On your high horse

Like most twentysomethings, I often leave the house to meet my friends. As far as I know, it’s not a rare occurrence; I’m not in the minority. And of course, if you leave your house, you probably want to go back to it (unless you get a very good offer on your night out). And this is what I did on Saturday. I left my house with the full intention of going back there at some point in the evening.

Ok, so I’m aware that’s not exactly groundbreaking stuff. And to be honest, from talking to my friends, I don’t think that what I’m about to write about is groundbreaking stuff. And that worries me, because I think it should be.

The walk home from the tube takes about 10 minutes, and I’ve done it hundreds of times- in rain, in shine, and once, in shoes that soaked up all water in every puddle. I know the route- it’s straight, on a main road that is well-lit, and pretty busy. So I came out of the station, turned my iPod on (I was listening to Belle and Sebastian, thanks for asking) and made my way home.

Then I walk a bit further, and a man tries to get my attention. I ignore him. Head down, hood up, headphones in.

A few seconds later, I feel someone running towards me. This is petrifying. The sensation of being alone, at night, and knowing someone is running behind you is not a nice feeling, be you male or female.

Anyway, fine, I’ve had people run up to me before to tell me my skirt was tucked into my knickers, so I’m kind of used to it now. (Incidentally, I’m now also used to constantly checking I’ve pulled my skirt out of my knickers. It looks like I have a wedgie-related nervous tic). I keep walking, and he taps me on the shoulder. And then this happens-

‘Here love, where are you going?’

‘Home’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Home’

‘Can I come?’

‘No’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m seeing my boyfriend’ (this is the weakest lie I’ve ever told)

‘Oh, you’re English’

‘Yes’

‘Oh, that’s means you’ll be up for fun!’

‘No’

‘And you wear glasses! That means you’re clever but naughty’ (no one, not even my optician, has ever been so excited that I wear glasses)

‘No’

‘You’ve got sexy legs!’

‘Thanks’

‘Can I show you something on my phone?’

‘No’

‘Come on, just stop and have a look’

‘No’

‘Why not, it won’t take long?’

‘No’

‘Come on love, do you now want to see what’s on my phone?’

‘No’.

This continues for a bit until I get to a crossing and lose him in the crowd. But I’m incredibly nervous, and basically run home. Who was that guy? Did he subtly nick anything from my bag? Is he still behind me? Am I ok? The answer to all of those questions is ‘no’.

Before I carry on writing, I should just let you know a few things about me- I rarely get angry (unless you steal my Diet Coke or make me watch Sex and the City 2) and I’m not a raving feminist. My basic motto in life is ‘don’t be a dick’, and I think it’s ok to expect that level of respect from other people, be they friends or strangers. So I was pretty disappointed by what had happened.

As you may have noticed, I said no to this guy many times, and yet still he persisted in walking with me. For all I knew he might have followed me all the way to my house, and demanded to come in. What was I meant to do? Avoid coming home? Kick him and run? (Another thing to know about me is that I run like a duck. Not even joking). Call up a friend to meet me? Maybe I shouldn’t wear a dress next time I’m out late at night? Or maybe I shouldn’t go out late at night at all?

The more I think about it, the more upset I am that this is something I even have to think about. Feeling safe on my walk home is not an unreasonable demand, and I don’t think it’s fair that I should have to worry that I need an escort, or that I should wear trousers, or, if we’re being ridiculous, that I should just avoid walking.

I wonder whether this happens to guys? I’m not saying it doesn’t, because I’m sure many boys have felt the clammy breath of a drunken girl stumbling up to them and propositioning them. But this felt different, because generally, men are bigger and stronger than girls, and if he grabbed me there would be nothing I could do about it. Basically, I felt a bit powerless.

I’m not really articulating this very well, I know that, but I came home feeling angry that I’d been made to feel targeted and helpless. And like it was my fault for wearing a skirt, or being on my own.

Maybe if I was in a better mood I’d laugh it off, say I was flattered to get propositioned on my walk home, and joke that it was the best offer I’d had all week. But I don’t think it’s fair that I have to do that. I mean, I’m self deprecating most of the time (although I’m not very good at it…) and I feel uncomfortable turning this into another one of those moments. Because the thing is, this happens to girls quite a lot, actually. And I don’t think it’s fair that we should accept it, say it’s ok, and just make sure we always look over our shoulder when we walk home.

