free things make you happy

It was 11:30am and I had just finished my fifth whiskey. Now, before you go off wondering how my MA has possibly brought me to this and ringing up the AA on my behalf, please bear in mind I was at Hampton Court Foodie Fest. And it was bank holiday, when surely daytime drinking is as acceptable as 2010 considers double denim.

I’m not really a big fan of whiskey. Probably because I have spent far too much of my time serving Jack Daniels to foul mouthed chavs wearing a very small percentage of dress. However, if someone is going to offer me some of the good stuff for free, it was as compulsory as sleeping, brushing your teeth or drunk texting your ex. Perhaps not the last one.

Whiskey done, I then embarked on what can only be described as an unfeasible amount of free cheese, chutney, red onion marmalade, soup, cupcake, bread, smoothie, ice cream, rosé port and wine. It makes me a little sick to relay it all. But that day I had no shame; I wandered the stalls, toothpick and plastic cup in hand, eyes peeled for any open jars of citrus chive dip or ceramic pots of balsamic vinegar. Yes, it’s just a nibble here, a bite size cracker there, a chunk of 22-month-old parmesan, a teeny salted caramel and chocolate mousse tart, a singular potato roasted in garlic and herb salt and...oh god, I can’t go on.

When it comes to Free Things, we just can’t resist, even if we don’t want, need or like them. It’s like me and the whiskey; we do because we can. Because it makes us unashamedly, easily pleased.

A nice lady gave me a free mint Aero from outside my local tube station a few weeks ago. My high school deputy head used to say chocolate releases the same hormones as when you’re in love. I’m not sure that’s completely accurate, but the general point is there and this, collectively, was a double whammy: Chocolate makes you happy. Free Things make you happy. Combined, that’s a lot of happiness.

When I used to work at a bank (more on my weird job choices in another blog, perhaps), my colleague walked in one day carrying two crates of yoghurt. And not just your bog standard supermarket own brand plain yoghurt. This was Muller Rice, thanks to some nice people just down the street. Our fridge was stocked for days and everyone was indefinitely happier. We were on a yoghurt-induced high.

The accessibility of Free Things makes us ridiculous. We become men and women possessed. We start seeking out free things that we didn’t really want in the first place. We get blasted with funky smelling perfume in Selfridges. Scour the food section of Harrods and steal free chipolatas, denouncing years of vegetarianism. Procure free pin badges promoting the BNP. Sample the latest Red Bull/Relentless rip-off beverage when we know full well what happens when we have too much caffeine.

I once sat through a fifteen-minute knife demonstration because I knew the man would hand out free knives at the end. I didn’t need a knife; I didn’t even have a kitchen.

Years ago, I bought The Daily Mail for a free copy of Rogue Trader for my friend who is in love with Ewan McGregor. I was so embarrassed at my diversion from my usual newspaper choice that I went to a different newsagent. But that was fine, because it was free....although on second thoughts, since I didn’t actually read the paper, maybe it wasn’t.

Back in the very early days of my MA, I went off to explore Freshers’ Fair, a prime example of giver of free things we aspire to collect, but do not actually need. For the next month, every time I opened my bag at least six free biros flew out. I can’t fit my keys into my coat pocket due to excess key rings. My purse boasts a Waterstones Card, despite the fact that I’m an Amazon girl. My friend is now the proud owner of a cock ring; I’m still not entirely sure how he achieved this.

Then of course we enter the ridiculous; those who steal everything that comes with first class travel. Instead of being presented with photos and souvenirs, we’re proudly shown three pairs of pyjamas and five wash bags. And who cares if they sleep naked and don’t wash? That the five moisturisers they stole resemble wallpaper paste? That they now own ten travel toothbrushes which bristle instantly or snap on contact with teeth? That their kitchen cupboards now contain dozens of the smallest bottles of olive oil in the world?

But it doesn’t matter. Because they were Free Things. Free. Things. If only I hadn’t waited till Monday to go to the Foodie Festival; I could have had three days of pure, unadulterated, Free Things happiness.

sex and the city v the burqa

Sex and the City is, effectively, a cult. A cult that dictates it practically impossible not to see SATC2, despite the fact that the first movie was, quite frankly, pretty dire. All that flouncy, ridiculous, over-acted, go grrl power nonsense. The best part was seeing Sarah Jessica Parker in her no-makeup makeup when Big had just dumped her thirty seconds before her wedding. But, silly storylines aside and absurdities, we loved it anyway.

