefNF-zak4wZXSM2hgE8QrZW8k3vDxipuP4GWTa1ECHBlMksnJmhVjWkvC40CRzw/s1600/Slide8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqflZc1Nz3cmhwuVwYw2fyORpjuMblBAKj0IKpogR9MKwlpwgZEfJZjFpyxn12GGtjwM7IghNCHdWtefNF-zak4wZXSM2hgE8QrZW8k3vDxipuP4GWTa1ECHBlMksnJmhVjWkvC40CRzw/s1600/Slide8.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">But seconds later a rebel shoots down an airborne
machine – an indication that perhaps, they <i>can </i>be beaten, a small glimmer of
hope?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">We cut to an underground tunnel, following a
man in military fatigues moving with purpose. He is saluted by every soldier
he passes in this cramped passageway. He’s the head honcho then. No dialogue
required. Everything about his status is informed by how he is treated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Sarah Connor tells us that two terminators were
sent back through time to destroy the human Resistance, the first to strike at
her unborn son. It failed, she says defiantly, the second to strike at her son
John as a child. This lets us know, this is where the story will begin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">She also informs us that “as before, the Resistance
sent a lone warrior to protect John.
“It was just a question of which would reach him first”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWYu-EuQpECA3dL8FCWWfmFGeH-9wMmnknjDWdvj0Hwy-SaamqIc2tMokaK8aNzTdxiRwQINXT2nDdgRxL5RZ9SJiSCnSCmaEGSd1cj0nGw3yRpWPxLJGE5uWplWsQPNc077Aq5s2nIQ/s1600/Slide9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBWYu-EuQpECA3dL8FCWWfmFGeH-9wMmnknjDWdvj0Hwy-SaamqIc2tMokaK8aNzTdxiRwQINXT2nDdgRxL5RZ9SJiSCnSCmaEGSd1cj0nGw3yRpWPxLJGE5uWplWsQPNc077Aq5s2nIQ/s1600/Slide9.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">This sets up our anticipation as the audience and is a great example of the first six minutes being the menu. In her brief
monologue Connor is our morose Maitr’d offering “Race against time, anyone?” or "try our special, psychopathic killing machine from the future against a kid”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The appetite is well and truly whetted in this
sequence and she’s brought anyone who didn’t see the original <i>Terminator</i> film up to date with as much
information as they need for T2 to make sense.
But we’re not done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">Over a screen full of engulfing flames, Arnie’s
credit is superimposed. Clever timing. Is he the killer or the lone warrior who
will save John? The assumption is, he will reprise his role as the murderous
machine but who knows. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">A metals shutter clamps closed revealing the
embossed words <i>Terminator 2, Judgement
Day</i>, flames lapping around the edges once again overturing the end of the
film when the Terminator is lowered into the molten metal, flames lapping up
around him one last time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">The images dissolves into the children’s park once
again, this time engulfed in flames. This is a reference to Sarah Connors’
waking nightmare, that she will not be in time to save her child – representative
of future generations, from this dystopian nightmare that she alone can
prevent. Following on from the biblical imagery connoted by Judgment Day, this
flame-filled frame looks like hell. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">And finally, from the flames, a menacing image
emerges, the metallic skeletal face of the unmasked Terminator, it’s red eyes
glowing amongst the flames. The camera zooms in then cuts to a
steely blue night time scene at a truck park. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">An electrical disturbance lets us know that
something wicked this way comes. A naked, crouching Arnie appears in the midst
of this truck park. Killer or warrior? We’re about to find out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">So, my friends, there you have it, that, in a
(big) nut shell, is why it’s not worth going to the movies if you’re gonna be
late. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’m off to see <i>Ghostbusters </i>as it is its 30
year anniversary and its playing at m local cinema! Who ya gonna call?!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Other posts you might like: <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.com/2013/05/really-love-film.html" target="">Really Love Film</a> - a short blog about the movies, <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.com/2013/08/whats-happened-to-movies.html" target="">What's Happened To The Movies </a>- a lament about some hit and miss blockbusters and <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.com/2014/02/to-be-actors-actor.html" target="">To Be The Actor's Actor</a> - about the late Philip Seymour Hoffman</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-54341429285189919832014-08-31T12:30:00.000+01:002014-08-31T12:30:00.436+01:00A Great Read<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnnrOLcEg50_5ru7W3HpK6p-mA2RPR5c3xEjFNApWUsp3uYTox17WnOGHxjPhtSZFq-fPjF42_riV2hIgvZcS7_cXH-UeFWtW03WPNF2s15ZPrmeia6cP4kJ860n3J0WZOj_zdq36u3z4/s1600/reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnnrOLcEg50_5ru7W3HpK6p-mA2RPR5c3xEjFNApWUsp3uYTox17WnOGHxjPhtSZFq-fPjF42_riV2hIgvZcS7_cXH-UeFWtW03WPNF2s15ZPrmeia6cP4kJ860n3J0WZOj_zdq36u3z4/s1600/reading.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><b><i>I just finished a great book and
it made me wonder, why don’t I read more? Here’s some recommendations and thoughts
about this peaceful pastime. <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I don’t make much time for
reading books. I’ll make a bit of space for an interesting online article. Occasionally,
I’ll pick up a broadsheet but even then, by the time I’m half way through an article, I’m
already in scanning mode. It’s rare I ever make it to the end. I tell
myself I don’t have the time (despite the fact that accumulatively I could have
read several books or newspapers cover to cover in the time I spend
scouring the net for bite-size snippets). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I used to read all the time, devouring
book after book. I was a huge fan of the <i>Discworld</i>
novels, the <i>Red Dwarf</i> series and even
the John Grishham legal thrillers, that is until I realised it was essentially
the same story over and over again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
On holiday I’d finish a
book in a day, which was a strange experience, rather like staying awake all
night. I even tried writing one a couple of times, usually getting as far as
“page 1” before getting distracted by a messy sock drawer and then filing a tax
return. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Even though I don’t read anything
like I used to, I still have a romantic attachment to books. I love the tactile
experience of reading, of turning pages, I tried reading a book on my iPad once.
