So I have one mission for 2014: to get a smartphone. Or, to be more precise, to get a smartphone and ACTIVELY LEARN HOW TO USE IT. I have been told - for at least a year now - that getting an iPhone will change my life. On numerous occasions The Gays have threatened that, until I own an iPhone, "you can't sit with us". My current resolve is the result of this morning's conversation with the Asian Princess; I was bemoaning the fact that people send me Multimedia messages which I can't see - I just get a text saying 'Unable to receive Multimedia message'. Her response was that NODODY uses the word 'multimedia' and, in fact, nobody actually texts any more. In fact the last text message she sent was to West Midlands Transport to check the bus times - apparently it's all about WHATSAPP. Er, WHATEVER. The conversation concluded with my suggesting that, when it comes to smartphones, I am like the BHS of keeping up with the times. But no. According to Princess, that's far too kind a comparison - I am far more like Borders i.e. obselete. As she put it, "everybody liked Borders, Borders didn't do anything wrong, in fact Borders was more fun than old stuffy Waterstones.... but Borders couldn't keep up with the times and it had to shut down".
Oh right.
(Speaking of The Gays, I refuse to turn this blog into The Gay Times, but I do need to recount a conversation - convo - that occurred with The Gay Frog last week). As everybody knows, it's an unspoken agreement between Straight Girls and Gay Men that, if Gay Man were straight, he would fancy you. Actually, it often IS a spoken agreement, usually after a few Appletini's, when Straight Girl is despairing of ever finding a partner and Goodlooking Gay Man reassures her, "don't worry, you'll find someone, I'd definitely sleep with you if I were straight". That's the way the universe works. Well, apparently not everyone got the memo. Gay Frog opened the dialogue by sending me an advert for Grabone - for cheap boob jobs in Thailand. Point A - never a good way to endear yourself to Straight Girl. Conversation duly followed about the Vagina and I said, "yeah, but you'd obviously fancy me if you were straight, right?".... "Er, I'm not sure.... maybe". WTF. He then tried to pacify a clearly outraged little Jew by adding, "I'd definitely fancy you if I were a lesbian". Brilliant.
I would like to continue my Compare and Contrast theme of working in fitness vs. working at the BBC. Clearly, food is a main point of difference. I don't think I ever saw anyone in telly ever skip a meal. (Apart from the actresses, but that's another blog post). Let's juxtapose this fact against a statement I heard in the office last week - "I'm hungry. I ended up missing lunch, but I still have half a Paleo meal left over from yesterday". I actually think you would be sacked - on the spot - if you uttered this phrase in any decent production office in the Greater West Midlands region. In point of fact, I recently received an email from a BBC colleague that read as follows:
Been going swimming on a Monday and in the kids' pool is an aqua aerobics session where the instructor makes you look laid back - if I hear her 'woo' once more I'll throw a toaster into the water.
2nd point of difference: enthusiasm.
On the plus side I have discovered a game which is universally received whether you're working at the BBC or for an Elite Fitness Company - everybody loves to play 'Shag/ Marry/ Kill'. You give someone the choice of 3 people (you can do celebrities, but it's way more fun with people you actually know) and they have to decide who they want to marry, who they want to shag, and who they would like to kill. Or were you expecting something more intellectual?
The longer I am in New Zealand, the more I realise that everybody knows each other. I mean, EVERYBODY. I reckon Auckland must be like 2 degrees of Separation. You have to be really careful when gossiping - cause chances are you're slagging off their aunty. The upside of this is that all the criminals get caught. You know how in England a newspaper report on a murder/ rape will conclude "The police continue their investigations"? So that never happens in New Zealand. The article generally finishes by stating, "The suspect was apprehended buying Iced Coffee in a dairy in Whangaparaoa". I'm telling you, 'Crimewatch' would never have been commissioned in Aotearoa.
Overheard in RPM
AUSTRALIAN INSTRUCTOR: "Come on, add some more resistance. You gotta toughen up, Princess".
And that's how they roll in the southern hemisphere....
Saturday, 15 March 2014
Sunday, 26 January 2014
The Drag Queen
So I have come to the realization that, at the age of 33, I have no husband, no children, and no prospect of gaining these appendages anytime soon. I don't have life insurance, a pension, nor a pet. I am not a home owner. In fact the only thing I own, beyond the furniture in my bedroom, is a (pretty funky) red toaster. And a set of baking teaspoons. And three wigs. I have reached my early thirties unencumbered with partner or offspring, but I have somehow managed to acquire (and keep) 2 pink wigs and one long blonde one. And yet I manage to lose my HMRC tax log in code every year. WTF.
I thoroughly blame Deepthi for my completely useless selection of hair. Or, to be more precise, I blame her for the second pink wig. The first was purchased for The Hookers' Ball at Discovery Nightclub in Darwin, circa 2006. I was going for Natalie Portman in 'Closer'. Nobody got it. Although I did manage to pull the winner of Australian Big Brother 2005 with it. Mmmmm hmmmm, nothing but A-Listers. That's my second celebrity pull claim to fame. (The first is from Coronation Street. But I'm waiting til I get really poor with that one and can sell my 'night of deviant passion with well-known Corrie star' to The Sun. Or, more accurately, 'he ate Doritos and then tried to initiate intercourse under a Christmas tree in Salford').
But I digress. The second wig (blonde) was purchased, at great expense, for my 30th 'Sex, Drugs and Rocknroll' party. I decided to be Marianne Faithfull. Once again, nobody got it. The conversation generally went like this:
GUEST: Happy birthday! Who are you?
ME: Marianne Faithfull! (DUH)
GUEST: Who?
ME: You know, she dated Mick Jagger, sang 'The ballad of Lucy Jordan' from the Thelma and Louise soundtrack....
GUEST: Who?
That was fun. I should have copied my friend Ed's example and gone as Ozzy Osborne. EVERYONE knew who he was.
