Summer of Love (of food and musicals. Nobody loves me.)

Well then You,

What a summer I have had! Grease was great. Totally got mentioned in all the reviews it had, with descriptions such as 'a standout moment of the show', 'manages to convey poignancy, as well as the steely shell of the character' and 'by far the strongest dancer on stage' all not applying to me. I am also including the review that apologised to me (and a ream of other people) for not mentioning me in favour of local people, thus inadvertently mentioning me. Gotcha. What I'd like to know is: WHERE WAS MY LOCAL PAPER? Reporting on some new benches in the shopping centre, probably.

I also went on a boat to Norfolk. This was a mixed bag/boat. Whilst I had a great time, and got to eat pub food almost every day, some aspects were disappointing. The ceilings were very low, so I think I lost more than a few braincells every time I smacked my forehead into them. One evening, we had a Chinese takeaway, delivered in a rather unscrupulous manner. We had to go and wait in a lane, and then a small car approached and flashed its headlights, signalling us to come to it. We then swapped a box for money. It all felt like what I imagine a drugs exchange to be like. Whilst I don't go outside often enough to meet drug-dealers, I feel as though I happened upon one that evening. 'Well,' I can hear you thinking, 'that doesn't sound too negative. More like something you'd laugh with your grandchildren about, really.' Well to you I say two things:

1. I hate children intently so it's rather unlikely that I would accidentally chance upon even one generation of offspring, let alone two. So stop thinking these silly things.

2. The tale does not end with the dodgy exchange. Whilst cutting open the first of my three vegetarian spring rolls (called 'pancake rolls' in the menu, but there was no hint of sugar or lemon so I don't believe it. And yes, three, so fucking judge me), my suspicion was aroused- cheeky- by its contents and its lack of resemblance to any spring rolls, pancakey or otherwise, so I asked around to ascertain whether it contained dead animals or not. It appeared that it did so I freely offered the remaining spring rolls to my meat-eating companions. Upon opening theirs, however, they announced that THEY WERE VEGETARIAN. The spring rolls, not the companions. So, the vegetarian status of the rolls was very  much hit and miss, and it honestly felt like I was in a horror film.

Oh yes, and I got three As and a B at AS Level. Whilst the B was in Drama- the industry I wish to go into- I am overlooking it as it is not really that proper a subject and I'll end up being a waiter or working at McDonald's anyway, who am I kidding?

So, that was my summer. It felt as though there was lots more, but time can be a fickle bitch, so seven weeks may seem like a fortnight. As I return to a proper schedule in terms of my life, I shall update this blog more regularly. See you then,

Yours autumnally,

M.

Grease Is A Word

Dear You,

I'm still not over Les Mis. I don't know why, but I keep waking up with a Fantine solo whirling round my head, which is proving difficult as I am two days into rehearsing Grease in the magical province of Manchester- Eugene, remember? It's been nice; mainly because I don't have to dance perfectly, 'cause my character's all socially awkward and that. Not like me at all... Also, a lot of people are talking about Pendletons and Birds and I'm not entirely sure what they mean. And I could be the only person without jazz trainers. But, like I said, I'm having a fun time, though I did want to be Rizzo.

AND on Saturday I went to see the Sound of Music in Regent's Park, which was delightful. I was slightly disappointed that Julie Andrews wasn't in it, but she's probably too busy being Queen of Genovia to fart around in a wimple/curtain dress any more. However, the Brigitta I saw was Little Cosette in the Les Mis film (which was shocking save for her and Samantha Barks), and I would've taken that Captain von Trapp in under two minutes And the production was spectacular so, yeah (eloquence there).

Perhaps the worst thing that could happen has happened without my noticing. Until now. Facebook now has hashtags?! THIS IS ENTIRELY NEW INFORMATION. To be fair, though, I always use really obscure hashtags like '#TropicalBleach' (in-joke with some people off the telly, actually) and '#MissUMoreThanUCanEverSayPlusOne' (a game of Twitter oneupmanship with a friend), so I kind of destroy the point of hashtags- unifying the twitterverse for all of its users. For god's sake, me.

So that's my life. Riveting, isn't it?

Yours Eugenely,

M.

The Time is Now. The Day is Here.

Oh You,

It's been too long, my dear friend. And for this I am sorry. Here's a recap of my life in the past few weeks:

- I did Les Mis (part A of today's title) and people actually seemed to like it. This was probably due to the French-themed bunting, but they clapped nevertheless. My mother was fairly disappointed that she hadn't been informed of the 'Bring Your Own Wine' situ, but it's good to remind people that life isn't always fair.
- I have had not one, but two, romantic liaisons. Their names? Ben. And Jerry...
- I went to Alton Towers yesterday- y'know, that one with the loopy rides and intermittent piles of sick? Anyway, I went on the Smiler ride, that new one, unknowing of the fact that just last week a bolt had slipped. I'm not joking, but shouldn't that have been mentioned beforehand? Anyway, just to spite the park for its unreliable Sonic Spinball ride, I decided to hold the most neutral expression possible for the photo, thus rendering their claim that the Smiler 'will make you smile' incorrect, and perhaps eligible for a legal dispute. Which brings me on to point number four:
- I have been magically introduced to the world of Drop Dead Diva. It's basically about this model who dies and gets put back in the body of a lawyer, so she's basically a lawyer now, except she's a bit thick. It's great and, coupled with Legally Blonde, has sort of persuaded me to pursue a law career. But alas! I must amend that personal statement that...I...have written...all...of...

And finally (seriously, M? That's all you've done in three weeks?), part the second of my title, today is my 17th birthday! Hooray for me, as it means there's only 365 days until I can sign up for internet dating, and let's be honest, I'm so going to need it. My parents bought me some amazing T-Shirts with Big Bang Theory and Modern Family references on, but I have just realised this:
They are a size 'L' (which, I'm assuming, stands for 'Large') and are FROM AMERICA. Apologies to any Americans out there (primarily for being American), but that country is generally rather large. And a 'large' there must be at least the equivalent of a 'XXXXXXXXXL' here. Right? Oh, they fit quite well and are great T-Shirts? Okay then, looks like I'll have to break up with Ben. And Jerry.

We really must stop meeting like this, You,

I WILL write soon,

M.

P.S. I hope I didn't offend any Americans, but that's how the world perceives you; the power of change is in your hands. Along with a Big Mac, probably.

Careful What You Say (Children Will Listen)

Hello to You,

Are you familiar with German cautionary tales? I am, unfortunately. If not, firstly watch this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOVSp-fYUQc

Then read this:
My Youth Theatre company performed this to some children today. They weren't impressed, despite perhaps the best devising I've ever done being put to great use, with the inclusion of lipstick, placards and lion masks for extra effect. Cretins. We did one of the ones in the video; the thumb-sucking one. As documented above, his thumbs get cut off at the end, which I think is a bit extreme for a small habit- although those who incessantly chew gum should have their jaws broken. We also did one about a boy who fidgets at dinner, making his parents displeased, and I thought that there wasn't much consistency between the punishments of the children- a girl burns to death after playing with matches, and this guy's parents are only displeased! Bloody hell. We did another one about a hunter and a rabbit-esque thing, but I'm not too sure where that was going. Down a well, I think.

Then we had to devise an original one. Oh Christ, I hear you thinking. The group leader 'came up' with the idea of some children who wouldn't be quiet, so a barber cut their tongues out. Originality at work. Instead, we did a thing about this girl who watched too much TV, had her eyes go square, and then ripped them out. I feel that 'lol' is the correct word here.

On the subject of children's stories, I've written my own for English Language. It's the Three Little Zompigs and it's great. It was originally Little Red Riding Zombie, but then I found out that something similar was already in existence, so I tweaked it slightly. Here's the original opening, followed by the revised edition- see if you can spot the difference:
'It was half-past ten and Mummy Zombie said
"Off you go, little child of the undead,"'

'It was half-past ten and Mummy Zompig said
"Off you go, little pigs of the undead,"

Cryptic, ain't it?

I hope it goes well, as I'm making an effort by creating felt characters, that make zombies/zompigs look adorable. Who knows? Perhaps you'll be seeing it on a bookshelf near you soon! Doubt it.

Yours zombierifically,

M.

P.S. If anyone steals my concept (again), I will make you into a zombie. And throw pigs at you. Good-day.

P.P.S. If you got the Sondheim title reference, extra brownie points. Unless, of course, you also steal my concept. Then you get minus points, as well as the aforementioned threats. Yeah, be scared.

Brizzle my Shizzle

Dear You,

I've been off at more uni open days. Today's was Bristol, and it was very nice. the town was pretty, I need to be on the Theatre And Film course, and they have something called 'Wingardium Levio-soc'; a Harry Potter society.

As I'm rather shallow, I judge the universities mainly on the quality of free shit they give out. Goldmiths had Chupa Chups (and the highest crime rate in the country, so ta-ra Goldsmiths) and Royal Holloway had chocolate. Ooh, chocolate... But Bristol had nothing! This made me think, however, that a good university doesn't need to pimp itself out with free tote bags to make itself look good. I just really want to get in...