It was OK but there’s something timeless about turning a piece of paper, moving
your eyes, rather than the page to read on. Once, while reading on the iPad I
licked my finger to turn the page. Sign of the times. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I want to see a bookshelf full of
books, not an empty shelf with a lone Kindle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I just spent a week in an old
manor house where they have a library with floor to ceiling book shelves and it
is one of the most beautiful rooms I’ve ever been in. The foreboding dark wood
furniture with its ornate design both terrifies and intrigues me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The battered leather couches are
practically begging you to snuggle up on them with some old tome and start thumbing
through its yellowing pages. I’d need a pipe and some slippers, of course, to do
the room true justice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I love seeing a collection of books,
paper spines, different colours and sizes all nestled up against each other, brimming with stories, knowledge, jokes, pictures, life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I stopped reading novels when I
started acting. In drama school, they drum into you that as a budding actor,
you should have a thirst for reading plays and literature on theatre. I took
this as a challenge and decided I would attempt to read ever play ever written.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Clearly this was unsustainable
financially but also my boredom threshold couldn’t handle it. As great as plays
are, they’re kinda of boring to read. It’s like staring at a blue print for 3
hours as opposed to going to the actual house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I used to love recipe books too
and how the same page would get crumpled and oil-splattered as you returned
faithfully to its instructions time and time again. I’d love just leafing
through the pictures, seeing these delicious meals all waiting, potentially,
for me to take them from the page to the stove. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I’m partial to the odd novelty
book too. The type that seems to adorn ever display stand in Waterstone's come
Christmas time. Books that tell you what to do if you’re chased by a bear or
the origins of popular phrases or detailed cartoons of inventive ways a rabbit
might, if it were predisposed toward suicide, take its own life. They’re the
kind of book that sits around, ignored until a rainy afternoon when they silently
whisper across the living room “Hey, you. Hey. Wanna know where the word POSH
comes from? I know. Read me and I’ll tell you”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Over time, my book shelves became
a collection of self-help, work manuals, black history, theatre plays and
reference books. I guess the books you collect can become a reflection of
who you are. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Books have a power of their own
and can change lives. I remember reading, <i>Feel
The Fear And Do It Anyway </i>and realising that it <i>is</i> possible to do just that. <i>The
Power of Now</i> gave me an insight into what a human being is really
constituted of and how it shows up in my daily experience. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Of late, I’ve also started
enjoying some great comedy autobiographies, among them Richard Pryor’s <i>Pryor Convictions And Other Life Sentences</i>
which plots this great performer’s remarkable history and Frank Skinner’s first
which is one of the funniest and most-touching books I think I’ve ever read.
There was one section where he describes a particular event so brilliantly, I
had to stop reading just to reflect on his utter genius. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I worked with Frank and took the
book that I’d borrowed from a friend and got him to sign it. A small grimace
flickered momentarily across his face but, as he’s a lovely bloke, he graciously
autographed it to “James” even adding a quip about James’ beloved Liverpool. It
was only after that I thought, perhaps he was a little peeved that I’d borrowed the
book and hadn’t actually purchased a copy! Well, here I am doing the next best
thing, strongly recommending it. Another great comedian’s autobiography is
Michael McIntyre’s. Love him or loath him, the one thing you can’t deny after
reading his book is that he put in the hours to get where he is. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I spent a lot of time reading up
on African-American history. Something many people black people experience is a
hunger for our history however it can be a self-righteousness minefield as it’s
very easy (understandably) to get angry and militant. Certainly after finishing
Alex Hailey’s stunning biography of Malcolm X, I felt exactly that. But after a
while that subsides but I still wanted to know more and now have a healthy
range of books on African American history. Weirdly, African history and African
British history doesn’t interest me as much and so my books on Nigeria remain
largely unread. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I find it very difficult to go
into a book shop and not buy something. At the moment, I’m really into Malcolm
Gladwell, the New York Times columnist and author of <i>The Tipping Point</i> which I read recently. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It’s a great read and another
strong recommendation. It’s a detailed study on what causes epidemics. He looks
at a number of social phenomena in his inquiry into how change “tips” and what
are the criteria required to make this happen. He is evidently a very smart guy
who’s able to assimilate a wide range of research into this fascinating study. From
Sesame Street to smoking, he unpicks social phenomena to see what mechanics
are in play to make them so popular and demonstrate why they “tipped”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I’ve recommended <i>The Tipping Point</i> to so many people
because not only is it fascinating but it’s genuinely changed the way I look at
our world. Every change has a tipping point when you think about it and it’s a
really useful concept, particularly, for those working in marketing and sales. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
One day, if I try really hard and
move all distractions to just outside of arm’s length, I hope to write my own
book. I hope that by the time I get to that, people will still be
buying physical copies rather than simply downloading them (though that would
be lovely too. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that). <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Until then, happy reading however
you do it. <o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-42703463891924680552014-08-17T12:30:00.000+01:002014-08-24T15:52:38.049+01:00No More Playing The Victim<div><br></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBwB4HMmGPTnMbHhswRAmFGrJVUHhI7KSYx77ZyBs-wtW0VlmlmtI_zBSOrKEoWE1LNwn7mYDfFyS5sMtMaPlClrUps9FwfDD3DiwnccKsUB-u_rlNWFRXLZ-PGS5nxtCDYgJgyOLeeY/s1600/victim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBwB4HMmGPTnMbHhswRAmFGrJVUHhI7KSYx77ZyBs-wtW0VlmlmtI_zBSOrKEoWE1LNwn7mYDfFyS5sMtMaPlClrUps9FwfDD3DiwnccKsUB-u_rlNWFRXLZ-PGS5nxtCDYgJgyOLeeY/s1600/victim.jpg" height="320" width="213"></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i><br></i></b></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><b><i>Getting something off your chest is one thing but when does it become just an indulgent rhapsody of misery. </i></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Someone
I know pretty well but shall remain nameless was caught drink driving. They
were barely over the limit but, nonetheless were treated to an experience of the
full extent of the law. Lucky for them, as it was a first offence their
punishment took the form of a one year driving ban and pleasant afternoon at
driving school, a fine and a partridge in a pear tree (it was Christmas time).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Months
later, when regaling the story which, by now, they could see the funny side of,
they ended their tale of woe with, " and that’s the last time I’m ever
going to help the police!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">"What???"
I said. Help them??? I thought. You broke the law and they were doing their
job. Did you go over the drink-drive limit simply to give them something to do?
Or did the legality of mixing booze and driving pass you by? Personally I
feel the authorities have been pretty explicit regarding their position on
this matter. Drivers don’t need a helpful rhyme to help them remember that it’s
considered a no, no. “Wine then beer. You’ll feel – the full weight of the law”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I found
it a very peculiar thing to say. Implicit in the statement was the notion that
in some way they were a victim of the system, an unfortunate yet innocent bystander
caught in the cross-fire of that pesky ratbag, legality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A
teacher once said to me that we are never more brilliant than when were are justifying
our poor behaviour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Playing
the victim in certain situations is very seductive. It feeds our sense of
righteousness and is a prime opportunity to fish for sympathy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Sometimes
we just don't want to be accountable for our responsibility in how a situation
has turned out so we put a spin on it that casts us as the unwitting casualty
and the perpetrator, as the Wicked Witch of the West, psychotically committed
to our demise. We even add grotesque impersonations and embellishment to
maximise our apparent victimhood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">On
Facebook recently, a friend was lamenting the poor service of Ryan Air,
a company who seemingly specialises in appalling customer service. He’d missed
his flight by mere seconds and was venting on-line about the fascist
stubbornness of the woman at the gate who refused to allow him to board. The
comments section under his post became a book of condolences longer than the
queen mother's, that was until a mutual friend posted a no-frills comment which brought
the conversation to an abrupt end. "You were late. Own it"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Wow, I
thought, harsh. At first I was tempted to make some sarcastic quip about his
abundant sympathy but then I thought, in a way, he was right. Though he’ll win
no gongs for Empath of the Year, Ryan Air are reknowned for treating customers
like eighth class citizens, therefore playing the victim really serves no
purpose. Everyone knows what they’re like. You'll never hear someone extolling
the virtues of an airline where you’re pestered to buy everything from slabs
of molten hot pizza to lottery tickets. No one gets off a Ryan Air flight
saying, "to be honest BA and Ryan air are much of a muchness". Further, the
one truism about their service is, they pride themselves in being on time.
