Bleats and Ramblings

Some days, no matter how hard you try, the words just don't wanna come. Today is one of those days. Personally, I blame the shitload of research on prostitution that I've had to do today (and will end up doing tomorrow and the next day and the next day...) - I could just do another feminist political uber-rant about how completely stupid some of the legislation around the subject is, but frankly I'd probably end up wanting to scratch out my own eyes as a result. My one consolation is that the police won't like about 98% of the recommendations that seem to be coming out of the "how to not end up like Ipswich" thing, so being the one who gets to deliver the news is a constant source of gleeful amusement when I want to throw myself out of the window after reading some of these reports (anarchy rulz!) But that kinda leaves me with the problem of "what to write about today?"

So after some half-arsed false starts, I decided to see what the hell happened on today's date in history, after I was reminded that Princess Diana was killed 13 years ago today. One quick Google later and I found some interesting titbits...

1745 - Bonnie Prince Charlie reaches Blair Castle
1897 - Thomas Edison patents his movie camera
1924 - Paavo Nurmi, the 'Flying Finn', runs the 10,000m in world record time
1978 - The Harris' plead guilty to the kidnap of heiress Patty Hearst
1985 - Capture of Richard Ramirez, the 'Night Stalker'

So, just a few of my favourite things, then - Scots, movies, Finns, psychology and serial killers! All summed up in one day...hey, what about my other great love, music? Let's see....

1957 - Elvis played Vancouver, the last time he would play outside the States before his death.
1963 - 'Be My Baby' by the Ronettes entered the charts, their first and only Top Ten hit.
1968 - First Isle of Wight festival!! What a line-up - The Crazy World of Arthur Brown, T-Rex, Jefferson Airplane...wheee!
1969 - The mighty Led Zeppelin played the Texas International Pop Festival with BB King and Janis Joplin. Zeppelin, Janis and BB King, POP?!?! Are you sure, Texas...?
1980 - Karen Carpenter got married.
1984 - Purple Rain, the movie starring Prince (or whatever the hell he calls himself these days) opened across the UK.
1986 - Bob Geldof married Paula Yates.
1987 - All known pre-order records were broken as 2.25 million copies of Michael jackson's 'Bad' were shipped to US record stores.
1991 - Guns 'n' Roses, Skid Row and NIN performed at Wembley, and Metallica started their four-week number one on the US album chart with 'Metallica'.
And Van Morrison, Rudy Schenker of the Scorpions, Glen Tillbrook of Squeeze and Del Marquis of the Scissor Sisters (among others) all celebrate birthdays today. As does my Gran. Marvy.

Right, that's enough rambling from me. Bed, I think...

Pomp and Circumstance, Pride and Pagentry

There are some things that we in this country will never do well, like being able to big ourselves up all the time as our Yankee cousins do, or win anything at a major football championships. (Come on, people, you know I'm right. As always). However, there are also some things that we do incredibly well, and pomp and pagentry is one of them. (Or should that be two?) Whether it's the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace pulling in the tourists or the solemn splendour of Remembrance Day; the pomp and circumstance of the Last Night of the Proms or the dignified reception the people of Wooton Basset give to our returning war dead, we Brits are bloody good at the required pagentry.

The reason I've been thinking about this today is because I've just watched the Edinburgh Royal Military Tattoo, always guaranteed to be an absolute showstopper and to bring a lump to the throat and a tear to the eye. Whenever I see something like this, the brave men and women of our Armed Forces parading in some form or another, I always feel incredibly humbled and very, very proud (even of you, Rob, despite the fact that you pick on me terribly!) But something like the Tattoo, in particular, also makes me feel very un-English.

I know, shocking admission, right? But while I can get all fired up for "Land of Hope and Glory" and "Rule Britannia" at the Proms, Jerusalem leaves me cold. Play me something Celtic-based, however; something Scottish or Irish; an air on the bagpipes, the passionate love letter of "Scotland the Brave" or the mournful beauty of "The Fields of Athenry" and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my skin prickles with goosebumps, tears start to my eyes and the lump forms in my throat. I am more moved on sporting occasions by "Ireland's Call", "The Soldier's Song" or "Flower of Scotland" than by "God Save the Queen" (and I an ardent Royalist!)

One possible explanation for this is, of course, the ancient Celtic blood that flows through my veins; another is the mysterious Irishman who haunts the family legends yet remains infuriatingly untraceable through the records. The third option, however, and one that is no less plausible, is that I was either Scottish or Irish (or both) in a past life. It would explain why for so many years I had a desperate, burning longing to visit Dublin, despite never having been there or knowing anyone who had been there, and why I felt so at home when I finally arrived; or why my spirit soared and my heart felt free when I set foot in the Highlands of Scotland.

Whatever the reason, though, it doesn't detract from the power of the Massed Bands of the Pipes and Drums, or from the dignity and courage of the service men and women of Britain's military. We may have thoroughly inept and crooked politicians who send them into illegal wars with limited equipment, but their bravery and sacrifice makes me fiercely patriotic and incredibly proud to be a Brit. As do the grand parades and military events such as Trooping the Colour or the Edinburgh Tattoo, that we do better than any other country in the world...

River Rushing...

Last night (or 2 nights ago, as it's now technically Monday morning - doesn't time fly when you're surfing t'internet?) for the first time in many years I sat and watched Stand By Me, the 1986 Rob Reiner film based on a Stephen King novella. I absolutely love the film, but it's one of those ones that I almost have to force myself to watch; not because of its content or because I can't stand it (quite the opposite), but because every time I see it, I'm reminded again of the tragic death of River Phoenix and how much talent he had...

All four of the young leads in Stand By Me are talented, and very much of their time and generation, but it was River who was the stand-out performer by about a country mile. It seems to be the most ironic thing in the world that so many of the great writers, actors and musicians I've grown up admiring have died far too early, either through self-inflicted means (Kurt Cobain and Sylvia Plath, for example), accidental overdoses (Heath Ledger) or drugs (Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, River...) There seems to be some bizarre law of the universe that states that it is almost impossible for someone so gifted, so talented, with such a state of genius, to be able to live a normal, happy and healthy life: something always has to come along and screw it up, whether that be tragedy in their personal lives or their own untimely death when, like Heath and like River before him, they still had so much to give. And everytime I watch Stand By Me in particular (although Running On Empty, Indiana Jones and My Own Private Idaho also have this effect), I find myself sobbing at the wasted talent, his tragic death and of course the film itself. It is without a doubt (in my humble opinion at least) one of the greatest films ever made, and this is probably one of my favourite moments in the whole thing...



Of course, I have to declare a conflict of interest here. Not only did I grow up full of admiration for River's talents as an actor and musician, and for his stance on all things animal rights, environmental and political, but I was sort of a sucker for his looks, too. I know it's trite and it's shallow but it's true; for the love of the Gods, I was only eleven years old when he passed away after all, and the hormones were starting to kick in! But because I was so young, it was mainly after his death that I was left to rue what might have been and, yes, to mourn the beauty (physical, emotional and acting-wise) that had been taken from us. To this day, my heart breaks when I watch the campfire scene from 'My Own Private Idaho' for example, or the bit in 'Running On Empty' where his character sneaks into his girlfriend's house...River just shone out from the screen, completely mesmerising and utterly heartbreaking all at the same time.



So come Halloween, I shall make the time (amongst all the other festivities and ceremonies) to curl up with plenty of tissues and watch something River-related to honour his memory. It had better only be the one film, though; there aren't enough tissues in the world that could sustain me for the full 'Stand By Me, Running On Empty, My Own Private Idaho' cycle...may the Gods bless you, River, wherever you are...

I Enjoy Being A Girl...

...except on days like these, when my hormones appear to be all over the place. Dearest hormones, please kindly bugger off and stop making me think and feel the most ridiculous things at the most inopportune moments...

