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60 Years of 'Monarching'

Two posts in two days? Blasphemy!

The thing is, it's come to my attention that my blog has not just been read by people in Britain. Oh no, other countries have briefly looked at it too. So I thought, well, for the benefit of them, shouldn't I explain something English? 

Well, other countries, over the past few days (2-5th of June) HM Queen Elizabeth II has been celebrating 60 years of being the monarch of 16 states known as the Commonwealth. This, my foreign friends, is known as the Diamon Jubilee. And it basically constitutes for lots of flag waving, street partying and telly watching. Oh, and a few free days off. 

Now, our good Queen Liz was born in 1926. And at the time everyone thought it was very unlikely that she would be queen at all- so I bet those people are all feeling pretty stupid at this point. 

The word 'accession' basically means a new Sovereign is taking the throne after the death of the previous King or Queen. And loads of people come to see it, and the special person reads a declaration and takes and oath and it's all well and good. This happened to the Queen on the 6th of February 1952. This begs the question- with all this excitement going on- who was going to be celebrating Bob Marley's birthday? 

After that the Queen did a whole lot of monarching. 60 years to be exact. In which time she made lots of speeches and did lots of good things and was generally pretty awesome. Which is why over the past few days there's been concerts and flotillas (I don't know if you saw, rest of the world, but on the day of the flotilla it was absolutely weeing down which I suppose is a salute to Britain in itself.) 

However, during the concert last night Prince Philip (that's the Queen's husband for the rest of the world) was not present because he's been unwell which is a shame because it was actually a pretty good concert and the queen now has to go to the service at St Paul's Cathedral with the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (for the Americans among you, that's so totes Wills and Kate) rather than with her husband. 

The concert opened with Robbie Williams and had Jessie J and Cliff Richard and Grace Jones (who hula hooped for her entire performance, hats off to her) and Elton John and lots of other people. 

Speaking of Elton John, for the entirety of his performance I couldn't get a certain thought out of my mind. 

In America, I'm led to believe they have these things called peeps. They're basically sugar, covered with more sugar, doused in sugar and on the odd occasion dipped in chocolate. Elton John, to me, looked like a melted peep playing piano. 

Can you not see the resemblance? 

I thought I'd finish off with some facts about the Queen: 

The Queen has answered around 3.5 million items of correspondence. If I were her I'd probably be sick of it by now. 

With her husband she's sent about 45,000 Christmas Cards during her reign. 

She learnt to drive in 1945.

She has 30 godchildren.

The queen currently has three corgis called Monty, Willow and Holly.

Today's song feature's Prince Harry on the tambourine! 

Please Let it Not Be Option E

Hello again, blog, how do?
I realise that it has been a while since we last spoke, but y'know what they say: if you drop something for a bit because you're doing something else then technically that's fine and should have no moral or responsibility related implications on your peace of mind. You may want to paraphrase that for future reference.

You see, quite a while ago the board of education came up with this dreadful thing known as 'end of year exams.' The way I see it is that there could be a number of different reasons for them to do this:
a) they enjoy watching teenagers suffer through the monotony and torture of revision
b) they're trying to overcome some past childhood traumas and the only way to do so is to cry out indirectly
c) they want to see how much of the stuff we've been told over the past few years has actually gone in
d) it's some form of natural selection and all those who receive bad results are going to be taken to a chamber and gassed
e) it was all a dream

It may be of your concern that I only add option e for the sake of covering all grounds and in today's world that's how all things seem to end now anyway. If you are, however, interested in this option, you should go and look at this previous post: http://anunladenswallow.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/giant-horror-rabbit-at-thorpe-park.html

In other news some exciting stuff has been going on.

A few weeks ago (or last month or something) I wrote and performed a 10 minute piece on living with OCD for my drama class. My drama teacher seemed to be pleased with it (well she said a bit more than that, but with option e I don't want to get my hopes up) and asked me to perform it again for an audience of about 70 staff and students.

Following this, I was asked to perform it a third time (third time) so that it could be filmed and sent to the National Theatre. The National Theatre. At this point I honestly could no care about what happens afterwards because it's extremely unlikely they'll even message us back, but I'm still happy that it happened. I think probably the best achievement I've made over the past few weeks is managing to make 4 audience members cry with this thing. Which, admittedly, sounds slightly twisted in retrospect....

So now I just get to spend the rest of this week off school relaxing and enjoying mys-

Oh. Exams in a week?

You sure?

*begrudgingly snatches revision folder from table* 


Today's song of the day is the background music for my OCD piece. It genuinely is music to cut your wrists to, so I apologise profoundly:

The Curious Incident of the Fox in the Daytime

I say curious, I mean ridiculous and morbid. If I were to sum up this afternoon's events with sound effects, I would do so like this:

'Duhduhduhduh! BEEP! Scree! Eurgh! Grruhhh... Ding! Tap Tap Tap. Ahhhhhhhhh. Oh.'
Interpret that how you will.

Today I had to venture towards the dentist to get a check up on how those bits of enamel in my mouth are doing. We were innocently driving along, listening to the wonderful 'Tied Up Too Tight' by Hard-Fi (see today's song of the day) when we see the fox.

I say the fox not a fox because this particular fox is quite well known in our household. He's got this weird gap of hair in his tail and he waltzes about like he owns the place- he literally stands in the middle of the road and just stares at you with his big foxy eyes. So I decided to name him Spartacus because apparently Spartacus was one of history's rebels, although I simply lack the conviction to look him up.

