Monday 30 January 2012

In Which I Fangirl. A Lot.

Ok, so the new Game of Thrones season 2 trailer is out...


...which basically means that my brain is now completely mush.  Well, more than usual, anyway.  Aside from the teeny-weeny complaint that it needs more Richard Madden (Robb Stark) and Kit Harington (Jon Snow) in it, it is actually amazing.  Conleth Hill as Varys has just turned one of my most uncertain characters into a total favourite; Carice van Houten looks amazing as Melisandre (and ohmigod, was that a birthing of a shadow-baby thing I saw?!!) and Emilia Clarke (Daenerys) and Peter Dinklage (Tyrion) are just amazing.  I cannot get over how beautifully-shot the whole thing is, how brilliantly-acted the whole thing is and goddamit I want it to be April 2nd right NOW!

I'm off to do some re-reading and some major fangirling...

Saturday 28 January 2012

Lest They Forget...

Yesterday was International Holocaust Memorial Day, marking 67 years since the Auschwitz-Birkenau Concentration Camp in Poland was liberated, and when the Norwegian Prime Minister publicly apologised for the role his country had played in the arrest and deportation of Jews after the Nazis invaded.  Of course it wasn't just the Jews who were imprisoned and murdered during the Holocaust - political dissenters, Communists, intellectuals, homosexuals, Gypsies and many others were also systematically targeted and murdered by the Nazi regime - but due to the sheer numbers of Jews who were exterminated in the camps and the liquidization of the ghettos the two have become almost synonymous.

And yet while the vast majority of the civilised world stood and remembered the atrocities inflicted upon the Jewish population all those years ago, it seems the Powers-that-Be in Israel seem to be suffering from a prolonged and ongoing attack of collective short-term memory loss.  Now this isn't intended in any way to diminish what happened in the Holocaust or anything - I've never understood those idiots who claim the Holocaust never happened and when I visited Dachau last year the sheer futility of the loss of life was utterly overwhelming - but the attitude of the Israelis as a nation has always struck me as being faintly hypocritical and yet very few people ever stand up and point out the double standards.  Those self-same Western leaders who wring their hands in public and apologise for events which happened seventy-odd years ago have not once ever called the Israelis out on their policy of land grabbing; have never once publicly compared the wall they have built around Bethlehem and the rest to the walls which sprung up around the ghettos of Lodz, of Krakow.  The ghettoisation of the Jews stands out as a black mark in the history of the twentieth century while the ghettoisation of the Palestinian people remains un-discussed.

When the UN Partition of 1947 was drawn up, it allowed for a Jewish state and an Arab one; Israel and Palestine were destined to sit side by side on the map.  There was always contention - the holy city of Jerusalem, for example, has been fought over by the Jews, Muslims and Christians since time immemorial - but nevertheless there were to be two states, two nations, sanctified and enshrined in law.  The very same nations which interfered to bring about the state of Israel now stand by and do nothing as they continue to encroach and build on land that doesn't belong to them and which legally they do not own.  Britain, America and the rest say nothing when Netanyahu and his cronies decide they're going to build another 2000 homes on occupied land, or that they're going to extend their ridiculous wall another few hundred yards into Palestinian people; they say nothing when hundred of thousands of men, women and children are denied access to health care and are living in the bleakest poverty, except to condemn those who take the only course of action they feel is open to them.  I don't condone what the bombers and the shooters do, but I think perhaps I understand their motives: Israel refuses to negotiate with them and they are denied any recognition by the rest of the political world and so desperate men resort to desperate measures.

On the 27th December 2008 the Israelis bombarded Gaza and murdered 1,300 Palestinian people.  Approximately 6,537 have been killed since the year 2000; since 1948 over 1.5 million Palestinian men, women and children have died.  While this may pale against the approximately 6 million Jewish men, women and children murdered during the years of the Holocaust, nevertheless it begs the question: where is the sense of outrage and anger?  In 1945 the world looked at the ghettos and concentration camps, the forced marches and the mass graves and said "never again": how many more times must we say "never again"?  How long will it be before the rest of the world rises up and puts its collective foot down over Israel's policy of murder and containment, when they of all people - with their long memories and their shared history - should look at what they're doing and realise that they are perpetuating almost the very same deprivations and misery which they and their ancestors were subjected to during the war?

The answer, clearly, is never.  America fears the backlash of its large number of Jewish voters and, anyway, don't they and the rest of the Western world sneakily suspect the Palestinians of being nothing more than Arab terrorists, what with their bombs and their guns and shiz?  There was a hugely interesting article in the Independent today (here) about how the present (and perhaps the future) stands no chance when the past has such a sway over the state of Israel - thousands more Palestinians look as if they'll be moved from their land so Israel can build a park to glorify some conquest of King David's three thousand years ago that may or may not have happened.  Even the Palestinians themselves believe the Israeli leftist Miko Peled (whose father was a legendary Israeli general) when he says the state of Israel wants to "eliminate the existence of people who live on their land to solidify the myth of a glorious past".  It's not really surprising given that the self-same President of the USA who told them they they deserve their own state subsequently vetoed their demand for statehood when they approached the United Nations; wouldn't you feel a little confused and a little hacked off about the state of affairs (or the lack of a state to have affairs about?)

But Israel will keep building, the Palestinians will keep dying (as will the Israelis, when the bombings start again) and the rest of the world will keep looking away, ignoring the similarities between what's going on in Gaza and the West Bank and the events they come together to collectively flagellate themselves over once a year.  What happened in the Holocaust was more than despicable; there aren't enough words to describe the horrors of that catastrophic event or how, even now, you can stand in what used to be a concentration camp and weep at the pointlessness and the horror of it all.  But what's happening in Israel right now is equally despicable and horrific, and it's about time the Western politicians stood up and brought the Israelis to heel before yet another systematic extermination of a people is complete.  We went charging into the Balkans when the Serbs were being slaughtered; how can we stand by and do nothing as thousands of Palestinians are turned out of their homes and treated as less than human?

Friday 27 January 2012

Friday Fix

Ok, so it's Friday which means only one thing.  Yep, my Little Black Book is being dusted off so I can present another very sexy extremely talented young man for my your pervy fantasies viewing pleasure.  Today has been a little bit flat for a variety of reasons so for that reason (not that I exactly need a reason, but humour me), today's Lust List entry is the very lovely and very Scottish Mr Richard Madden...



