For those of you who have the luck to be my friend on Facebook - and why wouldn't you want to be, my statuses are hilarious - you'll know that I became a proper writer today. Yes, I got published in the local paper with my own, weekly column. Largely, I'll be focusing on what students go through whilst living in Swansea. We get quite a bad rap, and I thought it was about time that I helped to redress the balance.
So for those of you unable to obtain today's copy of The South Wales Evening Post but who want to read it, I've written it up here, too. Don't say I don't ever treat you.
Look at it my way...
SWANSEA, we need to talk. I know that us students and the residents have had problems - we need to clean up after ourselves more, sometimes we get a bit noisy, occasionally we bring home the odd traffic cone in a cat-like act of affection - but honestly, I think we're good together.
Think of all the good times we've had together, don't you think they outweigh the bad?
We bring so much to the local economy and support jobs, we perform volunteer work within our communities, and through the university we provide sporting facilities, produce some of the best graduates in the country, and some of us are representing you at ward level on the local council. We're here for the long haul.
Please, let me explain. we love you, from the concrete jungle of the city to the outstanding natural beauty of the Gower, from the debauchery of Wind Street to the peace of the library. We love everything about you, but the way that you speak to us sometimes... It's like you forget that we're part of this city, too.
We aren't here to be difficult presences in your lives, we just want to be loved.
So please, let's try to work this out. The Union are working hard to help us be better residents. All we ask is a little more respect - take the time to meet us and talk to us when we move in. In turn, we'll be more conscious of you and be better neighbours.
If we do something wrong, take the time to explain and help us understand; we'll appreciate it much more.
Slip ups and accidents will always happen, but we can try our best to help reduce them.
I believe in this relationship, Swansea. I think we can make it work.
Friday, 27 July 2012
Tuesday, 10 July 2012
Fifty Shades of Dismay
If you've been to a supermarket or a book shop in the last month, you'll have noticed many middle-aged women acting strangely. They may have been clasping books to their chests, giggling with their friends or hiding something under their slightly less embarassing purchases of Tena Lady and concentrated prune juice. These ladies have been bewitched. Bewitched by a dreadful piece of 'literature' - or as I now refer to it, shiterature - that supposedly awakens the mind to all that they have been missing out in their boring, everyday lives.
Originally, Fifty Shades of Grey started life as Twilight fan fiction. You hear that? Twilight. Sparkly vampires who like to assert their dominance over girls a couple of hundred years younger than them. One of the worst series of books and films in the world has influenced yet another series. The circle of life is strong in this one.
The author sets out the tale of Anastasia Steele, a seemingly-feeble, gentle minded student, who is sent to interview the infamous Christian Grey after her friend falls ill and is unable to do it herself. How convenient. As Ana conducts the interview, she becomes of some kind of 'spark' between them. Oh how I wish it had been the kind of spark that they warn you about when you use your mobile phone at a petrol station - at least the story would have finished there. Mr Grey then decides to stalk the poor girl for all she is worth just to see her again. Conveniently, Ana works at a hardware store where Christian decides to pick up some rope and cable ties for some 'DIY'. How delightfully obvious. Despite the fact that cable ties are not appropriate for any type of sexual intercourse, I would have been far more impressed had he also picked up some caustic soda and perhaps a new broom at the same time. Domesticity is sexy. Nothing makes me happier than a man with a plunger.
As the story progresses, we see how Ana starts to fall for the man who describes himself as 'fifty shades of fucked up'. Lovely. However, there is a problem! Ana, lovely, gentle, sweet Ana who likes British literature and English tea is a virgin! Now, aside from the fact that the author seems to be linking Britishness to how much of a prude Ana is at this point of the tale, I was also slightly annoyed at how she makes Christian react to her admission. A 21 year old virgin is not the end of the world, and it's certainly not something to be shocked at. I know it probably shouldn't have irked me as much, but it just astounds me that more people haven't raised this point.
Later, the writing takes yet another turn for the worse. Mr Grey seems to forget to go to work, seemingly chasing his interest around the entire country and flashing the cash wherever he goes. Ana is bought a Mac, an Audi, a Blackberry... Is there any high profile company that hasn't been discussed in this book? The author is one step away from describing a party full of high profile officials with a waiter clutching a golden plate of foil-wrapped nut-based chocolates. Although she declares her anger at seemingly being paid for sex, Ana decides to hang onto her presents; hasn't she heard of ebay?
