quiz me gently

A modern phenomenon

2009-10-29T09:17:00.000Z

Fuckbuddies. They seem to be all the rage. On the face of it...yeah, why not? You’re getting your rocks off without the pain of having to be polite to somebody else’s parents or spending your hard-earned pennies on flowers. And anything that helps me avoid paying to see a film I wouldn’t watch even if it were on terrestrial TV and there was literally nothing else available to watch (I’m looking at you, Jean Claude Van Damme) can only be for the good, right?

Maybe not. See, most people understand the ‘fuck’ bit perfectly well. Packed it, fucked it, went home. It’s easy, I’ve done it. And I’ve got frustrated. What about the ‘buddies’ bit? Someone to whinge with about the single life, to kick back with a Chinese and a DVD with when neither of you has anything better to do, to text you back when you’re bored at work?

Maybe I’ve been unlucky. Or maybe I’m expecting too much. Perhaps everyone else is doing it right. It still makes me angry that the ’buddy’ aspect is overlooked. Then I look at what I’d want from a fuckbuddy-type relationship:
• Um, the obvious. Which means a strong mutual physical attraction.
• Conversation and mutual interest. Which means a decent level of attraction to one another’s personality.
• Someone to hang out with, even in an occasionally non-sexual context.
• Someone consistent and communicative.
• Someone to see regularly, not sporadically, and who’s not going to drop you without warning.
Yup. Basically, I’m after a boyfriend. D’oh.

The many moods of my mother

2009-10-14T13:09:00.002+01:00

Here is a flavour.

Saturday evening, before I go out: "That top's a bit tight, come here and let me stretch it so you don't look pregnant."
Sunday evening: "Has anyone said anything about you losing weight? No? Well they've probably not noticed because you always wear such baggy clothes."

?

Honestly

2009-01-09T23:18:00.002Z

I have a profile on what you would call a dating site. Being my profile, the spelling, grammar and coherence are pretty good; better than in 97% of other profiles on the internet. There is one spelling mistake...well, it isn't even a mistake, because it's deliberate. But it is a misspelling.

The site asks you to describe 'The first thing(s) people usually notice about me'. My response to this is as follows:

"My enormous....brane. Only joking, it's my tits."

Let me reiterate. The rest of my profile is eloquent, lucid and perfectly spelled. To anyone with half a brain (i.e. the kind of person I wish my profile to attract), this is a funny deliberate mistake. After all, I am clearly sending up my own intelligence with a dash of irony and a Molesworth reference. And if you don't get all of that, then you can still appreciate that I'm just being silly, by virtue of the contrast with the rest of what's written there.

Or can you?

Not if you're one of the people who in recent months have availed themselves of the 'Propose Edits' facility on the website. I believe 'Propose Edits' was designed for use by people who know/have met the profile in real life, who want add a paragraph or two about what a great catch they are/what a shit date they took the commenter on. However, at least two people of late have taken it upon themselves to propose that I edit my profile so that 'brain' is spelled correctly.

Uhhhhh.

The first time I just deleted the edit request, thinking, "What a blowhard, that he doesn't get my humour. Poor sap."

This time I thought about it, and got mad. See, one thing that rankles with me is being taken as a dummy. I'm not stupid. Far from it. So who are these people that:

(a) Assume I lack the mental capacity to spell quite an easy word in the correct fashion?

(b) Fail to compare the error to its context?

(d) Are riled enough to log in and CORRECT me, like I hadn't spotted the error and they were doing me a favour by educating me?

Well, I can only assume that they are:

(E) Humourless, patronising dicks who spend their time looking for spelling and grammatical errors on sites where it means little, and have the temerity to sneeringly lean over and point them out like weedy little teachers pets. No wonder they don't have girlfriends, if the only way they can approach a girl is to tell her she's got something basic wrong.

There are plenty of profiles out there which are so badly spelled it is extremely irritating to a pedant like myself. But you know what I do? I think, "a person who can't spell, or can't be bothered to check their spelling, is simply not interesting to me. I shall waste no further time on them", and proceed to another profile, or a LOLcat or something. I am not their schoolteacher, nor are they my pupils. If I had the time to do such things, I'd go through Wikipedia with a fine-toothed grammar comb, not wasting my time being an insulting cunt.

Why I owe Charlie Brooker a blow job

2008-10-22T04:37:00.002+01:00

There may be graphs later.

My main reasoning follows the model that Brooker has given me more pleasure than, let's say, a slightly above average boyfriend would have done a given time period. Let's say over three months.

During the last three months, I have read Brooker's book Dawn of the Dumb, followed his columns in The Guardian and watched the first two series of Screenwipe on Youtube. Conservative estimates show that the book made me laugh out loud or gasp in amusement (often in public) on average every three pages, and made me at the very least grin or even snort every page. So let's say that's one moment of true self abandonment-style pleasure every two pages. 338 pages = 169 moments. And a minimum of one per column in the paper – let's say 20 moments there. And on the telly, I'd say I got giddy with pleasure once every three minutes– so, 10 per episode, nine episodes = 90 moments.

An above average boyfriend...well, it depends on how above average, I suppose. Let us presume moderate bedroom talent, and that I am typically demanding my usual three weeks out of four. So, the enthusiastic little chap gives me what I want five times a week – so, that's 45 pleasure points. And he cracks some entertaining jokes a couple of times a week, and, importantly, indulges my warped attempts at humour (this deserves credit) – so, 5 points a week equals 60 over the three months. Assorted additional marks such as making me a nice cup of tea periodically are accrued – generously, I shall assume a figure of 45.

So, Brooker's exceptional 279 plays fictional average boyfriend's measly 150 (and that's even without deductions made for mitigating stress factors caused by undue emotional attachment). And yet fictional average boyfriend has, over this period, received a bare minimum of 24 instances of fellatio. That's one for every six moments of unadulterated, selflessly-given pleasure. The lucky bastard. And what is Brooker's reward? Nothing (save the money he makes from book sales, TV appearances etc.). I say it's unjust.

And that is why I owe Charlie Brooker a blow job. Technically, 46.5 blow jobs, I suppose.

Next: what I owe Sporticus out of Lazytown.

What I am tired of

2008-10-20T01:11:00.001+01:00

What I am tired of

What I am tired of is my friends not believing me.

Periodically, I will try to explain myself. We may be discussing why I'm dreadful with boys, or why I have struggled to make many friends since moving to London, or even why I am terrified of using the phone.

"Actually, I'm painfully shy," I tell them.

"I am very anxious about talking to people, meeting new people. I get so worried about what they will think of me, I get incredibly nervous. Truly, I suffer with my social anxiety. It's a struggle. I realise it's 95% paranoia, but my worries make me terribly, terribly, cripplingly shy."

After a confession such as this, seven times out of ten the friend will chuckle, as though I have made an awfully clever joke. The other three times, they will laugh and then make a sarcastic remark on the lines of "Oh, I can tell, you're soooooo shy! You're such a shrinking violet!"

If I insist I am being serious, they act as if I am being melodramatic and/or seeking an ego rub. "Come off it. Shy? How can someone who has the balls to do stand-up comedy/approach David Tennant/do karaoke every week/appear on live TV/sing on stage/work in the industry you do [delete as applicable] be shy? Nonsense" they say, dismissively. And that's it. Case closed. Shut up, Jen, and don't be so fucking ridiculous.

I wish they took me seriously.

Cor limey

2008-07-28T11:49:00.001+01:00

It feels weird coming back here after a year, especially re-reading my last post. Ha! I thought I was the one doing the heartbreaking! Fat chance. Basically, last July the cnut in question was over here to shag me while, back home on an unnamed Mediterranean island/EU state, his missus was entering her 8^th month of pregnancy. Suffice to say, I did not know this at the time. I found out by sheer chance (and Facebook) earlier this year. Well, I hope he’s happy. Actually, I don’t. And I bet he isn’t. Karma owes him a massive booting.

Soooo......a year, eh? What have I been up to, you cry?

· I moved house. Twice. West London, these days.
· I got back on the boy horse, eventually, with a quite bemusing fuckbuddy scenario which was inexplicably ended before I was quite finished. I’m not sure why such a cosy and mutually beneficial setup was called off; all I know is I’m hacked off that my needs stopped being fulfilled (and they were – my life is fine without a full time bloke. All I need is someone to pop round once a week to hold me and give me a good seeing to before fucking off back home). Stupid boy.
· I may have scared off a friend who now thinks I like him. I though I did, for a while, but actually it’s a big gay hero-worship/older brother figure thing, confused by the fact that he is rather pretty. If I did really like him in a boy-girl way, then I’d be more heartbroken that he doesn’t like me ‘like that’ than I was by being told the same thing by the fuckbuddy, who I didn’t even really fancy in the first place. Meh, he’ll get over it.
· I tried to be an Egghead. I sucked.
· I escaped the BBC, and now live a life on the edge with zero job security and maximum hours sitting on the sofa. Hoorah.

· Um....

That’s it.

In mourning

2007-07-16T00:14:00.001+01:00

I have been a brave girl recently, and I’m taking the pain at the moment.

Regular readers/listeners to my whining will know something of the person I have held a torch for for...wow, more than a quarter of my life. The silly, overly romantic section of my brain (is there a romance gland? If not, I am christening it the Austenium) allowed me recently (when once again, as before, contact with him was re-established) to nurse that twinkle of subsumed hope that perhaps, maybe this time, he’d come to his senses and want me, demand to have me properly, realise he loves me. Maybe. Just maybe. So I agreed to see him.

Seeing him wasn’t so bad. I was a little worried that someone would wimp out; that one or other of us would pick a fight and the whole thing would collapse (yes, he makes me act irrationally, so that was a concern). Actually it was lovely. He used the word ‘date’, which threw me. But that’s what it was, I suppose. Perhaps it would have been better if it hadn’t been so nice; it wouldn’t have fanned the flames of the ever-hopeful Austenium. But here’s the grown-up rational bit of the brain exercising its seniority. At about 2am I woke up, rolled over, looked at him and had an epiphany of my own.

I didn’t want him. Well, I didn’t want this. Obviously, I want(ed) him. But I can’t have him, because he will never be willing to give himself to me the way I want or need. He’d sold the thing to me as wanting me to be his ‘mistress’ – I laugh when I read that back, as it sounds so silly when I try to apply that word to myself. But that to me implies something a little deeper than just an occasional fuckbuddy relationship. Anyway, I talked myself into it; I felt (getting déjà vu once more here) I could take what was on offer for the time being, as inevitably he’d realise what a mistake he was making keeping me at arm’s length and want to be with me properly. That’s how I rationalised it to myself; that’s how I’ve been rationalising it to myself the past seven years.

But, even if I did become his mistress or regular fuckbuddy, what would be the point? (quoth my truly rational section of brain). He claims to be very happy with the girl he’s with (ouch, maybe I shouldn’t have pointed out to him that seeking out someone else to have sex with doesn’t indicate true happiness in a relationship...) and isn’t going to leave her, and it would all be on his terms. I would be dissatisfied with the level of intimacy and attention I was getting; he’d be feeling guilty and be on pins all the time, particularly when we were together. I’d want more from him, and there is only a finite amount he could give even if he did decide to open up to me. And what if/when I met someone else? Someone who could give me the time and affection and openness I need? Could we expect that the guy would just hand me over, or be willing to share me?

So the rational brain assesses the options:

Accept this status quo, and hook up when he deigns to visit; continue ad infinitum waiting for him to love you (with the niggling but probably correct worry that he only sees you as an occasional fuckbuddy). Possibly die alone, eaten by cats.
Say you’d rather not have this relationship right now (I don’t know, make something up about a boyfriend or something) but know that by staying in contact it won’t be long before he propositions you again.
Call it all off. Do it now. No matter what the pain. It might save you future agony.

So, blow me down, I went for Option 3. Ouch. Would rather have not had the conversation on MSN, and/or whilst at work, but he pushed me for my thoughts and I was honest. I feel guilty that I might have hurt his feelings; well, mine are pretty much destroyed right now, although I suppose that’s cold comfort to him.

And I suppose that’s it. I’ve killed the thing I nursed for almost seven years. I’m officially grieving. There are actual physical symptoms. And I’m eating far too many Bakewell tarts, and they are only helping in the short-term. I should stop before I turn into a glacé cherry. But at least it was me who did the heart-breaking, so I can’t blame anyone else.

EDIT: Turns out I did the right thing. Several months after this, I found out that while he was over here trying (successfully) to get me into bed, then afterward trying to get me to continue the arrangement his partner was over in their foreign home. Heavily pregnant. I was out of the loop on that particular gem.

Welcome to Bolton Volume 372

2007-05-14T01:11:00.000+01:00

Last Saturday evening I was dropped off in Bolton (following my shock horror record-breaking performance at the Leicester GP – I’m “a new force” apparently) on Bank Street. I jumped out and retrieved my wheelie suitcase from the boot and dragged it uphill to the Horwich-bound bus stops, but found no buses were due for a silly amount of time so quickly elected to pop back down Bank Street to the taxi rank. If you know Bolton at all you will appreciate that to get to the taxi rank you must pass a fine establishment called ‘Diamonds’ which advertises itself on the billboard on the side of the building as a great venue for business and parties, but which is best described as a fully nude lap dancing bar. Fact fans – it’s the place where Erica on BBC’s Castaway 2007 works as a dancer.

