The flip side....

Ok, so there’s a flipside to yesterday’s posting. It may well be a trauma for a female of not 100% body confidence to leave a jacuzzi full of ogling men whilst wearing something which is riding further up her bottom as she climbs the stairs. It turns out (after additional market research today) that men suffer from a similar disorder.

I’ll call it the humili-clingy-effect.

It happens when men opt to wear baggy shorts or anything other than Speedos. Maybe to maintain their dignity, maybe to leave something to the imagination or maybe to not look like an utter twat. Whichever. It matters not. What matters is that these materials are most certainly not kind upon exit of the pool. They surge towards any protruding (or in very unfortunate cases, not very protruding) ‘item’s’ and create a ‘vacuum packing’ effect around the entire area. What tends to ensue: much panicky tugging and releasing the vacuum in a desperate bid not to give away any secrets (or lies might be more apt).

I imagine that if a man with a giant willy was exiting the pool, they probably wouldn’t rush to re-adjust their vacuum packaged knobs. Instead, they would strut, thrust and be quite sure that every lady eyes in the vicinity would be inexplicably drawn south of the shorts hemline to have a damn good ogle.

So I guess all’s fair in love, war, and swimming pools.

To oggle or not to oggle.

I’m not in love with my body, which is a sentiment shared by probably 99.99% of females everywhere. That said, I’m not stupid enough to make any real complaints as I know it’s got some redeeming features and if offered free plastic surgery I’m only likely to say yes on a bad day.

On a good day, I’ve been known to strut, but only if I’m wearing something I’m pretty sure I look good in. Otherwise I’ll shuffle like a weeble. Today I was faced with a real dilemma. After my aqua class I decided I needed to warm up by sitting in the Jacuzzi. As always, the Jacuzzi is full of sweaty post work out men, pink chopped and clammy skinned. I position myself as far away from all of them as physically possible and try and relax.

After 5 minutes I’m faced with the prospect of climbing out. Big deal. The issue here is that climbing out involves climbing up about 4-5 stairs facing away from the entire rest of the pool. I’ve done my research. I realise that without exception, ANY female bottom leaving the safety and sanctity of the warm waters receives nothing less than a darn good botty ogling. I know this isn’t a mark of approval/disapproval or even indicative of anything rather than a base male instinct, but still, today I’m not in the mood for bottom violation.

I contemplate reversing up the stairs scowling fiercely at all of the men. I contemplate sitting in the pool until I’m so shrivelled up I become invisible to the naked eye and then I can make my escape. In the end I realise my lunch hour is up, and try as I might I can’t put off my exit any longer. I suck in my tummy, give my bottom a firm talking to and march up the stairs. I don’t know for sure that I was violated, but I’m fairly convinced I was. As I reach the top I cant’ resist turning around to see if I can catch any of them in the act. As it happens, these men were well trained in evasive manoeuvres. I don’t catch any eyes, but I glare nevertheless.

I don’t suppose it’s possible that they just all didn’t fancy looking at my bottom, and if not, why not god dammit, it’s not THAT bad….and so the image issues continue on and on and on.

Aunty Who?

Moving from Brighton has been easier than I anticipated all in all. Of course, I miss the people horribly, but the rubbish weather this summer has softened the blow as I haven’t had to endure endless tales of amazing beach parties, BBQ’s, watching the sun rise over the sea after heady nights of fun etc. I still have a little internal tanty when I hear of fun nights out, but as long as I hear about the gossip, via my Corns hotline, mostly I’m appeased.

One of the biggest pangs for me has been realising that I wont be around as much to see one of my bestest friend Sarah’s little boy grow up so this weekend, I visited Brighton for a night out with Katie and Sarah and spent a day with the Williams’ on Saturday reminding Jack who I was.