Exhibit A - making me cry like a mad woman at a kids film - a friggin' kids film!! - in front of said kiddies. Yeah, cos that wasn't embarrassing...

Exhibit B - making me weep and wail over the programme about gorillas. All fine and dandy when locked in the privacy of your own room; much less genius when in the presence of others at their house.

Exhibit C - the 'inappropriate' thoughts about 'inappropriate' people. Now I know why I suddenly like cricket - you can stop that right now, y'hear me?

Exhibit D - making me sob with fury over Jenson getting booted out of the Grand Prx today, and making me further sob when poxy Hamilton won.

Exhibit E - reducing me to a blubbering wreck over the kindness of certain friends, who were completely taken aback when their kind words produced a torrent of water to rival the Danube in full flood.

And that's just in the past 24 hours, and does not include the general weepiness throughout 'Stand By Me' or the end of 'Carousel'. Yes, hormones, I really think you can sod off...

The Hills Are Alive...

...with something a little more lighthearted after yesterday's deep and political soap-box! I've just sat and watched the Rodgers and Hammerstein prom on the Beeb, and it reminded me just how many brilliant musicals the very talented Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein wrote together over the years. The King and I; The Sound of Music; South Pacific; Carousel...each one of these legendary films has some absolutely amazing songs and, although I think last year's MGM prom was better (mainly because, although I like the Rodgers and Hammerstein films, I love the old MGM musicals), it was just fantastic. I'd actually forgotten how beautiful some of the songs were; the Soliloquy from Carousel, for example, or how much fun it can be singing along to Oklahoma...damn, those films were good!!

I know 'the big one' is The Sound of Music, but that's actually nor my favourite R&H film (I know - sacrilege!) That honour either goes to Carousel, which makes me howl like a baby everytime I see it, or South Pacific; if I really think about it, I think Carousel just edges it. It has some of the most beautiful songs ever written for a musical, in my humble opinion (and believe me, I have seen a lot of musicals! I was brought up on them by my Nanna; I've seen almost all the Rodgers and Hammerstein ones and a helluva lot of the old MGM classics - ah, Showboat! How I do adore thee! - so I know my stuff here); if you don't have a tear in your eye when listening to the reprise of 'If I Loved You' and 'You'll Never Walk Alone' you are a philistine and should be attacked with bricks and things. I'll prove it...





If you don't know the plot, in the first video Julie (played by the ever-beautiful and talented Shirley Jones) is mourning her husband, Billy (the marvellous Gordon McRae), who was accidentally killed when he fell through some crates onto his own knife when cornered by the police; he and a friend of his had planned a robbery so that Billy, who had no job and no money, could provide for his unborn baby. In the second one, the reprise of 'If I Loved You', Billy's spirit has returned to earth to see his daughter graduate; his ghost, unseen, sings part of the duet that he and Julie sing earlier in the movie. By the time they sing 'You'll Never Walk Alone' again at the very end of the film, I'm usually to be found curled up in a ball sobbing pathetically. It's just the most beautiful film, and unusual because - although it's not a good musical unless there's a bit of tragedy in it - it was one of the first musicals to have a mainly-tragic plot. I swear, between this and Paul Robeson singing 'Ole Man River' in Showboat, I'm a complete basketcase.



Oh Gods, I need tissues now...so much for more cheery and lighthearted...but what a bloody brilliant film!!

On Winchester Geese, feminism and some soul searching...

I've never claimed to be an expert on anything much. What's that saying - Jack of all trades and master of none? I guess that applies to me; I know a lot of things about a lot of things, some of them useful (like electricity and water don't mix, so don't put that toaster in the bath), and some of them not so useful (like Jeffery Dahmer's brain was kept for scientific study after he got his head smashed in in prison); but you could never call me an 'expert' even on the things I'm passionate about, like art, literature and music.

Of course I went through the know-it-all phase, especially as a teenager. As far as feminism goes (ah, the dreaded F-word), I suppose part of it was innate: I knew I was just as good as the boys from a young age; in a lot of respects, my smugly-superior teenage self reflected, I was better. According to all the statistics I was smarter, more mature than boys the same age and would live longer; I was just as capable as any bloke of doing any job in the world and don't you dare try to bring me down, you horrible smelly boys! The precocious feminism of a teenage girl can be frightening...

Then, of course, I got older and a little more aware of the real world. I was a little more political, a little more opinionated and a little more certain that I was secure in my femininity. I remember being horrified in my second year at university when a male lecturer taught us about feminism; I bridled at the thought of a MAN daring to presume to teach ME, a WOMAN, about feminism (sorry, Paul - you were actually a bloody good lecturer and I learnt a lot from you). But that was kind of the point - I learnt a lot and, over the years, I kept learning. I learnt about the many breakthroughs the feminist movement had made over the years in its various waves, but I also learnt with horror about the sufferings of the Suffragette movement and their struggles for some form of equality; I learnt with dismay the widely-held conviction of many feminists that, in order to truly call myself a feminist, I needed to become a make-up-shunning, dungaree-wearing, man-hating lesbian; I learnt with fury about the gender-specific oppression of cultures, religions and governments. It was confusing: on the one hand, I was an outspoken and passionate advocate for ending domestic abuse; on the other, I loved my red high heels and wearing make-up occasionally. Did that mean I wasn't really a feminist? Could I not stand up for women's rights while still looking and feeling like a woman?

Over time, I've come to feel a bit more comfortable in my feminist skin. There are some branches of feminist thought that I agree with and some that I don't; for example, unlike some of my sisters, I've never had a particular problem with pornography. This statement is guaranteed to get me lynched in certain circles, but frankly whatever consenting adults want to do with their bodies is none of my business; as long as everyone involved is there of their own free will, enjoying what they do in safety and getting paid for it - and the porn industry is one of the only sectors where women are paid more than men - then go for your life as far as I'm concerned. Porn has its place and whether you choose to be part of it or not, either actually working in the industry or looking at the end product, is entirely down to you as a rational and consenting adult. I will not be picketing my local Spearmint Rhino in disgust; if anything, I've always secretly had a hankering to learn to pole dance! But one of the things I've always been 'outraged of Tunbridge Wells' about is prostitution.

Now lets just make one thing clear: I absolutely, categorically and unequivocally think that the prostitution laws in this country need an overhaul. It's completely ludicrous that in this day and age we are prepared to standby and let these women put themselves at risk because we refuse to acknowledge that prostitution exists. And it is mainly women who work in this field, where not only are they more likely to contract sexually transmitted infections, they're also in danger of assault, rape and murder; I read a report somewhere that states that women sexworking on the streets are 18 times more likely to be murdered. 18 times!!! That's just utterly unacceptable as far as I'm concerned. Of course, every time there's an incident like the Yorkshire Ripper murders, or the more recent tragedies in Ipswich and Bradford, the public go up in arms for a while, the spotlight is turned on the sex trade and then it all goes quiet again once the murderer is caught. But they're just the ones that make the press; almost every day, a woman working the streets is attacked, and yet there have been reports even in recent years of women reporting rape only to be told by the police, "you're a prostitute, how can you have been raped?" So it's about bloody time something was done to protect them.

Feminist attitudes to prostitution have, over the years, tended to veer towards the 'exploitation, degrading, woman-as-victim' train of thought and I must admit that, when I considered it at all (which wasn't often), I tended to agree; all those stories of trafficked women and pimps beating up their girls, getting them hooked on drugs to make them more compliant...I was all for hunting these men down and beating them senseless. As to the men who picked up the women; well, I was torn between disgust and derision. But now I'm starting to have a change of heart, and it's actually thanks to my boss...