Unsurprisingly, Ana decides that she wants more from Christian, despite the fact that he is an emotionally destructive, aggressive and seemingly slightly psychotic specimen .Even when he has beaten fifty shades of dignity out of our protagonist with his apparently 'exotic' range of items - all of which can be obtained from Ann Summers, so nothing that exciting - and she has been confronted with a contract, whereby she must agree never to tell anyone about their activities or about him. Not that keeping away is possible, what with the fact that he turns up wherever she may be thanks to his collection of fast cars, his private jet, a helicopter and, what's that? Oh yeah, his mobile phone tracking software. How romantic. Is this yet another half-arsed attempt at that old argument that girls are unable to keep a check on their emotions and can't be trusted where men are involved? Oh tell me another one, I'm bored of this old tale.
Perhaps what riles me most (and oh God I hope my mother isn't reading this. If so, hi mum! Tea, two sugars, two PROPER sugars, none of this hoping I won't notice if you leave half of it out) is the unrealistic way in which their sexual adventures are mapped out. I don't know teenagers who couldn't even manage it as much as they could, and the vast majority of teenage boys are more unstoppable than the Duracell bunny. The writing suggests that they have absolutely perfect sex, every single time. That doesn't happen. In reality there's always a funny noise or a face that makes you giggle, and no one has as good a time as Ana seems to. At least, I hope not, or I'm doing it totally wrong.
I know that writing a scathing review of this book is the 'in' thing to do, but I honestly have problems with this book. It is sexist, seemingly ignoring the last fifty years of feminism's growth in society, and it is just bizarre. Much could be said for the overwhelming number of commas that E L James feels is appropriate for a sentence, too.
Essentially, Fifty Shades of Grey is just sex with supplies from B&Q, with an airy fairy female protagonist who is seemingly out of her depth with a man more suited to Broadmoor than... Well, anywhere.
Give me Pride and Prejudice any day. I don't think Mr Darcy's the whips and paddles type..
Originally, Fifty Shades of Grey started life as Twilight fan fiction. You hear that? Twilight. Sparkly vampires who like to assert their dominance over girls a couple of hundred years younger than them. One of the worst series of books and films in the world has influenced yet another series. The circle of life is strong in this one.
The author sets out the tale of Anastasia Steele, a seemingly-feeble, gentle minded student, who is sent to interview the infamous Christian Grey after her friend falls ill and is unable to do it herself. How convenient. As Ana conducts the interview, she becomes of some kind of 'spark' between them. Oh how I wish it had been the kind of spark that they warn you about when you use your mobile phone at a petrol station - at least the story would have finished there. Mr Grey then decides to stalk the poor girl for all she is worth just to see her again. Conveniently, Ana works at a hardware store where Christian decides to pick up some rope and cable ties for some 'DIY'. How delightfully obvious. Despite the fact that cable ties are not appropriate for any type of sexual intercourse, I would have been far more impressed had he also picked up some caustic soda and perhaps a new broom at the same time. Domesticity is sexy. Nothing makes me happier than a man with a plunger.
As the story progresses, we see how Ana starts to fall for the man who describes himself as 'fifty shades of fucked up'. Lovely. However, there is a problem! Ana, lovely, gentle, sweet Ana who likes British literature and English tea is a virgin! Now, aside from the fact that the author seems to be linking Britishness to how much of a prude Ana is at this point of the tale, I was also slightly annoyed at how she makes Christian react to her admission. A 21 year old virgin is not the end of the world, and it's certainly not something to be shocked at. I know it probably shouldn't have irked me as much, but it just astounds me that more people haven't raised this point.
Later, the writing takes yet another turn for the worse. Mr Grey seems to forget to go to work, seemingly chasing his interest around the entire country and flashing the cash wherever he goes. Ana is bought a Mac, an Audi, a Blackberry... Is there any high profile company that hasn't been discussed in this book? The author is one step away from describing a party full of high profile officials with a waiter clutching a golden plate of foil-wrapped nut-based chocolates. Although she declares her anger at seemingly being paid for sex, Ana decides to hang onto her presents; hasn't she heard of ebay?
Unsurprisingly, Ana decides that she wants more from Christian, despite the fact that he is an emotionally destructive, aggressive and seemingly slightly psychotic specimen .Even when he has beaten fifty shades of dignity out of our protagonist with his apparently 'exotic' range of items - all of which can be obtained from Ann Summers, so nothing that exciting - and she has been confronted with a contract, whereby she must agree never to tell anyone about their activities or about him. Not that keeping away is possible, what with the fact that he turns up wherever she may be thanks to his collection of fast cars, his private jet, a helicopter and, what's that? Oh yeah, his mobile phone tracking software. How romantic. Is this yet another half-arsed attempt at that old argument that girls are unable to keep a check on their emotions and can't be trusted where men are involved? Oh tell me another one, I'm bored of this old tale.