Friday night I arrived at Katie’s to find that they had already guzzled a bottle of wine. I got offered the leftovers and then got made to play catch up with some vile house white at the local pub ‘The Railway’. By the time we left there, we were sufficiently tanked up and we headed into town and found ourselves a spot in Yo Sushi. I have to say, of all the foods to order when you’re drunk, Japanese isn’t the easiest. As a result we mostly took to grabbing whatever whizzed by that took our fancy. Cold dumplings, prawn tempura. In ten minutes we’d munched on around 6 plates of food, and hadn’t even started getting our hot dishes yet. An hour later things started getting really messy. We decided to start putting our used dishes back on the conveyor complete with origami napkins covered in soy sauce, ginger etc to create the effect of a ‘unique new dish’. This continued until we got into a mess on our table and given the absence of waiters I decided to get rid of our dirty plates on the conveyor belt stacked up high and teetering like a house of cards.

This, it seemed, was the final straw. Like a scene out of ‘Enemy of the State’ the head waiter swooped on our table and informed us that we’d been ‘watched on CCTV all night’ and that he thought we should ‘pay and leave right away’. Of course we realised we’d been naughty and no doubt incredibly irritating, but for goodness sake we were hammered. We had no intention of leaving without paying and could see clearly that the dishes we were placing in the belt were being taken promptly off and put in ‘the noisy rude ladies pile’.

And that’s when it all went wrong. The manager told us that if we’d tried to get away without paying it would have had a direct effect on our waiter’s salary. We said we’d never intended to leave without paying in full. He told us we were ‘a disgrace’ and he would ‘never be seen dead out with such a group of old trollopes’ (I think he also said we were ‘over made up’ but it’s all a blur). In a matter of minutes it had gone from a ticking off to a personal slanging match and for a period of time we were dumbfounded. It wasn’t long until Sarah found her legendary tongue and said, ‘Listen Frankie Dettori, none of us would ever touch you with a bargepole’ (he was quite little) and then Katie picked up the coins in the tip jar and said, putting one between her teeth, ‘Are these chocolate?’. And then we left, never to return again.

The next morning we were lying in bed feeling very worse for wear when there was a little early morning knock at the door and Jack came in to find Aunty Katie and Aunty Ali lying in a very boozy-smelling stale aired room feeling very sorry for themselves. As Katie said, the sight of his two wayward aunties looking so bloodshot, and downright terrifying has probably scarred him for life. Daddy Chris put him on our make shift double bed and I pretended to be Murray the cuddly bear but used a gravelly hungover voice which made Murray sound as if he’d been possessed by the devil and Jack scampered away. I was then sick.

Sarah told him to come back in and talk to Aunty Ali and Aunty Katie, and he said, ‘Aunty Katie and Aunty ‘who?’’ as he had no idea who I was. This stuck and for the rest of the weekend I was ‘Aunty who’, abbreviated to ‘where’s Aunty ooo?’ or just, ‘Where’s ooo?’ By the time I’d put in an hour or so of hard labour in the sand pit with the diggers and played catch the insect, ‘ooo’ was firmly re-instated as one of the fave fake aunties. I’m clearly going to have to put in some serious leg work to get to ‘Aunty Ali’ status. This is one little boy who is not easily fobbed off. He’s also a little boy with immaculate taste in ladies shoes; Katie’s in particular which he wore in the car whilst looking like the cat that got the cream. He then asked if he could put my boots on, and when we got home, he ran upstairs and came down wearing his boots, claiming he loved his ‘little boots’ and weren’t they ‘lovely’. I feel we’ve got enough in common to form a really decent bond. In the meanwhile, I’m content with being ‘Aunty ooo?’

Need I say more?

Proof is most certainly in the pudding.

Chinny reckon.

Last night I missed one of my favourite programmes, ‘Ten years younger’, but I understand from my friend Dan that the subject of Nicky Hambleton-Smith’s (I may have made that surname up) attentions was men. Clueless, bumbling middle aged men, one of which was still in love with a rather harsh red-head ex-girlfriend circa 1984 who had left him with the winning line: ‘You’re dumped because you are dull, fat and boring’.

Needless to say he felt a little under par in terms of self confidence and has been single ever since. The best bit about this was that somehow his fashion sense had frozen in time from the moment he became single so his wardrobe consisted of Miami Vice style patterned shirts, and suit jackets in various shades of pastille.

