Hello again, she says in morose tones. I am home after the most marvellous three week Scottish adventure and feeling somewhat flat. After 22 days of early mornings, late nights, mingling with attractive actors ("mingling with" = stalking and giggling over), daily shows, countless warm ups and the occasional funky chicken, it is rather bizarre to plop back into a schedule which holds very little. Wake up, usually mid-morning. Read Lolita a bit - this is usually the highlight of my day. Chat on the phone a bit. Eat whatever tinned good I may happen upon in my larder (yes, my ridiculously old fashioned house has a larder). Do a bit of SUSU stuff. Email a few people. Re-live the glory days, sniffing haggis and crying into my novelty Loch Ness Monster toy. Drink tea. You know the drill. It's exhausting but equally dull. I'm actually looking forward to going back to lectures, merely to give my brain something else to dwell upon. How awful.
In typical and frustrating fashion, we've had a whole host of positive reviews now that our Edinburgh show is all over. Each time I read one - re-reading it eight or so times - my chest gets all fluttery and my arms go all goose-pimply and I feel like bursting with pride and joy and nostalgia. It's rather emotionally draining, I must say. You see, we weren't expecting good reviews. Of course I knew the play was bloody brill but I co-wrote and directed the damned thing so that's to be taken for granted. Student productions seem to so infrequently succeed at the Fringe however, bigger budgets, bigger production teams, better preparation and the like always ousting us from recognition or recommendation. We slip below public eyesight and float in medium appreciation, enjoyed by those who see it but ultimately seen by too few. The latter bore true for us again this time, with our audiences dropping to as few as 7. Though this is the average audience size and is not to be sniffed at, when you're playing to a 150 capacity crowd it seems like an appalling meagre amount, most of the laughs provided by myself and the producers to fill the painful silences. If only such reviews had come out sooner! Alas, it wasn't to be, but I am still incredibly overjoyed to receive such praise for our lovely wee spectacle. Better late than never, eh?
To be horribly self-indulgent and smug, I shall post the review links here so you can all revel in our success with us. Or something. And my mother will appreciate the consolidation if nothing else.
http://www.broadwaybaby.com/edinburgh-fringe/10481-the-spectacular-tales-of-grinburrell
http://www.thenewcurrent.com/2011/08/18/13540/
http://www.threeweeks.co.uk/article/ed2011-theatre-review-the-spectacular-tales-of-grinburrell-southampton-university-students%E2%80%99-union-theatre-group/
http://www.the-u-review.co.uk/The_U-Review/Reviews/Entries/2011/8/20_The_Spectacular_Tales_Of_Grinburrell.html
http://edfringereview.com/reviews/event/TkYv1fcgRRekHxNzwwOIBg
... and of course, I must chuck in a crap one for good measure - my favourite bit is when she calls the characters "faintly irritating". That made me chuckle.
http://www.edinburgh-festivals.com/viewreview.aspx?id=2818
Farewell Edinburgh, I shall attempt to stop obsessing now. See you next year hopefully, if my brother's wedding doesn't collide too terribly. Bloody brothers scheduling weddings to coincide with the Fringe... what madness.
For now though, life is hopefully getting a kick start as I've just managed to blag myself a job. How exciting! I had my first shift at The Crown last night and cripes, was I exhausted by the end of it. I've never worked in a pub before and was left to my own devices within half an hour, having never pulled a pint before in the life. It was disastrous, as you can imagine. I tried to do it like how they do it on television but like a lot of things on television, it wasn't that straightforward. An hour in, I was being hailed as a Boddington's pro. I don't know what Boddington's is or what makes me a pro but I shan't ask questions. Another shift tonight then off to Bali's 21st tomorrow with a trip to Notting Hill carnival on Monday to see me through the weekend. I'm terribly excited. Onwards!
Saturday, 27 August 2011
Friday, 19 August 2011
Week Two (and three) up North
It is a rare sunny Sunday in Edinburgh and we have found ourselves coming to the end of week two of our Scottish stint. In just seven days' time we'll be mourning the loss of our play, having put it to bed for the last time the previous day. And we'll definitely be hungover.
It's been another mad week, performing every day to crowds ranging from seven to thirty odd (just to give an indication of the success of such numbers, the average Fringe audience is 4) and every single show has been a good'un. Nobody has walked out before the end (phew) and on their appropriate exit, we've had only positive comments. Not that they'd tell us they hated it, but you know, such comments were offered so we shall take them gratefully and say thank you very much. Flyering has been somewhat gnarly as the driving rain makes giving away pieces of paper to wandering people almost impossible: the flyers are sodden and there aren't any wanderers for miles anyway, only locals grumbling to work with their faces impenetrable to our hopeful approaches. Spirits have been less than high, it's safe to say.
(19.08.11) Bloody poor show, Green. After intending to blog several times a week during the Fringe, as something resembling a diary, I have blogged but once and it's our final show tomorrow. Nightmare. Life is just so busy here, it's unreal. I was even offered a job while here and due to business completely neglected to accept it. Massive oops. I have also become completely desensitized to celebrity sightings and apparently I am now unable to even spot a star when he is sitting right next to me on a cushion in a theatre of ten people, watching a one man physical dramatisation of Bombay life. I shall explain and perhaps you can help: tall, sandy-haired male in mid to late 50s, suited with expensive watch was in the queue for said show I was attending and I thought the man next to me was having a small fit, he was so excited by this apparently rather famous man. People were taking sly pictures of him from across the road (I say sly - they were squealing and jumping and pointing), his autograph was asked for twice and the chap on the door did some kind of absurd bow to him as he walked through the door. But who the hell is he?! I couldn't for the life of me think, so asked a gentleman standing next to me. He was Italian, completely misconstrued my frantic whisper in his ear and gave me his card. Leonardo, a 'visual artist'. So I am none the wiser, though I have a saucy Italian backup plan if it all goes tits up with Bali. Winner. I suppose I will never know who the handsome stranger was - I didn't have the breasts (balls equivalent) to ask him who he was, that would have been highly embarrassing and utterly preposterous.