So we saw Spartacus by the side of the road, and we all look at him and recognise him and mum tries to scare him off by beeping the car's horn. Now, I'm not precisely sure why she did this, her only pretence was 'to scare him off' but I like to think it's so he doesn't hurt our cat or eat our rubbish or something.

But Spartacus doesn't stand for any of this horn beeping mallarky! How dare someone beep their horn at him! He is a champion among foxes! A foxes' fox! A fox for all foxes! A fox throughout the ages! A foxy weapon! Fox Impossible! Fox Impossible 2! Fox Redemption! The Foxinator!

Sorry... I lost my train of thought there...

Oh yes, so Spartacus decided he was going to rebel, he was going to stare that hunk of metal hurtling down the road full in the face and-

Well, the hunk of metal sort of won...

RIP Spartacus...

So then we continued to the dentist, who is pretty much up on my list of least favourite things alongside talkative hairdressers and cheesecake. My dentist has pearly whites to match Tom Cruise, looking at his teeth is like looking into the sun.  So he poked about in my mouth which I did not enjoy.

I'm not exactly sure what the moral of today's blog was. I'm not even sure why there has to be a moral.
'Don't beep at foxes and dentists just want you to have braces so they can buy a bigger boat'? 
Somebody write that down! Make it into the 11th commandment or etch it onto somebody's grave or something!

I hope you all have a good rest-of-the-week!

In memory of Spartacus, today's song of the day is:

A Scientific Study into Baboons and Teenage Boys

I'm not exactly sure why I have chosen this as today's blog topic, but I'm going to go for it anyway.

Every single day during the school week, I get the bus. The school bus. It caters for my school (an all girls) and a nearby all lads school. The thing that I find funny about all blokes schools is the fact that there is even the audacity to call them schools sometimes. Sure, there's the odd exception, but judging by observation (as that is the most scientific way to do things) most of the guys who go to that school are just baboons in uniforms.

I make my case thus:
Although baboons are mostly vegetarian, they are very opportunistic eaters. They'll eat anything from leaves to insects to fish to small mammals. This is highly comparable with the lads who get my bus. If you handed one of the 'boys' at the back a handful of rat droppings on the premise of 'hey, they could be raisins, and I'll give you a couple of quid' odds are that they'll knock those babies back without a second thought. Teenage boys will eat anything, I have observed this in my own home by watching my older brother graze solidly on the contents of the cupboard in which we keep cake decorations, chopped nuts and spices.

Baboons live in hierarchical groups. It won't come as a surprise when I say that this also applies to the blokes on this school bus.


There's lead idiot- he's the tall one who looks like he spends longer than I do on my hair, yet if at any point anyone questioned his sexuality he'd say something rude and laugh.










Then there's his second in command idiot- this is usually the most idiotic idiot of the idiots. He looks like someone's taken a spade to his face and in the process has caused some serious brain damage.









Then there's the lower idiots, the omega idiots, they basically just laugh along with whatever the others do and make generally sexist comments.





Perhaps the main similarity would be the following information I found on a wildlife website. It states that baboons use vocal expressions extensively. They make grunts, barks and screams- and obviously these are not intelligible to us, which is appropriate as sometimes I wonder if the boys on my bus are even capable of speaking English themselves. I think the only time I've understood them was when they were either a) threatening the younger idiots at the front of the bus with physical violence, or b) discussing sexual positions. I have wondered though, what they mean, and so have imagined a short transcription:

Lead Idiot: Urghha ka! Oocha, oocha, oocha screep! Garumph urk urk ooo!(Look everyone! I can fit my whole foot in my mouth! Are you not impressed seeing as I seem to be talentless in every other field excluding sports, but exceptionally with women?)
Second in Command Idiot: Corugh oocha oocha wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! (That's an amazing feat you're performing there!)
Omega Idiots: Powapowapowa wayyyyyyyy ha ha ha ha urghhh! (We agree, though only because we want to stay friends with you and are scared of being called losers!)


That's just a quick 101 for those who are not yet familiar with teenage boy bus conduct. Moving on, during my study, I came across one difference: baboons reach sexual maturity at 5 to 8 years- it's going to take a hell of a lot longer for the boys on my bus.

Kindly remember that this is all meant jokingly. Of course the lads on my bus aren't really like baboons.

Oh no, they're much worse.

Today's song!

Make A Stranger Smile

Sometimes I find the best way to make yourself smile is to make a stranger smile.
It is for this reason that today's blog contains sugar sachets, an envelope and a sunshine.

I was inspired today by the wonderful Keri Smith (http://www.kerismith.com/) to be a bit creative. So I went to an art gallery, and thought about what I could do to make a stranger smile. Strangers are just ordinary people, like you or I, but there is one thing that separates us- we haven't spoken. We haven't made human contact or interaction. Isn't it a shame that there are so many brilliant people in the world with so many stories to tell and personal quirks that we just let pass us by?

So I was in the cafe, and I had armed myself with several printed pieces of paper- each sporting a cheerful message that looked like this:

(So kind of like cute Ransom Notes?)

And because on some days all it takes to cheer someone up (aka make a stranger smile) is some kind words printed on a little slip of paper that they can keep, or leave or throw away in anger.

I've decided to post them around places, leave them for people to find and just generally try to spread a little cheer. (Of course some of them depend on the reader actually wearing a hat- I'm sort of taking it as a given that they're wearing shoes).