Perhaps what riles me most (and oh God I hope my mother isn't reading this. If so, hi mum! Tea, two sugars, two PROPER sugars, none of this hoping I won't notice if you leave half of it out) is the unrealistic way in which their sexual adventures are mapped out. I don't know teenagers who couldn't even manage it as much as they could, and the vast majority of teenage boys are more unstoppable than the Duracell bunny. The writing suggests that they have absolutely perfect sex, every single time. That doesn't happen. In reality there's always a funny noise or a face that makes you giggle, and no one has as good a time as Ana seems to. At least, I hope not, or I'm doing it totally wrong.
I know that writing a scathing review of this book is the 'in' thing to do, but I honestly have problems with this book. It is sexist, seemingly ignoring the last fifty years of feminism's growth in society, and it is just bizarre. Much could be said for the overwhelming number of commas that E L James feels is appropriate for a sentence, too.
Essentially, Fifty Shades of Grey is just sex with supplies from B&Q, with an airy fairy female protagonist who is seemingly out of her depth with a man more suited to Broadmoor than... Well, anywhere.
Give me Pride and Prejudice any day. I don't think Mr Darcy's the whips and paddles type..
Thursday, 5 July 2012
How to survive a festival.
I have always loathed camping. I have never seen the point in paying to sit in a miniature house made of nylon in a muddy field while it chucks it down outside. I enjoy having built in plumbing and central heating that make it unnecessary to have to go outside when you want a wee.
So for some ridiculous reason, I decided to go to a festival this year – Beach Break. I was excited to try slumming it for the first time in my life whilst getting to see some of my favourite musical acts. I wanted to see what it was like to be with a group of like-minded individuals, all there to enjoy themselves and soak up the atmosphere.
I first knew something was going to go wrong about a fortnight before. The weather forecasts were dire. My best friend had pulled out weeks before, and usually optimistic, even she was laughing at the misfortune that was about to occur: “lol, it’s gonna piss down and you’re gonna be wet and cold and you won’t be able to dry off and you’ll be miserable.” Thanks, babes.
Then I realised the sheer amount of stuff I was going to need, which meant the others would need just as much. After this, I remembered the size of the tent, and I was worried. However, I was totally optimistic and looking forward to it until I saw the state of the portaloos after only one afternoon. Good God, some of you creatures are revolting. That said, it could have been worse. I could have gone to the Isle of Wight festival. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, sorry. I mean, I hope you had a lovely time, regardless.
So it is with my experience that I realise I must bring to the masses a survival guide of sorts - a list of hints and tips that will make your life more enjoyable whilst you’re sat in a pool of mud, crying for your mummy to come and bring you home.
- Get a good tent. A very good
tent. The best you can afford. You’re going to be spending a lot of time in
that when you’re unwilling to go out in the torrential rain. Make sure that
you’re able to put it together properly before you get there, too. A practice
run or two will help wonderfully. Make sure you always get a tent that has room
for one more person than you actually have in your party – you never know, you
may meet someone. Or you might just want some room for your bags as well.
- Do not pack your entire life
into your suitcases. You aren’t at home, nobody cares how crap you look and
that you haven’t washed your hair in three days. Embrace looking terrible and
wearing the same clothes for four days!
- On this point, baby wipes.
Buy ALL the baby wipes you can find. You’ll need them. Oh, and earplugs,
because nobody needs to be kept awake by the next tent constantly shouting
"ain't nobody got time for that!". Ain't nobody got time for that.
- With the space that you save
in your bag by not having clean pants in there, you can take extra alcohol and
bacon based products. These are the two things that you’ll miss most, I promise
you.
- Leave your good standards at
home. Once you’ve seen the state of the toilets you’ll have forgotten what
being toilet trained and having a sense of decorum is like. I’ve seen some
terrible sights – if you’re the girl who decided to just go for a wee in the
middle of the queue for the toilets, or the girl who decided she needed to
remove her tampon right outside one of the tents, well, hello to you!
- Eat something strange every day. The most exciting thing I had was a pulled pork sandwich with coleslaw and barbecue sauce. I dream about that thing. Best life choice ever. Thanks be to Becca Taylor for having introduced me to that school bus eatery of dreams.
- Make sure that all of your
clothes are waterproof. Do not wear jeans. Do not wear hoodies. If they get
wet, they will never get dry again. Remember, you are waterproof, so maybe
being perpetually naked is the best way forward.
- Also, don't take a onesie. Everyone takes them, and do you really want to turn up in the same outfit as everyone else? No.
- Don't listen to your friend who comes over for drinks the night before who shares the exact same view of camping as you. It won't make you feel any better about it, no matter how much of someone else's vodka you drink.