I’m not saying we should ban men from the pavements of north London, and I’m not saying I want to start petitions and march around banging on about women’s rights.

 

I’m just saying, well, can the dicks stop being dicks, please?

 

 

 

 

If these walls could talk.

Ten years ago, I was petrified.

Petrified of life, petrified of my impending GCSEs, petrified of boys, petrified of how uncool I was, and petrified that my teenage years would turn out to be as painful as I suspected*.

Basically, I had no idea of what to expect from the world, and I had no idea of what the world expected from me.

You see, it was around this time ten years ago that I moved house. (I should clarify; my whole family moved. I didn’t just bid farewell to my parents and set up a wendy-house in the park). We went from Newcastle city centre to an idyllic village called Wall, where my dad had recently started running the local pub.

I hated it.

I hated the smell of the smoke lingering with the spilled beer from the night before. I hated the way the locals talked in such broad Geordie accents that I couldn’t understand them. I hated that my dad made me work there with bad-tempered chefs and a temperamental dishwasher. But most of all, I hated the fact that this building took my dad away from the thing he should obviously have been focusing on: me.

(It’s worth noting right now that this sense of entitlement has since evaporated, but I’m sure if I looked hard enough in my boxes of diaries I could find the poem I wrote when I was 14 describing ‘the place that took my parents away’ or some such nonsense).

So we moved to the village, settled into a cottage next door to the pub, and set up our lives in our brand new home. (Well, I say ‘brand new’, but the cottage was around 200 years old. Still, you get the idea). And this village, this tiny place surrounded by green fields and cows and constantly circled by tractors, was the setting for my awkward teenage years. I’ll tell you now, they weren’t pretty.

Of course I had friends and extra-curricular activities, but I was also shy and not confident with who I was or what I looked like. I wore baggy skater jeans but the thought of actually going on a skateboard filled me with dread. I wrote dodgy poetry and kept copious notebooks.

I was…well…I was a typical, clichéd teenager, wasn’t I? There was literally nothing special about me, I was passing through all the correct phases of teenage life. Ridiculous crushes? Check. Awful haircuts? Check. More feelings than you can fit in a suitcase?* Double check.

Anyway, back to the pub. Slowly, like a new person who joins your school and is desperate to become your friend, it wore me down. I started to like the place. We got on.

When I began to notice boys, the pub gave me cocky-yet-charming waiters to fancy. When I was in danger of becoming painfully shy, the pub introduced people into my life who I needed to talk to and interact with to get through work shifts*. When I needed to revise maths, one of the locals, a teacher, gave me one-to-one lessons on the back of beer mats. When I decided, at the rather late age of seventeen, to get drunk for the first time, I did so in the pub at a staff party, where I knew everyone would take care of me.* When I took a year out in-between my LLB and my MA the pub was waiting for me, as faithful as ever, with open doors and a job to come back to.

More importantly, when my family hit rough patches, the pub was there, complete with customers and staff who were willing to help out. The sense of community has always been and will continue to be overwhelming, and something that recently I had begun to take for granted.

I will always have a fondness for the pub. It saw me, a frightened fourteen year old, and watched me grow into a much less frightened twenty-four year old. During those years of serving soup and cleaning bedrooms, I turned into someone I am proud of being and this is in no small part down to the pub and the people who have lived, breathed, worked, and drank inside it. (Luckily the pub also watched me ditch the baggy jeans. We both agreed they weren’t a good look).

So I write this blog because my parents are now selling the pub. My teenage home is to be passed on to another family. Oddly, the new people moving in are exactly like we were- a couple with a young teenage daughter. And if I could tell her anything, I would tell her the same thing that I wish I’d known myself- you are so, so lucky. Not only will you have a community full of people wishing you well and willing you to succeed, you will also have a very old building, benevolently watching over you every step of the way.

* They were

* This is an attempt at implying I had ‘emotional baggage’. I know, I’m hilarious.

* Some of these people have since become my closest and oldest friends. Some of them definitely have not.