I started with the sugar sachets in the art gallery:

in the hope that someone would look outside and agree.











I like doing little creative things like this. I've got a sketchbook which has pages which look like this:

<An envelope for 'found things'







and...

<I must have doodled this sun about twenty times on a scrap piece of paper before finally deciding to paint it- I'm not sure if I was practising or procrastinating.















In the spirit of the warm fuzzy feeling inside, today's song is:

The OAP Maroon 5 Appreciation Society

Today's blog takes place in a supermarket! And not in a kind of Romantic Comedy, bumping of the trolleys and picking up the same box of shredded wheat type way.

I was in TESCOs yesterday with my Dad and we were playing the 'browse the selection of rubbish CDs and make jokes about how we were definitely going to buy the Jedward album' game. This was going heartily, my dad had just pointed out One Direction's wonderful selection of tracks (coughsarcasmcough) and I was groaning for my entire generation, when suddenly, up waddles this old woman.

Now, a lot of people think I'm exaggerating when I say old. They think I mean old like my parents kind of old. The old that you use on 40th birthdays as a sort of dry joke about reaching the era that is being middle-aged. But I don't. I mean old. She had her glasses on a chain, she had a hunch- a hunch. Her hands shook when she removed them from her trolley.

I now require you to use your imagination for this situation, and whatever is typed, I may ask you to picture the voices of the certain people involved. And just for added fun, I've laid it out in script format, should any TV executives wish to make a dramatised version of this mind-boggling spectacle.

Old Woman: (elderly, shaky voice, typical of Downton Abbey') Excuse me, love (she puts her hand Dad's arm in a grandmotherly fashion) Do you know who the song 'Looks Like Jagger' is by?

Dad looks momentarily taken aback, but expertly hides a smirk and gathers himself. 


Dad: (English, middle-aged cool-Dad type voice) I think you mean 'Moves Like Jagger'?

Old Woman: Oh yes, who sings that?

I bite my lip and stare at a packet of apples in our trolley, trying not to show any emotion. Dad and I exchange looks. 


Dad: (grinning) That's by Maroon 5. (He searches the CDs, picks one out, hands it to her and points to the song on the track listing) Yes, here it is, Moves Like Jagger. (Pause) Can I ask, is it for you, or for someone else?

Old Woman: (Cool as a cucumber) Yes it's for me.  I want to Move Like Jagger. It's for my (voice lowers to a whisper, leans in to my Dad) Zumba class.

Both me and my Dad are at this point seriously trying not to laugh. 


Dad: Well I hope you enjoy it!

Old Woman: Thank you, you're a gem. I'll be flying down these aisles in no time!

Old Woman waddles off at true pensioner speed. We both watch eagerly as she turns the corner and then we burst out laughing. 


Dad: That was brilliant!

Don't you just love people? They are so fantastically barmy that you wonder how the world manages not fall into chaos. Now whether we were set up on some hidden camera show, or whether there is genuinely an OAP Maroon 5 Zumba appreciation society I'll never know. But it made me smile.

So today's song obviously is....

(and you better be picturing elderly women busting moves to it)

Here's to Noah (thanks for the shirt)

Today's blog begins, as they all should, in a second hand vintage store that somewhat resembled a dodgy warehouse converted into a nightclub that I saw in a film/TV show the name of which escapes me.

We're off to a good start.

Have you ever experienced that feeling, when you see something and you think, 'I've just got to have that, and I don't know why'? It could be something completely ludicrous and is often something you don't need, but suddenly your brain goes, 'I don't care how little money you'll have left, or where you're going to keep this, or how you're going to use it, but I'm getting it.'

And so that's how I ended up with a genuine shirt from the uniform of the boy scouts of America.
It has a pocket which looks like this:

And a badge on the sleeve which looks like this:

And a label which looks like this:

And it all got me thinking: who owned this shirt before me? Some all-American, bright faced, 'gee whizz' type kid you see in all the old Boy Scouts posters? Something that I found really interesting was the fact that the shirt didn't have any badges on it. And this made me think that maybe it's never been worn- but then I looked more closely, and just above the right pocket, there is a circle of small dots with loose thread and a darker imprint- clearly where a badge once sat.

I know it's silly, but I like to imagine the previous owner of this shirt as some kind of maverick boy scout. You can get badges for literally anything in the boy scouts of america- my favourites being 'Crime Prevention' (upon looking it up I discovered it encourages the lads to visit a jail or a court hearing), 'fingerprinting', 'nuclear science', 'truck transportation' and 'rifle shooting.' Maybe my boy scout, let's call him Noah (as it is the 23rd most popular name in the US, according to the internet) was kicked out of the patrol? Maybe he was stripped of his badge- I think it would have been something like  'Law' or 'Journalism'  because Noah's just that kind of guy- and sent packing, his shirt somehow reaching me in England?

Maybe he's still out there, putting jam in the other boys' shoes or something.

Here's to Noah! (thanks for the shirt)

Today's song of the day is:

The End of The World (but not really)

I think up on the list of all the things that suck in the world, rejection probably makes the top ten. Sitting alongside it would probably be: death, death of a loved one, poverty and cheesecake. Rejection comes in many forms: dumping and ignoring, or as it came for me, in an email. You know things aren’t great when it starts with, ‘This must come as a disappointment for you, but…’

But.

