She’s the joker in deck of cards, the first to take the piss,
And the opportunity to mock herself, she’ll never ever miss,
She seems so strong and forthright,
Quick of tongue and mind,
In fact a more jovial individual,
Would be difficult to find,
But behind that tough exterior, lies a sensitive soul,
Her confidence in tatters and her heart no longer whole,
She hides the ache in her chest from everyone she knows,
But the pain is catching up with her,
And every day it grows,
She’ll do all she can to shield you,
From the hurt she holds inside,
She’s fearful that one day the pain she carries,
Will be impossible to hide,
She’s terrified you’ll see her for the woman she really is,
Weak, broken and empty,
Unable to forgive,
So for now she dons her make-up, and paints her jester face,
And she’ll play the role of the joker for you,
As she knows, that it’s her place.
Saturday, 20 November 2010
Monday, 15 November 2010
He's My Type
Most of us profess that we don’t have a “type”. None of us would like to think we’re so shallow that we’d only be attracted to someone who looks a certain way. Some of us however are acutely aware of the fact that we are attracted to the same people time after time.
Gaga, for instance is drawn to “pretty” boys. She’s naturally attracted to guys who look like they belong in a boy band, or a Calvin Klein advert. This probably shows how much more confident she is in herself than most other women, as the majority of us would shy away from such Adonis-esque males, mainly because they make a normal feminine woman feel ever so slightly butch....plus there’s something a little annoying about a man who takes longer to get ready for a night out than you do. Gaga is definitely safe in this area, because no’one takes longer to get ready for an evening out than she does!
Princess is attracted to a “protector”, someone who when times are tough can make her feel safe and secure. She’s not especially attracted to a certain look – they’re usually always attractive guys, but it’s not a specific look – as long as they have those protective qualities she’ll be attracted to them. It’s certainly not because she needs protecting, however she’s just slightly traditional, and likes her men to play a caveman “guardian” role in a relationship.
Me, well I’m attracted to man’s men. By that I mean I like a rugged man. I can appreciate a pretty boy, of course I can, but I like a man to look like he’s done a little hard work over the years. I like them to be broad, because it helps me feel daintier, and I am a sucker for a hairy man. I think this is just a natural reaction to wanting the absolute opposite of what you’ve grown up with. My poor Pops had one measly chest hair that was quickly tweezed by my Ma whenever it made an appearance, because from her perspective, she couldn’t see the point of having “just one” (I kind of see her point to be fair).
My brothers likewise are not furry...in fact I’m pretty certain that if I went for a week without shaving my legs I’d have more to show than my three brothers combined. Hilariously though they can all seem to grow fairly impressive beards (Dad could as well). I’m quite convinced Mother Nature creates men in batches...Fuzzies, Non Fuzzies, Pretty Boys, Not So Pretty Boys. It’s like she accidentally mixed a non pretty/non fuzzy batch. I can almost hear her now when she realised her error with the men in my family:
“Oh crap! Right – who mixed the non fuzzies with the uglies?? Come on...who was it? Shit, well it’s too late now, they’re cooked. Right well just give them a bit of fuzz in the facial department so they can at least cover their faces, else they’ll never get girlfriends!”
I’m joking of course. I’m proud to say that all of my bro’s are fairly pretty, and my Pops was ever such a handsome chap. Don’t tell them I said so though, or I’ll never hear the end of it.
That has left me however, ridiculously attracted to hairy “Manly” men. I know it completely grosses some women out, but for me it’s a very real display of a man’s masculinity. They’re supposed to have it! I’m not freaked out by chest, back and butt hair – the more the better as far as I’m concerned. Okay, every now and then I’ll come across a guy and be a bit “Woah”, but it would only because he’s taken hairy to new levels for me. I don’t think I could ever find it unattractive though, as I genuinely find there’s nothing nicer than lazing in bed on a Sunday morning snuggled up to a warm fuzzy chest. For me though it’s definitely the masculinity side of things that I find attractive. Deep voice, powerful commanding presence etc. A man who straightened his hair would actually make me want to be a little bit sick in my mouth. Yuk.
But what are the drawbacks of having a “type”? Well...
Pretty boys usually know they’re pretty. Men are driven by female attention as much as we’re driven by a man with charm and charisma. They know they can make a woman feel great just by giving them the time of day, so between the ages of Seventeen and Forty they tend to be players. I know this is a bit of a generalisation and I apologise to all the pretty boys out there that aren’t players, but the truth is, a lot of the time they’re heartbreakers. Even if it’s unintentional they are, and being snubbed by a pretty boy can make you feel ten times worse about yourself than being snubbed by a regular guy.
Protectors, well they’re great...but then every now and then, they get overprotective. Protectors can forget that you’re capable of making your own decisions, and reminding them (when you’re usually asking them to act as an emotional bodyguard for you), can cause problems, as you essentially strip them of their role in a relationship.
Manly men, well these are tricky. If you’re a particularly girly girl, and you’re attracted to manly men, then you’ll probably be fine. But if you’re strong, forthright and independent, then it can cause problems. Manly men get confused because they don’t know where they sit in the relationship. If you can re-wire a plug, hang a picture and do your own tiling they can easily become emasculated. It’s silly I know but men like to feel needed. Something I learned the hard way!
Knowing the above doesn’t stop us being attracted to our “types”. We’re all attracted to different looks and personalities for a reason. The world would be a very dull place if we all had the same ideas with regards to attraction. But perhaps, knowing what we know, we can try to adapt our own personalities to suit those we’re attracted to.
If we like the pretty boys, we can empower ourselves to not stand for any crap when their ego’s get too big for their boots, and we can ensure they realise a good thing when they’ve got it...if we like the protectors, perhaps we can show them how it’s their nature that gives us the strength to be strong when we need to, that it doesn’t take anything away from them, because at the end of the day we can be strong knowing that they’ll catch us if we fall...and if it’s the manly men...well whilst as a single woman, you have to be able to handle everything on your own, you have to be strong, independent, domesticated, to able to run and maintain a home and your life in general... if you’re in a relationship, maybe we can let them teach us that we don’t have to do it all by ourselves. That it’s okay to let someone else ease the burden, every now and then. Perhaps being aware of all this can help us forge stronger and more meaningful relationships with our “types”.
Or maybe not. Either way there’s nothing worse than listening to a man whinge, and as they’re incapable of changing, clearly one way or the other, it’s up to use to make the compromise!! ;-D
Gaga, for instance is drawn to “pretty” boys. She’s naturally attracted to guys who look like they belong in a boy band, or a Calvin Klein advert. This probably shows how much more confident she is in herself than most other women, as the majority of us would shy away from such Adonis-esque males, mainly because they make a normal feminine woman feel ever so slightly butch....plus there’s something a little annoying about a man who takes longer to get ready for a night out than you do. Gaga is definitely safe in this area, because no’one takes longer to get ready for an evening out than she does!
Princess is attracted to a “protector”, someone who when times are tough can make her feel safe and secure. She’s not especially attracted to a certain look – they’re usually always attractive guys, but it’s not a specific look – as long as they have those protective qualities she’ll be attracted to them. It’s certainly not because she needs protecting, however she’s just slightly traditional, and likes her men to play a caveman “guardian” role in a relationship.
Me, well I’m attracted to man’s men. By that I mean I like a rugged man. I can appreciate a pretty boy, of course I can, but I like a man to look like he’s done a little hard work over the years. I like them to be broad, because it helps me feel daintier, and I am a sucker for a hairy man. I think this is just a natural reaction to wanting the absolute opposite of what you’ve grown up with. My poor Pops had one measly chest hair that was quickly tweezed by my Ma whenever it made an appearance, because from her perspective, she couldn’t see the point of having “just one” (I kind of see her point to be fair).
My brothers likewise are not furry...in fact I’m pretty certain that if I went for a week without shaving my legs I’d have more to show than my three brothers combined. Hilariously though they can all seem to grow fairly impressive beards (Dad could as well). I’m quite convinced Mother Nature creates men in batches...Fuzzies, Non Fuzzies, Pretty Boys, Not So Pretty Boys. It’s like she accidentally mixed a non pretty/non fuzzy batch. I can almost hear her now when she realised her error with the men in my family:
“Oh crap! Right – who mixed the non fuzzies with the uglies?? Come on...who was it? Shit, well it’s too late now, they’re cooked. Right well just give them a bit of fuzz in the facial department so they can at least cover their faces, else they’ll never get girlfriends!”