Best known for playing Robb Stark in the acclaimed HBO drama series 'Game of Thrones', Richard Madden's first acting experience came as a child when he joined a local drama group at the age of 11 in an attempt to overcome his shyness.  His first breakthrough role came in the children's TV show "Barmy Aunt Boomerang", followed by a critically acclaimed part in an adaptation of Iain Bank's "Complicity", which involved his character being raped by Jonny Lee Miller.  Interesting start to his career aside, he then decided that all the hassle he got from his schoolmates wasn't worth it and gave up the acting lark.  As he got older, however, he realised he still wanted to act and graduated from the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama in 2007.  He has won critical acclaim for his roles in theatre (most notably Romeo in Romeo and Juliet in 2007, just before he graduated, and as Callum in the 2008 stage production of Malorie Blackman's phenomenal book Noughts and Crosses - if you haven't read it you really should because it's brilliant).  Richard has also been in various film and TV roles including Sirens on Channel 4, Hope Springs on the BBC and the utterly brilliant "Worried About The Boy", an utterly brilliant BBC drama about the life of Boy George in which he played Kirk Brandon, singer of Theatre of Hate and, more recently, Spear of Destiny.

As well as all the critical acclaim for his acting, Richard was also named one of Esquire magazine's "Hottest Stars of 2010" and one of Screen International's "Stars of Tomorrow 2011" (where the hell have they been for the past few years?  Keep up, Screen International!)  More importantly, given that he's a bit of a dedicated follower of fashion, the not-at-all-hideous Mr Madden was also named "Most Stylish Male" at the Scottish Style Awards 2010, thus proving once and for all there really is something worth investigating among all those tartan kilts...I'm sorry, I'll switch my perv-switch off again now...

Actually, screw it.  I've had a bad day and he makes me feel better.  So until next Friday, I shall be perving over studying the remarkable talents of Richard Madden...

Wednesday 25 January 2012

THE Most Amazing Video You Will Ever See...


One of the few benefits of having a cold and not being able to breathe properly at stupid-o-clock in the morning is occasionally discovering a complete gem of a thing in the unlikeliest places.  Last night was one of those nights...sick of coughing up my spleen and was fed up with staring at the ceiling I started channel-hopping and caught the end of an episode of Rude Tube.  Oh. My. Actual. Life.  This video...this guy is AMAZING.  You all need to watch this.  Right now...

In November 2010 Scottish street trials cyclist Danny MacAskill decided to cycle from his new base in Edinburgh back to his home village, Dunvegin on the Isle of Skye.  Now I've made the trip from Edinburgh to Dunvegin and it's absolutely gorgeous, although I was on a minibus when I did it, but Danny decided that merely cycling from A to B was dull and not for the likes of him.  So he decided to do the whole journey as one long stunt ride, using his bike to jump on and off pretty much everything he came across.  It. Is. Ridiculous, and yet completely brilliant all at the same time.  You really have to see it to believe it...



Tuesday 24 January 2012

Get Your Frocks Off, Baby!!

It's January, which means several things.  First, I will get a cold.  Check.  Second, the weather will be mardy and arsy. Check.  And thirdly, movie awards season swings into full-on fashionista hysteria.  Oh, and gives out some awards, or something.  But seriously, who focuses on the awards when there's fashion going on?!!

This year's Oscar nominations were announced today and, as always, I have high hopes for not only the awards themselves but for the red carpet catwalk beforehand.  I think The Artist will do incredibly well in all its nominated spots and, although I suspect Meryl Streep might be sashaying off with the little bald man for Best Actress, I personally am willing Michelle Williams to nab it for her role as Marilyn Monroe in "My Week With Marilyn".  Not only was the film sensational but she herself was phenomenal - I think she's a hugely underrated actress at the best of times but I am crossing everything I have that come the big day she will triumph.  I'll do whatever kind of voodoo I need to ensure this happens...

Come Oscar time, however, I hope Michelle has a suitably Marilyn-esque dress.  Her choice for the Golden Globes was simple, chic and understated, but she needs to pull out the big guns if she's going to compete on the carpet at the Academy Awards.  What I love about Michelle Williams is she dressed in whatever she seems comfortable in, yet she always looks so gorgeous when you see her...

 *sigh*  Just fabulous...


So since the Golden Globes have already happened, lets take a quick fly-by-night glance of some of my favourite front-line frocks.  These ladies dressed to impress at the Golden Globes; with Bafta and Oscar on the horizon, it's going to be time to pull out the really big guns...

Shailene Woodley looked absolutely stunning in her Marchesa frock.  I might steal this...



Kate Winslet could, of course, wear a bin bag and still look like a total glamour-puss. With curves, thank you very much...I swear this woman can do no wrong in my eyes; even if you were to tell me she murdered a thousand kittens a week to make her knickers I could probably find some way to excuse her.  She stole my heart in Titanic (sorry, Leo, although you were cute too), and it's been girl-crush central ever since...

Emma Stone's Lanvin dress is another one I'm thinking of 'borrowing'...

Tilda Swinton was as quirky and gorgeous as always...

...while the always-adorable Zooey Deschanel went from girl next door to green goddess in a flash.

The one outfit I am looking forward to come Oscar night is Bérénice Bejo's.  Not only is she impossibly French (and therefore impossibly chic) but her dress at the Golden Globes was stunning...

Can't wait to see how she tops that on February 26th!!

But of course no awards ceremony frock post is complete without a mention of "The Dress That Everyone Remembers Even If They Never Actually Saw It At The Time"...

Bjork, I salute you.  I don't care what anyone says, I thought you looked incredible in the swan dress.  You and I should meet up - you wear the swan, I'll wear Ducky Dress™ and we'll all have a fabulous time...

Monday 23 January 2012

P...P...Pick Up A Penguin!

Actually, scratch that.  Put the penguin down and step away, keeping your hands where I can see them...do not make me use force...and other cop show cliches.

But seriously, what's not to love about penguins?  I mean, apart from the cold and the having to live on fish (regurgitated fish if you're a baby), and the cold and the risk of death-by-leopard-seal-or-killer-whale and the cold...did I mention the cold?  OK, so actually being a penguin pretty much sucks.  But do they care?  Nooooo, they have hours and hours of fun being all penguin-y and adorable and shiz, and besides that they make me laugh.  I can't explain what it is...well actually, part of it is the way they walk, because let's face it that is just genuinely hilarious:


Tell me you're not smiling after watching that?  Little penguin, waddling too and fro without a care in the world...it's Penguin Prozac.  Not convinced?  Try this one...



Then there's this, which I know is seriously old but makes me cackle nonetheless...




Emperor Penguins in particular have the cutest babies in the world...






ZOMG, LOOK HOW CUTE THEY ARE!!!!!  Seriously, anyone who doesn't go "aww..." at those pictures is probably dead.  If not, they should be, because frankly that's the only excuse I'll tolerate...

And the thing I love most about penguins, besides the fact they make me laugh and therefore always cheer me up, is that they come in all different shapes and sizes, from the tall and stately Emperors to the small-but-perfect Little Penguins; from the beautifully made-up Gentoos to the mad-hair-days of the Rock Hoppers (seriously, Rock Hoppers, there's a reason you don't stick your flippers in an electric socket, you know...?)  There's a penguin to suit everyone and so if ever you feel a bit down, think of them and I guarantee you you'll be smiling before you know it.