And I’ll admit it; I’m a Sex and the City fan. Cosmos and shoes clichés aside, it’s also brought us excessively big fascinators, the brutality of Post-it note dumping and the best proposal ever (Aidan whilst walking his dog, just so you know).

£10.70 down, which in my local would have got you five Cosmos and change, and there I was; me, my girlfriends, SATC2...and the people I came to the cinema with.

Like the above joke, badly delivered and fairly predictable, SATC2 threw in little one-liners that were fairly funny, granted. But I could spot them a mile off, and they were delivered in a manner that demanded: ‘pay attention to me. I am a funny joke. You must laugh...now.’

However, I’m not here to talk about the one-liners, or the fashion, or the pretty shoes, or how much I really, really want to go to Morocco.

I’m here to talk about the burqas, the headscarves and the SATC girls’ ‘revolution’.

Maybe it’s because I’ve officially spent too long in a Muslim country. Maybe it's because, actually, it was incredibly bad taste, incredibly offensive and trying to make a point about something the script writers very clearly knew nothing about. We’re talking about culture, about region and about upbringing that goes back beyond my comprehension. I was so beyond offended that every time I saw a burqa joke or ‘worldly’ opinion on its way, I cringed and tried to stop myself crawling under my seat.

There is a marketplace scene where Samantha, clad in teeny-weeny shorts and an equally teeny-weeny top, drops a chemists-worth of condoms into the street, proceeds to roll around in them and grinds about shouting something along the lines of: ‘I have sex! Condoms!’ in the midst of dozens of highly offended men.

This would be offensive, even to me, in the middle of London. The fact that this act was performed in front of people whose very way of life deems this wholly inappropriate and incredibly anti-religious is unacceptable.

I have Muslim friends who have personally, through their own free will, chosen to wear headscarves and for that, I am incredibly proud and supportive of them, their decision, and their devotion to God. Add to this that I am an atheist.

If this film had anything positive to say about women who are forced into burqas against their free will, or liberating them from a life under an extremist rule, I would applaud it (read A Thousand Splendid Suns immediately, it will break your heart). Instead it’s deeply offensive and, quite frankly, repulsive.

I’m officially handing back my cosmo.

festurvival

So you know your Goldhawks from your Goldheart Assembly, you heard Jamie T play before Sheila was released and you sank tequilas with Florence before she was famous.

But unless you’re blessed with blagging skills good enough to get you out of a dissertation, they’ll be living it up backstage and you’ll be pulling on your best wellies and wading into mudslide land.

So, avoid becoming the next “Poo Girl” of Leeds, who wedged herself headfirst down a toilet and was hosed down by fire-fighters. Live it up as a festival pro.

image: smashthirteen (smashthirteen@yahoo.com)

happy camping

Pitch up early and choose your territory carefully. Otherwise you’ll find yourself on a saturated slope, by a heavily trafficked path, two feet from the toilets and by some overexcited fourteen-year-olds who will vomit White Lightning over your tent.

Learn to put up a tent before you arrive. Alternatively, learn to charm someone into helping.

Don’t build a campfire unless you know what you’re doing. They’ll be enough friendly people around who’ll lend you theirs.

Make friends with your neighbours. If necessary, bribe them with cigarettes, beer or biscuits. Be considerate: they might want some sleep, even if you don’t. And clear up your rubbish.

Remember where your tent is. Look for the campsite colour and number. Mark your tent. Leave a breadcrumb trail. Use GPS tracking. Just make sure you can get back. Not everyone will appreciate a new tent buddy when you’re lost and cold at 4 a.m.

If bringing valuables is totally unavoidable, hide them in deep pockets with zips, not in your tent. And split up your cash; it’s better to lose ten quid than fifty.

the arena

Check out bands you’ve never heard of. Chances are, their gigs will cost you £20 in a few months. And don’t be afraid to brave an act alone. There’re always plenty of other people to talk to.

Always arrange a meeting point and don’t rely on mobiles. Reception can be poor, batteries die, people steal and remember; it’s going to be pretty loud. Just allow plenty of time to move between stages.

Even if you’re the most enthusiastic of moshers, it might be different with thousands of other people. In crowds that big, people get claustrophobic, trapped or injured, so look out for each other.