Last show tomorrow! Madness. I can't believe 16 shows have passed me by. And I still laugh every time. We have had two four star reviews, two (cough cough) two (cough cough) star reviews, and yesterday we were named The New Current's Best Original Student Production 2011 and awarded 5 stars. Bloody hell! Their review is somewhat rushed but it's rather flattering - I will struggle to get through the door of this internet cafe at this rate - so well worth a gander.
http://www.thenewcurrent.com/2011/08/18/13540/
This has been a terrible update, apologies to my two readers. Harri, Mother, I am sorry for such poor content. Better update to come. Promise. For now though, I am off to The Hot Mikado, the jazz years... or some shit. Goodnight.
It's been another mad week, performing every day to crowds ranging from seven to thirty odd (just to give an indication of the success of such numbers, the average Fringe audience is 4) and every single show has been a good'un. Nobody has walked out before the end (phew) and on their appropriate exit, we've had only positive comments. Not that they'd tell us they hated it, but you know, such comments were offered so we shall take them gratefully and say thank you very much. Flyering has been somewhat gnarly as the driving rain makes giving away pieces of paper to wandering people almost impossible: the flyers are sodden and there aren't any wanderers for miles anyway, only locals grumbling to work with their faces impenetrable to our hopeful approaches. Spirits have been less than high, it's safe to say.
(19.08.11) Bloody poor show, Green. After intending to blog several times a week during the Fringe, as something resembling a diary, I have blogged but once and it's our final show tomorrow. Nightmare. Life is just so busy here, it's unreal. I was even offered a job while here and due to business completely neglected to accept it. Massive oops. I have also become completely desensitized to celebrity sightings and apparently I am now unable to even spot a star when he is sitting right next to me on a cushion in a theatre of ten people, watching a one man physical dramatisation of Bombay life. I shall explain and perhaps you can help: tall, sandy-haired male in mid to late 50s, suited with expensive watch was in the queue for said show I was attending and I thought the man next to me was having a small fit, he was so excited by this apparently rather famous man. People were taking sly pictures of him from across the road (I say sly - they were squealing and jumping and pointing), his autograph was asked for twice and the chap on the door did some kind of absurd bow to him as he walked through the door. But who the hell is he?! I couldn't for the life of me think, so asked a gentleman standing next to me. He was Italian, completely misconstrued my frantic whisper in his ear and gave me his card. Leonardo, a 'visual artist'. So I am none the wiser, though I have a saucy Italian backup plan if it all goes tits up with Bali. Winner. I suppose I will never know who the handsome stranger was - I didn't have the breasts (balls equivalent) to ask him who he was, that would have been highly embarrassing and utterly preposterous.
Last show tomorrow! Madness. I can't believe 16 shows have passed me by. And I still laugh every time. We have had two four star reviews, two (cough cough) two (cough cough) star reviews, and yesterday we were named The New Current's Best Original Student Production 2011 and awarded 5 stars. Bloody hell! Their review is somewhat rushed but it's rather flattering - I will struggle to get through the door of this internet cafe at this rate - so well worth a gander.
http://www.thenewcurrent.com/2011/08/18/13540/
This has been a terrible update, apologies to my two readers. Harri, Mother, I am sorry for such poor content. Better update to come. Promise. For now though, I am off to The Hot Mikado, the jazz years... or some shit. Goodnight.
Sunday, 7 August 2011
Burgeoning Love for the ‘Burgh
So here we are again, back in the copse of culture that is the Scottish capital. I so sorely missed the frivolous and giddy lifestyle that I lived for all of three glorious weeks last August: my return is sweet and I feel as though I have flown the nest but arrived resolutely back home. The disinfected gummy smell of Cowgate, our trusty hostel, submerged me with dormant memories on entering but I have had little time to reflect, fresh mental entries attempting to lay claim to the Edinburgh-shaped cavity in my mind. In Edinburgh I long to be a writer, a director, an actor, a playwright, a producer, a poet, a comedian, a mime, an artist, a star. And for a few brief moments (seventeen performances to be exact, plus the minutes I find myself mid-shmooze), I am able to almost replicate such an existence, the Fringe nonexclusive to amateur fantasizers. For this I owe it everything.
The play officially began its run yesterday: it went tremendously. After a somewhat jolted start – our dress rehearsal the previous day was going swimmingly until a freak health and safety check at the venue forced us into a pregnant pause which lasted a good ten minutes – the cast have found their theatrical feet once more and make me prouder than a new mum. Well, maybe not that much but so proud it makes me inarticulately swear under my breath in an outward pant of “fuuuuuuuck me”. Luckily there were several seats between myself and our underage audience, to whom I merely offered an excitable grin. It was returned. Sixteen punters witnessed the popping of our festival cherry, the number decreasing to twelve after a wailing child and her entourage fled just twenty minutes in. She was definitely too young to see our “suitable for all ages” spectacle. Oops. I think it was the moment where Sophia emits a skin-crawling shriek at being swallowed by a cursed dress that pushed her over the edge, unsurprisingly. During the manic get-in where we have to set up our entire show in a meagre and ungenerous five minutes, Emma, our lovely producer, rushed over to tell me that we were to expect a reviewer. Our first nerve-wrecking, knee-trembling show. Yikes, was I shitting a proverbial brick. In the moments I wasn’t in rapture at our sensational tales – if I do say so myself – I was intently staring at the side of the guy’ head, willing him to laugh and smile and think to himself “this is excellent”. And laugh and smile and think to himself “this is excellent” he did! The latter was confirmed post-play when he shared such sentiments with myself and Emma, to our utter glee. Of course, he may have been lying and could have hated it, his hoots of laughter actually derisive and mocking. But I shall remain optimistic. A positive three star review from the renowned Three Weeks would go down an absolute treat right about now. Baited breath and all that.