I’m joking of course. I’m proud to say that all of my bro’s are fairly pretty, and my Pops was ever such a handsome chap. Don’t tell them I said so though, or I’ll never hear the end of it.
That has left me however, ridiculously attracted to hairy “Manly” men. I know it completely grosses some women out, but for me it’s a very real display of a man’s masculinity. They’re supposed to have it! I’m not freaked out by chest, back and butt hair – the more the better as far as I’m concerned. Okay, every now and then I’ll come across a guy and be a bit “Woah”, but it would only because he’s taken hairy to new levels for me. I don’t think I could ever find it unattractive though, as I genuinely find there’s nothing nicer than lazing in bed on a Sunday morning snuggled up to a warm fuzzy chest. For me though it’s definitely the masculinity side of things that I find attractive. Deep voice, powerful commanding presence etc. A man who straightened his hair would actually make me want to be a little bit sick in my mouth. Yuk.
But what are the drawbacks of having a “type”? Well...
Pretty boys usually know they’re pretty. Men are driven by female attention as much as we’re driven by a man with charm and charisma. They know they can make a woman feel great just by giving them the time of day, so between the ages of Seventeen and Forty they tend to be players. I know this is a bit of a generalisation and I apologise to all the pretty boys out there that aren’t players, but the truth is, a lot of the time they’re heartbreakers. Even if it’s unintentional they are, and being snubbed by a pretty boy can make you feel ten times worse about yourself than being snubbed by a regular guy.
Protectors, well they’re great...but then every now and then, they get overprotective. Protectors can forget that you’re capable of making your own decisions, and reminding them (when you’re usually asking them to act as an emotional bodyguard for you), can cause problems, as you essentially strip them of their role in a relationship.
Manly men, well these are tricky. If you’re a particularly girly girl, and you’re attracted to manly men, then you’ll probably be fine. But if you’re strong, forthright and independent, then it can cause problems. Manly men get confused because they don’t know where they sit in the relationship. If you can re-wire a plug, hang a picture and do your own tiling they can easily become emasculated. It’s silly I know but men like to feel needed. Something I learned the hard way!
Knowing the above doesn’t stop us being attracted to our “types”. We’re all attracted to different looks and personalities for a reason. The world would be a very dull place if we all had the same ideas with regards to attraction. But perhaps, knowing what we know, we can try to adapt our own personalities to suit those we’re attracted to.
If we like the pretty boys, we can empower ourselves to not stand for any crap when their ego’s get too big for their boots, and we can ensure they realise a good thing when they’ve got it...if we like the protectors, perhaps we can show them how it’s their nature that gives us the strength to be strong when we need to, that it doesn’t take anything away from them, because at the end of the day we can be strong knowing that they’ll catch us if we fall...and if it’s the manly men...well whilst as a single woman, you have to be able to handle everything on your own, you have to be strong, independent, domesticated, to able to run and maintain a home and your life in general... if you’re in a relationship, maybe we can let them teach us that we don’t have to do it all by ourselves. That it’s okay to let someone else ease the burden, every now and then. Perhaps being aware of all this can help us forge stronger and more meaningful relationships with our “types”.
Or maybe not. Either way there’s nothing worse than listening to a man whinge, and as they’re incapable of changing, clearly one way or the other, it’s up to use to make the compromise!! ;-D
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Loving The Gaga
I swear to God if it wasn’t for Beck-lar I would spend most of my time sat indoors on Facebook. Beck-lar as you’ll know her from previous blog entries is actually known by a number of nicknames, but probably the most apt name we have for her is “Gaga”. The nickname comes from the fact that she bears an uncanny resemblance to Lady Gaga, but it also suits her personality perfectly, because quite frankly, she’s as mad as a box of frogs.
I’ve never known anyone else as prone to spontaneous outbursts of crazy like Gaga. When she decides to do something, it’s never by halves. For example, after leaving university, she took the gap year that so many people never have the balls to take, and went to live and work in New Zealand for a year. She’s the type of person who despite never running in her life, when she decided to do a fun run, ignored the beginners 5km race and entered herself straight into the 10km race. Likewise when she decided she wanted to do a charity bike ride, she shunned the idea of a 10km ride, and opted to mountain bike across the Isle of White instead. When an idea pops into her head that she likes the sound of, she just goes with it. She flies by the seat of her pants, and I’ll regularly get a text asking me to join her for some random unplanned night out, or day trip to somewhere obscure, just because she’s bored or wants a bit of company. I’ll be honest, I’m quite happy to hang in for the ride, because I just wouldn’t do these things by myself.
On Thursday I got a text, which simply read “A bit random, but do you fancy coming to Birmingham to watch a gig with me tomorrow?” Now Brum is only a about 30 miles from our home town so it wasn’t exactly a crazy idea, but this is the thing with Gaga...something that shouldn’t be crazy always ends up as a daft night with her. I work about 45 minutes from my home town, and don’t usually get home until just after 6pm, and the train to Brum left at 6:45pm, leaving me with just enough time to thrown on a clean pair of clothes and walk to the station. Typically it was peeing it down, and in an effort to have less to carry, I’d shunned the idea of a coat opting instead for a compact brolly to keep me dry on my walk to the station. Of course my cheap fold away brolly is quite possibly the most useless example of an umbrella in the history of the world. If you were to burp fiercely enough in its direction it would blow itself inside out, so naturally I arrived at the train station looking like I’d been swimming.
I’m not a huge fan of public transport (call me a snob if you want) and only ever use it for work commitments. I think it’s because I have an uncanny ability to attract all the weirdo’s, drunks, sex pests and perverts. Plus, call me picky but I’m always uncomfortable with the lack of personal space these loons leave me. I mean why do they practically have to sit on your lap? Seriously – back off buddy! To be fair though as we sat there...posing...camera at arm’s length, pointing back at us for our “on the train” shot of the evening, (looking like day release kids who’d never been on a bloody train before!), it occurred to me that for once I didn’t mind having to use public transport. Sure I still had a lunatic leaning all over me and invading my personal space...but at least this time the weirdo was one of my best friends!
It only occurred to me to ask where the gig was, and how far it was from New Street station, once the train was in motion. With hindsight I probably should have checked this earlier, as it turned out Gaga had no clue where we had to go once we arrived in Birmingham! So armed with only the knowledge that to get to the gig’s venue The 02 Academy, we needed to turn right out of the station’s main doors, off we plodded, rubbish brollie’s in hand in the direction of the city’s bright lights. Gaga, had half listened to some directions given by a friend, and the only thing she was really able to recall was that we needed to use the subway when we came to a big roundabout. This actually later caused a little confusion when it became apparent that at the big roundabout , there was actually a Subway sandwich bar, and unfortunately Gaga wasn’t entirely sure as to whether we should be looking for a subway, or just somewhere to grab a snack. Putting my sensible head on I called into a hotel reception for directions and found that amazingly, Gaga had managed to get us pretty close to the venue...although more through luck than judgement I feel.
I hadn’t a clue who we were going to watch, but Gaga filled me in, telling me we were watching “Chromeo” who are an electronic pop duo. She’d been randomly perusing The Academy’s gig list, Googled them and decided she liked the sound of them, so thought why the hell not? Now I love all sorts of music, but this gig was completely up my street. Chromeo have a really contemporary feel to their music, with a very distinctive 80’s pop vibe, which I absolutely loved. So much so I downloaded their album Business Casual from Itunes as soon as I got home, and I’ve been listening to it non-stop ever since. You should check them out on You Tube – If you like feel good music I doubt you’ll be disappointed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppNC0uAaCv0
By the time we arrived I looked even more drenched and bedraggled, which was a little irksome. I had anticipated the place being full of grungy students so had opted for a fairly casual look (which with the rain now looked more like trampy) however it turned out that the place was full of very cool people, all looking very stylish, without a hair out of place...compared to them I looked like a chubby version of that scary girl from The Grudge... Make up down my face, hair looking like a rained on birds nest, but what the heck – I rolled with it. I danced all night, literally from the second the music started until we left the gig, and I didn’t care who saw me – which is pretty major for me, as anyone who knows me, knows that I have no natural coordination, and whilst I try really hard to shake my booty like Beyonce, the fact of the matter is I usually end up looking like I’m doing a less elegant version of the truffle shuffle. Bad times.