The other candidate was a bearded chap and judging by what Dan told me, the only thing they had to do to make his appearance acceptable and ‘of the moment’ was cut off his beard. Obviously this concerned Dan who is currently mid-way through his beard growth, entering the difficult itchy, ginger phase who wrote to me this morning, pondering whether it might be high time he got rid of said beard and go for the fresh faced look.

I’m pretty mixed about beards in general. If I’m honest, I do have fond memories of my dad’s beard in the early 80’s which, when I was being really well behaved was used to give me a ‘whisker pie’. Not a disgusting hairy puff pastry dish, but a bonding thing whereby my dad would tickle my face with his whiskery beard and send me into shrieks of laughter. In the 1990’s the beard went and what was left was a rather military looking moustache. I didn’t like it, but when it went it left my dad looking like an egg. All shiny and hairless. Of course I got used to it and the idea of him having a beard now would be quite ludicrous.

Turning my thoughts to the present day, I have to say I find long beards, and any excess facial hair for that matter- quite unacceptable. So much so that the attached blog ‘usabeard’ made me want to regurgitate my early morning Krispy Kreme doughnut. The idea of all that dirty, wiry hair, so often ginger when there are hitherto no indications of gingerness…..yuck. It reminds me of the twits. And the worst thing, this comment:

“I would love to brush this cruncher of a beard!”

Some kind of crazy beard perversion.

As a woman I’m only too aware that beard growth will become more of a pressing issue for me when I reach my 50’s and 60’s and beyond. We’ve all seen the grannies happily pottering around the shops seemingly totally unaware of the 3 foot beards they are trailing behind them. I’ll be keeping a regular check on my chin for any untoward activity.

So, in conclusion, I am all for clean shaved-ness.

For men and women, for one and all.

Friends- take your razors to your chops and rid yourself of the excess weight: be you traveller (Sam), reluctant worker (Dan), publishing hippy (Jonathan) or lazy office boy (Steve/Gavin) don your hair removal tools with pride and say YES to a smooth future.

The 6 week drought

It’s quite possible that I’m overstepping the boundaries of appropriateness on the blog I’m about to write, but sometimes things need to be told to the world and I for one am not shy about telling them.

Lindsey said to me last weekend that sometimes she felt guilty about reading my blog as she felt like it was some weird inner workings of my mind, and somehow things which I might not necessarily tell her in person. I of course, rubbished her. I’m pretty much like Sam when it comes to telling all of my business to everyone (it’s nice and inclusive that way and everyone feels loved and only mildly awkward at times).

So here goes….as my close female friends will already know I have just endured 6 weeks of celibacy. Not by choice, I’m not stupid you know. A combination of very badly timed business trips and operations have conspired against Steve and I and we’ve endured 6 hellish weeks of cobweb forming. I took this challenge on the nose and saw it as a character building exercise, but to be honest it’s dragged. I read an article in Cosmopolitan Magazine recently which said that sex in a relationship physiologically improves the bond between the two of you as the chemicals released boost the feelings of love and attachment. I knew this anyway, but made me consider how Steve and I had got on together during our drought. Yes, we’ve bickered- but that’s the norm. We probably haven’t been as affectionate towards each other as there’s always the ‘well I’m not going to get a shag so what’s the point’ issue burning away at the back of our minds. We’ve become more matey with each other I guess. Play fighting, pushing each other out of bed, Steve doing his usual array of wonderful animal impressions to make me laugh. It’s been good that we’ve coped and I think we’ve coped admirably.

I don’t want to be a part of one of those couples where it’s just raise the roof, ‘swing from the chandeliers’ amazing sex all day every day. That would be well, just a little bit shallow.

Gulp.

My first wedding proposal.

Yesterday I was wondering up the road to my house when a random man crossed over stopped me and said to me, quite dramatically:

“Will you marry me?”

It struck me that in my 28 and ¾ years this is the first time any man has ever uttered these words to me, and, rather typically given my luck, it was some seedy chap from the dodgy estate.