See, I'm doing a whole truckload of research at the moment on prostitution, because we don't know what's really going on in our streets and frankly we don't want to be the next Ipswich or Bradford (not my words, or my bosses, I hasten to add). We need to find out what works in supporting the working women and what we could do in our area to ensure that we don't have a serial murder case on our hands. And it's because of this research that I've gained a new perspective on prostitution and what can be done about it, and a lot of that has come from the women themselves. There is now a union for sexworkers in this country, as there are across the world, and they are campaigning for their rights like anyone else. When the last Home Secretary Jacqui Smith suggested that we follow the Swedish model by decriminalising the girls and making the punters the criminals, the union and many of the women were furious; they argued that by making the men who buy sex criminals, you would push the trade even further underground and put the girls even more at risk. This was something I'd not thought about, but the more I think about it the more it makes sense; we would just be driving women straight into the arms of the Peter Sutcliffe's of this world without so much as a backward glance. And not all the women who go into sex work are there because they were trafficked, or because they're drug addicts, or have pimps waiting to beat them senseless: some do it because it's a job and they enjoy it, something else I'd not really considered.

So yes, we need to look at the legislation and we need to do something about the current and frankly ridiculous laws surrounding sex, but I think it's about time we started actually speaking to the people who know most about it: the sex workers themselves. Make use of the unions; legitimise them in the eyes of the public and give them a voice on things like this, things that concern them. Start supporting initiatives to protect them from those people who would hurt them; let's live in the 21st century, for crying out loud, and be realistic: prostitution is happening whether we like it or not, and if we really want to do some good - by which I mean cracking down hard on those people who traffic women for the sex trade, and those who force women and children into prostitution - then we need to stop being so puritannical and actually start a debate about it, involving the women as well as the so-called experts. Let's stop being so blinded by our aversion to 'the oldest profession' and our blinkered, outdated opinions of those who work in it and lets engage with them, make use of them and find out what the hell it is they want. Women in the sex industry have been murder statistics since before Jack the Ripper took to his knife; if we want to ensure that it doesn't happen any more, now is the time to act and to engage with the women as well as the 'experts'.

The prostitutes known as 'Winchester Geese' buried in the Cross Bones cemetary in Southwark were given a license to operate by the Bishop of Winchester; they and the other 'outcast poor' are still buried in unconsecrated ground for their immorality. It's time we struck a balance and found a new way forward; it's time we stopped burying our heads in the sand and pretended it wasn't happening. We have to do something and we have to include the sex workers in the process; how many more women working the streets have to be beaten, raped or murdered before this country finally wakes up and does something to protect them? In memory of the Winchester Geese and of all the other women who have died working the streets, I ask you to support this petition: http://www.petitiononline.com/swsafety/ We can do something about this, something that will make a difference, and it doesn't matter if it's 'feminist' or not - it's humanist and, as we are all human beings, surely that has to count for something...

General Ramblings

Bit of an assortment on the blogging front today. Mainly because I have nothing really to say/rant about this evening, and partly because I've been doing about five different things at once tonight.

1) I have been an 'expert' (HA!) on all things witchy/pagan/witch trials
2) I have got slightly too excited about the fact that there were ancient Goddess figurines found in Orkney (I love archaeology programmes on telly!)
3) I have been annoyed because Epica posted that they were doing a European tour; I got mega overexcited and went to their website; the UK is apparently not in Europe because they aren't playing here. WHY?!?!?!
4) I have worked out that there are far too many gigs and albums coming up in the next few months that I want/want to go to.
5) I am considering going to the Bridge Fest at Canning Town on Sunday, mainly because the fabulous and wonderful Sarah Jezebel Deva is playing, even though I have no one to go with at present.
6) I am also considering entering a few writing competitions - and that's the second place that I've put it down in black and white (well, type) and so now I suppose I'd better do it.
7) I am on a total music obsession at the moment; it's getting ridiculous. If I don't stop listening to Pendulum soon, I'm going to bugger the CD...

Wow, seven things! Who says women can't multitask?! Although everything has been underwritten by the seventh thing, it has to be said: for a girl who hates dance music, I have become seriously obsessed with Pendulum; their most recent album has been on my 'must buy' list since it came out and I finally got around to it this week - now I can't stop playing it! Mind you, when a song is as beautiful as 'Watercolour', it's kind of hard not to...



Right, I'm off to bed to have dreams about the lovely Rob Swire singing this song to me...

The 'Typical Brit' Post...

...typical because I am going to discuss The Weather. Specifically, I'm going to talk/moan about the biblical downpour that I just had to endure. Unless when they knocked me out at the hospital last week to do my tests they screwed something up and I've actually woken up next February, it is August, isn't it? Y'know, summer? When people wear flippie-floppies (thanks, Rich) and shorts and go a bit mental cos of all the sunshine and the heat and stuff? So why the hell did I have to go to Writers Group wearing my winter coat and hood? More to the bloody point, why the hell have I had to walk home through the beginnings of a flood that would make Noah a bit twitchy and start reaching for some wood?

Don't get me wrong, I don't have a problem with rain as such. Ok, it can make my hair go frizzy sometimes, but it's not the be-all and end-all, and there's actually something rather wonderful about a brief summer shower; but when it comes to the weather equivalent of someone literally throwing buckets of water at you, it stops being entertaining and just becomes a pain in the arse!

Tonight, for instance, I had on my lovely purple-tartan bondage coat with the pointy hood (which Melissa said made me look like a pixie, so it's no longer my KKK coat!) so that my hair and everything else would be kept dry. This was fine going to the meeting because the rain wasn't too bad, but Jeezy Creezy, by the time I got home I looked like I'd just gone swimming off the end of the pier in my coat and all my clothes. Absolutely everything was drenched; coat, cardigan, two tops, leggings, skirt, boots...everything. I had to have a hot shower just to stop myself shivering. All the cars were aquaplaning down the A127, which didn't help; three times some annoying person in a car got me soaked, although as I was drenched anyway and they couldn't really help it given the circumstances, I don't suppose it made much difference. All this and it's going to continue to chuck it own overnight and during the morning commute...at this rate, I think I'll go to work in my cozzie and just swim there.

That's not a bad idea, actually. Now where did I put those flippers...?

Never Back Down From A Challenge...

With thanks to Lee for the prompt: Think of a character from any piece of literature that made you fall head over heels in love; as if you wanted to run away with said character and be his or her best friend forever. What was it that caused you to like this character so much? Strengths? Flaws?

Lestat de Lioncourt. The Vampire Lestat. As soon as I met him, between the battered pages of a second-hand copy of Interview with the Vampire, I was in love with him. He oozed charisma and charm; even when he was being pig-headed, stubborn and arrogant, he was captivating. His capricious nature and the sheer magnetism of his personality won me over even though I’m sure I was supposed to be rooting for Louis throughout the book. Oh, there were vampires before him, for sure, and there were vampires after him; there have been literary men and women who have touched me from the pages of books both before and since we met, but Lestat…well, there’s only one Lestat de Lioncourt. That’s probably a good thing, actually…

See, the thing with Lestat is he has a tendency to be…well, to be a bit of a bastard. But that’s part of his charm, honest; you find yourself simultaneously laughing at him and wanting to throttle him. But it’s his devil-may-care attitude and sheer bloody-minded arrogance that make him who he is; not for Lestat the life of hiding in the shadows, apologising for his existence and the truth of his nature, oh no. Monsieur de Lioncourt, seventh son of the Marquis d’Auvergne and the Brat Prince, apologises to no one for who and what he is. He may be the anti-hero of Interview, but don’t be fooled by his vanity or his attitude: underneath it all, Lestat has a heart of gold. He just doesn’t like to talk about it.