* It’s a good job this turned out to be true- I’m hazy on the details but I’ve since been told that by the end of the night I had to be restrained from dancing, later passed out, and had to be given a fireman’s lift home by one of the bar staff.

Radio shows I have loved, Part 2.

Seeing as I’ve had more deep and meaningful relationships with radio shows than I have with gentlemen callers (ahem) I thought I would write a story about another radio show that has meant something to me. In the interests of choice, you can either listen to me telling you the story, or if you can’t bear the sound of my voice (fair enough) you can just read it instead. Don’t say I never give you anything, yeah?

In September 2003 I had picked my AS-Level subjects, but within a month or so I realised that choosing biology over english literature had been a Bad Idea. Genomes and stamens (for that is all I remember of biology) weren’t for me. I’d much rather be sitting with a book, going over stories and learning about plays. I don’t know why I hadn’t picked literature (it was my best mark at GCSE) but a combination of trying to be an educational all-rounder (something I’ve come to accept that I most definitely am not) and some kind of misplaced rebellion meant I was stuck with plants and blood and other biology things.

After a while I decided I’d had enough of biology and definitely wanted to switch to literature. In my head it was a done deal- what would be the problem? Well, there were loads, apparently. Timetable clashes, the fact I’d missed most of the lessons on The Color Purple, and other factors I deemed to be trivial were thrown at me, but I’d be damned if I was stuck studying shrubbery and humans for another two years.

So I weasled my way onto the course and realised straight away that the teachers were right- catching up was going to be hard.

It was about this time in my life that I decided to experiment with radio. I’d only just turned the dial from my local pop music station, Metro Radio (a station I still have a fondness for) and towards Radio 1. In all honesty it had been an accident (they sit next to each other on the dial) but that wasn’t the point. A whole new world had opened up to me. I’d grown up listening to Radio 2 and although Metro had afforded me some independence from it, Radio 1 was something else. They played music with guitars! And there were no adverts! And I didn’t have to suffer with my S Club fandom much longer, because bands like Sum 41 and Blink 182 were being played (that’s right, I was that kind of kid).

For weeks I had to work hard to catch up with the rest of my class, because not only had I not managed to read The Color Purple, but I’d also not quite grasped the basics of The Tempest. Oh, this was going to be hard.

As well as having a short attention span, as mentioned in the previous post, I also tend to leave things to the last-minute. Sure, it’ll get done and it’ll be bang on time, but if something is due at 1pm, I’ll probably be writing the introduction at 12.15pm. This was one of those times. Every night I’d come back and put off the work later and later, until it got to 10pm and I had no choice but to buckle down.

Luckily, I had good company. Very good company. By absolute good fortune and brilliant luck, I had sorted my work schedule to start at the same time as the John Peel show. Every night I would wriggle into bed, armed with a pencil and a well-thumbed copy of The Tempest that the school had given me, and listen to John Peel.

He never disappointed.

His show was simple; just him and the music, and I appreciated that. Sure, there was music I didn’t like and music I didn’t understand, but it was music. Music I’d never heard before and probably would never hear again. Sometimes he played stuff twice, sometimes he made mistakes, and sometimes he rambled on a bit too long and I would be far too engrossed in Shakespeare to notice, but on the whole we were a great team.

In the months after the final exam I still tuned in to his show but with less regularity than I had done during my revision. I was always thankful to John Peel for sticking by me for the academic year. He would never know it but whenever I thought of The Tempest I would think of his show, and my bed, and huddling under the duvet while Pulp or The Smiths or a new band I’d never heard of played.

A year later, I was at home listening to Radio 1 when I heard he had died on holiday. I was shocked; he was the first radio presenter I’d felt a connection with, the first one I felt I knew. So I shed a  tear, listened to Common People, and nodded silently at my cohort from those late nights- a battered copy of The Tempest.

Radio shows I have loved, Part 1.

I love radio more than Robin Hood loved Maid Marian, more than Lady Gaga loves her local butchers, and more than E4 loves showing every episode of Friends at least 800 times. It’s seen me through thick and thin, stood by me when I was lost or lonely, and been a friend in times of need. So because of that, I’ve decided to write about the times that radio has meant something to me.