After the gig had finished we walked back to the station, chatting loudly, stopping to take pictures of Gaga hanging off a street post a la Singing In The Rain, and trying to avoid getting mowed down by taxis and bendy buses. We caught the last train home, and I have to say it was a fantastic night. Sometimes I wish my brain worked like Gaga’s. When I get home I sit down put my feet up and veg out. If someone texts to say, do you fancy doing x y z...then I’m usually up for it, but I’m rarely the one to initiate that text. I just don’t think that way. Maybe it’s because whilst I enjoy a bit of excitement, and not being stuck in a rut, I don’t crave it like Gaga does. My needs are fairly simple, whereas Gaga has to be stimulated and entertained. In her day job as a radiographer, she has to be able to cope with the harsh reality of dealing with, and treating cancer every day. It makes sense that in her home life, she feels compelled to just “do stuff”...grab the bull by the horns and live her life...Have fun, and make every day count. With Gaga, her crazy persona isn’t scary, or weird. It’s actually quite inspiring. So, whilst I might laugh at the absurdness of some of her loony ideas, I know only too well that by letting me share her crazy adventures, however unplanned and random they may be, she’s enriching my life a little. Thank you for sharing Gaga, Beck-lar, B’Go, Nurse Becky...or whatever your name is!
I’ve never known anyone else as prone to spontaneous outbursts of crazy like Gaga. When she decides to do something, it’s never by halves. For example, after leaving university, she took the gap year that so many people never have the balls to take, and went to live and work in New Zealand for a year. She’s the type of person who despite never running in her life, when she decided to do a fun run, ignored the beginners 5km race and entered herself straight into the 10km race. Likewise when she decided she wanted to do a charity bike ride, she shunned the idea of a 10km ride, and opted to mountain bike across the Isle of White instead. When an idea pops into her head that she likes the sound of, she just goes with it. She flies by the seat of her pants, and I’ll regularly get a text asking me to join her for some random unplanned night out, or day trip to somewhere obscure, just because she’s bored or wants a bit of company. I’ll be honest, I’m quite happy to hang in for the ride, because I just wouldn’t do these things by myself.
On Thursday I got a text, which simply read “A bit random, but do you fancy coming to Birmingham to watch a gig with me tomorrow?” Now Brum is only a about 30 miles from our home town so it wasn’t exactly a crazy idea, but this is the thing with Gaga...something that shouldn’t be crazy always ends up as a daft night with her. I work about 45 minutes from my home town, and don’t usually get home until just after 6pm, and the train to Brum left at 6:45pm, leaving me with just enough time to thrown on a clean pair of clothes and walk to the station. Typically it was peeing it down, and in an effort to have less to carry, I’d shunned the idea of a coat opting instead for a compact brolly to keep me dry on my walk to the station. Of course my cheap fold away brolly is quite possibly the most useless example of an umbrella in the history of the world. If you were to burp fiercely enough in its direction it would blow itself inside out, so naturally I arrived at the train station looking like I’d been swimming.
I’m not a huge fan of public transport (call me a snob if you want) and only ever use it for work commitments. I think it’s because I have an uncanny ability to attract all the weirdo’s, drunks, sex pests and perverts. Plus, call me picky but I’m always uncomfortable with the lack of personal space these loons leave me. I mean why do they practically have to sit on your lap? Seriously – back off buddy! To be fair though as we sat there...posing...camera at arm’s length, pointing back at us for our “on the train” shot of the evening, (looking like day release kids who’d never been on a bloody train before!), it occurred to me that for once I didn’t mind having to use public transport. Sure I still had a lunatic leaning all over me and invading my personal space...but at least this time the weirdo was one of my best friends!
It only occurred to me to ask where the gig was, and how far it was from New Street station, once the train was in motion. With hindsight I probably should have checked this earlier, as it turned out Gaga had no clue where we had to go once we arrived in Birmingham! So armed with only the knowledge that to get to the gig’s venue The 02 Academy, we needed to turn right out of the station’s main doors, off we plodded, rubbish brollie’s in hand in the direction of the city’s bright lights. Gaga, had half listened to some directions given by a friend, and the only thing she was really able to recall was that we needed to use the subway when we came to a big roundabout. This actually later caused a little confusion when it became apparent that at the big roundabout , there was actually a Subway sandwich bar, and unfortunately Gaga wasn’t entirely sure as to whether we should be looking for a subway, or just somewhere to grab a snack. Putting my sensible head on I called into a hotel reception for directions and found that amazingly, Gaga had managed to get us pretty close to the venue...although more through luck than judgement I feel.
I hadn’t a clue who we were going to watch, but Gaga filled me in, telling me we were watching “Chromeo” who are an electronic pop duo. She’d been randomly perusing The Academy’s gig list, Googled them and decided she liked the sound of them, so thought why the hell not? Now I love all sorts of music, but this gig was completely up my street. Chromeo have a really contemporary feel to their music, with a very distinctive 80’s pop vibe, which I absolutely loved. So much so I downloaded their album Business Casual from Itunes as soon as I got home, and I’ve been listening to it non-stop ever since. You should check them out on You Tube – If you like feel good music I doubt you’ll be disappointed.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppNC0uAaCv0
By the time we arrived I looked even more drenched and bedraggled, which was a little irksome. I had anticipated the place being full of grungy students so had opted for a fairly casual look (which with the rain now looked more like trampy) however it turned out that the place was full of very cool people, all looking very stylish, without a hair out of place...compared to them I looked like a chubby version of that scary girl from The Grudge... Make up down my face, hair looking like a rained on birds nest, but what the heck – I rolled with it. I danced all night, literally from the second the music started until we left the gig, and I didn’t care who saw me – which is pretty major for me, as anyone who knows me, knows that I have no natural coordination, and whilst I try really hard to shake my booty like Beyonce, the fact of the matter is I usually end up looking like I’m doing a less elegant version of the truffle shuffle. Bad times.
After the gig had finished we walked back to the station, chatting loudly, stopping to take pictures of Gaga hanging off a street post a la Singing In The Rain, and trying to avoid getting mowed down by taxis and bendy buses. We caught the last train home, and I have to say it was a fantastic night. Sometimes I wish my brain worked like Gaga’s. When I get home I sit down put my feet up and veg out. If someone texts to say, do you fancy doing x y z...then I’m usually up for it, but I’m rarely the one to initiate that text. I just don’t think that way. Maybe it’s because whilst I enjoy a bit of excitement, and not being stuck in a rut, I don’t crave it like Gaga does. My needs are fairly simple, whereas Gaga has to be stimulated and entertained. In her day job as a radiographer, she has to be able to cope with the harsh reality of dealing with, and treating cancer every day. It makes sense that in her home life, she feels compelled to just “do stuff”...grab the bull by the horns and live her life...Have fun, and make every day count. With Gaga, her crazy persona isn’t scary, or weird. It’s actually quite inspiring. So, whilst I might laugh at the absurdness of some of her loony ideas, I know only too well that by letting me share her crazy adventures, however unplanned and random they may be, she’s enriching my life a little. Thank you for sharing Gaga, Beck-lar, B’Go, Nurse Becky...or whatever your name is!
Saturday, 23 October 2010
It Was Only A Dream
What are dreams? I don’t mean aspirations or hopes for your future... I mean actual dreams. The ones you have when you’re fast asleep.
I used to have a reoccurring nightmare...well I say a reoccurring nightmare, but it was in fact a reoccurring character. The dream scenarios were always different, but the main character called Carlos was always the same, and the theme was always that he was systematically killing off all my friends before coming for me. Naturally I would always wake just before he got to me, but the dreams always upset me.