As I approach, the 3 bouncers stare at me and keenly greet me, but splutter as I merely say “Evening” back and pass by.

“Sorry, love!” one pipes up, nodding at my suitcase, “We thought you were coming in. To dance.”

Momentarily rendered speechless, I manage to ask, “What? Do they dance round suitcases in there?”

“Nah,” says the chap, “but the girls all bring their own cases; bigger than that like, usually.”

As I walk on, he adds in a mournful tone, “Dunno why – it’s only bras in there, in’t it?”

Bitter is the new vodka

2007-04-13T00:28:00.000+01:00

London has had several strange effects on me.

On the positive side (well, it depends on your point of view), it gave me the strength of mind to fulfil my Lenten vow. i.e., if I can put up with this town for four months, I can do without THAT for four weeks.

(By the way, I did complete the Lent thing. Mainly through sheer bloody-mindedness, some pain, and one incident of rule-bending...well, there was someone else involved, so it wasn't technically cheating).

On the downside, I have become so fixated with my own nose that I resemble a manic cokehead for a significant portion if every day. For starters, I appear to be allergic to toner and newsprint - which I already knew, not least from my time working in jobs which (a) relied on a fax machine and (b) involved reading local newspapers. I also now appear to be allergic to, for kick off:

the Underground
my own perfume
mascara
my office
my co-workers
life

So, when I'm not sneezing, I'm snuffling and/or becoming paranoid about the potentially horrid visual state of my own nose. Gahhhhh. Cor limey guvnor etc etc.

Also, I have started to drink bitter/ale.

Last time this was attempted was approximately 1998, when I tried Newcastle Brown, and commenced minor ABH and then possibly full-on sexual assault (from what I recall) on a, frankly, terribly lucky young man. I say young...he was a bit older than me....I should probably stop there. In any case, I wasn't at home when I woke up, and there may have been some questionable sci-fi role play involved in the mean time...

ANYWAY. I have had several years of responsible drinking since my late teens, but bitter now appears to be my gangsta-tripping nemesis. It is my lysergic acid. I exaggerate. It is my new half-bottle of Smirnoff Red. In that, on my way home just now, I fell over in the street, injuring my knees and palms, then swore at myself ( I believe the words used were "wanker" and "tosspiece", which shows my maturity here) before almost walking into a lamppost and then a post box.

HOWEVER talking to yourself as you walk down the street does decrease the risk of your being mugged and/or raped. 'Cause "crazy" is contagious. Apparently.

/ramble. Home safe now.

A very odd day

2007-03-17T13:43:00.002Z

I keep getting flashbacks of various events and actions from yesterday. Like being the entire moshpit during an outstanding (dress run) performance from The Killers which nobody else seemed to be paying attention to. Losing my artist 10 minutes before they were due on live national television. In fact, losing my artist several times over the course of the massive 18 hours I worked. Adopting various other acts on my travels when their escorts were nowhere to be found. Terrifying Julian Barratt with a request to touch him. Gaining the unending adoration of Mel out of Mel’n’Sue by finding her fizzy water. Ordering Tim Vine to pull a “more comedy” face for a photo. Receiving a charity challenge that nobody thought I could manage...suckers, that’s £50 please, and here’s a photo of me in physical union with The Doctor himself, taken by Catherine Tate (you underestimate my cojones).

Then it starts to get slightly hazy, as I was given wine once the serious bit of my artist’s task was over – classily carried within a Coke can, just in case I got in bother. I recall fetching beer, acquiring two famous television presenters to look after, setting up a little party in a dressing room with vodka, going to fetch mixers and coincidentally catching the worshipful comedy duo (meeting whom was my main ambition for the day) and happening to invite them to the vodka thing (hope my artist didn’t mind; actually I don’t care, was way past caring by this point). And resultingly ending up hanging with the worshipful duo at the big wrap party. Wish I could remember what the hell I said. I recall “humble” and “I love you”, but not much more in depth. I remember being shouted at for wanting to look after them (runner mode/maternal instinct wouldn’t shut down). Glad they were lovely; I would’ve been so upset if they’d been gits.

Silver Jubilee - Twenty-Five Glorious Years

2007-03-01T14:56:00.000Z

I'm having a bash to celebrate 25 years of Jen excellence

Saturday 31st March
Central London location
Dress code: Silver (interpret this as you wish)
Cocktails of unusual potency
Bad singing and crazy dancing
Pass the Parcel
General carnage

I'm not stupid enough (nearly, though) to put the address on here, so if you fancy coming drop me a line.

Scone Daddy Scone

2007-02-19T17:32:00.000Z

Actually, it worked out that my Valentine’s Day wasn’t all that horrific as usual. In fact, it was one of the high notes in a rather bipolar week. I was quite ill, and had spent much of the previous evening in tears (some people really upset me – thoughtless behaviour rather than intended malice, but hitting a raw nerve nonetheless) so had extra-puffy eyes. However, I picked myself up, dressed myself up, and headed down The Ritz for afternoon tea. Here’s my Valentine scone:

Lovingly sculpted by myself, for myself. Had a fabulous tea, then cocktails and fun (despite the Mighty Whites losing) and I went home very buoyed up, with little to no need for Morrissey et al and went to sleep after receiving a last minute Valentine text from a nice man.

Thursday came down like a rain of monkey wrenches. My temperature got so high that I half-hallucinated-half-dreamt a cross between Life on Mars and the British Quiz Championships (taking place in my building’s courtyard) complete with consistent fashion and haircuts, which I couldn’t take part in as I had been entrusted with 9 tabs of ecstasy which I kept dropping so would have to scrabble around on the floor of my room (which repeatedly mutated into an Edinburgh pub) to locate them – it not helping that they kept shrinking and growing like something from Alice in Wonderland. Still, managed to watch all of Firefly. I think.

Friday I threw caution to the wind and went to Belgium. Here is some Belgian quiz carnage action:Now I still feel like crap but at least I have a hillock of Godiva chocolates at home to see me through.

Pandora wants me dead

2007-02-13T17:30:00.000Z

Lovely of Pandora.com to build me up to one of my annual low-points by playing broken hearted music. The Smiths just played, “Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me”, and it momentarily made me so sad I couldn’t bear it. Sad, not just cos it’s a sad song or it chimed with me, but because it’s been a long time since I had one of those dreams. You know the one, where they really do love you, and you almost feel them touch you, and when you wake up you suddenly feel cold as if those arms wrapped around you had quickly been withdrawn. But they’re not there (whoever ‘they’ are). I haven’t had one of those dreams in a long time (more Smiths reference, gah). I need one. Cause, as you probably know, I fucking detest stupid fucking Valentines.

Now Pandora plays With Or Without You. The website definitely wants me to cry myself to sleep this Wednesday. Valentines? Couples wandering around holding hands, one clutching a single rose wrapped in plastic as they leave a cheap-to-medium priced chain restaurant? Give me strength. I shall be staying in with The Smiths and possibly Nico and indulging in some self harm. Not with anything sharp, I’m far too wimpy. My weapons of choice look to be three bags of Starmix and a large bar of Turkish Delight.

Check out the girl least likely to….

More for the analyst

2007-01-17T13:30:00.000Z

My brain has decided that there is a children's culinary TV show named Big Cock Little Cock.

Wrong.

Missing in Action

2007-01-10T11:00:00.000Z

It's simply vanished.

I've been feeling crap for several weeks now. It started with general misery and self pity pre-Christmas, before developing into a low-level flu-y thing which haunted me throughout my festive jaunts without ever escalating into all out fever and bed rest. Now it's reduced back to periodic headaches and nausea in the presence of caffiene/alcohol/nicotine/anything with a flavour, I've notice my libido has vanished, and has been gone since the onset of this malady - I just didn't notice then.

There have been no real signs of it resurfacing as yet. I've seen some very attractive young men and have been urge-free. I even watched The Hunger when I got in last night, and it did nothing for me, either in a Bowie fetish way or in a Deneuve-Sarandon lesbian lite way. Nada. Unusual for a woman who has in the (relatively recent) past had to bite her tongue, take cold showers and, on more than one occasion, had to lock myself in a room (not for that, but to prevent myself from being arrested for molestation on jumping the bones of a potentially unappreciative party). Perhaps my body has decided I'm taking up celibacy for 2007 (not that it wasn't a watchword in 2006), along with teetotalism and possibly having any kind of fun full stop.

I'm quite certain it'll appear again soon - probably without warning, at a most inappropriate time, and with a vengeful resolution to make up for lost time. But in the meantime, please keep an eye out for it wandering the streets and if you see it, send it home. I miss it.

Jenny the Wimp

2006-12-18T13:57:00.000Z

Things that have made me cry this week include:

* The "reveal" in 10 Years Younger
*The ending of Torchwood (til they ruined it with religious allusion - floating up into the sky surrounded by golden light, eh? Tut tut, Russell T.)
* The end of Bad Santa

No, I'm not pre-menstrual. I don't even get 'pre-menstrual'. Something's the matter. Maybe I'm just a total wuss, all of a sudden.

This post does not have an interesting or imaginative title, for a change.

2006-12-13T17:00:00.000Z

Oh Lord, my brain isn't functioning properly. I just read the title of the TV programme "Waking the Dead" as "Wanking the Dead". Now, there's an image that's burned into my cerebrum. Trevor "Shoestring" Eve is 'Wanking the Dead'. I preferred it the time I misread it as "Walking the Dog". Now there's gentle Sunday evening viewing.

This reminds me of my last temping job, which was mainly non-stop data entry of forms the public had filled in. Apart from getting angry at people who didn't know their own postcode, I was guilty of a modicum of Freudian data entry. The field 'sex', obviously, was designed to contain either F or M. The computer repeatedly, embarrassingly bleeped when I entered N. My subconscious attempting to tell me something.

Anyways, this was going to be a catch up posting, as I've been quite neglectful of my beloved readers (all 6 of you - you know who you are. And so do I.) during an eventful period. Let's see if my patience lasts all the way through the list of subheadings I jotted down in the dark the other night.

London

It's expensive. I spent £28 on a t-shirt. Not a top, a t-shirt. Not even any sequins or glitter on it. And it's virtually see though. Bah. Also, I was charged £4 per cider last night. We're doomed. I weep bitter tears. That said, nowhere else has Banksy's guerrilla gallery Santa's Ghetto. Fan-flaming-tabulous, if anybody likes edgy British art. Just me then.

It's still not as cold as London people think it is. Wimps. I don't even have a winter coat yet. But, if somebody would like to take me shopping for one, I wouldn't object.....It may have to be a size down, as I keep forgetting to eat, and only eating semi-nutritious things when I do eat, so I appear to have mislaid a few inches so far. This is to the good. So far, equal pros and cons columns for That London.

Quiz
Currently one of the main occupations of my life (after work) but this is because:

(a) the main part of my social life - grabbing any invite with both hands at the moment to reduce impact of my newly shrunken social circle - is going to quizzes of an evening, or going to karaoke with quizzers. This even extended to the precious Sunday afternoon, to whit that we were going to watch a Presidents Cup match (my party of quiz-goers having an ulterior motive for attendance, mentioning no names) and I ended up playing. The questions didn't seem to go my way; a couple on Anglicanism (wrong kind of God-bothering for me, not that I'm solid on Catholicism) and one on Rugby Union (definitely the wrong kind of peanut-cuddling). This at a time when by rights I should have been lounging on the sofa getting angry about the Arctic Monkeys. Anyway;

(b) I spent four days (I'm including travelling) at the European Quiz Championships en France the other weekend, which was a big chunk o'time to devote to almost non-stop questioning. If you don't want to know the result then Don't Follow This Link. Told you not to.

Not too shabby, for once. I'm actually still feeling rather smug and self-satisfied with my placing in the individuals. Let's not go into it, or I'll start to boast, like the great Boaster himself, Uncle. No bicycle stealing, though, but I would like a purple dressing gown.

As a downside to the shocking result in Paris, I'm actually going to have to put the work in and Learn Things. Bah. I rode my luck and that worked to a point, but now I have a reputation to uphold. Must make space in corners of brain to insert lists of Booker Prize winners and chemical element discoverers.

(By the way, I was stalked...I mean, interviewed by a documentary crew during the EQC, for a programme to be screened in Spring, possibly. How much of me makes it to the final cut I cannot guarantee *crosses fingers and hopes that the 2nd unit footage is immediately dumped in the bin by the director* but it could be an intriguing insight into the world of quizzing. Could be.)

That's about it

Yeah, not much more I can be bothered to report a ce moment la. Except the mysterious disappearance of my precioussssss can of coke and Curlywurly from the fridge some time between Friday midnight and Saturday 1300. Some people have no respect for my breakfast plans.

Where did you go (to, my lovely)?

2006-12-06T13:20:00.000Z

I'll tell you where I went.

I moved. In a terribly exciting rush, I got interviewed for, was offered, and moved several hundred miles to start a new job - all in the space of approximately a fortnight. I'm now resident in our nation's capital - described to me last night as "the greatest city in the world", which it may well be, but only until Bolton's city status comes through.

Months ago, when I first entertained the idea of moving here, I looked at a map, pointed at a square and said aloud "I'm going to live there". Well, now I do (or thereabouts - it's about 2 minutes walk away). It's something of a culture shock; mainly because I'd only ever been to a Waitrose once or twice before (they don't do the north west) whereas now it's my local supermarket. The 'precinct' - I have to keep calling it that, because the layout reminds me of Eccles precinct - has a Space NK and a Carluccio's, not a Personal Care Plus and a Greggs. This will take some getting used to.

