Boy bands never did me any harm

I was unexpectedly reminded of something moving and transporting the other day - the enduring power of the Christmas-number-one-single. 

Not any of this new crap. Sorry One Direction, but I'm going to have to deride you again. For those who have blissfully avoided this year's contender, let me enlighten you: "Everybody wanna steal my girl / Couple billion in the whole wide world / Find another one 'cause she belongs to me"

Hmmm.

No, I'm talking about the old crap. The kind we went to great pains to access. Simply clicking your music to your ears from the comfort of your bed / sofa? Pah! Remember the thrill of going into an actual shop and parting with actual cash to get your hands on - literally - a physical thing? Followed by gluing your ears to the radio (yes, radio) on a Sunday afternoon for the Top 40 Chart Show. Waiting breathlessly to learn if your heroes had made it to the dizzy heights of Christmas number one single. (They often did, by the way.) Choosing and buying your Christmas number one single was a real commitment. An event. 

I was reminded of such festivities last week when, out of nowhere (well, ok - out of a YouTube Christmas playlist - but aren't we all doing this now?), I was taken aback by the unmistakeable opening chimes of Westlife's 1999 Christmas hit 'I Have A Dream'. Uncontrollably, I was  overwhelmed by an adrenaline rush. I actually flushed. This was obviously embarrassing - I was a little too old to be enjoying a boy band when the song first came out, never mind 15 years later. It was a genuinely weird moment because I felt so far removed from those emotions, that way of being, that time now. But it was made all the more embarrassing because I was in public at the time. Well, in front of my boyfriend who had so far been spared my reaction to Westlife. 

But I couldn't help it. That song immediately transported me back to sitting square-eyed in front of the television in my parent's bedroom, where my sister and I would sit for hours and hours watching The Box (the channel...we're not that old) where they aired the video on repeat for a whole hour. They did that with '2 Become 1' in 1996 too. 

Looking back, it was probably one of the most exciting times of my life.

Because - I don't know if this is just for girls - innocently obsessing over a celebrity / band of celebrities / media personality is, for some, a way of being. It certainly was for me in a (long) period of my life. Boy bands probably made me the person I am today. No, really. I was the only one in my group of friends who did this obsessing, but where I was removed from our reality they became caught up in the grotty-ness of it. The fags, the disgusting sex, the vodka, the abortions. There is escapism, even protection in obsession. The pull of glossy media personalities in comparison to the reality of north Birmingham society is obviously irresistible. But, more importantly, the abandon, hope, fantasy, excitement, the romance (in your head) - it all keeps you going. It's hard to get any of that from real life. Unless you're into dangerous sports...which I'm not. Nor drugs. So, imagination it is.

Never did me any harm.

Never had a pet

As the title of this post suggests, I have never had a pet. That's right - never. Not even a goldfish? No.

At this point people usually look at me with raised eyebrows. Friends and colleagues I have known for years are shocked to learn this about me. Some take an involuntary step back, as though this must mean I am a dangerous sociopath.

Because not having had a pet is a little unusual in today's society, isn't it? And with good reason - even I am aware of how the little furries can make our lives better and more bearable. Having a pet can help tackle loneliness and depression. Then there are the obvious benefits that dog walking has on your cardiac health. Not only that, some pets can even warn owners of cancers and diabetes. They can help children (and grumpy adults) develop empathy. Overall, you could argue pets make you a better human.

But I've never missed not having a pet, if that syntax makes sense. Until, that is, last year - when my boss got a dog. Before Molow I was mostly just terrified of dogs. Nearly two years on I am still terrified yet also fascinated by them. I'm afraid this new-found fascination doesn't extend to all pet-animals. Sorry cat lovers and pigeon fanciers. It's all about the dogs.

Growing up, my parents vetoed pets. Having one was never on the cards. My mother's harrowing childhood pet experience with Bingo the rabbit's demise explained it. Not that I knew this at the time. And not that this pet absence bothered me in any way (terrified, remember?) Plus there's the mess, which I hate. And the general sense of responsibility, which I hate more. So, maybe my parents just didn't trust me with a small, helpless, messy animal. Wise.