If you’ve ever been kicked in the head by a crowd surfer, you’ll know how irritating it is. You’ll probably lose everything, including your friends. You’ll get hurt. And you’ll certainly piss off security.

clothes

Waterproof boots or wellies are essential and prevent broken toes when moshing. Although your feet will be dry, they’ll also be cold, so wear thick socks. Flipflops are perfect for wandering the campsite.

Remember it’s going to be hot, cold, wet, muddy and windy. Possibly all at the same time. Leather makes you sweaty and jeans take forever to dry. Layer it up and keep it practical. Jumpers, yes, moose antlers, no. If you’re feeling particularly organised, bring some clean clothes to wear home.

hygiene

You’re probably going to smell. That’s fine: so will everyone. Festivals were never meant to be a beauty contest. Hats are a good way of hiding a bad hair weekend.

Most men duck in and out of the shower in the time it takes a woman to open a bottle of shampoo, so, girls: If you wangle a shower, remember the 50 people waiting would quite like one too. This isn’t the time for a deep conditioning treatment.

munchies

Festivals have moved beyond burgers and deep fat fryer reliance. You’ll find an abundance of world food stalls and even the occasional salad. However, for a fiver a go, bring some provisions, save the dirty kebab run for the end of the night and replace your pounds with pints instead.

Supplies should have the endurance of food in a shared kitchen. Take food that can be squashed and doesn’t require cooking: bread, fruit cake or anything with good stodge. Nuts, dried fruit, breakfast bars and apples make great snacks. Choose Pringles, not Doritos. Plastic cheese will probably survive, but does taste of plastic. For emergencies, throw in some cans of baked beans. Don’t bring anything that spoils, like meat or cheese. Food poisoning and Portaloos? Not a great combination.

Stay hydrated by drinking lots of water. Remember you’ll be jumping around and drinking enough alcohol to fill a small swimming pool.

booze

You can’t take glass bottles, so filter your spirit of choice into a plastic one. Unless you’ve got a fridge strapped to your back, beer will be warm. Cold beer is always available to buy, but it’s shockingly expensive. But if you collect enough plastic cups, they’ll sometimes give you a free one.

drugs

See those cute looking dogs at the campsite entrance? They won’t be so cute when they’re barking because your meow meow is attracting their attention. Festivals operate a strict no drugs policy and security are more than happy to hand you over to the police.

Even if you make it through, tripping with 177,000 other people about will never be pleasant. And you don’t want to miss The Libertines’ reunion because you were too busy looking at “the pretty colours”.

recovery

The aftermath is similar to freshers’ flu, so treat it as such. Shower, rehydrate, take vitamins, sleep and avoid alcohol. The ringing in your ears should soon disappear.

Avoid doing important over the next few days, particularly family weddings or long bus journeys. The pain just isn’t worth it.

Most problems can be dealt by welfare, medical or security teams; that’s what they’re there for, so never panic. Before you know it, you’ll be the one leading chants and saving people from mud baths. So most of all, enjoy.

don’t forget

bin bags: for rubbish, waterproofing, emergency footwear, separating dirty wet clothes from dirty dry clothes and dressing up.

gaffer tape: bring it and you won’t need it. Don’t, and trust me, you will.

string: for emergency shoe laces and guy ropes.

torch: with working batteries. Because falling over a tent really hurts.

lighter: will make you instant friends.

sleeping mat: So annoying to carry. So much better than sleeping on the ground.

a plastic cup and a spoon: for cocktails and cold baked beans. Not together.

sarong: to lie on, under, as a towel and to wipe condensation from your tent so it doesn’t drip on your face.

wet wipes: your best friends. Will save your life.

toilet paper: fairly self-explanatory.

talcum powder: takes the grease out of your hair. And cleans your hands.

hand sanitizer: thousands of people using those toilets? That's a lot of bacteria.

chewing gum: because you’ve probably forgotten your toothbrush.

fizzy vitamin c tablets: a carb and alcohol rich diet will only get you so far.

paracetamol: hangovers and loud music hurts.

red bull: more effective than coffee.

condoms: because all you want to bring back are memories.

poncho: not the coolest clothing item in the world. Better than resembling a drowned rat.

sun cream: mosh pits and sunburn are not a good combination.

sunglasses: for the journey home. Or to hide your mosh pit black eye.

backpack: not a suitcase on wheels. Do we really need the mud talk again?

album review: kate nash: my best friend is you

Kate Nash is back, three years after Made of Bricks made the UK number 1. We’re currently knee deep in Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga, so My Best Friend Is You should sweep us back into cosy nostalgia. Remember Nash’s anti-folk edge, that distinguishable accent, those Lily Allen comparisons?