- I can only hope that some of you will take my advice. Remember, the second you get home, you are going to fall onto your bed, and you are going to immediately pass out for the next three days. You will be exhausted and you will reek. It will however, be completely worth it.
I’ve signed up for Glastonbury next year. I've already sourced myself a dry suit and a snorkel for the occasion.
Sunday, 1 July 2012
Get on yer bike!
I have previously written on the joys of being a valleys
girl. However, I feel that it is time to draw attention to the major drawback
of living in this environment.
It is no secret that South Wales has an issue with
unemployment. Ever since the closure of the mines and associated factories, the
valleys have been in a steady rate of decline, which has only been aided in
part by public sector jobs moving here, and special measures brought in by the government
to persuade businesses here. However, these measures have always fallen short
of how much work really needs to be done in these areas – something akin to
putting a plaster on the wound that you’ve just received from a hungry tiger
who’s taken your leg off.
I am unemployment tiger, hear me roar!
For the people that live here, this means one of three things.
You either grow up here, realise that you need to find something better, and
you move away – starving the local community of the talent and ingenuity that
it needs to get itself out of this black hole. Scenario two is that you get
lucky, you find yourself a reasonable secure job, and you stay here.
Alternatively, you stay where you are, but you don’t get that lucky break, and
you are condemned to a life of being called a scrounge and scum because you
have no other way to survive other than being on benefits. This in turn creates
a vicious cycle of entire families who don’t work, and depend on the state to
survive. I know that I paint a picture of people who are victims of
circumstance, but for the majority of those on benefits, I do truly believe
this to be the case, despite also knowing that there are some people who
readily accept this lifestyle. However, this then brings about the argument that
if you knew you were better off on benefits, with the freedom and security of
having your housing paid for, being able to bring up your children yourself
without having to depend on maybe getting a childcare place paid for whilst you
go to work at all hours… Well, you can argue that it’s not morally right until
you’re blue in the face, but you can see why it appeals to many.
So with this in mind, you must also realise the difficulties
for many in the valleys to just get on their metaphorical employment seeking
bicycles and get a job.
Firstly, there is the issue of transportation. I’m lucky –
my mother and I scraped up enough money for me to take driving lessons, get
through the dreaded test of terror, and be on the car insurance, thus allowing
me to drive around whenever I like. For many, this isn’t the case. The
prohibitive costs of lessons, never mind insurance, a car, tax, and petrol stop
many people from being able to do this. Remember also that many of us do not
have the luxury of a choice of petrol stations that will fight over each other
to be the cheapest – some of us only have access to one that will charge more
as a result. In turn, this leads to the problem of distance, which in turn,
leads to costs, again.
Public transport isn’t even a haven from this. From here to
the next town (around 5 miles away), it costs £7 or so for an adult return
ticket. The issue of transportation is not specific to the valleys, but it does
make life significantly harder, and in turn, makes it more difficult to be able
to accept jobs – and that’s even if you can get to the interview.
Secondly, there
really is a lack of jobs here. There have been multiple factory closures here
as businesses move abroad to find a cheaper workforce. Public sector job cuts
have hit hard. Spending power has decreased as more people are made unemployed,
in an area where people are more likely to be out of work anyway. In turn, yet more businesses collapse, and the
circle goes round again. Companies who used to offer full time contracts are
now offering part-time, and ‘flexible’ contracts, making life for those who
depend on the wages of full time work, or those with responsibilities more
difficult. Incidentally, many companies will no longer accept people on
contracts more than 16 hours per week, as those who work this amount of time
are eligible for government provided tax credits, boosting the employees’
income. If the state will pay, why should the company?
I’m lucky. I get to go back to university in a few months, but
it is my final year, and finding a job afterwards is of huge concern. I don’t
want to have to leave my family and friends behind, but if I want to survive,
that’s what I’m going to have to do. This post isn’t about lecturing people,
but it is about informing you. I can’t bear to stand back and have people say “well
can’t you find a job?” It’s not that easy, and there are a lot of people around
here who can tell you exactly the same thing as I just have.
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Fat is not a bad word.
Let me first establish that the irony that I am writing this post just after putting up a review of Man v Food is not lost on me.
I think that it has been established to all of those who have read my posts and articles that I am frequently annoyed by many different things. I once tried to compile a list of things (aside from food and anything schadenfreude-related) that make me happy; I got to small fluffy animals, sleep, and showers before I gave up.
However, one of the things that offends me the most is when people judge others for the choices that they make in life, especially when it comes to the matter of weight. Being even slightly overweight, and the things that lead to it is something that is constantly being discussed nowadays, and it comes from all angles - the media, the government, people themselves passing judgement... I'm sick of it.