So the third wig is for next weekend - Jem and The Holograms. In writing this post I've come to the realization that I now own more wigs than most drag queens. I could probably advertise my services as the Go To girl for most of Auckland's transvestite needs. It's all Deepthi's fault - what with her talk of corsets and FM heels and huge hair.... this is the last time I allow a drag queen to give me advice on clothes and make-up. I am still recovering from the time I allowed my friend Phil to give me eyeshadow tips when he was going through his 'Miss Pippa' phase and advised me to wear a white base with bright red overlaid at the corners. I thought I looked amazing until a colleague asked me, in a shocked tone of voice, why my eyes were bleeding?
So I was talking to The Physio about classes and told him how The Sonchuation had personified the programs in the following way a few years ago:
That, of course, is a complete lie. I hide in Centro 3 to eat my cinnamon brioche.
(Please don't tell anybody).
I thoroughly blame Deepthi for my completely useless selection of hair. Or, to be more precise, I blame her for the second pink wig. The first was purchased for The Hookers' Ball at Discovery Nightclub in Darwin, circa 2006. I was going for Natalie Portman in 'Closer'. Nobody got it. Although I did manage to pull the winner of Australian Big Brother 2005 with it. Mmmmm hmmmm, nothing but A-Listers. That's my second celebrity pull claim to fame. (The first is from Coronation Street. But I'm waiting til I get really poor with that one and can sell my 'night of deviant passion with well-known Corrie star' to The Sun. Or, more accurately, 'he ate Doritos and then tried to initiate intercourse under a Christmas tree in Salford').
But I digress. The second wig (blonde) was purchased, at great expense, for my 30th 'Sex, Drugs and Rocknroll' party. I decided to be Marianne Faithfull. Once again, nobody got it. The conversation generally went like this:
GUEST: Happy birthday! Who are you?
ME: Marianne Faithfull! (DUH)
GUEST: Who?
ME: You know, she dated Mick Jagger, sang 'The ballad of Lucy Jordan' from the Thelma and Louise soundtrack....
GUEST: Who?
That was fun. I should have copied my friend Ed's example and gone as Ozzy Osborne. EVERYONE knew who he was.
So the third wig is for next weekend - Jem and The Holograms. In writing this post I've come to the realization that I now own more wigs than most drag queens. I could probably advertise my services as the Go To girl for most of Auckland's transvestite needs. It's all Deepthi's fault - what with her talk of corsets and FM heels and huge hair.... this is the last time I allow a drag queen to give me advice on clothes and make-up. I am still recovering from the time I allowed my friend Phil to give me eyeshadow tips when he was going through his 'Miss Pippa' phase and advised me to wear a white base with bright red overlaid at the corners. I thought I looked amazing until a colleague asked me, in a shocked tone of voice, why my eyes were bleeding?
So I was talking to The Physio about classes and told him how The Sonchuation had personified the programs in the following way a few years ago:
BODYPUMP – Raoul Moat. Sounds extreme, but she said she feels like it is a mean, threatening program, who is going to shoot you if you don’t lift the weight it orders.
BODYATTACK – the jock in the changing room who is thwacking you with a wet towel, daring you to go harder and more energetic.
BODYCOMBAT – Beyonce. Because it’s on your side.
We discussed it further and decided that in fact you could also compare the classes to novels:
BODYPUMP - Moby Dick. It's hard, and nobody really wants to do it.
BODYCOMBAT - The Emperor's New Clothes. You're dressed like a fighter but you're not actually hitting anything except air.
BODYATTACK - something that requires a very short attention span. And brightly coloured pictures. Like The Hungry Caterpillar.
That was Friday afternoon in the office.
I wish to end with triumphant news: I may work in a fitness office; I may be surrounded by Elite Athletes and encounter bowls of fruit and nuts at every turn; it might be more normal to see the legal team in spandex rather than suits... but I have still managed to instate the BBC tradition of The Chocolate Drawer. I suspect this is rather frowned upon from up high, but I refuse to bow to the (Paleo) pressure. Screw you and your clean diet and your sugar free superiority! I am going to eat this pain au chocolat and I refuse to hide! I WILL NOT BE BEATEN!!We discussed it further and decided that in fact you could also compare the classes to novels:
BODYPUMP - Moby Dick. It's hard, and nobody really wants to do it.
BODYCOMBAT - The Emperor's New Clothes. You're dressed like a fighter but you're not actually hitting anything except air.
BODYATTACK - something that requires a very short attention span. And brightly coloured pictures. Like The Hungry Caterpillar.
That was Friday afternoon in the office.
That, of course, is a complete lie. I hide in Centro 3 to eat my cinnamon brioche.
(Please don't tell anybody).
Friday, 13 December 2013
Strange Days
Let's be honest, there's not much to recommend the UK winter. When I told people in New Zealand I was coming back for a month there was much chorus of, "aw, at least you'll have a white Christmas". Er, really? I know that you all think we spend the months of December and January in some kind of magical winter wonderland, where children sled (yes, I claim my American heritage) and people roast chestnuts over an open fire, but the truth is sadly a lot less idealistic. Less red-breasted robins perched atop snow-topped branches, more massive queues in Tesco and Iceland adverts for Easy Carve Three Bird Roast (why? Just.... why?)
However, all is not lost, I had forgotten about the brilliance of British television and, of course, the fabulous British journalism. And when I say television, I am, of course, referring to "I'm a Celebrity... get me out of here!" Or, as the Chink and I renamed it, "How desperate am I to be famous again?" You can keep your Downton and your BBC 'Original British Drama', what I really want to see on screen is Alfonso from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air teaching Kian from Westlife how to do 'Carlton dance' (after initially sulking for several days and refusing to perform it), and arguing with Joey Essex from TOWIE about who is the most famous ("are we talking about the UK or worldwide? Because I am DEFINITELY more famous in Turkey"). I tell you, this is British broadcasting at its finest. I'm not ashamed to admit that I was not a little heavy of heart when it all ended last Sunday.
But perhaps that's the Bombay Sapphire talking.