The Fringe is in full swing finally and in only two days I have seen something astonishing and something atrocious. Ah, the ups and downs! I love it. The something astonishing was A Clockwork Orange at C +1, a fleshy and indigestible horror show that appalled me beyond repair. My jaw remained on the floor as I watched a smutty sensual homosexual banquet of limbs, sweat and wide eyes, all to a soundtrack of twenty-first century indie anthems. It was flawless. I'd have given it 5* even before they all took their shirts off. In light of such a terrific performance, we stuck around to see the same troupe's production of Titus Andronicus. Our expectations were high, to say the least and they certainly didn't let us down. The only thing that did however was the slightly embarrassing dagger incident that occurred twenty minutes before the end when the misplaced implement accidentally stabbed its possessor and we were all evacuated to let in a crew of paramedics. What a faux pas. The atrocious was Pleasance Dome's Fresher: The Musical, a clichéd and vapid account of first year university life. Being a fresher just a year ago I expected the script to be rammed with in-jokes that I would relate to and would cringe to collectively with my peers, but no such jokes occurred. All I was presented with were unbelievably two-dimensional characters and uninteresting tunes which I cannot now remember a single one of. Perhaps my personal fresher experience was anomalous but, as Holden Caulfield would say, I found the whole thing horribly corny. It killed me, it did.
(cont. 7.8.11) The next few days see us meandering to shows including Some Small Love Story at C Eca (tissues at the ready), Potted Potter, Scary Gorgeous (cannot wait) and I'll probably attempt to see Titus again - I know how it ends but I hate to leave a show unfinished. As for the Grinburrell crew, it's our fourth show today. Wish us luck!
Thursday, 14 July 2011
Sunburnt
I have had a month of adventures. It has been a very special time indeed. First and foremost, I am the horribly proud director of a fantastic show that had its first performance just the other day. After two weeks of frantic rehearsals which saw us all descend into the murky depths of insanity, we have somehow managed to pull a pretty brilliant show together. 'The Spectacular Tales of Grinburrell' was all but an idealistic pipe-dream just a few wee months ago and now it is a living breathing spectacle. And a spectacle which people actually enjoyed, to my humbled relief. Bring on Edinburgh: 22 days, 18 members of cast and crew, 17 performances, 12 hours in a minibus (x2), 3 hostel rooms, infinite hangovers and 1 glorious city. My excitement is boundless.
I also finished the second year of my degree this month; I thought that this would mean my workload would decrease significantly but alas no, I seem to be busier than ever. Further proof that I don't do much in my degree? Possibly. I actually rather enjoyed revising for my exam, as horribly nerdy and eager as that sounds. Though when your exam is on Ulysses, The Great Gatsby, The Waste Land and Mrs. Dalloway, you're hardly likely of becoming submerged by boredom. Come on now, it's not like I study Chemistry. Anyway, my keenness obviously paid off as I have been awarded a juicy 2:1 for the year, despite a certain one Kos Ring attempting to sabotage me with a rogue 57. YOU WILL NOT BE MY DOWNFALL, OH MIGHTY OPPRESSOR! And breath.
As a special treat before the "hard work" of Edinburgh commences (ahem), I thought I should like to take a wee holiday. This manifested as a week of various National Express bus journeys and general debauchery in the shape of Amy's 21st in Aylesbury which lead to four days in Cornwall with the EngSoc massive which seamlessly carried me into Canterbury's festival of delights Lounge on the Farm. I say 'seamlessly' - it actually transpired that I spent approximately 12 hours travelling to the other side of the country, but on arriving at aforementioned festival the sun was shining and the tent had been erected (ooh err) so I could just continue to bloody well enjoy myself. And that I certainly did. What a week! Cornwall was absolutely glorious: the eight of us were staying in a beautiful house 120 seconds away from Polzeath's lovely beach and between those two locations, we were entirely satisfied for the best part of a week. I tried my hand - and strained lymph nodes - at surfing, much to my amusement. I know the object of the endeavour is to stand upon your eponymous board but after several hours over two days and uncountable flailings later, I felt very proud to have achieved this all of about twice for all of about seven seconds in all. Small victories, eh. Apart from being thrown about at sea in gale force winds on a piece of yellow polystyrene, I did nothing remotely strenuous for the entire time: I read To Kill a Mocking Bird, I drank copious amounts of cider, I laughed until I thought I might have an accident at a Chinese lantern based incident... What bliss.
The festival allowed me to continue such a week of relaxation: the food was incredible and the atmosphere was like no other festival I've ever been to. Despite a few 14 year old Lary Larrys who clearly came only to see The Vaccines and Ellie Goulding and who occasionally disturbed the peace, the 'lounging' on said farm was actually very easy to achieve. I spent my days pottering between the Playhouse where one could expect to hear poetry, see the odd pint-sized Shakespearean tragedy, watch some cracking stand-up, partake in a belly dancing workshop or experience the Lord of Lobsters (don't ask); the Tea Teepee for a cheeky chai; the falafel tent and various low-key folk stages where it was the done thing to listen while laying down. What a bizarre experience for a musician to walk onto stage at a festival and be greeted not by throngs of bopping individuals but a sea of lethargically lolling loungers. I wasn't complaining - my lymph nodes by this point, having been forced to endure belly dancing, had well and truly thrown in the towel and I found it almost impossible to lift my arms, rendering me somewhat static. I fit in a treat. Speaking of treats, I discovered some complete gems while reclining at the festival - if you're looking for some excellent new tunes, I point you in the direction of: Kyla La Grange, Daughter, Bucket Boyz (though you really have to be there to appreciate their brilliance), Boot Lagoon, Chad Valley ... Aaron, have I forgotten any?