Personally, I've always been bigger than the majority of others, and my God did people let me know about it. I got so much stick at school I considered a variety of stupid things, and was generally a grumpy bitch until I realised that if I was going to be fat I should at least have the good manners to be jolly. However, since coming to university, I've had a bit of a confidence boost. I know what suits me, I know what things a girl of my design should not be wearing - for example, leggings are not trousers, and you should always check how many of your rolls you can see before leaving the house in that t-shirt - and I have also learnt that fat is not a bad word. If it comes up in conversation, I don't say "I'm fat" in the pursuit of compliments, I say it because it's true. I'm fed up of hearing girls exclaiming how fat and disgusting they are - you know what? I'm fat and brilliant. I don't need you trying to sully my frame by having you insult yourself. I'm not necessarily an advocate of "it's what's on the inside that counts", because you only tell people that when they're hideous, but if you're ugly inside, it's definitely obvious. Just saying.
What is astounding is that in many places, the fatter you are, the richer you are presumed to be; this means that in several places, I'm incredibly desirable as I look to be minted. Yet in Britain, the fatter you are, the poorer, less intelligent, and lazy you are presumed to be. It's automatically assumed here that if you are fat, you do nothing but sit on your enlarged backside all day, eating crisps in between occasionally picking up the remote control to flick between daytime television programmes. Whilst I know that there are many people who fulfill this stereotype beautifully, there are far more of us that don't. I work hard, I walk everywhere, I know what is and isn't good for me to eat. I'm not going to make excuses - I occasionally eat rubbish, and I eat too much of it, but I'm also built like the proverbial brick WC, and given the chance I'd make a fine rugby player. I am not built to be small, the same as a lot of the rest of us fatties.
So with all of this in mind, what is it that fuels peoples' distaste? Simply put: the media. It comes in all varieties - but it's especially the television companies that seem to take great delight in persecution a collection of people who look a little different to the 'norm' that's all slender hips and tiny waists - oh, and who promotes that more than anyone? The media. Isn't that funny. We are constantly bombarded with programmes like 'You Are What You Eat' with Gillian McKeith examining poo in tupperware boxes, giving us rubbish about how eating green food is better for you as you'll have more photosynthesis going on in your body (I may only have a GCSE in double award science, but even I can smell that someone is giving off an air of idiocy), Supersize vs Superskinny, The Biggest Loser... These programmes are constantly telling us that we need to be skinnier to be happier, better people, more attractive; and remember, if you're not stereotypically attractive, you are worthless, no matter what other qualities you may have to offer.
Meanwhile, the newest addition to these programmes 'Secret Eaters' on Channel 4, offers you a Big Brother eye view of a group of overweight individuals who claim to eat little, yet be piling on the pounds for no good reason. So now, not only are fat people lazy, feckless and stupid, they're also liars incapable of making a rational decision about what they stick into their gobs, seemingly so excited to be near a pack of open biscuits that they don't even realise how many they've managed to swallow.
My vitriol also extends to those people, and those campaigns that state 'real women have curves'. No, real women have vaginas, and come in all different shapes and sizes. Stop dictating what we should look like, and stop shaping our opinions. Eventually, there's going to be a backlash.
People, do not listen to it. Pay no heed to the rubbish that comes out of the media hole. It's small-minded, it's prejudiced, and it serves only to sell you more empty promises. Embrace what you are, no matter how many pounds and ounces that may be. Okay, so we might not all be individual, special snowflakes - we are just degenerating mounds of flesh - but it is important that we stop going along with the crowd all the time, and take notice of what we really are, regardless of how fat, thin, curvy (or not) we may be.
I think that it has been established to all of those who have read my posts and articles that I am frequently annoyed by many different things. I once tried to compile a list of things (aside from food and anything schadenfreude-related) that make me happy; I got to small fluffy animals, sleep, and showers before I gave up.
However, one of the things that offends me the most is when people judge others for the choices that they make in life, especially when it comes to the matter of weight. Being even slightly overweight, and the things that lead to it is something that is constantly being discussed nowadays, and it comes from all angles - the media, the government, people themselves passing judgement... I'm sick of it.
Personally, I've always been bigger than the majority of others, and my God did people let me know about it. I got so much stick at school I considered a variety of stupid things, and was generally a grumpy bitch until I realised that if I was going to be fat I should at least have the good manners to be jolly. However, since coming to university, I've had a bit of a confidence boost. I know what suits me, I know what things a girl of my design should not be wearing - for example, leggings are not trousers, and you should always check how many of your rolls you can see before leaving the house in that t-shirt - and I have also learnt that fat is not a bad word. If it comes up in conversation, I don't say "I'm fat" in the pursuit of compliments, I say it because it's true. I'm fed up of hearing girls exclaiming how fat and disgusting they are - you know what? I'm fat and brilliant. I don't need you trying to sully my frame by having you insult yourself. I'm not necessarily an advocate of "it's what's on the inside that counts", because you only tell people that when they're hideous, but if you're ugly inside, it's definitely obvious. Just saying.