Oh!  And I almost forgot...my favourite penguins of all are the ones who fly north for the winter, as discovered by Mr Terry Jones.  And a Python is NEVER wrong...



See?  They really are the most amazing creatures on earth...  :P

Sunday 22 January 2012

Turns Out Sometimes I AM Wrong...

Ok, so it's kind of a huge joke that I'm 'Serial Killer Girl' and if anyone wants to know anything about a particular case they should come to me cos I'm bound to know something about it, but it turns out that even I have my limits.  I am going to state, here and now, that I am admitting there is something morbidly gruesome about my fascination with the inner workings of these people's brains, and that devouring books and documentaries on the subject is in fact not normal.  I still maintain it's an academic interest but I'll confess to it being strange and perhaps a little scary to most people.

Now I've read and seen some fairly horrific things throughout the course of my studies - both at university and in my personal reading - but I draw the line at having a blog dedicated to serial killers and which not only posts crime scene photographs (including some frankly sickening ones of victims bodies in situ) but which also gives you the prison address of a well-known serial murderer so you can write to him and say hello.  Just...no.  It turns out there are lines even I won't cross...

One of the things people need to know about any serial murderer is the fact that they get off on the power and control.  If they can terrorise an entire area, or do as Ian Brady has done and remain schtum about the location of his last remaining victim's body, it's a huge power trip for them and only feeds their ego and their narcissistic personalities.  Even well known authors such as my own personal hero John Douglas, who helped develop the FBI's criminal profiling department and is a real life 'Criminal Minds' superhero, has admitted sometimes he worried that writing the books he has might contribute to the grandiose and overblown sense of self-worth these guys have; they love the fact that people are still talking about them years after they were caught and sent to prison, and any way they can insinuate themselves into investigations or perpetuate their own personal glory myth is exactly what gets their rocks off.  In an ideal world, once these people were convicted and sentenced there'd be no books, no television programmes, no 'nicknames' bestowed on them by the media - just a simple case of prison cell --> anonymity --> death behind bars, but that would also have implications for the forensic psychology field which studies serial murderers and tries to understand them, with the aim of both preventing further incidents and being able to catch them quickly before they kill again and again and again.  Finding the balance between informative study and gratuitous publicity isn't always easy, and the majority of these men (for it is mainly men) have the sociopathic and psychopathic abilities to ingratiate themselves into things long after they should have been locked down and forgotten about.  Ted Bundy, for example, offered to 'help' the Green River Task Force identify the "sort of guy" who was killing women and dumping their bodies in and around the Green River in Washington State; others have contributed to books or sold their own works of art since being behind bars.  Manipulating people is second nature to them; being in control and in charge of things is what makes their little worlds go round.  Providing the address of one of these scumbags to the whole of the fucking Internet is irresponsible and frankly deplorable; these men can smell weakness like a shark smells blood and if someone vulnerable was to write to this particular individual, he'd suss it out straight away and start playing with them.  The consequences could be catastrophic... 

Some of the posts I saw on this particular blog (which has since been reported, although I highly doubt it'll get taken down, and which I won't post the name/URL of because frankly I don't want to give it the publicity) were disgusting.  And this is me saying this, which probably gives you some idea how absolutely fucking awful this thing was to read.  Now I'm all for trying to understand how these people tick, because it makes me sleep better at night knowing there are people out there who can catch these scumbags, and I freely admit I find a lot of the cases interesting from a psychological point of view - it's so abnormal for the vast majority of people to think the way serial killers do that I'm curious to know what they were thinking when they carried out there acts, and why on earth they thought it was a good idea to do it in the first place - but I draw the bloody line at making them into folklore heroes and misunderstood, glamorous outlaws; they are sick individuals who for whatever reason - nature, nurture, whatever the hell it is - have committed unthinkable, unforgivable crimes and enjoyed doing it; even suggesting that these people are anything other than total bastards is morally bankrupt and reprehensible, if you ask me.  I'm actually not sure who concerns me most - the people asking questions like "which one is your favourite serial killer?" and "if you had to be killed by a famous serial killer which one would it be?", or the owner of the website who actually posted the questions and then answered them, as if it was some trite question like "do you prefer Edward Cullen or Jacob Whatever-His-Name-Is?"  Probably her, actually, since she's apparently studying criminology but sees nothing wrong with posting graphic images of dead victims all over the fucking Internet.

Oh, and the Football League Show has just compared someone to the Boston Strangler!  FFS, STOP IT!!  Stop making these people out to be some sort of folkloric legend worthy of continual everyday reference!!  No one goes around comparing people to "Tony the burglar doing six years for robbing me Granny"; why the hell would you use a psychopathic serial murderer on a power-trip as a cultural reference point?!!  Am I missing something here?

I realise I may come across as hypocritical because I, after all, possess books on the subject and have seen a few documentaries, but I don't go around singing their praises to the skies as if they were heroes.  And if I ever do start doing that, you have my permission to either get me sectioned or put a bullet through my brain because I will have passed the point of no return to normal humanity.  And the one thing I keep coming back to, probably because the first books I ever read on the subject were by John Douglas and he takes great pains to keep the victims in the readers mind at all times, is that every single one of these monsters is only 'famous' because they killed a number of innocent people for no reason (curiosity or because it's how they get their rocks off is not and never will be a valid reason to my mind).  It may be freaky that I can name several victims of serial murderers the way some people can reel off the 1966 World Cup winners, but at least I'm actually sparing a thought for the innocent men, women and children who were murdered, which is more than the likes of these bastards ever did (again, reliving what they did to their victims for sexual/other gratification is not remembering the victims).  It's not the serial killers that need their names bandied around, it's the innocents whose lives they took who ought to be remembered...

Ugh, I wanted to do a nice happy post about penguins and then I started trawling the Internet and now look what I've done...ranted.  Penguins tomorrow, I think.  Definitely.  This needs a cheery-uppy end ideally, but posting random penguin pictures seems disrespectful in light of the end of the previous paragraph.  Definitely happy thoughts tomorrow...

Saturday 21 January 2012

You Win...Or You Die...

This is going to be a very, very short post because I can't actually contain my stupid fangirly squealing long enough to type anything deep and meaningful today.  Basically, Game of Thrones series 2 will air in the UK on Sky Atlantic very, very soon - April 2nd, to be exact, the day after it airs in the USA.  So hopefully we can expect more of this:



More of this:



A good dose of this:



And LOTS of this:



Actually, I could literally watch a whole 10 hour series of Tyrion kicking Joffrey's arse without feeling too unhappy about it...in fact so long as they sneak in the odd moment like these (photos below) alongside all the slapping, I'm happy...



In fact the only thing I will DEFINITELY miss about series 2 is Jason Momoa sending shivers down my spine by doing THIS:



Oh. My. Actual. Gods.  I don't care that this wasn't in the books.  I don't care that Dothraki wouldn't know a haka if it jumped up and bit them in the arse.  Oh. My. Actual. GODS.  It's enough to make a girl want to be sold to a horselord...