Now there are many ways of dealing with rejection. You could sit and smother yourself in ice cream whilst howling about how unfair the world is, and how much you hate everyone and how rubbish you are at everything (this one seems favourable for many people) or you could do what I did, go on an angry bike ride whilst listening to ‘Heavyweight Champion of the World’ by Reverend and the Makers, frighten a man on a horse by doing a skid-turn that doesn’t seem physically possible (or safe) crying angry tears and then blogging about it. But hey, each to their own.

It’s funny, because sometimes you kid yourself into thinking you’ve done well, and that just makes it all the more worse when things don’t turn out how you want them to. For instance, I was over the moon yesterday, I was proud of myself, I felt like I really had a chance, and then it all came crashing down this morning because of a stupid email.

And here’s the mistake I made. I let myself believe that this email was the end. I was rubbish, and I’d never be good at anything ever again. Of course, it’s perfectly reasonable to be upset about things, but you shouldn’t let it hang around you like a bad smell. There’s always next year. I can try again. I can pull through, and in the meantime, I can be kicking the living crap out of every other thing I put my mind to.

What’s that thing? If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again?

If at first you don’t succeed, cry for a bit (only a bit), get positive, prove yourself, and try again.

So this is me, saying that rejection isn’t the end of the world. That it’s ok to be upset. Now get off your arse and do something about yourself.

Which is why today's song of the day is *drumroll*  

Make Your Own Fun- But Watch Out For Fairies With Leader-Complexes.

This weekend, the place in which I reside reached the average temperatures that we normally get in June. Some may blame this on Global Warming, but I think we should stop pointing fingers and just enjoy it whilst it lasts.

I have decided to Christen weekends such as this as 'make your own fun' weekends. This means to fill the day with stuff (preferably enjoyable stuff, but it's not exactly a necessity) that you can do by your self- fun made by you.

So yesterday I went out for a run.

I may need to reiterate this sentence for those who know me:
Yesterday I went outside and ran in short bursts, it was mostly a walk with intermittent moments of feeling sick. Is it normal to be able to taste yesterday's Garlic Bread after exercise? Well, I felt better for it anyway.

I also painted a poster, the bottom half of which looks like this:
'To The Lab' is a bit of an inside joke, I'm afraid.

I also made a broach which looks like this:

(If my brother asks, the felt isn't backed onto a piece of his old tweed jacket.)








Speaking of my brother, I went to see a play at his school which he is on the lighting team for. It was Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream and it was truly fantastic. The ensemble were amazing- they were all the goblin and were dressed in white so when under the UV light they glowed. During the interval they ran around causing mischief- stealing people's drinks and untying shoelaces. The music was sort of fast techno, and there was a brilliant fight scene between the goblins tending to Oberon and those to Titania. It was done in dark, so all you could see was these glowing shapes writhing and twisting in the darkness. Puck was outstanding, his take on the character was very original and a lot darker than some of the interpretations you get nowadays. Puck is actually a very evil character, and the way the actor portrayed him was stunning, spine-chilling. And there was (what my mother referred to) as a 'Freudian-twist' to the end. Let's just say Oberon didn't make it through he entire final speech whilst Puck was around. The goblins have a new king and Titania didn't look that bothered... Lucky Puck...

I also bought some new clothes because retail therapy is the best kind. I find shopping a strange affair. The changing rooms is always a tricky one. 'Just two items then?' 'Well unless I'm hiding one in my trousers, then yes, two items.' Ah, English customer service.

My song of the day (is this a new thing? Should it be a thing?) is this:


I hope you all have a wonderful week to follow!

Feet are Not Sexy

A couple of days ago I returned home from school in high spirits.

I know what you're thinking, this story's unbelievable already. Youths being happy?!

Anyway, I met my mother and exchanged the pleasantries, the 'how was your day?'s and the 'mine was pretty boring too's. And then, out of nowhere she says, 'by the way, I've booked you an appointment for the Doctor's.'

Hold on, I think. Going to the doctor, a medical professional, usually constitutes some form of defect in the normal functioning of the body. I thought for a moment before coming to conclusion that I was not aware that I was in possession of a defect such as this. Therefore, my response to the comment was, 'why?'

'Because you have weird feet.'

Now, I'd like to pretend that I've got brilliant feet, that they are the most beautiful things a person's weight has ever been carried on. But I haven't, but then again, nor has anyone else. Frankly, I have never understood the appeal of feet. 'You have sexy feet'? Feet are in no way sexy. They get you from A to B, and that's all they need to do.

Sorry, tangent alert I know.

Today I arrived at the Doctor's in trepidation. I've never liked the Doctor's. It's full of ill people. Ill people who I'm sure are just determined to infect other people. It's like they're hell-bent on coughing on you. After valiantly fighting off the germs of a young woman whose eyes were streaming as much as her nose, I was called in to room 4.

I was used to Dr Pickles (yes, genuine name) but today I was met by Dr Holmes. She was a nice young woman, short, pretty- the kind of woman I imagine bakes as a hobby. I could picture her smiling over her Nigella Lawson book whilst in conversation about her day with her boyfriend (who I could imagine being some kind of media employee, or something arty farty.) We exchanged pleasantries. Which at a doctor's seems somewhat futile. 'How are you?' Take a look at our surroundings and I'll give you three guesses.

She asked me to remove my shoes and socks, and then told me to stand up, and then nodded and declared I have got something wrong with my feet. To which my reply was, 'Neurrrghhh' because that's what teenagers say to express frustration. So yeah, my big toe joint is messed up which means my toes go in a weird direction, and although it won't cause me any pain, there's not much we can do about it. I could have surgery, but apparently it isn't really worth it at my age.