Had I not written a complete dissertation of a blog, I'd spend a moment or two to reflect on all these Murdoch shenanigans that went on around me during the week. Not that there's much to be said but you know, I usually feel the need to express a liberal-bordering-socialist/ often under-researched opinion on such matters. So here goes: C*nts, the lot of them. Let them rot in jail. And don't even allow them a gym or an X Box. ... Done.
I also finished the second year of my degree this month; I thought that this would mean my workload would decrease significantly but alas no, I seem to be busier than ever. Further proof that I don't do much in my degree? Possibly. I actually rather enjoyed revising for my exam, as horribly nerdy and eager as that sounds. Though when your exam is on Ulysses, The Great Gatsby, The Waste Land and Mrs. Dalloway, you're hardly likely of becoming submerged by boredom. Come on now, it's not like I study Chemistry. Anyway, my keenness obviously paid off as I have been awarded a juicy 2:1 for the year, despite a certain one Kos Ring attempting to sabotage me with a rogue 57. YOU WILL NOT BE MY DOWNFALL, OH MIGHTY OPPRESSOR! And breath.
As a special treat before the "hard work" of Edinburgh commences (ahem), I thought I should like to take a wee holiday. This manifested as a week of various National Express bus journeys and general debauchery in the shape of Amy's 21st in Aylesbury which lead to four days in Cornwall with the EngSoc massive which seamlessly carried me into Canterbury's festival of delights Lounge on the Farm. I say 'seamlessly' - it actually transpired that I spent approximately 12 hours travelling to the other side of the country, but on arriving at aforementioned festival the sun was shining and the tent had been erected (ooh err) so I could just continue to bloody well enjoy myself. And that I certainly did. What a week! Cornwall was absolutely glorious: the eight of us were staying in a beautiful house 120 seconds away from Polzeath's lovely beach and between those two locations, we were entirely satisfied for the best part of a week. I tried my hand - and strained lymph nodes - at surfing, much to my amusement. I know the object of the endeavour is to stand upon your eponymous board but after several hours over two days and uncountable flailings later, I felt very proud to have achieved this all of about twice for all of about seven seconds in all. Small victories, eh. Apart from being thrown about at sea in gale force winds on a piece of yellow polystyrene, I did nothing remotely strenuous for the entire time: I read To Kill a Mocking Bird, I drank copious amounts of cider, I laughed until I thought I might have an accident at a Chinese lantern based incident... What bliss.
The festival allowed me to continue such a week of relaxation: the food was incredible and the atmosphere was like no other festival I've ever been to. Despite a few 14 year old Lary Larrys who clearly came only to see The Vaccines and Ellie Goulding and who occasionally disturbed the peace, the 'lounging' on said farm was actually very easy to achieve. I spent my days pottering between the Playhouse where one could expect to hear poetry, see the odd pint-sized Shakespearean tragedy, watch some cracking stand-up, partake in a belly dancing workshop or experience the Lord of Lobsters (don't ask); the Tea Teepee for a cheeky chai; the falafel tent and various low-key folk stages where it was the done thing to listen while laying down. What a bizarre experience for a musician to walk onto stage at a festival and be greeted not by throngs of bopping individuals but a sea of lethargically lolling loungers. I wasn't complaining - my lymph nodes by this point, having been forced to endure belly dancing, had well and truly thrown in the towel and I found it almost impossible to lift my arms, rendering me somewhat static. I fit in a treat. Speaking of treats, I discovered some complete gems while reclining at the festival - if you're looking for some excellent new tunes, I point you in the direction of: Kyla La Grange, Daughter, Bucket Boyz (though you really have to be there to appreciate their brilliance), Boot Lagoon, Chad Valley ... Aaron, have I forgotten any?
Had I not written a complete dissertation of a blog, I'd spend a moment or two to reflect on all these Murdoch shenanigans that went on around me during the week. Not that there's much to be said but you know, I usually feel the need to express a liberal-bordering-socialist/ often under-researched opinion on such matters. So here goes: C*nts, the lot of them. Let them rot in jail. And don't even allow them a gym or an X Box. ... Done.
Saturday, 28 May 2011
A Month of Sundays
Before I forget what has happened during the past four weeks, I should probably purge myself of it. Is it neurotic to live in constant fear of forgetting all the best bits of one's life? I guess if those precious moments were as precious as I perceived at the time, I wouldn't forget them. And yet my mind seems rife with trifling details about people and places I don't know or care about or particularly like: I have impeccable recollection of my grocery shopping excursion to International Foods from two Tuesdays ago. I bought a green pepper and 6 eggs and one of them was white and all the rest brown and I had to ask directions to curry powder and I was in fact standing in front of it. A trip down 'Memory Lane' sees me stumbling upon somewhere resembling a foggy cul-de-sac slightly North of Lincolnshire. Most uninspired, I can assure you.
So, here is catharsis. What have I done in the last 28 days? Something vaguely blog-worthy, surely? Deep breath: Black Comedy/petitioning/seven million essays/AGM/(partial)Nestle boycott success/revision/rehearsals/one small nervous breakdown/FemSoc's Women's Aid gig (which lead to...)/Many a jig and jape and good time. Oh and I received one letter from BBC Scotland inviting me on the Weakest Link. See, when put like that, I realise I do actually lead a rather exciting life. Thank goodness for my two marvellous methods of memory jogging: Facebook photo tagging and freakishly anal weekly planning. Looks like I can cancel that abundant order of cod-liver oil. Perhaps a Dictaphone would be a worthy purchase? On hearing/witnessing/experiencing something significant, I've always been tempted to tilt my head towards the imaginary camera which documents my life, raise an eyebrow and in a conspirator's voice mutter into my trusty Dictaphone "Note to self: today you discovered the heavenly joy of peanut butter and mushed banana on toast" or something of equal importance. I'd look like a tool but I'd be smug in my mad memory skill'z'. What a conflict of interests.