The good news is that, whilst there may now be a telly void in my life, The Times has served to be a rather unlikely source of entertainment. They reported today that The Ministry of Justice has removed the offence of "being an incorrigible rogue" from the statute book. The article finished, " in case, however, one gets the idea that Britain is becoming a more accommodating country for rogues, especially of the incorrigible type, there have been 327 new offences created in the 12 months up to May - a 12 per cent increase on the previous year". Is it just me, or does 327 new offences created IN ONE YEAR sound like kind of a lot? I had no idea that there were so many new crimes one could commit in 2013. Ooh it's enough to make me want to enlist the services of a solicitor. You know, just in case.
But my favourite news story of the week - aside from the fact that John Terry buys his wrapping paper from Poundland - has to be from the trial into phone hacking, which has revealed that the Queen was incensed when royal protection officers "scoffed" her bowls of snacks. An email from the News of the World revealed, "The Queen is furious about police stealing bowls of nuts and nibbles left out for her in the BP Queen's corridor. She has a very savoury tooth and staff leave out cashews, Bombay mix, almonds, etc. Prob is that police on patrol eat the lot. Queen is so narked she started marking the bowls to see when the levels dipped". Don't you just love the image of HRH Queen Elizabeth II surreptitiously marking her Bombay mix with a black Sharpie? Austerity drive indeed. It all starts in the home....
I'm not sure it's appropriate to blog about a funeral, but since Barack Obama deemed it appropriate to take a selfie this week, I will include one 'take-away' from Wednesday. The celebrant did have a very soothing voice, despite stumbling over my sister's choice of "empathetic" which looked in danger of becoming "emphatic". Afterwards a friend was heard to remark, "didn't she have a lovely reading voice? I couldn't wait to hear the next story!" Well. Quite.
Overheard at Allpress
CHEERLEADER: Ooh when you go home you can stock up at all those cheap stores like Primark and H&M.
ME: I know, but I always feel really guilty, you know, child labour and those sweat shops in India.
CHEERLEADER: Yeah I know what you mean, but I watched a documentary and actually all the children looked really happy. I think they might really enjoy learning those skills.
ME: Ummmm.....
However, all is not lost, I had forgotten about the brilliance of British television and, of course, the fabulous British journalism. And when I say television, I am, of course, referring to "I'm a Celebrity... get me out of here!" Or, as the Chink and I renamed it, "How desperate am I to be famous again?" You can keep your Downton and your BBC 'Original British Drama', what I really want to see on screen is Alfonso from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air teaching Kian from Westlife how to do 'Carlton dance' (after initially sulking for several days and refusing to perform it), and arguing with Joey Essex from TOWIE about who is the most famous ("are we talking about the UK or worldwide? Because I am DEFINITELY more famous in Turkey"). I tell you, this is British broadcasting at its finest. I'm not ashamed to admit that I was not a little heavy of heart when it all ended last Sunday.
But perhaps that's the Bombay Sapphire talking.
The good news is that, whilst there may now be a telly void in my life, The Times has served to be a rather unlikely source of entertainment. They reported today that The Ministry of Justice has removed the offence of "being an incorrigible rogue" from the statute book. The article finished, " in case, however, one gets the idea that Britain is becoming a more accommodating country for rogues, especially of the incorrigible type, there have been 327 new offences created in the 12 months up to May - a 12 per cent increase on the previous year". Is it just me, or does 327 new offences created IN ONE YEAR sound like kind of a lot? I had no idea that there were so many new crimes one could commit in 2013. Ooh it's enough to make me want to enlist the services of a solicitor. You know, just in case.
But my favourite news story of the week - aside from the fact that John Terry buys his wrapping paper from Poundland - has to be from the trial into phone hacking, which has revealed that the Queen was incensed when royal protection officers "scoffed" her bowls of snacks. An email from the News of the World revealed, "The Queen is furious about police stealing bowls of nuts and nibbles left out for her in the BP Queen's corridor. She has a very savoury tooth and staff leave out cashews, Bombay mix, almonds, etc. Prob is that police on patrol eat the lot. Queen is so narked she started marking the bowls to see when the levels dipped". Don't you just love the image of HRH Queen Elizabeth II surreptitiously marking her Bombay mix with a black Sharpie? Austerity drive indeed. It all starts in the home....
I'm not sure it's appropriate to blog about a funeral, but since Barack Obama deemed it appropriate to take a selfie this week, I will include one 'take-away' from Wednesday. The celebrant did have a very soothing voice, despite stumbling over my sister's choice of "empathetic" which looked in danger of becoming "emphatic". Afterwards a friend was heard to remark, "didn't she have a lovely reading voice? I couldn't wait to hear the next story!" Well. Quite.
Overheard at Allpress
CHEERLEADER: Ooh when you go home you can stock up at all those cheap stores like Primark and H&M.
ME: I know, but I always feel really guilty, you know, child labour and those sweat shops in India.
CHEERLEADER: Yeah I know what you mean, but I watched a documentary and actually all the children looked really happy. I think they might really enjoy learning those skills.
ME: Ummmm.....
Friday, 8 November 2013
She doesn't even go here!
And so the time has come to discuss the most devastating bombshell of 2013. Nope, this has nothing to do with terrorism, earthquakes or Miley Cyrus at the VMA's (although I'd say that's on a par with most natural disasters). This is the news that has LITERALLY shattered my sister's world:
According to the dictionary, '"literally" now also means "figuratively".
No longer can she cite the following quote from Nick Clegg as an example of the ignorance of the British men in politics: "It makes people so incredibly angry when you are getting up early in the morning, working really hard to try and do the right thing for your family and your community, you are paying your taxes and then you see people literally in a different galaxy who are paying extraordinarily low rates of tax". LITERALLY IN A DIFFERENT GALAXY. THERE ARE LITERALLY PEOPLE ON MARS WHO ARE PAYING LESS TAX THAN THE GOOD PEOPLE OF SWINDON.
No Alana, according to Merriam-Webster, you are wrong and Nick Clegg is LITERALLY right (OK that didn't work). As they say here in NZ, sorry 'bout it.