I’ll start with a show that I don’t particularly care for anymore, but at the time it saved my bacon…

When Steve Wright Helped Me Pass My SATs

That’s right. The presenter of Radio 2′s  ‘Big Show’, who pioneered the use of the American-style ‘gang’ radio in the UK, helped me pass my Year 9 maths exam.

At the time, it was the biggest exam EVER. (Forget those Year 6 SATs, they were nothing in comparison to this humdinger.) As the teachers constantly told us, the SATs would determine which GCSE set you would get into, the set would determine what level you would aim towards for GCSEs, the GCSEs would in turn influence your choices and options for A-Levels, your A-Levels would decide what university you would be accepted to, and your degree from University ruined your ENTIRE LIFE. This was big stuff.

My little heart could barely take the pressure. In my head, getting a good level in my SATs would basically decide my whole future. I was 13 and this was it; failing these exams would mean my life was over. I would have to leave school and go down the mines unless I reached AT LEAST a level 5. In retrospect I can barely remember what I actually got, let alone what the levels meant (is 5 good? Bad? Average?) but at the time I knew I needed the hallowed number 5 to get me through. And that was only in maths. Don’t even get me started on my goals for the english exam; I think I was aiming for an 8.

So for weeks and days before the tests, I settled down to revise. This is where my plans unravelled. Obviously like all teens, I hated revision, but I have a perilously short attention span. (This causes major problems in my life when people assume I’m paying attention to lectures/films/books/conversations, and I’m generally just thinking about food). The attention span could have been my undoing, were it not for the lovely Mr Wright.

Every day for a month I sat in our conservatory and between the hours of 2 and 5pm I would learn about trigonometry, figure out just what number ‘x’ represented, and sit as many practice papers as possible. I broke up the sections of the show and timed them to help me figure out how long I’d revised. This meant I’d always have a break during the ‘Factoids’ because I genuinely find them fascinating and knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore them. (This was also true of the horoscopes, but only for my own starsign. Yes I know, typical Leo).

I worked through all the news bulletins (they were even duller than my graph paper, so I wasn’t missing much) and most of the links between Steve and his gang (Janey Lee Grace and Tim Smith, if you’re interested). If a song came on that I liked, then I’d stop and listen, because I’m rubbish at listening to music when I’m working. If a song that I didn’t like came on, then I would work through.

To be honest, given the number of 80s soft-rock ballads that were on the Radio 2 playlist and the fact that my main musical heroes were S Club 7, there was rarely a song that let me take a break.

The rules I’d made for myself were haphazard and flexible. If someone I liked was interviewed, then of course I’d put my ruler down, forget long division, and soak in the chat. But on the whole, my rules worked. Using the strict timetable of the Big Show, I was able to concentrate and finally figure out how on earth I could make x equal y…or whatever it was that I was frantically revising.

The exams came and went and of course, in the grand scheme of things they weren’t important at all. I certainly don’t go around asking my friends what they got for their Year 9 SATs, and I suspect if I was the kind of person who did I wouldn’t have any friends to ask in the first place. But I will always know that in the spring of 2001, I got a Level 6 in maths, and I couldn’t have done it without the help of Steve Wright and his gang.

The Most Awful Thing I Have Seen In My Life

This post was written in a fit of pure anger and ire, so I apologise if it isn’t as comprehensible as you’d expect. But it is full, FULL, of emotion.

Sex and the City 2, then.

It was the worst film I have ever seen and after seeing it I can’t help but say I wanted to vomit my own eyeballs out and then give back my Woman Card to the ID office because if that’s what it means to be female then I want NO PART in it. And I used to be a fan! A fan!

It was the most sexist, lazy, uninspiring and racist film I have ever seen, and I cannot believe I sat through the whole ruddy thing. I went in the cinema at 8.30, left at 11.15, and came out THIRTY YEARS older. I have SO MANY problems with it. Let’s start with half way through when they go to Abu Dhabi for a week away, and the whole bit should have been replaced with a frigging page from Teletext holidays. At one point they say ‘gosh we’ve only been here 2 days’ and I felt myself shouting ‘REALLY?! REALLY?! It feels like 2 MONTHS, CARRIE’.