Occasionally I will mutter to myself whilst passing a landmark, "f'k'n'ell, I live in London now? When....? How.....?" (and similar expletives as I wander around my overwhelmingly exciting new place of employment, which garner glares and odd looks). But this is only under my breath, and my calm soon finds me again. Not like the full volume swear I let rip when I found out Mr Waitrose wanted to charge me 99p for a loaf of Warburtons. Medium sliced, not even seeded batch!

(I'm even getting parentheses into my post titles, now. Must. Cut. Down. On. Bracketed. Asides.)

Reasons why I am going stir crazy through watching too much daytime telly

2006-11-10T16:09:00.000Z

Channel 5 like to confuse viewers with their choice of afternoon B movies (lovingly sponsored by Steradent, no prizes for guessing the target market). For example, today it's a coming-of-age drama, which randomly features Claire Danes, James Van Der Beek, Julia Stiles and Jude Law, and from the looks of it was cobbled together some time last week as they don't really look much younger. Channel 5 schedulers also like to throw a Columbo at you at irregular intervals; Dick Van Dyke was the killer the other day, doing well through the alcoholic haze.

Asda's advertising dudes need to be taught a lesson about the uses of en masse singing children. They should really only be used for spooky atmospheric effect (cf The Lost Boys, Candyman) and should be at least 90% in tune. It's entirely inappropriate to have kids singing "Falling In Love Again", as it's really only right coming out of the mouth of a lonely, world-weary woman who's fully aware she's shagged loser after loser, knows it's not doing her any good but is resigned to the fact she's about to do it again....she can't help it. Not a children's choir number, unless Gary Glitter's the choirmaster.

Oh, and don't get me started on the ever-increasing number of children/choral groups with heartstring-twanging albums out just in time for Christmas doing the rounds....Angelis, All Angels, Libera (who have an album called Angel Voices). Apparently they're all the "most relaxing/uplifting songs you've ever experienced" or some similar guff, and they're strangely geeky children dressed in polonecks and/or chunky knitwear - the ads being shots of them interspersed with clips of what look like hospital corridors and people running toward each other or looking wistfully as someone walks away. Basically, songs to play at family funerals and to remind you of your dead father/child/brother/husband. So, the "You Raise Me Up" factor cranked right up to the Nth degree. Bah. Cynical old Simon Cowell (or, possibly, cynical old Me).

Pocoyo is unhealthily addictive and should possibly be banned, as I find myself shouting at Stephen Fry when he's being obtuse (surely his knighthood is on the way - I frequently have to stop myself from adding 'Sir' to the beginning of his name).

I just shouted at Fearne Cotton for mispronouncing the word "model". It has an L at the end, darling, not a W. Oh bugger, she can't hear me, she's on the telly. If you're hiring someone as a presenter, please ensure they can say all the words in its title.

Someone please put me out of my misery.

Introducing....

2006-11-10T16:05:00.000Z

....the Right Reverend Doctor Hugo Z. Hackenbush, pictured here attempting to open a betting account with Blue Square (haha, I hid my wallet so he couldn't complete the deed).

Breaking the silence

2006-11-09T14:18:00.000Z

I have been quiet haven’t I? I’ve got all kinds of excuses lined up. I was sucked into a black hole of question-setting. I was applying and interviewing for jobs. I was getting a new job, which I start in 10 days. I was worrying about where I’m going to live when I move. I was helping a small cat called Hugo to settle in. I was writing stomach-churning short stories for no good reason. My tux didn’t come back from the cleaners. An old friend came in from out of town. There was an earthquake, a terrible flood, locusts.

It seems like I’ve been busy. Actually, I’ve been a virtual recluse for weeks. I cite lack of money as my reason. I have been forming my routine around daytime TV – getting intimate with Neighbours and Doctors (I love no-brain television) and being disappointed when they’re followed by Murder She Wrote rather than Diagnosis Murder. Still undecided whether I love or hate Loose Women and Paul O’Grady. Multi-tasking crap telly with looking at crap websites continually, when I should be doing useful stuff.

I see there’s a drama on this evening about law students fighting for justice. Maybe I can sit and point out the irritating inaccuracies/improbabilities in that, before going to watch Starter for Ten and doing the same, but in a manner more annoying to the paying audience. Wow, the height of my ambitions is getting on my high horse in a middle-aged manner. Hope my life gets more exciting soon.

Vocabulary lessons

2006-10-10T01:30:00.000+01:00

Thanks to yesterday's paper, I've learned some new foreign language phrases.

I like to think I'm adept at ichigo-ichie, which is Japanese for treasuring each moment and trying to make it perfect. But I know I'm more likely to be found pana po'o-ing. No, it's not bathroom-based. It's the act of scratching one's head in an effort to remember something (in Hawaiian).

I spent a great part of Saturday in a village outside Slough doing just that. It didn't particularly help my recall. Neither did the grunting, the clenching of fists, or the banging on my forehead upon the table. Nor the muttering curses under my breath, and louder, or the periodic self-berating chant of "I know this! I really know this!". Perhaps the wine and the rum and the garlic bread the previous evening were taking their toll (being a well-known vampire, myself), or the hysteria brought on by a badly-timed text message was to blame. Anyway, I was rubbish, despite all the scalp-stimulation.

I wish I was firm and stuck to ilunga, and so could feel razblyuto already. But I'm already suffering premature torschlusspanik about my life. I'm such a nakhur.

This week...

2006-10-04T00:33:00.000+01:00

...I have been mostly in love with:

Robbie Coltrane.
Dr Basil Singer (out of the Men in White).
The voice of Dr Sanchez out of Garth Marengi's Darkplace.

My weird brain functions and the effect of hormones thereon, I thankew.

Conclusive proof of the existence of quiz leagues in 1890 BC

2006-10-02T13:42:00.000+01:00

Warning: this may be a quiz in-joke. But I couldn't resist a chuckle when I saw this at the museum. Eighteenth Dynasty, apparently.

2006-10-01T19:31:00.000+01:00

Recent sources of Pride:
A story l was witness to was in this week's Popbitch mailout. Finally,
I have the gossip (and the truth of the story, come to that) before
my favouritest gossip-mongers.
I saw an actual famous i.e. The lead singer out of Razorlight.

Recent failings:
I failed to break in my cute new shoes sufficiently well, meaning
predictably that I ended up hobbling about. Not glamorous. Only one
foot was affected; suspect this shows that my right foot is marginally
bigger than my left.
Due to tne pain/discomfort which was the result of the shoe issue, I
couldn't fulfil my aim of "doing" the British Museum. It is
impossible to properly appreciate beautiful things when feeling quite
miserable, as I discovered during a recent visit to the Scottish
National Gallery. I managed to scoot around the Egyptian Sculpture
Hall, dodging school parties and Other tour groups, getting upset and
occasionally muttering about how these things belong in Egypt.

A message from the inside

2006-09-19T11:17:00.000+01:00

Hello! Jen's immune system here. She thought she'd got away with it; burning the candle at both ends, caning it until dawn, stressing herself out and riding the emotional wave for over a month during her little project. She thought all she'd come home with was a vague weariness and a damaged ankle (beer-related injury).

Ha! That's what she thought....but I thought I'd make her pay for putting me through my paces. Teach her a lesson! So I let through a virus which incubates (contagiously, I might add) for roughly three weeks before bursting forth - literally, with an itchy pile of blistering spots.

Yep, I got her chicken pox. Mwahahahahahaha.

I apologise to anyone with a suppressed immune system who's been in contact with (or even in the same room as) Jen during the last 3 weeks or so; it's nothing personal, you're just unlucky. Watch out for blisters around the hairline or on the stomach.

Gotta go; the paracetamol's wearing off, so it's about time I pumped up her temperature and set her gangsta trippin' again.

I'm bringing sexy snacks

2006-09-14T22:54:00.000+01:00

Justin Timberlake's latest video....hmmmm.....possibly the least sexy thing I've seen in quite some time (that was intended to be sexy, anyway). It's full of....well, sex. Justin himself and some bird, as well as flashes of all manner of different gender/number combinations (in different cubicles in the cleanest club toilets I've ever seen). There's a shot of Justin in a bed scenario leaning over the camera/bird, which I guess is supposed to get girls imagining he's leaning over them in bed and get them all excited, but in fact the first thought that springs to mind is, 'Isn't he quite ordinary looking? I'd be disappointed, to be honest'. Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex. That's all the video is.

But they forget one important thing:

Sex just ain't sexy.

The track's called Sexyback. Sexy is suggestion, not showing it. That's a bad miss, Mr Timberlake.

(/end role as pop culture commentator)

Bipolar bear

2006-09-09T15:53:00.000+01:00

When I first mentioned becoming a comedian, many people gave me a shifty sideways look. Aren’t all comedians a bit….well….tragic? So many are manic depressives, or just depressives – tears of a clown and all that. Don’t worry about me, I chuckled, I’m sure I can cope. I’m in pretty stable shape at the moment, and I can cope with it. See! I’ve even lowered my expectations right down to basement level, to avoid excessive disappointment! So I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ll prove to you that not all comics are bipolar…

Now I’ve developed a theory. It’s not that manic depressives are drawn to comedy. It’s that comedy makes you manic depressive. I’ve only done it for, what, a little over a month, and I’m already having mood shifts worse than any I had as a hormonal teenager. Not that I’m at the ending-it-all end of the scale too much, but yesterday morning everything was annoying me. I was becoming a dead eyed maniac who wanted to destroy idiots who filled in a form for their child Jordan without ticking one of the gender boxes, or who called their child Shantel or Jaine or, horror of horrors, Jaden (what is that name?), or who called their female offspring Levi (IT’S A BOY’S NAME and I hate the fact that you’re making me into a SHOUTING gender fascist but you should get a FUCKING EDUCATION you IGNORAMUS). Spelling errors and jokes about Steve Irwin were making me develop a very nasty twitch, like you see on psychopaths about to flip in movies. You wouldn’t like me when I’m that angry – and angry for no good reason.

Then I went outside. The sun was shining. I got a sizzling chicken tikka wrap thing from a nice lady in a van, and I played with my new gadget, and ate an ice cream. Then the Hulk became Fotherington Thomas. Hullo sky, hullo trees. My shoulders untensed, I returned to work and was Miss Sociable for the rest of the day, trying (patiently) to explain the concept of quizzing to the women who sit with me and allowing them to advise me about boys and why I shouldn’t move down South but should stay and work in IT in Bolton.

Am I overly affected by Vitamin D or am I chemically imbalanced? Is it the comedy thing of spending the day moping about, then having to build up the energy to entertain people at night for an hour, then having nowhere to dispel the energy afterwards but in flinging myself about like “Tigger on speed” (direct quote from an observer), only for the cycle to begin again the next day?

My ding-a-thing

2006-09-06T16:18:00.000+01:00

I have a new geek toy! My mobile contract was up, and I threatened to change network. So (on the verge of tears) monsieur tmobile begged me to stay, offering me the incentive of a shiny shiny pda thing. I can hardly use the thing yet .

However, this can only be a good thing, because if I can't operate it, then my phone hijacking "friends" certainly won't be able to use it to (a) announce to random phone contacts that ''I am gay" (my nana was a bit disappointed it wasn't when I put her right) (b) try to get me laid by propositioning males within a 5 mile radius (in an attempt to stop the rampage of Sexual Frustration Girl) (c) send lists of meat or fish via text or 3am voicemail as though ordering from a butcher or fishmonger.

I'd like to say miss this fun, but I'd be lying.

Crocodile tears

2006-09-04T19:01:00.000+01:00

I’m very upset at the demise of Steve Irwin. Not sure why I’m so affected, but I am. Perhaps it is partly to do with the way the news was broken to me (bellowed by someone bursting into my room precisely three minutes before alarm time this morning). Perhaps it is because he was so Tiggerishly energetic and enthusiastic about everything that the thought of all that life being extinguished is nigh on impossible to envisage. Perhaps it is the thought of poor Terri and the little uns, bereft in their home in the zoo. But I think the main thing is all the watercooler conversations that will take place, along the lines of “Well, it’s how he would have wanted to go…”. Bollocks. Do you think he’d rather be dead at 44 from a stingray attack, or dead at 97, peacefully at home surrounded by lots of little great-grand-crocodile hunters?

Braindead

2006-09-04T00:27:00.000+01:00

I'm a fool. I came home from a month of running myself ragged writing and presenting quizzes every single night – nigh on quizzing myself to pieces - stayed for a couple of (very uncomfortable, stupid mattress) nights, then went on another road trip. To quiz. For three days. How much of a sucker am I?

I had fun, despite doing kinda badly in the actual quizzing stakes.

And apart from having to sleep on a child-size foam mattress on a lower bunk in a cabin meant for 6 people on my own (slightly spooky).

And excepting both the fire alarm incidents (3.45 and 8.15 am respectively, cheers kids). And ignoring the fact that I have been stripped of whatever remained of my dignity in a ritual humiliation incident(s) (och, I’m seeing the funny side. A bit. Eventually.).

And excluding the incident in which I was helping my alcoholic-poisoned friend with hiccups walk across a very dark activity centre without inducing vomiting.

And apart from the fact the place was chocka block with groups of KIDS, reminding me why I’m not meant to be a teacher – because they annoy the hell out of me and I wanted to send them all to work down a mine or something(Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be a great mother one day, but there’ll only be one or two of them to deal with rather than 60 at a time).