I was chatting to Aunty the other day and he commented, "you should put me in your blog". Er, OK, what am I going to write about you? "You know, just my life and all my relationship dramas".
Right, let's clear this up now shall we? Contrary to (apparent) popular opinion, my blog is not a showcase for gay men and their various love-life dramas. Although I do love the fact that, when I'm talking to my straight friends about their relationships they will often pause at some point and ask with suspicion, "this isn't going in your blog is it?" Compare this to Homosexual Male, who will start telling me a story and finish with "you MUST put that in your blog babes".
The Blonde has given me permission to talk about the disastrous date she went on yesterday. Said date was apparently the longest 50 minutes of her life and, to make it worse, she had been set up by a mutual friend. I asked why the friend had thought it might work. "Well, I think she mistook him for being all deep and emotional. When in fact I can see he's actually just an arrogant tosspot". He told her that he'd stopped reading the New Zealand Herald because he felt that it was actually making him stupider, and will now only touch The Wall Street Journal and The Guardian. And, presumably, Heat Magazine.
Compare if you will this anecdote to my story from The Queen about Grindr. (I'm assuming you know what Grindr is. Tinder for the gays. If you don't know what Tinder is, then you're even more behind the times than me. And I don't have an iPhone). He told me that the trick is to have a catalogue of photos ready to send at a moment's notice. You have to do some serious preparation. Apparently one must set aside an evening, dim the lighting, have a glass of wine to relax, put on some seductive music (this is all by one's self, you understand) and then take some suitably sexual photo's from various creative angles so that you can reply instantaneously upon receiving a message from Gary the IT Consultant. Jesus, it sounds exhausting. Whatever happened to the Dome II and being told "my friend thinks your friend's fit. She's not a virgin is she?"
Anyway, since this blog has somehow ended up being about all the gays anyway (goddammit, they always manage to steal the show) I thought I would write a "how to" guide for would-be Fag Hags:
1. Know your Mean Girls quotes. "Fetch", "she's fabulous but she's evil", "somebody wrote in that book that I'm lying about being a virgin because I use super jumbo tampons... but I can't help it if I've got a heavy flow and a wide set vagina!"
2. Understand that The Gays say stuff to your face that Straight Girls say behind your back and Straight Men don't even notice: "Where did you get your hair done?", "Toni and Guy", "Mmmmmmm.... don't go back there"; "that's a nice belt, is it holding your tummy in?"; and (when I came home after my first semester at Leeds) "Gosh, haven't you got fat at university?"
3. And comment on your age. Recently I discovered I was the oldest person out of a group of friends. "Repeat after me. Men..... Oh...... Pause......"
4. Do NOT try and out-dance them. You won't win. Like, ever.
5. Teaching attack to them is the most terrifying experience known to man. Right before a 6am class I was informed, " I hope you're good. We WILL judge you". Don't mind me, I'm just off to the changing room to quietly slit my wrists.....
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
MALE ATTACK INSTRUCTOR TO FELLOW MALE ATTACK INSTRUCTOR:
When did you last shave your legs bro? They're out of control!
(Allegedly, straight).
According to the dictionary, '"literally" now also means "figuratively".
No longer can she cite the following quote from Nick Clegg as an example of the ignorance of the British men in politics: "It makes people so incredibly angry when you are getting up early in the morning, working really hard to try and do the right thing for your family and your community, you are paying your taxes and then you see people literally in a different galaxy who are paying extraordinarily low rates of tax". LITERALLY IN A DIFFERENT GALAXY. THERE ARE LITERALLY PEOPLE ON MARS WHO ARE PAYING LESS TAX THAN THE GOOD PEOPLE OF SWINDON.
No Alana, according to Merriam-Webster, you are wrong and Nick Clegg is LITERALLY right (OK that didn't work). As they say here in NZ, sorry 'bout it.
I was chatting to Aunty the other day and he commented, "you should put me in your blog". Er, OK, what am I going to write about you? "You know, just my life and all my relationship dramas".
Right, let's clear this up now shall we? Contrary to (apparent) popular opinion, my blog is not a showcase for gay men and their various love-life dramas. Although I do love the fact that, when I'm talking to my straight friends about their relationships they will often pause at some point and ask with suspicion, "this isn't going in your blog is it?" Compare this to Homosexual Male, who will start telling me a story and finish with "you MUST put that in your blog babes".
The Blonde has given me permission to talk about the disastrous date she went on yesterday. Said date was apparently the longest 50 minutes of her life and, to make it worse, she had been set up by a mutual friend. I asked why the friend had thought it might work. "Well, I think she mistook him for being all deep and emotional. When in fact I can see he's actually just an arrogant tosspot". He told her that he'd stopped reading the New Zealand Herald because he felt that it was actually making him stupider, and will now only touch The Wall Street Journal and The Guardian. And, presumably, Heat Magazine.
Compare if you will this anecdote to my story from The Queen about Grindr. (I'm assuming you know what Grindr is. Tinder for the gays. If you don't know what Tinder is, then you're even more behind the times than me. And I don't have an iPhone). He told me that the trick is to have a catalogue of photos ready to send at a moment's notice. You have to do some serious preparation. Apparently one must set aside an evening, dim the lighting, have a glass of wine to relax, put on some seductive music (this is all by one's self, you understand) and then take some suitably sexual photo's from various creative angles so that you can reply instantaneously upon receiving a message from Gary the IT Consultant. Jesus, it sounds exhausting. Whatever happened to the Dome II and being told "my friend thinks your friend's fit. She's not a virgin is she?"
Anyway, since this blog has somehow ended up being about all the gays anyway (goddammit, they always manage to steal the show) I thought I would write a "how to" guide for would-be Fag Hags:
1. Know your Mean Girls quotes. "Fetch", "she's fabulous but she's evil", "somebody wrote in that book that I'm lying about being a virgin because I use super jumbo tampons... but I can't help it if I've got a heavy flow and a wide set vagina!"