I remember being on holiday with a friend of mine aged about fourteen, and we befriended a couple of lads, who introduced themselves as Jim and Carlos. I was so terrified that my nightmares were about to become a reality, that I pleaded with my friend to ditch them immediately! Luckily it seems “Carlos” was actually called Ashley and was merely trying to make himself sound more exotic. I’ve yet to meet a real life Carlos, but I think my reaction will probably be fairly similar to that of Sarah Conner’s, on coming face to face with the Terminator in T2... a slow-mo slide to the floor and desperate back track with echoic “Nooooooo” before running for my life....just in case, y’know?
Naughty dreams are often the most intriguing, not least because they usually involve someone that you would never dream of looking at in “that way” during your normal day to day life. The problem is of course, that once you’ve had this dream, each and every time you see that person, you look at them in a different way...mainly because in your mind you’ve seen them naked!
Although you know the reality would probably be quite different, (because naturally your unconscious mind will always miss out the messier, more awkward aspects of sex - such as, cramp which let’s face it, is always a bit of a passion killer, or the fact that you have never, and will never be able to contort yourself into “that” position...plus you’ve probably been a little over generous in the estimation of what’s going on in his trouser department...and undoubtedly you’ve mentally airbrushed all of your wobbly bits out, to ensure that visually, the whole scenario is far more aesthetically pleasing!) never the less though you can’t help the rather pleasant mental flashbacks to your make-believe evening of passion and debauchery every time you see them. Even when you really don’t want to look at them in that way! Of course in real life you’d never act on those impulses, because they’re just dreams...but should you?
We all know our dreams aren’t reality... that they’re something our subconscious mind acts out for us, and most of the time we ignore it. Sometimes we can’t though, or it plays on our mind. We all have those dreams, the ones where we catch our partners cheating on us. The dream isn’t real but the feeling of betrayal and humiliation we encounter is the same. You get up the next morning and your stomach turns at the thought of having to give them a kiss goodbye before you set off for work, because you know what they did and you despise them for it! It doesn’t matter that it’s not real, your emotions around the subject are. Within an hour or so, you’re over it, and laughing at yourself for being upset by a stupid dream, but until then you’re in turmoil – having flashbacks to something that didn’t even happen!
How clever must our unconscious mind be to convince us that these dreams are real? At the time you don’t even question that it might not all be happening, and yet we accept that when we wake up, this little dream world we’ve been inhabiting is completely false, and we don’t let it have any bearing on the rest of our day.
It occurred to me though that perhaps we should pay more attention to our dreams. Only the other night I dreamt that I wanted to go to the loo, and when I finally found some public toilets, each of them was locked apart from one. The one that wasn’t, couldn’t be locked because it had no door. I had a choice – I could try and hold it, or I could chose to pee in front of everyone currently queuing for the other lockable stalls. I woke up desperate for the loo and I don’t think anyone can argue that my dream was my brain’s way of telling me I needed to wake up so I could use the little girls room. Thank the lord my usual conscious stubbornness doesn’t transcend to my unconscious, or I think I would have used the stall with no door, and in reality done something a teeeeeny bit childish!!
My point is though, that if our brains can use dreams to send us the most obvious instructions...alerting us to something that isn’t right, or could potentially end badly for us (!!) then why do we assume that all of our dreams are just fantasy? Anyone who has been cheated on in real life must wonder why they ignored the literal meaning behind the dreams they had of their spouses being unfaithful to them? When we've had naughty dreams about unexpected people, why do we try to convince ourselves that we wouldn’t enjoy the real life version? When let’s face it – we probably would! Surely if dreams are the only way for our subconscious to speak to us, shouldn’t we listen? I’m not saying we should always take them literally (I once dreamt that my ex was having an affair with our cat, and I’m pretty sure that never happened!) but listen to the message, because it could be entirely based in reality.
It turns out that back in 1982, when I was an infant, perhaps the world’s most elusive criminal, Ramirez Sanchez, was allegedly masterminding a series of brutal bomb attacks, hijackings and kidnappings across Europe. It was a killing spree which included a car bombing in Paris, which killed one person, and injured sixty three others without any warning. As an infant you wouldn’t think I’d have absorbed much of the news, playing in the background as I had my night feeds...but the mind is a wondrous thing. The media didn’t call him Ramirez Sanchez.
They called him “Carlos the Jackal”.
I used to have a reoccurring nightmare...well I say a reoccurring nightmare, but it was in fact a reoccurring character. The dream scenarios were always different, but the main character called Carlos was always the same, and the theme was always that he was systematically killing off all my friends before coming for me. Naturally I would always wake just before he got to me, but the dreams always upset me.
I remember being on holiday with a friend of mine aged about fourteen, and we befriended a couple of lads, who introduced themselves as Jim and Carlos. I was so terrified that my nightmares were about to become a reality, that I pleaded with my friend to ditch them immediately! Luckily it seems “Carlos” was actually called Ashley and was merely trying to make himself sound more exotic. I’ve yet to meet a real life Carlos, but I think my reaction will probably be fairly similar to that of Sarah Conner’s, on coming face to face with the Terminator in T2... a slow-mo slide to the floor and desperate back track with echoic “Nooooooo” before running for my life....just in case, y’know?
Naughty dreams are often the most intriguing, not least because they usually involve someone that you would never dream of looking at in “that way” during your normal day to day life. The problem is of course, that once you’ve had this dream, each and every time you see that person, you look at them in a different way...mainly because in your mind you’ve seen them naked!
Although you know the reality would probably be quite different, (because naturally your unconscious mind will always miss out the messier, more awkward aspects of sex - such as, cramp which let’s face it, is always a bit of a passion killer, or the fact that you have never, and will never be able to contort yourself into “that” position...plus you’ve probably been a little over generous in the estimation of what’s going on in his trouser department...and undoubtedly you’ve mentally airbrushed all of your wobbly bits out, to ensure that visually, the whole scenario is far more aesthetically pleasing!) never the less though you can’t help the rather pleasant mental flashbacks to your make-believe evening of passion and debauchery every time you see them. Even when you really don’t want to look at them in that way! Of course in real life you’d never act on those impulses, because they’re just dreams...but should you?
We all know our dreams aren’t reality... that they’re something our subconscious mind acts out for us, and most of the time we ignore it. Sometimes we can’t though, or it plays on our mind. We all have those dreams, the ones where we catch our partners cheating on us. The dream isn’t real but the feeling of betrayal and humiliation we encounter is the same. You get up the next morning and your stomach turns at the thought of having to give them a kiss goodbye before you set off for work, because you know what they did and you despise them for it! It doesn’t matter that it’s not real, your emotions around the subject are. Within an hour or so, you’re over it, and laughing at yourself for being upset by a stupid dream, but until then you’re in turmoil – having flashbacks to something that didn’t even happen!
How clever must our unconscious mind be to convince us that these dreams are real? At the time you don’t even question that it might not all be happening, and yet we accept that when we wake up, this little dream world we’ve been inhabiting is completely false, and we don’t let it have any bearing on the rest of our day.
It occurred to me though that perhaps we should pay more attention to our dreams. Only the other night I dreamt that I wanted to go to the loo, and when I finally found some public toilets, each of them was locked apart from one. The one that wasn’t, couldn’t be locked because it had no door. I had a choice – I could try and hold it, or I could chose to pee in front of everyone currently queuing for the other lockable stalls. I woke up desperate for the loo and I don’t think anyone can argue that my dream was my brain’s way of telling me I needed to wake up so I could use the little girls room. Thank the lord my usual conscious stubbornness doesn’t transcend to my unconscious, or I think I would have used the stall with no door, and in reality done something a teeeeeny bit childish!!
My point is though, that if our brains can use dreams to send us the most obvious instructions...alerting us to something that isn’t right, or could potentially end badly for us (!!) then why do we assume that all of our dreams are just fantasy? Anyone who has been cheated on in real life must wonder why they ignored the literal meaning behind the dreams they had of their spouses being unfaithful to them? When we've had naughty dreams about unexpected people, why do we try to convince ourselves that we wouldn’t enjoy the real life version? When let’s face it – we probably would! Surely if dreams are the only way for our subconscious to speak to us, shouldn’t we listen? I’m not saying we should always take them literally (I once dreamt that my ex was having an affair with our cat, and I’m pretty sure that never happened!) but listen to the message, because it could be entirely based in reality.