Paris and Do-Wah-Doo possess the indie pop of Foundations, and Pickpocket is reminiscent of quieter musing Birds. But played from start to finish, the album tips into a bitter tone that’s less successfully articulated.

She’s injected some punky attitude – perhaps the influence of side project, The Receeders. But it’s an unconvincing version of The Pipettes, giving way to repetitive schoolgirl chants and half-hearted screams.

Underlying her lyrics is a distinctive hint of jealousy, littered liberally with f-bombs. Her attempts at philosophy and parodies of life are just too try-hard to be clever. Spiels of a rock and roll, cocaine-laced lifestyle in Mansion Song come across as an unsuccessful take on Trainspotting’s infamous Choose Life speech.

Nash is better, more believable, when she’s a little sweeter, even if this means more predictable rhyming patterns: “Let’s take life nice and easy/We could go somewhere breezy”. Bring back the cutesy Mouthwash days.

Just to let you know, I’m not that behind the album times, muso that I am. This review was originally written for student lifestyle magazine butter, soon to be launched online. Which, by the way, is pretty frickin’ amazing.

and now for a not-so-brief musical interlude

Last night I went for dinner at Cafe Mode. Which is lovely, by the way. And, considering what a staggering amount of wine we managed to drink, refreshingly inexpensive for London. We were reaching the bill stage when, out of the blue, a girl started belting out some tunes. And I mean belting. If someone had been about to announce something important; like they were pregnant by fifty sailors, or planning a solo trip to the moon, or discovered why we think drunk texting is a spectacularly good idea, this would have totally spoiled the moment.

Now I don’t watch Glee, but I have seen Glee-mobbing. And for a few glorious moments, I thought we were being Glee-mobbed. It was all very exciting. Any second now, I was thinking, the waiters would whip off their neat white shirts to reveal hot pink Glee tees. The chef would emerge from the kitchen, perhaps with a pizza balanced on his head, and join in. They might even be some impromptu dancing. Hell, I hate people who clap along to music, but I would clap along to that. I really would.

Turns out, sadly, we weren’t being Glee-mobbed. It was just some girl singing. Not badly, to be fair, but it was a little piercing. And it went on for quite a while. Actually, it went on for ages. It was suddenly apparent that she was going for the full double album. With added bonus songs.

Since when did this become appropriate? Wasn’t this disturbing the peace? Technically, then, wouldn’t I be allowed to make a citizen’s arrest? I mean, really, I was doing the world...well, the restaurant and its ears, a favour.

Various options on why she was continuing to subject us to this ran through my head:

Option one: She had forgotten her purse and was singing for her supper.

Option two: She had forgotten her purse and was singing in the hope that they’d throw her out and forget the bill.

Option three: She was in love with one of the waiters and was attempting to pull out a big romantic gesture, like that lovely scene in Love, Actually, when Colin Firth learns Portuguese and goes to her work and says lots of silly things, in Portuguese and it’s all just lovely.

Option four: She came from a big family. After years of oppression, this was her ‘pay attention to me’ tantrum.

Option five: Taking inspiration from Glee-mobbing, she was pulling some sort of publicity stunt to attract attention to her pipes.

It emerged option five was probably the most fitting. Between songs, Singing Girl announced that she was on X-Factor or Pop Idol or one of those other really rubbish singing shows that everyone gets addicted to so badly they drop off the face of the earth (As for Strictly Come Dancing or anything with Andrew Lloyd Webber, don’t even get me started).

This announcement totally infuriated my friend Sunshine, who decided that she would do exactly what anyone else would have done in this situation: she started to sing too. However, my friend was clever and sang with the purpose of securing us some free shots. It was a win-win situation. Unlike Singing Girl, this move was for the greater good. And the extra alcohol had the added benefit of relaxing us and aiding our tolerance of Singing Girl.

Singing Girl was not impressed with my friend’s move to upstage her. They then began a mini sing-off in the restaurant. So, in the end, it was sort of like Glee, but without the pink t-shirts. However, if I’ve learnt anything this week, it’s that odd situations like these happen to me freakishly often. See my entry on becoming a Nepali man’s mistress.