Oh, and I won £2.70 on that Euromillions ticket. Well done me.

Yours concisely,

M.

157,000,000 Shades of Money

Dear You,

With the prospect of perhaps winning £157 million tomorrow, I naturally bought a lottery ticket. This seems to be one of my only tastes of gambling so far (the last lottery ticket I bought was on my 16th birthday- the night before that 100 millionaires thing before the Olympics or whatever), and will have to suffice until I am eighteen and can frequent Bingo Halls, mingling with old dears and middle-aged men whose lives have taken a wrong turn.

Anyway, this topic of conversation rather dominated our bus journey home, and mainly involved us discussing what we would buy. Here's my list:
- An alpaca farm
- A fleet of Segways
- A fleet of micropigs
- Houses in New York, London and Hollywood
- Shares in Disney
- A theatre
- A double-decker bus, in which I would put on plays
- A campervan (my friend smugly reminded me that she has a campervan. I told her that I'd give her some of my money. I lied.)
- A harp and lessons
- A homeless shelter (for homeless people, not me; keep up, I now have three houses)
- Disneyland
- A wok

I think I'd that's a worthwhile expenditure. Oh yes, and I'd fund a Smash reunion film.

In other news, it's my Grade Eight flute exam next week and I'm considering bludgeoning the examiner to death with said woodwind instrument, filling out the mark sheet myself, and giving myself almost full marks except on scales. If anything, I'm honest. On the other hand, I may buy my way through with the £157 million I'm inevitably going to win.

Yours hopefully,

M.

Filming Larks

Dear You,

This week, college is making a DVD to promote itself. Deciding that having people saying things like "I like drama here because I like to pretend to be other people" and "You're even allowed to eat your own food in the refectory!" (which is a lie), about seventy-five billion years late, in my opinion, they have decided to go arty. The idea is to have stop-motion people, with pictures being taken so we look a little jittery but, as I said, arty. This does mean that we have to move incredibly slowly, so the other day I was sitting on a field slowly applauding some people slowly playing football. This involved some very challenging acting on my part- I had to pretend to be enthusiastic about sport, and for an extended length of time. I did refuse to participate in the actual sport playing, mainly because I believe that shorts are the work of the devil, and not at all to do with the fact that I can't play football.

Today was fun. We did a scene set in a drama class (I felt at home there), and were allegedly in a play about war, because we only do depressing stuff in drama. We had to bring in WWII costume- as an eager beaver with an ex-RAF father, I was the only one who did. Looking rather dashing in a flight suit, the directory people, in their infinite wisdom, said that I should be dying, so I was liberally splattered with fake blood. It went in my hair, in my helmet (cheeky) and on my fingers. I would normally have minded the latter, but the blood consisted of treacle, syrup and food colouring, so I had no qualms with licking blood off my fingers. I still have sticky stuff in my hair though- euphemism very much intended.

I missed out on a mini-festival yesterday (because that's what all teenagers do after exams) because I went to Royal Holloway's open day. I've sort of fallen in love. It's like Hogwarts!!!

We finish the filming tomorrow, and we're expected to bring in some authentic-looking A Level results. Where I'm supposed to get those I've no idea, so I'll probably steal somebody else's. To be fair, that's what's going to happen on actual results day, so it'll be good to get some practice in.

I'm off to wash my hair,

Yours extra-specially-slowly,

M.

Return of the Political Stance

Dear people that oppose the same sex marriage bill,

Get over yourselves. That's right- go and hate on somebody else. Better still, why not go to Iraq and celebrate the executions of those filthy gays. Tonight, a handful of MPs or something are debating whether registrars can refuse to marry gay couples. I would genuinely like to know this:
Is it legal for a registrar to refuse a couple of a different ethnicity because of racist views?
If not, then why do some believe that gays are any different- skin colour or sexuality, it's all a lucky dip. If so, however, we live in a fucked-up country.

And boo fucking hoo if you're worried about Christians being affected by gays getting married. How in Jesus' arsehole does it harm you? I'm sorry, but how long has it been legal for people to express their Christianity in this country? Yeah, try a mere 46 years. Furthermore, here's a fun game for you:
Religion and sexuality. One is a choice, one is not. You do the matching, and tell me that gays shouldn't marry.

And why is are so many countries governed by religion? The rights of human beings dictated by a talking cloud, who potentially doesn't even exist, instead of by the humans who deserve the rights! And it's a choice to think this way- why not take a break from being a prick? Bloody madness.

And I'm sorry, stuffy old Conservatives who think that gays are an abomination, but you'll be dead soon, so how does it affect you? Actually, how does it affect anyone besides the gays it actually affects? Oh wait, it doesn't. And if you're a Daily Mail-reading, god-fearing bigot, here's a spot o' news:
people marrying each other doesn't tear your 'fundamental human rights' to gay shreds that are covered in the gayest of glitter and feathers and do anal. Do you not see the irony in how your 'pursuit' of the rights you already have- it's been legal to be you for quite some time, as I mentioned before- is diminishing the rights of those who have been able to be open about themselves since only 1967? The Netherlands legalised homosexuality in 1811, and Vietnam has never outlawed it. I like the word 'outlawed' there, because it suggests a really camp highwayman stopping a carriage and saying "Your money or your life or those fabulous shoes!" Apologies for the gay stereotype there, but it's what I would've done had I lived in the dark ages (aka pre-1967). And due to their law that rewards being gay with a hearty death penalty, I am henceforth boycotting United Arab Emirates Airline, and shall throw things at the telly whilst screaming "Pricks!" I suggest you do the same.

The bottom line is that we live in a (supposedly) civilised society, where fairness, equality and freedom should be encouraged and celebrated.

Sort it out, UK.

Yours politically (again, sorry),

M.

P.S. I'm sorry for all of these opinions on shit; I'll be back to telling you to eat frozen peas as soon as possible.

Mother. Wat r u doin. Mother. Stahp.

Dear You,

Just a short note to say:
MOTHER PHONED IN TO COMPLAIN. If you don't understand my pain, read my previous blog post. So now, one is supposed to return to Maths on Tuesday. Unfortunately, I haven't been formally told of this, so I may have to just not go. Lol.

Also, after discovering that you don't need to have an account to use Omegle, I've become slightly addicted. I've decided that for every person who asks me to send them 'nude pics', I shall reply with a link to this blog, simply to boost my pageviews because I need internet statistics (including likes, comments, Farmville 2 friends and pageviews) to make me feel okay about myself.

Here's one of my latest exploits:

I'm hilarious.

Yours Omegley,

M.

One, Two, Free

To You,

It's hit me. Like a ton of bricks, to quote Hairspray.

I am psychic.

Here's the thing: I was told a few days ago that my Lit class wasn't on today, leaving me with the joys of double Maths this morning. Now, because I'm not a crazy person, I shall be dropping Maths next year, but clearly not doing it for the last four weeks of term would be MADNESS. I told my mother that going in today would be pointless, as I don't listen to my Maths teacher who, quite frankly, would be better suited to teaching a school of boring teacher wannabes. My cat is a better teacher than him, and I don't have a cat. My mother said no.

Anyway, when I got there, I said to my friend "I have a feeling Maths'll be cancelled- don't ask me how, I just know." And, lo and behold, when I got there (a little late, thanks to the brilliance of the bus company), my teacher said "If you're not doing it next year, you can go."

I'd travelled for an hour, crossing borders of counties unfathomable (Cheshire), paying £2.70 for the privilege.

I texted my mother, and she told me she was complaining to the college, although it was slightly her fault. Now I'm scared that I'll have to go back to Maths, but I'd rather sell my own skin than go back to that shithole.

Yours freely (hopefully),

M.

P.S. It was the Tony Awards the other day. I didn't win, but there's always next year.

Great = Sort of Alright

(Spoiler Alert! If you've not had a chance to see the film yet and don't want to know any plot points, reading the fucking book)

Dear You,

Somewhere on my bookshelf is a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's 'The Great Gatsby' with a bookmark sandwiched between approximately pages five and six. Bearing in mind that this has remained unchanged since about three years ago, I should have been a little more cautious when going to see the new film version.

I mean, I like Baz Luhrmann; I know about 95% of the words to 'Moulin Rouge!' I liked the filming and imagery, as well as the modern/jazzy music mashups, but I felt that, fundamentally, it was the story that was lacking. Sorry, F., whatever that may stand for.

It was basically about people loving each other and being too scared/fecking stupid to tell each other. There was also some Beyoncé which, to be fair, is never a bad thing. Some people also died, which spiced a fairly bland plot up.

It was quite lucky, really, that we were in an old-fashioned, independent cinema; not least because the tickets and popcorn were cheaper, but because we were treated with an interval- and let me tell you, my arse was slipping into a Tobey Maguire-induced coma, and I was craving an orange ice lolly.