I must have inadvertently styled myself in such a way as to be irresistible to such a person. Mental note- wrap around black dress and brown red or dead boots- not a good combination unless I’m really desperate.

My response, I laughed. Not in a ‘not on your life sunshine’ way, but more of a ‘ahhh how sweet, you’ve brightened up my day you loveable little street urchin’ way. I told Steve and his response,

“You always get the drunken imbeciles approaching you, what is it with you?”

Charming.

And I could have sworn he was sober.

Dinner party...

This weekend is the first weekend as a household we’ve embraced our togetherness and we celebrated by having a little dinner party, or DP as I like to call them (because I’m a twat).

Given the obvious limitations (the size of the kitchen table, the fact that Gavin had fecked off to France, the fact that Sam couldn’t come as she had Ben, the fact our oven could barely cook a ready made Yorkshire pudding in 3 hours) we embarked on planning an evening of over indulgence, opulence and sheer fabulousness.

Of course in part we remained true to our goals, but there were a couple of amusing hiccups along the way.

My top three:

1) Ali devises the perfect starter- easy, quick and the only thing she needs to do to ensure it won’t kill Stav (who suffers from extreme cheese allergies) is remove the buffalo mozzarella. In a stroke of genius Ali garnishes all of the starters with a delicate, finely grated, layer of well….parmesan. Brilliant work. Impossible to remove, and impossible to disguise the taste. Thought I’d better fess up as it’s not good form to kill your dinner guests (especially on the first course, at least let them enjoy their last supper).

2) Natalie’s wine shocker. Picking white Bordeaux might, some would think, be a safe addition to any wine list for an evening. The colour of the wine when Matt poured it should have provided a clue. Dark yellow, like the colour of a wee after a very heavy night on the tiles. Matt tasted it and commented that ‘it was a little bit sweet’. Steve tasted it and stayed very quiet. I smelt it, tasted it, and was almost violently sick. Never before had a more putrid, sickly sweet, syrupy monstrosity crossed my lips (not since the days of MD 20/20). Natalie knowing full well she was responsible for the presence of this the ‘dark side’ of wines, stayed very quiet until she was outed. Matt was dispatched to the shop to acquire a less sickly wine and came back with Riesling. Thank god it wasn’t German.

3) Steve’s tanty. Having a temper tantrum in the middle of a dinner party is simply not on. He hadn’t been poisoned, or been forced to drink vile wine (see above) so he really had very little to complain about. Perhaps me accusing him in front of everyone of being ‘in an eggy’ didn’t help to ease matters, but honestly, storming out and sulking in my bedroom was beyond the pale. Funnily enough the mood subsided soon after Match of the Day finished and he was back upstairs scouting for desert and looking shifty. It takes a twat to know a twat, and I can safely say, he was one- albeit briefly. I suppose that’s why we’re so well matched. Knobs together.

Looking at the above you’d be well within your rights to think the evening was a disaster, but that would be far from the truth. In fact, Lindsey’s chicken pie was nothing short of genius, as was Natalie’s gravy and rosemary and garlic potatoes and ham. The Gower’s chocolate based Banoffee creation (made by mother and son combo Sam and Ben) was sublime and was probably appreciated more in the morning when we weren’t all steamingly p*ssed. We sat and discussed matters of pressing importance such as goats face curry and what an utter f*ckwit Lindsey’s ex-boyfriend is (and believe me we could have spent the entire evening on this one). Stav and Natalie sat and did proper shoulder wobbly giggles together. Lindsey spun some old skool classics on her vinyl, sorry, compact disc player whilst we teased her for being an old timer. We went to bed hammered and happy.

DP’s rule.

Going to the dogs.

This week has been far too plain sailing for me. I’ve had 3 nights out of fun seeing friends, I’ve had decent nights of sleep, I’ve not spent too much time bickering with Steve or worrying, so I guess it was high time for a series of amusing and embarrassing things to happen. This morning I arrived in work to find a large box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts sitting in the kitchen, a present for our breakfast from one of our newest recruits, a developer called Kevin. I tucked in to a doughnut or two straight away, smacking my lips and licking away the delicious sugariness. I sat at my desk and gathered my thoughts before the first meeting of the day.