This is why I’m going to sing his praises instead. Underneath that prickly exterior and the selfish impulses, Lestat cares. When he realises that Louis is unhappy he turns the child, Claudia, into a vampire in order to bring love into the life of his companion. Some have seen this as a selfish act, a desperate attempt to keep Louis with him, and while I admit to a more than passing horror at the thought of an immortal child with a vampire’s appetite (and there is almost a none-more pitiful figure in the Vampire Chronicles than Claudia), there is some sort of method in Lestat’s madness. And he does love Louis, maybe because he reminds him of his first love, Nicholas, but it is love nonetheless. When his mother comes to him in Paris, dying of consumption and desperate to see her child one last time, Lestat turns her, too, keeping her with him and ultimately saving her from the lingering death that awaits her otherwise. He is generous to a fault; paying off the debts of the man who managed his acting career when he was still mortal, and buying the theatre he worked in to give to his friends. When the Revolution sweeps France and his petty-aristocratic family are all but wiped out, it is Lestat who takes pity on his old and sickly father and takes care of him, despite the distant relationship between the two. He is also fiercely brave, singlehandedly destroying a pack of wolves that had been terrorising his local village.

But as well as these heroic acts, Lestat has his faults. He is all but incapable of taking orders, advice or instruction and, thanks to him coming ‘out of the coffin’ with his autobiography and rock band, he is solely responsible for the events that take place in ‘The Queen of the Damned’; reviving the First Vampires and almost destroying both humanity and the vampires. Not for nothing was he named ‘The Brat Prince’ by an affectionate yet deeply exasperated Marius! Yet the events that he has unwittingly unleashed also give Lestat pause for thought, driving him to take a long, hard look at himself and what he has become. He may still be the irrepressible Brat Prince of old, but it is this moment that makes him realise that he is still deeply bewitched by humanity and spurs him to fight for some form of redemption. Lestat endures great trials in the next two books in the series, and yet he comes out of it a much wiser and, to my mind, nobler person. Of course, being Lestat, there are still moments when you could quite cheerily drive a stake through his heart without a second thought (not that that would kill him, but it would certainly go a long way to relieving your own tension); but the losses he experiences and the revelations he undergoes all serve to make him someone worth fighting for.

It was these hidden depths and his love for humanity, as well as his questioning mind and his spirit that made me fall for Lestat. Others may well be hypnotised by his beauty or drawn to his money and power, but for me it was his mind and his passions that excited me, and the overpowering desire to wrap him up and shield him from the evils of the ‘Savage Garden’. He’s not perfect, but then again he never professed to be and although I’m sure there would be times when I’d want to kill him, ultimately Lestat is one of life’s good guys. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend eternity with...

If Music Be The Food Of Love...Part 2

I actually think I would die if I didn't have music in my life. I could sort of cope with losing my sight, even as a writer and an avid reader, and although taste and smell would be a bit of a loss as well, it wouldn't be the end of the world if one of them had to go. I don't think I have to worry about losing my sense of touch - after all, even if I was just a head I could still roll around and bump into things - but the one sense that would probably kill me to lose would be my hearing. The thought of living without music, without hearing the songs and bands that I love or getting to hear and discover new ones makes shivers run down my spine. To never hear Apocalyptica make Metallica songs bearable; to never have realised how sexy Corey Taylor's voice is when he's not in Slipknot; to never have been moved by the power of Sarah Jezebel Deva; to never have heard Vibeke Stene, Janis Joplin, Mama Cass, Jimi Hendrix, Jeff Buckley...it's so depressing it's untrue!

Which is why I've spent a lazy afternoon transferring poems currently scribbled on scrappy pieces of paper into my notebook with my mp3 player firmly clamped to my ears. It's been utter bliss; I've rediscovered songs that I a) had no idea were on here and b) had completely forgotten about, and not only is it utterly inspiring to have my favourite singers warbling away in my ears, it's also incredibly soothing. I always know that, whenever I'm struggling to express myself, somewhere out there is a song that does it for me. Methinks ABBA were onto something when they sang "thank you for the music," although if I was to personally thank all the bands, singers and songwriters over the years who have given voice to my emotions and thoughts and provided the soundtrack to my life, I'd be here 'til long after the Apocalypse has been and gone. As previously mentioned, I've been through several musical incarnations over the years, and some of the old favourites have stuck around as a new phase has started, so there are a helluva lot of people on that list...I may never be able to list you all individually (she says, as if they actually read this blog!) but you're in my heart forever. Such is the power of music...

With that in mind, I have become slightly addicted to one of the games on the Nightwish forum. Basically, you whack your mp3 player on 'shuffle' and then the title of each song forms the answer to the questions. Sometimes it's completely incomprehensible (I still get hysterics when I think about the time that the answer to the question "what do your exes think of you?" was 'Swallow' by Emilie Autumn); sometimes they tend to almost make sense, but its a reasonably entertaining way to pass the time when you're 'plugged in' so I've been doing it while writing this blog entry and Facebooking...lets see what we came up with...

How are you feeling today?
Manic Aeon – Sirenia (true…I have been a bit manic today)

What do your friends think of you?
Whore of Heaven – Inkubus Sukkubus (gee, thanks guys…bastards!)

What does your family think of you?
Mad Girl – Emilie Autumn (now that’s definitely true!)

What do strangers think of you?
Like Dylan in the Movies – Belle and Sebastian (cool!)

What do your exes think of you?
Control the Storm – Delain (don’t break my heart then!)

What do you like in a girl/guy?
Siberian Love Affairs – Diablo Swing Orchestra (so I need to be on the lookout for a Siberian fella, eh?)

What is your motto?
Breathe Easy – Sugababes (sounds like reasonable advice!)

Are you good at school/job?
Traffic – Stereophonics (either I’m heading for a career change or this makes no sense!)

Will you have kids?
Dead Boy’s Poem – Nightwish (that would be a no, then…or I’m going to murder my hypothetical son!)

Will you get married?
Yield to Temptation – After Forever (interesting…)

What song will you dance to at your wedding?
The Ballad of Tom Jones – Spaced feat. Cerys Matthews (hahaha, I would actually seriously get married just to do that! Especially given what the song is about…)

What do you think about very often?
The Way You Said Goodnight – The Magnetic Fields (the way who said goodnight though?)

What is a song for today?
Original Sin (The Devil’s Waiting in the Wings) – Angtoria (spookily appropriate for a Sunday…and the fact that it’s, well, me…)

What is a song for tomorrow?
Spectators of Suicide – Manic Street Preachers (I sincerely hope not!)

What is a song for every day?
Dance of Fate – Epica (yay!)

What will next year bring?
Somewhere – Within Temptation (well, that’s as clear as mud…)

What will you do on the weekend?
Castle Down – Emilie Autumn (ooh, sounds interesting…)

What song should they play at your funeral?
About A Girl – Nirvana (yes please!)

What song should they play on your birthday?
Water Fire Heaven Earth – Van Canto (only if you get Van Canto to do it…*dies*)

Will you have a sucessful future?
What If? – Emilie Autumn (ambigous…nice…)

What is your biggest fear?
Half Jack – Dresden Dolls (in a bizarre twist, I can relate…)

What is your biggest secret?
Wicked Game – Stone Sour (well, it’s not a secret now, is it? Tsk…)

How will you die?
Doors Closing Slowly – Manic Street Preachers (I shall avoid doors at all costs then…)

All the world's a stage

…and in his time a man plays many parts, to paraphrase the Bard. I don’t tend to find myself agreeing with old Shakespeare very often (apart from the fact that some of his female characters are absolute dreams to play as an actress), but in this case I think he was pretty much on the money. And the reason I've been thinking about this a lot recently stems from two separate conversations that I had with two different people over the past few weeks, which have led to me thinking about the differences in the image we project to others and the way in which we perceive ourselves. Stand by, folks, cos this one could get a little deep…

I've always had a sneaking suspicion that I’m slightly schizophrenic in my personality. I don’t mean that I suffer from schizophrenia, nor do I intend to make light of the illness; after all, I’ve seen first-hand what it can do to someone and I know it’s never a laughing matter, but the fact is that I seem to have a whole heap of different masks and different behaviours depending on who I’m with. I guess Shrek put it best when he said ogres are like onions cos they have a lot of layers; that's me, alright: layer upon layer of weirdness and back-off vibes coupled with layers of niceness and bubbly glee. A lot of this is social context, obviously, because I would never act the way I do with my friends when serving the vicar a cup of tea at one of my grandmother’s church fundraisers; but a big part of it is to do with self-preservation. I live in a state of constant terror that people won't like me.