Whatever, really, it's up to you; go and see it if you like- if not, don't (Christ, I'd make a fabulous film reviewer). Simple as. But, if pushed, I'd give it two and a bit stars. Next Roger Ebert, me.

Yours unimpressedly,

M.

P.S. I've got a 'progression day' into Year 13 tomorrow, and I'm considering pretending I've died to get out of it...

The Worst Thing Ever in the World. Ever.

Dear You,

I feel as though I have found the root of all evil. No, it's not racism, homophobia, drugs, war, murder, whatever.

It's when people dress their children in matching clothes.

Yesterday, I saw two toddler sisters in the same spotty fleece, presumably Boden (note to prospective parents; if you dress your children in Boden, they'll develop a complex and grow up to resent you), and matching jeggings, which are the horrific results of an experiment done by scientists who liked leggings but thought they'd be better if they were more like jeans. They weren't, but that's beside the point. The point is: these children looked IDENTICAL, if not for the age/size difference.

This reminded me of when I once went swimming (like when I once did exercise)  and I saw a family where the dad was wearing what the eldest son was wearing, who was wearing what the middle son was wearing, who was wearing what the youngest son was wearing. It was difficult to stop myself from pushing them into the simulated waves below.

Not only is it an horrendous fashion statement- and one that really should be punishable by death/parenting courses- it's a bit of an insult to your child. Perhaps they feel that their identities don't matter, that they are just a 'child', along with their similarly identity-less siblings. I'm just glad my parents didn't dress me in the same clothes as my sibling, although that could be more to do with the fact that I have a sister. However, they did dress us in Boden, so I don't call them 'Mum' or 'Dad' any more.

Furthermore, whilst walking through the park the other day- avoiding the newly-refurbished play area, where there are some crazy exercise machines disguised as 'fun'- I noticed some very disappointing conditioning of children from a young age. Girls were pushing pink prams, boys kicking blue footballs; are these not telling the nation's children how they are expected to act in later life? Why can't boys take on a childcaring role, while more women pursue athletic options; sadly, this is a shocking reflection of modern society, and I believe that the balance will not be restored while we still call football for women 'women's football' but for men we call it 'football'. To be honest, I don't give a shit about football, but I'd like it if it could be a little less discriminatory. Cough John Terry.

I mentioned earlier about identities. While dressing your children in matching garments is a heinous crime, it's certainly not the worst. Naming your children after yourself is. If I see another 'Jr.' ANYWHERE, I shall go to the parents' house(s) and punch them in the eyes and tell them to stop being such egomaniacal pricks. How is your child going to cope living in the shadow of the previous owner of the name? And when they get older, are they still worthy of being called a 'junior'? Bloody hell, it's worse than giving your child a weird name like 'Admire', 'Tron' or 'Jesus', the last of which makes you look desperate to get into heaven.

So, in conclusion; if you're a parent, don't be stupid. Children don't want to look like their siblings, they want treehouses, Disney films and ice cream. Give them that.

Oh yes, and make sure they know the difference between 'two' and 'too', as well as knowing two poems by heart, in case they are ever stuck in a lift.

Yours judgementally,

M.

P.S. You know those plastic bin-shaped traffic things- they have arrows on? Well, anyway, I saw a melted one yesterday. It looked like it'd gone: "Oh, what's the point? Who actually pays attention to me? I'm going to lie down here forever and pretend I'm dead."

Either that or the sun had got it, but I'm fairly sure it was depression.

Warning: Political Stance Ahead

Dear You,

I've been following this gay marriage debate with earnest, discontent and gayness for the past few weeks, and I must say that I'm more than a little miffed when those stuffy old men bring up the Bible and stuff. I mean, it's fine to worship a book written by lots of people thousands of years ago about arks and crosses and fig leaves (saucy), but to let it interfere in the governing of a country is foolish- it should be governed by people, not massive bearded men on clouds with a questionable existence.

And what's more, if you're going to throw a Leviticus-shaped spanner into the works of EQUALITY, perhaps you shod be a tad more consistent? Like not eating fat or blood (gutted if you're a black pudding fan of a Christian), drinking alcohol in holy places (even more gutted if you've taken Communion; hell for you!), working on a Sunday (or a Saturday if you're a twat and think a week starts on a Sunday) and trimming your beard which, if I'm not mistaken, means that the houses of Lords and Commons should really be crawling with rampant facial hair. And let's not even start with mixed fibres, because I'm not wearing double denim to escape Satan, who (whisper it) is a lot of bollocks himself. And wasn't there something about not making images of God? If so, I'm fairly sure the Renaissance, with its floaty Michelangelo pointing God-paintings, should be condemned as blasphemy, right?

But no, we're going to focus on one aspect of the Bible; that two people shouldn't be in love and have nice lives. And my main issue with this book is: when's the sequel out? And I want a nicer, less condemning sequel please, where one isn't reprimanded for 'not standing in the presence of the elderly' (Lev. 19:32).

Really though, I'd like to thank all the heterosexuals that have supported this cause. Personally, I wouldn't like to get married in a church- I find Christianity as relevant as the existence of Nigel Farrage, but each to their own- but on behalf of all gays everywhere, I appreciate your open-mindedness and good-person morality. Well done to you, and you can come to my wedding, which will be in Disneyland, with the theme that everyone must come as a Disney character of the opposite gender. I'm being Ariel and shall be carried down the aisle on a massive shell. Who's excited?

Over tea this evening, my mother said that even though we disagree, democracy is about letting people have their opinion. I'm not right wing at all, but I thought that people who are pricks should be drowned. And I'll leave you with this fantastic quotation:

And the lyric 'hasa diga eebowai' from The Book of Mormon, which I'll leave you to translate. 

Yours gaily/gayly,

M.

P.S. Thank fuck Matt Smith is leaving Doctor Who. That is all.

Medical Exploits

Dear You,

Today, I experienced a learning curve in my life.

I pissed into a pot a stranger gave me.

It was for a chlamydia test, but I'm fairly sure I know the result- unless there's been some crazy change to the universe whereby virgins can now get STDs. Despite a fairly spoilerish circumstance, I basically did it to get the free stuff they were offering. They had chocolate, t-shirts (with slogans such as 'Rubber Up, Duck'; dutty), Harry Styles or Ant and Dec masks. However, I panicked and went with an 'iPhone Trumpet' which is a bit of silicone you put your phone in and it allegedly makes the music louder.

It doesn't.

Yours chlamydia-less,

M.

P.S. Found a new love for this guy:

And also for his Harry Potter and Villain songs. Maybe he'll marry me...

It Happened Again (Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Linguine)

Dear You,

As you may be aware, I find injections hilarious. And I had one yesterday; I managed to keep a straight face while the nurse was doing it- tremendously difficult- but the second I'd closed the door, I basically fell on the floor with mirth. It did get a couple of strange looks from passing doctors, but I'm not sure how much I care. It was rather lucky my mother was there to drive me home- I'm not sure how well I would've fared walking home cackling like a happy witch. She said it made a nice change; the last time she took my sister for a blood test, she passed out in the car park. Twice, I think. They retell the story quite a lot, with my mother having to haul my inert sister into her tiny Honda. Only one of them finds it funny- guess which one.

So I guess having fun at the doctor's (bet you'd never thought you'd hear that from anyone) was a brief consolation for the inevitable haircut later that day. I'm not a fan of the hairdresser's- having a stranger hack at something you've spent quite a while cultivating is a bit disappointing, to say the least. Also, I never have anything to say to the person performing this act; do I want to divulge my life story to this virtually unknown human being? I'm not great in social situations, in case you hadn't already gathered. Luckily though, this time my hair wasn't transformed into a stereotypical butch lesbian's. Phew.

Another strange thing that happened to me yesterday was what I had for tea- has anybody heard of 'pasta quills'? If you haven't, go and buy them now. They're like little porcupine spikes (hence the 'quills' part, obviously) but MADE OF PASTA. They were rather good, but they got me thinking- why are there different pasta types? They all taste the same! It's just that some are more difficult to eat than others- for instance, in Scarborough t'other day, I had some form of linguine with a tomato sauce, which I then proceeded to flick down the white shirt I was wearing. Admittedly, white was a mistaken colour choice, but I'm sure penne or those bows would have been more suitable for the task at hand.

Yours pasta-confusedly,

M.