It turns out that back in 1982, when I was an infant, perhaps the world’s most elusive criminal, Ramirez Sanchez, was allegedly masterminding a series of brutal bomb attacks, hijackings and kidnappings across Europe. It was a killing spree which included a car bombing in Paris, which killed one person, and injured sixty three others without any warning. As an infant you wouldn’t think I’d have absorbed much of the news, playing in the background as I had my night feeds...but the mind is a wondrous thing. The media didn’t call him Ramirez Sanchez.
They called him “Carlos the Jackal”.
Sunday, 17 October 2010
Facebook - Good Or Evil?
Anyone who knows me, knows that I am a big fan of Facebook. In fact most people reading this will have followed a link from my Facebook to this very page. It’s a way for me to know what’s going on in my friends lives, a way to organise my social life, a way to chat to my friends for free, an outlet for me to vent my daft sense of humour, my observations on life in general, and on tough days, when I’m sat on my own at home, with only the pooch for company, it brings the people I care about most into my living room, so I don’t feel quite so alone.
For me Facebook should be a positive thing. It’s supposed to be fun...it’s a social networking site which aims to bring people together. So why is it, that sometimes, people can take this good, wholesome idea, turn it around, and use it to make other people lives unpleasant?
Facebook stalkers are my favourite. I have had to recently block two people from my Facebook, and they weren’t even my friends! They were viewing my profile through mutual friends and then posting bitchy statuses about me based on comments made in a conversation they shouldn’t have even been looking at!! Who does that?? You’re not a part of my life, I clearly don’t want you to be or we’d be Facebook buddies already, so why do you feel the need to spy on me through mutual friends? It astounds me that some people’s lives can be so empty that they feel the need to do that.
I don’t see what anyone has to gain from Facebook bitching. Deliberate comments between friends, behind which is the intention to upset another individual. Or worse, designed to prompt people to ask what’s wrong, so that you can gossip to the masses about that individual and how you’ve been wronged by them. Whatever happened to good old bitching down the pub? At least then you can have too much to drink, forget what was said and no’one ends up getting hurt particularly.
Then you have those people with a huge chip on their shoulder, who when their lives turn to shite, rant and complain and whinge about their circumstances, (even if their situation is of their own doing), brining every one of their friends down with them. People will always lend an ear to a friend going through a rough patch, but if you spend months on end complaining that your life is crap, the whole world owes you a living and yet you don’t appear to be doing anything to rectify the situation, then people will soon get bored...and start blocking you from their news feed!
For me Facebook is about fun and silliness and it should be treated as such. Facebook has allowed me to get in touch with friends and family on the opposite side of the world. Family that I knew very little about, but that I now feel close to. It gives me the ability to share photos, which in themselves are precious memories of me and the people I love. They’re there for everyone to enjoy, laugh at, cringe at and when it comes to the ones of my pops, well every now and then, just have a little cry at.
It’s allowed me to stay in touch with friends who go to war, to protect this free and safe environment that we all take for granted. It gives them a link to the people they love, when they need it the most. From a morale perspective, can you imagine how shit it must be to get half an hour’s break to access the internet after a particularly awful day patrolling in Afghanistan, logging on to Facebook (because you just want to see what the people you care about have been up to while you’ve been putting your life on the line for them), only to find a newsfeed spattered in bitchiness, “woe is me” updates and boring “Joe Bloggs is doing the ironing” statuses??
Come on people, I know we all need to vent every now and then. Of course I understand that, and I’ve done it myself in the past...but when it’s constant it just makes for depressing reading...
Use it for a giggle, use it to make someone smile...and if you can’t...or won’t, expect to be cleared out on the next friend cull, because much as I might love you, I just don’t want you to bring me down – not when I’m so grateful I have the life that I do, the friends that I have, and the family I was born with. Besides...why rant on Facebook...when you can rant on a blog instead?
For me Facebook should be a positive thing. It’s supposed to be fun...it’s a social networking site which aims to bring people together. So why is it, that sometimes, people can take this good, wholesome idea, turn it around, and use it to make other people lives unpleasant?
Facebook stalkers are my favourite. I have had to recently block two people from my Facebook, and they weren’t even my friends! They were viewing my profile through mutual friends and then posting bitchy statuses about me based on comments made in a conversation they shouldn’t have even been looking at!! Who does that?? You’re not a part of my life, I clearly don’t want you to be or we’d be Facebook buddies already, so why do you feel the need to spy on me through mutual friends? It astounds me that some people’s lives can be so empty that they feel the need to do that.
I don’t see what anyone has to gain from Facebook bitching. Deliberate comments between friends, behind which is the intention to upset another individual. Or worse, designed to prompt people to ask what’s wrong, so that you can gossip to the masses about that individual and how you’ve been wronged by them. Whatever happened to good old bitching down the pub? At least then you can have too much to drink, forget what was said and no’one ends up getting hurt particularly.
Then you have those people with a huge chip on their shoulder, who when their lives turn to shite, rant and complain and whinge about their circumstances, (even if their situation is of their own doing), brining every one of their friends down with them. People will always lend an ear to a friend going through a rough patch, but if you spend months on end complaining that your life is crap, the whole world owes you a living and yet you don’t appear to be doing anything to rectify the situation, then people will soon get bored...and start blocking you from their news feed!
For me Facebook is about fun and silliness and it should be treated as such. Facebook has allowed me to get in touch with friends and family on the opposite side of the world. Family that I knew very little about, but that I now feel close to. It gives me the ability to share photos, which in themselves are precious memories of me and the people I love. They’re there for everyone to enjoy, laugh at, cringe at and when it comes to the ones of my pops, well every now and then, just have a little cry at.
It’s allowed me to stay in touch with friends who go to war, to protect this free and safe environment that we all take for granted. It gives them a link to the people they love, when they need it the most. From a morale perspective, can you imagine how shit it must be to get half an hour’s break to access the internet after a particularly awful day patrolling in Afghanistan, logging on to Facebook (because you just want to see what the people you care about have been up to while you’ve been putting your life on the line for them), only to find a newsfeed spattered in bitchiness, “woe is me” updates and boring “Joe Bloggs is doing the ironing” statuses??
Come on people, I know we all need to vent every now and then. Of course I understand that, and I’ve done it myself in the past...but when it’s constant it just makes for depressing reading...
Use it for a giggle, use it to make someone smile...and if you can’t...or won’t, expect to be cleared out on the next friend cull, because much as I might love you, I just don’t want you to bring me down – not when I’m so grateful I have the life that I do, the friends that I have, and the family I was born with. Besides...why rant on Facebook...when you can rant on a blog instead?
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Expect The Unexpected
When my brother told me (after a particularly gruelling training session) that he wanted to “go out and get smashed”, my initial reaction was to laugh. My secondary reaction was to laugh so hard I snorted like a little piggy, and that was because this ludicrous idea. You see, the middle brother isn’t really the “going out” type. He sneers at the chavs, and despises most forms of popular music. He doesn’t usually drink, and when he does go into a pub, he likes to be able to “talk” (rather than mime) to the person sitting next to him. But....I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been out for a night out so I decided to indulge his bizarre and somewhat out-of-the-blue request. He also wanted to invite the big bro out at the same time, and to be honest, I felt sorry for him, because there was no way the big bro would go out on the town for anyone. He really wanted to ask him though so I picked up the phone, and pleaded his case to my eldest sibling. His response was...
“Err...yeah...okay.”
WTF?? Have I fallen into to some strange parallel universe or something?? If there was anyone less likely to want to go out round sunny Nunny on a Saturday night, it was the older bro!
Now when strange things like this happen, my initial reaction, like any shrewd, intelligent woman, is to be incredibly suspicious. These boys tear strips off me for enjoying my nights out at the local pubs and bars. They take the proverbial pee out of the fact that I can be quite contented meeting the girls down at my local, before heading into a town and spending my evening in an over commercialised expensive and overrated wine bar/club, just so I can boogie in my “ridiculous” heels until the wee hours. They claim that no’one really wants to do that...not when they have series 1-4 of Battlestar Gallactica on DVD boxset, and a fridge stocked with Coke Zero and Haribo back at home. If I was going to do this, I needed back up...and that came in the form of Beck-lar.