But perhaps because I had been told I couldn't, the desire to try out having a pet inevitably popped up at several points in my formative years. There was the year I toyed with the idea of wanting a dog - purely because the local library had a picture book all about how to care for your pet puppy. I must have taken that bloody book out more than twenty times in that year. Then there is my enduring favourite of all the Disney films - 101 Dalmatians. Irresistible. I pictured us all living with a bevy of dogs under our roof. The image didn't quite fit. When my friends got dogs, Trixy and Barney, I became chief tummy stroker after my initial terror eventually wore off (we're talking several years here). All this was nice, but I still didn't want one for myself. Very much like my attitude towards children.

Then came Molow. The hairy, climbing, talking, snogging, ball-stealing bitch of the common, as she is affectionately known in her neighbourhood. Molow who looks like an old man but is really a young woman in disguise. Scruffy and actually mad, she confirms that dogs really do take after their owners, and I can now personally vouch for the benefits of having a pet despite never having one. Molow comes into the office on an almost-daily basis. She is a mind-reader and relaxes the team at times of great stress, lifting the mood in dull meetings with timely grunts and sighs. Alerting us back to the important reality of barking at squirrels and ball-throwing at times when we are at risk of getting caught up in the stress.

Once terrified to leave my desk should she mount me, here I am now bringing in homemade smoked salmon and cream cheese muffins for Molow. Still, our relationship so far is confined to the office and it's little garden. When I build up to taking her for a walk (there's a risk she and I will both be elderly by this point), maybe I will find myself making that next step and actually wanting a Molow of my own? Who knows. 

At least then I will finally be able to create an accurate porn star name. Relying on that of your mother's dead rabbit isn't quite right...

That's all, folks

Bingo Pendrey

Lighten up

I am unashamedly moved by Christmas lights. Sometimes to the point of actual tears. Lights in general, really. Street lamps casting their eerie glow in this autumnal (or should that be wintery) fog. The less subtle sugary glare of neon shop signs, arcade games and pencils that light up when you write. The pop of those fairy lights that people string around their gardens. They all provoke a reaction in me. Maybe it's part of growing up in the city. The lights signal home.

So as you can imagine, this time of year is a particularly emotional one for me. Whenever I walk past a ragged municipal pine tree in town - and there are many - there is a song in my heart. Even the most down-trodden Old Bear style trees are brought back to resplendent life with a few glowing baubles strangled around the bare branches. Ahh, lovely.

Since our city's Christmas lights got switched on ceremoniously at the end of November my heart has been going lords a leaping and bells a jingling at every corner. Just this morning I swooned at the sight of one of the Jewellery Quarter's themed lights - a man hammering some steel (or something). It took the chill right off the gale force winds that have arrived out of nowhere. My fellow commuters didn't seem cheered. If only they'd look up at the lights instead of rushing like salmon into the nearest Costa** - you can't be sad at the sight of a be-mittened waving snowman. Or a man wielding a hammer.

It's a different animal at the weekends though. Now that the Christmas-shopping-countdown has commenced I've been witnessing other grown adults reduced to fits of childish emotion out on the streets - however I've got a feeling that's less to do with joy at the lights and more stress at the checkouts....

The fizzy charm of pretty lights must touch most of us in some small way, even if we wouldn't rush to admit it. Judging by the on-steroids manner in which our suburban streets are dressed to the nines with camp glittery reindeer and acrobatic Father Christmases careering down drainpipes all over the nation - and those of us who drive around said streets specifically to ogle this spectacle - there is a real thirst for putting on a light show. It can't all be for the kids...

All those colours. Can't get enough of them. When I think about it, I've always found myself very susceptible to colour - something just switches in my brain when confronted with particular ones. Sometimes I allow my life to be dictated by colour without quite realising what's happening. (I may be sounding a bit hippy dippy now but don't worry, I'm not a wearer of mood rings or anything). I must be an advertiser's dream. They will be the first to tell you about the power of colour - cleverly manipulating it to control us. Well, our spending habits at least.