Letting on late boarders would probably compromise their statistics. And let's
face it, if Ryan Air flights are late, then they really are just a shit
airline. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I see
and hear a lot of victimhood in the entertainment industry. In comedy you'd
think people would have developed a sense of humour (and more important a
thicker skin) about these things. However, it's easy to fall into this state as I’ve discovered first hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It
takes many forms, such as unnecessary anger that your ‘big break' hasn't
happened, blaming the powers-that-be for not making ‘interesting’ choices and picking you. Whatever
you’re not seems to be exactly what you think they’re looking for and feeds
straight into the sense of injustice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I've
heard countless reasons people feel they've been sidelined from stardom. It's
because they’re not a white guy in skinny jeans, it's because they wear skinny
jeans, it's because they’re black, it's because they’re a man and women are
getting all the breaks, or because they’re a woman and the whole thing is rigged
for men and so it continues sure as night follows day. Undoubtedly it can be
tough when it looks like everyone else's careers are accelerating and yours
seems to be in reverse but it really is a matter of perception. For every
young, white guy in skinny jeans, for example, who makes it, there'll be a
multitude who don't. What excuse are they allowed to use? My point isn't about
comedy though. There’s a broader point, about doing yourself and the people
around you a favour by not playing the victim. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It
shouldn’t need saying, at this stage, but just to expel doubt, by playing the
victim, I’m of course not talking about people who have suffered some awful occurrence.
I don’t think starving Ethiopians should
“pull themselves together” or families of murder victims, should spare a
thought for the poor murderer. There are instances when we have clearly been the
victim of something horrific but even then, once the initial shock passes and
recovery begins, how we hold the incident can be defining. Some people gain strength
and transformation from it whilst others are sucked into a mire of pain and
remain there. Even when we are genuinely victims, it seems there’s still a
choice that can be made about how we move on from that moment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">But I’m
not talking about those life-changing events. I’m really talking about those
minor whinges that we turn into epic dramas without thinking about what we are declaring about who we are and how we’re representing ourselves in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And I’m
not saying we should adopt a stiff upper lip and just take everything life
throws at us. Sometimes we need to do a brain dump, getting everything that’s
bugging us out, so that we can let it go. But there is a difference between
needing to offload and indulging your misery. While sometimes it’s necessary to
talk through a disappointment or problem, it’s another thing to slip into a woe-is-me
oration that gains mass quicker than a Swiss Alps avalanche during a yodelling
competition. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">When we
bring some responsibility to our speaking, we do everyone a favour including
ourselves. One of the most powerful things a person can do is be responsible
in and for their own lives, particularly around the events and circumstances
that show up in their space. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Of
course something's are out of our control but not as many as we'd like to believe
and if we move into being responsible rather than a victim we start to have a
richer life. If you have friends who aren't treating you well rather than weather
it and complain to anyone who'll listen, do something about it. If your boss is
a bully, rather than cry in the bathroom every afternoon, take action.
It's hard, I know but in the long term, it really is the only
workable solution.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5_pwKV0aQQu2evQj9YkUjR5Pt3kJhBFCUAMh5ISGHMSlJSn1G2x2REeI_mJd321yms-u4oRjqA9q9WluvKir4fG5ISkH5HBFcZn8wC31VlJLQ3-dQFHFABdZ7ORsZqzLHvAA2bGmbzo/s1600/Spehre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5_pwKV0aQQu2evQj9YkUjR5Pt3kJhBFCUAMh5ISGHMSlJSn1G2x2REeI_mJd321yms-u4oRjqA9q9WluvKir4fG5ISkH5HBFcZn8wC31VlJLQ3-dQFHFABdZ7ORsZqzLHvAA2bGmbzo/s1600/Spehre.jpg" height="150" width="200"></a><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In the classic
sphere of influence diagram, it clearly shows what we can control, what we can
influence and what we have no control over. Those things that annoy us but are
outside of our control of influence, we should accept. If we aren't going to
take action around something, why get upset about it? This may sound defeatist
but isn’t the futile and ceaseless complaining about something you cannot change
equially so? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Of course
there a difference between discourse and discussion and constant moaning. For
example, someone putting inflammatory posts on Facebook about a global issue isn’t,
one could argue, taking responsibility for making a difference and are merely stirring
the pot to feed their self-righteousness but a person speaking about that same
crisis at a rally, one could argue could influence and change. On further
consideration, I think the spirit in which information is disseminated also
defines how responsible someone is being. It's not an exact science but I think
we instinctively know when we're being
victims and when we're being vital. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">We all
have a little bit of a victim living inside of us, it's a facet of the ego but
it doesn't have to be the place we live from and view the world. There is an alternative.
The victim is a doe-eyed imp that tricks us into playing a conniving game which
entices its players (us) and the played (our listener) in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Next
time you catch your victim tuning up its melancholy violin, snap its strings
and just get on with what it is you need to do. Have a moan, if you need to
flush out the pity party energy then move the hell on. As much as people will
give you the sympathy you long for and the agreement you crave, a moaner is
unattractive and will, subconsciously be what people begin to label you as in
their head. “Oh here they come. Strap yourself in for moan-athon”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">What is
much more attractive is a person who somehow, despite the fact that they go through
the same turmoil, trials and tribulations as the rest of us, manages to dust
themselves off and start again. As the Japanese proverb goes, they “fall down
seven times and get up eight”. They're accountability when goings don't
go their way. They’re pleased for others even when they've experienced
disappoint. They're honest when they feel envy but never imagine denying someone
else their win, they see themselves as responsible for their path, they affect
and change what they can and accept the things they can't, they’re radiant and
solid people, they call you on your bullshit, politely, they’re a beacon in a
storm and every person, if they don't know someone like this, should get
someone like this in their lives. I'm lucky to know a few and the people who
long to continuously play the victim in their lives, are no longer in mine.