We decided that the boys weren’t actually ready for our usual haunt right from the off, so we took them to a quieter pub not far from town called The Royal Oak. It’s a bit of a “mans” pub – it has regulars and not many of them are under thirty, but it has a fab atmosphere, and was the perfect venue to break the boys in gently. Luckily this part of my plan seemed to work well. The boys enjoyed the easy conversation between the four of us, and the cheap prices at the bar. The locals, eyed the newcomers suspiciously at first (I don’t blame them, I still thought the boys were up to something!) but soon relaxed when they realised we were friends of their favourite barmaid (Princess – who’s been doing the odd shift here and there when she’s not being doing her day job). We talked about rubbish; boyfriends, girlfriends, family, work etc, but the boys were soon eager to taste the delights that Nunny had to offer. One of the older bro’s friends had made a request that we mark this bizarre and random occasion by taking pictures of him with plenty of “townies” in the background, and he was keen to make a start on his challenge.
Beck-lar and I debated on the best venue to take them to next and decided on the 80’s themed bar, Reflex. Honestly we couldn’t have made a better choice. The vision of my two dear brothers air guitaring to Chesney Hawkes’s “I Am The One And Only” is a picture that will stay with me forever. The big bro was positively buzzing, and the middle bro danced in a state of euphoria (largely owing to the fact that by this point he’d had at least 8 bottles of beer). In fact it was at around about this point that the middle bro decided to really break out the serious moves on an unsuspecting audience. Mum and Dad had forced the middle and baby bros to go to ballroom dancing lessons when they were young, and it appears that the middle bro never lost his moves. I can say this with confidence because it was me he was trying to Jive with around the dancefloor! I’m not what you’d call a natural mover so this was somewhat uncomfortable for me. I did tell him he looked a little bit gay, but he brushed off my comment with a smile saying...
”yeah it can look a bit gay...unless like me you can make it look f**king ace!”
(And that’s what I love about my brothers – they really couldn’t give a crap what the world thinks, they’re just here to have fun)
The evening progressed, the four of us got more and more drunk, and eventually we grabbed a taxi back to my place. Beck-lar wasn’t ready to go home either so she jumped in the taxi with us. The boys had spent most of the evening desperately trying to not “break the seal”, so were quite desperate to visit the little boys room. Unfortunately so was Beck-lar...well the little girls room at least. It was decided that Beck-lar would be allowed to take the upstairs loo, but the gauntlet was laid down for the downstairs loo. A huge amount of trash talking ensued between the boys (neither of them saw the irony of the “yo momma” comments flying back and forth between them), and the wrestling contest between them started the minute they fell out of the taxi.
Now you should bear in mind that it was about 12:30am and I live in a very nice, quiet residential area. My next door neighbour is around seventy years old, and quite frankly you just don’t hear this kind of ruckus in my cul-de-sac. As they wrestled and jostled with each other (sounding like two grizzly bears at the height of the mating season) I quickly let Beck-lar in the house, whilst simultaneously hushing and shhusshhing the boys as they slammed though my front door. The wrestling match continued to the back of the house and into the conservatory, where quite frankly I got bored of waiting for one of them to “win” and decided to walk calmly past them to the loo and use it myself. Silly boys.
The rest of the evening was spent playing Rock Band on the Xbox, drinking, chatting and rough housing with the dog before the boys crashed on the sofas, Beck-lar in the spare room, and me in my waterbed – exhausted at about 3:30am. As I lay there in bed reflecting on the unexpected success of the evening (and dreading the massive clean-up operation that awaited me in the morning) it struck me, that despite the fact we no longer live in the same towns, never mind the same houses, the bond between me and my brothers grows stronger and stronger as we get older. They do more and more things to surprise me, and show me how they’ve grown over the years. I've learned when it comes to my brothers, to expect the unexpected. They’re fun, charismatic individuals, and....despite our best efforts to become our own people, and our decision to actively avoid following the crowd, to each of us, there will always be at least another three people in the world who are just like us...and that feels kinda cool.
“Err...yeah...okay.”
WTF?? Have I fallen into to some strange parallel universe or something?? If there was anyone less likely to want to go out round sunny Nunny on a Saturday night, it was the older bro!
Now when strange things like this happen, my initial reaction, like any shrewd, intelligent woman, is to be incredibly suspicious. These boys tear strips off me for enjoying my nights out at the local pubs and bars. They take the proverbial pee out of the fact that I can be quite contented meeting the girls down at my local, before heading into a town and spending my evening in an over commercialised expensive and overrated wine bar/club, just so I can boogie in my “ridiculous” heels until the wee hours. They claim that no’one really wants to do that...not when they have series 1-4 of Battlestar Gallactica on DVD boxset, and a fridge stocked with Coke Zero and Haribo back at home. If I was going to do this, I needed back up...and that came in the form of Beck-lar.
We decided that the boys weren’t actually ready for our usual haunt right from the off, so we took them to a quieter pub not far from town called The Royal Oak. It’s a bit of a “mans” pub – it has regulars and not many of them are under thirty, but it has a fab atmosphere, and was the perfect venue to break the boys in gently. Luckily this part of my plan seemed to work well. The boys enjoyed the easy conversation between the four of us, and the cheap prices at the bar. The locals, eyed the newcomers suspiciously at first (I don’t blame them, I still thought the boys were up to something!) but soon relaxed when they realised we were friends of their favourite barmaid (Princess – who’s been doing the odd shift here and there when she’s not being doing her day job). We talked about rubbish; boyfriends, girlfriends, family, work etc, but the boys were soon eager to taste the delights that Nunny had to offer. One of the older bro’s friends had made a request that we mark this bizarre and random occasion by taking pictures of him with plenty of “townies” in the background, and he was keen to make a start on his challenge.
Beck-lar and I debated on the best venue to take them to next and decided on the 80’s themed bar, Reflex. Honestly we couldn’t have made a better choice. The vision of my two dear brothers air guitaring to Chesney Hawkes’s “I Am The One And Only” is a picture that will stay with me forever. The big bro was positively buzzing, and the middle bro danced in a state of euphoria (largely owing to the fact that by this point he’d had at least 8 bottles of beer). In fact it was at around about this point that the middle bro decided to really break out the serious moves on an unsuspecting audience. Mum and Dad had forced the middle and baby bros to go to ballroom dancing lessons when they were young, and it appears that the middle bro never lost his moves. I can say this with confidence because it was me he was trying to Jive with around the dancefloor! I’m not what you’d call a natural mover so this was somewhat uncomfortable for me. I did tell him he looked a little bit gay, but he brushed off my comment with a smile saying...
”yeah it can look a bit gay...unless like me you can make it look f**king ace!”
(And that’s what I love about my brothers – they really couldn’t give a crap what the world thinks, they’re just here to have fun)
The evening progressed, the four of us got more and more drunk, and eventually we grabbed a taxi back to my place. Beck-lar wasn’t ready to go home either so she jumped in the taxi with us. The boys had spent most of the evening desperately trying to not “break the seal”, so were quite desperate to visit the little boys room. Unfortunately so was Beck-lar...well the little girls room at least. It was decided that Beck-lar would be allowed to take the upstairs loo, but the gauntlet was laid down for the downstairs loo. A huge amount of trash talking ensued between the boys (neither of them saw the irony of the “yo momma” comments flying back and forth between them), and the wrestling contest between them started the minute they fell out of the taxi.
Now you should bear in mind that it was about 12:30am and I live in a very nice, quiet residential area. My next door neighbour is around seventy years old, and quite frankly you just don’t hear this kind of ruckus in my cul-de-sac. As they wrestled and jostled with each other (sounding like two grizzly bears at the height of the mating season) I quickly let Beck-lar in the house, whilst simultaneously hushing and shhusshhing the boys as they slammed though my front door. The wrestling match continued to the back of the house and into the conservatory, where quite frankly I got bored of waiting for one of them to “win” and decided to walk calmly past them to the loo and use it myself. Silly boys.