Parsley, Sage, Beyoncé and Thyme

Dear You,

I've just got back from a few days in Scarborough or, as I like to call it, Land of Fish and Chips and Overpriced Amusements. It was nice. Here's some of the fun stuff I did:
- Had a cheese and onion sandwich with mustard mayonnaise; is it possible for your mouth to have an orgasm?
- Bought five doughnuts for £2- perhaps the best £2 one can ever spend?
- Watched 'Epic' on a rainy day and thought it was good, if not a little like the lovechild of Arthur and the Invisibles, The Spiderwick Chronicles and Avatar. And (SPOILER ALERT) the death of Beyoncé was a heinous crime, and nobody played Single Ladies which I felt was a missed opportunity. Also, I wasn't expecting THAT many children who, whenever a humorous moment happened, felt the need to repeat it; I'm sorry, small child (who I think was called Arnold- who's called Arnold nowadays?), we HAVE JUST EXPERIENCED IT WITH YOU AND DON'T NEED AN ACTION REPLAY. This is why I'm not having children.
- Went to Whitby and had fudge called 'Dracula's Dream' which was chocolate and strawberry and perhaps better than the mouth-orgasm-inducing aforementioned sandwich. I also went round some vintage shops and tried on hats, and walked into a lamppost, which I then proceeded to apologise to. I did that to a bin once. WHY AM I ALLOWED OUT?
- Went to a Sea Life Centre, decided the queue was too long (it went outside the building- why would you bother), came back and told everyone that there was only one fish which is why we were gone fifteen minutes. I didn't expect them to believe me...

I also went on one of those Twister rides at the fair (yes, Scarborough Fair. Yes, we sang) and, after being squashed against the barrier by the centripetal force- GCSE Physics, thank you- acting upon by compartment-fellows, was convinced I had a punctured lung and genuinely feared for my life.

I do hope you've had a jolly decent half term, You.

Yours parsley-sage-rosemary-and-thymedly,

M.

P.S. Guess who's got another week off? That's right, be jealous.

Uniformity Culinarily

Dear You,

I think our relationship has progressed enough for me to divulge a secret. Imagine it's like you've been going out with someone for a while, then they tell you they like piercing themselves at the point of climax (funny thing, actually did happen to someone), but it's not as weird as that; it may be, actually- you decide.

It's this:
Whenever you go to a department store- for me, it's John Lewis- do you ever pass by the 'homeware' section? Do you ever stop there? How about making an audible noise akin to 'oooh' whenever you see matching kitchen appliances?

This is my life.

I could spend hours perusing matching kitchen appliances. I don't know what it is, but I think that the shininess of all-blue/pink/red/green toasters, blenders and food mixers is one of the big factors in my obsession.

But wait, there's more.
I found the BEST household appliances last night. I'll show you some pictures- hold on to your eyes.

Are you still with me, You? I understand if you've had a brain haemorrhage, probably due to the last image. If you're still conscious, would you fancy forming a fan/support group with me?

Please.

Yours unashamedly-fan-of-dishwashersedly,

M.

P.S. I rewatched Les Mis last night; how bad is Hugh Jackman? His voice annoys me- why would you try not to falsetto Bring Him Home? Conversely, Eddie Redmayne did nothing BUT falsetto. So why do film directors cast actors who aren't that good, but they're famous so it's allegedly alright? And Samantha Barks was FABULOUS, if not incredibly tiny-waisted, and she was fairly unheard-of! I just hope the film of Into The Woods is better. Please.

Maths Shmaths....

Dear Whomever is Marking my Maths Exam,

I apologise. I'm sorry for what you've just read. I know that writing r as 16√2 was probably wrong, so shall we overlook that? I drew you a picture for the question I couldn't even attempt to answer, so I think my fairly precise freehand circle deserves at least two marks. And I spelt my name right on the front, so I feel that warrants some points.

But it's not my fault. How fair is it that I'm being marked on the ineptitude of my teacher? A man whose own face has grown bored of the incessant bleakness its mouth is emitting? A man who, when faced with a wealth of pupils absent the previous lesson, told them to 'copy it from someone else' and then 'carry on with your revision'? Who can't/won't make a 'th' sound? (I tell you, it's a bad day when learning about 've feeta notation' and the number 'free')

So no, I'm not going to answer this question, and I'll tell you for why; because I spent the lesson where my teacher was droning on about tangents trying not to tear off my own body parts to bludgeon either one of us to death, as well as refraining from stabbing myself with a fountain pen. And, frankly, the centre of a circle and its radius is not sufficient information for me to formulate a proper answer/guess. What I can do for you is draw you a picture of what you've told me, with a few numbers drawn on, in the hope that you will take pity on me, the poor failed mathematician with fountain pen-induced holes in his hands. It doesn't matter if not; I got a letter saying that my tonsillitis has impeded my revision, which it has- I've spent the majority of this past week in either a bath or a bed, wishing that I had been born throatless.

Furthermore, I'd like to blame both yourselves, Edexcel, and AQA, both of whom were unable to schedule a Maths and English Language exam at different times. Come on, guys! You're arguably the two largest exam boards in the country- can't you coordinate? While I'm on the subject, AQA, can I ask you something? WHAT WAS THAT GENDER QUESTION? It was supposed to be about how many people thing that women have no opinions and don't swear, but that would've been too easy, wouldn't it? I don't wish to write an essay about a man's health supplement, ta.

So what I'm saying Mr/Mrs Examiner, is pity me. Give me marks. I tried; it would've been easy not to, given the two hours I had to spend in isolation, with only people I vaguely knew of and a slice of chocolate cake to keep me company. Please.

Yours desperately,

M.

P.S. I finished my AS Levels! Thank feck for that. Let's swiftly move on, shall we?

P.P.S. I now have two weeks off, and I have no idea what i', going to do for the majority of them. Maybe I should take up a hobby. I'm thinking cross-stitch, life-drawing, the stock market? I think the facts that:
a) My friend has a BTEC in Business Studies
b) We both made about £8 each selling Santa Hats in Year 11
c) I can sort of do numbers
will definitely help with the last one. As for cross-stitch and life-drawing, perhaps I could combine the two? Maybe create a Lady Godiva tapestry, of sorts?

Or I could spend them in bed. I like that one.

Suggestively

Dear You,

Today, whilst watching 'Skint' on 4OD (that is fascinating/repulsive, isn't it?), I was provided with the advert that was 'tailored' for me, which presumably means that it's based on what I like/watch. Interestingly, the advert was for Bulmer's. Which is alcoholic.

Now, if you added up all the alcohol I've ever consumed, it probably wouldn't surpass half a wine glass. Considering this, why on earth would they show me this? If it was about knitting, old Doctor Whos or Batman, then I'd be like 'wow, where is this amazing technology coming from?' But I'm not.

Cast your mind back to a couple of months ago; where were you? I was laughing at these two suggestions that Facebook made for me:

Given that I'm a gay vegetarian, calculate the probability that I would be interested in these ads. Even if you didn't blag your way through a Statistics exam last week, you'd know that it was 0. I was also recommended a post that glorified Tories. I wasn't impressed.

So get your facts right internet, yeah? And more funny animals please.

Yours uninterestedly,

M.

P.S. I got my sore throat diagnosed as tonsillitis on Monday- I have some lovely penicillin tablets that taste like cat food as well.

P.P.S. Skint is hilarious. Watch it.

Adventures in Grease/Greece

Dear You,

Again, I am very sorry for not blogging recently- I am riddled with pathogens. It seems that my weekend has mostly consisted of my taking baths and taking drugs. #paracetamoljunkie4lyfe.

But that was not all. Here's what I've been up to:

-Watched Doctor Who. Anybody else slightly disappointed? I liked the ye olde footage from way back when- I'm one of the few people in my generation to have seen DW before it came back- but generally it wasn't very series-finale-esque. There should've been more explosions and ACTUAL deaths. Not that I'm macabre.

-Watched Eurovision! Loved it- I thought Finland should have won because of the catchy tune and the kiss at the end, but I don't think Europe was ready for that. I thought the presenter was brilliant, and her song was hilarious- I love it when people can take the piss out of themselves. I also thought Greece was strangely great- it was basically men in kilts emulating Madness and telling us that 'alcohol is free', although that belief could be the root of all their problems. I'm quite glad they didn't win though, because next year's contest probably would've taken place in a shed, given the state of their economy. And Romania- what was that? I'm not sure, but I bloody loved it. And Norway, your performance was so migraine-inducing I had to hide under my duvet, so thanks for that.

- I had a recall for a production of Grease in Manchester yesterday. It was for Eugene and Teen Angel, but it wasn't tonnes of fun since it felt like I'd swallowed a blend of razor blades and spiky toenails. They didn't ask me to sing Beauty School Dropout, but the Eugene lines went well, thanks for asking.

- In a hilarious (should it be 'an'? I never can tell) plot twist, I did NO revision. Great life choice there, M. To be fair, I was lying in bed thinking 'Someone please shoot me in the face, I hate feeling like this.' Actually, last night I had a brilliant idea- in the (fairly likely) event that my vocal chords have to be removed, I invented a machine that would help me speak. Before the operation, I would record every sound in the English language, and then spend the days after surgery going through a dictionary and putting sounds to every word. Then I'd type what I wanted to say into a phone/computer and it would talk for me. I even factored my need to go on Desert Island Discs into this scenario. I then proceeded to have an ibuprofen-induced drug dream where everyone was plagued by an illness that rendered them unable to talk, but before it fully happened I dispensed voice recorders with a whole sheet of sounds that they had to record. Just me, saving humanity. Don't worry. I also had a life crisis; how would one write the sound found in 'usual' and 'bourgeois'? Is it 'gh'? Someone please tell me...

