Bloggers' Comp Cont.

I won! Huzzah!

So somebody has decided that I can blog well. What a bizarre thought. No idea what the bloody hell I'm going to be writing about but if I write about complete toss once a week for six weeks I get 150 squids worth of Argooos vouchers and if I get all the way to Christmas without being fired for being a fraud, I'll get that plus another 150 of Waterstones vouchers.

Christmas is going to be an absolute bargain. WIN.
Watch this space for links to the new blog. What shall I call it? Not sure how well 'femmefatale' would go down - feminism being "unattractive" and all. That's a chin scratcher..

Bloggers' Comp.

I'm sure this isn't what they're looking for but it has to be about 'university'... This is what university has been for me, I'm sure someone out there would find it relatively bemusing, if not entertaining. Meh, we shall see. I've been short-listed for a blogging competition and this is my final piece of submitted writing - I will be watching this space.

University thus far:

Years completed: 1
Years passed: (miraculously) 1
Years pending: 2 or 3 depending on whether I'm mad enough to do an MA.
Likelihood of said occurrence happening due to severe lack of funds: slim to none
Friends acquired: somewhere near 200 - thanks Facebook
Friends I will cherish forever: 5-10
Friends I will cherish forever: 3
Plays performed: 2
Plays performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and hailed by The Stage magazine: 1
Books read: 14
Favourite: Jean Rhys's Wide Sargasso Sea
Messy nights out in Southampton leading to declarations of love/waking to find perplexing bruises in unlikely places/ whole days of bread and butter diets: unknown
Prime Ministers irritated: 1
BBC political pundits shamelessly partaking in what can only be described as 'flirting' with me: 2
Poet Laureates adored, met and promptly embarrassed myself in front of: 1

Could all of that have really happened to me? The ridiculous girl with curly hair and tatty cardigan, most likely to be spotted at the library or behind the counter at a chippy in Dorset? Apparently so.

Bring on second year where grades matter, bills don't pay themselves, houses don't clean themselves, feminist societies don't run themselves, unsettling themes manifest themselves... evil corporations need boycotting, plays need directing, English degrees need taking seriously, (and therefore) copious amounts of books need reading, new dubstep needs daddy long-legs dancing to, new episodes of The Inbetweeners/ Jeremy Kyle need watching and above all, fun will undoubtedly be prevailing.

Let the good times proverbially roll.

Beatify This

... Has he left yet?

Holy Hell, I hope so.

I'm sick of the Beeb's top news story of every day being Pope-related. I would much prefer to hear about Russell Brand's 'citizen arrest' or the axing of toilets on trains. I feel these stories truly have a comment to make on the society of today and bear greater relevance to 21st century life than Catholicism.

Being arrested for pushing a photographer who was attempting to pap a pic of your fiancée's privates, for example, says a huge amount about social boundaries, the desperate sexualisation of celebrity women and the death of chivalry, to name but a few issues. I think more can be learnt from this than the ramblings of an old man in a dress (who advocates condoms being 'unholy' and therefore actively encourages the spread of AIDS and multiplication of population in vulnerable over-crowded third world countries). And as for toilets no longer being a necessity on trains - what a hot topic. Are we really becoming that country, where people simply cannot and will not hold their bladders for one measly hour? And we become irrationally outraged that our birth-born human right of being able to urinate as and when we damn well please is flogged to spare expense? The expense being toilets which are almost instantly disgusting and riddled with complaints and upturned noses? The issue here is that this is classed an issue. The experience is always prickly: my arms are never long enough to be able to wee comfortably while holding the door firmly shut to protect my dignity. This leads to a forced wee, a red face and the onset of panic, which is hard to shake until I have returned to my seat, blushing, and stick my head in my book, as though I have done something shameful. Not to mention my thighs - I will of course be doing all of this hovering. Scrap the toilets and hold it in - it's character building.

But I digress - as I said, these issues are far more burning (insert witty call-back to do with urinating here) than a visit from a man who is key speaker for a religion which is constantly abusing its children, condemns any women who chose to abort (and most other women for that matter) and spurns homosexuals. Moral leader or corrupt dictator?

And what's with his right-hand-man calling Britain a "third world country"? Ouch. When the Pope's hoes issued an explanation, I was expecting something along the lines of airports/chaotic/disorganised etc, which would have been an inappropriate and insensitive analogy but would have disguised a racial slur as being impersonal and misunderstood. But no, the reference was indeed candidly referring to the multiculturalism of Britain. Oh right, so it was in fact a horribly ignorant remark implying anybody not Caucasian should belong to an impoverished country? Affirmative.