I just leave them to it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<br></div>
<br>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This is
dedicated to all the people I've met on life's journey who've inspired me with their
gracious ability “get up eight times”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div>
<br></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-63631001640818203252014-08-13T13:55:00.000+01:002014-08-14T08:59:47.558+01:00Good Night Rocking Robin.<div class="MsoNormal">
24 hours on in a Robin-Williams-less world. Misunderstandings,
sharings, tributes and mistimed jokes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for many, much of my breaking news comes from the Twittersphere. I probably read an online tribute before I even saw a news
story about the death of comedian and actor Robin Williams. Though I knew of
his struggle with drugs, alcohol and depression, I hadn’t realised the toll it
had taken on him and that suicide was now the only antedote to
his pain. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suicide. This was the element of the story that
lingered. Robin Williams, a man who brought so much laughter was, himself in
so much misery. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat quietly in bed reading the tributes, obituaries
and articles that social media was already awash with. It was overwhelming to
see how loved, all over the world, this comic genius was. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later that morning, I heard my mum stir (I’m staying with
her while back in the UK). She follows the news keenly so
I knew she’d want to know this latest information. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mum, Robin Williams has died” I called out. “Oh no. So sad” she
said, a genuine melancholy in her voice. I said “Yeah, suicide. He was so young too. Only
63”. A moment of silence then “63? I thought he was 40 something” she continued “Well,
how is old Gary Barlow?”. I sat bolt up right in bed “Robin Williams the
actor, mum not Robbie Williams”. “Oh!” She said. “It’s still sad”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled at her innocent mistake and thought that Mr Williams would have approved at the humour of this silly misunderstanding. Sometimes,
laughter is the only way to contend with tragedy. It washes away the maudlin fog that can take perminant residency if we let it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At a funeral of my dear friend, Gail I found myself in
hysterical fits of laughter in the car on the way home because one of the
ladies reading a dedication had said of Gail's generous gardening
prowess “She would come to my house and help me trim my bush and I would help
her trim hers”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gail had a particularly Carry On-esque sense of humour and
would have laughted along too had she heard this unfortunate choice of words. The hysteria was probably an
apt counterbalance to the deep sorrow we’d all experienced earlier that day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Humour around death must be dealt with sensitively but, correctly used, can be appropriate and sometimes even cathartic. Unfortuntely not everyone gets it
right as one comedian discovered this week. A joke about the death of someone
so widely admired and loved was never going to get a warm reception and whilst
I defend every comedian’s right to make a joke about any topic, equally, said
comics have to take any resultant backlash on the chin. Personally, I learned
an important lesson from the on-line interactions and justifications around the joke in question. When it
comes to news events, particulartly those that illicit high
emotion, unless you can say something intelligent, profoundly funny or helpful,
it’s best just to keep quiet. Not everyone feels they must adopt this policy but
as someone who has probably rather thoughtlessly waded in with “too soon” jokes on social media, this latest incident made me realise that making this brand of humour is not how I want to represent myself in the world. As a great
teacher pointed out to me recently, our social media posts are an extention of
our voice. Are poor taste quips about the recently deceased, what you really
want to say? Personally if I have 140 characters to say something about Robin Williams, I'd rather it was kind than tasteless. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finding powerful, hilarious, moving, thought-provoking or
downright zany clips of Robin Williams’ work from his almost 40 year career is
not hard. There’s rich pickings and many of them were shared online. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shared a couple. I didn’t want to flood my timeline with
it but there was so much great footage and photos that it was hard not to. Another reminder of the power and reach of this great man's work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I hopped onto the tube, I saw the Evening Standard
headlines about Williams and grabbed a copy, reading all the
articles about him. The sadness I’d felt in the morning, had not subsided. It
had stayed with me like a quiet hum throughout the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why was that, I wondered. I didn’t know the man. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d been lucky enough to see him live once in a tiny comedy club
in New York a couple of years ago and whilst he was good it wasn't his material that was electric, it was his presence. His legacy filled the room like the glow of a crackling fire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d seen many of his films, from <i>Good Will Hunting </i>and <i>Dead Poet’s Society </i>to the comedies <i>Mrs
Doubtfire</i> and <i>Good Morning, Vietnam</i>. I’d seen clips of his stand up, grown up on
<i>Mork and Mindy</i> but was that enough to experience this deep sense of loss that
was with me today?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well I guess it was because that was how I felt. I believe one
of the things that makes and maintains an actor's success is when we, the viewer
can observe consistant and clear themes in all their characters. For example
Tom Cruise in pretty much every role, is Maverick. He is a loner with father
issues who refuses to play by the rules and is stopping himself living up to
his potential, perhaps for fear of not meeting his father’s standards. In
some form or another you see that in everything he does. Most actors have clear
threads and Williams was no exception. His was an otherworldly quality, a seer,
a clown with a powerful intuition for the human condition, a soft, sweet soul
that sometimes felt like it was simply passing through this world, providing us
with the tools to grow and be happy and then simply moving on. With that in
mind, it’s no wonder he won the role of the alien, in <i>Mork and Mindy</i>. And in
Mork's reports back to Orson on human life, he would marvel at the strangeness and idiosyncrasies of human behaviour. I wonder if there were echoes of that in
William’s own life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Without getting too
deeply into spirituality, I do believe that we are all simply an expression of
the One (interpret as you will) which made me continue to ask, why, if I believe we all come from and
go back to the same thing, the great Oneness (what ever that is) why was I so affected by his passing, and I think it’s because each individual may well be a part of the One but
they are still unique and irreplaceable. There has never been and never will be
someone quite like him and it is this that makes me sad. We are all
expressions of the whole and the sadness is in the fact that that particular expression, that
specific candle has been extinguished never to flicker again. That’s why we cry
for people we don’t know, for celebrities that have passed. For though they’re
not aquantances, we do still have a relationship with them. Sometimes, we know
deeper secrets about their lives than people in our circle of friends.We know of the battle with drugs, drinking, the marriages, the divorces, the rehab,
the career highs and lows. I realised though we may never have spoken to a
person, it is possible to still be in relationship with them so that, when they
pass, it is a real and genuine loss. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend, Seb, a television editor and blogger, posted a piece
this morning. It was about a man who’s mother had commited suicide and how he
used Robin Williams’ passing to explain this to his young daughter, something he
had wanted to do for sometime. Read it <a href="https://medium.com/@Bastie007/one-last-good-deed-by-robin-williams-c1448389dfcf" target="_blank">here</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I read the blog, I thought, that sounds exactly like what
happened to Seb… hang on, Seb has a seven year old daughter… and he’s married
and it slowly dawned on me that this eloquent and touching piece he’d shared had
been penned by his own hand. Tears slowly flowed down my face as I read his
beautiful account of the conversation he had with his young daughter on this most
difficult of subjects. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those tears were for the beauty and candor of the piece, for
my friend’s five year old self who lost a mother and for Mr Williams so loved,
now gone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later that morning, at my mum’s house, after I’d clarified
that it was not Robbie Williams that had died, my mum, out of the blue said “Now,
is he a judge on <i>Dancing On Ice?</i>”. “No, mum” I said. “That’s Robin Cousons”.