In short, high heels will hurt me.

Which I'm not that bothered about seeing as I don't own any, and am sort of planning on wearing Converse for the rest of my life.

There are some things you just don't want to hear adults say. I have heard two of them this week. The first being, 'it's very unusual to see this problem in teens' the second being about to enter the toilet after my grandfather has just come out, and him saying 'you're brave.' 

Good Music Videos (Minus Shouty Rappers)

Good morning!

Today I thought I would talk about music videos. A good music video can really make a song stand out, and it's always important to make your song stand out. Nowadays music videos all seem to be the same: sexy girls rolling around in ludicrous places (playgrounds, fields etc) not wearing much and men wearing their trousers around their ankles whilst getting angry at the camera.  I like music videos that are clever, and so, continuing with the theme of lists, I thought I would present you with a list of my favourite music videos. 

So, without further ado, I am cutting the invisible red ribbon on 

'Elbows on the Table's Official List of Good Music Videos (minus shouty rappers getting angry at inanimate objects) ' 

In no particular order: 

1) 'Sophie' by Goodshirt 

Goodshirt are a little kiwi band I discovered a couple of years ago, and much to my dismay they do not seem to be on iTunes, so I'm left listening to their stuff on YouTube. I'm not actually sure if they're together anymore, but that wouldn't stop this video being genius. It's a simple concept- girl sits down to listen to music with large headphones so she can't hear a thing (headphone deafness is something I have experienced often) and a load of blokes dressed in black come in and nick all of her stuff. It's funny, and it really *ahem* takes the cake. 

2) 'Here It Goes Again' by OKGO

It is near impossible to talk about brilliant music videos without mentioning this one. It is possibly the most famous music video, I think everyone has seen it, but it is amazing. It is what we call a 'one take wonder' and half the wonder of it is the thought of how much practice must have gone into creating it. No matter how many times you watch it, it still makes you smile. It has been replicated so many times, but nothing beats the original. The only slip up is a tiny one by the guy in the red pants- see if you can spot it. The Treadmill Dance is right up there with the funky chicken and the YMCA. 

3) 'Just' by Radiohead 

You have to watch this one all the way through to get why it's so fantastic. The surprise at the end makes watching the whole thing through worth every second of it. It has a kind of story, and that's what separates it from most modern music videos. You get completely and utterly besotted and engaged with it as it develops, and by the end you're hanging on every last subtitle like your life depends on it. You can also get a kick out of reading the comments on the video on YouTube. 

4) 'Weapon Of Choice' by Fatboy Slim 

The thing that makes this one is Christopher Walken. His hangdog expression at the start, the build-up, the anticipation, and suddenly he just bursts into this mad dance and it's just spectacular. The fact that he seems to be totally alone in this massive hotel just busting moves that wouldn't look right on anyone else is like a recipe for the perfect music video. And then he starts flying? What is this delicious lunacy!? 

5) 'Fluorescent Adolescent' by the Arctic Monkeys 

I'm not sure if this is good so much as slightly terrifying. On paper, it's clowns beating people up. In reality, it's like being high at a murderous clown convention that has just been just let loose into the high street. It's also a really good song, so thumbs up for that, but otherwise, I'm not sure if I want to join in or run for the hills. 

6) 'This Too Shall Pass' by OKGO

Let's face it, OKGO are just very good at making music videos. They're ambitious with it, and everybody loves a Rube Goldberg machine. It pains me to think about how many times this had to be done, and how frustrated the director got (I imagine much tea and coffee was needed in the creation of this video) but they must have been pleased with the final product. OKGO once again wins the prize for the 'lots of sleepless nights but it was worth it in the end' video. 

7) 'He Said He Loved Me' by Reverend and the Makers 

I've kind of cheated a bit on this one, because I've interpreted 'good' as 'mind meltingly strange'. The first person who manages to explain the presence of the fish deserves a medal, because I have absolutely no idea. At least the rest of it makes some sense, it's just put against a random backdrop with a scary woman and a pram. (Oh, and a pair dancing legs- scratch that, several pairs). 

There you have it! Why do all my lists seem to come in sevens? I like the number seven... Seven is a good number. Feel free to share your favourites in the comments, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your day! 

A List of Seven of the Worst Things

As loosely promised, I am presenting a follow up to my last blog: 'A List of Seven of the Best Things.' Kindly note these lists, whilst important (they are lists, after all) are what I would like to call 'Meus own sententia quod fides , operor non infligo lemma' which I believe is Latin for, 'my own thoughts and beliefs, do not knock them.'


In short, take it with a pinch of salt. 


So, for all eyes to see:
Elbows on the Table's Official List of Seven of the Worst Things 


1) People who walk really slowly in front of you 
This is something that drives me insane. I always seem to find them. They're like a special breed of people who have to walk at a snails pace right in front of you. Does it never occur to them that you may have somewhere you need to be? And why do they always seem to have company? Why does their company walk equally as slowly and obstruct the corridor so you can't do an uncomfortably fast walk to overtake them? They need their own lane in the corridor. It can be labelled, 'people so socially savvy that they need to text constantly as they stroll leisurely in front of you'. 


2) Vinegar 

The smell. The smell. It makes me shiver and quake in my proverbial boots. I think my dislike for it comes from my brothers complete fixation with it. He puts it on everything. No food is safe. Lasagne, peas, shepherds pie-  everything. He even has a habit of pouring it on ready salted crisps- when we have salt and vinegar in the house! The logic is undeniable. 