There, I said it. To a certain extent, it's true - I've always hated the thought that other people don't like me and are only pretending to be my friends (once you've been stabbed in the back a few times, it's less "et tu, Brute?" and more "don't mess with the bitch, bitch"), but recently, in a series of small epiphanies, I've started to realise that, actually, I don't care. I have an incredibly good group of friends (in varying seperate groups of their own) and for some bizarre and bewildering reason they seem to like having me around. I've never once felt that they stuck by me out of pity or charity like I have in the past, and actually find that I'm more myself than I've ever been around them. And I'm starting to find out exactly who 'myself' is - turns out that underneath all the bullshit and bravado, she's actually an okay kinda gal...

Someone told me a few weeks ago that I seem to be comfortable with who I am and that they don't feel brave enough to be like that; when I said that most of it was pure front because I was always shy in new situations, he seemed genuinely surprised. Someone else told me a few days before that (after a second breakup with my then-boyfriend) that I had an amazing attitude towards it after I basically shrugged and said I wasn't too upset because, frankly, if he didn't think I was worth spending time with then I wasn't going to lose any sleep over it: my answer to both of them was that it's been a long time coming. It has, too; I spent a lot of my time in the past pretending to be something I wasn't in the vain hope of fitting in, and it made me miserable. I've lived with the labels 'freak' and 'weird girl' longer than I care to remember; I've had the whispered conversations about me and the snidey comments, the silent treatment and the blatant hostility. My teens were spent careering from one hideous form of self-loathing to another, always seeking approval, always needing to be loved. I desperately wanted to be liked and yet, at the same time, I shied away from opening up to people because I was too scared of being hurt again; too afraid of what love or friendship or anything else might mean.

And then one day I woke up. Like Sleeping Beauty after her hundred year snooze, I snapped out of the misery and the lethargy and decided that if I didn't fit the box, then screw it. It took me a long time; I mean, I'd already gone down the 'weirdo' route at school because of my interest in paganism (oh, how I laughed when the boys asked if I was going to turn them all into toads. Not. Sorry, lads, guess you didn't need my magic for that one, you were already there); because I liked heavy metal and because I read books about serial killers. I'd also had the strange and slightly unsettling experience of feeling like an outsider in the metal scene because I dyed my hair blonde, wore blue jeans and still listened to things that weren't completely incomprehensible rackets like Cannibal Corpse (and god knows that that's nanoseconds of my life I won't get back again). I was an insecure little freak girl, and it was gutwrenching to be torn between wanting to be liked and being absolutely terrified of other people. I lived in my head as much as possible because it felt like the safest place to be, and no one was ever likely to make me feel uncomfortable there. And then one day, only very recently, I might add, I just got it.

So yes, I am a bit of a weirdo. And yes, I don't just have 'issues', I have a full subscription with free gifts and one of those ringbinder things to keep them in. And I do tend to be loud and chatty or pathalogically shy in new situations as a way of covering up my social ineptness and fear of being hated. No, I don't look like a *typical* metalhead. And you don't need to point out my relationship insecurities, my neediness or any other flaws that I have. I know all about them and you know what? I actually kinda like 'em. Besides, I also happen to have the gift of making people feel better by acting like a lunatic; the gift of being a reasonably decent person who cares about her friends; the gift of being able to weave a tale or two from the ether; the gift of dancing to the heartbeat of the earth and not caring whose watching...I'm more than just my insecurities and flaws.

I know I have a helluva long way to go before I'm completely comfortable in my skin, and there are certain monsters and boogeymen from the past that are going to need a serious ass-kicking before my head feels completely sorted, but I've accepted that I'm probably never going to be what passes for 'normal' in this world. And I'm okay with that, I think. The people who made my life a living hell back in the day are long gone from my world; in their place are groups of people that I haven't known very long but who I seem to have clicked with (Jack, you are my evil twin ;p), people that I would willingly fight and die for if the need arises; people who actually seem to have accepted me as I am, flaws and neuroses and all, and are actually ok with that. I have a long way to go in a lot of respects, but the journey will probably be quite exciting. Especially if I dance in the rain and hug a few trees while I'm at it. Sure, I'll get some odd looks from people, but as I don't appear to be a psychotic mass murderer underneath it all, I don't think it will be a problem.

So stick around, kids, cos this one could be an eye-opener...

People Say The Funniest Things...

...usually when I'm in the oddest situations. Take today, for example. There I was, laying on the table in the ultrasound room in the hospital, minding my own business, when the doctor gets a massive grin on his face and says to his student doctor "you see - lovely patient, lovely anatomy!" Said student doctor then turns round, grins at me and agrees, "oh yes, lovely anatomy!"

I'm sorry, but WHAT?!?! I have no idea if that's a compliment, a weird medical chat-up line (in which case I am suing both your asses) or the sort of thing Jack the Ripper would say shortly before carving out your insides. It was just one of those really, really bizarre things that you hear occasionally. I just wish I knew why people said such weird things to me. I mean, do I have a huge neon sign above my head that says, "hello, I will talk to weirdos and smile when you say completely random things"? If so, how do I unplug it? I mean, I like the fact that my friends can talk to me about anything, even if I have no idea what advice to give them. I like the fact that old ladies sometimes talk to me at bus stops, because it reminds me that being old can be lonely and friends are to be cherished while we have them. I even like the fact that, just occasionally, I get total strangers serenading me with 'You're Once, Twice, Three Times A Lady" on the drunk train. I can even cope with the local drunken tramp having his "'ello, darlin', spare us a quid," conversation with me. But for the love of God, people, get some context!! Trains, buses, supermarket queues...perfectly acceptable for weird conversations with utter strangers. When I'm laying on my back in a bloody medical facility, however - not acceptable. Not ever. In a trillion years.

What's worrying me now is that I have to go back to hospital on Wednesday for more tests. I'm stressing enough about the next two days as it is, as the preparation for these tests is gonna be hell on wheels, but I have to go under sedation for them as well. So now not only do I have to worry about the medical staff saying weird things to me, I'll probably end up talking complete and utter crap back to them.

No change there, then. Hey, maybe that's why I always get the weird ones...

I'm Forever Blowin' Bubbles...

Aaaand we've caught up! Hurrah...

That's probably the only thing worth cheering about, however. The new Premier League season started this weekend, so naturally I was in a breathless state of anticipation...oh, who am I kidding? I couldn't give a monkey's uncle, really, although I always check up on the scores at least, in order to celebrate the triumph of my team. Sadly for me, I'm a West Ham supporter...I'm not holding my breath for any particular glory this season; it'd be nice if we managed to stay somewhere near the middle of the table.

So, played one, lost one. Quite badly. To Aston Villa. And to top it all off, our next match is against Bolton, who have the curious knack of always being able to unsettle us and whup us when necessary. I want to be able to state, with complete and utter confidence, that we will stay up again this season; that the relegation zone is not something we need to worry about; that we will finish, at worst, mid-table...but then the cold, cruel clarity of "real life" drops in and I get the distinctly dubious feeling, a prickle at the back of my neck, that this time next year we may well be in the Championship...

Ah well, what do I care? West Ham won the World Cup in '66, and we had Bobby Moore. All the rest is just dreaming...all together now..."I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air..."

My Lost Toy Story

**NOTE: This was written on 13th August. I told you I was playing catch-up...**

Oh gods, I have guilt. The most unbearable, earth-shattering, bone-crunching guilt, weighing down on me like a suit of armour. I thought I'd dealt with the trauma, but it took a trip to the cinema to make me realise that, actually, guilt of this proportion never, ever leaves you...