2. Understand that The Gays say stuff to your face that Straight Girls say behind your back and Straight Men don't even notice: "Where did you get your hair done?", "Toni and Guy", "Mmmmmmm.... don't go back there"; "that's a nice belt, is it holding your tummy in?"; and (when I came home after my first semester at Leeds) "Gosh, haven't you got fat at university?"
3. And comment on your age. Recently I discovered I was the oldest person out of a group of friends. "Repeat after me. Men..... Oh...... Pause......"
4. Do NOT try and out-dance them. You won't win. Like, ever.
5. Teaching attack to them is the most terrifying experience known to man. Right before a 6am class I was informed, " I hope you're good. We WILL judge you". Don't mind me, I'm just off to the changing room to quietly slit my wrists.....
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
MALE ATTACK INSTRUCTOR TO FELLOW MALE ATTACK INSTRUCTOR:
When did you last shave your legs bro? They're out of control!
(Allegedly, straight).
Friday, 11 October 2013
Leave Britney Alone
So, 12 months on in New Zealand, I am proud to bring you Lesson #1 of Moving Overseas: namely, that it's wise to have your post forwarded to your new address, rather than having your parents open it for you. If I can present Exhibit A to the court:
Conversation With Mr Shortt On Skype
DAD: Now look Darling, there's some mail here for you labelled 'private and confidential'. Would you like me to open it for you?
ME: Yep, sure.
DAD: Oh it's from the NHS.... Let's just get this open....
[LONG PAUSE]
DAD: Oh! They'd like to invite you for a cervical smear test.
ME: Right..... great.....
DAD: I'll leave it up in your room shall I? (CHUCKLES, UPBEAT) Well, it's nice of them to invite you!
Is it? IS IT?? It's not like I'm being invited to accept my lifetime achievement at The Oscars, they're inviting me to be lie down on a sterile white couch and be scraped with a cold metal instrument. Last time I went (at the insistence of my then-boss, who kept loudly asking me in the office, "HAVE YOU BEEN FOR YOUR SMEAR TEST YET?" - we have a close relationship) I accidentally moved my foot on the bed and planted it straight into the lubricating jelly they were about to utilise. Just typing that makes me cringe. In fact, close my eyes and I can still feel that cold wetness on my right heel; 6 years later, I'm still recovering from the embarrassment.
(At which point my sister would tell me: Get Over It).
It's kind of been one of those weeks. On Monday I was having a perfectly lovely afternoon until one of my colleagues commented, "oooh you smell nice, is that Britney?" Er no... no, it's not Britney, it's Jo Malone. Pomegranate Noir. From England. It costs about 5 times the price and (so I thought) was a very unusual and classy scent. Well, we live and learn. Apparently, I could have saved myself about $100 and bought Cosmic Radiance (Anniversary Edition) from The Perfume Shop in The Pallasades. Always good to know.
I always like discovering new ways to tell I'm in my (early) 30s. This week's gem came in the form of a Rihanna concert. Pre-Concert, it was my outfit. I was chatting with The Gay and telling him I was about to go and see Miss S&M. He cast a dubious eye over my pink paisley top and commented "er, you're wearing THAT to Rihanna?"
"Yes.... what should I be wearing?"
"Something that makes your butt look bigger and your tits look higher".
Right. Well, seeing as the last 'gig' I attended (yes, I'm aware I already sound old using the word 'gig') was Pulp, the NEC, circa 1996 when it was de rigeur to wear Converse and Diesel T-Shirt, I thought I was doing pretty well in my costuming efforts. After all, at least I now get my eyebrows threaded. None of that Romanian Peasant look for Sarah in 2013 thanks very much.
In-Concert, it was my choice of drink. Firstly I had my 2L bottle of water confiscated during the security bag search - as my friend commented, "RiRi does NOT approve of hydration" - then I got to the bar and ordered a red wine and water. The bartender looked a bit unsure at my request for wine (clearly displayed on their drinks menu I might add) and said she'd just check if they had any. I'm not sure anyone had asked for Merlot since 2009.
(At this stage I feel compelled to add that, until attending the Vector Arena, I had always thought you couldn't get any uglier people at a concert than the Birmingham NEC. I hold both hands up - I was wrong).
Since I've now been in NZ for (almost) 12 months, I thought I would take some time to reflect On The Fings Wot I've Learnt (Learned, Alana?)
Obama's out soon isn't he? I'm just off to finalise my health insurance proposal.
Conversation With Mr Shortt On Skype
DAD: Now look Darling, there's some mail here for you labelled 'private and confidential'. Would you like me to open it for you?
ME: Yep, sure.
DAD: Oh it's from the NHS.... Let's just get this open....
[LONG PAUSE]
DAD: Oh! They'd like to invite you for a cervical smear test.
ME: Right..... great.....
DAD: I'll leave it up in your room shall I? (CHUCKLES, UPBEAT) Well, it's nice of them to invite you!
Is it? IS IT?? It's not like I'm being invited to accept my lifetime achievement at The Oscars, they're inviting me to be lie down on a sterile white couch and be scraped with a cold metal instrument. Last time I went (at the insistence of my then-boss, who kept loudly asking me in the office, "HAVE YOU BEEN FOR YOUR SMEAR TEST YET?" - we have a close relationship) I accidentally moved my foot on the bed and planted it straight into the lubricating jelly they were about to utilise. Just typing that makes me cringe. In fact, close my eyes and I can still feel that cold wetness on my right heel; 6 years later, I'm still recovering from the embarrassment.
(At which point my sister would tell me: Get Over It).
It's kind of been one of those weeks. On Monday I was having a perfectly lovely afternoon until one of my colleagues commented, "oooh you smell nice, is that Britney?" Er no... no, it's not Britney, it's Jo Malone. Pomegranate Noir. From England. It costs about 5 times the price and (so I thought) was a very unusual and classy scent. Well, we live and learn. Apparently, I could have saved myself about $100 and bought Cosmic Radiance (Anniversary Edition) from The Perfume Shop in The Pallasades. Always good to know.
