Do you know what really grinds my gears...?

I'm a ranter. I like to have a rant, and I think that’s healthy. People that don't regularly express how they feel, be that verbally or physically, will probably end up viewing their own gut tube from the inside, via their behind. Some people, I'm sure, deem it as a bad quality to have, making the ranter a blunt, self-obsessed, nightmare... but we ranters are not! Besides, I find it funny, and quite frankly, I think I'd spontaneously combust without it. Anyway, here’s two things that ground my gears/got my goat/tickled my balls today.

Favouritism

In a society so obsessed with banning the 'ism's and 'phobia's, it’s surprising that favouritism survives, and is deemed normal by all. I'm not talking the sort of favouritism in which a bride chooses her best friend to be a bridesmaid instead of the girl who poured a vat of pig’s blood over her head in high school in attempt to recreate the film Carey; I'm talking about favouritism in which everyone’s on par. It's the favouritism when a person or group of people pick from a group of other equally matched people to do some form of job, or attend some form of gathering, based not on their ability, work ethic, friendship ethic, or likewise, but based on what said initial person or group of people can gain from them - be it a party invite, a smile they wouldn't have received in the first place, gratification, or a foot up the social ladder. It seems that the adult world, and I've noticed it in many walks of life, are still picking for the hockey team, something that sent shudders down every geek’s spine during P.E. The point is, why try hard to do your best, if your best will never beat favouritism? Self-gratification? Maybe. All I know is, the many of us that got picked last for the netball team (It happened once, I hasten to add, but the only time teams were picked) will be crouching tigers. Waiting to pounce when you least expect it.

Happy Advertising

Who thinks of the adverts that are so awkwardly wrong? I'd like to have their job, because, being the said blunt person that I am, I'd at least try not to false advertise in such a Disney-esque way. For example: adverts aimed at women, particularly those menstruating. These adverts are definitely written by men. Now, panty liners are a great invention, and have saved many women from the surprise spotting we so hate. But please, do not tell me that wearing said brand's panty liner is like wearing a fresh pair of knickers. Have you made said panty liner from cotton? No. Similarly, does a fresh pair of knickers feel like wearing a small piece of card between your thighs? No. Because that’s how it feels Mr. Advertiser. Similarly, is the sanitary towel advert that suggests I could do all manner of things in their sanitary towel. Again, clearly written by a man, or a menopausal woman who has clearly forgotten the fact that all sanitary towels, despite their many benefits, feel like nappies. The last straw for women grasping on to their sexiness during that 'time of the month'.
On a lighter false advertising note, I genuinely believed (to my boyfriend's delight) that the new Magnum grew back after the first bite. I tried to justify it, by contriving a theory that there was some sort of foaming mousse that would create the illusion that the ice cream grew back. I was disappointed when I discovered I was wrong, but definitely feel that there’s a gap in the market...

Blog number one... the start of something... special.

Heres a little something I had to write as part of my BA World Performance degree. A monologue,  largely inspired by chick-lit(I guess), but with my own 'witty' (if you can call it that), twist.
In hind-sight I should have named it 'Plain Jane's Men-brain'...

Woman, 28, GSOH, Looking for Mr Right?

I used to be a Stepford wife. Well, girlfriend. And actually not even in Stepford, in Ealing. Paul and I had been together since I was 18; we met through friends on a drunken night out, and had been inseparable since. At 22 we started renting a house together, and we were blissfully in love. The talk of marriage and babies was in the air, until last year, after we’d rampantly… “made love”, he told me something wasn’t working. The irony.  Safe to say, he left me hysterically crying in our, my, bed, snot dramatically pouring from my nose.

Well, as in all cliché break ups, I decided that after 9 years together, it was time to move on, and reinvent myself. I had my long, mousey, hair cut in to a Posh Spice inspired bob, I invested in a few new clothes , I bought a Doberman puppy, Eric, and I moved back home… I moved into a new flat after realising if I was to move back home I’d have to inhabit a padded cell. I carried on bumbling through my everyday life, getting up, going to work, coming home, drinking a bottle of rose, cuddling Eric, going to sleep and so on. Until one day, I got a call at work, “Jane, you’re just the sort of girl we’re looking for to be the first port of call for Langstone and Smith solicitors”, the stout, old sounding man told me. “Ermmm… thank you Mr Langstone, but I’m quite happy here.” But I wasn’t really, I was bored of working for Stuart. He was a nice enough man, but being a secretary for a business man didn’t really have any perks.  But I wasn’t ready to be single, in a new flat, and starting a new job. So, life carried on in its new form, getting up, going to work, coming home, drinking a bottle of rose, now crying a little and cuddling Eric, going to sleep and so on. As you can imagine, this got pretty tedious, pretty quick.