RIP Mr Williams, whoever you are. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-26346032858755390102014-08-10T12:30:00.000+01:002014-08-10T12:30:00.242+01:00My Top Five Worst Jobs Ever - part 2<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLUZrL4bB_bB3M9T4L8dkCLAqPPZlkXJRQA8lEvUITUOBgbdEVunxpIFQckS7m7Ph7eAo6pmE1m9Q7OPu3wHqGnmtwODZaCHgNGg0lkR1VJ1XuOB4Z_kP5CFnkLPKIoHjTRKF2B4MthY/s1600/jobs+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLUZrL4bB_bB3M9T4L8dkCLAqPPZlkXJRQA8lEvUITUOBgbdEVunxpIFQckS7m7Ph7eAo6pmE1m9Q7OPu3wHqGnmtwODZaCHgNGg0lkR1VJ1XuOB4Z_kP5CFnkLPKIoHjTRKF2B4MthY/s1600/jobs+2.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><b><i>This week I complete my litany of awful jobs (and one near-miss)</i></b><b><i> </i></b><b><i>including a stint as a tequila girl and an almost-stint as a </i></b><b><i>massage mugger, a magger if you will. </i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
On the path between leaving school and becoming a professional writer and performer, I tried my hand at selling but soon realized, that I am not and may never be a natural sales woman. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>London calling</b></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I saw a job ad in a London paper, probably the Evening Standard when it was still an innocent nightly rag that hadn’t shat all competitors out of existence. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It must have been a good ad because it prompted me to take action. It probably said something like, “Hey Andi. Want to make a stake of cash selling stuff? Then call this number NOW!”</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Who wouldn’t respond to such scintillating copy, especially if it addressed you by name. The ad offered training in selling payphones to small businesses. It guaranteed healthy commissions, flexible hours and great prospects. I quickly calculated that if I shifted one hundred of these a day (which would be no problem seeing as I was awesome) even though I’d never sold a thing in my life, I could probably buy my own flat in Mayfair or Park Lane or at the least, in one of the Monopoly board's green streets such as Oxford or Regent. In the words of Del Boy, I’d be a miwyonaire. I was more than a little optimistic about my ability to sell. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I rang the number and was summoned in for a “training session”. It didn’t occur to me that this could all be some pervert's elaborate trap - a pervert with a taste for unemployed sales women. As I ascended the stairs in the dank old office building, I figured, if it was a pervert's lair, he had very low self esteem. These offices were grim. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I got to the room I was looking for, the training was just about to start. </div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At the front was an overweight bloke in an ill-fitting, cheap suit that had been pulled out of shape by his oddly shaped body and his need to carry every key ever made in his trouser pocket – I assume it was a bunch of keys - am I right, ladieeeez (it was either that or a very nobly penis. Hmm, who's the pervert now?).</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Anyway, he proceeded to tell us about the phones and how we’d go about flogging them. I was only half-listening as I was drafting the blueprint for my Grand Designs country pile. Bad Suit held up the glossy marketing brochure and handed it out for us to check out. The trainees passed it from one person to the next doing an exaggerated “hmm this looks incredibly interesting” face before passing it on to the next person who'd nod vigorously like the Churchill dog. 'wow, sleek stylish design, hassle-free operation'. I played up my part up by pretending I didn’t want to let go of the brochure, continuing to read it as I passed it along. Oscar worthy 'I’m interested' acting.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
</div>
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The trainer asked for a show of hands as to who’d ever done a sales job before. A smattering of misshapen suits raised their hands. “I’ll give the sales literature to you guys then” he said. “?” I thought. Bad Suit began to hand out the glossy marketing materials to the other bad suits. I looked around the room at my fellow, inexperienced trainees and saw my same confused expression mirrored back in their faces. Surely, our collective thought bubble read, if we’re the inexperienced ones, we need all the help we can get?? This was like giving Usain Bolt rollerblades. After a few more useless tidbits of information, the trainer sent us on our way, brochure-less bar the chosen few. </div>
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Still, I remained enthusiastic about my chances and went immediately to a local newsagent that afternoon to sprinkle my saleslady gold dust over his confectionery-peddling cabin. This was the most optimistic I would ever be about making a sale ever again. </div>
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“No thanks” he said, before I’d even finished my garbled pitch. I tried another two newsagents and by the time I got home, I decided that my telephone sales career was over. </div>
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<b>Care for a shoe shheeeiiine</b> </div>
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I fared a little better a few years later when a friend directed me to an Ideal Home Show exhibitor that needed people to sell their wonder product, Urad, a miraculous shoe polish that could clean practically any material - as long as it was leather or suede. </div>
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The training took place during the pre-show down time. We learned everything we needed to know about this beeswax-based cleaner, we also learned that we got paid about a tenner per pot of polish sold and if we shifted more than ten, we got a £10 bonus. Like a difficult labour I'd forgotten how painful selling had been and I optimistically took the job. </div>
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We had to arrive before the show opened to draw lots as to which seat on the stand you were going to take. Everyone wanted the corner pitch facing out into the home improvement bedlam that is the Ideal Home Show. This way, you encountered foot traffic in all directions. </div>
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It’s amazing how quickly you acquire instincts about your quarry when you’re selling in an environment like that. You quickly learn to assess who is likely to splash out twenty quid for what is essentially shoe cleaner, who might have a leather sofa that hopefully has biro marks on it that they’ve tried unsuccessfully to remove, “Well watch this” we'd say and with a flourish take out a bic pen and scrawl on a piece of leather swatch, praying that it would come off when we applied the polish, the punters looking on with a mixture of skepticism and vague curiosity. </div>
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You also learned not to take an hour for lunch because that was prime selling time being frittered away. Instead I’d scoff down a sandwich or a bowl of soup then get right back on my stool “Free shoe shine!? Free shoe shine!?” we’d bellow at people above the cacophony of home entertainment systems and dicing, chopping, slicing food processors. </div>
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I was an average seller, I think anxiety, as always clouded my ability to close some deals. I wouldn’t have made it as a car sales person. They never have a “pleeeeeaaassse buy something from me” air about them. </div>
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Once I got my patter down, some days were fun (mainly the successful ones), if a little back-breaking being hunched over, staring at one pair of shoes after another. A high point was when a guy rocked up to my stand in filthy tennis shoes. Originally, they were probably white but were now so green that he’d either mown ever lawn in a 30 mile radius of his house, or literally just kicked Kermit to death in some anti-frog hate crime.</div>
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I had no expectations but even I was impressed when I started cleaning his trainers and they came up box-fresh white. The sale was a doozy. A low point however was when I took my suede cleaner to a young girl's shoes and ended up ruining them. Though clearly home counties middle class, her mum explained these brand new suede shoes were the only pair she had. I confidently churned out my patter and sprayed on the cleaner. The shoes turned a deep green but instead of reverting back to their normal colour, they stayed that same murky green. I smiled nervously, “give it a minute” but even after ten minutes and a walk around the exhibition, the colour hadn’t changed. The girl was now in tears, with one show about 30 shades darker than the other. I felt awful. Luckily, my boss stepped in and agreed to cover the cost of a new shoes. </div>
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Luckily for my sanity, the Ideal Home Exhibition is finite - three intense weeks of frenzied selling and impulse buying. When it was over I was relieved. Though I knew I never wanted to do it again, I made some handy extra money even though I never ever got that corner spot.</div>
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<b>Ibiza Angels</b></div>
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Again in need of cash, and once again on a recommendation from a friend, I contacted Ibiza Angels, a company that sends its (female) staff to night clubs to give clients head massages for a voluntary donation. I mean seriously, who the hell wants a head massage in a night club? "I really need to wind down after that twerk". Well, apparently there were people who did, and, I was told, Ibiza Angels often made big tips off celebs in the VIP section, news which seduced me into giving it a try. </div>