In true broken record style, I'm going to attempt to shoehorn in feminism. Quelle surprise. This month has been an interesting one for fighting gender inequality. Locally, our fund-raiser for the wonderful Southampton Women's Aid was a massive success - many a weep was wept - and pulled in over £700. With government cuts leaving the domestic abuse refuge and service on its knees, FemSoc couldn't resist getting our jape on for such a crucial cause. The fact that fundraising was even necessary for a service which provides relief to hundreds of women and children a year is despicable but one must act as well as gripe and act we did. And gripe we will continue to do. The ConDemed reign of terror also continues nationally, with Nadine Dorries attempting to provide me with ample reason to feel afraid and ashamed of my clitoris and anti-abortion "pro-life" groups infiltrating sexual education in schools. Get the bunting out, ladies, let's enjoy life while we're still allowed to.
Back at FemSoc HQ, we were visited by two fantastic females in the last two weeks. The first was a lady working at a Southampton based day centre for street sex workers and those who are victim of addiction or homelessness. They provide sexual health advice and paraphernalia, food, human contact. It is so humbling to have someone come into our group and talk so frankly about the underbelly of society which many women find themselves ensconced by. Not everyone is born into a family who seek to protect them: love is a luxury. Love is a commodity. During the talk, we learned of women whose own mothers had sold them into paedophile circles at the age of four, and who now, unsurprisingly, have no option but prostitution. And what do you see when you look at a sex worker on the street? Something filthy, unladylike, shameful. We don't see the desperate need for love, the vulnerability, the emotional and economical corruption. Living in England, where human suffering often seems inane in comparison to the atrocities that go on elsewhere, it is easy to forget that poverty comes under many guises, poverty of respect and emotional support being as inhumane as that of financial insecurity. The organisation - and other similar ones - are always looking for volunteers. Fancy helping to shift some hard-set attitudes? Me too. Get on board.
http://www.twosaints.org.uk/
http://www.catch-22.org.uk/Services/Detail/3D---Southampton
The other lovely lass was dear Valerie Goodwin, playwright extraordinaire and feminist raconteur. Her award-winning play 'The Magdalen Whitewash' tells the harrowing and formidably realistic tales of women under lock and key in the Irish Catholic laundries throughout the 20th century. This scene, so frequently overlooked in history and yet worthy of mass public outrage and horror, was one of grave reality for women who found themselves pregnant or even those with learning difficulties or those suspected of "succumbing to lust". Their families would shun them, dump them in the huge prison-like chambers, and almost never return to collect them post-baby. They were lost property, fated to spend the rest of their lives scrubbing dirty laundry: their brains were washed as they washed clothes. The play is beautifully crafted and has received theatrical recognition from all across the globe, including Ireland itself. Have a wee perusal, friend: http://www.playsandmusicals.co.uk/plays/twoact/drama/magdalen.htm
FemSoc are getting excited about the prospect of reworking parts of the play into a potential production of 'The Vagina Monologues' next year. I'll be attempting to frog-march inequality out of SUSU by reggae nights, Korean film screenings and vaginas. A good place to start, if ever there was one.
Post Script: Rhino kindly reminded me that I had made a gaping omission to this post, so I shall rectify this now. FEMSOC WON AN EVA! Hurrah and yippee and oh baby. We were given the Highly Commended Cup for Innovation for our services to students and SUSU - apparently we tackled some "controversial topics" and made gender equality "something all students could partake in". Because otherwise students wouldn't have been up for retaining equality... They needed Rhiannon and I screaming at them on the concourse before they realised men and women being equal was a good shout. As horrifying as that sounds, we got a shiny glass thing out of it so that's that innit. Fuck yeah, feminism.
So, here is catharsis. What have I done in the last 28 days? Something vaguely blog-worthy, surely? Deep breath: Black Comedy/petitioning/seven million essays/AGM/(partial)Nestle boycott success/revision/rehearsals/one small nervous breakdown/FemSoc's Women's Aid gig (which lead to...)/Many a jig and jape and good time. Oh and I received one letter from BBC Scotland inviting me on the Weakest Link. See, when put like that, I realise I do actually lead a rather exciting life. Thank goodness for my two marvellous methods of memory jogging: Facebook photo tagging and freakishly anal weekly planning. Looks like I can cancel that abundant order of cod-liver oil. Perhaps a Dictaphone would be a worthy purchase? On hearing/witnessing/experiencing something significant, I've always been tempted to tilt my head towards the imaginary camera which documents my life, raise an eyebrow and in a conspirator's voice mutter into my trusty Dictaphone "Note to self: today you discovered the heavenly joy of peanut butter and mushed banana on toast" or something of equal importance. I'd look like a tool but I'd be smug in my mad memory skill'z'. What a conflict of interests.
In true broken record style, I'm going to attempt to shoehorn in feminism. Quelle surprise. This month has been an interesting one for fighting gender inequality. Locally, our fund-raiser for the wonderful Southampton Women's Aid was a massive success - many a weep was wept - and pulled in over £700. With government cuts leaving the domestic abuse refuge and service on its knees, FemSoc couldn't resist getting our jape on for such a crucial cause. The fact that fundraising was even necessary for a service which provides relief to hundreds of women and children a year is despicable but one must act as well as gripe and act we did. And gripe we will continue to do. The ConDemed reign of terror also continues nationally, with Nadine Dorries attempting to provide me with ample reason to feel afraid and ashamed of my clitoris and anti-abortion "pro-life" groups infiltrating sexual education in schools. Get the bunting out, ladies, let's enjoy life while we're still allowed to.