And besides me be so tired me lose power of….something….

And apart from the Saturday morning hangover from over-consumption of vino and Captain Morgan (who I am going to marry, if he is a pirate. And real.).

Good Lord, I’m using the parentheses a lot tonight. This means it is distinctly time to leave it.

Soliloquising

2006-09-01T00:45:00.000+01:00

Well, my crazy death wish project is over and done with, and my future stretches out in front of me like a big scary ocean. Which direction am I sailing in? Will there be land that way, or will I be sailing for ages? Do I even have a boat? I suppose I could carve my own out of a log, but can I physically remember how to kayak? What if there are pirates? (I hope there are pirates). I can’t help but worry that there’ll be some sort of shipwreck, so do we have a coastguard? Am I going to be sailing alone forever? How do I prevent scurvy and cabin fever?

It’s terrifying to have all these questions buzzing around, but also nice to know that I’m not merely at a crossroads in my life – I have many more potential paths than that which I can take. So I’m not rushing into anything this week, at least.

I'm a rubbish blogger

2006-08-29T23:16:00.001+01:00

Yep, I let the blog slide. A few days. Then a few days more. Then...well, for the rest of the festival. To be honest, I couldn't be bothered to queue for an hour for a fifteen minute internet slot in a room full of university theatre groups cutting out hundreds of slips of paper with four stars on them and stapling them to flyers. Too much like hard work.

I'm home from Edinburgh now. Gathering my thoughts, and scraping together my memories. Flitting between "I wish I'd taken a camera" and "Thank the Lord I didn't take a camera". Nursing my injuries (a damaged ankle, a nearly broken toe, an achy neck and assorted leg-bruises) and licking my wounds (critics, bah). I'd be making a battle plan for myself but I'm too tired. I must be strong, however - have to maintain my record of not going to sleep before midnight, or I'll turn into a mogwai or something. Last night I went to sleep early (3am) and felt a little ashamed - the dawn wasn't breaking or anything.

As and when I achieve lucidity I will begin to write reports. But I can't be arsed right now. Laters x

Fatigue setting in....

2006-08-08T13:16:00.000+01:00

A week in Edinburgh, and getting a bit knackered. Adrenalin and caffeine are keeping me going at the moment. The city is a seething mass of people, even more so than Manchester's Primark store during a sale. I'm beginning to really enjoy this performing lark....I was advised before I arrived that it would become addictive, and I didn't believe it at the time. but it looks like it's true. Maybe I'll carry on when I get back to the North West, who knows?

Over the first hurdle

2006-08-05T15:15:00.000+01:00

Phew.

First proper show was last night. Proper as in, I had a set, and an audience, and...well, a coherent act. The panic attack beforehand evidently stood me in excellent stead, as I was better than the first night by a factor of approximately 10 (say conservative analysts). I made people laugh, and I entertained them, and I adlibbed, and I riffed of things people shouted out, and I only used about a third of my scripted material. I impressed myself, as well as my friend who had come along even though she was "sure it was going to be rubbish".

The run up was not without its crises. Mostly to do with the arrival - or non-arrival - of two crucial bits of my set (i.e. the front and the top). After recieving the parts the item proved impossible to assemble. Many nails later, it's still very rickety, but I think that adds to its charm.

In conclusion, I'm happy. Happier than I was 24 hours ago. The act is still very much a work in progress, and it needs polishing and refining, but I'm happy with my progress. BRING ON THE REVIEWERS, BABY.

Scotch Mist

2006-08-02T17:18:00.000+01:00

Arrived Scotland, despite the inevitable car breakdown before even leaving Lancashire (Truckhaven services near Carnforth does a good line in cheese on toast and liqourice sticks). I've been in Edinburgh less than 24 hours and I'm already fighting the urge to talk in a Scottish accent continually - mainly resisting because I know my accent would be rubbish and offensive to real Scots.

My bedroom window faces onto The Meadows, which is a big green space in Edinburgh city centre. Unfortunately, The Meadows has a group of residents, who have tents set up directly opposite my bedroom window. The Lady Boys of Bangkok, who apparently are on twice nightly except Saturdays. When they're on three times.

Keep an ear on Justin Moorhouse in the afternoons on Key 103 (103fm in the North West, online everywhere)... cause I'm making guest reports for the show from North of the Border.

An open letter to Gore Verbinski

2006-07-27T18:42:00.000+01:00

Dear Mr Verbinski,

Well done on the "Pirates of the Caribbean" (PotC) franchise. I'll admit to having watched the first movie approximately 20 times, it having found a place in my heart reserved only for a select few films which I can watch repeatedly, even after only short breaks - for example, it's up there with Wayne's World, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Princess Bride and Some Like It Hot on my Most Played list (the only film that has come close recently was School of Rock, but I was really bored that week). Admittedly, I'd watch Johnny D hyperventilating into a paper bag for two hours and say it was a masterpiece, but I genuinely enjoyed Curse of the Black Pearl.

So, I was looking forward to what has been commonly referred to in the media and cinema listings as PotC 2. Yep, great fun, lots of scary beasties and sword fighting and high seas japery and whatnot. Despite the rustly-chatty-heavy-petty couple next to me, I enjoyed it for all 150 minutes. Although there was a point at about 120 minutes when I started to gear up for the inevitable climactic showdown.

Which didn't really arrive, did it.

Because the movie isn't PotC 2, is it? Okay, you've been clever and titled it PotC: Dead Man's Chest so as to avoid too much uproar, but my point still stands, you deciever, you.

Please retitle the movie PotC 2 PART 1 (or PotC : Dead Man's Chest PART 1) forthwith. The movie I saw last night was half a movie, and you should make that clear from the start.

Regards,

Jenny

Saturday night and Sunday morning

2006-07-16T05:14:00.000+01:00

Been out (as you might be able to tell from the time –bloody hell, it’s light outside).

I remembered an ambition I had at around the age of 13, which was to be an A&R man for a major record label. This because I was out watching bands. Many bands. I’m still hearing the cowbell used extensively by the headliners ringing in my left ear. During the course of the evening I developed an A&R theory – it doesn’t matter how talented a band is, if they are not 50 % pretty (minimum) they won’t be a success. The acid test is this -hypothetically, would I want to fuck any of them? One of the bands utterly failed this criteria (even bearing in mind my current favourite adage, that people on stage are 50% more attractive) which was sad, as they were pretty good. They could have made it up, I suppose, with styling and poise and attitude and energy but…they didn’t. I weep internal tears.

However, this does not explain the signing of the band Keane. It’s even an unsexy name. They wouldn’t have been picked up by my label.

I also started developing theories on boys, which I’m sure I will elaborate on later, after having had mulling time. I was thinking about having ‘types’, and whilst I’ve regularly maintained that I don’t have a type, I realise I actually just have many types, two of which I identified this evening: that is “The Hobbit” and “The Fat Geek”. There were a row of “Hobbit” types at the front of the gig this evening, and two were wearing knee-length shorts, which didn’t help me…. And I reencountered a “Fat Geek” who I had a thing with back in the day; I didn’t see him until he muttered from beside me at the bar the phrase “…and your specialist subject is?” before telling me I should have taken Star Wars, as I would have won my Mastermind heat with that (he’s probably right).

The night then degenerated further into a random bloke telling me how Xanax and Diazepam ruined his short-term memory; it was then I knew it was home time. An odd end to an odd day. I was ‘recognised’ in Space NK (well, the assistant came up and claimed I looked familiar) and my companion made a joke about me being on TV, or “As Seen On TV- the Edinburgh show title – and then I became a bit of a VIP and she started bringing us drinks and stalking us around the store offering to demonstrate things. I like being pretend famous.

In other news

I’m going to be a roving reporter for radio from Edinburgh – will elaborate later.

I just booked a flight. How mundane, you think; but it’s really fecking exciting for me as I’ve never flown solo before. Good Lord, that sounds sordid, doesn’t it. Sorry.

Yes, there should have been a quiz on Friday on the quizblog, but I grew too lazy and decided to have a bath and a lie-in instead. It’ll turn up. It’s about a specific person, but I ain’t saying who, or you’ll all (in your thousands) get revising, and that would be naughty.

Some questions

Is spectacles fetishism very very common, or do they all just come to me? And should I be worried?

Should the feminine of ‘viveur’ (see above) be ‘viveure’ or ‘viveuse’? This has been worrying me for some time, and if I’ve got it wrong I wish to change it.

Goddamn, the sun’s up. Bedtime. Laters boys and girls x

Fame at last!

2006-07-11T15:13:00.000+01:00

Here am I in the local paper. Woooooo!

At least it's a start, eh?

Contemplating A Sport-Free Monday

2006-07-09T19:38:00.000+01:00

Wimbledon’s over. The World Cup has reached its climax. No more sport to waste all my daytimes on from tomorrow. Damnit. TV schedules will go back to normal (I’d got used to being surprised by the odd soap turning up here and there, on the wrong day and at the wrong time), and I will have no excuse to leave the telly on all afternoon any more. I’m not sure I can remember what people talked about before the football, so this next few days will be a social learning curve for me.

All right, it’s a fair cop – there is the cricket. But Rupert has stolen the coverage from my pov terrestrial tellybox so it’s the Channel 5 highlights and long wave radio approach, which don’t eat up my time as greedily. And test cricketers don’t wear shorts.

I have recently come to terms with my minor shorts fetish. Hang on, that makes it sound sordid and dirty and wrong….but, yes, I have a little thing about shorts. Football shorts don’t do much for me (possibly it’s the length); rugby league boys seem to increasingly play in nigh-on skin tight affairs, which kind of ruin the effect for me. Cycling shorts & runners, no way. Nah, it’s all about the tennis. Not too short, preferably white, nice and baggy but the fabric clinging where/when it needs to… Thinking it over, I reckon it’s an accessibility issue as well as a visually flattering garment (on the nicely constructed athletes, of course) i.e. hands….

Lordy lordy, I sound like a pervert. But aren’t we all? I’ve only known a few people who’ve admitted fetishes (or “having a thing for xxxx”), and I don’t know why it always has to be hushed up, especially when it’s as innocuous as my own. Mine’s better than having a fetish for being drawn on (as an attempt to build girlfriend up to requesting being made dirty in other ways, true story) but I suppose it’s more limiting than a spectacles fetish (you know who you are). So feel free to open your heart and your little perversions. I’m fascinated.

DISCLAIMER This does not mean I will ‘give you a hand’ with any of your inclinations.

Mein Gott in Himmel

2006-06-15T13:48:00.000+01:00

Apologies for sporadic posting, but I am in love.

It is the World Cup.

Normally, and I'll happily admit this, I couldn't give a monkey's wotsit for watching live matches on TV - unless Bolton Wanderers are involved, that is. I'm the opposite to my stepfather, of whose realtionship with Sky Sports it was once remarked, "He'd sit and watch two teams of cats playing football if they broadcast it". Life's too short to watch games I've no emotional investment in.

Unless it's the World Cup.

I devour every match like it means something to me. I've missed one match so far (Spain v Ukraine), catching the rest on the 72-inch World Cup cinema screen I've set up or listening in whilst working on the PC. I was screaming for most of Australia v Japan (some terrible decisions, but why I was so outraged I don't know as I don't have a drop of Aussie or Japanese blood in me). I cheered like a madwoman when Tunisia equalised in the last minute against thr Saudis (admittedly, because it was one of 'our boys', Jaidi). I almost fell asleep during the second half of England v Paraguay; blaming mainly the stifling heat...

I love it. The World Cup has a special place in my heart. I've been to two (94 & 98) and I'm going to save up for 2010. Quite why it gets me so excited about football I'm not sure; maybe it's akin to going to a festival and watching loads of bands you've never heard/heard of before. You're there for the love of the medium, not particularly the performers.

I'd better go; there's a match starting about now.

My name is Jen and I am a quizaholic

2006-06-08T07:45:00.000+01:00

Even by the standards of my quiz-loving mates at home, I am an utter quiz geek these days. Branded so forever now, for I partook of the World Championships last weekend.

I did some of my usual tricks which come out of the bag on such an occasion:

1. Got over excited about being able to drink all day legitimately and without people looking at me like I’m mental (well, most people, although I did get a weird look from the barmaid on ordering, genius having struck, a double rum in a pint of coke. Well, I needed something to last me a while…). Admittedly, this resulted in an enthusiastic slight over-consumption (I apologise to anybody reading this who spoke to me between 4pm and 8pm. If I acted weird before that it was just pure giddiness rather than beer-induced.) but then I find a modicum of alcohol is ideal quiz-lubrication.

Here’s where I sound like a wino trying to justify the lifestyle… the last couple of times I tried to do a quiz with any level of competition, I dried. Last week, during a stressful cup match and sans booze, I was asked “who directed Se7en” (the quiz reader even pronounced the number in the middle, good on her). In response I listed most of his other movies and a couple of irrelevant facts, but would the name David Fincher emerge from my bone dry brain? Would it heck as like. All I could do was yell “It’s the guy who did The Usual Suspects!!” at my bewildered team-mates. A drink or two makes the answers flow.