On a night out with my friend Claudia- we didn’t used to be close, but we found solace as singletons- I met Lucy. She was a friend of Claudia’s brother, and she was beautiful. She was slim, with long, flowing, brown hair, and the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. A heart break for men as she pined for women. If I was that way inclined I’d have probably tried to seduce her. “Yea, yea, yea,” she shouted over the top of some god awful ‘funky house’ music, “you need a change mate; you should come and work at my place, there still trying to recruit a head of admin secretary.” I asked her where she worked, “Langstone and Smith, the solicitors on Uxbridge road, they’re alright.” Now I was drunk, very drunk, and after I explained to Lucy that they’d tried to head hunt me, she suggested that we sent them an e-mail off of her phone there and then. Drunk, and a little in awe of her, I said yes. Never send an e-mail to a potential employer when you’re intoxicated. Standard.  However, it worked, and after handing in my notice and working out my month, there I was at Langstone and Smith solicitors.

  All was going well, and I’d found a great friend in Lucy, she’d really taken me under her wing, but after 5 months of being alone, I was starting to feel the heat. To top it off I was getting regular phone calls, at work, from my mother. “Haven’t you found a new boyfriend yet?” “No mother. I-“  “Well, you’ll be thirty soon, and your body clocks ticking,” Mother, I’m twenty-“ “You’re nearly thirty Jane, you’ll end up a spinster. You’ll end up absorbing your time in that dog, for Christ sake, and that will be it, and then you’ll drink yourself into a stupor, and your father and I will find your body mauled by Eric.” “MOTHER. I’M QUITE FINE TO BE ON MY OWN, ERIC IS NOT GOING TO EAT ME, AND I NEED TO GET BACK TO WORK!!!!”  And with that, I ran to the toilet and broke down. Because I wasn’t fine on my own at all. I desperately missed Paul, even if he was a complete arsehole. And besides that I missed sex. I. Missed. Sex. I missed sex.  It’s only natural after all, and I was starting to worry that I was going to become untouchable. And that is when I decided things needed to change. In one ear I had my little angel, Lucy, whispering, “You need to come out with me, start dating, get wrecked, fool around, have SEX”, and in the other, my mother, the devil incarnate, screaming “You need to sort yourself out Jane, you need to settle down and have a family. Think about your father and I, we want the chance to have grandchildren. Why don’t you go back to Paul? He was lovely. He’d make a great son-in-law. Come on Jane, get your act together!”  Which path should I take? Lucy’s clearly.

So, Lucy and I went out every Friday and Saturday for a month, jokingly creating me a little black book of dates. There was Freddie, a tall, dark, and handsome stereotype, whose favourite hobby was trying to break world records. He would have been okaaaay, if I hadn’t have been informed that his next attempt was how many tins of raw baked beans could he eat in 24 hours. I’m not sure I’d want to be around him for the aftermath. Next, there was Philippé, well he wasn’t from abroad, he was from Essex, and I’m pretty sure his name was just Phillip. Say no more. Then it was Matty, who spent the whole date, watching some football match down the local pub, great, telling me about how many girls he’d “shagged”, and the rating system he had. Now the shagging part, I think I was fine with, but I’m not sure I was ready to be rated on my backwards cowgirl. And to top it off, there was Eric. Firstly, who calls there child Eric in the 1980’s? Secondly, I refuse to date someone who has the same name as my Doberman, or any other pet acquaintance for that matter. And finally. Through-out the whole meal, Eric proceeded to discuss the death of his grandparents – one of a heart-attack, and one who had dementia and got knocked over by a bus. But then, from his man bag, he produced the ashes of both grandparents. After this, I decided I’d give dating a miss for a while.

Lucy and I went back to the drawing board. “A make-over!” Lucy exclaimed! Again? I thought. But I decided to go along with it. Lucy lent me some of her old clothes from her hippy-saving-mother-Earth-days. I tried it out for a few weeks, but her cord dungarees and dip dye tops didn’t match my Posh inspired hair do, and I looked a little bit like I was going through a mid-life crisis, mutton dressed as new born lamb. It wasn’t very acceptable for a solicitor’s office either, and I had many a meeting with John Langstone, before the demise of the new style. 