Back at FemSoc HQ, we were visited by two fantastic females in the last two weeks. The first was a lady working at a Southampton based day centre for street sex workers and those who are victim of addiction or homelessness. They provide sexual health advice and paraphernalia, food, human contact. It is so humbling to have someone come into our group and talk so frankly about the underbelly of society which many women find themselves ensconced by. Not everyone is born into a family who seek to protect them: love is a luxury. Love is a commodity. During the talk, we learned of women whose own mothers had sold them into paedophile circles at the age of four, and who now, unsurprisingly, have no option but prostitution. And what do you see when you look at a sex worker on the street? Something filthy, unladylike, shameful. We don't see the desperate need for love, the vulnerability, the emotional and economical corruption. Living in England, where human suffering often seems inane in comparison to the atrocities that go on elsewhere, it is easy to forget that poverty comes under many guises, poverty of respect and emotional support being as inhumane as that of financial insecurity. The organisation - and other similar ones - are always looking for volunteers. Fancy helping to shift some hard-set attitudes? Me too. Get on board.
http://www.twosaints.org.uk/
http://www.catch-22.org.uk/Services/Detail/3D---Southampton
The other lovely lass was dear Valerie Goodwin, playwright extraordinaire and feminist raconteur. Her award-winning play 'The Magdalen Whitewash' tells the harrowing and formidably realistic tales of women under lock and key in the Irish Catholic laundries throughout the 20th century. This scene, so frequently overlooked in history and yet worthy of mass public outrage and horror, was one of grave reality for women who found themselves pregnant or even those with learning difficulties or those suspected of "succumbing to lust". Their families would shun them, dump them in the huge prison-like chambers, and almost never return to collect them post-baby. They were lost property, fated to spend the rest of their lives scrubbing dirty laundry: their brains were washed as they washed clothes. The play is beautifully crafted and has received theatrical recognition from all across the globe, including Ireland itself. Have a wee perusal, friend: http://www.playsandmusicals.co.uk/plays/twoact/drama/magdalen.htm
FemSoc are getting excited about the prospect of reworking parts of the play into a potential production of 'The Vagina Monologues' next year. I'll be attempting to frog-march inequality out of SUSU by reggae nights, Korean film screenings and vaginas. A good place to start, if ever there was one.
Post Script: Rhino kindly reminded me that I had made a gaping omission to this post, so I shall rectify this now. FEMSOC WON AN EVA! Hurrah and yippee and oh baby. We were given the Highly Commended Cup for Innovation for our services to students and SUSU - apparently we tackled some "controversial topics" and made gender equality "something all students could partake in". Because otherwise students wouldn't have been up for retaining equality... They needed Rhiannon and I screaming at them on the concourse before they realised men and women being equal was a good shout. As horrifying as that sounds, we got a shiny glass thing out of it so that's that innit. Fuck yeah, feminism.
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Easter Japes and Debates
I have shed my Dorset skin and made my cheery way back to Southampton living. The sun is out and lord am I feeling grand. Famous last words but currently not even three stodgy essays due can get me down. I think I am a sufferer of Seasonal Affective Disorder - I am unfathomably happy in this beautiful weather. Friends: be prepared to feel my wrath if it changes any time soon. Apologies in advance.
Easter has been an interesting period. I spent one half at home and the other half at home. The other home. With my other family. This alternative family consists of several people, namely feminists and allies, and our relationships are ones consisting predominantly of emotional support and heavy doses of humour and debauchery. We also endeavour in political chitchat when we have nothing better to do but since our opinions rarely differ, such debates are excellent for re-establishing our initial beliefs but can hardly be deemed challenging. We sit, self-righteously, putting the world to rights. My blood family on the other hand provide ample levels of heated debate so I don't feel like I am missing out on much. Our latest was the AV referendum. A contentious issue when under the roof of one Tory, one Liberal and one floating voter (who reads the Daily Mail), I can assure you.
My father's argument went a little something like this: "First Past the Post isn't properrr democracy but it's the way it's always been and we shouldn't change that". Oh cripes. I understand that to someone who has got used to something, change can seem daunting. Like having to buy a new pair of shoes to replace a really lovely but resolutely worn out pair which you have lived in for five years. They have holes in them and make you an eyesore at any civilised occasion but they used to be great and it's nice to own something so comfortable. But one must step - literally - into a world where shoes evolve with the times ... or something. My argument to my father was then based loosely on the principle that not everything traditional has been great. It used to be a tradition to keep a black slave, that wasn't great. It used to be tradition to beat your wife, far from ideal. You get my jist. I shall say no more - in my last blog someone got offended by an apparently insensitive reference to the Holocaust. Yikes. To conclude: AV is sexy, let's do this shit.
Speaking of insensitive jokes, I couldn't help but get rather peeved with the "boob-gate" story which circulated a few days ago. See http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/culture/lucyjones/100053061/pmqs-whose-boobs-are-these/ if you had the privilege to miss out on such a tale. Thank you Lucy Jones, serious and demure journalist extraordinaire, you've done women all over the country a real favour by reminding millions of people that sexism is inherent and unremitting in politics. Let's all have a good gawp at a young lady's rack because of course, since a small portion is on show, she is fully deserving of such lewd attention. It's not as if she's wearing a really smart suit and she's an extremely professional politician sitting and listening avidly in the Cabinet and the mammary glands that her sex equips her with to feed her young are protruding by approximately one inch. Oh no, wait. If everyone could grow up and accept that women have breasts and some times you can see them, that'd be lovely. It really does make a lass resent being gifted with the means to provide for your newborn. And as for comments which state that it was her fault because she was dressed inappropriately, do me a favour and SHUT UP. That attitude smacks rather sharply of the ignoble dross that imbeciles spout on rape cases: look at what she was wearing, she was asking for it. Nobody ever asks to be raped. And certainly nobody ever asks to have a picture of the crack of their chest circled sloppily on Paint and thrown around the internet like some jaw-dropping pornographic image, completely undermining your already very tricky to maintain sense of political authority. .... And breath.