2. Suggested doing an outdoor quiz, “shame to waste such lovely weather” etc. This is what comes of being spoiled during my youth by The Ole Three’s magnificent All Weather Beer Garden, the first place I ever saw a patio heater. Yup, it was the courtyard with a tarpaulin over it, but it worked. Incidentally, the newly refurbished Ole Three (too clean!) has a newly refurbished all weather beer garden. But it lacks the charm. I think part of the problem is its efficiency i.e. in a downpour you probably don’t have to carefully avoid the leaky patches.

3. Annoyed the question master. Despite being warned by all of my team-mates NOT to piss him off, I had to remonstrate with the pub quiz guy at the end. Darnabbit… he distinctly said, “Next, the music round. 20 pieces of music from the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s and noughties, I want the artist for each”. We reach Kraftwerk and I’m rubbing my hands in gleeful anticipation of a couple of terrible 90s song for me to identify – only we go straight to some Kelly Clarkson song or other. Naughty question master. Thankfully, like most people, he got one word in five of my complaint through the mire of my accent, and thought it was a compliment so didn’t dock us any points.

Ah well. Let’s not talk about my score, shall we? Suffice to say I wasn’t all that focused on it. I think I was a having some kind of Vitamin D rush and it screwed my concentration, leaving me unable to read sentences longer than 6 words. Still, despite my half-hearted attempting, I managed to beat the champion in one of the genres AS WELL as doing the same twice in the Last Man Standing game (I am claiming the honorary accolade of Last Woman Standing. Because I was. Victory!).

Sadly, my brain was a bit too preoccupied with one thing or another to make any significant progress – in fact, I think my quiz ability is currently in retrograde – but now I know what to expect I’m going to take them all to the fackin cleaners next year.

Maybe

Bon giorno mes amis, or something equally pretentious and incorrect

2006-05-31T22:48:00.000+01:00

Today is the last day in May, and I am afraid. This is why:

On the first of June I cease to exist as plain old me. No, this isn't a suicide journal (Chris Morris did that already in Blue Jam), but a blog charting my exciting and terrifying new existence as a stand-up comedian.

I have never been funny in my life. I have no illusions or delusions about this. There are those people who hold court at house parties (there's always one, usually in the kitchen) who are told, "You're really funny, honestly, you should be a comedian!". There are those people who are included on guest lists specifically because "they're a right laugh". There are those people who can think of a quip or scathing retort at the drop of a hat and set the room roaring with laughter.

I am not one of those people.

I want to see if it's possible to make oneself funny. If I can overcome the terror, that is.

I have two months to get ready. Then I'm performing a stand-up show at Edinburgh Fringe throughout August.

Oh, hell.

Thinking too much

2006-04-27T23:45:00.000+01:00

I'm feeling all grown up and mature at the moment. This from a girl sporting what can only be described as a lovebite.

I'm also feeling sad. Someone I know is never going to love me, which is awful, and although I know this and I could and should just back off and cut my losses, the very thought of doing so makes breathing difficult and makes my heart hurt. Ouch. So I don't (goddamn it, I have tried). I'm trying. Somebody help me out.

Despite this, I'm feeling rather peaceful. Things are happening. June is bustin' out all over, and it's not even May yet. I think the euphoria and the sadness are middling out into a sort of calm equilibrium, yet not like the doldrums - more like lying back in a rowboat in a lake on a sunny day. Hope there's no undercurrent.

Why don't I feel guilty about this?

2006-04-05T11:30:00.000+01:00

Had a few hours work on Monday. Of the kind: Roll up leaflets, band leaflets, assemble postage tube, insert rolled banded leaflets, lid tube, add address sticker, repeat 300 times.

Anyways, I felt ridiculously tired - nothing to do with my birthday on Sunday, obviously - and was in no mood whatsoever to engage in superfluous activity. Including conversation. So I sat there and looked really into my task and probably exchanged a maximum of 5 sentences during the course of the morning.

In the afternoon I heard two people talking about me (not a personal attack or anything) directly behind me and then when someone came up to offer me a cup of tea by walking right into my eyeline, leaning over and saying the words with exaggerated lip movements and mime did I realise that the entire office thought I was deaf. When in fact I was just being ignorant.

I should feel bad about this. But I continued the charade the following day, because I still felt rotten and was never going to suffer fools.

Compliment Showdown!

2006-03-13T18:32:00.000Z

Let's get interactive!

Here are two of the best compliments I have received this year:

1) You are goddess of the questions. Goddess, but also devil.
2) You're annoyingly sexy.

Cast your vote for your favourite using the comment bit below; I'm considering having the winning phrase on my headstone when I finally check out. Unless anyone can top those beauties with something even better?

Bus + hormones = bad

2006-03-07T18:37:00.000Z

Sitting upstairs on the bus this morning during a ridiculously long journey, I watched a bloke waiting to board. (By the bye, apologies for most of my recent posts being about blokes, but I happen to like them and my hormones happen to have decided I have to harmonise with nature, Spring being Mating Season).

So, this bloke is fairly attractive, and obviously scores more highly because cast into sharp relief against the denizens of Bolton. I like his clothes - very vain, I know, but I would not have cast even an initial glance if he'd been in a tracksuit. But, he sits downstairs, and gets off the bus just ahead of me and immediately puts up his brolly. We're both walking into the same shopping centre (shortcut) and at the doors he puts down the brolly...

Now, I genuinely have no problem with long hair on boys, it can be quite lovely sometimes. But this guy had straightened his hair. It was over-straightened. I was thrown into confusion and thankfully our paths diverged.

A shyness that is criminally vulgar

2006-03-05T13:03:00.000Z

I'm shy. It's true. Especially with boys. But for some reason I'm currently attracted to some boys shyer than me, which kind of blows the whole thing. I recently:

1) Spent several days getting up the nerve to text-ask for a date from a boy. Finally worded a message which was casual enough yet firm and clear. Shy boy ducked the question.

2) Spent several hours in the same room as another shy boy hoping I was giving out psychic energy sufficient to make him realise I think he's lovely. Failed entirely to have any kind of conversation, but only 50% of that was my problem. Came across as alcoholic, as continued to head to the bar in hope that maybe I wasn't drunk enough to overcome my shyness, with the niggling suspicion that I was already too drunk to overcome my shyness in a coherent manner.

Perhaps I confuse shyness with brooding? Heathcliff always was a sex symbol.

I wuv you

2006-02-20T18:56:00.000Z

Good Lord, how I cringe at Valentine's Day.

Not that I'm anti-romance. In fact, I'm a hopeless romantic (emphasis on the hopeless) and a firm believer in the full scale Hollywood sweeping one off one's feet scenario. Although not as literal as that, as a chap could put his back out in the attempt.

I just hate the way the day's used as an excuse by unimaginiative, stupid and/or soulless people to go all-out consumerist romantic For One Day Only. Whilst in fact the giving of a heart-shaped Hallmark card, an oversized flammable teddy bear holding a heart saying "I Wuv You", a dozen roses and a delightful Argos heart-shaped pendant to someone who is expecting such gifts on that very day is the inverse of romance. It's fucking laziness. Even lazier is the fact that the significant other is expecting such tokens, on this day and no other.

Fair enough, the feast day of the patron saint of lovers should be celebrated by lovers. Go, you guys! But when did it become so....plastic? And what's so wrong with spreading a little romance through the other 364 days?

(NB This is not a bitter rant by one of Cupid's Forgotten. I got a card. Admittedly, 4 days after the day itself. But, it was totally unexpected and caught me off guard, heart-meltingly. Now I'm more than a little mind blown, as I'd only ever anticipate recieving a Valentine from a person I was in a 'relationship' with. So, what does it all mean??? Before I develop a headache, I will stop reading too much into this.)

2006-02-13T21:52:00.000Z

Yes, I've not been here in a while. I'm sooooooooo sorry. (I may be being sarcastic).

My mind boggles if I think about my life as it is right now. OK, so I'm working a minimum wage job, from which I come home looking like a chimney sweep due to the serious issue of newsprint transference. And I'm still living at home, which is very frustrating, but thanks to the distinct lack of cash (see above re job) there doesn't look to be a change in the near future.

However,

I'm embarking on a writing/film-making project, all about me doing something foolhardy. But, when I think about it from the wide angle, it's an utterly utterly terrifying and potentially humiliating and soul-destroying concept. So, I'm blocking out the wide angle view, and thinking of it only as That Project I'm Doing.

And I'm at that deliciously tentative stage with a bloke. The heart-racingly exciting/heart-poundingly stressful almost-nearly-goddamgetonwithit bit. Which is fabulous. But, when I think about the bloke from the wide angle...well, I don't, or I'd have an aneurysm because it's eye-crossingly inconceivable. So, he's just That Bloke That I Met.

Wow. I'm living a life of contrasts. Wish me luck in blocking out reality.

'Tis the season for introspection

2006-01-02T12:29:00.000Z

Hmm, resolution time again.

Not wanting to be one of those gits who say "I don't make resolutions", I retired to bed after the midnight festivities and made my list. I didn't get to sleep for an hour, as fresh promises popped out one after another. Thankfully, when I woke up I couldn't remember half of them.

I'm not going to clog the blog with the full run-down. But it's enough to say that this is going to be a Very Big Year for Jen. Hopefully, a Very Small Jen, after a couple of months of resolution number 4.

2005 was a weird old year. I thought I had scabies for an entire month. I sang a song in Swedish in public. I got two celebrity kisses (a peck and a proper one). I ate at a French restaurant in India during a power cut and had the best dessert of my life. I had a wart issue which was threatening to take over my life but which has vanished suddenly. I came up with a plan which could make me terribly successful. I started seeing a psychotherapist. I gatecrashed the party for the British Soap Awards, and nobody in charge noticed. I cut my losses with someone who was never going to let me in and make me happy. I was star-struck by Sir Ian McKellen. I made more new friends than I did during my entire time at university. I took 10 days to lose a stone in weight. I almost got fired. I sat in the Mastermind black chair. I took singing lessons. I graduated. I went to three funerals. I went to a posh spa for free. I came within a fraction of a second of winning £50K on live national television. I started to feel in control of my life, and to get angry. I started to see all the doors that are open to me rather than concentrating on the few that are slammed shut. I worked in a mental health unit, a Christmas decorations wholesaler and a community college. I swam in the Arabian Sea, paddled in the Irish Sea and threw a chip into the Channel. I made up my mind to be happy.

Tough call, they're both really built and they both talk funny.

2005-12-14T09:25:00.000Z

Can someone please tell me why I have scenes from Look Who's Talking Too going around in my head?

Thanks.

All the pretty boys

2005-12-13T22:31:00.000Z

Decent hair, nice clothes and actual personal hygiene. They're what women have berated men for being without for decades, and now they're everywhere. So why aren't we happy? I find myself on nights out (even hormonally-charged nights out) dismissing blokes out of hand for such crimes as "Being in Possession of an Intentional Haircut" and "Going Equipped with a Distressed T-Shirt".

I had a chat with a friend about this phenomenon, and she understood. I find it difficult to be attracted to that look, she says, because "it wasn't like that in our day" (bear in mind we are 23 years old, not 43).

She's right. The formula for boys during my adolescence, in Bolton at least, was: checked shirt, hair fairly recently cut in whichever manner the barber fancied cutting it, slightly too much aftershave. So, naturally I'm suspicious of the too-trendy. For a while, Bolton was the last vestige of the masculine - Metrosexuals needed not apply. Then, over the last 18 months, along with the increasing number of bars opening along Bradshawgate, came slim fitting white shirts, Bedhead hair gunk, highlights, designer - not knockoff - jeans, tight vest tops and - horror of horrors - pink sweaters. Banished are Ben Sherman and his close associate Mr Kickers.

In a way, I'm pleased that little old backward Bolton has evolved slightly. In a way, it makes me want to retreat to the beer garden of the Ole Three, where men with non-postmodernironic beards can still be found, and quietly battle my intentional haircut attraction demons.

Briefly...

2005-11-23T13:52:00.000Z

I RULE

More later.

Recently

2005-09-28T18:53:00.000+01:00

Crappy temp jobs.
Multiple job applications.
Very wrong dream about Robert Lindsay.
Been feeling a bit low, so in need of cheering. Happy links, jokes, photos are nice.
Laters.

Answer required

2005-09-05T15:12:00.000+01:00

How many baked beans would it take to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool?

Any relevant answer will be given time of day.

Up to date

2005-09-04T16:49:00.000+01:00

What a busy time I've been having. Except, you know, real work. That's not been busy. Here's a rundown of the last few weeks:

Quiz profits: one DVD player, 8 pints of beer, one board game. Which is the most useful?

Quiz losses: nothing but the space in my brain, where there used to be emptiness but now there are more and more facts and factoids.

Quiz show auditions: One, Mastermind.

Places visited: Wakefield, Guildford, Torquay (twice).

Boys: Boys are good. I need to find a boy.

Dumb question I've been asked most frequently: "Where's downstairs?"

Most intriguing quote: "Today, I nearly touched a lesbian. A South African lesbian."

A disheartening episode: At my temp job, found out I was working with a bloke I snogged once or twice back in the day. He doesn't remember me. Am I not a memorable person now?

Factoid of the day: Albert Square roadkill and Hear'say splitter Jack Ryder's dad was in 80s band Wang Chung.

Midsummer crises

2005-08-09T18:22:00.000+01:00

I still don't have a job. This is starting to get beyond annoying, as I am now £638 overdrawn, and my overdraft limit is £500. Any job ideas/opportunities will be gratefully accepted.