The reason for my current, crushing guilt is that I've just got back from seeing Toy Story 3. Unlike many of the grown men in the audience, I did not quietly sob my way through the film; I didn't even loudly sob, although I will confess to a slight lump in the throat as the film unfolded, but the sudden wave of guilt that crashed over me as I sat in the darkness was stifling. I, too, was like Andy once, young and carefree and completely obsessed with my favourite toys. I loved my Lego and my Fisher Price People; I cuddled my Doggy Wheels and had my Fisher Price Chatterphone that I was quite attached to; but the two toys that I worshipped and adored above and beyond any other were two cuddly toys. One was a pink and white mouse that I received from Father Christmas at playgroup when I was three, and who still regards me with the same curious and compassionate expression at twenty-eight as he did at three. I will never, ever give up my Pinkie, not for anyone; not even if Paul O'Connell, Jenson Button, Paul Collingwood, David Beckham, Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom, Eddie Izzard, David Tennant, all of Apocalyptica and Till Lindemann himself (more about my bizarre and varied crushes later, I feel) turned up on my doorstep all at once and begged for my hand in marriage, complete with drawn-up rota for how they'd share my time (and the chores) on the condition that the mouse goes. Sorry, fellas, not even the combined pull of your obvious and varied charms could ever persuade me to completely rid myself of my faithful Pinkie. And the reason for this faintly ludicrous attachment to a pink and white stuffed mouse is also the reason for the wave of utter shame and culpability that swept over me in the cinema: I have lost a beloved toy and, to this day, remain utterly ignorant of his whereabouts. I want to die at the thought.

His name was Coco. He was a knitted clown that was presented to me when I was born; so young was I that I don't even remember the very first time we were introduced, but from the very moment that he was placed into my crib, we were inseperable. Coco and I went everywhere together, did everything together...he was my best friend, my confidante and my constant companion; when I cried, he was there, when I laughed, he got the joke. He was my world and I knew we'd always be together.

Alas, like all first loves, it was not to be. At the age of seven, my parents divorced and we moved in with my maternal grandparents. Pinkie was definitely there but, to this day, I can't be sure whether Coco was. I don't know what's worse, the fact that I lost him or the fact that I can't remember when and where I lost him. All I know is that one day he was there and the next, he was gone. Did I give him to someone, in the mistaken belief that I was too old for such things? Had I left him somewhere, abandoning him to the cruel fate of the 'lost toy'? Having seen Toy Story 3, I now have a terrible sense of guilt that, wherever he is, Coco feels that I callously tossed him aside. I can only hope that he ended up somewhere nice, with a child who loved him as much as I did and who wouldn't be so cruel as to just lose him.

I still have my Pinkie, and I still have one picture of me with Coco, but the actual object of my first ever love has been lost to the travels and travails of growing up. I can only hope that wherever he is, Coco is happy and knows that, while we were together, he was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

And I'll never watch bloody Toy Story again without feeling that awful knot in the pit of my stomach...thanks, Pixar!

Stone the Crows...

...Well, the women, at any rate. And I’m only using humour here because if I were to say exactly what I’m feeling at the moment, this blog would be reduced to nothing but an incoherent torrent of ranty swearing. Today, Iranian state television (well, lets be honest – there isn’t any other kind in Iran) broadcast an alleged ‘confession’ by a woman they have sentenced to death by stoning. She was originally ‘convicted’ – I use the term loosely – of adultery, but when the rest of the world said, “er, hold on a second there, old chap,” they decided that she had also been involved in the murder of her husband. The ‘confession’ – again, I use the term incredibly loosely – barely mentioned the adultery charge, focussing instead on the murder; clearly the powers-that-be in Iran have decided that people would be much more likely to let them get on with their execution if it was for something as heinous as murder – after all, doesn’t the United States do exactly the same thing? And so, with her face all but pixellated out, the woman appeared on television and admitted to being involved in the death of her late husband.

Now let’s just think about this for a teeny, tiny second. This is a woman who has been held in an Iranian prison (hardly an experience to delight the soul) and who, according to her former lawyer, who has had to escape to Denmark in fear of his own life, has been tortured severely throughout her ordeal. And now she ‘confesses’ to being involved in a murder plot? Funny that, I think I’d confess as well…and what does the rest of the world do? Absolutely sod all, except go on the telly and bleat about how ‘barbaric’ it is. Yes, that’s marvellous. Well done.

It sickens me, it absolutely sickens me, that in this day and age we can allow not only state-sanctioned murder (for what is any death penalty but that?) but state-sanctioned murder of such primitive and barbaric cruelty. Thank the Gods, no footage of a stoning has ever been released, although should you wish to see how the charming state of Iran used to carry out its public hangings, you can see plenty of footage of that, but there have been pictures and footage released of the aftermath. That was gruesome enough – the ground covered in blood and the spattered rocks – so I would imagine that the actual event would be completely horrendous…it really doesn’t bear thinking about. And this poor woman, who has two children and is probably guilty of nothing more than finding a new man after her husband died (because the whole ‘murder’ thing strangely only seems to have come to light after the outcry about her being stoned for adultery) has more than likely be beaten and threatened and tortured by the authorities in order to get her to produce this ‘confession’. I can only hope that the people who have the power to intervene in such situations get moving and do whatever they can to help this poor woman, and all the others like her who have ‘disappeared’ into the depths of an Iranian prison on the most spurious of charges and been tortured by that country’s regime. It’s too late for the many people who have already died, but there might still be a chance to save the others. Don’t forget them. David Cameron, Barack Obama and everyone else who has the power – do NOT forget them…

**NOTE: This was also written on the 12th**

Star Light, Star Bright...

**NOTE: I am playing catch-up after the sudden and inexplicable demise of my interwebz for a few days. This was written on the 12th**

So I waited up this evening to see if I could spot the Perseid meteor shower, which apparently is at its most visible between 10.30pm and 11.00pm. (I also have a sneaky suspicion that said meteor shower may be responsible for the fact that my broadband appears to have gone stupid again, but I shall reserve my judgement on this matter as it was playing silly arses a few weeks ago and then sorted itself out, so who knows what’s going on?) As it is, I have become resigned to blogging in Word until such time as my poxy internet decides to play ball…I digress. Back to the meteor shower…

Despite the fact that I am completely shattered this evening, I sat through the grim death-and-destruction reporting on the news (getting very angry and trying not to shout at the telly when some of the stories and the reporting wound me up) because I am a sucker for a shooting star, and the thought of seeing loads of the sparkly things got me all excited. There's something almost magical about shooting stars; it stems back to my childhood, I think, when I lived and died by the ancient rhyme "star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight". If you made the wish on a shooting star, it was all the more certain to come true. And I know that they’re meteors and not stars, but one lump of space rock is very much like another…There's something inexplicably beautiful about these lumps of space rock, though, and they are a timely and not altogether eerie reminder that the universe is so, so much greater than our little planet. We are not alone in this vastness of space - and I'm not talking about the possibility of finding little green men on Mars or those weird bug-eyed monsters I saw on some crap American documentary once. Space is too huge for us to be 'alone' in that sense, but one of the things we are definitely certain about, even if we find it hard to fathom, is that there are an awful lot of lumps of space rock floating around up there; some of them bigger and some of them smaller than our own lump, but all of them infinitely capable of doing us some damage.

Christ, I think I've seen Armageddon too many times...Right then, time to go and see if we can see some sparklies up there!!

******20 minutes later******

Well, that was a total let down. It’s cold, it’s wet and so cloudy that you couldn’t see so much as an aeroplane going overhead, never mind a meteor shower. And the weather forecast doesn’t look that much better for tomorrow, so it may be that I miss it again tomorrow night. No wishing on a star for me tonight...all this and Sexy Becks has been dropped from the England team…screw you, Fabio, he’s the best player we’ve got and if you can’t see that then I’m starting to wonder whether giving you a second chance as manager was such a good idea…ho hum…

It's All In The Genes...