Friday 20 January 2012

Friday Lust List...

It's getting more and more difficult to decide who to put on the Lust List post each week, you know, and we're only in week three!!  Mainly because my Little Black Book - from whence the LL originates - is bulging at the seams.  What can I say; I'm shallow.  But frankly when the world is grim and grey and full of depressing words like 'recession' and 'unemployment' and 'US Republican Presidential Nominees'...well, sometimes a twinkly pair of eyes, a mysterious smile and a not-unattractive face/body/combination thereof is all we have to get us through the day.  This is my excuse, anyway...

Now the GBF has already expressed complete and utter shock that I haven't literally plastered the entire blog in Richard Madden and Kit Harington pictures.  It's early days.  Today, however, I bring you the talented, twinkly-eyed and not-at-all-unattractive Mr Michael Fassbender...



The very first film I ever saw Michael in was 'Hunger', a visceral, violent and ultimately disturbingly brilliant debut film of Steve McQueen, which is about the 1981 hunger strikes in the Maze Prison in Northern Ireland.  Michael Fassbender played Bobby Sands, hero and martyr of the Republican movement, and it was one of the most captivating performances I've ever seen.  Well, actually, the very very first time I saw him was in 300, but I had no idea it was the same guy.  As Stelios he was one in a cast of, um, three hundred, but in Hunger he was the heart and soul of the film and it was an award-winning performance.  If you haven't seen the film I really recommend it - it isn't easy viewing in any way, shape or form, but it's worth every single second of it.  After Hunger his movie career took off and he's been in everything from Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds to the X-Men reboot (X-Men: First Class).  He's currently starring in McQueen's second film, Shame, in which he plays a sex addict.  Three guesses what my next trip to the movies is going to involve...


Michael Fassbender: for services to weak knees, twinkly eyes and incredible film roles, I salute you.  Congratulations.  You have made the Lust List...

Thursday 19 January 2012

Sirens...


So for those of you unfortunate enough to know me well, you may have realised that my once-great (though terribly one-sided) love affair with the Finnish band Nightwish is coming to an end.  I have to reiterate this has absolutely nothing to do with the arrival of Anette Olzon, who replaced former front-woman Tarja Turunen in 2005; I think Anette has a beautiful voice and could do great things in music.  There are three songs on the new album – Turn Loose the Mermaids, Slow Love Slow and The Crow, the Owl and the Dove – where Anette simply shines; if she was given the opportunity to do this more often, I wouldn’t be screaming obscenities in their general direction.  It’s not Anette.  No, the problem I have with Nightwish is the ridiculous, overblown, ‘chuck-the-kitchen-sink-at-it’ mentality Tuomas Holopainen seems to have been working towards since about, oh I don’t know, the ‘Once’ album, maybe?  There were times listening to the new album ‘Imaginaerum’ when I struggled to hear Anette above the massive orchestral and choir noise, never mind hear the bass or guitars.  Occasionally Tuomas seems to remember he’s, y’know, in a band not an orchestra and chucked us a bone with a mini-guitar-solo here and there, but frankly Emppu could have stayed home watching the Moomins and I don’t think Tuomas would have noticed.  Not.  Good.

Coupled with the end of this once-beautiful friendship is the terribly sad news that Nicole Bogner, who was once the singer with the Austrian band Visions of Atlantis, passed away earlier this month at the ridiculously-young age of 27 after a long illness.  I got into VoA because of Nightwish – discovering I liked this whole ‘symphonic metal with female vocals’ genre I ate up as many bands of this type as I possibly could – and although I’d never class them as my favourites I do own the first two albums, which Nicole sang on and which I occasionally still listen to.  They might be cheesy, but Nicole had a great voice and when she sings ‘Winternight’ (from the second album) I get goosebumps even now.  And of course Amy Winehouse, another of my favourite singers, also passed away at the age of 27 last year.  Amy’s death was perhaps not as shocking as Nicole’s but it was tragic nonetheless, and listening to her albums now only reminds me what a shocking waste of talent her death meant.

It was while I was adding Amy’s posthumous album ‘Lioness: Hidden Treasures’ to my trusty mp3 player that I realised how many of the albums on there feature female singers.  This isn’t some intentionally-feministic statement (“I won’t listen to bloody men singing about things!” etc) – I love Motley Crue, ffs; no self-respecting ‘Feminazi’ would be caught dead listening to ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ whereas I know all the words and sing it proudly – but it did get me thinking about the female singers I love, the ones I’ve recently discovered, and the huge difference in musical genres they come from.  Quite how I go from the death-growls of Angela Gossow to the pop-princess vocals of Christina Perri via a bewildering array of symphonic-metal-sopranos and the likes of Janis Joplin, Billie Holiday and Aretha Franklin, with a quick detour to the frankly unclassifiable voice of Katie-Jane Garside, is beyond me; I fully appreciate that my musical taste can best be classified as “weird”, but jumping from one to the other is definitely strange.  That said, however, I refuse to hear a word said against any of them.  I’m all for everyone having disparate tastes, but just try rubbishing Sarah Jezebel Deva to me – I’ll turn into a vicious harpy before your very eyes.  (Actually, now that I think about it…I’m quite even-tempered about most of my favourite singers, even if people mock me for liking them, but no one slags off Sarah in my hearing and gets away with it).

So here are some of the female singers currently making me dance like a lunatic around my bedroom/on the way to work: Alicia Keys; Amanda Palmer (Dresden Dolls); Amy Studt; Amy Winehouse; Anette Olzon (Nightwish); Angela Gossow; Annie Lennox (solo and Eurythmics); Annlouice Loegdlund (Diablo Swing Orchestra); Aretha Franklin; Beth Ditto (Gossip); Beth Rowley; Billie Holiday; Birdy; Candia (Inkubus Sukkubus); Carly Simon; Caro Emerald; Cerys Matthews (Catatonia/solo career); Charlene Soraia; Christina Aguilera; Christina Perri; Claire Maguire; Debbie Harry (Blondie); Emily Ovenden (Celtic Legend/Pythia); Etta James; Floor Jansen (After Forever/ReVamp); Florence Welch (Florence and the Machine); Imelda May; Isobel Campbell; Janis Joplin; Jessie J; Joan Baez; Joni Mitchell; Karen O (Yeah Yeah Yeah's); Kate Bush; Katie-Jane Garside (Queen Adreena/Ruby Throat); Keedie; KT Tunstall; Kylie (shuddup - Kylie's bloody brilliant!); Lady Ellen (Abney Park); Lisa Johansson (Draconian); Liv Kristine Krull (Leaves Eyes); Lykke Li; Natasha Khan (Bat For Lashes); Nicola Roberts; Nina Hagen; Paloma Faith; PJ Harvey; Plumb; Regina Spektor; Rumer; Ruslana; Sarah Jezebel Deva (Angtoria as well as her solo stuff); Sharon den Adel (Within Temptation); Shirley Manson (Garbage); Simone Simons (Epica); Stevie Nicks; Tarja Turunen (Nightish/solo, although her NW stuff is better); Tori Amos; and Vibeke Stene (ex-Tristania).

