Viva La Essex Girl!!

Question: Why does an Essex Girl wear knickers?
Answer: To keep her ankles warm.

Question: How do you know when an Essex Girl's been using a computer?
Answer: There's Tipp-Ex all over the screen

And in those two 'jokes' you pretty much get all you need to know about the girls from the fair county of Essex...at least according to TV producers, Nuts magazine and most of the rest of the population. Oh, the jokes I've heard over the years implying that because I was born in Essex I must either be a slag, really thick or both. It got worse after Jodie Marsh was 'discovered' in "Essex Wives" and even more horrendous after that stupid "The Only Way Is Essex" drivel was shown recently. I will confess to raising a wry smile at some of the jokes, but right now I'm making a stand. And not just because I've heard them all by now...

Why is it so bloody difficult to make a programme about Essex that doesn't show its residents as thick slags or those smug 'wide-boy' arses who make me want to scratch their precious Ford Cortina with my white stilettos? I'll be the first person to admit that we have more than our fair share of those two groups, but there are some phenomenally talented people from Essex who should make the county proud - you never see them on any of these shows! It makes me so angry - if you were to make a programme that deliberately conformed to the stereotypes of Muslims, for example, or the Welsh, you'd be shot, and yet it's ok to do it about Essex-ers? Enough is enough!!

We aren't just the county that gave the world Jodie friggin' Marsh and that muppet Scott from Five (for which, by the way, I heartily apologise. We had no right to inflict them on the rest of the UK...I also apologise for Noel Edmonds and, inadvertently, Mr Blobby). Dame Maggie Smith is an Essex Girl, as is Dame Helen Mirren; Sally Gunnell's a Essex Girl born and bred; hell, the leader of the Peasant's Revolt - a certain Mr Wat Tyler - was an Essex Boy, as is Bilbo Baggins (Sir Ian Holm) and the man who discovered antiseptic, Joesph Lister. Even old Fang-Boy himself, True Blood's Stephen Moyer, is one of us. And although he wasn't actually born here, the late, great Douglas Adams - the man who discovered the very meaning of life, for goodness sake (42) - moved here at the age of 5, as did Griff Rhys Jones. Goddammit, even Joan Sims was an Essex Girl!! We have brains in this county; brains and wit and hard graft and we're NOT all thick and useless!! We work hard, we play hard and we fight bloody hard for what we believe in, as Uncle Wat and Aunt Boadicea have inspired us to do. Essex folk, especially its women, are bloody fierce and I am fiercely proud to be from this county.

So the next time some smart arse makes some wisecrack about being an Essex Girl, I'm going to look back at the roll call of 'real' Essex Girls (i.e. not Jodie friggin' Marsh) and lift my chin with pride. We're NOT thick. We're NOT slags. We're fierce and beautiful and the only reason the rest of the world makes up jokes about us is because they're jealous and scared. And if it happens to you, my fellow Essex Girls, this is what you do. Channel Boadicea. Channel Dames Helen and Maggie. Conjure up the rebellious spirit of Wat Tyler and then skip away from the poor pathetic fool who has to joke about who and what we are, safe in the knowledge that, actually, we are utterly amazing.

And if you happen to be wearing white stilettos at the time - ironically or otherwise - so much the better...

Embrace your inner Essex Girl, people, and don't take others' opinions to heart. It's what Dame Maggie would do, and SHE, after all, is fabulous...

Consider Yourself...One Of The Family...

Ok, so bad West End musical impressions aside (oh, Oliver, how I adore thee!!) the title for today's post springs from the fact that I spent yesterday up in The Big Smoke with my beloved second family, the Forumbats. It is absolutely astonishing to think that it was only really just over a year ago that we all met properly, although there had been months/years of peripheral contact and abuse on the Nightwish forum beforehand, and yet I genuinely cannot imagine my life without any of them now. From the first initial "um...wombat?" at Brixton Academy last March to the hysteria that ensued in the Science Museum yesterday, I honestly adore all of them. Yes, Raymond, even you...

We were only six yesterday, as some of the Forumbats appear to have gone missing in action; another one (Alicia) is away in the Frozen Viking Wastelands of the North; and two (Rich and Ryan - flange!) were otherwise occupied, but those of us who did make the perilous trek into the capital reverted to type in our natural habitat of Hyde Park and spent hours talking about anything and everything, observed some very weird goings-on (a woman doing some bizarre form of Tai Chi, a couple who really needed to get a room and several strategically positioned corpses) before the so-called British Summertime became too much for us and we retreated to the warmth of the museums. After dragging the boys round the costume section of the V&A, we went up to the Cast Courts and technically went halfway round Europe. Next time I go away, I shall dispense with my camera and just take a whole truckload of Plaster of Paris with me...Having 'returned' from our travels, we spent many a happy hour shoving small children out of the way impatiently as we took our own child (Baby Forumbat GemGem) round the wonders of the Science Museum. I think I can confidently say that we learnt absolutely nothing from the experience, but we had a damn good laugh the whole time, so I would say it was a successful outcome!

Sadly, we had to lose Holly a bit early (well done on your A-levels again, sweetie; I am soooo proud of you!!) and GemGem and Owen too were gone by six (love you lots, my clever, fabulous daughter, and Owen, you are a complete genius). That left myself, Ray and Hannah (happy birthday for today, Hannah!! Love you!!) to stuff ourselves with chips before heading off to the Crossbones graveyard...

Crossbones is a patch of unconsecrated scrub ground which, back in medieval times, was designated the final resting place for the so-called "Winchester Geese"; the prostitutes licensed by the Bishop of Winchester to ply their trade in the area around the Clink. Over time, it became a place where all those too poor or 'shamed' to be given a decent Christian burial (not just prostitutes) were buried. When the Jubiliee line was being built, it was rediscovered and 148 bodies were removed; since then, it has become a place of pilgrimage and a memorial, not just to those who were and are still buried there, but to the many women within the sex industry today who have been murdered. There are memorials to the five women murdered in Ipswich, to the three women killed in Bradford and other cases that don't make the national news. I heard about it a few months ago and, as I potentially have an ancestor who was a sex worker (she was known as a 'seamstress', a euphemism for prostitute and as she only had one hand I'm a little dubious as to the exact brilliance of her sewing ability), I became intrigued. It was deeply moving and a very sombre end to the day, but I'm very grateful that Ray and Hannah came with me and I hope it wasn't too depressing for you both.

So all told, yesterday was a marvellous day and I love my Forumbat family more than life itself. Holly and Owen, good luck as you head off to uni in the next few weeks; I'm very proud of you both for your epic A-level results and know you'll both be brilliant. GemGem, my Baby and my treasure, I love you to bits and I am so pleased you came on Halloween and are now part of the family. And Ray and Hannah - what can I say to you that I haven't already said? I love you both more than I can say.

Forumbat meets will be harder to organise as even more of our number are off to university and the big wide world, but I can guarantee that whenever, wherever the next meet-up is, there will be much laughter, much love and complete chaos. Sorry, citizens.

RA RA!!

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...