I'm wondering whether to go blonde (again) (the wondering is happening again; I've never done blonde before). Either that or I change my name. While I'm changing things, I should lose some weight. My friend's wedding is on Friday, and I spent all yesterday trawling the shops for a suitable outfit.

Problems: FLS (Fat Ladies Shop) clothes either resemble tents or aim for the 65+ market, or both. A major trend in standard shops is that empire line top, which either is too tight, clings to my stomach and makes me look pregnant, or is too baggy, looks like maternity wear and makes me look pregnant. H&M has the nicest clothes but is very free and easy with clothing sizes (in one trip I once bought a size 14 top and failed to get into some size 20 jeans - go figure). New Look has Nothing; Debenhams has nothing nice under £60. On the way home, I'd decided to wear a dress I already have when my mother decided to cheer me up. "Let's try Selfridges. You never know!". But I already knew - the double whammy of being too skint and too fat to even touch any item of clothing in there. Cheers, mum.

The first person to forward me a diet "GUARANTEED!!!!!1111!!!! to work you loose 15 FIFTEEEN stone in a DAY!!!!!11111!!!!!" - probably involving drinking the European grafefruit juice lake - wins a pound of flesh.

Karma flips me the bird

2005-07-21T17:36:00.000+01:00

Earlier this week, my uncle's cat brought in a mouse. Neither my uncle or his girlfriend dared to touch the mouse or even remove the cat from it, so they stuck a mixing bowl over the little beggar and waited for me to come round. I then had to manoeuvre a magazine under the bowl and carry the whole lot down the street to a churchyard, where I could safely release the beast.

On removing the bowl, I found the mouse cowering, but otherwise looking reasonably fine. However, it shuffled one step and I saw it had a gash in its belly through which organs (most likely intestines) were poking, leaving a small trail of blood as it dragged itself along.

I knew I should put the poor thing out of its misery. Yet I didn't have the guts (no pun intended). I stood there for a few minutes, hoping I'd get a little courage from somewhere whilst the mouse hauled its sorry carcass into a patch of undergrowth. Even knowing it would die slowly and painfully, possibly of some infection rather than its wounds, I walked away.

I should have know there'd be comeback.

This afternoon as I waited at the bus stop, from the corner of my eye I saw something flutter onto the yellow road markings next to me. It was a bird, some kind of finch. Something bad must have happened to it, to make it land in the middle of the road, I thought. Within a second a speeding car clipped the bird. It lay there on its belly, opening and closing its beak although no sound came out. I couldn't look away, and wished ferevently that the next car would hit it straight on and finish it. It didn't; the speeder had pushed the bird closer to the kerb than the traffic went, and so it carried on silently crying.

Next to me was a collapsed section of wall. I knew what I had to do. I picked up a heavy piece of stone and moved towards the bird. Just at that moment, the road became much busier than usual. There were no gaps in the traffic. I could only stand there and watch the bird dying. Finally it expired when a car came too close. I picked up another rock so I could scoop it up and leave it in the field behind me, rather than let it be squashed. Again, fate defeated me. The bus pulled up - I hadn't even seen it come around the corner - and stopped right over the bird.

Dreamtime

2005-05-24T14:47:00.000+01:00

I had a very strange dream last night/this morning.

I was on holiday in India when I was told to go to the USA because I'd written a controversial, award-winning pome and they wanted me on TV. Despite leaving my passport, I was allowed on a plane - the wrong one, though, so I ended up in the middle east. Thankfully I met some people I knew and talked my way onto another plane, before realising not only did I have my own passport but also the passports of all my family on holiday in India.

When the plane landed in Moscow, it turned out everything was part of an elaborate scheme. I tried to get a warning message out by writing on some laminated paper. But that was incredibly difficult, and so I tried to encode the message by circling letters in that day's newspaper. Then I realised I was not human, and was promptly plugged into a spacecraft's navigational device by my family so they could get home.

Stressful dream!

Hoodies aren't the issue

2005-05-17T12:25:00.000+01:00

Hoodies. What's the problem? It's not as if just shoplifters/muggers/loiterers wear them, or they're some kind of gang symbol (the Bloods, the Crips and the Hoodies). I wear a hoodie, and not just for looking threatening. It's almost surgically attached to me; it's comfortable and it's multi-purpose. Going up the scale:
Scruff: thrown on over pjs to attend corner shop for milk.
Casual: with jeans, down the pub (or anywhere, for that matter)
Formal-ish: to the office, in lieu of the ageing cardigan look
Showbiz: worn to attend the after-party of the British Soap Awards.
Yes, I have worn the same hoodie to each of these events very recently, sans eyelid-battery from anyone. The only reason I'm not wearing it now is that it is in the tumble dryer - the label says Do Not Tumble Dry, but I can't cope without it for the length of time it takes to air-dry.
So, media, shut up about hoodies.And buy yourself one. They're useful.

P.S. It's the ones who wear them with baseball caps you need to be worried about.

Current affairs

2005-05-05T14:14:00.000+01:00

Thought of the week: Where can I get some of Julian Clary's iridescent highlighter? (Coming in second - about various people - "he's much better looking in real life")

Disappointment of the past week: Not walking away with £50K on live national television.

Highlight of the past week: Meeting Alan Dedicoat (if you don't know who he is, hang your head in shame/bemusement/indifference).

Challenge of the coming week: I've been told I need to get some even "more smoochy photos" of myself and Mr. Current Number One than the one currently in existence (you can see it when it's been photo-shopped to protect the innocent)

Annoying comment of the week: (of the stupendous photo) "Who's that hairy goblin peering over your shoulder?"

Record of the week: Close call between The Birdie Song and The Conga.

Runners-up prizes of the week: We may not have won the cash, but between my team-mate and I we have accumulated: a mountain bike, a Bristol City Shirt, a weekend in Bristol, a visit to Hull, a press photo of Eddie Izzard, unlimited sushi and wine, and the schmoozing opportunity to get a job in broadcasting (mebbe). Not bad. Still wanted the big money, though.

Magic is real

2005-05-05T14:09:00.000+01:00

The other day:
Thinks, "hmmm, I really fancy some carb-based crunchy snacks which would be found in a bag, but unfortunately the shop is closed."
Continues tidying.
Opens chest containing shoes.
Finds two bags of crisps.

Miraculous.

Bad bad bad bad bad bad bad

2005-04-17T17:43:00.000+01:00

*communal wrist-slap*

I have been neglectful of this blog. It has preyed on my mind something rotten. Hence, I have quit my shabby job and have come back to give the page a facelift and generally be nice to it. Maybe in time it will forgive me, perhaps not.

SORRY BLOG! I REALLY AM SORRY!

Where*d you go?

2005-02-01T13:03:00.000Z

Yikes, I've been away a long time, haven't I? Sorry. I've been working long hours at a mildly mind-numbing job, rehearsing for my show, having ill-advised liasons (well, one) and looking after a poorly mother. Still, that shouldn't be an excuse, should it? Therefore my new promise is to post at least every other day (since I've worked out how to post via email cos I don't have internet access at work). Hooray! You get me back! Cheers cheers!

Also included will be "Thought of the day". No, not for the day, but of * i.e. an actual phrase which has passed through my mind during the previous 24 hours. Prizes for working out how I arrived at such a thought will be awarded as appropriate.

Today's thought:

"If it's been in Abi Titmuss, it's not going in me"

Any ideas?

Look! More stuff by me!

2004-11-10T19:31:00.000Z

http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/5035
http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/5082

Another boost for the old ego

2004-11-01T21:09:00.000Z

Scene: Int. Bar. Night.
Two young women sit in earnest conversation about the play they have just seen.
Enter: Man
Man approaches otherwise empty seating area and sits so close to Girl 1 he squashes her coat.
Man: (extending hand for Girl 1 to shake) Hello. I am Somalian.
Girl 1: Oh. Hello.
Man: Where are you from?
Girl 1: I'm English.
Man: (surprised) Really? Oh. (turns to Girl 2)
Man: (extending hand to shake) Pleased to meet you. Are you man or woman?
Girl 2: (baffled) Er, woman.
Girls 1 and 2 exchange confused looks and resume conversation.
Man: (prodding Girl 1 in arm with finger) So, what do you think of American CIA?

Yes, I'm Girl 2, and this really happened. I wouldn't mind, but I was in full feminine mode i.e. make-up, skirt, heels. No comprendo.

Woooooooooooooooooooooo

2004-10-22T18:30:00.000+01:00

Look! My first review, and they didn't hack it to pieces!
*basks in the glory*

Ahoy-hoy, dream interpreters

2004-10-21T20:51:00.000+01:00

If you don't already know, my dreams are generally fraught affairs, even those with a romantic slant. In fact, particularly the romantic ones. Usually I'm running 3 hours late, haven't washed my hair, have lost my make-up and am wearing my housework duds - or something similarly distressing and romance-killing (cf This)

I may have turned a corner. Although there was some minimal stress in the run up to the meeting with The Dream Man (in this incarnation, a particular one rather than vagueness), thanks to everything being (just about) where it should be and to various members of my family - in particular Maman - chivvying me along, I was looking and feeling spiffy in plenty of time. In fact, the major worry was that he was a little late...

But he did turn up. Nothing sordid - in fact it was all a little Hollywood (where did that string section come from?). Kisses, a spark, and niceness; an apology for it being a flying visit, and strong hopes expressed that next time would be real and forever; regrets that he had to leave so soon but, after all, I was about to wake up. Which I did, shortly after he left (via the window) - roused by heavy rain pelting against my window. Very Wuthering Heights.

This encounter took place in a bathroom. Any interpretation/comment is much appreciated.

Bus Stop

2004-10-20T20:18:00.000+01:00

8.39pm. I arrive at the bus stop. In the shelter are two girls smoking proficiently, and I decide to loiter outside. A middle-aged man rolls up and enters the shelter and says something to the girls, to which they shake their heads. He looks confused, then approaches me (BTW he isn't drunk).
Man: Have you seen a 125 go past?
Me: (that being my bus) No, there is one due at 53 minutes past though.
The man looks slightly less confused and returns to the shelter. After half a minute he speaks to the girls again, then comes out to me, his original confusion level reattained.
Man: When you say 53 minutes past, 53 minutes past....?
Me: 53 minutes past 8. They come at 53 minutes and 23 minutes past each hour in the evenings.
Man: So there's one due now?
Me: Yes, well, fairly soon...
But he has already returned to the shelter, where he paces anxiously and stares up the road for the next 10 minutes until the bus turns up. I wonder, why is he so anxious? Would I lie to him? Am I a person who stands near darkened bus stops in the rain offering false information? Or, from my encylopaedic knowledge of said bus's times, could I possibly be a passenger waiting for the same service?
The bus arrives, and I leap on, followed by the man, who says something (I'm guessing, "I think you're late, I had no idea when you were going to turn up") to the driver.
Driver: But all the times are up on there (indicating shelter poster)
Man: Yeah, well, I can't read.

Finally prised off the sofa

2004-10-16T23:48:00.000+01:00

The Gods of Television fairly smiled on me this evening.
Let's be honest, Saturday night is a terrible telly night. So I was delighted to see (whoop de do) a decent looking documentary about the history of magic on BBC2. Aficionados of this blog will recall how Magic Scarred Me For Life, but the fascination remains. Thus I settled down with my Toblerone ice cream.
Forty minutes and one sugar high'n'crash later, I was about to nod off (this is no reflection on programme quality) when a vision in mind trickery appeared. Yes, my current Number One Mr Derren Brown was attempting to make me think of the three of diamonds - that old chestnut... This certainly perked me up, and I was even cheerier when I braved the depths of ITV to find one of my top comedians, Mr Harry Hill. Hooray hooray, I thought. But it can only be downhill from here.... not so. Parky's guest was none other than all-round super guy Mr Eddie Izzard, telling me he wants (me) to have (his) children. Alright, I made up the brackety bits, but potentially the evening's highlight. That was until I switched back to 2. Just in time to see Mr Jude Law in the nip.
At this point the TV had to go off, as this run of luck could not continue and I would most likely be stuck with something about Margaret Thatcher.

By the way:
I have come to the decision that I need a new lust object. It's been the same old 10 knocking about over there ---> for some time now, and the same 27 on the Long List. It's getting quite repetitive, so all suggestions for new Crush (because having a crush is healthy, I proved it with Science and everything) will be gratefully accepted. Preferably somebody there is a vague chance of me meeting, so I can make a fool of myself (it's been a while and I've missed it).
By the way I have a wild and crazy plan on gaining access to my Number One Guy, which doesn't involve camping outside his house and going through his rubbish. In fact, it is bordering on the legitimate. Despite vaguely nefarious motives. The plan is in development...

Here is the News at Jen

2004-10-16T13:42:00.000+01:00

Bonnnnnnng.
Jen fails to win but wins on many other levels. (Still a loser, though).
Bonnnnnnng.
Jen gets soul-destroying day job.
Bonnnnnnng.
Jen gets other job (evenings) which makes day job more bearable.
Bonnnnnnng.
Jen now has a moblog.

Now to our top story:
I lost the box-thingy. Well, I prefer to think of it as ‘coming runner-up’, even though a runner-up out of two contestants is still the loser. Nonetheless, I came out a winner in other ways than the official way. More later.
Next:
New job is “call handler”. It is entirely boring and I won’t go into detail. It provides me with money for my holidays, so can only be good.
And now:
The exciting news is that I am now that most feared and reviled of things, a professional theatre critic (daaaahling). Should be in print this Thursday, all going well…
And finally:
I found this Moblog thingy, and got one. ‘What is a Moblog?’, you cry out. Well, it’s like a blog, but mobile (not just a clever name). Thanks to my camera phone, there will now be visual images to accompany my verbal rantings. If you click here, or the link on the right, you can go there. I will do my utmost to provide a daily pictorial dose, once I’ve sussed out how to rotate images.