I wouldn’t recommend supporting Singing Girl, by the way. She’s not that great. And it wasn’t like we got any free shots out of her, either. As for my friend, I'm making my Vote Sunshine t-shirt right now.

become a mistress...and hold the front page

Last weekend, The Times ran an article about the perils of entering the world of journalism. Since everyone in my house is about twenty-four hours behind the news, this particular article wasn’t thoughtfully laid out on the kitchen table in all its resplendent glory for me to see until Monday night. I got back home from an Eskimo Joe gig and there it was: Your Future Is Bleak. Give Up Now. Who Cares That You’ve Given Yourself InDesign Induced Migraines?

Since I actually read the newspaper on the day it comes out, I’d already clocked it and decided that rather than despair, to be ever optimistic and say yes more, to every journalist opportunity that should fall my way.

Danny Wallace had a point, surely, with all that ‘say yes’ stuff? And he had a lot of fun along the way, even if it did leave him broke, with a spammed email account and about 25,000 copies of the Big Issue.

It was with this attitude that I’d set out earlier that evening. And there, at the traffic lights, Bloc Party in my ears and a positive ‘say yes’ spring in my stride, a man asked me for directions. He then asked me if I wanted a job.

Now, I’m all for positive optimism. And happy coincidences. I’m one of those people that weird coincidences happen to all the time. I mean, I met someone in the middle of Siberia who was best friends with someone I knew when I was 11. And this kind of situation happens to me so often I now refuse to be surprised.

Add to this that I generally like to think the best of people, because this attitude can land you in all sorts of interesting and incredible situations. Would I have slid down a muddy path to an old Sulawesian man’s house to drink Tana Torajan coffee with his family in a monsoon downpour otherwise? No, didn’t think so.

So instead of running a mile the minute the traffic lights changed, I decided to see exactly what this job entailed. It emerged that he worked for a tourism company and needed help writing travel brochures. Add to this these facts:

1. I’m a journalist.

2. Travel, along with music, is probably one of the single most important things in my life.

Not only this, but his travel company was Nepali. Guess where I spent my gap year? Either fate was handing me a huge helping of ‘up yours, Sunday Times Magazine’ or something was definitely afoot.

Since I was determined to cling firmly onto positivity, something that probably got me through the next 15 minutes, I decided to check this out a little further, so followed him to his office to see what this was about. I convinced myself that safety was not an issue, as he was quite little and I like to wear big jewellery.

So there we were, chatting away about how lovely Nepal was and how much I liked writing things. The words ‘trip to Nepal’ came up, and I was swept away into a blissful world where I could write lots of nice things. And get paid for it. And get a free trip to Nepal.

Too good to be true? Probably. But I smiled at all the admin stuff and the PA stuff and proceeded to lie through my teeth about the amount of free time I’d be able to give up for this job. Because I just wanted to remain ever-optimistic. Then, perhaps a little predictably, he hit me with the bombshell, destroying forever my cosy little future where I beat the system, got a job in travel journalism and lived happily ever after.

Part of my role whilst in Nepal, he explained, would involve making contact with tour operators and, to use his choice of word, not mine, ‘socialising’.

Undeterred, I attempted to put my mind towards un-creepy opinions, and convinced myself he meant some nice chit-chat. Didn’t I still have a kurta kicking about in the back of my cupboard? I could still say ‘hello’, ‘delicious’ and ‘I’m full’ in Nepali, all vital words should you ever visit. And if I was completely stuck for something to say, I knew all the words to the Donkey Monkey Song.

(The Donkey Monkey Song is infamous throughout the Himalayas and is played absolutely everywhere by every man and his yak on any sort of known instrument. The words go roughly as follows:

I am a donkey

You are a monkey

...erm, that’s it)

But no, he proceeded to lay his cards on the table. By saying, pretty much, ‘Let me lay my cards on the table...We might have to share a room sometimes.’ Then he added hastily, probably to make him seem less of a pervert: ‘To save money.’

In this situation, had I been lesbian, nun or entirely asexual or all of the above, I would have conjured up a boyfriend from somewhere.

‘I think my boyfriend might have a slight issue with that,’ I said, putting any lesbian, nun or asexual tendencies aside.

At this point, the word ‘mistress’ came into the conversation and it became impossible to ignore the fact that my job would not just require some good writing skills and the ability to create an improvised dance to accompany the Donkey Monkey Song. My positive spin on things could hold up no more. Calamity struck. It was definitely pervert central. Time to make a quick retreat.

I proceeded to make an escape so fast, I’m sure MI6 would want to come looking for me. Business card in hand, large item of jewellery at the ready, just in case, I got out of there. Very, very fast.