I always like discovering new ways to tell I'm in my (early) 30s. This week's gem came in the form of a Rihanna concert. Pre-Concert, it was my outfit. I was chatting with The Gay and telling him I was about to go and see Miss S&M. He cast a dubious eye over my pink paisley top and commented "er, you're wearing THAT to Rihanna?"
"Yes.... what should I be wearing?"
"Something that makes your butt look bigger and your tits look higher".
Right. Well, seeing as the last 'gig' I attended (yes, I'm aware I already sound old using the word 'gig') was Pulp, the NEC, circa 1996 when it was de rigeur to wear Converse and Diesel T-Shirt, I thought I was doing pretty well in my costuming efforts. After all, at least I now get my eyebrows threaded. None of that Romanian Peasant look for Sarah in 2013 thanks very much.
In-Concert, it was my choice of drink. Firstly I had my 2L bottle of water confiscated during the security bag search - as my friend commented, "RiRi does NOT approve of hydration" - then I got to the bar and ordered a red wine and water. The bartender looked a bit unsure at my request for wine (clearly displayed on their drinks menu I might add) and said she'd just check if they had any. I'm not sure anyone had asked for Merlot since 2009.
(At this stage I feel compelled to add that, until attending the Vector Arena, I had always thought you couldn't get any uglier people at a concert than the Birmingham NEC. I hold both hands up - I was wrong).
Since I've now been in NZ for (almost) 12 months, I thought I would take some time to reflect On The Fings Wot I've Learnt (Learned, Alana?)
- In one year, nobody has ever said to G'Day to me. Not even once.
- When I moved here, people told me that New Zealand was like England in the 70s. Which is a bit weird, given that most of those people weren't even alive in the 70s. It's NOTHING like England. In the 1970s or 2013.
- Unless you count the copious amounts of rain. And fixation with Coronation Street. (Coro)
- People also told me that Kiwi's didn't get sarcasm. Er, not true. For all their apparent nicety, I think most Kiwi's are actually more sarcastic than the Brits. In fact, most of the time I feel like the idiot who didn't get the joke.
- Everything can be shortened. Preso. Convo. Tammy. Coro. Unco. Bro...
- Which is weird, given that everyone generally seems to have more time here than in the UK.
- People in the supermarket here smile at you. Like, all the time. In a really genuine, non-rapey manner.
- Trying to teach in New Zealand is actually like trying to win the X Factor. I pretty much feel like I'm auditioning for Simon Cowell every time I teach. To wit, I was told by one GFM (group fitness manager), "Well, you don't bore me". THAT'S 110 PER CENT YES FROM ME! Naturally, this is followed up in the next round by I'M SORRY, SWEETHEART, YOU'RE NOT GOING TO JUDGES' HOUSES. THIS JUST ISN'T YOUR YEAR.
- In fact, I think it would be easier to run for US Presidency than it is to teach here.
Obama's out soon isn't he? I'm just off to finalise my health insurance proposal.
Saturday, 28 September 2013
Just don't mention The America's Cup
So I was discussing threesomes with my friend last week (well, what do you talk about at Sunday brunch?) and I made some interesting discoveries that I feel I would like to share with the group:
1. Apparently some people have threesomes on a Wednesday night, on their way home from the gym. While other people (who will remain anonymous) thought that midweek entertainment didn't get any more exciting than watching 'The Block (New Zealand)'.
2. Said threesome is preceded by a cup of tea in the lounge and a discussion about what it's like to live in London.
3. Having a threesome with a couple is different from everyone being single - apparently the additional person is the Guest Star. Much like our guest artistes in Doctors - who receive unprecedented special treatment, exampled by their being accommodated in The Jurys Inn on Broad St.
4. Threesome is followed by another cup of tea and further discussion of clubbing in Soho.
So now you know.
In other news, apparently the Kiwi's have several choice names for their northern Hemisphere friends. In the last week I have heard us referred to as both 'whinging Poms' and 'beige Brits'. That's nice isn't it? Need I remind you who is (still) your Queen and of the not inconsiderable fact that, without England, most of you wouldn't be here. You Invaders. And, also, you wouldn't have Cadbury's. FACT.
(I have just done some research (Google) and in fact New Zealanders aren't the only ones to have less than favourable names for us. Apparently during the Hundred Years' War the French called us 'les goddams' because we swear so much. Bloody Frogs.)
Let's return to Cadbury's though, and Fact of No Small Concern that, not only can I no longer taste the difference between chocolate here and Cadbury's in the UK, but I am actually starting to really like Cadbury's here. They even have a special Marvellous Creations out here - which I don't believe you can get back home - and I think it's my new favourite over Wispa. And I'm from BIRMINGHAM. Where is the loyalty?
I have been told that it takes a year (at least) to settle in a new country. And I have spent much of the last 12 months feeling like a bit of an alien. OK we speak the same language but that's where many of the similarities end. Why do they insist on calling the kettle 'the jug' (very confusing for everybody) and flip flops 'jandals'? Why do New Zealanders get up so ridiculously early in the morning? Why does everyone say 'nek minnit' and add 'ay' onto the end of all their sentences? How does Shortland Street manage to keep getting commissioned? And why is everyone so relentlessly happy? (Apart from the barrista at Tana Mera Coffee in Mission Bay. He's refreshingly miserable.)
However, since returning to New Zealand 3 weeks ago, I have noticed a disturbing turn of events that suggest I am becoming One Of Them. 0430am no longer seems like the middle of the night, but rather a completely reasonable time to set one's alarm for. I have noticed certain foods making an appearance on my food shelf - LSA, macadamia oil, quinoa - that I'd barely even heard of back in Selly Oak. Unless reading the 'what's in your fridge' section of Closer counts. I add coconut oil to my black coffee for 'good fat'. I say I feel 'sec' when I refer to feeling nauseated (correct usage - Alana?) and I work at Liz Mells. I will send you a tixt and let's now work the muscles of our chist. Dear god, WHAT HAVE I BECOME?