A few weeks had gone by, and Langstone and Smith were hosting an event to schmooze with local businesses, and we all had to attend. It was an average night, and Lucy and I were laughing about all the men who were eyeing her up, “No chance,” we joked, and I wondered why Lucy was single, she was beautiful, and funny, and surely lesbians weren’t that fussy anyway? Lucy had seen a friend and went over to talk to him, so I was left with a bottle of red to myself. Big mistake.  I drank glass after glass, and when the waiter came over to collect the empty bottle, I asked for more. After a few more glasses, I noticed John Langstone, two of them, watching his success. I stumbled over to him. “Oh! Jane! You look lovely tonight.” He said warily. “Whhhy thank yoooou Mr Langgggstone,” I pulled his tie drawing him closer, “Yoooou look… rrrrravishing!” “Perhaps you should get some water?” he offered, and then I slurred, “PerhapsIshouldgetsomeofyou!” Perhaps I should get some of you. Perhaps I should get some of you? What was I thinking? To top it off, I toppled forward, grabbing his old, sweaty, shoulders and pulling myself in to kiss him. Just as I was set to fully embarrass myself, Lucy grabbed me, shouted “Sorry John”, over my shoulder, shoved me in a taxi, and took me back to hers.

The next morning I was woken up with a cup of black coffee and a full English, “Urrrrrgh, thank you… You’re the best.” “Right!” Lucy demanded, “I’m intervening”, “I’m not complaining” I replied with my mouthful. She told me exactly why she was single. It turned out that it wasn’t because of fussy lesbians, or fussy Lucy, but because she wanted to be. She said she’d rather date herself, than have to spend all her time mind reading and worrying about pleasing someone else. For the rest of the day she showed me and told me exactly how she did it, and I could see how happy she was with it. I thought about it. All the money I earned would be for me, and no one else. I liked cooking myself a nice dinner and whatever I cooked would be all mine. I already talked to myself so I knew I had good conversation, and I could always make myself climax, so that was the sex sorted. All in all I thought it sounded like a brilliant idea. I thanked Lucy for all her help, and feeling positive, I went home to Eric.

When my mother next called to give me earache I told her that I was going to date myself for a while, to which I got the reply “How stupid”. But I was willing to give it a try. For about a month it was great, I had really taken to it. Another week, and my will power was dwindling and I was feeling the need for a partner, but I had Lucy for support. Until 6 weeks in to my new life style, she told me over dinner at mine, that she’d been offered a job to set up a new office. “Yay! Congratulations Lucy! I’m so pleased for you” “Jane,” “We’ll have to go out and celebrate” “Jane! It’s in Wales.” “Oh.. Don’t go? Please don’t go, I don’t know what I’ll do without you.” “Jane, I love you, but I’ve got to do this, it’s such a step up.” Suddenly, my stomach lurched, my body tingled, and I was overcome with passion. I awkwardly pressed my lips on to Lucy’s. A brief moment of silence ensued. I opened my eyes only to realise we weren’t on the same page, in the same book, or even library. It was Mr Langstone all over again.  “Argh! I don’t know what came over me!” I shrieked. “Jane, I meant I love you as a mate. You don’t want this… We both know you love cock. And besides you’re not my type, could you imagine, we’d be a bloke’s wet dream!” The following week, Lucy moved to Wales. I was distraught, not only because my best friend had left, but also because I’d succeeded in making an utter twat out of myself. Who was I to think just because Lucy was a lesbian she’d fancy me? She on the other hand, handled it with ease and style – lesbian or not a modern woman versus a dying breed of ignorance, and/or twat.