During the meeting I was harping on as ever when I felt a little ‘pinging’ sensation somewhere around my tummy and something fell neatly into my lap. A button from my shirt. It seems the button had been overstrained around my middle and had given up the fight against the doughnut army. I scooped it up and held it in my hand so that no-one would notice and gave silent thanks that said button, had not popped off my chest. Realising I couldn’t spend the whole day exposing my pudgy midriff I sent a plea to the office for cotton and a threads and the sniggers were audible. I cursed my doughnut munching. Within minutes I'd located some thread in reception and was waiting for the lift to arrive, and pulling up my shirt to try and bite off the loose thread (and exposing all my white tummy and some of my bra) when the lift door opened and out walked a besuited chap who went bright red at all this over exposure so early in the morning.

Later on, my friend and I went to lunch, within seconds I had managed to slop bright yellow chicken curry down my trousers. This outfit had been carefully selected for its seamless day-to-night transition ability and there I was with a wonky button, manky trousers and quite frankly looking a wreck.

Ah well, the consolation for me has to be that tonight’s entertainment, greyhound racing at Wimbledon, is hardly likely to be a glamorous affair. In fact with some popped off buttons and curry stains I might actually fit in more seamlessly. I just need a wedge of well fingered grubby notes, a flat cap and a pint of ale and I’m away. By this time next week, I’ll be a millionaire.

Addendum...shoe blog

I totally forgot to tell you, when I paid for my shoes and left I got a goody bag. Almost as if things couldn't get any better inside it was a free mini rabbit vibrator- irony being of course that I won't need it to heighten my excitement. I'll just put my shoes on and walk around the house.

Fabulous!

Jenne ooooooooooooooooooooo shoes.

Sometimes in life, you get thrown a bone or two, today I got thrown a big juicy meaty one and I can’t wait to devour it.

The juicy bone in question was not of the male variety. 4 week ban on s*x don’t forget! It was much better. It was in the form of a designer sale at the Old Truman Breweries on Brick Lane, but a hop, skip and a jump away from the office.

At 12.15pm my outlook calendar helpfully pinged a reminder message in the middle of my screen. Whilst I normally ‘dismiss all’ without as much as a passing thought, this one was special.

I had a lunch date with some discount designer clothes and there was no way in this world I wasn’t making time (or money) for this.

So, clutching my google map, I wended my way through back streets of East London and eventually found my way to my sale. Signs of ‘you may have to queue to gain entrance’ and ‘no flash photography permitted inside' merely whetting my appetite I hastily paid my £2 entrance and £1 to keep your bag ‘safe’ (i.e prevent you from attempting to steal £100’s of pounds of teeny accessories) and I was off.

Like a blood hound I began my scrupulous search through the rails which were helpfully ordered by designer. Starting at BIBA, I worked my way quickly through FrostFrench, Armani, Vivienne Westwood until I came across the accessories table. Scanning over the selection my eyes settled on the most glamorous pair of gold and dark pink stilettos I have ever seen, they sparkled and glittered and said, ‘Try me on right now’ and so of course I did. Sometimes, when you put on an amazing pair of heels they transform you from humdrum existence to slim legged, glamour puss. Ok so my fat toes aren’t strictly designed for such slim shoes and my feet will never thank me for those 4 inch stilettos, but on those occasions where my night consists of ‘cab-perching on a stool somewhere sipping cocktails-cab’ with not much walking in-between, they are perfect.

A look at the price told me two things- 1) I would never be able to afford these shoes in real life and then 2) Thank god this isn’t real life, it’s heaven- £400+ reduced to only £60. Grasping the box in my sweaty hands, I took them to the dressing room to try them on with a dress. Whilst trying on the dress, I kept peeking down to check they were still there and at the same time nervously eyed up my fellow changing room inhabitants to see if any of them look like thieves. Waiting in the queue to pay I kept thinking of things which might conspire against me to prevent me from having the shoes. What if they don’t accept credit cards and by the time I get back with the cash they are gone? What if I’m dreaming and I wake up just as I’ve paid and I’m looking in my crisp, be-stickered, designer bag, what if for some reason they won’t sell me them. Yes, I’m almost delusional.