The rest of the evening was spent playing Rock Band on the Xbox, drinking, chatting and rough housing with the dog before the boys crashed on the sofas, Beck-lar in the spare room, and me in my waterbed – exhausted at about 3:30am. As I lay there in bed reflecting on the unexpected success of the evening (and dreading the massive clean-up operation that awaited me in the morning) it struck me, that despite the fact we no longer live in the same towns, never mind the same houses, the bond between me and my brothers grows stronger and stronger as we get older. They do more and more things to surprise me, and show me how they’ve grown over the years. I've learned when it comes to my brothers, to expect the unexpected. They’re fun, charismatic individuals, and....despite our best efforts to become our own people, and our decision to actively avoid following the crowd, to each of us, there will always be at least another three people in the world who are just like us...and that feels kinda cool.
Monday, 6 September 2010
To Dance With My Father Again
On Thursday 9th September it will be my Dad’s birthday. Unfortunately he’s not here to celebrate it, so my blog today is in remembrance of him and features some of his finest moments. For those of you who read this and knew my Dad, I hope you enjoy these little memories. I know I do...My handsome, funny, articulate, intelligent, stubborn, grumpy and two-left-footed, wonderful Pops.
(NB when I refer to “real mum” I mean just that, when I refer to “Mum” I mean Joanne, the wonderful woman whom many of you know, who raised me and my brothers as if we were her own and whom I owe everything to)
Me, my brothers, my Ma and my Pops...
Tomato Ketchup Sarnies!
Real mum was going through her RAF basic training and Dad was a complete novice at looking after four children on his own. The live-in Nanny was on her weekend off, and the best he could do with regards to dinner, with very little food in the house before the “big shop” was tomato ketchup sandwiches! He denied doing this to the day he died – but if four of us remember the ketchup sandwiches we can’t all have imagined it!!
Surprise!
Due to a mix up with exeat weekends from boarding school, my Mum was unexpectedly lumbered with me, the middle bro and the baby bro. My Dad was down route on a trip (by this point he had left the RAF and was flying for British Airways) and was incommunicado so had no idea we’d be at home when he returned from his trip. At the time he used to catch the Flight Link bus from Coventry bus station to Heathrow for each trip, so Mum had to take us along when she went to collect him on his return. Mum has a rather wicked sense of humour, and thought it would be really funny to let the three of us climb into the boot of the Peugeot 605 we had at the time so that we could jump out at him when he opened the boot of the car to put his trolley case in. My Dad was never one to visibly show fear, so I will never, ever forget the look of sheer terror as three of his children launched themselves out of the boot of the car at him. Over 24 hours without sleep – most of them without nicotine, the poor guy nearly had a stroke. I will also never forget the next few hours or so, which saw Mum repeatedly bursting into giggles every time she relived the moment in her head.
Can I Be Excused?
Dad was pretty strict about table etiquette. There was no elbows on tables, no chewing with your mouth open, no talking at the dinner table, your knife and fork had to be held properly and in the right hands etc, and there was certainly no bad manners or laughing/joking at the dinner table. Rule number one however was that you couldn’t leave the dinner table until the meal was over...because apparently that was just rude. On this one occasion my poor Dad’s whole dinner table etiquette teachings fell spectacularly to pieces as a result of my baby brother. We’d been at the table less than two minutes when the baby bro (no more than 8yrs old at the time) asked to be excused. Furious my Dad declined his request telling him he should have gone before he sat down at the table. What followed was about thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence as me and my siblings tried to pretend we hadn’t just witnessed the baby bro being given a dressing down...before the baby bro let off a fart that a 40yr old trucker would have been proud of! I actually though Dad’s head was going to explode with anger at the audacity of his youngest child. The baby bro (in his sweet childlike yet-to-break voice) simply said in his defence... “I did say I needed to be excused”
This belter of a defence sent me and my Mum into fits of giggles which resulted in both of us being sent away from the table by my Dad until we’d “composed ourselves”. I still don’t know what I find funnier – Ralph’s man sized fart, or the fact that my Mum got sent away from the table!!
Dad’s quirky dress sense
Now aside from Dad’s numerous moments of fancy dress genius, which included dressing as a Witch’s familiar in black cat suit, Marilyn Monroe (complete with blonde wig and beauty spot) and at a food themed party, skin tight white jeans, a silk Chanel print jacket, Brylcreamed hair, red lipstick and yet again a beauty spot whilst carrying a tin of marrowfat peas (he’d gone as Faggot and Peas), Dad had his own quirky sense of style. The man was never seen out in public without a pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson hat. I have no idea where this came from but I think it started after a trip to Texas to visit some old RAF Pals (Kev & Karen that’d be you!) and it remained his style for the rest of his life. At a rather midgey 5’6” (ish) I think the cowboy boots simply gave him the extra inch height-wise that the good Lord didn’t think it necessary for him to have in the first place. The Stetson became my Dad’s trademark look though, and even now, I sometimes see a guy walking around Nuneaton who’s a similar build and wears a similar hat, and I have to do a double take thinking it’s Dad. I’m always disappointed when it’s not.
Dad Dancing
There’s only one person I’ve ever known with less coordination than me, and that was Pops. Anyone who took part in the Am Dram production of Anything Goes will remember how Dad’s two-left-footedness lead a whole ensemble into chaos during the musical number “Blow Gabriel Blow” He knew he’s gone wrong, and that all anyone could do on the jam packed stage was try to avoid his clumsy footing. Everyone, distracted by his floundering efforts to follow a dance routine, lost track of the words they should have been singing, and the timing they should have been keeping. It must have been tragic to watch! You couldn’t help but laugh at him though it was so funny to watch him.
Despite his shocking attempts to move with grace and dignity however, he did manage to shuffle me across the floor on my wedding day. A moment I will treasure forever, regardless of how my marriage turned out. To have him there, proud as punch that he hadn’t stepped on his baby girls toes at any point during the dance, all I can remember thinking was how wonderfully lucky I was to have my Dad. Handsome, funny man that he was. Always the joker, always generous, always caring. I remember this, and Luther Vandross’s lyrics spring instantly to mind... “If I could steal one final glance, One final step, one final dance with him, I’d play a song that would never, ever end, ‘Cause I’d love, love, love to dance with my father again”
My Friends & My Pa
So many of my friends had great relationships with my Pa. Rae and my Dad shared a sick sense of humour over April Fools jokes, Hannah always called him “Mister Cooper” in the same way Perry (from Harry Enfield’s Kevin & Perry) called Kevin’s mum “Missus Patterson”, and Ruairi, well he and my Dad had a special bond, and I’m never sure where it developed from, but I think it may be from the fact that Ruairi always had my best interests at heart, and always looked out for me without ever being someone who had the potential to do rude things to his only daughter haha! I don’t know a single one of my friends who didn’t love my Dad....but then they didn’t have to live with him I guess haha!
Just Me & My Pa
One of my earliest memories was Dad in his green RAF flight jumpsuit, with clear plastic patches on the thighs which contained maps and flight plans usually – but for me, as I sat on his knee, it was replaced with a plain paper background, so that I could draw pretty pictures on the clear plastic with these special “crayon” type pencils.
Dad’s smell – Dad always had a smell – aftershave, cigarettes and breath freshener/mint chewing gum. I can’t describe it really...it just smelled like Dad. It wasn’t a stale cigarette smell, it was woody and kind of sweet. When I think about cuddles with Pops now that’s the smell that I imagine, because it was so distinctively him.
Just the two of us in the house, singing along to Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballe’s “Barcelona” playing full blast on the Hi-Fi whilst Dad pottered around the kitchen and I dusted the lounge – it started with us both humming/singing quietly along and ended in us singing at the top of our lungs – me making up the words as I didn’t know the Spanish, Dad doing his best Freddie impression with a mic stand we already had for the Karaoke machine...sounding God awful but finishing, collapsing on the sofa and laughing at how ridiculous we were. One of my favourite memories of all time.
Finally, a very early memory...Dad playing guitar, singing Yiddish folk song “Dona Dona” to get me to sleep as a very young child. The lyrics have always stayed with me:
On a wagon bound for market
There's a calf with a mournful eye.
High above him there's a swallow
Winging swiftly through the sky.
How the winds are laughing
They laugh with all their might
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
And half the summer's night.