The Sunday Times, as always, is correct. It’s a minefield out there. But, if you are desperate, contact Himalayas Travel by clicking here. He seems to like short brunettes with a hint of copper, but I don’t think he’s that fussy. Unfortunately, we didn’t get as far as the going rate, but I do know it would include a free trip to Nepal. Roommate non-negotiable.

the imagination vs google

When I was little, my friend Susie and I probably contributed to the deforestation of an entire rainforest. I mean, now, I’m all hug the trees, save the animals and never buy anything from Unilever (Dove, Persil and Flora to name a few), as they test heavily on animals and contribute towards Indonesian deforestation to get their smutty paws on cheap palm oil.

But, back in the day, Susie and I would spend hours and hours colouring in pieces of paper and cutting them out into paper food, which we would then sell to our parents for extravagant prices. It started off simple: chips in newspaper. Then we added fish and peas. Wildly imaginatively children that we were, we eventually progressed to an entire three-dimensional food paper burger bar with attached sweet shop, including our favourite invention: Clean-Your-Teeth-Fudge (© Kate and Susie).

My point here is not that we killed off lots of trees, but namely that we were left to our own devices for hours and were able to entertain ourselves in the days before computer games were ever a significant factor upon our lives. We were the last of the generations to grow up without the Internet. And I’m the first to admit that without Google, now I would probably lack the ability to function.

But, back in the early 90s, before Google, Ask and Wikipedia, I wrote a project about silk worms on Word Perfect. The programme had a blue background and white font and was considered so jaw droppingly modern and edgy, any project produced in such a way was a guaranteed smiley face sticker from the teacher. My dad took it to work on a floppy disk and printed it out on marbled paper and it was like: ‘ooh, look at Kate’s project. It’s all typed and cool.’ Or maybe it was: ‘huh, look at Kate’s project. She’s all showing off and stuff.’

There are people half my age who get to grips with the sort of technology so completely out my comprehension level that it makes me want to cry. I still don’t understand the difference between a jpeg and a tiff, despite spending the last week transferring photos from one to the other. But I’m still relieved that I was able to be part of the generation that genuinely had to use their imagination as children. Essentially, I was given an eternity of options with which to spend my afternoon, rather than being handed a spoonful of mass-marketed technological crap.

It’s now extremely rare to be able to leave children with nothing to do. I mean, leave Susie and I in the living room and you’d come back and find a den. This used to seriously annoy our parents, mostly because we stole every single blanket in the house for den material. We got a bit bored once we’d completed the den, but this wasn't really the point. Now, you’d come back and find a tantrum.

This is something that depresses me quite a lot. Back in the days of the playground, it was all stickers, elastics, Oranges and Lemons, Musical Statues, snapping bracelets (banned), British Bulldogs (banned universally) and Cops and Robbers (also banned, after someone chipped a tooth). Oh, and Melting Candles (not banned, but I got knocked out and sported a spectacular lump on my head for a week).

Now BHS and M&S are selling bras for six-year-olds. Jordon is sticking fake eyelashes onto her toddler daughter. Suri Cruise wears high heels. Seven-year-old girls want to be a Pussycat Doll when they grow up. Eight-year-old boys have a better knowledge of InDesign than me...actually, that last one isn’t true. But you get the idea.

Imagination rocks. Computer games? Not so much. This blog should probably be an advance apology for any offspring I may produce in the future. I’m sorry. You’ll probably get teased at school. You’ll be like the ones in my day who didn’t have the cool sticker album with the clear pockets. No one will ever want to come back and play, because instead of a ps9, we’ll have a huge stack of (recycled) paper. Probably some carob chocolate cake. But I promise you can have all the pogs you’ve ever wanted.

a polystyrene and stiletto sandwich, preferably consumed by david cameron

Aside from the usual string of bigots and other witty one-liners, something I noticed during the election campaign was the politicians’ attempts to outdo each other by consuming as much ‘down with the workers’ grub as possible. So when they weren't out kissing babies, there was Gordon, Dave and Nicky chowing down with their fish and chips, their on-the go hot dog, their 90p cuppa.

By the way, no one likes those 90p cups of tea. I’m not sure what it is; it’s only a teabag, boiling water and milk. I’m sure a monkey could manage this equation. I’m therefore convinced it must be the polystyrene cups leaking their flavour into the tea. And the only thing worse than polystyrene flavoured tea is when they add milk or excess tablespoons of sugar without telling you. That’s just plain cheeky. Mine’s black, one sweetener, by the way.