They supposedly have the most luxurious suite ever, with an informal lounge, a formal lounge, a personal bar and all manner of ridiculous butler systems but they still have to share bedrooms. And they all get a car each (Each! Think of the environment, ladies!) but for some inexplicable reason they have to share a camel. And they have phone signal IN THE DESERT. I’m sorry but if I don’t get signal in my northern village of Wall then you sure as hell won’t get a bar of Vodafone signal in the middle of the Middle East.

Next thing- they’re old. Really old. I swear at one point Carrie looks in the mirror and it’s Voldemort looking back at her. And when did Carrie turn into such a nag? Gees woman, you got the man of your dreams, now chill the frig out and have fun. Stop nagging him! Just sit on a sofa and be happy for once in your life.

Oh and since when did everyone have a group of friends who constantly came up with a flow of ‘hilarious’ one-liners? No one’s friends are that consistently witty, unless your close circle of pals includes Stephen Fry and Oscar Wilde.

They keep banging on about the recession but they still manage to afford the most ridiculously sickening luxuries that are so expensive it’s almost offensive and is totally detached from their audience e.g. ‘oh we have a spare apartment across town but couldn’t afford to put it on the market’. SO YOU’LL JUST KEEP IT EMPTY AND PRETTY AND WON’T RENT IT OUT, YEAH? Yeah. Sounds like a good idea. Oh, and well done you for sacrificing that penthouse suite and getting a flat 12 floors below, to represent how ‘down to earth’ you are. Gosh Carrie, you really are one of us, aren’t you, even though you have a massive fuck-off wardrobe that’s bigger than the room I’m in now.

And the racism?! They’re so patronising to a different culture it’s galling. Fine, you have sex. But don’t (literally) parade it in the faces of people who don’t want that in the middle of their restaurants. That’s right Samantha, I’m talking to you.

Finally, any film that ends with Cyndi Lauper’s ‘True Colours’ is sodding lazy. No arguments. And if I hear any of their shrill voices one more time I will have to dissolve my ear drums in some kind of acid, even though that would perilously play havoc with my chosen career in radio.

…and even if you didn’t read this, just the act of writing it out was cathartic. Now I’m going to hit my head repeatedly on a brick wall to try and forget the travesty of a ‘film’ I just watched. If you want a more realistic depiction of foreign and mysterious lands, just stay in and watch Aladdin.

Making the News Fun

If I was in charge of the news, I’d have a few new rules:

A competition to present your own made-up news story.

An ‘…And Finally’ section that lasts AT LEAST half of the programme.

The abolition of over-the-top news theme tunes that should end 30 seconds before they actually do.

…etc etc, you get the idea. But I’d also quite like to make news in general a bit lighter and a bit more…well…fun. So I cobbled this together recently, in a bid to make the Labour leader contest a bit more interesting.

The BBC say they want to educate, entertain, and inform, don’t they? Well I reckon I could help them out with that…

To be honest…

Honestly?

I don’t really like the Cockney accent. I find it a little bit scary and much more intimidating than a Geordie lilt.

I’m concerned that I get most of my opinions from the comedians I follow on Twitter.

I like James Corden. He makes me laugh and there’s really not much more I can ask of him.

I have no interest in the Large Hadron Collider, CERN, or physics in general. And I don’t fancy Dr Brian Cox.

I’m not sure what a ‘hung Parliament’ is.

I find going to music gigs can be an awkward experience; do you dance, sing along, shout, or look cool by standing around and bopping to the music? And what happens if you just want a good sit down mid-song?

I am terrified that there is a way to tell who has been on your facebook wall, and everyone knows apart from me.

I’ve never seen a Bond film. Or any of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Or that ruddy Twilight/New Moon thing.

I have been known to text AQA about rather important things in my life. (And have then taken its advice)

I know that running a marathon is an amazing thing to do and you raise lots of money for charity, but I could/would never ever do it.

I will often choose to listen to Real Radio instead of Radio 4. Sometimes I just want to sing along to songs instead of being told depressing things about the world, y’know?

I spend more time playing Peggle than I do exercising.

I judge you on your knowledge (or lack of knowledge) of BBC 6 Music.

I learnt most of the things I know about friendships and social etiquette through ‘Friends’.

Honestly.