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More training, this time in how to rub people’s heads. Yeah, yeah, I get it.They asked me to come in for a final test after which I'd be assigned shifts. Or so I thought. Following the training, I was told that my “ethnicity” wasn’t in vogue with their clientele who were more into Brazillian girls at that time. Apparently it went through phases and black just wasn't where it was at right now. I was livid, firstly because I’d taken time off my temping job and lost money to do their pointless exam-for-morons and more importantly the fact that I’d been lead to believe that being good at the job was enough to qualify me to give their pseudo massages. I had a good mind to report them to the Commission for Racial Equality, just to make life shitty for them but in the end, I realised CoRE probably had better things to do. It was around the time the Stating-The-Obvious report on institutional racism within the police came out so I imagine they had their hands full. </div>
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<b>Time for Tequila</b></div>
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Through friends I've been a tour guide for American students, worked in hospitality where I spilled champagne down a woman's back at Madam Tussauds, worked in a pub, been a temp, a PA, a cook, a baker, a candlestick maker but by far my worst job was as a Tequila girl. It’s clear that though I have a huge capacity for training, I have none for learning by my mistakes as this was yet another opportunity brought to me by a friend. (perhaps I need to get new friends!). </div>
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I was told you could make a stack of cash simply by going round bars tricking people who were having a perfectly lovely evening, into drinking a disgusting cocktail of tequila and a mixer… in other words, watered down tequila we're mindful to call shooters, not slammers, or shots.</div>
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The uniform, a mini skirt and tight top, already had my nose wrinkling in disgust, the ungodly cocktail even more so, the pubs and bars I had to got to, further still. </div>
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My first night was at a pub by the Old Street roundabout on a Friday. I wasn’t sure I was ready to cope with a Friday night drinking crowd. Luckily the pub intuited this and helped me out by being an empty dive. What should have been a lively exchange between an exuberant throng of punters became me pestering the two groups of drinkers who were trying to enjoy a quiet catch up. </div>
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Not to worry, next time would be better I told myself. The Vibe Bar in Shoreditch but again, I started to become aware that sales was not my strong suit. Further, no one wanted my cloudy tequila swill. I didn't so why would they?</div>
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The final straw was one night in a Liverpool Street bar and I already wasn’t in the mood to go round bothering drunk office workers who were surprisingly not open to adding some murky alchoholic shot to their drinks list. Being shooed away by a guy, sans eye contact tipped me over the edge. I got my boss, Marianna, on the phone and told her I quit and it felt great. I’ve seen this happen in movies but never done it in real life. I’ve always been quite responsible about that sort of thing working my notice, saying my good byes and getting a big card with messages from fellow employees I don’t know, but this time, I was going out soap stylee. I couldn’t take it anymore, I was out of there. Marianna begged me to finish my shift which I did, tequila in one hand, cigarette in the other, chatting with punters. Weirdly, that was the most tequila muck I sold the whole time I did the job. </div>
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I went through two phases of shitty jobs, once when I left school and wanted my own money then again when I changed career from working in post production and having a regular job and income to becoming a performer. As much as I bemoan these jobs, I’m still massively grateful that I had them, even the ones that were horrific, like the telesales company where I had to pretend to work for various companies and set up marketing meetings for them, or the burger flipping, the many hours on reception desks, the hospitality work where I learned to carrying three plates at once and do silver service. I’m grateful for all of it. It put hairs on my chest (as it were), taught me life skills and gave me an inordinate gratitude for what I have now. I hope I never have to go back to that life, but if I do, I reckon I could still shift a few pots of shoe shine or pull a decent pint of Guinness. </div>
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When I read about celebs making their kids take on grunt work such as the Beckhams encouraging Brooklyn to take a job as a barista, I think good on them. It'll keep him grounded, teaching him some core values, common sense and at the end of the day, there's worse people to have serve you a coffee in the morning. </div>
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Other posts you may enjoy: <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2014/08/my-top-five-worst-jobs-ever-part-1.html">My Worst Jobs Ever - Part 1</a>, <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/why-artists-will-always-work-for-free.html">Why Artists Will Always Work For Free </a>and <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/from-desk-to-dance.html">From The Desk To The Dance</a> - about leaving my office job to become a performer</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-38674852224691964182014-08-03T12:30:00.000+01:002014-08-11T22:42:48.624+01:00My Top Five Worst Jobs EVER - part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEVHDMF4xitgrCIJAS_rfTRBlStRSPv_2G0cxmtZpsD2SJRJ1rAtdrljdH3paCviwWC3KrWCsbFEhbjRdFaoWGQU4E_EhleyTwSct9tEyZasQh02qsuvmQ8jodbM8Sk66xh2JDiYWsYo/s1600/jobs+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEVHDMF4xitgrCIJAS_rfTRBlStRSPv_2G0cxmtZpsD2SJRJ1rAtdrljdH3paCviwWC3KrWCsbFEhbjRdFaoWGQU4E_EhleyTwSct9tEyZasQh02qsuvmQ8jodbM8Sk66xh2JDiYWsYo/s1600/jobs+1.jpg" height="320" width="245" /></a></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-GB">This week, I was
reflected on the world of work and some of the jobs we take to get us through
lean times. In this two part post, I talk about my “favourite” worst five jobs.</span></i></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Unless
you’re lucky enough to have been born into a dynasty or have minted parents,
the likelihood is, at some point you’ll have to do a crumby job
when you start making your own way in life. Often they’ll
be a far cry from the career you optimistically claimed for yourself in primary school. My memory may be hazy but becoming a dab hand at making
egg McMuffins was never on my to do list back then. Nonetheless, aged sixteen,
that is exactly where I found myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><b><i>McDonalds</i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">After
leaving school I desperately wanted my own money. To me, it meant independence.
No more asking if I could do something or go somewhere plus
I had a niggling suspicion that my mum’s purse was not bottomless. So, one
night, after dragging my friend, Rosie out to meet Bobby Brown (pre-crack habit)
at Capital Radio’s Euston road studios, on impulse, I announced I was going to
get an application form for the McDonalds, nearby. Rosie, a staunch vegan made
her objections abundantly clear. “What, you can’t!!!!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">She grabbed my arm and
started pulling me away from the evil golden M’s. For about ten minutes, we
continued this slapstick one-sided human tug-of-war, me trying desperately to wriggle from her grasp and get a finger to the door of the
restaurant, her yanking me away toward the tube. A man inside watched us with a
plain look on his face like “that girl <i>really</i>
wants a big mac”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Cut to a
month later and I was being handed my uniform and giving a tour of this tiny store. The whole thing had echoes of the pilot episode of <i>Orange is the New Black</i> with the current inmates eyeing up the fresh
meat. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">It was my
first job and I was really nervous! I got scheduled for a few shifts to see how
I got on. A fortnight later and my first payment hit my bank account. </span>£88 (I’ll
never forget) like a shot of financial adrenaline. I couldn’t believe it. I
printed out a balance statement from the cashpoint… then went straight to the
shops and spent half of it, largely on crap I didn’t need but was so
overwhelmed at having nearly £100 that was all mine, that I just freaked out (the concept of paying my mum rent hadn't yet entered my naive head).</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At work, I
learned the ropes and was soon finding my flow and even enjoying working there.
Once I’d gotten over my chronic shyness, I started to make friends and really
enjoyed having some spare cash. I even announced to my brother that I was now
considering a career in McDonalds. He was far from impressed which, at the
time, surprised me. Who wouldn’t want to work in a place where you could get a
free big mac every day, I thought. What’s up with this guy?? But as quickly as
my love affair with the golden arches started, it ended. I began college and was
working two days a week in between my classes and had started to get this
nagging suspicion that working in McDonalds was shit. In fact, I would go as
far as to say, I hated it. For the first time, I became aware of the monotonous repetition that awaited me. Chris Rock summed it up best in his routine
about working at Red Lobster, a US restaurant chain. In it, he says, he would treat himself to
not looking at the clock so that when he finally did, several hours would have
passed however, whenever he looked, it was always only ever five minutes later. Anyone
who’s ever worked in the restaurant sector can probably relate to that. It’s like you’re
running on Jupiter time with every minute seemingly lasting a day. You leave
work smelling of burgers, it’s what you eat for lunch, it’s what you serve, it’s
what you see, day in and day out so when it came to finally leaving McDonalds
for the last time, I was definitely loving it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b><i>Cab
controller<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">When playing
in the streets of West Ham as a kid, I wished I’d paid more attention to the road names.