Apologia

2004-10-16T13:40:00.000+01:00

Sorry for the brief hiatus of blog. Busy busy busy bee-type happenings. Back now, with NEW THINGS!

Black armbands all around

2004-09-15T13:59:00.000+01:00

It's all over. Belle de Jour has hung up her blogging gloves (no doubt elbow length black satin affairs) and ended her lovely diary. This is pretty sad, as I really enjoyed her writing - but then again, the shine was somewhat diminished when she went from small cult to major phenomenon. Nonetheless, I'm looking forward to her book. if anyone wants to buy me a copy, it would be gratefully accepted...

Very Exciting Stuff

2004-09-13T09:27:00.000+01:00

Wooooooo!
I've been selected to take part in a crazy stunt, lured by money and glory. Basically, they're sticking me in a perspex cube in Manchester's Arndale Centre with only a phone and the Phone Book. It's up to me from there (like the Phone Book adverts, see?) although the regional radio station will be harrassing me with daily challenges.
So far, so fun. Except it's a competition, and there's another cube adjoining mine...there is a public vote and the winner gets to keep all their stuff and whatever's left of a £1500 budget; the loser gets...to give all their stuff away to charity.
Which is where I will need your help. I promise it's not too much of a pain. I need lots of votes. So please, get voting for me; forward the details to your entire address book - when you get them from me. The voting should be by text and email, so it won't be too much hassle to fire off a few (especially when you get free email at work/uni). Lines open when I start the challenge on Tuesday 21st September, but I'll let you know as soon as I can.
In the meantime, keep an eye on the radio station's website - http://www.1054centuryfm.com - and/or keep an ear on the station itself - 105.4 fm in the northwest of England, or listen online at that address.
Cheers!

A Friendly Note

2004-09-09T09:49:00.000+01:00

Pregnant women:
I understand that you must be very proud, and, indeed, well done you for getting up the stick; however, nobody wants to see your newly deformed and mangled bellybutton (not to mention that line down the middle of your stomach), and certainly not either first thing in the morning or when trying to eat their lunch. Therefore, please refrain from wearing tiny tops and low-slung velour tracksuit bottoms. I have the number of a reasonably-priced smock manufacturer.
I appreciate your co-operation.

Is it just my imagination or...

2004-08-28T23:10:00.000+01:00

...are more people racist these days?

Stalker TV

2004-08-26T18:07:00.000+01:00

Have you seen this new TV show, "Secret Admirer"? It's about the creepiest thing I have ever seen, and I saw Umberto once at a school fete so that's saying something. The premise is simple: X fancies Y, X is too shy to chat up Y, producers make cheap TV by helping X. So far, so Would Like To Meet. HOWEVER, this help comes in the form of distracting Y, so that X can access their nearest and dearest, find out what their hobbies, pet hates etc. are and also find out what their ideal partner and/or ex-partner looks/dresses/acts like. X then goes to get made over and learns about the hobbies in order to feign knowledge and thus fake any compatibility signals. If that wasn't bad enough, there is then a contrived 'chance meeting', so X can put the stalkering stuff to the test.

In the edition I saw, X was a woman who had never even spoken to Y, in fact Y didn't know she existed, but she was certain he would be a great boyfriend (I want to know how the hell this scenario came about...suggests pre-show stalkerage to me). X then spent a week looking at photos of his ex and learning about his favourite pastimes of classic cars and Clarice Cliff pottery, before 'bumping into him' at - coincidence of coincidences - a Clarice Cliff theme night at his local antiques store! The whole thing was gross and disturbing, and nobody came out unscathed. X had subsumed herself to the image of what she took to be his Perfect Woman, thus hiding her true self and ruining any vestige of pride she had left. And Y first of all fell for the routine in the antiques shop, and even after finding out that this woman was a hollow fake who had lied to him still went to meet her for a drink. As for the best friend who facilitated the entire debacle....

It's on after Sex and the City. Don't even get me started on Sex and the City. Because, although I am thoroughly entertained by it, it angers me more than words can say...*claps hand over mouth before tirade comes pouring out*...just tell me this - are we really supposed to like Carrie? Obviously, we are supposed to be inwardly jealous/outwardly pitying (or is it vice versa?) of Samantha and her sexcapades; we are meant to empathise with Charlotte's fathomless belief in the power of marriage and romance (or at least think it's misguided but endearing); Miranda is meant to be the most realistic, I suppose, by her being a working woman (and eventually by saddling her with the unplanned baby - a cautionary tale?). But what of Carrie? Personally, I find her too shallow and contrary to ever truly empathise with (the only thing going for her being the Big storyline - should I be getting deja vu re myself?). Fair enough, my opinion, yada yada. However, was she created to be likeable? Or just a conduit/narration device? And does anybody really like her? Again, postcard-based replies.

Crazy name, crazy place

2004-08-26T17:55:00.000+01:00

Bolton can catch even the most experienced weirdness veteran off-guard. Today I was entertained on the top deck of the bus by a back seat type, who, I assumed, was holding court with a couple of acolytes by freestyling in a garage MC manner. Not wanting to turn round and face youth-wrath, I sat and pictured the scene: a be-dreadlocked young man in Fubu with a touch of bling, with a groupie in a mini-skirt and an agog white bloke who follows him around, both of whom sit in hushed respect for this non-stop lyricism. Imagine my surprise when 'they' got up to alight the vehicle. 'They' were in fact a 10 year old white lad in hand-me-down Adidases.
Still, not as much of a curve ball as the Market Hall's latest stall - a nail bar, staffed entirely by 17 year old Chinese lads.

Today I have been mostly...

2004-08-25T21:39:00.000+01:00

...being tidy.
...gardening.
...getting vicarious exercise by watching th'Olympics.
...trying to improve my Gaydar (because apparently it's currently only 52% accurate).
...sporadically nodding off at random moments.

Nuptial-arama

2004-08-24T17:41:00.000+01:00

Yep, it was my auntie's wedding this weekend. I was a vision in lilac (not my choice) and, on viewing the video, I have decided to accept any offers of free cosmetic surgery that come my way.

Actually, it was a tremendous occasion. As her brother said, you could tell my auntie's profession - project manager - when she arrived in the wedding car half an early: the day was put together "under-budget, and ahead of schedule". In fact, the only hiccup came when we were informed at 3.20pm (ceremony at 4.00) that the venue didn't have a CD player with which to play the all-important walking-down-the-aisle tune. 40 minutes of Wacky Racing later, and we'd managed to find one - so Andy Williams rang through the air as planned.

Cracking choice of first dance, by the way. Bring Me Sunshine by Morecambe and Wise. Legendary. Of course they did the Eric'n'Ernie dance as well.

(BTW, answers on a postcard as to what cosmetic surgery I should get. Seriously. I'm shortlisted for some tv show where they whisk you off to LA for six weeks of chopping and shopping to make a shiny new you. Liposuction is a given, I think. FREE!!!!)

Explanation

2004-08-24T17:34:00.000+01:00

Right, the photo...
Life-laundering my room, I collected a ridiculous number of finished and half-finished disposable cameras and a couple of films, which I took in to be developed today. As it was just as cheap, the disposables were ready in two hours. I was surprised at the rag-tag collection of pictures, of which this was possibly the earliest, chronologically. I would guess we were about 16 or 17, and it was certainly pre- 'Tequila-gate'. Possibly early 1999. Look how unjaded we are...relatively.

2004-08-24T17:30:00.000+01:00

Yikes....

Good advice

2004-08-10T17:36:00.000+01:00

I recieved this gem today, which I may well get a tattoo of:

"If you keep on playing these retarded elastic-fuckbuddy games, you will end up broken too"

Muhrhrrrrrrrrrrr

2004-08-08T15:09:00.000+01:00

Official hen night last night.
I'm feeling somewhat delicate.

Dream, interrupted

2004-07-28T14:54:00.000+01:00

Bah. I had one of those dreams where you meet your dream man. Not one of the dream men listed to the right --->
but the perfectly beautiful, nice, funny, dream man, who, when you wake up, you are pretty darn furious it was just a dream and set to wondering if he does in fact exist. Maybe he had a mirror dream that night and dreamt about me. Maybe he was lying in bed at the same time wondering if I exist.

The dream man was still great, even though his family were trying to fleece mine with some scam about digital TV and getting me an audition for Eastenders. So, I'm on the lookout for him. I can't remember exactly what he looked like ( although when our paths cross I'm sure I'll recognise him). However, he had a look of Jamie Cullum; therefore I am promoting Cullum up the rankings --->

Still, however annoying this dream was, at least it beat the previous night. I dreamed about the removal of limescale from kitchen appliances. Apparently the President (of something or other) is very good at that.

Friday in Rome

2004-07-26T19:25:00.000+01:00

Friday 7am(! This is supposed to be a holiday) Arise, breakfast and discuss battle plan. Bride's Roman priority is St Peter's basilica and the Vatican, although we've kept quiet that it opened at 7.30. Everyone seems happy with the plan, and the question goes out as to which other landmarks should be viewed. Bride berates me for wanting to see the Keats-Shelley Museum ("I've not come to Rome to go somewhere somebody died"...I didn't bother to start with what was wrong with that). At 9.00 we go underground. At 9.30 we are in the queue for the museums, and it is already hotter than I like. Aha, you cry, but you'll be inside in the shade! Indeed that is true...only crammed in with around 7,000,000 other people, being herded through like sheep. Not much cooler. 10.00 We enter the museum proper. Now, you can't be crafty and go for a couple of Raphael rooms and the Sistine chapel. Oh no. There's a structure to these things. Every so often there's a sign pointing out Cappella Sistina through an ominous-looking door...but it's generally another lavishly decorated room or corridor full of Croatians (or another group led by the auspicious 'Trumpy Tours'). Don't get me wrong. Everything was gorgeous. I've seen more beautiful ceilings than I could have hoped for. It's just...a little like overkill. You can get gildinged-out, poped-out, sainted-out. Best bits on the way round - Egyptian artefacts, colossal statues of ancient gods, the Raphael rooms and the tiny Chapel of St Nicholas painted by Fra Angelico (I think a lot of people miss this). We take the slightly longer but much quieter detour through the Borgia Apartments, which is a collection of modern religious art. A lot of which is, shall we say, mediocre to rubbish; some of which is scary, and not in a good way. But we spot some Picasso ceramics and a couple of Dalis (tick-offs for the Bride and others), although the best bit is in another side room, which we are alone in and which houses a Van Gogh. Not only a Van Gogh, but one none of us has ever even heard of before - a pieta (the scene of Mary holding Jesus after he's brought down from the cross) with Vincent himself as Jesus. Another tick-off for the bride, and we get amazingly close without a curator breathing down our necks. 12.00 Exhausted, we find a sneaky terrace coffee bar just before the Sistine Chapel (yet another hidden gem) before facing one of the most famous pieces of art/examples of back-breaking dedication in the world. And despite the enormous volume of beautiful things my brain has already absorbed this morning, it still takes my breath away. As well as giving me a crick in the neck. For me, we weren't in there long enough (I could have stood beneath the spark of wisdom being imparted for hours) but duty (the Bride) called. More corridors just to get out.... looking at the guidebook, I see we've missed more than half the top ten pieces and walked round less than half the museum. But, enough is enough now. To St Peter's! En route we are accosted by some beggar-pickpockets armed with babies, but thankfully we're all on alert and shoo them away.1pm St Peter's basilica. Impressive is the word, but although the Bride loves it (she gets misty-eyed and seems to be contemplating taking the veil) it leaves me and some of the others cold. Yes, it's all done to huge scale, but it seems to be more a monument to Popes gone by than a house of God. It doesn't feel like a place of worship; it feels like an ornate shell. A lady in a hat hails me."Do you speak English?" she asks in an American accent. Me: "Yes"She:"Can you tell me where to look for the Michaelangelo painting?"Me: confusedly "...Painting? by Michaelangelo?"She: impatiently, obviously she has chosen to ask a fool "Yes, the Michaelangelo"Me: thinks, she's said painting by accident, she means the Pieta statue (one of the only truly beautiful rather than imposing items in there) "Oh, the Pieta! The statue - it's in that first chapel,

Thursday in Rome

2004-07-26T19:22:00.000+01:00

Thursday

12.00 Rendezvous chez le Bay Horse, for scampi-eating and taxi-waiting. When the taxi arrives at 1pm, we are still short by one person. 5 minutes later, all piled in, we find that something technological has happened to the vehicle's immobiliser, and must go to the airport in his mate's stinky minibus. The man drives like a lunatic, and we arrive before we set off (minus the scampi).

3pm Enjoy a couple of Havana Club'n'cokes at the airport bar. Purchase 2 bottles of champers for la bride, to enjoy on arrival. Two of our number are nervous flyers, something I've never experienced before. Therefore, advantage is taken of onboard hospitality - the worse of the pair told the hostess, who promptly palms her two minatures of brandy. Anyway, the flight passes without major incident.