3) Branded and Packaged Youthful Boybands
We're not talking Take That.  We're talking guys barely out of their teens with boyish cheeky grins and ridiculous hairstyles. I cannot even begin to fathom them. Or their fans. Auto-tuned to within an inch of their lives (a large portion of them can't sing) they become less of a band, more of a brand. Every song is teh same. With the target market of teenage girls, the only subject of their music is how beautiful a girl is (although she never seems to realise). What is almost as irritating as the bands themselves, are the people whos ay 'I WISH TO KILL THEM.' I may not be their biggest fans, but I respect other people's tastes in music, and I'm not a murderous rampaging psychopath.

4) Tabloid Magazines
OK! No not, OK! (I apologise profoundly, I'll never do anything of that nature again). A lot of people in them are irritating, sure (they are of the 'famous for being famous' genre) but who cares what they had for lunch? Why do I want to know about someone some paparazzi has spotted with their ribs showing? They're probably so stinking thin because in your last issue you were parading around about how fat they were!

5) Revision
I understand why it's necessary, and how it will help me get good grades and therefore a good job and as a result cash, but it will forever remain totally boring. I have, on more than one occasion, considered the power revision could have if used as a weapon of mass destruction. I am very thankful that Capital Punishment is illegal in this country- death by revision is not a good way to go.





6) Advertisement Jargon 

Buy our product! It's got this made up thing that will do a made up activity to a made up part of your face. A lot of people just think, 'that sounds scientific, I must buy their product' without actually knowing what any of it means.

So yes, you should certainly purchase some Parfait du Geshichte, it contains natural occurring zetahancers that will polydise your cryofilate system. Only £609!


7) The Out Crowd
Just as irritating as the In Crowd. The Out Crowd are those amongst us who sit around discussing how rubbish their lives are, how everyone hates them, how they do everything wrong, how they'll never be loved, how they ruin everything, how the whole world's against them- when this isn't the case. Can't people just cheer up? Can't they, for just five minutes, look at themselves and think, 'I can get attention in other ways.' There are people with real self esteem issues, who have actual problems, who genuinely believe they are worthless- but they don't talk about it twenty four seven- they want their problems to be solved, and I, as well as many others, would be happy to help them. The people who don't want their problems to be solved, or don't actually have problems, are the ones who will happily sit next to you and talk to you solidly for an hour about how the fact that they didn't get full marks on a test means that the teacher must have some kind of deep set hatred for them.

Well, I hope I've enlightened you, but I fear I may have just thoroughly depressed you instead...

My next blog will be less negative, I promise.

A List of Seven of the Best Things

Good afternoon to you, Chums, chaps, fellows, mates, comrades etc etc

Seeing as the world is being ugly and I wish to burn it in the sun (I wonder if any of you will get the reference?), I have decided to cheer myself up by creating a list. Lists are wonderful and underestimated things, my friends- shopping lists, A-Lists, Z-Lists, Hit Lists; every kind is important.

The purpose of today's list is to educate you about things. Namely, the best things. Or the best in my opinion.

So without further ado, I proudly present:
'Elbows on the Table's Official List of the Best Things.'  In no particular order:

1) British Comedy. I am very proud of Britain for procuring some of the best sitcoms and funny people the world has ever seen. Our sense of humour (for the most part) is a very good one indeed.

We've brought you
the Pythons,
 Blackadder (see right for the brilliant Lord Flashheart),
A Bit of Fry and Laurie,
Cabin Pressure and
 the IT Crowd... to name but a few.



2) Going Postal. Of course, I could only be talking about the brilliant book written by one Terry Pratchett. Following with the theme of the best things, I should obviously mention the best Discworld book (I've read). If you haven't read it, go and do so now, on pain of... being poked with a stick. The TV version was brilliant as well.

3) The Arctic Monkeys. A truly brilliant band with possibly some of the best lyrics I've ever heard. They also get the prize for best 'Grease Lightning Quiff on a Frontman.'

This track is 'When the Sun Goes Down' from the album 'Whatever People Say I am, That's What I'm Not'. In the video the girl is played by Lauren Socha (from the fabulous E4 show MISFITS) and this song was used for George's first werewolf transformation on the BBC's Being Human.

4) Russell Tovey.

This one's pretty self explanatory:
a) He's a great actor
b) He has great ears






5) Doctor Who. I think it's near impossible to be from the UK without loving (or at least having seen and pretending not to have enjoyed when you really did) Doctor Who. It's great because it's personal to everyone. Everyone has a favourite companion (mine being Rory or Donna), everyone has a favourite monster/alien (mine being Rossiter and Addams) and everyone has their Doctor (I think mine's Matt Smith, although I do love a bit of Tennant)

6) John Green. A brilliant author (and Nerdfighter and bloke) who has released a truly smashing book 'The Fault in Our Stars.' His books are exceptionally witty and heartfelt and clever, and in the words of Lord Flashheart, they are 'an idea that's hotter than my pants'.

More by John Green:
Paper Towns
An Abundance of Catherines
Looking for Alaska
Will Grayson, Will Grayson

7) Tea (Mainly PG Tips). Without a good cup of tea, I would be completely rubbish at everything. I would never get anything done, never relax and never east digestive biscuits. I drink Tea, therefore I am.










I hope you have enjoyed this list of the best things. I may do a list of the worst things next...