So what did you do over the weekend, You? I'm sure it wasn't as exciting, camp or revolutionary as mine.

Yours illy,

M.

P.S. Mother felt my forehead this morning and said 'Ooh, you're a bit clammy.' Well, sorry Mother. Sorry I'm not in pristine condition whilst feeling like shite. Sorry that I'm such a disappointment! SORRY FOR BEING ALIVE! Actually, she has been loverly this weekend; her and my sister collectively ran me a bath with bubbles and candles and rubber ducks and then made a hot water bottle for me. Cuties.

ASLAN (AS Literatures Are Nasty)

To You,

As you may know, I did a statistics and a literature exam today. Surprisingly, the statistics was okay, although I'm not sure how useful knowing how to work out the probability of someone eating breakfast is going to help me in later life.

However, the English Literature was not so great. I mean, poetry was good, but I was asked about the changes of society in Dancing at Lughnasa. I panicked and made up some words and threw them at a page. Let's just blooming hope they liked my short story coursework, which was about a world ruled by Christianity. I'm not lying, but it was rather good. I may post it some time. 

Similarly, my next book, the Aethiopica, is arranged into columns, giving the impression of a Bible. Since feeling slightly duped by Christianity into believing my old dog was running around on clouds, I'm not too sure how I feel about it. I'll try, though- it's only thirty-odd pages long, so it's all good.

Yours literature-worriedly,

M.

P.S. My friend made up her answers to statistics (literally just wrote some numbers down) so there's still hope for the child that wrote at least a page on costumes!

Poem is Where I Hang My Stats

Dear You,

Firstly apologies for not a-blogging over the past few days; I had exams etc., and I have two tomorrow, so if I fail, I'm blaming you and Once Upon a Time for disrupting my revision.

It's this revision that I'd like to talk to you about now. Tomorrow, as part of Maths, I have to take S1, or 'Statistics One', for those not in the know about the whimsical world of adding stuff up. Basically, since my last Maths exam on Monday, I have been trying and trying to remember as much as possible of means, modes, medians, and some Sxx thing I have no idea about.

What I want to know is this: HOW WILL THIS HELP E IN LATER LIFE? Can you imagine the scenario?
"Help! Help! This man is having a heart attack! Is there a statistician in the room?"
"Yes! Let me through! So I can tell you about the mean length of time he has to live!"
No, you can't. And this, my friend, is why I'm waving Maths a smug goodbye come September. Unfortunately, between now and then is a seething pit of four weeks of compulsory A2 Maths work. My friend realised the other day that one could just refuse to go; isn't a terrible attendance detrimental to a college's stats (oh Lord Jesus, they pop up everywhere)? So instead, why not just say I don't have to go? Bingo.

I'm so averse to Maths, I wrote a little poem- just call me Wordsworth:

'Statistics One, Statistics One,
I cannot wait 'til you are done.'

And, seeing as my other exam tomorrow is English Lit., I can tell you exactly how the poet is feeling. Through use of repetition in 'Statistics One', the reader is allowed an insight into the frustration of the persona and the exasperation felt when tackling such a subject as statistics.

What I actually meant was: thank bugger it's over in fifteen hours.

Yours maths-hatingly

M.

P.S. There's another Maths exam next Friday; Core 2. I've just flicked through the book and realised I know approximately nothing about any of it. Looking forward to that, then!

Drop the What?

Dear You,

I had my first exam today. Maths. Funnily enough, we were being tested on a unit we finished learning in DECEMBER. Also 'humorous' was the fact that there was an exam on the topic in January, but OH NO, obviously sitting it, along with its two other unit exams, was a much better idea.

I actually thought it went alright, but I don't like to dwell on exams, because what can you do?

I finished it quite quickly (unsure of how I feel about that) so I mused upon what I shall continue through to A2 (say that out loud- it rhymes). Obviously Drama, seeing as it's the only subject I'm any good at/enjoy, but what else? If I take Lit., I'll be subject to the dreary pretentiousness of war poetry and Hamlet, struggling to find some meaning in a flippant use of the word 'blue', and wishing that Shakespeare never existed. On the other hand, if I dropped Lang., I'd spend a year thinking 'all of these language theories are bullshit,' as well as running the risk of having a teacher that thinks that only stupid people took language- ironically, so did he (presumably), yet when questioned for their favourite books on their first day, some responses included Twilight and Russell Brand's autobiography. I said that my favourite book was called 'Shades Of Grey', yet quickly regretted this revelation as everybody ran to judge my based upon their assumption that the number 50 was involved. It wasn't, and the proper Shades of Grey, by Jasper Fforde, is a cracking book, that you should really read, You.

Maybe I should drop Maths. Strangely, although it is the only subject I took where one can get either a right or wrong answer, I seem to be doing worst in it. And frankly, I'm unsure of the necessity to know how to differentiate an expression; HOW IS THAT GOING TO COME IN USEFUL?? I don't enjoy Maths as much, either- I have fun in the Englishes.

Well, I've got until results day- that time when four letters have the ability to reduce me to a crying mess or turn me into a grinning buffoon. I fucking hope it's the latter.

Yours finally-stressed-by-examsedly,

M.

P.S. Had that concert yesterday. People commented that they COULD hear the flutes during the collaboration, so a big 'up yours' to the conductors, even though it was only true because we played as loudly as possible, perhaps compromising our tuning...

P.P.S. Apparently there's a rumour going round that I've got a boyfriend. I'm sure that all the guys were disappointed when they heard it, but I must stress that I am very much dans le shelf, and probably destined to stay that way until they haul my rotting carcass into the bargain bin, probably to the delight of Busted (see previous post). Anyway, it's not true, so if you're still interested, and vaguely nice/attractive, drop me a line. Please. Love me.

The Pip's the Thing, and More of Life's Oddities

Dear You,

Whilst a-strolling home from town today, I mentally compiled some things that I think are really rather strange.

Firstly, why is it that the distance between pavements is inversely proportional to the number of pips given by the traffic lights? I crossed a road today that only beeped for half the time it took me to make the trek between kerbs. Now I consider myself to be a (fairly) sprightly young person, so how would an elderly member of the community cross the road- and where I live, people seem to be born old (either that, or give birth aged twelve; it's a rather mixed bag). Would an oncoming vehicle simply run over this old person, sending Scope bags hurtling through the air? With where I live, this is highly possible- the majority of fashion outlets support heart disease or cancer cures or something. Conversely, one can still hear the pips when in the distance of a long-gone thin crossing; madness.

Secondly, Busted's song 'Year 3000' is inherently necrophilic, mathematically speaking. If you take the average age of parenthood- currently 25- and cross reference it with the average age of Busted at the song's 2003 release, 19, one can assume that a child would be born in 2009. So, adding twenty-five years per generation, the 'great great great granddaughter' would be born in 2109, so would be 881 years of age in the 'Year 3000'. I'm not judging, but I'm just saying that I don't find 900 year old women attractive. Well, I don't find any women attractive, but that's beside the point. Anyway, if this 'Peter' from next door enjoys the nonocentenarian offspring of Busted, that's up to him. However, one could interpret 'fine' in different ways; there's the obvious 'ooft' connotation, but perhaps he just means that she's okay fine. This is arguably doubtable- she's probably been in the ground for 800 years, and in a culture that lives underwater, with flooded graveyards, she probably looks like a mouldy mess reminiscent of the Abzorbaloff from Doctor Who.

Her 'fine'ness is questionable

Incidentally, I also entered that Blue Peter competition which was eventually won by the Abzorbaloff. My monster was a race of alien murderers who lived inside sweet wrappers, and feasted on the souls of children. Quite good stuff for a nine year old. Dark, but good.

The final weird thing I thought about on my way home (it was quite a short walk) was the Eurovision Song Contest. If you wish to know why, perhaps you need to take a long, hard look at yourself.

Yours ponderingly,

M.

Dear NBC

Dear NBC,

In a TV Musical Drama world dominated by the abhorrent Glee, where irritating teenagers sing songs they've never even heard of, that vaguely relate to their teenage angst, it was refreshing to have Smash step into the limelight. Its portrayal of real issues, coupled with incredible original songs, made it seem invincible. I first saw a couple of episodes on a friend's Sky Plus and LOVED them. Living in the UK, and not having the right channel, I waited. Waited for the release of the Season 1 DVD and, ignoring its £25 price tag, I snapped it up.

It had a broken case, yet in a symbolic moment of defiance, I exchanged it with my Glee Season 1 DVD case, relegating it to obscurity. I downloaded the album from Amazon, too impatient to wait for a physical copy. I counted down the days to the release of the Bombshell soundtrack and, when it didn't appear on either iTunes or Amazon on the day, almost sprained my index finger hitting the 'refresh' button.