I have a terrible burning desire to know about where I came from. I don't mean literally - I paid attention in biology, thank you - and I don't mean geographically, as even I can remember living in Benfleet as a child, but I mean learning about where I really came from. Learning about my ancestors...

Even before the 'Who Do You Think You Are?' series helped propel genealogy into the spotlight, I was fascinated by Ye Olde Relatives and Those Who Came Before. When I was still at primary school - I think I was about 8 - we had to do a very simple family tree, and I remember sitting down with my Dad and very carefully writing out the names of my grandparents and great-grandparents. From that tiny seed, a family tree started to grow...and my passion was born.

Happily for me, my maternal aunt is pretty much the family historian and so I've been helping her to track both her maternal and paternal ancestors; she's also helped me to discover a bit more about my paternal heritage. When we started, we wanted to try and solve a family mystery (which we still haven't been able to do) and I was secretly hoping for relatives who were fabulously wealthy and terribly interesting. Fabulous wealth, alas, appears to have eluded both sides of my family, but terribly interesting? Ohhh yes...so far, I have discovered that one side of the family has someone who was transported to Australia for 7 years for theft from the post office and someone who had tertiary syphilis; on the other, I have a lunatic and someone who ended up in the workhouse. So criminal, mental paupers...that's the stock I come from. And you know what? They might not have been rich, they might not have done anything spectacular of note and they may not even have been especially nice people...but they are mine and I love them for it.

So here's to the lunatics, the crooks and the poor - God bless you, my ancestors, because if it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here now. We might not have been the rulers of the land but we were the ones who built the Empire, on the sweat and the strain of our labour, and as far as this descendant of yours is concerned, you are all the most important people in history. I wish I could have known you (although some of you may have scared me) but I shall always be grateful to you and will never forget you!

Teenage Kicks...

I don't know if you've seen Amish: The World's Squarest Teenagers on Channel 4? When I first came across it, I was horrified; it sounded like one of those 'point and laugh at the freaks' programmes that make me want to throw things at the telly. However, for once the name of the show doesn't actually do justice to the content. It follows five young Amish teenagers as they come to Britain and spend time with 4 different families; it has been a huge, huge eyeopener. The five young Amish are very engaging and keen to fit in with their host families, and also to learn as much as they can about the hugely-differing cultures. But what is also wonderful to see, especially given the bad press that teenagers in this country get, was the way that the British teenagers hosting them were also keen to engage with themand get to know their ways. It kinda fills you with hope...almost!

Another thing that has given me hope for the fabled 'next generation' was the Palace Theatre Summer Youth Project that I saw today. In nine days, this incredible bunch of kids (aged 9 to 19) pulled together to perform an all-singing, all-dancing version of The Wiz. It was brilliant. You could see how hard they'd all worked (not to mention all the very frazzled 'grown-ups' backstage!) and their sheer enthusiasm and joy at performing was infectious. There are some real talents there, raw talents who one day will be strutting their stuff on the stage in the West End. They can all be very, very proud of themselves for what they achieved, and it's a timely reminder that not every teenager is some knife-wielding hoody drunkenly loitering on a street corner; that there are 'young people'who are prepared to put time and effort into something that they're passionate about. So to Daisymay and everyone else who took part in the show, a huge huge well done. You were all fantastic. xx

"I've Had An Idea..."

If anyone ever happens to be in the vicinity when I say this next, please feel free to give me a good thwack upside the head and scream at me in whichever language you happen to know best. I will not be offended. I may be mildly surprised at first, and may possibly even attempt to assault you with something blunt, but after I have calmed down you can remind me of this post and all shall be forgiven.

See, I'm a great one for ideas. Oh yes, give you a million if you wanted. Unfortunately, they tend to be not very well thought out...my bright spark idea this afternoon was to upload some more songs onto my laptop and then transfer them to my mp3 player. Then I decided to wipe my mp3 player and start again, so that I could put lots of nice new shiny tunes on the system. So what's the problem, I hear you ask; that all sounds well and good to me.

In theory, of course, there is no problem. In theory, it is a perfectly reasonable thing to spend a Saturday afternoon doing. In practice, however, thanks to the fact that I have many more CD's missing from my laptop than I thought, coupled with the fact that my external disc drive is slower than a tortoise with asthma and takes forever to copy a CD, it is taking an age to get to the point where I can start copying things over. I may be here for quite sometime...

On the plus side, however, I have rediscovered some of my favourite stuff that was lurking around at the back of the shelving unit. I also appear to be in possession of a large number of albums that would make people go "eh?" if they were to see them. And you know what? I don't actually care! So hurrah for eclectic, eccentric musical tastes; hurrah for bright ideas and hurrah for the person who is able to figure out a way of doing this quicker...*sigh*

On Hero Worship

There's an old saying that you should never meet your heroes because you'll only end up disappointed. Well, I can quite cheerfully say that I have been fortunate enough to meet 2 of my heroes this year and neither of them has disappointed me. The first was Laura Richards, who I met at domestic violence conference in March. Laura is an absolute hero of mine for her work in the criminal profiling field; she has also worked with another of my heroes in the field, John Douglas, and has devised the new risk assessment that is being rolled out nationwide as we speak. For all this alone, Laura deserves respect...the fact that she was incredibly lovely and generous with her time when I went up to her like some geeky fangirl at a pop concert afterwards is just an amazing bonus. And then she said that if I emailed her, she'd send me a list of books to read since I was so interested in criminal profiling and psychology; this later proved not to be just a throwaway comment as, when I bit the bullet and emailed her, she was as good as her word.

The second of my heroes that I've met, and the one that really means the most to me for deeply personal reasons, is the singer Sarah Jezebel Deva. For years known only as "that woman who sings with Cradle of Filth" (or Mortiis, or Therion, or any other number of bands you could mention), Sarah has recently branched out on her own with an album in 2006 from her band Angtoria and a solo album this year. Last night was the final night of her first solo tour, at the Underworld in Camden, and despite the fact that I felt absolutely exhausted and ill, I was determined to go and see the show; it had already been postponed from May and besides, Sarah's music has got me through some really bad times in the past so no way was I going to pass up the chance to see the lady herself. And I am so, so pleased that I went now, because not only was the show utterly incredible, but I actually got to meet her and she was just awesome.

The story is this: I made a necklace for Sarah as a way of saying thank you to her for making such powerful songs which have got me through some really, really bad times. When I haven't felt able to express how I feel about certain situations, her songs have spoken to me and said the words for me. (And yes, I realise this makes me border on the lunatic-psycho-fangirl-stalker, but it isn't meant like that). After the show - which was completely amazing; she and the band deserve to be playing to a hell of a lot more people than were there last night - I wasn't sure whether Sarah would be waiting for everyone to leave before coming out to celebrate with her friends and family, but she had pointed out her godmother earlier on in the show, and I so I took a chance and, as politely as I could because I didn't want to be intrusive, asked her if she would please give the necklace to Sarah. Well. Her godmother is also a fantastically-lovely person; she immediately asked her daughter if Sarah was coming out, and when I explained the situation her daughter went backstage and returned a few minutes later with Sarah. I was completely and utterly gobsmacked. I was even more gobsmacked when she told me that I was really sweet for making the necklace for her and that she would wear it; when I managed to tell her why I'd done it, she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and - despite the fact she probably just wanted to chill out after the show - she spoke to me for a couple of minutes. To top it all off today, after I posted on her FB page about it, she said it had been the first gift as a frontwoman she'd ever received. (Believe me, Sarah, I'm sure it won't be the last!) I am soooo amazed by how lovely she is, and yet I'm actually not at all surprised in a lot of ways because she's always seemed to be very down to earth. It was just amazing and has not only made me feel a bit brighter but has also made me more determined than ever that whatever this thing is (IBS or Crohns or whatever) it is NOT going to beat me. Sarah Jezebel Deva has proved that you can go through really, really terrible times in your life and come out the other side a stronger person; she's inspired me to do so in the past and she's inspiring me again. I won't give up without a fight and I WILL get through this latest problem, no matter how difficult it is. I have a lot of strong female role models in my life, including Sarah, and I look to them as my inspirations and my heroines. On a day when Theresa May, the Home Secretary, scraps a law that bans domestic abusers from the home for 2 weeks to allow their partners time to consider their options and get out, I am eternally grateful that there are still strong, powerful women out there that girls can look to as their role models. Theresa May will never join my mum on my 'inspirational' list, but Sarah Jezebel Deva most definitely will...