And, cause I know it's keeping you up at night....
How to tell the difference between working in telly and working in the gym
1. Apparently some people have threesomes on a Wednesday night, on their way home from the gym. While other people (who will remain anonymous) thought that midweek entertainment didn't get any more exciting than watching 'The Block (New Zealand)'.
2. Said threesome is preceded by a cup of tea in the lounge and a discussion about what it's like to live in London.
3. Having a threesome with a couple is different from everyone being single - apparently the additional person is the Guest Star. Much like our guest artistes in Doctors - who receive unprecedented special treatment, exampled by their being accommodated in The Jurys Inn on Broad St.
4. Threesome is followed by another cup of tea and further discussion of clubbing in Soho.
So now you know.
In other news, apparently the Kiwi's have several choice names for their northern Hemisphere friends. In the last week I have heard us referred to as both 'whinging Poms' and 'beige Brits'. That's nice isn't it? Need I remind you who is (still) your Queen and of the not inconsiderable fact that, without England, most of you wouldn't be here. You Invaders. And, also, you wouldn't have Cadbury's. FACT.
(I have just done some research (Google) and in fact New Zealanders aren't the only ones to have less than favourable names for us. Apparently during the Hundred Years' War the French called us 'les goddams' because we swear so much. Bloody Frogs.)
Let's return to Cadbury's though, and Fact of No Small Concern that, not only can I no longer taste the difference between chocolate here and Cadbury's in the UK, but I am actually starting to really like Cadbury's here. They even have a special Marvellous Creations out here - which I don't believe you can get back home - and I think it's my new favourite over Wispa. And I'm from BIRMINGHAM. Where is the loyalty?
I have been told that it takes a year (at least) to settle in a new country. And I have spent much of the last 12 months feeling like a bit of an alien. OK we speak the same language but that's where many of the similarities end. Why do they insist on calling the kettle 'the jug' (very confusing for everybody) and flip flops 'jandals'? Why do New Zealanders get up so ridiculously early in the morning? Why does everyone say 'nek minnit' and add 'ay' onto the end of all their sentences? How does Shortland Street manage to keep getting commissioned? And why is everyone so relentlessly happy? (Apart from the barrista at Tana Mera Coffee in Mission Bay. He's refreshingly miserable.)
However, since returning to New Zealand 3 weeks ago, I have noticed a disturbing turn of events that suggest I am becoming One Of Them. 0430am no longer seems like the middle of the night, but rather a completely reasonable time to set one's alarm for. I have noticed certain foods making an appearance on my food shelf - LSA, macadamia oil, quinoa - that I'd barely even heard of back in Selly Oak. Unless reading the 'what's in your fridge' section of Closer counts. I add coconut oil to my black coffee for 'good fat'. I say I feel 'sec' when I refer to feeling nauseated (correct usage - Alana?) and I work at Liz Mells. I will send you a tixt and let's now work the muscles of our chist. Dear god, WHAT HAVE I BECOME?
And, cause I know it's keeping you up at night....
How to tell the difference between working in telly and working in the gym
- Smiling is mandatory on the gym floor. Even if it's a rictus grin after 12 hours.
- In TV people will suspect you have taken too much of your Class A again.
- Gym breakfast: Protein shake, egg white omelette, side of avocado. TV breakfast: red bull, fag, side of Snickers.
- Conversation starters: GYM: "how's your training going?"
- BBC: "Fag break?"
- Sarcasm is mandatory in TV. And it's perfectly acceptable to explain that you have to do something for someone "because he's a c*&^". In the gym... not so much.
- Nobody at the BBC ever got excited when the cafeteria had broccoli.
- Or refused the bread basket at lunch.
- A 5am start at the gym means you should be Vivacious, Onto It, Enthusiastic and Self-Assured. In TV you are permitted to be Vicious, Off On One, Effing Knackered and Self-Loathing.
- Current buzz in the gym: "have you been to the new paleo cafe in St Heliers?"
- TV: "what's your opinion on Peter Capaldi?"
- (sorry, that's soooooo August 5. We just heard the news)
- Er... I'm out.
There is one factor universal to TV and the Gym, and in fact, every workplace I have ever experienced. When the manager is in, Look Busy.
Monday, 26 August 2013
London is not a Country
Hands up if you've heard of Coolsculpting? It's apparently the latest way to get rid of fat without surgery, and is described on their website as a "targeted cooling process that kills the fat cells underneath the skin, literally freezing them to the point of elimination". Well, I have great news. There's no need to spend $2000 (US) on getting one isolated part of your body frozen in the hope you'll make a dent in your muffin top. All you need to do is spend approximately 60 seconds in the balmy waters of the New England Atlantic for the optimal cryogenic experience. It might be the peak of summer here in Hull, MA, but the water is truly icy. I expect to return to Auckland 10lb lighter (at the very least).
It's been an interesting experience flitting from NZ to the UK to the US. In NZ I am Posh (literally, that's my nickname) and they think I have a cut-glass BBC accent. In the UK I have a twang. And in America I am speaking a foreign language. I had completely forgotten the issues I have over here in ordering anything with a crisp 'T' sound, until I tried to ask for water the other day. "What?" "Water..." "What?" [...... several minutes] "Oh, you want WAAAH-DAH". I foolishly followed up on this experience by trying to buy a butternut donut at Dunkin Donuts yesterday. You can guess how that one panned out.
When I describe what it's like living in New Zealand to my friends in the UK, they are horrified by the high-fiveyness, fist-bumpyness, general sheer enthusiasm. In the US, they are freaked out by the lack of dessert and Lite beers. In New Zealand, they think that everything in England is grey. I wanted to write in further depth about the differences between Brits, Kiwi's and Yanks, but I then read the following article by an American correspondent for the NY Times - who had been living in London for several years before returning to the states:
Even after 18 years, I never really knew where I stood with the English. Why did they keep apologizing? (Were they truly sorry?) Why were they so unenthusiastic about enthusiasm? Why was their Parliament full of classically educated grown-ups masquerading as unruly schoolchildren?