In related news - SlutWalk is hitting Britain! I expect a blog shall be dedicated to this cause sooner or later so I'll save it until then. But do get involved, it's going to be a riot. Of the best, most "slutty" variety.
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=197363420301422 - the event
http://www.facebook.com/slutwalkuk - the page
http://www.slutwalktoronto.com/ - the history
Easter has been an interesting period. I spent one half at home and the other half at home. The other home. With my other family. This alternative family consists of several people, namely feminists and allies, and our relationships are ones consisting predominantly of emotional support and heavy doses of humour and debauchery. We also endeavour in political chitchat when we have nothing better to do but since our opinions rarely differ, such debates are excellent for re-establishing our initial beliefs but can hardly be deemed challenging. We sit, self-righteously, putting the world to rights. My blood family on the other hand provide ample levels of heated debate so I don't feel like I am missing out on much. Our latest was the AV referendum. A contentious issue when under the roof of one Tory, one Liberal and one floating voter (who reads the Daily Mail), I can assure you.
My father's argument went a little something like this: "First Past the Post isn't properrr democracy but it's the way it's always been and we shouldn't change that". Oh cripes. I understand that to someone who has got used to something, change can seem daunting. Like having to buy a new pair of shoes to replace a really lovely but resolutely worn out pair which you have lived in for five years. They have holes in them and make you an eyesore at any civilised occasion but they used to be great and it's nice to own something so comfortable. But one must step - literally - into a world where shoes evolve with the times ... or something. My argument to my father was then based loosely on the principle that not everything traditional has been great. It used to be a tradition to keep a black slave, that wasn't great. It used to be tradition to beat your wife, far from ideal. You get my jist. I shall say no more - in my last blog someone got offended by an apparently insensitive reference to the Holocaust. Yikes. To conclude: AV is sexy, let's do this shit.
Speaking of insensitive jokes, I couldn't help but get rather peeved with the "boob-gate" story which circulated a few days ago. See http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/culture/lucyjones/100053061/pmqs-whose-boobs-are-these/ if you had the privilege to miss out on such a tale. Thank you Lucy Jones, serious and demure journalist extraordinaire, you've done women all over the country a real favour by reminding millions of people that sexism is inherent and unremitting in politics. Let's all have a good gawp at a young lady's rack because of course, since a small portion is on show, she is fully deserving of such lewd attention. It's not as if she's wearing a really smart suit and she's an extremely professional politician sitting and listening avidly in the Cabinet and the mammary glands that her sex equips her with to feed her young are protruding by approximately one inch. Oh no, wait. If everyone could grow up and accept that women have breasts and some times you can see them, that'd be lovely. It really does make a lass resent being gifted with the means to provide for your newborn. And as for comments which state that it was her fault because she was dressed inappropriately, do me a favour and SHUT UP. That attitude smacks rather sharply of the ignoble dross that imbeciles spout on rape cases: look at what she was wearing, she was asking for it. Nobody ever asks to be raped. And certainly nobody ever asks to have a picture of the crack of their chest circled sloppily on Paint and thrown around the internet like some jaw-dropping pornographic image, completely undermining your already very tricky to maintain sense of political authority. .... And breath.
In related news - SlutWalk is hitting Britain! I expect a blog shall be dedicated to this cause sooner or later so I'll save it until then. But do get involved, it's going to be a riot. Of the best, most "slutty" variety.
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=197363420301422 - the event
http://www.facebook.com/slutwalkuk - the page
http://www.slutwalktoronto.com/ - the history
Monday, 11 April 2011
Ranting, Relationships and Ritzing.
It's been a while, I know. To you, my one long-suffering reader, Miss Harri Notton, I apologise. Feel free to have your "femme sesh", giggling under the covers, as per. That's usually my motivation to write and today is no different. Though if you could tell me how much you love reading my essays, that'd probably be a help.
Today, someone I know planted a comment upon my Facebook wall to tell me that my name had gone out in an email from their insurance company. This spooked me beyond belief. I suddenly had wild visions of half of the student population out looking for me, a runaway insurance trickster, with posters "have you seen this girl?" with pictures of me looking much like Bellatrix Lestrange. Snarling and all. Of course, the name dropping was in relation to the blog that they (foolishly) pay me to write for them and when I had sussed this, I felt slightly better before feeling undoubtedly worse. Somehow, the prospect of being a named and shamed economic fiend was slightly more welcome than the notion that I was actually being promoted as a blogger worth reading. I have probably done more to secure my reputation for the former in the last month, henceforth I am pulling up my proverbial socks and aim to spend more time at my keyboard (as opposed to all those hours I spend shredding documents and laughing derisively).
Life has become increasingly more interesting. Of course, with jolly japes comes great responsibility - or something - so stress levels directly correlate with aforementioned merry inclines. I am most certainly not complaining though. You know how people always say "the first rule of a diet is that it always starts tomorrow"? Well I feel that is quite apt for my degree and I. We parted ways some time after December of Fresher year and now we just bump into each other on the odd occasion. Usually it's a social gathering with middle aged people and when asked what I do with my days, I unabashedly abuse my poor old degree, thrusting it at people to make me sound more arty before chiding it for another few months. It just doesn't know where it stands with me.