Which is why I've mixed emotions about going to see the Coca Cola truck. You know, the illuminated van from the adverts? (I was surprised to learn that the first of these was only made in 1995. I say only, although that was nearly 20 years ago...feel old) Anyway, in case you have managed to avoid the constant adverts, Coca Cola are sending their trucks on a UK tour. While I find myself rather abhorred by the idea of going to gawp at a huge multinational brand in the name of Christmas - a shameless marketing ploy, and in a shopping centre just to hammer the message home - I don't think I can resist the call of those famous lights. 

I know I'll basically be looking at a stationary lorry for a few seconds... I mean, I could do that at the back of any old takeaway any day of the week. But, oh! The childhood(ish) memories of pure unadulterated excitement when the advert came on! That catchy jingle!* I am moved to tears by the bloody thing.

Because for many people, people like me, Christmas is a consumerism thing. I recognise it is a little sad to say that, but it is nevertheless true. We were never a religious family. I'm not religious now. It was all about exchanging presents. Well, and spending time with 'loved ones', of course. But mostly the presents. So, maybe Coca Cola is my God after all... There's a thought.

One thing is for sure - as soon as I set eyes on those chirpy lights there will be tears.

*Please let me apologise to those of you who now have the 'holidays are coming' song stuck in your head. 

** I do like Costa's Xmas-themed cups though - very kitsch

Some things stick for life, not just for Christmas

To those who leave the house - in fact even those who don't, thanks to the likes of Channel 4 - the following exchange won't come as the shock that it really should.

The other day, on the bus, I overhead - impossible not to, they were shouting so proudly - a conversation a teenaged lad was having on the phone with his girlfriend, during which he repeated that well-worn loving phrase; "Do you want to get punched up? Six times, no less. Whilst he ejaculated such insults, his cronies - one of them female - cheered him on, giggling hysterically and gesticulating wildly with pleasure, like chimps.

Who's worse? They boy? The girl who stays with him? Or the society that produced them both?

Such disrespect, such unhealthy relationships, are certainly not something new, but the increasingly aggressive 'front' that I see young boys and men displaying proudly today really is concerning to this girl. Unfortunately, I overhear such verbal abuse daily, working as I do in education, and the mindless, go-to phrases - of which 'do you want to get punched' up is comparatively friendly - often seem to me like a knee-jerk response to the angry culture that has sprung up in our entertainment industry. It's like life has become one long rap video, in which we women really are 'hos'. It's madness - but, maddeningly, a reality.

Maybe I'm overreacting and this routine verbal assault is just another mode, in a long historical line, of exaggerated teenaged expression; for whom it is all or nothing. The thing is though, it's not just words that are exuberantly exchanged in our classrooms and on our streets - what gets me are those slogan / graphic t shirts that seem to be a staple of every young man's wardrobe now. You know the kind I mean. Half (or often, a lot more than half) naked women touching themselves, bending over etc etc. Basically, people are just going about in public with pornography on their chests. The majority of it is especially insulting, considering the woman tend to have their eyes blocked or are wearing sunglasses. It's just breasts. Great message to send out - thanks. And it's not even like we're talking about discerning young men hunting this stuff out in specialist or joke shops either. The following images are taken from products on offer at River Island and Republic, for God's sake. (Apologies for this onslaught - or you're welcome, depending on what side of the sexism line you're on.)

I think I've made my point. I mean really - would  you want your son to turn up to college displaying one of those dismissive, patronising messages? Would you want to be served in a shop by someone wearing an aggressive image of sexual objectification? It's a really quite sinister form of sexism that is being unapologetically shoved in our faces under the apparently harmless guise of fashion.

Of course, at the end of the day this is no different a sexism to subtle inequality, still inherent, exhibited quietly by those more 'civilised' members of society dressed in suits and sitting at desks, rather than in their offensive t shirt on the bus.

I can't decide what's worse.