And thus, the - getting up, going to work, coming home, drinking a bottle of rose, crying a little and cuddling Eric, going to sleep - routine started again. And that’s when my mother stepped in. I’m sure she thought she was being helpful but it was smothering. She moved in, made Eric sleep in the kitchen and shared a bed with me. She decided that she would do all my shopping, “You look plump”, she claimed, “You’re going on a diet.” She removed all the alcohol from the house, and when I came home from work she had dinner already on the table. This would be a lovely treat I suppose, if it wasn’t a green salad that leaves you starving every day, and if it wasn’t my mother. I couldn’t even have a cry in my own home, she was constantly there. Until one day, I exploded, “MOTHER! Just go! Let me do this on my own. PLEASE!” And with that, she left, saying that she wouldn’t contact me until I was grateful of what she had done for me. So that was it. No mother, I guess that was a blessing, and no Lucy. Claudia no longer found solace as a singleton with me, as she was now settled down. With Paul. It was a bit of a kick in the teeth, I had tried to warn her off of him. No Mum, no Lucy, no Claudia. I took a week off work and sat in a dark room watching bad rom coms and eating Galaxy. Then it struck me. I was going to be 28 in 3 weeks, and I wasn’t going to spend my last few weeks at 27 depressed. I went to Oxford Street and raided Topshop, requested a personal shopper, and spent £300 out of my wedding fund – I figured it wouldn’t be needed for some time – on some of the most amazing outfits I’ve ever seen - on me, anyway. Next I went to Toni and Guy. £100 was spent there, and I came out with chocolate brown hair, and a Cheryl Cole inspired cut – I was moving through the girl groups fast. And finally, MAC. I spent a further 200 wedding pounds on a make-over, buying all the make-up they’d suggested.  It might have been a con, but I, for once, felt and looked amazing. I went in to work on Monday, greeted by, “Wow”, and “Gosh, I wish I looked like you after a week off”. That next week, I spent every evening doing something for me, I went to Wagamamas, the cinema, I went Ice Skating and laughed at myself, I joined a Zumba class, and cooked myself a candle lit dinner.

And then I realised- this was dating myself.

 I felt independent, I felt free, and I was happy to be on my own. I thought I looked great, I made myself laugh, and I was finally good company. To celebrate this, I took myself out for a meal. Again. To treat myself, I booked a table for dinner at Gilgamesh, a trendy restaurant in Camden, somewhere I’d always wanted to go, but Paul had said that paying £57 for some ‘Wagyu Beef’ was the wankiest thing he’d ever heard. I put on my swankiest new dress and got a taxi, rather than battle the tube, to Camden. Gilgamesh was as amazing as I’d imagined. The Wagyu beef melted in my mouth. Bollocks to Paul, he was an arsehole anyway. I was finishing off the last of my wine, and feeling a little tipsy, when I was interrupted by the waiter. “This is for you.” “Oh no, thank you, I didn’t order it.” “No.” He laughed, “But I did. Enjoy!” I felt myself go bright red. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed, and to try and compose myself. This guy literally looked like a Burberry model-chiselled and glorious. “I get off at 11”, said the god. “Can I buy you a few more drinks then? Unless you’re meeting someone?” I explained what I was doing that evening, and agreed to wait until he clocked off. He took me to a cocktail bar nearby, where he bought me a few more drinks. At the end of the night we swapped numbers and that was that. He called me the next day and we talked for an hour, laughing and joking. I found it hard to believe, that this man, Ryan, was for real. But I decided to go along with it. It was my birthday the following Thursday, and I invited Ryan to the drinks I was having with friends, eager to flaunt him in front of Claudia’s envious eyes. She wouldn’t be getting hold of this one! My birthday was great, Ryan was a hit, and Claudia’s reaction was priceless. But despite several drunken innuendos and hints, I went home alone. Which left me wondering whether this man was being chivalrous, or was just nice but dim? He knocked on my door the next evening, a bottle of wine, a big bunch of red roses, and a dine in meal for two from M & S, in hand. Ryan had made the evening and the follow on from my birthday perfect. He was sweet, and gentle, and funny, like he’d been plucked straight from a Richard Curtis film. After the meal, we devoured the wine. After the wine, I was ready to devour him. I led him into the bed room, satin sheets at the ready. The foreplay was entirely focussed on me, a novelty and a bonus. As I lay back in oral heaven, he leapt up and switched off the light. I heard him fumbling about in the dark, trying to undress. As he crept on the bed, I was eager, ready, at last, to well and truly sweep the cobwebs away. We made love. He made love. Well, I assume so, as it was now pitch black, and all I could feel was the weight of him on top of me. Ryan really was the complete package. Except for the one package that I’d ordered. Despite having been swept up in the idea of my perfect man, the next day it was my turn to play the cliché break up. “It’s not you, its’ me”. Well it was him, but not entirely. Turns out I’d found the perfect partner. Me.