In more exciting new, last night I went "Facebook offish" with my new beau, Joe. Chlo and Joe. Mclo. (I know.) Cripes, it was practically written in the stars. Or it was written in the birth certificates at least and that's as good a place as any for something to be written in. I'm cynical about the stars, I've never seen anything written in them; the closest I got was when I once thought I saw Jesus in cloud formation and I'll be the first to admit that I was sceptical of my own vision. I like things to be written by tangible means. Which is why it's now on Facebook. Because nothing is real unless it's on Facebook. As we all know. There's not masses of attention for the Holocaust on Facebook, perhaps that's why some people choose to deny it? ... Sorry, that was most uncharacteristic - I've no idea why I'm being so dry, I'm happy as Larry! Cynicism is a defence mechanism for genuine unadulterated joy. 'Joe', Greek for bringer of many a giggle.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch - I spent the weekend like a posh person. It was very bemusing but quite enjoyable. My aunt has always wanted to have high tea at The Ritz and she's not currently in tip-top shape so we thought we should all go. Why the bleedin' heck not, eh? High tea we went for and high tea we certainly had. I wanted to get my £40 worth (which was funded by a winning Christmas scratch card, thank you gambling addiction) so I had eight stupidlyandaimlesslysmall sandwiches - sans crusts of course -, three scones - my cousin was all ready to cause a ruckus before I pointed out that the green flaky bits were in fact apple -, and what must have been about four cakes. Om nom. It's intriguing to see how aristocracy, or the illusion of, has radically changed in the last hundred years. The Ritz is now full of Green families, laughing loudly and oohing and aahing the cutlery while frantically snapping pictures of everying, skirting boards included, having spent the last month rooting in their wardrobes for a suitable outfit and trying it on six times to be sure, while the intended (affluent) demographic quietly fades somewhere into the din. The working class looks much like the upper. The only difference is the enthusiasm and the slyly employed faux accents. Luckily, I didn't have a problem there. My Dad, on the other hand, wasn't as successful. But who's serving the fancy diners if we're not? One can assume it would be those lower down the pecking order than the working class, which at The Ritz is Eastern-Europeans, apparently. There's trouble at mill, as my mother insightfully commented. Quite, quite.
I am home for Easter, attempting to get several hundred winks in anticipation for the severe lack thereof heading my way. Post-Easter is set to be sheer havoc: three essays, one exam, Black Comedy, some kind of handover for Equality and Diversity Officer (I'm assuming...?), FemSoc's new era, Edinburgh preparation... Golly. I'd best start sleeping now. Cheerio.
Today, someone I know planted a comment upon my Facebook wall to tell me that my name had gone out in an email from their insurance company. This spooked me beyond belief. I suddenly had wild visions of half of the student population out looking for me, a runaway insurance trickster, with posters "have you seen this girl?" with pictures of me looking much like Bellatrix Lestrange. Snarling and all. Of course, the name dropping was in relation to the blog that they (foolishly) pay me to write for them and when I had sussed this, I felt slightly better before feeling undoubtedly worse. Somehow, the prospect of being a named and shamed economic fiend was slightly more welcome than the notion that I was actually being promoted as a blogger worth reading. I have probably done more to secure my reputation for the former in the last month, henceforth I am pulling up my proverbial socks and aim to spend more time at my keyboard (as opposed to all those hours I spend shredding documents and laughing derisively).
Life has become increasingly more interesting. Of course, with jolly japes comes great responsibility - or something - so stress levels directly correlate with aforementioned merry inclines. I am most certainly not complaining though. You know how people always say "the first rule of a diet is that it always starts tomorrow"? Well I feel that is quite apt for my degree and I. We parted ways some time after December of Fresher year and now we just bump into each other on the odd occasion. Usually it's a social gathering with middle aged people and when asked what I do with my days, I unabashedly abuse my poor old degree, thrusting it at people to make me sound more arty before chiding it for another few months. It just doesn't know where it stands with me.
In more exciting new, last night I went "Facebook offish" with my new beau, Joe. Chlo and Joe. Mclo. (I know.) Cripes, it was practically written in the stars. Or it was written in the birth certificates at least and that's as good a place as any for something to be written in. I'm cynical about the stars, I've never seen anything written in them; the closest I got was when I once thought I saw Jesus in cloud formation and I'll be the first to admit that I was sceptical of my own vision. I like things to be written by tangible means. Which is why it's now on Facebook. Because nothing is real unless it's on Facebook. As we all know. There's not masses of attention for the Holocaust on Facebook, perhaps that's why some people choose to deny it? ... Sorry, that was most uncharacteristic - I've no idea why I'm being so dry, I'm happy as Larry! Cynicism is a defence mechanism for genuine unadulterated joy. 'Joe', Greek for bringer of many a giggle.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch - I spent the weekend like a posh person. It was very bemusing but quite enjoyable. My aunt has always wanted to have high tea at The Ritz and she's not currently in tip-top shape so we thought we should all go. Why the bleedin' heck not, eh? High tea we went for and high tea we certainly had. I wanted to get my £40 worth (which was funded by a winning Christmas scratch card, thank you gambling addiction) so I had eight stupidlyandaimlesslysmall sandwiches - sans crusts of course -, three scones - my cousin was all ready to cause a ruckus before I pointed out that the green flaky bits were in fact apple -, and what must have been about four cakes. Om nom. It's intriguing to see how aristocracy, or the illusion of, has radically changed in the last hundred years. The Ritz is now full of Green families, laughing loudly and oohing and aahing the cutlery while frantically snapping pictures of everying, skirting boards included, having spent the last month rooting in their wardrobes for a suitable outfit and trying it on six times to be sure, while the intended (affluent) demographic quietly fades somewhere into the din. The working class looks much like the upper. The only difference is the enthusiasm and the slyly employed faux accents. Luckily, I didn't have a problem there. My Dad, on the other hand, wasn't as successful. But who's serving the fancy diners if we're not? One can assume it would be those lower down the pecking order than the working class, which at The Ritz is Eastern-Europeans, apparently. There's trouble at mill, as my mother insightfully commented. Quite, quite.
I am home for Easter, attempting to get several hundred winks in anticipation for the severe lack thereof heading my way. Post-Easter is set to be sheer havoc: three essays, one exam, Black Comedy, some kind of handover for Equality and Diversity Officer (I'm assuming...?), FemSoc's new era, Edinburgh preparation... Golly. I'd best start sleeping now. Cheerio.
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