As feminism campaigns enjoy a media moment of sorts, and the battle for equality reaches more of us, it seems such a cruel and unnecessary affront that, at the same time, our high streets seem intent on pushing more and more of these angry and downright aggressive sexual messages onto our bodies. Our young men have become walking mouthpieces for outdated sexual stereotypes. Worse still, they are actually shelling out money to be ambassadors for this sexism. Are high street designers fuelling the desire for these messages by producing them ? Or are they sating a demand for them from our young people?

This problem was put into a new context last week when Dr Matt Taylor, of the Rosetta space project, caused a media furore by appearing on a video livestream of the European Space Agency's mission to land on a comet sporting an inappropriate - and frankly, ugly - shirt. Covered in a bevy of half-naked buxom cartoon blondes, it looked like something from 1980s Blackpool. There was an immediate Twitter backlash, where the scientist was accused of being sexist. I mean, what was he thinking? Typically, Boris Johnson later waded in with an outdated opinion, claiming that 'if you are an extrovert space scientist, that is the kind of shirt that you are allowed to wear.' Even more alarmingly, he went on to compare the attacks on Dr Taylor to 'a scene from Mao's cultural revolution', where weeping individuals were forced to confess to their crimes against the people...

The thing is, Boris - and other fellow dinosaurs - you must have had your eyes closed, because there is a revolution happening. People are fed up. And if we are determined to tackle casual sexism, one shirt at a time. Women are always being judged on their looks, what they're wearing. It's hilarious to see the  defensive storm that rises after, God forbid, a man is brought to account for his appearance.

No wonder there aren't enough women in science - it's hardly surprising with such a culture of casual sexism - reading, as I did researching this post, about what Dr Taylor said when talking about the mission during his presentation, never mind the offensive shirt, is toe-curlingly cringey and blood-boilingly frustrating; "the sexiest mission there's ever been. She's sexy, but I never said she was easy.

Ugh. Who's at fault? Those who make these things, or those who choose to wear them? I can't decide but, I implore you - give our young men a chance. Don't buy them one of these t shirts as a festive gift. Their message could have an impact for life, not just for Christmas.

A Batman for polite society

We all have embarrassing habits, don't we? Googling yourself regularly. Slathering on antibacterial hand gel every time you touch someone for fear of their likely germs. Secretly listening to One Direction every morning (the latter not one of mine).

Is there anything worse than admitting an embarrassing habit? Yes - not noticing said habit in the first place, and carrying on doing it obliviously. Which is what I've been doing, subconsciously, for years. Forever. Only last week did I finally notice this particular habit - my saving grace being that at least it wasn't pointed out to me by my boss, my mother, a member of One Direction.

I mimic people. I just can't seem to help it. Not in a comic way - I'm no actress and, anyone will tell you, I can't do an accent to save my life. No, it's more of a social reflex. Something we all probably do to some extent - to demonstrate our apparent attentiveness, to make other people feel special, comfortable (or uncomfortable) - reflecting others back to themselves during conversation. Mimicking their body language, intonations of voice and facial expressions in our own body, voice and face. I know this isn't exactly some kind of breakthrough observation; most of us are capable of doing this when we want to, or when social convention dictates we have to. But the somewhat embarrassing difference with me is that I can't seem to control mine. I wish I could switch it off! But no, I'm mimicking in every conversation I have. If the girl at the supermarket counter happens to be from Yorkshire, my response will slip out in a Yorkshire accent without me even realising I'm doing it. The worst is crying - people are always setting me off.

I've talked before about my attachment to women's magazines. Perhaps being under their influence for so long has affected me. All those articles you read about how your body language betrays your innermost feelings - about men, mainly. Mimicking a potential mate by stroking your face when he strokes his reveals that you fancy him. Cringe! It's as if I've not read these articles properly and have extended this behaviour to all of society...what an indiscriminate hussy I am.

Even now that I'm aware of it, and riddled with embarrassment by it, my face-matching continues. In fact, if anything it's stepped up it's game. I'm watching people even more closely now, as though I've got my own social interaction survey going on - only no-one knows they're being surveyed. Ethics of this survey aside, it is revealing. Because the thing is, when other people do the mimicking thing I'm noticing that they are usually incredibly insincere with it. You can see their face working in a calculated effort to get what they want out of people. Whether that's getting them onside, extracting information, testing out difficult waters. It is embarrassing to watch. Painful, even. I really hope I am not such a ham actor.