Phew!  Ladies, I salute you for your talent, your longevity (in several cases) and your, erm, 'oddness' (in several others).  Some of you I salute for being so inspiring, others for creating bloody good pop songs for dancing round handbags to.  Mostly I salute you for making music which inspires and moves me; music which will live on long after you yourselves have passed away.  Some of you already have, some of you are still with us and, I hope, have a good few years rocking still left to do.  But whatever happens, as the tragic death of Nicole Bogner has proved, the music will always live on...

Wednesday 18 January 2012

In Which Your Heroine Encounters A Caveman...


I like to think of myself as a decent and reasonable person.  Now I know I’m no Mother Theresa, but I try and do the odd bit for charity and to be there for my friends and family if they need me.  Y’know, just to generally try and be nice and occasionally practical, accepting that not everyone in the universe has the same views as me but is entitled to said opinion nevertheless?  Yeah, that’s me.  Little Miss Tries-To-Get-On-With-Everyone.

Except there are times, Blogverse, when even my equilibrium is disturbed by the sheer moronic mass of humanity and the creatures that dwell therein, to the point where there can only be two solutions: bash my head repeatedly against the nearest available wall or go on a killing spree.  Thus far I’ve avoided Holloway but have a lot of headaches…

Take today.  I spent an hour and a half of my precious time arguing with someone today, which I knew was completely pointless because arguments with this guy are always the personification of “head.  Desk!” and I know this because he and I have previous history.  In this hour and a half I could have been doing something constructive with my time, like learning Japanese flower-arranging or conversational Mandarin or something; instead, I decided to test the theory that even ill-informed idiots can be worth debating with.  My mistake.

You would think I’d have learnt, after knowing said individual for the number of years I have, that trying to bring his prehistoric and Neanderthal views of women kicking and screaming into the 21st century would be at best a futile exercise.  Apparently not.  Somewhere in the deepest, darkest, most cavernous recesses of my brain there still flickers a little ray of hope which says even Captain Caveman over there can be brought round to the sensible and generally-held consensus that the fairer sex are, in fact, perfectly able to function as productive and useful members of the modern world.  I don’t wish to alarm anyone, but we can even fix things!!!  I know!!  Shocking, isn’t it?  I do hope none of you suffered an apoplexy reading that sentence; I should hate to have mass heart attacks on my conscience…

But I digress.  Which is, apparently, something I’m prone to doing because I’m a woman; apparently the female brain is unable to concentrate on anything for long periods of time, preferring instead to flit like a metaphorical butterfly from one topic to the next without taxing its little ole’ cells too much.  What I’d always thought of as a useful ability to multitask is in fact nothing more than a failure on the part of my gender to concentrate, thus rendering me unsuitable for anything other than staying at home, rearing a small flock of children, and ‘looking nice’.  This and various other disparaging remarks were the basis of the argument; basically I spent an hour and a half being told that women will never amount to anything as a result of this inbuilt ‘dysfunction’ and that I should just accept it rather than pretending I could play with the ‘Big Boys’ in the world of work/politics/scientific discovery/anything that isn’t staying at home and getting the dinner on.  Well thank you, Captain Caveman, for clearing that one up for me.  You’ve saved me from a lifetime of labouring under the misapprehension that I could actually make a useful contribution to society, when clearly I’m fit for nothing better than staying home to darn socks and knit tea cosies.  Thank God for you, else we’d have women all over the shop, thinking they could be helpful when really they’d just be getting in the way.  [/sarcasm]

What really, really gets to me about the whole useless argument, though, isn’t his prehistoric beliefs and the way he expresses them (loudly, obnoxiously and so everyone within a ten-mile radius gets to know about them).  I accept that there are still people in the world who think a woman’s place is in the home and that they are generally inferior to men – whether because of biological, religious, social or other factors – and I also accept that these people are likely to sound off about these opinions, particularly if you attempt to challenge them on it.  No, what really aggravated me was the fact that I let myself be baited and fell hook, line and sinker for the whole pointless discussion; I’ve known this guy for a long time and I know I’m never going to convince him he’s wrong, or at least get him to consider the other side of the coin.  The sensible thing to do would have been to either laugh out loud at how ridiculous he was being or else inhabit my duck persona and let it roll off my back; instead, I wasted ninety minutes of my vague and imprecise span of human existence to try and argue with him.  It doesn’t even matter that I was coming up with well-thought-out and reasoned ripostes instead of just shrieking at him like some horribly-demented harpy, or that I was able to evidence my argument with examples of extremely intelligent and articulate women who are/were at the top of their field and hailed as great by men and women alike – letting myself get dragged into the thing in the first place was stupid and I’m still kicking myself for it.

No doubt Captain Caveman would say it was only to be expected; I am, after all, only a silly female.  To which my response would be: get back to your cave, you twat; this isn’t the Stone Age and the moron quota for the New Millennium has already been filled.

Except I think the irony would be lost on him…

Monday 16 January 2012

Let The Music Do The Talking...

...as Aerosmith once sang.  Of course they also sang "Dude Looks Like a Lady" and "Love in an Elevator", so they may not be the best people to invoke in a discussion about music but what the hell?  Sometimes even an ageing rocker like Steven Tyler makes a valid point...

So if your music could actually talk, what would it say about you?  This is quite a pertinent question for me at the moment as I refilled my mp3 player yesterday, and as well as some of the old favourites I ended up adding new discoveries and bands people have probably never heard of.  So I guess if my music could talk, it would say that I'm both incredibly eclectic and slightly weird.  Not really a surprise, is it?  One of the things that was surprising, however, was the number of bands/singers I rediscovered a passion for, especially the amazing Amy Studt.  I'd completely forgotten how brilliant her debut album False Smiles was - she was only 14/15 when she wrote and recorded the vast majority of the songs - and it's utterly brilliant.  This was my anthem for years:


And apparently she's still recording as an independent artist.  Whoo-hoo!  It's weird - despite all the rock/metal stuff on my hard drive there's still a lot of 'poppy' stuff going on; I guess it's a bigger part of my musical DNA than I ever realised.  Or wanted to admit. 

Although while we're on the subject of bands you might not have heard of...



This is Shere Khan.  They are, quite simply, immense.  And considering that today is 'Blue Monday', which is apparently the day everyone feels the most depressed, listening to them is making me one very happy little bunny.  And speaking of happy bunnies...


The Magnetic Fields.  Let's Pretend We're Bunny Rabbits.  'Nuff said...