Shouting at 'almost' Ed Sheeran and Cancer

Since we last conversed I have been rather busy.

Today I had my audition for National Youth Theatre. I have been exceptionally nervous about it and am quite glad that it's all over. I got to mess around and be silly and it was very good fun. I also got to push onto he hands of some red-haired guy who looked rather a lot like Ed Sheeran whilst yelling my lungs out about hamsters.

So yeah, good day.

One thing I wanted to talk about involving my audition was the trip there. On the way into the tunnel there's this big billboard. It reads as follows:

'SPITTING BLOOD WHEN BRUSHING YOUR TEETH? IT COULD BE GUM DISEASE!' 


Well, yeah, it could be gum disease... But it's probably just the fact that you're brushing your teeth to hard, isn't it? I mean, the kind of person who thinks they have gum disease because a billboard told them so, is probably the kind of person who brushes their teeth into oblivion to 'get rid of all the hideous and evil germs.'

Nowadays everything will give you some kind of terminal disease, just ask the Daily Mail! Here is a genuine list of things that the Daily Mail says give you cancer:
Age
Being Black
Being a Man
Being a Woman
Crayons
Hugging
The Internet
Sun Cream
Water

I'm almost expecting to see a billboard that says:

'DID YOU JUST BREATHE? IT'S FATAL.' 


In other news, as promised, here are some wonderful photographs of the edible Discworld that my friend made me for my birthday! Thank you so much!

The Edible Discworld and Cutler

SPOILER ALERT!

Last Sunday one of the great BBC cult dramas came back to our screens: Being Human. 

I've been a fan of the show (in relative terms- I never saw series 2) so I was excited to an extent of pooping a small pony. The reason I have been such an avid BH follower (in relative terms) can be summed up in one word: George. George was always just the best character I've ever had the pleasure of viewing. His ears, his outlook on life, his sense of humour- everything about him is just brilliant. 

So then they just had kill him off, didn't they? I mean, of course I understand Russell Tovey's desire to move on- but it didn't stop me from crying pitifully into a pillow. I know, I'm a bit of a moron. 

However, all is not lost! For the BBC have given me a new brilliant character! Cutler- as played by Andrew Gower (an actor who I think is quite brilliant). And there is a science behind liking him as a character, you see, I figured that liking the nice people is rather futile when all they do is die on you- and in the words of Blackadder, "Bad guys have all the fun." Just look out how wonderfully twisted he is! >

So, in short, I am very muchly looking forward to seeing Cutler on telly again. 

In other news for my birthday a good friend of mine crafted me the Discworld out of gingerbread, chocolate and marzipan. And yes, it is as awesome as it sounds. I'll be getting some photos up of that fairly soon I hope. 

I've also got my National Youth Theatre audition on Tuesday which I am stinking nervous about, so wish me luck. 

Sorry this entry hasn't been very interesting. Note to self: don't just talk about your own life. 

Into the Jungle of Hollister

Today, my friend and I ventured into a city. The specific details of the city in question are none of your beeswax. It is the friend I wish for you to focus on.

Said friend is part of a complex party of friends, some of which are aware of each other's existence and have met, some which are friends, and some of which are completely in the dark. This is not a school friend, but a relatively good friend whom I have had the joy of knowing for several years.

I do sometimes worry, though, that this person is heading slowly but surely towards the sceney hipster route. It started off with the large glasses, the big hair, the oversized ninja hoodie, the mention of coontails in her hair. What do you do when you think your friend is a completely different person to who you first met (completely different, albeit likeable and lovely in a sceney/hipster way)?

You allow them to drag you into Hollister as a test of your closeness.

Pardon- hell.

I was lucky in that outside Hollister there wasn't a shirtless model (probably because it was raining) but if there had been, I would have stabbed him in the stomach with my umbrella, nicked his ridiculously large wages and donate them to charity. Until today I had never ventured into Hollister- fear made me hold back- but I took a step into the unknown. And it was like an alien planet.

Those of you fortunate enough to have never been into Hollister may have heard of the darkness. Hollister is supposed to give of a beachy kind of vibe, but the last time I went to a beach, I don't remember it being like going for a run at midnight wearing sunglasses. I have two theories about the lighting in Hollister: A) They don't want you to see the price tags on the clothes, so you won't know you're buying a £98 hoodie until you get to the till *ahem* beach shack. B) They want to laugh at you when you fall into one of the numerous amounts of potted plants they have in there. I mean, who needs that many potted plants? What is the point!? It's like a bloody jungle!

Another thing about Hollister is that all of the models look confused. They have these honking big pictures of shirtless guys with the exact same looks on their faces. You can practically read their minds: why aren't I wearing a t-shirt underneath this gilet? How impractical is this clothing?!


I've also braved the Hollister website. It is more sickening than the actual store. You don't shop 'men' and 'women'- you shop 'dudes' and 'bettys.' What in the name of all that's good and proper is a 'betty'? My entire sex has been renounced to 'betty.' And a funny thing is that the website is almost as dark as the shop. Plus, they don't actually tell you the name of what you're buying. It seems like the simplest, most helpful thing you could do, and they don't do it. For example, you go into the 'Tops' section for 'bettys' and you are met with all the products, but what should be labelled as 'white knitted cardigan' is in fact labelled as 'Belmont shore.' All of the clothes are named after beaches and places the English will never have heard of in their lives!

And with that, it's this betty out.