It would have stood me in much better stead when I got hired as a cab
controller at a local taxi firm ten years later. It was the summer before my
final year at college and I needed some spends. My neighbour, a young Asian lady
called Jit, told me that her boyfriend was looking for a cab controller because
the previous one had spontaneously combusted or something like that, I can’t
remember the exact reason. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">She told me
the job was really easy. “All you have to do is give the driver at the top of
the list the next job that comes in then when he’s on his way he tells you he’s
POB”. I asked her what POB meant. “Dunno” she said. Okaaaay. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I met her
boyfriend who concurred that it was straight forward work and that it was
really for someone who was after a second job. He hired me there and then. It was a bit like in Eastenders whenever Ian needed
help in the café. The whole “I need a job”, “here’s your interview”, “when can
you start?” conversation would happen all in one scene that would end with
Ian looping an apron around the person's neck and telling them to start there and
then. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was on
the day shift, 6am to 6pm. I’d never gotten up that early for anything in
my life (except Alton Towers) and I did not like it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The cab
office was a rough and ready basement on West Ham Lane. The controller sat in a
windowed box, like an insect enclosure at the zoo. It seemed that part of the ritual
of being the new girl was to have every driver try to have sex with you. I took
to dressing as dowdily as I could which made literally no difference (remember, this was pre-minicab licencing). In
addition to keeping a watchful eye on the “handsy” cabbies, the owner had, what
can best be described as a psychotic wolf/ Alsatian hybrid in the back yard. So
untrained and unruly was this hound of Baskerville that the one time I saw him
take this dog for a walk, it went wild in the cab office, the drivers pinning
themselves against the back wall to avoid having their throats ripped out. I
smiled sweetly from inside my glass enclosure.
After, I looked at the dog saliva on the outside of the glass and wondered if I
was cut out for this job. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When I took
this gig I thought I had a much better working knowledge of my local streets
and landmarks than I actually did. On one occasion, I had a call from an old
man asking to be picked up at the railway. I sent a driver to Stratford station
but there was no one waiting. The man called back saying he was still at the
railway. I told the driver to look in the ticket hall. Still nothing. It was
only on the third time of calling that I figured out he was
actually at The Railway Tavern not… The Railway station. Ooops. He wasn't best pleased. Lesson learned, never keep an alcoholic from his ride home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">At the end
of the week, I collected my salary. </span>£60. I felt that there should have been a
danger money bonus on top of this. Week two was no more enjoyable and when one
of the drivers doodled over my copy of Empire magazine (this was back when
Empire magazine was good and you could actually trust their reviews), I realized,
that was the last straw.</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was working 12 hours days, 6 days a week for </span>£60! Economics wasn’t my strong suit but even I could see it was a shitty deal.
The owner had told me it was a good second job. How was that even possible, unless
your other job was sleep research subject. It was ludicrous and I was pissed
off with myself that it had taken me nearly two weeks to figure out what a
shitty deal it was. McDonalds were paying £3.60 an hour and there wasn’t a rabid
dog in sight (excluding whatever they put in the burgers). I quit immediately,
thanked him for the “opportunity” and spent the last few weeks of my summer holiday
gratefully flipping burgers at the Oxford Street McDonalds near John Lewis.</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Next week,
I take on selling and realise that I may not have the knack AND my worstest,
worstest job EVER<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Other post you may enjoy: From the <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/from-desk-to-dance.html">Desk to The Dance </a>- my journey from a desk job to performer, The <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/the-cat-that-got-dream-part-2.html">Cat The Got The Dream - Part 2</a> - An interview with artist, Carly Ashdown about how she changed lanes and become a painter and <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.com/2014/05/why-artists-will-always-work-for-free.html">Why Artists Will Always Work For Free</a> and of course, <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2014/08/my-top-five-worst-jobs-ever-part-2.html">Worst Job - part 2</a></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09360568846630713473noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2998170988042649652.post-60525874172291858522014-07-20T12:30:00.000+01:002014-07-20T12:30:01.418+01:00Life as A Lone Wolf<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQ9ndsqpTJUynB474SL_mVGo9DyjRRtRRuq2UJkXnisSI1kVpie8RTClI4sK0uc6d3mvFY1usTVtLdKi6RCzf0PgiPea5hS76KDhyphenhyphenNfEeZhoYn_bFW4AqIJoq72gA1sWHY4hQFyNlaHk/s1600/wolf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQ9ndsqpTJUynB474SL_mVGo9DyjRRtRRuq2UJkXnisSI1kVpie8RTClI4sK0uc6d3mvFY1usTVtLdKi6RCzf0PgiPea5hS76KDhyphenhyphenNfEeZhoYn_bFW4AqIJoq72gA1sWHY4hQFyNlaHk/s1600/wolf.jpg" height="320" width="209" /></a><b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I need to come out. Seems like everyone’s doing it so I might
as well confess before I’m outed. So here it is, I am and probably
always have been, a lone wolf. There, I said it. I feel so much better.</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">My first foray into lone wolfdom was when I still worked in post-production.
I was exhausted (probably from the partying and late nights rather than any form of hard work) and decided to take myself off on
holiday. I’d never travelled anywhere by myself and was utterly terrified but
not of knowable threats like getting mugged, catching some flesh-dissolving disease
or the hotel transfer bus plummeting off the side of a safety-free Spanish
mountain road. No, my fears were much more mundane. Would people look
at me funny when I came down for breakfast, I pondered as I sat in Thomas Cook with Keeley as she suggested a variety of “loveleeeey” hotels for me to choose from. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Her search was complicated by me inconveniently being a solo traveller.
It seemed that not only could there be a high social embarrassment price to pay
but a financial one too in the form of the oxymoronic <i>single supplement</i> which is not a multi-vitamin for staving off loneliness
but a whopping charge hotels levy on single occupants for having the audacity
to holiday alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Eventually, Keeley found me a sea view apartment with a large balcony
that wouldn’t bankrupt me. “Loveleeey”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Even though I told her I was delighted and smiled enthusiastically,
inside I was screaming, people are going to stare the shit out of me at
breakfast!! Children will point and run away. The hotel staff will probably put me on unofficial suicide watch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“All booked for you”, Keeley beamed and in that moment I wondered if
there wasn’t a simpler, less fraught way of dealing with my exhaustion or that maybe
my randomly bursting into tears wasn’t fatigue but an
avant garde expression of joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But it was booked now. There was no going back and in a way (a very
small way – small like Robin Thicke’s latest album sales small) I was actually
excited to go. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In fact, I’d already subconsciously initiated a kind of auto-didactic
training program to get myself used to doing more on my own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">One evening, for example, I decided, I’m going to go out to dinner – by myself.