But I digress. Back to the politicians and their deep fat fried consumptions. It was as if they were saying: ‘Vote for me; I support local businesses. And I’m levelling with you here; I eat this crap too. All the time! And I can still pull off pinstripes, check me out!’ In actual fact, I’m pretty sure they chucked their calorie-sodden scrannage out the window as soon as their car pulled off and started on their M&S meal deal instead. It would have been much more ‘real’ if they’d weaved their way, punch drunk, towards a dirty 3 a.m. kebab and consumed it on the street, garlic mayo all over their chin and everything.

It’s almost a shame that the election campaign did not coincide with 9-15 May, which I’ve recently learnt is British Sandwich Week. Then, they could have just eaten lots of nice looking sandwiches and said that they were in support of a traditional British celebration. Except Cleggy, possibly, because it probably wouldn’t have been so pro-Europe.

Weeks of this sort, I feel, are not dissimilar to celebrating unusual festivals. Sometimes, it seems, we just want something to celebrate. Let’s face it: the economy is still shot to pieces, graduates are left indefinitely jobless, it’s still not summer and Cameron’s our new Prime Minister.

My grandmother always says that the key to any sandwich is the bread. She always phrases this by means of a quiz and follows it up with tales of people who are under the misleading impression that the quality of a sandwich is down to the butter, filling, or plate on which it is presented. These people, she tells me, always with a sad shake of her head, are wrong. It’s all about the bread. Luckily, aged six, I thought long and hard about this and got this particular puzzlement correct. Ten points to me.

And, a few decades on, I’m still inclined to agree. One thing that has always annoyed me when I’ve lived or travelled in Asia is that I’ve never been able to find decent bread. So even if you’ve splashed out on some Rp50,000 brie and doused your lettuce in mineral water rather than risking E. coli., you’re still stuck with this slightly sweet doughy stuff that tastes a lot like sugary air. You might as well shove a piece of polystyrene in there and be done with it.

There are a few other things they definitely can’t get right either. Specifically, I’m going to reference shoes, since these are pretty much a modern lifestyle standard, whereas bread has lots of acceptable alternatives. Shoes, however, not so much. I defy any woman with size 6 feet or above, to find a pair of shoes in Asia which fits, is not made of some sort of shiny PVC-type material , isn’t covered in glitter/sequins/bows, or falls apart as soon as it makes contact with a monsoon downpour. I of course remove flipflops from this equation, as they can usually withstand nuclear fallouts, rather like cockroaches.

Example: I was walking home from the internet cafe to my house during a wet season thunderstorm. To cross the road, I would have to wade into water that was beyond shin deep and knowing that my Asian purchased shoes would definitely not make it, I opted to take them off and risk rats biting my ankles, much to the amusement of the men selling fruit on the side of the road.

But even with regular shoe removal in an attempt to avoid puddles, I bought the same pair of Rp40,000 shoes pretty much every month. Why didn’t I buy another brand that didn’t fall apart? Because they were all made of shiny PVC-type material, covered in glitter/sequins/bows or they didn’t fit.

I’m not really sure what my blogging point was here, but, to summarise:

1. Polystyrene cups are bad for tea. And the environment.

2. Bread is the most important thing. Like, ever. Apart from shoes.

3. Flipflops would beat stilettos in a fight.

4. Politicians should be regularly photographed clutching a burger and a bottle of White Lightning to add to their ‘down with the masses’ image.

fact: shorthand gets you dates

Shorthand exams are fast approaching. Sadly, unlike a lot of other exams I’ve taken in my life, this exam definitely is not blaggable. And all that practice often results in the journalists’ equivalent of runners’ knee, which I like to call shorthand hand.

My favourite place to practice shorthand is on the tube, listening to music. I’m always a little nervous that people around can understand what it is I’ve written, so I write notes to them, often along the lines of: ‘Stop trying to read over my shoulder, it’s very bad manners.’ But they never can.

The London Underground is a bit of a peculiarity, because no one is ever quite sure of the etiquette of whether to speak to anyone else or not. Generally, in day time hours, particularly rush hour, the answer is no. I also think it’s fair to say that if someone is listening to music and/or writing notes, the answer is also no.

However, it seems that when you are practicing shorthand, this rule no longer applies and you are a target for conversation. In fact, it practically becomes compulsory for people to talk to you.