What is astounding is that in many places, the fatter you are, the richer you are presumed to be; this means that in several places, I'm incredibly desirable as I look to be minted. Yet in Britain, the fatter you are, the poorer, less intelligent, and lazy you are presumed to be. It's automatically assumed here that if you are fat, you do nothing but sit on your enlarged backside all day, eating crisps in between occasionally picking up the remote control to flick between daytime television programmes. Whilst I know that there are many people who fulfill this stereotype beautifully, there are far more of us that don't. I work hard, I walk everywhere, I know what is and isn't good for me to eat. I'm not going to make excuses - I occasionally eat rubbish, and I eat too much of it, but I'm also built like the proverbial brick WC, and given the chance I'd make a fine rugby player. I am not built to be small, the same as a lot of the rest of us fatties.
So with all of this in mind, what is it that fuels peoples' distaste? Simply put: the media. It comes in all varieties - but it's especially the television companies that seem to take great delight in persecution a collection of people who look a little different to the 'norm' that's all slender hips and tiny waists - oh, and who promotes that more than anyone? The media. Isn't that funny. We are constantly bombarded with programmes like 'You Are What You Eat' with Gillian McKeith examining poo in tupperware boxes, giving us rubbish about how eating green food is better for you as you'll have more photosynthesis going on in your body (I may only have a GCSE in double award science, but even I can smell that someone is giving off an air of idiocy), Supersize vs Superskinny, The Biggest Loser... These programmes are constantly telling us that we need to be skinnier to be happier, better people, more attractive; and remember, if you're not stereotypically attractive, you are worthless, no matter what other qualities you may have to offer.
Meanwhile, the newest addition to these programmes 'Secret Eaters' on Channel 4, offers you a Big Brother eye view of a group of overweight individuals who claim to eat little, yet be piling on the pounds for no good reason. So now, not only are fat people lazy, feckless and stupid, they're also liars incapable of making a rational decision about what they stick into their gobs, seemingly so excited to be near a pack of open biscuits that they don't even realise how many they've managed to swallow.
My vitriol also extends to those people, and those campaigns that state 'real women have curves'. No, real women have vaginas, and come in all different shapes and sizes. Stop dictating what we should look like, and stop shaping our opinions. Eventually, there's going to be a backlash.
People, do not listen to it. Pay no heed to the rubbish that comes out of the media hole. It's small-minded, it's prejudiced, and it serves only to sell you more empty promises. Embrace what you are, no matter how many pounds and ounces that may be. Okay, so we might not all be individual, special snowflakes - we are just degenerating mounds of flesh - but it is important that we stop going along with the crowd all the time, and take notice of what we really are, regardless of how fat, thin, curvy (or not) we may be.
Gluttony: the best of the sins.
If you have ever met me or read my articles of late, you'll know that I am a person of simple tastes. I am BBC3 rather than BBC4, Cosmopolitan magazine rather than War and Peace, tinned ravioli with chedar over gourmet cuisine. I am cheap, I am easy to please, and I am proud of it.
However, I do occasionally like to pretend that I'm far more refined than I really am, so I make an attempt to watch something that can improve my life. This generally falls in the realm of the television cooking show; trying to impress upon you that you too can cook like this without the team of home economists that are present on every episode.
My favourite television chef was always Nigella Lawson, unapologetically pouring butter and double cream into the most mundane of recipes. Nigella would stand there slobbering all over herself, making the most delicious looking food which you knew was totally out of your price range, and yet you knew that you would sell your own kidneys and mother if you had the chance to have her larder and look like her. As much as I know I should hate her, I just can't do it.
However, food shows have gotten far more bizarre since Nigella first sashayed onto our screens in 2000.
Perhaps the best example of this is the legendary Man v Food, which has been shown on the Good Food and Dave channels. In every episode, the dashing Adam Richman takes it upon himself to travel around America, eating everything that comes across his path. The second part of every episode has Richman undertaking a food challenge, whereby he must either consume something particularly spicy, or something incredibly big that has usually been deep fried, and then smothered in low quality cheese, in its entirety.
By completing each task, he usually racks up a new picture of himself hung up on the wall of the establishment in which he succeeds at getting closer to the verge of type 2 disabetes. Previous challenges have included burgers the size of full-term babies and chicken wings so spicy that his entire face resembled a puffer fish having an asthma attack after only one bite.