I'm still waiting for the Season 2 DVD, but I fear it may be the last Smash item I purchase. It seems that you have cancelled Smash. Surely it can't be the actors? From Debra Messing to Katharine McPhee, everyone is incredible and seems to be having a ball. How about the storyline? Season One was riveting, and from what I've ascertained about Season Two from Wikipedia and Youtube, it seems equally so. And the music; the music verges on the beautiful- the showstoppers from Smash and the emotive tunes from Hit List are poignant.

So why? Why cancel it? E!'s poll 'Save One Show' saw Smash win the top spot- what does this mean for the future of my favourite programme? 22, 649 (at time of publication) likes on 'Don't Cancel SMASH' on Facebook surely can't be ignored, as well as the 734, 660 likes on your own page, showing how many people love the show.

So what I'm saying, NBC, is this. Please give Smash a chance; it means so much to so many people, and is one of the best new TV programmes to emerge in recent years. Oh yes, and please make the singles available on the UK iTunes...

#keepSMASHING,

M.

P.S. Dear You, please like this page, as it will make me (and a lot of other people) very happy:
https://www.facebook.com/DontCancelSmash
And sign this:
http://www.change.org/petitions/save-smash
And as thanks for that, you may now listen to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRs7AcCuUd0

How To Play in a Wind Band

Dear You,

Whilst attempting to play the twiddly bits in Mars this evening, I came up with the definitive guide to playing in a wind band:

1. Tuning is irrelevant; whenever tuning, just keep altering it to give the impression that you know what you're doing. Anyway, it's good to have at least one person out of tune, as it makes your section's bit more audible for the audience.

2. If you can't play the notes, you have one of two options:
i) Choose your own
ii) Don't play any

3. As long as you play something during the most important/easy bits, you'll be fine and dandy, as well as making everyone believe that you know what's going on.

4. If you ever play something, and it goes audibly wrong, you again have two options:
i) Pass it off as purposeful
ii) Blame the person sitting next to you
Obviously the latter is more difficult, as they will probably utter an objection, yet silence them with insults and "God, x!" to your heart's content.

5. If you're ever criticised or you just don't like the music, leave.

6. If you have the misfortune to be at the front of a section, it's easy to rely on other people an then pass their attention possession of as your own with an elegant, charismatic posture. Similarly, always have a backup partner if riddled with a solo- alternatively, you can turn it into a jazzy freestyle, ignoring the notes written.

7. Play the bits you can do first, leaving other people to do the difficult parts.

8. Rests, tempo instructions and dynamics are a repressive reminder of the patriarchal society in which we live, and should be ignored or interpreted at all costs.

9. Varying acoustics in performance spaces mean that you can choose the tone you most like, and nobody will be any the wiser; if somebody finds out, refer them to rule one.

10. Always be aware that music lives forever, so is perfect for experimenting with different ways of performance, from silence to 'altered' (never 'wrong') notes. It's your time your wasting/spending, so waste/spend it how you chuffing well like.

And no, this has nothing to do with the fact that I played in the band-wide rest at the end of Mars...

M.

CallirHOE

To You,

Just finished the third instalment in my 1001 book quest; Callirhoe.

I wasn't entirely sure of every plot detail, but this is what I could gather:
- Man and woman fall in love and get married
- Man goes off to see his dad, and gets told (wrongly) that woman is being a dutty slut
- Man goes home and kicks woman in vagina
- Woman looks like she's in a coma
- Woman gets buried
- Woman wakes up
- Someone steals woman and sells her as a slave to a widower
- Man sets out to find her (a bit later, but still)
- Woman gets married to widower because she's two months pregnant with man's child, surviving the blow to the nether regions (not like that) rather nicely
- Man and widower have a competition to get woman back; of course, she can say who she wants, but she doesn't
- There's some fighting and stuff and man and woman get back together

I mean, it was interesting, but there were quite a few plot twists n' turns. This, coupled with the flippant revelation of some important points, made for some confusing reading. Here's a weird bit:

And another:

And here's the vagina bit:

It's not just that: it seemed that everyone who looked at this Callihroe woman fell madly in love with her, which we all know is complete bollocks. I'm not joking, but I'm quite looking forward to getting beyond the Greek portion of the list- they've all been rather strange, haven't they? Next is the last of the veritable hoi polloi of Greek literature, the Aethiopica, but the Guide tells me it's full of romance and capture- originality at its peak.

Bloody hell.

Yours all-Greeked-outedly,

M.

P.S. Just got back from a rehearsal for Les Mis, of all things. I'm playing Thénardier, which is HUGELY exciting.

Book By Its Cover

Dear You,

In my two-decade quest to read 1001 books, I have happened upon the third in the collection (I know); Callirhoe. I've not started it yet, but here's the cover:

As you can see, it's full of dutty smut. Put your clothes on, please, I don't want to see your prominent assets. And the chap with the womanly hair has his tongue literally inside Busty's hair. Must I be continually reminded that nobody loves me? From book covers to actual real people, we're constantly force-shown images of people being happy in relationships. And for us, the people whose only opportunity to get chlamydia is having a koala wee in our faces, it's not fun; it's nice that people are happy (well...), but rubbing it in the marsupial urine-soaked faces of the unloved is rather inconsiderate.

I hope people in relationships all get syphilis.

Yours unlovedly,

M.

P.S. Forgot to mention the other day, but I saw a sign leading into a village in Cumbria. It said:

'PLEASE   D  I  E   CAREFULLY'

I laughed a lot. Humanity isn't ruined yet. What's that? One Direction? 

It is.

Drama Drama

Dear You,

As of this evening, I have officially finished AS Level Drama and Theatre Studies. It's very sad. From a street scene set in the Blitz (with special guests OXO Cubes) to a duologue about the perils and pitfalls of selling lemonade (with tremendous thanks to JB), this course has been great fun.

Everyone was grand, unless they're not returning for A2, in which case they're dead to me. I mean, come on, guys! We've got such larks to recall- "Mavis!", La Mer and #TKMB are memories to be cherished forever (clichéd helping of cheese intended). Love all of you. Well, most of you.

In other news, today I finally lost faith in Amazon.com; just seen this ad on Facebook:

Spot the mistake. Spot the pisstake. If I hadn't enjoyed both the film and Amazon's speedy service, I'd take my DVD- and book-buying hobbies to other outlets. I hope you're reading this, whomever it was that authored this damnable advertisement.

Yours grammatically,

M.

#FluteDispute

Dear You,

I'm sorry for the gap in posts; I have spent Bank Holiday weekend in Cumbria, having fun and japes. And yourself? Actually, why does everyone else get a day off when it's called BANK holiday. A little greedy, if you ask me.

Anyway, I am going to tell you something that happened on Friday. Due to my lack of social calendar, as we all know, I do my wind band larks of a Friday. This Friday, we collaborated with a string orchestra; it looked peaky from the off.

We were practising a Wild West Medley, where we flutes do the 'wahowahowahhhh' bit of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. We were the Good part, obviously, and there were some rather ugly members of their orchestra. Anyway, our conductor started having this massive bitch and moan about the volume of us flutes. Shall we evaluate the evidence, Mr. I'm The Conductor Therefore You Must Worship Me? Here we go then:

Exhibit A: We are seated behind an entire orchestra of strings who, occasionally, sound like a cat caught in a lawnmower. No offence.

Exhibit B: Not only is the placement of the flutes laughable, but the layout of our section is ludicrous. There's a good ten metres between the first and last players in the LINE of flutes. LINE. I ask you...

Exhibit C: The notes in question are of considerable depth, and almost unattainable by a generally high-pitched instrument.

I tell you, I felt like walking out. That, or getting him to try and play it as loudly as possible. THEN he tells us that he knows someone who can 'play as loudly as all of us on her own' or words to that effect. What he failed to acknowledge. however, was that this player was an above-Grade 8 flute TEACHER. Fool.

Furthermore, the conductor of the string orchestra (winner of 'I Belittle My Orchestra So Much That They Have Forgotten The Meaning Of Joy Competition' five years running) kept making smarmy comments about the tuning of the flutes! I got sassy (as spoken in the musical Bare, 'there is a black woman in the soul of every gay man'; my life) and uttered a few 'oh HELL NO's but to no avail.

If this continues, I may have to resort to bludgeoning someone to death with a large instrument. I mean a flute, for those dutty-minded few...

Yours pissed-offedly,

M.

P.S. Metamorphoses is a no-go; I've ordered the next one, which is Callirhoe, or however one spells it...

Metayawnphoses

Dear You,

I've been trying to read Ovid's Metamorphoses. I've got as far as the first volume; of fifteen.

All I know is that some people turned into cows and wheat or something, and there were some Gods.

I'm not a fan of poetry- I'd rather read something unrestricted by the conventions of rhyme, rhythm and the number of syllables society tells us to put in each line.

Would you tell anyone if I didn't read it all? I'm not sure how I'm feeling about all of this Greeky Latiny stuff, but there's only a couple more left on the list. But fifteen volumes in one book? A bit excessive, Mr O.