Sunday 15 January 2012

Manie Sans Delire (Insanity Without Delusions)

I can pinpoint almost the exact moment my interest in the workings of the criminal mind - murderers, to be exact; of the singular, serial, spree and mass varieties - began: I was ten years old and, up in Bootle near Liverpool, a two year old boy had been abducted from his mother inside a shopping centre.  When his battered, mutilated body was found two days later lying on a railway line, it sent a collective shock wave and shudder of horror through the country; when, six days later, it was announced that two ten year old boys were being charged with murder, it felt as though the whole country was once more paralysed with shock.  The two boys were, given the severity of the crime, to be tried as adults; during the trial, prosecutors had to make sure both defendants understood the differences between right and wrong; that what they had done was wrong.  Bewildered, I turned to my mother and said: "but I'm ten and I know that killing someone is wrong!"  Voila - the seed of my fascination was sown.

Fast forward almost twenty years and my interest in the workings of the minds of murderers has, if anything, only deepened.  As a child I didn't really understand what it was that so bewitched me about it but, even though my fascination with criminal psychology has often made people look at me as if I'm the one who should be locked up somewhere, it remains an enduring mystery to me: I like knowing what makes people tick, and I want to know why some people feel the need to take the life of another human being; what thought processes they go through to come to the conclusion that this is an okay thing to do.  I fully appreciate the fact this makes me weird in the eyes of most people, especially when I've caught myself on occasion shouting at newsreaders because they called someone a serial killer when it's blatantly obvious that, technically, they were a spree killer (and I still can't believe I got quite so pedantic over it, but it's the principle of the thing), but it is what it is, and it's as much a part of me as my blue eyes or my belly button.  And the one thing that really, really gets me about the whole serial/spree/mass murderer thing is the fact that most of them are so gosh-darn-nice and normal.  I know it's something of a cliche that whenever someone somewhere is arrested for such terrible deeds there's always an interview with a friend or neighbour expressing their shock and amazement at such a revelation because, "he was such a lovely man/we used to talk over the fence all the time/he'd wash his car every Sunday/we used to walk the kids to school together" etc etc, but the fact is the majority of these men (and it is usually men) are so adept at appearing "normal".  Christ, how else do you think the likes of Ted Bundy were able to go on being so 'successful' for so long; as a young woman would you rather get into a car with someone who looks like a total maniac or with a guy who looks like Mr All-Round American Golden Boy?  It's not exactly a contest, and it's exactly why these so-called 'organised' killers are often so difficult to catch (at least until they get cocky about their success and then do something patently obvious and stupid, thus making it easy for the authorities to track them down.  The 'disorganised' offenders are the ones who are most likely to bludgeon you over the head from behind and drag you half into the bushes, usually leaving something obvious like their DNA all over you before running off down the road covered in blood, so the police can quickly apprehend them and put them away before anyone else gets hurt; the 'organised' offenders, however, are the ones you see walking their kids to school, holding down a steady job and generally being the type of person who makes you go "really?!!" when the police kick their door in at 3am and haul them away before digging up the six bodies he'd buried under the children's sandpit.  These are also the ones most likely to be psychopaths or, to a lesser extent, sociopaths (more of the difference anon...)

The reason for this blog post is that today, whilst braving the wilds of Tesco in search of something edible for dinner, I made a detour to the book section and picked up a brilliant book called "The Psychopath Test" by Jon Ronson, the man responsible for the bizarre book "The Men Who Stare At Goats".  By turns hysterically funny and utterly terrifying, I am completely and utterly fascinated with this book because it takes the concept of the psychopath and draws the startling conclusion that not all of these individuals are going around killing people in a general display of indifference to basic humanitarian values but are, in fact, the leaders of huge multinational corporations and earning millions of dollars for doing so.  Now this idea isn't new, not by a long shot, but this is the first book I've read on the subject that puts the concept of psychopathy into 'laymans terms'.  The mind is a complex and fascinating place which we, as humans, understand relatively little about; even the greatest neuro-scientists the world has to offer admit there is much more about the brain and its inner workings they don't understand than things that they do, but what goes on 'up there' - especially in cases which are perceived as 'abnormal' - holds unending fascination for many people.  The fact that many people in positions of power seem to share similar traits to psychopathic murderers is, then, quite a sobering one...

Psychopaths and sociopaths share several traits which often make it difficult for people to distinguish between the two.  Both psychopaths and sociopaths have some form of Antisocial Personality Disorder which makes it difficult for them to show empathy towards others (although sociopaths can form attachments to people and will feel some form of remorse if they do anything to hurt that person, whereas a psychopath may form a relationship because it's the 'normal' thing to do but show no remorse or concern whatsoever if they do anything to hurt that person).  Psychopaths are organised to the point of obsession and are often highly successful individuals with steady jobs and and family; sociopaths, on the other hand, find it hard to hold down a job or relationship and is less capable of thinking things through - where the psychopath understands human emotions and uses that knowledge to manipulate people to his/her own advantage, the sociopath lashes out wildly if angered and doesn't consider the consequences.  Psychopaths are keenly aware that what they are doing is wrong but just don't care, even going so far as to marry and have children to appear 'normal' to the rest of society; sociopaths struggle in social situations and are more fretful, anxious and easily agitated.  A psychopath is more likely to be an 'organised' offender, plotting and planning their crimes and how to avoid detection for years in some cases, whereas the less stable sociopath is often classed as 'disorganised' and is more easily caught.  Criminologists, law enforcement agencies and psychologists have been discussing and debating the differences and similarities between the two groups for many years without reaching definitive conclusions, so nothing is cut and dried in these matters; however its far more likely that the millionaire CEO of that bank or multinational corporation is going to be a psychopath - a sociopath just wouldn't have the skills to attain such status.

In the early 1990's Robert Hare, a Canadian psychologist and researcher, devised the Psychopathy Checklist; a series of 20 items which are scored either 0 (if they don't apply to an individual), 1 (if they partially apply) or 2 (if they apply fully).  There are two factors; those which relate to personality and those which relate to lifestyle, as well as four traits which don't apply to either.  The higher you score, the more likely it is that you're a psychopath, but as this could obviously have negative consequences on a persons life the test is only to be administered by a trained psychologist.  It's also the reason I'm not going to list the items and the scoring here.  I don't for one second think that anyone I know is a psychopath, but you can;t be too careful these days...as Nighwish once said, "it's not the monsters under your bed, it is the man next door that makes you fear..."

Sleep well, everybody!  :P  And I heartily recommend you check out Jon Ronson's book - it's definitely food for thought...

A Grand Day Out...

No, Mother, not a post about Wallace and Gromit...*sigh* This is actually a post about my fantabulous day out in London today; for those of you seeking animated Plasticine goodness, alas, you shall remain disappointed. Jog on...