I'm considering another little experiment, actually. Using my mimicry as a superpower for social good by tackling the everyday rudeness we all endure from total strangers in our lives, and throwing it back in their faces. A gentle Batman for polite society, if you will. 

Not giving an inch on the pavement when a stubborn individual enters my path, demonstrating just what chaos will ensue should one of us not budge.

Storming, literally, through the bus queue and sending all and sundry flying like bowling balls in my wake.

Hmmm...another embarrassing habit seems to have revealed its ugly head. Getting too angry at things...

In her shoes

Blog post - Walking in Heels

I've never been able to walk in high heels. Rarely does the powerful click clack of sex and glamour resonate in my wake. I can't even cope with a kitten.

Of course I tried that kind of femininity on for size for a period in my youth, as most of us do. There's that right of passage, the first time we sneak into our mother's wardrobe and trial our little feet in those giant, cartoonish courts. We realise right then how uncomfortable they are, but for some reason we persevere. I gave heels another go in my late teens - I'd managed to conquer a pair of sky-high bright white trainer-wedges, a la The Spice Girls, the previous year. So, I had high hopes. But of course, we all know wedges don't count as a true heel, and my trainers were certainly not a true test of my walking ability. After wearing a pair of not-even-that-high sandals from Select for my 18th birthday jaunt to Pizza Hut, the next morning I vowed never to wear heels again.

I just can't seem to physically master them. I read a hilarious piece in The Telegraph about a journalist - struck with the same affliction - who was sent to some terrifying woman's class on how to walk in heels. I mean, there's a class in everything isn't there. This woman apparently wore high (high) heels all the time. Everywhere. Well, obviously she's insane. And no doubt now riddled with back problems. Anyway, it made me wonder if a class of that ilk would have any impact on me. But I fear it would be futile.

In theory I should have the genetic equipment to walk in heels quite competently. My sister owns more than 200 pair of shoes. Yes, 200. They consumed our verandah in a slow painful suffocation, before spreading their chaos throughout the rest of the house. She used to go to work in them. The library. The dentist. She'd never consider going on a night out in a pair of flats. Heels are just in her psyche. And she didn't need any pricey training sessions to show her how to walk. Here's a flesh and blood relative who can function normally - glamorously - in a pair of stilettos. Surely I can follow in her footsteps?

But whenever I try I just look like Tina Turner gone wrong. And nothing works - plasters, gel cushions, only walking on carpets, being drunk - I've tried them all. Unfortunately I can't afford to pay someone to walk around with a carpet in front of me all the time. So I have to ask myself, is it that I can't walk in high heels? Or that I won't?

I was reminded of this little failure of mine the other week, when I started reading a book said sister lent me: How to be Parisian. There was a line in it that touched a nerve, "What you won't find in the Parisienne's closet - three-inch heels. Why live life halfway?"

Well - what's wrong with being comfortable? And not just in shoes - in your own skin?

It pains me to admit that I'm actually bothered that I can't strut to the shops - how ridiculous, it's just a pair of shoes after all. But that's the thing, it's not about the actual shoes - a heel represents much more. Sex! Power! Glamour! That's what a pair of heels screams. Then there's me, plodding along in my Clarkes boots and coming up short (literally). All in all it makes me feel rather inadequate, like I'm missing a major string in my bow. Killer heels are weaponry in a girl's arsenal. -whether that's power in attracting a mate (because that's what heels are designed to do when it comes down to it - display your childbearing hips). Or whether it's power in securing a high-flying job (assuming most high-flying jobs are male dominated and you've got to try and attract one with your childbearing hips...)

And then of course there are the rest of us, apparently not in high-flying jobs or a bearer of children, jealous spinsters unable to master the skill of walking. And we think, well actually it's all very well looking especially lengthy-of-leg and being tall enough to look boardroom suits in the eye, but - aren't you a bit of a slave to that shoe? That's a friendly torture device you're strapped into there. And you're endorsing it. Suffering. You are in actual pain.