Dona, dona, dona, dona,
Dona, dona, dona, do,
Dona, dona, dona, dona,
Dona, dona, dona, do.
"Stop complaining," said the farmer,
"Who told you a calf to be?
Why don't you have wings to fly with
Like the swallow so proud and free?"
How the winds are laughing ...
Calves are easily bound and slaughtered
Never knowing the reason why.
But whoever treasures freedom,
Like the swallow has learned to fly
I hope you’re flying now Dad x x x Miss you loads, sleep tight x x x
(NB when I refer to “real mum” I mean just that, when I refer to “Mum” I mean Joanne, the wonderful woman whom many of you know, who raised me and my brothers as if we were her own and whom I owe everything to)
Me, my brothers, my Ma and my Pops...
Tomato Ketchup Sarnies!
Real mum was going through her RAF basic training and Dad was a complete novice at looking after four children on his own. The live-in Nanny was on her weekend off, and the best he could do with regards to dinner, with very little food in the house before the “big shop” was tomato ketchup sandwiches! He denied doing this to the day he died – but if four of us remember the ketchup sandwiches we can’t all have imagined it!!
Surprise!
Due to a mix up with exeat weekends from boarding school, my Mum was unexpectedly lumbered with me, the middle bro and the baby bro. My Dad was down route on a trip (by this point he had left the RAF and was flying for British Airways) and was incommunicado so had no idea we’d be at home when he returned from his trip. At the time he used to catch the Flight Link bus from Coventry bus station to Heathrow for each trip, so Mum had to take us along when she went to collect him on his return. Mum has a rather wicked sense of humour, and thought it would be really funny to let the three of us climb into the boot of the Peugeot 605 we had at the time so that we could jump out at him when he opened the boot of the car to put his trolley case in. My Dad was never one to visibly show fear, so I will never, ever forget the look of sheer terror as three of his children launched themselves out of the boot of the car at him. Over 24 hours without sleep – most of them without nicotine, the poor guy nearly had a stroke. I will also never forget the next few hours or so, which saw Mum repeatedly bursting into giggles every time she relived the moment in her head.
Can I Be Excused?
Dad was pretty strict about table etiquette. There was no elbows on tables, no chewing with your mouth open, no talking at the dinner table, your knife and fork had to be held properly and in the right hands etc, and there was certainly no bad manners or laughing/joking at the dinner table. Rule number one however was that you couldn’t leave the dinner table until the meal was over...because apparently that was just rude. On this one occasion my poor Dad’s whole dinner table etiquette teachings fell spectacularly to pieces as a result of my baby brother. We’d been at the table less than two minutes when the baby bro (no more than 8yrs old at the time) asked to be excused. Furious my Dad declined his request telling him he should have gone before he sat down at the table. What followed was about thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence as me and my siblings tried to pretend we hadn’t just witnessed the baby bro being given a dressing down...before the baby bro let off a fart that a 40yr old trucker would have been proud of! I actually though Dad’s head was going to explode with anger at the audacity of his youngest child. The baby bro (in his sweet childlike yet-to-break voice) simply said in his defence... “I did say I needed to be excused”
This belter of a defence sent me and my Mum into fits of giggles which resulted in both of us being sent away from the table by my Dad until we’d “composed ourselves”. I still don’t know what I find funnier – Ralph’s man sized fart, or the fact that my Mum got sent away from the table!!
Dad’s quirky dress sense
Now aside from Dad’s numerous moments of fancy dress genius, which included dressing as a Witch’s familiar in black cat suit, Marilyn Monroe (complete with blonde wig and beauty spot) and at a food themed party, skin tight white jeans, a silk Chanel print jacket, Brylcreamed hair, red lipstick and yet again a beauty spot whilst carrying a tin of marrowfat peas (he’d gone as Faggot and Peas), Dad had his own quirky sense of style. The man was never seen out in public without a pair of cowboy boots and a Stetson hat. I have no idea where this came from but I think it started after a trip to Texas to visit some old RAF Pals (Kev & Karen that’d be you!) and it remained his style for the rest of his life. At a rather midgey 5’6” (ish) I think the cowboy boots simply gave him the extra inch height-wise that the good Lord didn’t think it necessary for him to have in the first place. The Stetson became my Dad’s trademark look though, and even now, I sometimes see a guy walking around Nuneaton who’s a similar build and wears a similar hat, and I have to do a double take thinking it’s Dad. I’m always disappointed when it’s not.
Dad Dancing
There’s only one person I’ve ever known with less coordination than me, and that was Pops. Anyone who took part in the Am Dram production of Anything Goes will remember how Dad’s two-left-footedness lead a whole ensemble into chaos during the musical number “Blow Gabriel Blow” He knew he’s gone wrong, and that all anyone could do on the jam packed stage was try to avoid his clumsy footing. Everyone, distracted by his floundering efforts to follow a dance routine, lost track of the words they should have been singing, and the timing they should have been keeping. It must have been tragic to watch! You couldn’t help but laugh at him though it was so funny to watch him.
Despite his shocking attempts to move with grace and dignity however, he did manage to shuffle me across the floor on my wedding day. A moment I will treasure forever, regardless of how my marriage turned out. To have him there, proud as punch that he hadn’t stepped on his baby girls toes at any point during the dance, all I can remember thinking was how wonderfully lucky I was to have my Dad. Handsome, funny man that he was. Always the joker, always generous, always caring. I remember this, and Luther Vandross’s lyrics spring instantly to mind... “If I could steal one final glance, One final step, one final dance with him, I’d play a song that would never, ever end, ‘Cause I’d love, love, love to dance with my father again”
My Friends & My Pa
So many of my friends had great relationships with my Pa. Rae and my Dad shared a sick sense of humour over April Fools jokes, Hannah always called him “Mister Cooper” in the same way Perry (from Harry Enfield’s Kevin & Perry) called Kevin’s mum “Missus Patterson”, and Ruairi, well he and my Dad had a special bond, and I’m never sure where it developed from, but I think it may be from the fact that Ruairi always had my best interests at heart, and always looked out for me without ever being someone who had the potential to do rude things to his only daughter haha! I don’t know a single one of my friends who didn’t love my Dad....but then they didn’t have to live with him I guess haha!
Just Me & My Pa
One of my earliest memories was Dad in his green RAF flight jumpsuit, with clear plastic patches on the thighs which contained maps and flight plans usually – but for me, as I sat on his knee, it was replaced with a plain paper background, so that I could draw pretty pictures on the clear plastic with these special “crayon” type pencils.
Dad’s smell – Dad always had a smell – aftershave, cigarettes and breath freshener/mint chewing gum. I can’t describe it really...it just smelled like Dad. It wasn’t a stale cigarette smell, it was woody and kind of sweet. When I think about cuddles with Pops now that’s the smell that I imagine, because it was so distinctively him.
Just the two of us in the house, singing along to Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballe’s “Barcelona” playing full blast on the Hi-Fi whilst Dad pottered around the kitchen and I dusted the lounge – it started with us both humming/singing quietly along and ended in us singing at the top of our lungs – me making up the words as I didn’t know the Spanish, Dad doing his best Freddie impression with a mic stand we already had for the Karaoke machine...sounding God awful but finishing, collapsing on the sofa and laughing at how ridiculous we were. One of my favourite memories of all time.
Finally, a very early memory...Dad playing guitar, singing Yiddish folk song “Dona Dona” to get me to sleep as a very young child. The lyrics have always stayed with me:
On a wagon bound for market
There's a calf with a mournful eye.
High above him there's a swallow
Winging swiftly through the sky.
How the winds are laughing
They laugh with all their might
Laugh and laugh the whole day through
And half the summer's night.
Dona, dona, dona, dona,
Dona, dona, dona, do,
Dona, dona, dona, dona,
Dona, dona, dona, do.
"Stop complaining," said the farmer,
"Who told you a calf to be?
Why don't you have wings to fly with
Like the swallow so proud and free?"
How the winds are laughing ...
Calves are easily bound and slaughtered
Never knowing the reason why.
But whoever treasures freedom,
Like the swallow has learned to fly
I hope you’re flying now Dad x x x Miss you loads, sleep tight x x x
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