So. Today. Well, not having seen Rich for about a year, what with one thing and another, we decided to meet up in Londinium and it was awesome. Even though he's horrible to me and insults me all the time (love you really!) we always laugh like mad things when we meet up and it's always, always brilliant fun when we get together. We started off at Highgate cemetery, which is incredibly beautiful and really interesting - if you haven't been I strongly suggest you drop by because it's fascinating. It was bloody cold though; trust us to pick the one day of the year when it actually feels like winter!! *insert Game of Thrones-related pun here* But yes...Highgate. It really is amazing; the Victorians certainly knew how to *do* death and some of the tombs and headstones are absolutely staggering. When I finally shuffle off this mortal coil, that is how I want to be remembered: with a bloody great big lump of rock carved into a suitably epic memorial to my greatness and how much you are all going to miss me. Pay attention to this, please. You are all to be prostrate with grief at my passing and erect a headstone which adequately reflects your sorrow and despair. Or I'm going to bloody well come back and haunt the lot of you. Just a friendly heads-up, however : whatever goes on your headstone is how you'll be remembered for posterity, most likely by random strangers with cameras, so think very carefully about how you intend to be immortalised!! Some of the inscriptions on the headstones and mausoleums go from the sublime to the ridiculous; I'm not sure you're supposed to convulse into hysterical giggles while walking round a burial ground!

The cemetery itself is split into two sections: the 'newer' East Cemetery, which you can wander round of your own free will and where you will find the burial places of such diverse characters as Karl Marx and the man who invented Hovis, and the West Cemetery, which you can only see by guided tour in order to prevent yourself breaking something vital while wandering around. And to stop you hurting yourselves, too...We had a brilliant guide for the tour; he was really funny but very interesting, and he gets bonus points from me because he agreed to include Lizzie Siddal's grave in the tour so I could go and say hello to my girl. We also got to go into one of the mausoleums, and also one of the other burial tombs where you can see some of the hundreds of lead-lined coffins stacked up. It was incredibly atmospheric, but I found it slightly sad as well; all those people being buried above ground and yet hardly any of the tombs are visited now because the families have either died out or moved away. The East side was more intriguing because there seem to be a lot of 'political' burials all in one area by the Marx memorial - Eastern Europeans and Islamist Communists all buried in the same area; fascinating. I didn't even know there was such a thing as an Iranian Islamist Communist, but that is apparently the Thing-I-Have-Learnt-Today.

Having frozen half to death (boom boom) walking round Highgate, we headed off to the next part of the day - which I didn't know anything about because someone refused to tell me beforehand because it was a surprise or something :P - with a quick detour to Tate Britain so I could say hello to Lizzie properly. And that was when I found out they. Moved. Ophelia. All the Pre-Raphaelite stuff appears to now be shoved on two small walls in one end of one gallery (and Beata Beatrix has been loaned out to a gallery in Russia, so grrrr on that front also); as a result, poor Lizzie-as-Ophelia isn't shown to her best advantage. It's still one of the most mesmerising paintings I've ever seen though, and as an Elizabeth Siddal fangirl it's always a joy to see her.

Then it was onto the surprise: the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition, which is held at the Natural History Museum and was a brilliant surprise! But oh. My. Stars. There were some seriously amazing photos in that exhibition, some of them by bloody ten year olds - it's enough to make a girl throw her camera out the window and vow never to take another photo ever again.  Now this:





is a photo I took with the panoramic setting on my camera while in Northern Ireland last year, and I was stupidly-proud of the result.  However, there were people who'd sat in the cold for FOUR DAYS just to get one shot taking part in this contest; FOUR FREAKING DAYS!!  Not only is this completely insane but the photos were INCREDIBLE! Picking a favourite would be really, really difficult because most of them were just beautiful (except for the one inevitable picture of frogs, which had me averting my eyes, although I didn't actually physically run off screaming. This is progress...) but one of the ones that sticks in my mind is this one: a merlin which has just pounced on dinner and looks incredibly peeved that a photographer has dared take its picture while it does so!!

  
I also really like this one of the butterfly:

 

OH!  And how could I forget the picture of the baby chimp?!!





Isn't that just the cutest thing you've ever seen in your life?!!  I mean really, how can you not look at that and go "aww!"  You have no soul otherwise.  It's a fact.

But seriously, there were so many incredible images in the exhibition that it's almost impossible to choose one or two favourites; I'm glad I wasn't judging it.  But it was a fantastic exhibition and a brilliant surprise: I am *so* glad we went because it was just amazing.  Definitely going to have to do this more often, methinks...

Oh, and if you want to see the photos for yourselves, head to the Natural History Museum website where they have a whole section on the competition: you can find it here.  Definitely recommended!!

Friday 13 January 2012

It's Friday....

...it's five to five; it's Crackerjack! Except this isn't a 1970's kids TV show, it's the random outpourings of my brain which masquerades as a blog, so actually only one third of that title/opening line combination is true. Wot - as the Yoof of today would say - EVS.

But yes, it is Friday which means only one thing: another *exciting* installment of the Lust List. It was hard to narrow down today's contender for the honour (so many men, so little time, right Lee?) but after much deliberation and an acknowledgement there are still another fifty weeks in the year to come, I realised there could only be one submission...

Now he may not be conventionally gorgeous, but as I wholeheartedly find convention to be an often dispiriting, disquieting and occasionally irritating concept, such vanities have never bothered me. He is, however, a poet; a troubadour and an all-round Nice Bloke, whose song lyrics speak to my heart and whose voice makes my knees weak, my eyes fill with tears and my soul tremble. I can withstand almost any *funny* comments about my taste in men - most of which I'm bound to agree with because even I know how eclectic and, er, strange it can be - but I will not hear a bad word said against this man EVER, on pain of being cut out of my life completely. He is, in short, amazing. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Blogsphere, I give you...Mr Gary Lightbody.



This song is beautiful and the way he sings it makes me want to sob. Leona Lewis can stfu and step away from the song because her version could never in a million billion years ever compete. And because I don't need an excuse (although I'll give you one: this second song is about Seamus Heaney, one of my favourite poets), here's another video for you...



*sigh* Please excuse me, I have some swooning to do...

Thursday 12 January 2012

I Can't Think What To Call This Post...

...a witty and erudite title, no? Well, tough cupcakes, Blogverse, because I am currently watching Earthflight and imagining being a bird who is read to by David Tennant.

In all seriousness, though, while watching said programme I am v. V. glad not to be a frigging bird. I mean for one thing I hate flying, so unless I was gonna be a penguin or something I'd pretty much suck as a bird (also if I was a penguin I'd spend the entire time convulsed in hysterical laughter because - duh! - penguins are way cute but make me giggle, so I'd be leopard seal food in no time). And for another thing, they have to fly for bloody miles! I mean seriously, look how wee and teeny and small a swallow is and then factor in the eight thousand-odd miles it's flown to reach the UK...just the thought of it makes me want to go and lie down in a darkened room. Although seeing the cranes flying over Venice is quite awe-inspiring (I love the city, and I bet they don't have to pay for breathing on their flights unlike us mere mortals), and the whole way they've filmed the series is beautiful. So no, I don't think I DO want to be a bird, thank you very much, but I quite like watching them while they do all the hard work...