Laughing Numbers

I am sat here doing something I am very muchly so good at: procrastination.

You see, currently staring me right in the face is my maths homework. Part of the 'intermediate' Mathematical Challenge of 2007.

The focus here being the word 'intermediate.'

Intermediate. 


Now I've never been a mathematical whiz, but I confess to be at a total loss for what to do. Questions 1, 2 3 and 4- done. Question 5- partly done because I was caught in the sticky ethical dilemma of whether or not calculators are permitted on this thing. I presume I'll give up eventually and go for yes, calculators are allowed- because I'm not big on my 1234 times tables.

Feeling slightly confident, I press on to number 5.

The sum of 9 consecutive positive whole numbers is 2007. What is the difference between the largest and the smallest of these numbers?
A: 8 B: 9 C: 10 D: 18 E: 223


I've got a one in five chance of getting this right. It's make or break time. Which number will be lucky? I finished my cup of tea and I've got numbers staring me in the face. I can see them just laughing at me. And the mathematical academics too- laughing (I always picture them with graduation caps on, although I'm fully aware those aren't reserved purely for mathematicians).

And then it hits me. And suddenly, I'm giggling nervously and blushing as the imaginary board of pretentious maths geniuses watch me have a revelation. It's not maths it's common sense. The 2007 was a ploy, put there to confuse me. But the answer's 8! I feel smart! I feel powerful! I feel guilty for using my calculator on questions 5 and 7! Nothing can stop me now!




8. The mean of three numbers x, y and z is x. What is the mean of y and z? 
A: 1/2 x B: x C: 2x D: 3x E: 4x


Oh, come on!

Giant Horror Rabbit at Thorpe Park

Last night I had a dream that I had to choose whether I was going to go on Strictly Come Dancing, or Dancing on Ice.

This was unusual for a number of reasons:
a) I can't dance.
b) Usually my dreams involve me accidentally killing someone's pet and then going on holiday.
c) I don't watch Dancing on Ice.
d) When I had the riveting morning conversation with my father his voice took on a grave quality as he said, 'I hope you chose Strictly.'

I thought that instead of recounting the dream to you (because that would be so interesting) I thought I'd do a bit of research into dreams. Because they're weird and can give you the willies (a term I've never used before and hopefully never will again).

The scientific study of dreams is called oneirology and it has been scientifically proven that all mammals dream. We know that dreams have been a sort of fascination for humans over the years- philosophy, science, ice breakers- but I think it's strange to think that all mammals dream. If you were a sloth, what would you dream about? Or a cat? Cats get up to 16 hours of sleep a day (the lucky buggers)- and seeing as people spend an average of about two hours dreaming a night (and dreams almost always occur) you'd think that the feline subconscious had run out of stuff to talk about.

And as it turns out, males and females actually dream about pretty much the same things (which is boring, but hey ho). A survey showed that 73% of men and 74% of women have dreamed of falling.

Our ideas about dreaming have changed over time. Whilst now you may only sit there pretending to listen as your husband (with his monstrously bad morning breath) details how he went on a roller coaster with Frank from Donnie Darko and ate a banana and ham sandwich, if you were living in the Greek or Roman periods you'd think it was either a direct message from the Gods, or from the dead (spooky). 


A Hungarian psychoanalyst by the name of Sándor Ferenczi (died 1933) proposed that the dream, when told may communicate something that is not being said outright. For example, as you husband recounts his giant horror rabbit unusual sandwich escapades at Thorpe Park, you may say, 'I had a dream last night too. And you were there. And it was 6am- very early: morning. And you were eating horse poo. Strange, huh?' 


A small minority of people say they only dream in black and white. These are probably the hipsters of the dream world. Because coloured dreams are way too mainstream. 

Aristotle Knew Nothing Of Working in Cafes

Today I made my first step into the world of work.

Except it wasn't so much a step as a trip down the stairs.

You see, internet, there's a small cafe that is found in a very small village near where I live. You know the sort- just picture doddery old women gossiping over tea and scones. I went in, fully confident, head held high with determination. Within several seconds I had the attention of a blonde woman who worked there.

'I am looking for a Saturday job, and was wondering how old you had to be to get one,' I announced with the air of someone who knew their shit. Which is a clever ploy when I had no idea what I was doing and thought taking my floppy hat off constituted for looking responsible.

Blonde woman looked me up and down. 'We already have a Saturday girl at the moment, and you have to be 16. Sorry, love. How old are you?' Her tone was slightly undermining considering I was a full head and shoulders over her (her big hair was fooling nobody).

Slightly less confident than I was before, I replied, 'Oh. I'm 14.' Which I'm not, but I will be by next Sunday. As it happens my research into the legal working age (you can work at 14 actually) has proved fruitless because my employment all hung in the balance of the people actually a) having a vacancy and b) letting a 14 year old- albeit a very committed and intelligent one- work for them.

She then told me that I could leave my details with the manager. To which I was thought, and wait a whole two years before you get back to me? I think not, madame, I shall be taking my custom elsewhere. But I just smiled and said 'Thank You' because that's good manners.

That was shortly after 10.30. It is now 12.02 and I do not have a job, nor the means of getting one. I believe that (well, quotationspage.com leads me to believe) Aristotle once said, 'All paid jobs absorb and degrade the mind.' But Aristotle lived from 384 BC till 322 BC, and evidently nobody had told him that working in cafes staffed by vertically inadequate blonde women earning money was a lot better than spending your weekends sat on you arse doing nothing.