Man v Food is everything that is wrong with the world - it is selfish, self-serving gluttony. It attemps to be funny when it really isn't, and it glorifies binge eating as though it's perfectly natural to regularly shove a lorry load of beef down your intestines. Man v Food is to the food world what transporting pandas to Scotland and expecting them to mate in front of everyone watching is to nature - theoretically sweet, but in reality, hideously disgusting and just plain wrong. Yet for some reason, I still love it. I'm ashamed of myself.
However, I do occasionally like to pretend that I'm far more refined than I really am, so I make an attempt to watch something that can improve my life. This generally falls in the realm of the television cooking show; trying to impress upon you that you too can cook like this without the team of home economists that are present on every episode.
My favourite television chef was always Nigella Lawson, unapologetically pouring butter and double cream into the most mundane of recipes. Nigella would stand there slobbering all over herself, making the most delicious looking food which you knew was totally out of your price range, and yet you knew that you would sell your own kidneys and mother if you had the chance to have her larder and look like her. As much as I know I should hate her, I just can't do it.
However, food shows have gotten far more bizarre since Nigella first sashayed onto our screens in 2000.
Perhaps the best example of this is the legendary Man v Food, which has been shown on the Good Food and Dave channels. In every episode, the dashing Adam Richman takes it upon himself to travel around America, eating everything that comes across his path. The second part of every episode has Richman undertaking a food challenge, whereby he must either consume something particularly spicy, or something incredibly big that has usually been deep fried, and then smothered in low quality cheese, in its entirety.
By completing each task, he usually racks up a new picture of himself hung up on the wall of the establishment in which he succeeds at getting closer to the verge of type 2 disabetes. Previous challenges have included burgers the size of full-term babies and chicken wings so spicy that his entire face resembled a puffer fish having an asthma attack after only one bite.
Man v Food is everything that is wrong with the world - it is selfish, self-serving gluttony. It attemps to be funny when it really isn't, and it glorifies binge eating as though it's perfectly natural to regularly shove a lorry load of beef down your intestines. Man v Food is to the food world what transporting pandas to Scotland and expecting them to mate in front of everyone watching is to nature - theoretically sweet, but in reality, hideously disgusting and just plain wrong. Yet for some reason, I still love it. I'm ashamed of myself.
Blind Date
A few weeks ago, I was approached by one of my colleagues at The Waterfront, asked if I could help her out by going on a blind date. Normally, I would never, ever consider doing such a thing. I'm socially awkward at the best of times, and strangers bring me out in a rash, but this time, I had a feeling in my waters that this could go well. So, reader, I did it, and here is the finished piece from the glorious vessel of journalistic greatness that is The Waterfront.
Catrin on Matt
What were your first impressions?
When I fisrt met Matt, my first thought was how I wished blind date was a literal term, as a lack of vision would have made being in this man's general vicinity bearable. I was vaguely impressed by his choice of extra hot sauce, though, just because I could use it as a reason as to why I wouldn't be going anywhere near him.
Any striking conversation points?
I was absolutely fascinated by his love of dystopian novels and feminist literature, as well as his devotion to separating the recycling in his house perfectly, every single week. Did you know that Swansea council aren't supposed to take 'tetrapak', but they will if you hide it at the bottom of the bag? Yeah, me neither, but I do now. Great.
Any awkward moments or silences?
I cannot tell you how much happiness I took from the silence that ensued when he went to the toilet; probably to throw up from over indulging in too much extra-hot sauce, or just to cry. Either way, I wish he'd stayed in there a little longer so that I could have escaped like I wanted. He also said how much he loves Big Bang Thory. At that point, I could have easily rested my knife in his eyeball.
If you were to have babies, what would you want your baby to inherit?
What wouldn't I want our baby to inherit? The hat that was permanently glued to his head? The girlish hands? Or maybe the receding hairline that is simply remarkable in a 22 year old. He did have nice eyelashes though.
Any potential for a kiss?
I'm still scrubbing as we speak after our post-Sin City coitus. I'm sure we kissed somewhere along the way, but all I remember is waing up to him calling his mother to tell her he'd finally done it, in a dirty bedroom with a sense of shame and a hangover that can only have been induced by Sambuca.
Would you like to meet again?
Let's just say that I'm rather looking forward to the fact that he'll soon be leaving Swansea, meaning I can finally take off this head scarf and ridiculous pair of glasses.
Matt on Catrin
What were your first impressions?
We met outside Nandos. At first I thought Catrin was looking at me with a hungering lust, but I quickly realised that I was in the way of the door and she wanted chicken. She only had lemon and herb. What's the point of that? That's like going to the graduation ball and deciding 'Actually, I'm just going to stick this panda onesie on and ask people to enter my Love Tunnel.' Poor effort.