Of course, I'm being way too serious here (that's flat heel wearers for you). I agree, I could accurately be accused of taking the fun right out of shoes. Because I can see that they are a bit of fun for a lot of people. They make us look good. They give us confidence, even if that confidence is based around men and hurts us in the process.

I'd much rather be comfortable. As long as I'm not getting too comfortable... Maybe I'll sneak into my sister's wardrobe the next time I see her, try walking in her shoes for a moment or two.

TV kills

Blog post - Television kills

Despite myself, I seem to be crying more than one should - at the television. I'm not much of a crier away from the screen. Yet there I am, wailing at the sight of an abandoned dog in one of those harrowing fundraising adverts. Sobbing during a local news item about an elderly war veteran robbed by thugs.

Why is it that I am so ready to open the floodgates in front of strangers I neither know nor care about on the television, but run a mile at the thought of exhibiting an uncomfortable emotion, admitting a vulnerability, to the actual people in my life? Well of course, I'm certainly not unique in this unhealthy behaviour, the roots of which aren't exactly rocket science. It's dramatically less hassle unleashing your inner emotions via some (seemingly) unrelated incident involving a small child and a rare disease on the news, rather than admitting your fears directly to a loved one. This is why counselling is so effective. Well, that and counsellors are trained professionals... your tv isn't exactly going to pipe up with some coping techniques to offer you. 

At home, the tv is always on. Critiquing what we're watching takes on a real importance and, as the years go on, I find I'm over-relating with tv in general. It's like I actually know the characters in The Big Bang Theory, that they really exist. I'll have full-blown conversations about them - sometimes, when I visit my parents, we will speak more about what's happened on the tv than we do about events in our own lives. And with real seriousness.

I consider myself a member of a generation for whom it is still considered a little anti-social, embarrassing - downright ridiculous - to talk so much about something as trivial as the television. It's an admission that you don't have enough to say for yourself, about yourself. Times have obviously changed - look at the Gogglebox phenomenon. And while I maintain that too much tv is prone to make us lazy and insular I would also argue that, contrarily, tv does have a valid role to play in today's society - encouraging connections in its own, very modern, way. 

When an episode of The Apprentice finishes, and we all rush to Twitter to de-brief, we're brought together as part of a (weird) virtual community. And when we say nothing to our partner/parent/sibling in a whole evening other than 'what did you think of Eastenders?', well - it might seem to sad to the older generation (and to me, a bit), but at least it is keeping some lines of communication open!

So really, tv is a way of building bridges that perhaps wouldn't otherwise be crossed, virtual ones and actual ones. Just as it's easier to cry about something you see on the telly when it reminds you of something you hold quietly inside you, it's easier for some people to talk to others in those displaced terms too - an easy, ready-made medium to communicate through, in which we can all contribute. Something we can all use to relate to each other with because, come on, who doesn't watch the tv? (Well, I do know two people who don't have one...) I can't see the situation changing either - judging by the constant chatter of the young people that come into my workplace, it's apparent that tv - well, YouTube actually - is the focus of their days.

I Googled before writing this post and - surprise, surprise - too much television is resoundedly considered bad.

It can shorten your life. 

It can change the structure of a child's brain (?!)

It means DEATH! 

Apparently sitting sedentary in front of a screen for more than two hours a day doubles (yes, doubles) your chance of a premature death. a) I feel genuinely anxious about this alarming statistic. Should i alert my GP? I think I'd need to join a queue, and b) if this is in fact the case, work is definitely killing me.

Of course, there's distinctions to be made between the kind of tv where you sit glass eyed unquestionably watching pointless drivel for three hours straight, the content of which is seemingly made up of repeating what's just happened because, presumably, it assumes its viewers have been rendered stupid by merely watching it. (Perhaps death is preferable here...) But it seems unfair with so many screens in our lives now to blame the biggest, oldest one. Surely some idiot glued to their mobile phone screen whilst driving is much more deadly.