I think I've realised fundamentally why I'm doing this. One of my English Language teachers seems convinced that my whole class is stupid. For example:
'Where's Long John Silver from? Although I doubt any of you would know.'
I followed it up with a resounding:
'Fuck off, it's Treasure Island you prick,' except without the offensive stuff as I'm quite scared of him.

Yours bored-to-deathly,

M.

Fables

Dear You,

Whilst rereading my earlier blog posts, I realised the my revelation of a purchase of teenage fiction may have made me appear a foolish ignoramus, and I am correcting this now.

For my birthday a couple of years ago, I was given '1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die'. A tall order, I thought. But although the title is somewhat demanding ('Must'? Really?), I have decided to take on this mammoth task, whilst telling you all about it. You lucky devil.

Anyhow, I bought the ebook version ('bought'; it was free, and I couldn't wait for the arrival of an actual book by post. I'm sorry) of the guide's first book; Aesop's Fables. By Aesop, obviously. I seem to recall that this was written in jail (I think) by Aesop, a slave. What I remember more fervently is that a travelling puppet theatre would often come into our primary school and perform some of the fables. What I've now realised, almost a decade later, is this:

They're not too great. Yes, they all end with a wise old man hobbling over and telling us a moral, but mostly they're just common sense; I mean, counting unhatched eggs is like watching a play you have yet to buy tickets for. But some of them are just plain ridiculous- come on, Aesop, how does 'he that has many friends, has no friends' even work? Maybe someone was just bitter about being picked last for discus.

If I had to pick my favourite fable title, I think that The Cat-Maiden takes the biscuit, purely for being such a bizarre concept. Top line, by far, has to be "untie the faggots". Although it is in regard to a pile of sticks, I still nearly soiled myself.

Next time, it's Ovid's 'Metamorphoses'. Let's hope it's not full of foolish mottos.

Yours fabled-outly,

M.

P.S. I know what you're thinking- '1001 Books? That's going to take you years!' Well yes, You, 19.25 years at a rate of one book per week, not counting the 14 books I have already read. But seeing as I did Aesop in an hour (cheeky), I think I'll be finished before my hair goes grey.

P.P.S. It wasn't that bad. I especially liked the moral of 'Men often applaud an imitation and hiss the real thing,' which was swiftly followed by a fable that opened with 'You must know that sometimes old women like a glass of wine.' Too true. One minor quibble, however, was the fact that almost every noun was capitalised, like Horse, Mosquitoes and Pot. It's not alright. Actually, I hope the Aesop estate doesn't sue me (irony very much intended).

Alas

To You,

So, through my cunning detective skills (and Facebook) I have determined the identity of mystery guy from yesterday. And his girlfriend.

I mean, that's fine. It was probably his nice clothes that did it really. I may as well become a spinster and knit hats for a living because I'm independent and don't need no man. And as I scrolled through his Facebook pictures I realised that I could do better.

Which is why I'm sitting here with a newly-empty tub of Ben and Jerry's.

Please don't judge me, You. I was young, I was foolish, it was yesterday. We all make mistakes; this was just one of those short flings. Admittedly it was a tad one-sided, and I think it was his fault that it ended.

I could do better. I could do better. I could do better.

M.

More Awks Than Lord of the Rings

Dear You,

So, there's a new man in my life. Trouble is:
a) He doesn't know it yet
b) He isn't fully aware of my existence
c) He perhaps doesn't play for the team I'd like him to

Also, and I'm just generalising here, he looks like the kind of person who could be a prick. He has a bit of a smirking face, and wears open shirts (with something underneath- gutted) like he's totally confident with how he looks. Completely the opposite of me- I know how to use buttons.

He's not the only one. However, most of the people I find attractive are fictional. Ron Weasley, Peeta Mellark, Bellatrix Lestrange; they're just so great. Also, have you ever seen United States of Tara? Maybe both the dad and the son in that. And perhaps even the mum and daughter as well. Also, you should watch that programme; it's great times.

Also, I realised I forgot to mention my other weird favourite thing in my earlier post- twisting my ankle. As you have probably assimilated, I'm not the most athletic of people, so my feet are about as sturdy as Achilles', so it's not unexpected whenever my ankle goes a bit funny. And that's exactly how I find it; hilarious. I fall on the floor, and not because of pain- it's because I physically can't stand with all the merriment induced by such a minor injury. Go ahead and judge me.

Yours anklely,

M.

P.S. A week from now, I will have finished AS Drama, so naturally I shall cry, completely forgetting the fact that we go back in the summer term. I'm a strange individual.

Freaky Freak Freak

Dear You,

I have recently realised that I am stranger than most. I mean, I always knew I was a weird'un, but I didn't know I was THAT weird.

What happened is this:

I realised that I find things funny that ordinary folk would usually hate. I'm not talking murder, incest, Nick Grimshaw, or anything as horrific as that. What I am talking is such things as injections. The last time I had an injection, as the needle pushed into my naked upper arm (do hold in your vomit, You, if you are that way inclined) I found it absolutely HILARIOUS. I laughed all the way home. Is there something wrong with me? I've decided that giving blood (professionally, if poss.) is my calling; benefits to both parties are abound. Oh wait, that's right, there are weird rules about gays and giving blood. I mean, that's fine guys...

http://www.blood.co.uk/can-i-give-blood/exclusion/

Read it and weep.

Also, whenever I get pins and needles, I can't stop laughing, and find myself in fits of hysterics whenever I try to walk when I have them. I've just googled it, actually, and it says that long-lasting pins and needles can be caused by things like diabetes or exposure to radiation. Is it therefore weird to eat loads of cake in a nuclear power plant, just so the feeling never leaves? Maybe that's too far...

Similarly to my Disney Whoriness, would anyone care to start a support group with me, for people who find obscure things humorous? Please.

Yours pins-and-needlesy

M.

P.S. I think we, as a family, have decided upon a more unconventional Christmas this year. The parents haven't really taken onboard my sister's and my ideas for:
i) An Australian-themed Christmas, complete with flowery shirts, Foster's and barbecues.
ii) A Harry Potter Chrimbo, with hand-knitted jumpers (by me, of course), Butterbeer and magic.
iii) A Disney Xmas, with me as Ariel, if I can find a shell bra big enough...

P.P.S. I'm fairly sure my father's currently having a strop because he can't find his Kindle charger, which of course means that the world is ending. Fool...

Disney Whore

Dear You,

Many apologies for not a-blogging over the past few days; I have been in 'show week' for a play I'm in tomorrow. It's Morte D'Arthur, and is very long where not much happens, but I admit I have started to enjoy it. I play the Archbishop of Canterbury, where I rock the purple poncho, maroon beret and black leggings combo which makes me look like an aged lesbian with a meth addiction.

Anyway, I have something to tell you. And I shall tell you through the medium of song. Listen to this, then read on:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzunMrHka8c

Yes, I am a Disney Whore. I have written half an EPQ on the women in them (I doubt I'll ever finish it- I think it was supposed to be handed in about a fortnight ago...) and LOVE THE WHOLE THING.

And I collect merchandise. I know, right? If you don't know what Vinylmation is, weep for yourself. Alternatively, check this link and many other sites:

http://disneyparksmerchandise.com/vinylmation/

Also, I used to love Pook-a-Looz, but they stopped making them and I cried. If you're from Disney, please understand my plight and, most importantly, do something about it. They are here:

http://www.vinylnation.net/pookalooz/

If you're a Disney Whore like me, please comment on this post so I don't feel alone in the void that is my freakish Disneymania. Maybe we should start a support group...

Yours whorishly,

M.

The Chances of Anything Coming from the Oven are a Million to One (They Said)

To You,

Perhaps the worst thing that could happen in anyone's life happened in mine yesterday. I'd made some lovely brownies, plus a nice little cookie-dough icing for them and, as I was taking them out of the oven, something awful happened.

I dropped them.

It was like Willy Wonka's factory had exploded in my kitchen.

But worse.

It was so awful I had to shut the dog in the room-formally-known-as-the-playroom (a Prince-inspired long story), and when I let him out later he had that 'I know what you've done' look on his adorable canine visage.

We (my very helpful pal and I) cleaned up the horrific mess, minus the droplets of par-baked brownie (I think the premature removal is the most painful factor of this calamitous catastrophe) that had found their way into the oven window. INTO. HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE? We panicked and rolled out the cookie dough icing, feeling as though we needed some form of baked goods to show for our kitchen efforts.

We also threw together some bread. I mean, we put some ingredients in a bowl and mixed them together- we didn't just throw them around expecting perfectly-formed loafs of carbohydrates. We're not idiots (immediately previous events excluded). We then watched Modern Family (incredible) and tried to pretend that nothing had happened that may suggest culinary inadequacy or general idiocy, reassuring ourselves that "even Nigella must've dropped something".

I do hope your life is void of such disappointments,

Yours gastronomically,

M.

P.S. Well done if you got the War of the Worlds reference in the title, unless you got it and didn't start singing. It's just not good enough...