Why did rain surprise them? Why were they still obsessed by Nazis? Why were they so rude about Scotland and Wales, when they all belonged to the same, very small country? And - this was the hardest question of all - what lay beneath their default social style, an indecipherable mille-feuille of politeness, awkwardness, embarrassment, irony, self-deprecation, arrogance, defensiveness and deflective humour?
So.... anyone else bewildered by the phrase "same, very small country"? I wasn't going to bring this up, but then I had the same conversation, twice, IN ONE WEEK, regarding the fact that London is not the same as England and Birmingham is, in fact, an entirely separate city in its own right. We are, much to our pride, the Nation's Second City. (This title belongs to us and not, as many Northerners erroneously believe, to our covetous sister, Manchester). Anyway, both conversations went something like this:
AMERICAN: Are you from London?
BRIT: No, from Birmingham.
AMERICAN: But London's the capital of England right? So it's the same thing?
BRIT: Er, well.... no, not really...
AMERICAN: It's like me saying I come from Boston, when I really mean Massachusetts.
BRIT: No, you see, Birmingham is a totally different city. We're actually the next biggest city after London...
AMERICAN: But London is the capital city yes? Same difference!
BRIT: OK. I'm from London.
In other news, until I arrived in the states I had forgotten the principle source of my summer joy. Yes it's nice to catch up with family, and we can't get Entenmann's in NZ, but my favourite thing to do here is read the police log of the Hull Times. For all you out-of-towners, this is the weekly police record for the beautiful town of Hull, Massachusetts, where you apparently can't sneeze without someone calling 911:
SATURDAY. 5:32pm Manomet Ave. caller reports that there is a loud radio on in the backyard and same requests that an officer ask them to turn it down. Music has been turned down... 8:12pm Nantasket Ave. Chair is in the roadway. O/Costa reports that female is not in the area and has moved the chair to the side of the road... 10:32pm Nantasket Rd. & Seventh St. caller states that there is a young male sitting against the telephone pole. Male was waiting for a ride...
We're sincerely hoping we make it into the police log before we leave town. Plan A: have a conversation in the street after 8pm.
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
THE RUSSIAN: So when are you going to come and train with me?
ME: Er... I'm not sure.... maybe next month?
THE RUSSIAN: OK, I really want you to come and train with me. I think I can make you aesthetically pleasing.
And that's what it's like to work in a gym.
It's been an interesting experience flitting from NZ to the UK to the US. In NZ I am Posh (literally, that's my nickname) and they think I have a cut-glass BBC accent. In the UK I have a twang. And in America I am speaking a foreign language. I had completely forgotten the issues I have over here in ordering anything with a crisp 'T' sound, until I tried to ask for water the other day. "What?" "Water..." "What?" [...... several minutes] "Oh, you want WAAAH-DAH". I foolishly followed up on this experience by trying to buy a butternut donut at Dunkin Donuts yesterday. You can guess how that one panned out.
When I describe what it's like living in New Zealand to my friends in the UK, they are horrified by the high-fiveyness, fist-bumpyness, general sheer enthusiasm. In the US, they are freaked out by the lack of dessert and Lite beers. In New Zealand, they think that everything in England is grey. I wanted to write in further depth about the differences between Brits, Kiwi's and Yanks, but I then read the following article by an American correspondent for the NY Times - who had been living in London for several years before returning to the states:
Even after 18 years, I never really knew where I stood with the English. Why did they keep apologizing? (Were they truly sorry?) Why were they so unenthusiastic about enthusiasm? Why was their Parliament full of classically educated grown-ups masquerading as unruly schoolchildren?
Why did rain surprise them? Why were they still obsessed by Nazis? Why were they so rude about Scotland and Wales, when they all belonged to the same, very small country? And - this was the hardest question of all - what lay beneath their default social style, an indecipherable mille-feuille of politeness, awkwardness, embarrassment, irony, self-deprecation, arrogance, defensiveness and deflective humour?
So.... anyone else bewildered by the phrase "same, very small country"? I wasn't going to bring this up, but then I had the same conversation, twice, IN ONE WEEK, regarding the fact that London is not the same as England and Birmingham is, in fact, an entirely separate city in its own right. We are, much to our pride, the Nation's Second City. (This title belongs to us and not, as many Northerners erroneously believe, to our covetous sister, Manchester). Anyway, both conversations went something like this:
AMERICAN: Are you from London?
BRIT: No, from Birmingham.
AMERICAN: But London's the capital of England right? So it's the same thing?
BRIT: Er, well.... no, not really...
AMERICAN: It's like me saying I come from Boston, when I really mean Massachusetts.
BRIT: No, you see, Birmingham is a totally different city. We're actually the next biggest city after London...
AMERICAN: But London is the capital city yes? Same difference!
BRIT: OK. I'm from London.
In other news, until I arrived in the states I had forgotten the principle source of my summer joy. Yes it's nice to catch up with family, and we can't get Entenmann's in NZ, but my favourite thing to do here is read the police log of the Hull Times. For all you out-of-towners, this is the weekly police record for the beautiful town of Hull, Massachusetts, where you apparently can't sneeze without someone calling 911:
SATURDAY. 5:32pm Manomet Ave. caller reports that there is a loud radio on in the backyard and same requests that an officer ask them to turn it down. Music has been turned down... 8:12pm Nantasket Ave. Chair is in the roadway. O/Costa reports that female is not in the area and has moved the chair to the side of the road... 10:32pm Nantasket Rd. & Seventh St. caller states that there is a young male sitting against the telephone pole. Male was waiting for a ride...
We're sincerely hoping we make it into the police log before we leave town. Plan A: have a conversation in the street after 8pm.
OVERHEARD AT THE GYM
THE RUSSIAN: So when are you going to come and train with me?
ME: Er... I'm not sure.... maybe next month?
THE RUSSIAN: OK, I really want you to come and train with me. I think I can make you aesthetically pleasing.
And that's what it's like to work in a gym.
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