There’s something very different about eating breakfast or lunch alone compared
to eating in the evening. At breakfast, you can take a book or a bit of work (or
art homework if you want to simply create the <i>impression </i>of working as I
did when I used to join my older brothers at the table while they slaved over
insanely difficult maths homework). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">At lunch, you need a breather, to escape the barminess of
your work environment. At this time, you don’t even need to pretend you’re
doing anything other than regrouping for the afternoon slog. In this instance,
the last thing you would want is to bring work with you (and anyway, doing work
whilst sat in a Burger King will only work for certain occupations. I doubt
many scaffolders try to squeeze in a quick erection over lunch – yes, all puns
intended). At lunch time, sitting staring into infinity is perfectly
acceptable. I saw a guy the other day who, after his meal, simply plonked his
head on his folded arms on the table and stayed there for the rest of his lunch
break. In fact he was still like that when I left. I hope he wasn’t dead.
That’d be awkward and a terrible advert for that particular branch of Pret A
Manger. “Try our ludicrously expensive mayo-slathered sandwiches. They’re
killer”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But dining alone is an entirely
different proposition. I planned it with the meticulous attention of a military
invasion. Subconsciously I’d recceed the restaurant beforehand, the Café Rouge
that used to be on Frith Street in Soho. I knew that Friday and Saturday nights
were out of the question as they were too busy. The gawp factor would be too
high for my fragile ego. And I needed to go in the early evening so that it
would feel more like the meal was a tag to the end of my day rather than some
random decision I’d come to after watching <i>Eastenders</i>. As though, the moment
Phil threatened to buy 'alf of the Queen Vic and the credits rolled, I’d
smacked my lips and said “Is it too late for a bowl of moules? I
think not!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">My first solo dining outing was more of a social experiment than a
pleasurable experience, my over-thinking saw to that. Once I’d got over the initially awkwardness of the maîtr’d’s
judgmental “just you?”, I then had the issue of how to occupy myself while at my
table para uno. Simply eating wouldn’t suffice. To propagate an air of nonchalant solitude I felt I had to engage in an
activity that said, “I am super comfortable on my own!”. Chowing down like a
marine with PTSD would somewhat undermine that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I thought long and hard about what effortlessly carefree activity I
would undertake at the table. Knitting? Could have a post modern irony to it.
Reading the paper? Well, it’d have to be a broadsheet to maintain my air of
being a lady what’s classy, like. I could hardly sit there thumbing through the
Daily Mirror’s tits and footie over delicately prepared seabass. But if I were
to go broadsheet, I was 100% certain I would end up dragging the bottom of the
paper through my appetizer. And newspaper ink is not and never will be a tasty
addition to grilled Camembert. I plumped for a book. I can’t remember which one
but it would definitely have been something sophisticated and <i>on
trend</i> that suggested my bibliophilia, such as <i>Affluenza</i> or <i>Sophie’s Garden</i>
(which I quickly discovered, is the most boring book ever written). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Scroll forward a few years and I now love dining alone. Sometimes, I
don’t even feel the need to knit, or read or stare (sorry, 'people watch' – which
is what people who want to sound interesting call staring. However, if you saw a
bloke in a dirty mac by a kids’ playground and he told you he was just people watching, you’d tell him to do one before you called the law,
ha. People watching. It’s staring!) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Another place I now prefer to go on my own is the cinema. Previously,
that would have been as strange as going dancing by myself (which, by the way,
is where I draw the line. There is something inherently strange about a person
in a night club on their todd. It doesn’t matter how lovely and sane they seem,
them telling you they "just fancied a dance” sounds like murderer’s code for
“you’re next”.). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The movies was always a social, group activity. Formerly as a
family unit then latterly with friends but now, as a treat to myself, I
love disappearing inside those windowless abysses and indulging in the latest
blockbuster, or when I’m trying to be all sophisticated, taking on some artsy
indie offering. I love it. Last time I even brought my own popcorn! And
why not? Their edible polystyrene has a bigger mark up than cocaine. Drug lords
should move into the popcorn business. The profit margins are insane and it’s
exactly the opposite of illegal. The only downside is you can’t
ask the drug mules to transport it in their stomachs, or up their arses for
that matter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So anyway, I’d done lots of stealth training, preparing myself for this holiday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">On the day of departure, I hadn’t accounted for the charter flight which was
like an aviated episode of <i>The
Only Way Is Essex</i>. I put my jacket over my head and slept all the way
there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">On my first night at the hotel I cowered in my room for probably two
hours under the guise of unpacking, before deciding to put my big girls panties on and go out. So, I made the
epic journey down to the hotel bar where I proceeded to experience European
measures Vodka tonics. After two drinks, I was very tipsy so I went to bed and safety. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The next morning, I tried to get in and out of the
breakfast room before the gawpers could get a good look at me. For the most
part, I’m a confident girl but put me in an unfamiliar situation and my confidence
collapses like a cheap soufflé.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">After breakfast, I hung around the pool and it was there I met Chloe who
had planned to take a group holiday with some friends but when they’d bailed on
her, she’d decided to make the trip regardless. Good for her. Chloe was very
cool. We were likeminded gals who had lots to share on being
lone travellers (<i>traveller</i> sounds so
much more adventurous but is probably overly-grand language for Fuertentura).
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Chloe and I hung out together for a while and were soon joined by a pack
of lads who, starved or female company, where keen to join us. For the rest of
the week, we became a little gang of wolves, prowling around town, going
clubbing, lazing at the beach and thrashing each other at pool. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I was glad I met them because as great as it was to have this new experience, the
thought of spending the whole week alone, was an intimidating one, especially after a peculiar encounter with a waiter who offered me coke and used placing my napkin on my lap as a good opportunity to grab my thigh!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I thought back to couples holidays I’d taken in the past and remembered
that it was harder to strike up conversations with strangers. Perhaps people assume you are
a self-contained unit, wanting for nothing, swooning at each other in a Jerry
McGuire-esque, you-complete-me kind of way. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">People on their own, in a holiday resort maybe seem more approachable,
more up for adventures or at least shits and giggles.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Now, there’s little I feel uncomfortable doing on my own (other than
clubbing – that’s never going to happen) and actually, in a world where you’re
constantly plugged in via Facebook or Twitter, the TV or text, where the fear
of missing out can leave you a socially burned out husk, I love giving myself a
bit of breathing space, some ‘me’ time, where I can just be. A day at the
beach, a trip to the movies, a stroll in the park are rejuvenating for the soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">However, it’s a delicate line between becoming reclusive and enjoying one’s
own company and something us lone wolves must be mindful of. Sometimes, I’ll
spend a few days in my flat, writing (which involves one
quarter working and three quarters eating, sleeping and watching <i>Suits</i>) and after a couple of days, I’ll
suddenly realise, I miss people! And I’ll get myself
back into the social flow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Because as much as solitary people like to think we don’t need anyone,
we do. Relatedness and community is an important human need. Ultimately, people
love being around people whether they’re interacting with them or not, which is
why the atmosphere in an empty bar is never as appealing as one brimming
with punters. We’ve no intention of interacting with everyone in the bar,
working the room like Bill Clinton at an intern induction day, but we still
prefer to be amongst people. It’s a good sign for human beings because it
means, despite the unsavoury things we do to each other, ultimately, people
love people.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;">Other posts you may like: <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/lazy-not-so-sunny-sunday-afternoon.html">A Lazy Sunday Afternoon</a>, <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/really-love-film.html">Love Film</a> - a short post on my love of the movies, and <a href="http://andiosho.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/whats-happened-to-movies.html">What's Happened To The Movies</a> - a lament about 2013's blockbusters</span></div>
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