Any striking conversation points?
We discovered that true heroes have the highest spice in Nandos. We went to Sin City and we played the fun game of 'Whose Boobs Could Kill The Most Men?' with points given to size and how ill-fitting the dress was.
Any awkward moments or silences?
She said that she dislikes Big Bang Theory. She should've just said that she was Nick Griffin with a big of a paedo side, and I would've been more relieved. I swear to God if I hear her Nessa impression one more time, I may have to jump into a pit of razors.
If you were to have babies what would you want your baby to inherit?
Opposable thumbs, an even number of digits and preferably no webbed feet. I'd like two eyes, hair, ears, and maybe some arms and legs. A superpower or two wouldn't go amiss, but I do not think Catrin has been bitten by any manner of radioactive animal lately (I am not totally sure on this, so don't take my word for it, potential suitors).
Any potential for a kiss?
Waterfront, it's quite bold of you to ask me when this is a profile about how my date went with Catrin! I like it. I like it a lot.
Would you like to meet again?
Put it like this: if she had turned into a zombie at Nandos, I really wouldn't have wasted much time.
Matt is an Editor at the blog Huttstuff, which can be found at huttstuff.net
When Catrin met Matt
Catrin Lewis, a 21-year-old Social Policy student and Matt Edwards, a 22-year-old English Literature student, meet for the Waterfront blind date.Catrin on Matt
What were your first impressions?
When I fisrt met Matt, my first thought was how I wished blind date was a literal term, as a lack of vision would have made being in this man's general vicinity bearable. I was vaguely impressed by his choice of extra hot sauce, though, just because I could use it as a reason as to why I wouldn't be going anywhere near him.
Any striking conversation points?
I was absolutely fascinated by his love of dystopian novels and feminist literature, as well as his devotion to separating the recycling in his house perfectly, every single week. Did you know that Swansea council aren't supposed to take 'tetrapak', but they will if you hide it at the bottom of the bag? Yeah, me neither, but I do now. Great.
Any awkward moments or silences?
I cannot tell you how much happiness I took from the silence that ensued when he went to the toilet; probably to throw up from over indulging in too much extra-hot sauce, or just to cry. Either way, I wish he'd stayed in there a little longer so that I could have escaped like I wanted. He also said how much he loves Big Bang Thory. At that point, I could have easily rested my knife in his eyeball.
If you were to have babies, what would you want your baby to inherit?
What wouldn't I want our baby to inherit? The hat that was permanently glued to his head? The girlish hands? Or maybe the receding hairline that is simply remarkable in a 22 year old. He did have nice eyelashes though.
Any potential for a kiss?
I'm still scrubbing as we speak after our post-Sin City coitus. I'm sure we kissed somewhere along the way, but all I remember is waing up to him calling his mother to tell her he'd finally done it, in a dirty bedroom with a sense of shame and a hangover that can only have been induced by Sambuca.
Would you like to meet again?
Let's just say that I'm rather looking forward to the fact that he'll soon be leaving Swansea, meaning I can finally take off this head scarf and ridiculous pair of glasses.
Matt on Catrin
What were your first impressions?
We met outside Nandos. At first I thought Catrin was looking at me with a hungering lust, but I quickly realised that I was in the way of the door and she wanted chicken. She only had lemon and herb. What's the point of that? That's like going to the graduation ball and deciding 'Actually, I'm just going to stick this panda onesie on and ask people to enter my Love Tunnel.' Poor effort.
Any striking conversation points?
We discovered that true heroes have the highest spice in Nandos. We went to Sin City and we played the fun game of 'Whose Boobs Could Kill The Most Men?' with points given to size and how ill-fitting the dress was.
Any awkward moments or silences?
She said that she dislikes Big Bang Theory. She should've just said that she was Nick Griffin with a big of a paedo side, and I would've been more relieved. I swear to God if I hear her Nessa impression one more time, I may have to jump into a pit of razors.
If you were to have babies what would you want your baby to inherit?
Opposable thumbs, an even number of digits and preferably no webbed feet. I'd like two eyes, hair, ears, and maybe some arms and legs. A superpower or two wouldn't go amiss, but I do not think Catrin has been bitten by any manner of radioactive animal lately (I am not totally sure on this, so don't take my word for it, potential suitors).
Any potential for a kiss?
Waterfront, it's quite bold of you to ask me when this is a profile about how my date went with Catrin! I like it. I like it a lot.
Would you like to meet again?
Put it like this: if she had turned into a zombie at Nandos, I really wouldn't have wasted much time.
Matt is an Editor at the blog Huttstuff, which can be found at huttstuff.net
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)