8pm Arrive Rome airport. Heat (as always) unbelievable. Crazy taxi driver creates a bookend to our journey, but the lunacy is less noticable as all Italians seem to drive like that. Hotel is smashing, and they provide us with a bottle of champagne. Hurrah!

9.30pm Head to corner of street for nutrition. Seafood pasta, "turniptops(?)" and sausage pizza, some concoction of pastry with zabaglione cream...oh, and muchos vino. Roll into bed for EARLY START (oh no...)

Rome - A Seemingly Infinite Tale of my trip to The Eternal City

2004-07-26T16:55:00.000+01:00

I've just returned from Rome. As this long weekend hen party for my auntie was my Holiday for the year (and I've not paid for it yet, not that I haven't been made utterly aware of this on the hour, every hour), I will have to tell everything about it. Day by day, meal by meal. Of course, in separate posts.

What the hell does this mean?

2004-07-08T12:39:00.000+01:00

Last night's dream:
I've won a ticket to see Derren Brown. A damn good ticket in fact - a cracking seat, and for some reason I get my own dressing room. Anyway, during the first half I decide that Mr Brown keeps looking over; and eventually he, doing some audience participation stuff, comes over to my row. He's been asking a trivia question about Bros, and I'm fairly sure I give the right answer. But he gives me a slightly funny look and bounds off for the interval.
When I go into my dressing room, I realise I look a right mess (which may have explained the look) and so I set about smartening myself up. Well, I've got to at least try - this could be my only chance. Thankfully I have a full set of luggage with me, the contents of which I proceed to strew about the place. Suddenly I realise the show must have restarted - popping my head out, I see that is so. So I check my reflection...I don't look any better. In fact, I am Iris Murdoch. And not Winslet/Murdoch. Murdoch, the final years.
Damnit.

Good news for Jen! Yay!

2004-06-08T16:24:00.000+01:00

Finally something goes my way.

Sunday. I'm feeling annoyed that I'm so stony broke I can't afford to do...just about anything, so I decide to enter every competition going to win tickets to...just about anything. As it happens, there's a proliferation of Glastonbury ticket comps at the moment; it being Glastonbury and having sold out in approximately 1/8 of a second months ago meaning that every man and his dog in the UK will be entering. Somewhat shortening my odds. But, I enter anyway.
At which point I spot one for a VIP ticket. Hurrah, I cry, and hasten to read the details. Which is where it gets better. The VIP ticket is for a special Glastonbury correspondent for the Guardian online! Double hurrah! But what's the catch?
"Send us an email telling us, in 300 words or under, what you'd bring to our online Glastonbury coverage that no one else can, and the one thing you'd cover at this year's festival." By noon on Monday. Hmph, I think, and then decide to sod the deadline, cobble something together in 10 minutes and fire it off. Ah well, at least I tried.
And then today I recieve an email of congratulations...I've been shortlisted!
The BIG catch being that online readers have to vote for their favourite 300-word blurb. And that mine's not very good.
So I urge you, dear reader, to VOTE FOR ME. You are my only hope. Go to the website (although you may have to register first) and vote for me, get your friends and family to vote for me, invent pseudonyms to register under and VOTE FOR ME. Come on, it's my big oppo...
I just checked the website and I am officially "Amelie-in-a-field". I rule.
Oh, and a little incentive....I get a pair of tickets, so I'll have to think about who to take....

BTW the Cowell thing was a farce. More later.

Clash of the Titans

2004-05-31T01:34:00.000+01:00

I've been struggling with my conscience. Problem? Gordon Ramsay has a very sexy voice (certainly my type), but let's face it, he ain't a pretty bloke.
Debit column:
Don't find initially physically attractive; very angry man; not very attractive personality.
Credit column:
Voice; food potential; fact that is a perfectionist (in all areas, perhaps?)
Could go either way column:
The reasoning for the naming of his restaurant 'Aubergine'.
*drifts into reverie in attempt to resolve the dispute*
.....
*swiftly returns from said reverie*
Sorry Gordon. I discard the potential crush. (He'll always have The Greenhalgh Effect though!)

Vindictive inanimate objects

2004-05-29T01:10:00.000+01:00

I've been thwarted by several objects today.
In the early hours of the morning, a cylindrical hollow metal rod bit me. Well, I may have walked into it, but it must have created a vacuum, because the bruise is the exact shape and colour of a love bite (except just above my knee).
When I hurried to answer the phone (thinking it was important family business) this evening, it smacked me in the cheekbone. This threatened to leave me with a beautiful shiner for my audition, but thankfully it has calmed down now. The worst thing was, the person on the other end of the phone was asking to order some Chinese food for delivery.
Then, the pièce de resistance, my computer. During my Channel Four viewing, I heard the ominous words "Derren Brown live webchat after the show". Wow, I thought, never done a celebrity webchat before, and here's one I can think of some questions for! I know, I'll get online in plenty of time, knowing my P.C.'s track record. Therefore, I dial up, and at 11.30 I'm ready (chat beginning at 11.40). 11.35, still good. 11.39, hurrah! I'll try the chatroom...
11.40.
The computer makes a noise like a Tamagotchi in its death throes. FATAL EXCEPTION CTRL ALT DEL LOSE ALL WORK DIE DIE DIE appears on the screen. I sigh, and restart. All goes well, until I'm told I don't have Java enabled, which is an outright lie. So, I restart. This time the screen just freezes. Restart. FATAL EXCEPTION death noise again. Restart. Repeat. I begin to get frustrated, and accidentally kick the tower. Which, strangely results in my being allowed into the chatroom.
Which is empty.
I get the feeling the computer is sniggering to itself.
I sigh, and resort to Solitaire (because the Computer will not allow the installation of any other games). And a huge spider crawls around the side of the monitor. I actually scream. I am such a girl.

Sigh of relief

2004-05-26T12:20:00.000+01:00

It's all over. For now. Exams, I mean.

A random question (which annoyed me all through my exam):
What is the plural of 'modus operandi'?
It would have helped two hours ago. Well, it would have put my mind at rest, and let me get on with my babble about how the position of sexual offence complainants has been somewhat ameliorated over the last few decades, but the sticking point remains the adduction of evidence as to previous sexual history (phew!).

Oh yes, and for a few seconds I was convinced that 'dutify' was a word. Although, whilst I couldn't quite figure out what word I was aiming for with 'obtainance', I at least knew it was not right.

Counting down

2004-05-25T11:53:00.000+01:00

One day until I have finished my exams.
One and a half days until I sleep again.
Eleven days until I face Simon Cowell.
Therefore, ten days until I have a major panic attack.

(Addendum - if rumours are to be believed, I will also be facing Sharon Osbourne; if not Mel B a.k.a. Scary Spice. From the sublime to the ridiculous)

Another time-waster

2004-05-21T03:12:00.000+01:00

Declare Googlewar. Pit salt against pepper, fish against chips, yourself against the world (the world wins, by the way). Quality tripe.

Gender issues

2004-05-20T23:08:00.000+01:00

Today I have been wondering - could I possibly be a man?
I think crude thoughts and some people have said my libido is too high for a girl (although I doubt that's true, or even possible). Today I was standing on an escalator behind a girl in what can only be described as 'fitted' white trousers, and without warning I started singing "Baby Got Back" in my head. Not very feminine.
I wonder, am I a man in a woman's body?
No. I like men.
Therefore, am I a gay man in a woman's body?
Possibly. Although I like girly things like being glamorous and dressing up every so often. I recall Eddie Izzard's description of himself as "a lesbian in a man's body". Now, there's a man who likes the glamour (damnit, he usually looks better than me). But he's straight.
Erm...
Am I a gay Eddie Izzard in a woman's body?

*goes cross-eyed*

I'm not having a spasm, no.

2004-05-20T21:49:00.000+01:00

I'm in a public computer room, and trying hard not to laugh out loud at this site. So I sound like I'm possibly having trouble breathing. Strangely this does not concern the people around me.

Dreams can come true

2004-05-19T23:29:00.000+01:00

You have to visit Slow Wave. It's hilarious, but for me also soothing to know that I am not alone in the realm of bizarre dreaming. Basically this guy takes people's dreams and makes them into comic strips. Great. Also linking in with my future project, which is Coming Soon. Woo!

Crushes are good for you, says expert

2004-05-18T04:08:00.000+01:00

It has been pointed out to me that a crush is an adolescent thing to have. Well, it may well be that “crush” is an adolescent way of describing it, but the finding of an unattainable person attractive is wholly natural and does not stop when you cease having growth spurts.
(1) I’m pretty sure everyone has these desires, but just don’t describe them in the same terms as they did in their teens.
(2) Life would be rather dull without them. Having a crush on someone doesn’t necessitate obsessive behaviour – it just gives your heart rate a little boost when they appear, leaving you with a tingle in your skin and a smile on your face.
(3) Growing up doesn’t mean your crushes remain the same. I have memories of my teenage crushes (even late teens) being, on the whole, very innocent. I mean the whole sweeping off my feet, knight in shining armour, vanilla skies ’n’ white picket fences shebang. Not so any more. Alright, so the relationship element still is prominent; but they now develop a distinct sexual element, which is great for the old imagination. And before you write me off as sleaze-lady, I’m not just picturing a bit of ‘how’s your father’ (as it were). It’s just I can daydream more elaborately these days. One such daydream, with a complex plot involving being asked to select and write about the next candidate for the Cosmo male centrefold, resulted in my having to stop my revision note writing and putting my head out of the window to cool down. Four times. And I only got as far as sitting in on the shoot – not a finger was laid on me by the object of my desire.
(4) In my case, that is, a young single woman, they help to construct one’s ideal partner mentally whilst allowing one to step back and not be pressured by the great man-hunt in real life. The thing is, my person is out there, somewhere (and if it happens to be my Cosmo daydream guy, all the better!). But I’m not going to search for him. I’ll find him without hunting him, eventually. So in the mean time, I’m choosing these people (consciously, subconsciously, or hormonally) and finding in them characteristics which my ideal person will display, or not, as the case may be. I’ll analyse my current beaux below and play ‘hunt for what Jen wants’.

In conclusion, there’s nothing wrong or juvenile about having crushes in your twenties, thirties, forties and so on. In fact, it’s normal, it’s healthy and it helps develop a vivid imagination ;-).

A Psychological Approach (ish)

Well, herr doktor, what do you make of this little lot? *presents list of 27 (arbitrary control number) top Objects*
- Hmmm *scratches chin and furrows brow*

Time passes in the laboratory. Swabs are spun around in those machines. Test tubes are placed into test tube baths. Rats scurry through elaborate mazes in search of food. Brightly coloured liquids bubble inside tubes.
Finally…

- You will be pleased to know I haff reached my conclusions.
Yes? Tell us!
- Jen is a highly disturbed individual, who desires an older man who can dominate her using psychological trickery and the latest forensic techniques. He vill be an egotistical control freak mit a warped sense of humour. He vill also possibly be a cross-dresser. So, do you vant to see my suspender belt collection?

I bop the ‘good’ doktor right in the nose

Right, now for some more sensible generalisations (oxymoron?) – I like:
• charismatic individuals.
• talented individuals.
• more mature individuals (although not necessarily older).
• a tad of poshness.
• a tad of eccentricity.
• a wicked sense of humour.
As far as looks go, the graphs show very little in way of a pattern. I always thought I didn’t have ‘a type’ in that respect.

So, if you fit the bill, you know where to find me. Especially if you’re one of 27…

quiz me gently

A modern phenomenon

The many moods of my mother

Honestly

Why I owe Charlie Brooker a blow job

What I am tired of

Cor limey

In mourning

Welcome to Bolton Volume 372

Bitter is the new vodka

A very odd day

Silver Jubilee - Twenty-Five Glorious Years

Scone Daddy Scone

Pandora wants me dead

More for the analyst

Missing in Action

Jenny the Wimp

This post does not have an interesting or imaginative title, for a change.

Where did you go (to, my lovely)?

Reasons why I am going stir crazy through watching too much daytime telly

Introducing....

Breaking the silence

Vocabulary lessons

This week...

Conclusive proof of the existence of quiz leagues in 1890 BC

A message from the inside

I'm bringing sexy snacks

Bipolar bear

My ding-a-thing

Crocodile tears

Braindead

Soliloquising

I'm a rubbish blogger

Fatigue setting in....

Over the first hurdle

Scotch Mist

An open letter to Gore Verbinski

Saturday night and Sunday morning

In other news

Some questions

Fame at last!

Contemplating A Sport-Free Monday

Mein Gott in Himmel

My name is Jen and I am a quizaholic

Bon giorno mes amis, or something equally pretentious and incorrect

Thinking too much

Why don't I feel guilty about this?

Compliment Showdown!

Bus + hormones = bad

A shyness that is criminally vulgar

I *wuv* you

'Tis the season for introspection

Tough call, they're both really built and they both talk funny.

All the pretty boys

Briefly...

Recently

Answer required

Up to date

Midsummer crises

Karma flips me the bird

Dreamtime

Hoodies aren't the issue

Current affairs

Magic is real

Bad bad bad bad bad bad bad

Where*d you go?

Look! More stuff by me!

Another boost for the old ego

Woooooooooooooooooooooo

Ahoy-hoy, dream interpreters

Bus Stop

Finally prised off the sofa

Here is the News at Jen

Apologia

Black armbands all around

Very Exciting Stuff

A Friendly Note

Is it just my imagination or...

Stalker TV

Crazy name, crazy place

I wuv you