Instagram Irritations

Dear You,

It's there. It's watching you. It's ready to strike, launching a tirade of poor-quality yet 'artistic' photos and hashtagged captions. Yes, it's Instagram.

It's nice that people take photos- they can use them to relive their glory days when dementia inevitably takes hold. But posting them incessantly on Facebook? Not OK. It's mildly acceptable to limit your feed to just the website, so other like-minded 'photographers' can revel in a snap of your lunch overlaid with a strange hue, but non-Instagrammers have NO interest in seeing a greeny-blue shot of pizza and chips appear hourly on their Facebook News Feeds.

People know what their friends look like. They don't need constant reminders via the medium of the '#selfie'. The '#selfie' is, in essence, an image of the Instagrammer, dolled up to the zeros, often pulling an unsettling grimace, and always, ALWAYS using '#nofilter'. Whatever the feck a filter is. I'm not a photographer, and neither are people who use Instagram.

Hashtags anywhere on FB are unacceptable; they make the author seem uneducated in the ways of the internet, as well as confused about the differences between Facebook and Twitter. And even on the actual Instagram website, who is going to actually want to scroll through endless reams of '#throwbackthursday's? We all know it'll be just a pretentious wanker standing outside Disneyland with the caption '#takemeback'. Go back. Go back into the past, and never show your unfiltered face in the present again. Except not Disneyland; don't ruin it for the rest of us.

I just don't understand it. What I'm saying, really, is this: if you like taking pictures with the extra baggage of having people like me hate you, then carry on with your travesty of a hobby. Just don't keep telling me you do so on Facebook- I'd like to be friends with you for other reasons. Coughyourpersonalitycough.

Yours out-Instagrammedly,

M.

P.S. I made another hat yesterday, but here's where it gets comical; it looks almost identical to my other one, with a few minor differences, visible to anyone who pays any attention to me. I've decided to alternate between the two, and see if anybody notices. That'll really show who's my friend, although I fear I already know how it'll pan out...

Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself

To You,

Prompted by the Facebook statuses that dutty (see previous post if confused) my News Feed, I have come up with a comprehensive checklist if things you should look out for before pressing 'post'.

1. Have you made any spelling or grammatical errors? This is the most important factor, as it stops you from looking like an idiot. The most common mistakes I see include 'status'' instead of 'statuses', 'its' vs 'it's', and the classic 'there/they're/their'- all of which stick out like a straight man at a John Barrowman concert.

2. Does your status make you look like a narcissistic or ignorant prick? Example: 'The more I look at Feminism the more it makes me grimace' makes you sound like a twat, who really shouldn't be allowed to comment on making toast, let alone divisions of equality. If you're unlucky enough to see one of these statuses, why not remind its author of their stupidity with comments like 'I know, it's awful how people expect to be treated equally.' I love a controversial comment, me.

3. Is your status likely to improve/ brighten people's lives? I saw a fabulous one that said 'This is Facebook, not a counsellor', and that was exactly right. If you use the site to vent your petty issues, stopping only to reply to an 'inbox me? Xxxxxxxx' with a riveting 'dm', leave now and never put your fingers near a keyboard ever again. Similarly, nobody cares if you can't do level 5 of Candy Crush, whatever the hell that is.

4. If it's a picture, will people hate you for posting/sharing it? Nobody cares how much you love your mum; it's nice that you do, but not that interesting/surprising. Posting pictures of ugly babies every half hour is tediously dull, and photos taken via the mirror of a public toilet is just plain skanky. Humorous pictures of cats are great.

I hope that this has helped- if you've never experienced the pain of seeing these posts, you have chosen your friends wisely/know how to use the 'show in news feed' tool. Well done.

Yours instructively,

M.

P.S. I'm watching Stars in Their Eyes on Challenge, imagining that it's a Saturday night ten years ago. The Louis Armstrong on it is not that great, and I'm sure I do it better. However, the ethics of me actually performing as Armstrong are questionable...

On this Day

Dear You,

Today (20th of April) seems to be a day that lots of suff happens on. The London Marathon eve is today; exercise is something I identify with as much as Rapunzel and hairdressers. What with Boston's happenings earlier this week, I do hope that London goes well, even though I'll be at home eating a Chinese takeaway and pretending that I don't look like a starfish with backwards legs whenever I run.

Also on today is Record Store Day. I love my record player and collection, which boasts loads of albums from Kate Bush to Grease to the Housemartins. Unfortunately, though, I have no local record store with which to celebrate RSD; I have to resort to eBay to build my collection, which I'm sure can't compare to the physical purchase of a record. Maybe I should start one...

Less great today is the celebration of 4/20 (or 420, or however you people say it); a fantastic initiative for every user of cannabis to proudly flaunt their dutty habit. 'Dutty' is perhaps my favourite word to say, because it's just a more judgemental form of 'dirty'. You should try slipping it into conversation, and marvel at how many friends walk out of your life.

I think that that's about everything of any interest that's happening today. That's a lot of 'that's in that previous sentence. And that one. Can you think of anything else, You? Anything nice happening to you today- birthdays, weddings, trips to the supermarket? Actually, having Wikipediaed it, it seems that the Columbine Shootings and the launch of BBC2 happened on April 20th, as well as that oil spill that sent everyone into turmoil a couple of years ago.

Birthdays today include Hitler's and Andy Serkis' (I doubt the two events are linked- I mean, Gollum's hardly anti-semitic, only anti-Bagginses), and Bram Stoker died exactly 101 years ago, but unfortunately not in any vampire-related way.

My, lots of things are happening/ happened today. In my life, however, it consists of me playing Spore (great) and redrafting a Written Performance Concept for Drama (less great). The latter has a word limit of 500 words, yet it's more than possible to write a short novella on how my character walks and talks. It's like being given a massive loaf of bread and being asked (more like told) to toast it in one go. Help.

Yours Aprilly,

M.

P.S. I woke up at 11:30 today. Whilst this was great for me, I was also expected to walk the dog before 9:30. If you are in a similar predicament, I suggest you read my post about waking up early here:
http://bemusedramblingsteenager.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/early-morning-blues.html
Good luck.

OMG MUZIK IZ MYY LYFEE XOX LOL OMG

To You,

It will probably not surprise you that I am in a wind band. Indeed, I have the three main qualifications: poor social skills, few friends, and a wind instrument. Namely a flute- I'm not sure why, as my fingers are far too thick to manoeuvre the twiddly bits that come with playing such an instrument, or "spitting down a pipe" as my friend calls it. Fool; I spit across it.

Anyway, as everyone knows, Friday night is Wind Band night so, instead of hitting the booze and parties like my peers, I take a half-hour drive to spit across a pipe with other like-minded outcasts. Today, we played Holst's 'Mars', which, as my mother put it, "sounded like someone giving birth". It really did. It feels as though he just threw some dots at a page and decided that wherever they landed would be the 'tune'. It's potentially the worst piece of music I have ever heard- it's in 5/4 time, so sounds as awkward as Hitler in a synagogue. I actually quit like it when I listen to it elsewhere; it's probably us being pants.

We also played a jolly mash-up of cowboy film music. We flutes play the 'waoowaoowaaaa' of 'The Good, the Bad and the Ugly' tremendously well, in complete contrast to the twiddly bits of Mars. Come to think of it, we only played those two pieces. For two hours. Oh my, I was ready to leave come half eight this evening!

Strangely though, I sit on the end of the front row- a position usually reserved for the best flautist in the band. This is not the case with me, however; I sit there because I chose a random space near the back on my first day, and have moved progressively towards the front as previous leaders leave. In short, it is NOTHING to do with talent. In fact, I'm sure those behind me are much better, and they're a good four or five years younger than me. I put it down to thin fingers and young minds unoccupied with remembering things like theories on language and gender, how to crochet, and not to act like a complete sociopath whenever outside the house- both of which will unfortunately change as soon as they sit in the plastic principal chair. Also, I'm convinced that every time our conductor looks at me, thoughts of "this moving-forward system needs to change" instantly flock to his mind.

I doubt I'll get much better, to be frank. In my Grade 6 exam, this discourse actually happened:
Examiner: "Can you do a diminished seventh in the key of G#?"
Me: Probably not." (Tries) No. Thought not.
Examiner: Can you do a dominant seventh starting on Db?
Me: I don't think so, do you? (Doesn't bother trying)
Later, Examiner gives Me four marks off a distinction, making Me wonder whether we were both in the same exam.
I've got my Grade 8 in the summer; I'll probably do a similar thing, but without the surprising outcome. Oh, I know how I'll do, and I'm preparing for the "That £82 entrance fee was a bit of a waste then, wasn't it" conversation with my parents.

£82? That's a bit steep. For that price, I'd expect refreshments and an executive lounge complete with jacuzzi.

Yours (not very) musically,

M.

P.S. No word on our chance encounter last night from my English teacher today. This is making me feel as though it wasn't him, having made a big hoo-hah over a random, uncannily similar-looking bystander. Remember what I said about not acting like a crazy person whenever outside? Yeah, that's not me.