Crikey, I hope they come back super soon for more words of wisdom.

For anyone with similar sentiments, or perhaps not -

Stephen Fry kicks Catholic arse and does it insanely articulately

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NL5WVecNdhk&feature=related

Third-world England

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-11325699

Paedophilia "petty gossip"

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/mar/28/pope-condemns-critics-catholic-sexual-abuse

Opposition in great numbers, at last

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/sep/18/pope-benedict-xvi-protest

A few more disparaging words: Morrissey

What on earth is wrong with me, I'm taking all of this terribly to heart today.

Morrissey. You are a genius. You are an icon and a hero, a preacher and a rebel. You are admired by young and old and your voice has defined the fractious, cynical state of minds of so many of us. With you, our thoughts are reinforced, not left to go stale or brood alone. You are sensitive and crass, passionate and ambivalent. Your music is deeply textured, rich, personal and universal, rooted somewhere in the grass of my back garden of summer 2007 and thousands of other back gardens in plenty of other years. You leave a taste in my mouth I cannot quite define.

But come along now, stop being such a provocative c*nt. You're old, you should know better. Buy another cat and get over yourself.

"The joke isn't funny any more; it's too close to home and it's too near the bone"

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2010/sep/03/morrissey-simon-armitage-interview

http://www.guardian.co.uk/global/2010/sep/03/morrissey-race-taboos-tom-clark

A few disparaging words: Wayne Rooney.

My dad works on a building site and the company assume that all builders like to read either The Sun or the classier option, The Star, so they produce them for the bargain price of just 20 fine English pennies. My father opts for the latter and tries to ignore the silicone breasts staring up at him, looking for something slightly more savoury to entertain him on his hour's lunch break while he eats the packed lunch my mother has prepared for him the night before. Two sandwiches, one Penguin, one packet of crisps, a banana/pear, a stray mince-pie or other left-over festive treat and the Sports section. Riveting stuff. He then folds up the newspaper-that-should-be-used-as-toilet-roll, chucks it in the back of the van, and presents it at 5:15pm to his disdainful daughter to secrete until the time comes when she makes her big page three collage ('What is sexuality?' or something similar) to display at her university's bunfight, the FemSoc offering for the day.

But today I had to indulge in pages four, five and six - the front page's dazzlingly witty title was simply irresistible "GET OUT WAYNE, ROO DIRTY RAT" (the comma was of my own providing, it doesn't really make sense without). On reading, I was genuinely horrified. And not just by the atrocious witch-hunt-esque journalism, would you believe! The article was deeply saddening, revealing that if Coleen chose to divorce him, he could stand to lose 100million in a court settling, with him almost certainly being dropped from sponsors. Yikes! That's the real tragedy of the story. Not the fact that a 24 year old mother of one was repeatedly cheated on by her childhood sweetheart and partner of eight years, while she was six months pregnant with his baby.

Perhaps Wayne thought that Coleen had put on a few pounds with all the baby stuff and he felt, him being so attractive and charming and all, he could get it elsewhere while fatty stayed at home. But no, not even regular women want to sleep with Wayne it seems, hence why he was willing to spend £1200 a night to sleep with this classy bird. Because saving for your child's future is just silly anyway.

I'm not going to lie - I love Coleen. 'Coleen's Real Women' was a cracking series and actually condoned being bigger than a size 10 and being taken seriously as a model for charisma and natural beauty, not your breasts. Not to mention the fact that it was generally just a thoroughly humorous, engaging and enjoyable programme.

My approval of Coleen is possibly the reason why this has moved me more than all the other cheating scandals of the football squad - that and the fact that the grimacing, illiterate bastard had genuinely convinced me that he was an alright kinda guy. Now I feel a fool - how can anyone trust a man who at the tender age of 16 paid to sleep with a 47 year old prostitute? I thought perhaps the sudden influx of money and stardom had gone to his virginal head but nay, it seems that footballers cannot change their stripes. I should have known.

Divorce the shmuck, Coleen. And as for you Wayne: I know it's difficult to understand, but women aren't like football teams. You can't trade them off against each other for vast sums of money. A tricky life lesson, I'm sure.