On Addiction...

Why is it that I've always been addicted to stuff that's bad for me? Oh, I don't mean the really, really bad stuff - there will be no revelations about illegal drugs here, thank you; I think the hardest drug I'm addicted to is Pepsi - but there are some things that I know will do me no good whatsoever, and yet I have to have them. Unsuitable shoes, expensive vintage clothes (or just clothes in generally, really), books when my shelves are overflowing, CD's and DVD's when there really isn't any room for them...it's just ridiculous! And now it seems that my almost-new-but-slightly-ludicrous addiction is...cookery books.

I know, I know, not exactly rock 'n' roll, is it? But I have a real thing about them, even though I rarely cook anything and am currently undergoing tests for IBS and Crohns Disease (so food is sort of my enemy at the moment, at least until I know what's definitely going on in there and can do something about it. FML...) But there's just something about a cookery book that has a real hold over me; where most people would say the longest book they've ever read is 'War and Peace', I ploughed my way through 'Mrs Beetons Book of Household Management'. Some people get stupidly-excited over a new model of a particular car, I jump and down squealing when there's a new Nigella Lawson on the bookshelves. I have the obligatory 'celebrity chef' cookbooks, of course, for I worship at the altar of Nigella and Jamie, but I also have more interesting cookbooks (stop sniggering at the back - such things are possible!)

Take the book I bought today, for example. It's called 'Falling Cloudberries' by Tessa Kiros, who is the daughter of a Finnish mother and Cypriot father, who lived in South Africa from the age of 4 and is now married to an Italian. This is not so much a cookery book - although the recipes certainly look scrumptious - as a family history; there are stories, photographs, snippets of lore...it's absolutely beautiful. It was the cover that grabbed me first, and when I picked it up I knew it was coming home with me. What can I say, I have the iron will of an amoeba. But it's stunning and will have pride of place on my shelf. All that and I managed to get a cheap paperback copy of the legendary Julia Childs...today was a good day! Right, I'm off to drool over my lovely books and imagine being able to cook everything in them...and eat them with no consequences...ah well.

Sleeeeeeeeppppp...

I've just come home from my day out at the Sonisphere music festival in Knebworth, so I am tired, achy and pretty deaf in both ears thanks to placing myself far too near the speakers. But happy? Ohhhh, yes...It was an absolutely awesome day out, despite my paranoia about health 'issues' (and kudos to the man in Boots at Liverpool Street who didn't look at me as if I was a total maniac), and I had the most epic time. The bands were, for the most part, fantastic (more anon), but what made it so amazing was the fact that I got to spend the time with my friends Ray and Hannah, who are among the most brilliant people in the world. Not only did we hang out at the festival all day, they also very kindly let me crash at their place last night so that I didn't have to worry about missing the last train back, and it was so much fun. hence why I'm so knackered now: Hannah and I ended up having a proper girlie sleepover (why are they called sleepovers? No one sleeps!) and talked all night. I'm lucky - I came home early this afternoon and can go to sleep on the sofa if I want to. Hannah's still at Sonisphere because she and Ray had tickets to all three days; she is a trooper and a treasure! So: Ray and Hannah, thank you again for making the weekend such brilliant fun, for letting me stay over and for being such fabulous people. Love you lots! xx RA RA!

Onto the bands...well, the ones that I saw, anyway...Sabaton were amazing, as always, and I can't wait to see them on tour later this year. Lacuna Coil seemed to have a few technical difficulties which was a shame; I'm not a huge fan but the odd song of theirs is good, and it would have been better for them if there hadn't been any issues. Ah well. Next up was Soulfly - seeing Max Cavalera 'foook shiiiit oooop!' before playing 'Roots Bloody Roots' was awesome! :D Apocalyptica made me squeal like a teenage fangirl at a pop concert (eat yer heart out, JLS) and bust my eardrums because we were so close to the amps at the front. It's a tough job, but sometimes a girl just has to do it...We headed back to the main stage to briefly catch up with a friend but as Good Charlotte were playing my ears were bleeding (and not in a good way) so we headed back to the second stage for the awesome Skunk Anansie. As a young teenager, I hero-worshipped Skin (while being slightly afraid of her) because she was - and is - such a strong, powerful woman. In the flesh, she does not disappoint...awesome lady, phenomenal singer, blinding show. Well, what we saw of it...

You see, Corey Taylor, the talented (and not unattractive) singer of Slipknot and Stone Sour was performing an acoustic set in the tent, so to make sure we got there in time we left Skunk Anansie three songs in and made for the tented stage. Just as well we did, really, because when he came on stage, the place was absolutely rammed. Before he came on we caught the set by a band called Sick Of It All, who were not my cup of tea at all, but then when they left we managed to stand to one side and listen to Corey sing. It was magic. I shed tears. He had played 'Give My Love To Rose' by Johnny Cash, which is one of my favourite Cash songs ever; then, when he played 'Bother' and dedicated a version of the Slipknot song 'Snuff' to the late Paul Gray, one of the members of Slipknot, the tears started. It was moving, it was beautiful and it was a fine tribute from one man to his friend, and from the fans to a musician they respected, as almost everyone was singing along. In short, it was one of my highlights of the day, so thank you Corey...

Next up was the mighty Motley Crue. I love Motley Crue. I don't care how many people tell me they're rubbish, I've been devoted to them since I was a teenager and, having seen them in a tent at Download festival a few years ago, there was no way I was missing this. I was, however, on my own, as I am the only Crue freak on my gang. So while Ray and Hannah managed to get awesome positions at the main stage for the headliners, I perched myself at the side of the stage and sang and danced like a total maniac to my beloved Crue. It was a fantastic show (although there were a few technical hitches along the way), but they pulled out some of the real old-school stuff and made me incredibly happy by doing so. Just do 'Primal Scream' at the next one, guys, and I'll be on cloud 9!

Which brings me to the big finale. After Crue finished, I dashed to the main stage and found myself a nice little spot on the grass at the back of the arena so that I could sing and dance my little heart out all over again to the utterly brilliant, utterly mental Rammstein. There are no words to describe how epic this show was. The lights, the pyro, the fireworks, the boat over the crowd...Till Lindemann and the rest of the band were just fantastic. Stone cold sober, I danced like a lunatic burlesque-performer-come-pole-dancer throughout the whole set and loved every second of it. The only worrying thing is that there was a camera crew wandering around and started shooting me during 'Du Hast'. I live in mortal dread of the footage ever surfacing...But it was utterly, utterly fantabulous and I loved every second of it. By the time I met up with ray and Hannah again and headed back to their place, I was shattered. And yet still Hannah and I managed to stay up (after we'd all decided at 3am to stop talking and go to bed) and talk the whole night through. Oops.

In short, this was one of the best weekends of my life. I can't even sulk too much about missing my beloved Turisas on Friday (along with Alice Cooper) or not seeing Iron Maiden and Iggy and the Stooges today; I was with great company, saw some phenomenal performances and haven't laughed so hard in ages. I'm definitely already up for next year, as long as I can go with my friends again (and maybe stay over again, if they'll have me back...)

next gig, however, is next Thursday, when I'm seeing another one of my heroines: the phenomenal Sarah Jezebel Deva. That woman is an inspiration and a legend and I can't wait!