Wednesday 11 January 2012

Oh, For The Love Of...Literature

Every so often, usually at the end of a decade or if there's some big literary anniversary coming up, someone somewhere in the world gets the bright idea of compiling one of those "Hundred Books You Must Read" lists.  These are either voted for by Joe Public or some snooty bunch of literati, but they always provide interesting reading.  Mainly at the ridiculousness of some of the entries (every single Harry Potter book ever written?  Seriously?  Thank God none of them have Twilight on them or I'd have to turn in my library card).  Sometimes, however, I feel the smug glow of literary satisfaction when I realise just how many of the books on the list I've actually read; on the BBC Big Read in 2003, for example, I worked out that I've read exactly half of the books on the list, have read different books by three of the other authors on the list, and have either bought or plan to buy in order to read eight more.  That's theoretically sixty-one books out of the hundred.  Not bad going...

However.  Ohhhhh, but however.  One of these eight books which I have bought and plan to read is the one which remains the bane of my life.  Not Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, although I fully intend to settle down and read both War and Peace, Anna Karenina and Crime and Punishment sometime before my death, and will go out and buy/borrow them in order to do so.  No, the book which is the bane of my very existence, the one I am determined to read just because it's such a challenge but which I keep picking up and putting down again and which is on every single one of these stupid lists is Ulysses by James Joyce.  And despite owning said book for almost ten years, I've never got further than the first few pages.
I bought Ulysses when I was eighteen and in Ireland for the first time.  I found it in a sweet little secondhand bookshop in Dublin, decided I *must* read it (because you don't get much more Irish than James Joyce and I was - and still am - besotted with all things Irish) and bought it at once. It has sat on my book shelf ever since, occasionally being picked up and leafed through before I decide it's either too complex or that I'd rather read something else, and back on the shelf it goes.  I have several books which I've picked up over the years which I've started and stopped - mainly more 'theoretical' ones like Robert Graves' "White Goddess" or James Fraser's "The Golden Bough", which require you to be in the mood to read something which resembles a text book in all but name, but bloody Ulysses haunts me.  It sits on the bookshelf right next to my bed and it mocks me.  I wake up some nights in a cold sweat because I think Leopold Bloom and Stephen Daedalus are calling me, waiting to lure me to some horrible and untimely death - possibly a death which involves being beaten severely with copies of Ulysses.  You may laugh, Dear Reader, but such is the substance of my dreams...

Now as I've stated previously I don't much go in for New Year's resolutions, on account of my spectacular failure to maintain them for more than a week.  This year, however, I will swear a solemn and binding vow to rid myself of this monkey on my back: by the end of the year, come hell or high water, I will have read, finished and maybe even understood Ulysses.  There.  I said it.  And put it down in black and white.  It's as good as binding now.  So while I have other literary needs, wants, desires and necessities this year - the Great Big Song of Ice and Fire Re-Read Project, for example, and all the books on my book club reading list - I am also going to finally plough through James Joyce's literary millstone-round-the-neck.  Even if it kills me.  

Look out, Ulysses, for I am coming.  Eventually.  I just need to to watch this very interesting spot of paint drying over here first.  Hey, I never said I was going to start it as soon as I finished this blog post, did I?!!

Tuesday 10 January 2012

Jean Genie...

There are some things about being a woman that are a complete and utter nightmare.  Childbirth, for example, or the pressure of a patriarchal society to look 'nice' at all times.  But one of THE most irritating and frustrating things about being female is the buying of jeans.  Now I know any bloke reading this is going to go "what?  How hard can it be, ffs; surely you just pull a pair off the rails in your size and Robert is indeed your mother's brother?!!"  Any woman reading this, however, will be nodding their heads and punching the air screaming "YES!  A thousand times yes; thank you for acknowledging my pain!!"  Well, I might be exaggerating that bit, but when it comes to buying new denims it is a strange woman who doesn't give even the teeniest of shudders at the thought.

Now I have several pairs of jeans, some of which fit me better than others - because of that weirdly female combination of small waist, big hips, bigger bum - but I've been after a pair of lighter blue ones for a while, to try and alleviate the black, black, dark blue and more black which seem to make up my collection.  Buying jeans, however, is like going on a Grail Quest; you have to psyche yourself up for it, prepare to spend hours on it and, unless a miracle occurs, be prepared to very disappointed by the end of it.  Only twice have I ever found *the* perfect pair of jeans and both were complete flukes because I found them in charity shops; when I set out on my lunch break in search of my own denim grail today, I wasn't exactly hopeful.  Mainly because the current fashion for jeans appears to be so super-skinny and skintight that you can't breathe - it's a sure sign you're getting old when your first consideration when buying jeans is not "are they fashionable?" and "are they sexy?" but "are they comfortable?" and "can I sit down in them without feeling like I'm cutting myself in half?"  C'est la vie...

Today, however, the Gods were smiling.  After trying on several pairs I found not one but two almost perfectly fitting pairs of jeans that didn't cost the earth.  Mission Impossible?  HA!  More like Mission Accomplished...

Of course this is probably my quota of jeans-buying good luck for the next twenty years...

Monday 9 January 2012

I Don't Like Mondays...

Sorry - brief Boomtown Rats moment.  But I have officially decided that Monday's suck - that's just what happens when you've had a week off and then have to drag yourself back into the office, especially since I know my job looks likely to go due to budget cuts.  Then I went back to the doctors and have to be referred  to the hospital again - oh yes, Monday's are just frigging delightful.

That said, however, I refuse to allow any doom and gloom to bring me down.  Life's too short, even for Little Miss Misery Guts here; sometimes you just have to take the sunshine where you find it.  And I have found the odd shaft of sunlight today, admittedly in the weirdest places.

1) First thing this morning, as I was going off to work, I saw a kestrel going after the starlings in the tree.  It didn't get any, but just watching it swooping down in pursuit of its prey was absolutely breathtaking.  I almost felt bad that it missed...

2) On the way into work, I saw a bee.  This is weird because it's, well, January, but nevertheless a bee there was.  It was buzzing around quite happily doing its thing, and for some reason t made me feel positive.  If a little bee can brave the January chills, I can weather whatever storms are coming just the same.

3) http://birdsinhats.blogspot.com  There are never enough words to describe my sheer childish delight at the idea of birds wearing hats.  Alice Tams is a genius and you should all follow her blog immediately.  It will make you feel better, I promise. 
 
4) My awesome mother bought me THE greatest present ever - look at my cat mask!! 



Rawr, Pussycat!!

5) The 'antiquarian and collectible' books on the Oxfam secondhand bookshop site.  Even if I never buy any of them, I could literally spend hours going through all the listings and seeing the weird and wonderful things that appear.  Today's gem - A Dictionary of Chivalry.  I am sorely tempted...

And lastly but never ever in a million years leastly - Richard Madden reciting Shakespeare.


Suddenly all is right with the world...*sigh*