When hand waving and neck craning to see what you’ve written doesn’t work, people revert to pulling out your earphones in order to strike up a conversation, even though you are quite clearly concentrating.

I like to assume it’s because they’re just checking I’m not insane and scribbling random symbols in a notebook because I’m deluded into thinking that I’m the next Einstein. So once I explain to them that I’m a journalist and I’m practicing shorthand, so I can write lots of words very, very quickly (or, in my case, a measly 70 wpm), I hope that they will leave me alone.

Oh no. Their next technique is to pretend that they are journalists too, despite the fact that they’ve never heard of shorthand before and are often wearing name badges that say: ‘Hi! My name is X and I’d love to help you!’ Unless they are a journalist under cover, it is usually far more likely that they work for some sort of fast food industry. This turns out to be a warm up into what they believe to be the beginnings of a lovely new friendship. It’s not. This has happened to me three times, which is surely more than just a coincidence.

Another journalist I know had a piece of paper with shorthand on it fly across a train platform. It was caught by a man who also saw this as his ideal opportunity to try and make her his new BFF.

So here is my advice: if you’d like to pick up strangers on the tube, learn shorthand. Or, alternatively, scribble random symbols in a notebook, because they probably won’t know the difference anyway.

coffeegate

Recently, it seems that the media find it nearly impossible not to attach the suffix ‘-gate’ onto anything that vaguely resembles a scandal. Bigotgate. Sachsgate. There’s even a Wikipedia entry to commemorate all of these little gems.

(My favourite here, by the way, has to be Fajitagate: ‘In November 2002, three off-duty San Francisco police officers allegedly assaulted two civilians over a bag of steak fajita (which were mistaken as drugs), leading to the arrest of the chief of police.’)

I fully suspect that should the Conservatives win next week’s election, there will be more than a handful of people who refer to 6 May 2010 as Conservativegate. Or perhaps Camerongate.

A few weeks ago, an incident occurred to me that I’d like to dub Coffeegate, in-keeping with this media trend. It can also act as a valuable lesson to you all. I accept, of course, that the results were entirely my own fault, as it was my idea.

It was a Tuesday. I was at work, ready to deal with the usual handful of drunk students, pregnant women attempting to poison their unborn with vodka and tequila shots, sleazy men who believe ‘I bet people ask for your number all the time’ is an original chat up line and girls who believe a bra and a belt make for a reasonable Tuesday night outfit. It’s not, by the way.

I was bored. I mean, there’re only so many times you can amuse yourself by picking out the worst possible outfit in your line of vision. And, since drinking on the job is not an option and my manager has started watching for red bull consumption like a hawk, I suggested an alternative: Coffee Quest, known alternatively as Espresso Challenge. Between the hours of six and ten p.m., I consumed no less than six double espressos. And not any of that piddly Nescafe stuff. The real freshly ground beans kind of stuff. With sugar.

I’m sure this would have been fine if work had been busy. I could have made mojitos faster than you can say...well...mojito. Collected glasses like they were the last Alexander McQueen scarves in the world. Cleaned tables with the dedication of Kim and Aggie. And in-between, danced to...actually, no, the music is rubbish on a Tuesday. There would have been absolutely no dancing.

But oh no. It was so quiet you could see the tumbleweed roll past.

So there I was, high as a kite on caffeine, buzzed up to my eyeballs, vibrating like...an electric toothbrush. With absolutely nothing to do but stand there and try and stop my hands shaking so violently that I accidentally break any of our remaining wine glasses.

We finished early; thanks to a motivating clear up, resulting from high consumption of caffeine and the fact that it was so quiet I was tempted to run laps round the block to amuse myself.

I went home to try and sleep. I probably fell asleep around 4. Then I woke up every ten minutes, mostly because I was twitching so violently I kept hitting the wall and waking myself up.

University the next day was one of the most horrible experiences of my entire life. I was crashingly tired, but so incredibly wide awake my teeth were chattering. My head was trying to give me a hangover-like headache, but minus the funny memories of the night before. It is not an exaggeration to say that I did not feel fully recovered until approximately 6pm.

So, I write this entry as a cautionary tale to you all: coffee consumption is bad. They should start labelling jars with warning signs and dosage levels, like they do with paracetamol. Professor David Nutt really is onto something.

A colleague of mine who also competed in Coffee Quest claims he felt absolutely fine. I can only presume that his addiction is so great that he requires this much coffee in order to function. Thus I refer him to this Caffeine Addicts support group.