I’m pleased to say (that against all odds) I made it back to the office with my shoes. They are now sitting under my desk and to make sure they don’t go anywhere, I’m touching my leg against the bag, just in case. My shoes aren’t perfect, they have a little scratch on the back, and they’ve been worn in a catwalk show, but they are impossibly gorgeous and they make me very happy. Transforming a normal, slightly pudgy leg, into a shapely slender one, even for one hour each year is worth every penny.

Lee who? My new love is my Jenne O shoes.

Joseph- wowzers

I’m in love. Really, totally and 100% head over heels in love. And it’s not with Steve, it’s with another man. He goes by the name of Lee Mead, otherwise known as the leading man in the latest production of Joseph at the Adelphi Theatre.

Of course I realise this is unutterably pathetic, childish and ridiculous, but when he appeared behind the transparent screen in a cloud of dreamy fog my heart skipped a beat. I don’t think I was the only one either judging by the roar of the crowd when he appeared. Who says theatre can’t appeal to the masses, with lyrics like:

‘all those things you saw in your pyjamas, were a long range forecast for your farmers’

and

‘his astounding clothing took the biscuit, quite the smoothest person in the district’

It's no wonder Rice and Lloyd-Webber are now and have been for many years milking this little winner. So, it goes without saying that the show was amazing. Of course it wouldn’t be an Ali and Steve night out if something awful hadn’t happened, so don’t worry, I’m pleased to report it did.

With 15 minutes to go until curtains up I was waiting outside Oxford Circus and Steve was wending his way on the tube. The Adelphi theatre is only 2 minutes around the corner, so not to worry. We’ve got plenty of time. Except for that the Adelphi Theatre isn’t. The Palladium theatre is however, and if we were going to see ‘The Sound of Music’ we’d have been fine. So with 10 minutes til curtains up we start trying to hail a cab to take us over to the Strand. Unsurprisingly, there aren’t any. It’s rush hour. The traffic is bumper to bumper and the lights in the cabs are well and truly unlit. I start to lose my temper and say to Steve that he really ought to have checked where the theatre was, given that he’d booked the tickets and arranged the evening. He said (amidst what I felt to be a gratuitous use of the word f**k off ‘off’) that given he’d done everything else, it wouldn’t have been too much to ask for me to have checked where the theatre was. I fumed. He fumed. I told him ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t get let in now, you know theatres aren’t usually very accommodating with people coming in late and disturbing everyone.’

We arrived at 7.10pm. Got ushered to our seats at break neck speed, got tutted at by a few old biddies behind us, one of whom muttered venomously, ‘great now I can’t see a thing’- yes, because now you have a HUGE, viewing blocking 5ft 4inch fairly dinky person in your way. Someone give the poor lady a f**king refund. OR, give her a filthy, ground shuddering look to stop her in her tracks, which is what I did.

Thank goodness Lee came on stage at that precise moment to ease the tension, and in a Quentin Tarantino style loop that’s where I started. Swoon. I for one feel that if loin clothes were all the rage again women everywhere would find selecting a perfect partner a whole lot easier.

Joseph...

When I was little I fancied myself as somewhat of a budding thespian and one of my first roles on stage, was as the brother ‘dan’ in Joseph and his Technicolor Dreamcoat. My friend Marigold stole the limelight as Joseph and to this day, there remains some residual bitterness (and it’s not just me- one of my friends from primary school contacted me and the first thing she said was ‘do you remember when Marigold got picked to play Joseph?) It was not a happy childhood memory. However, I soon got over the gross injustice and decided to throw myself wholeheartedly into the role of Dan- learn my 3 lines perfectly and deliver them with passion, vigour and pride.

On the big night I nervously prepared myself alongside Marigold in the junior’s classroom. To be fair she had a lot more to worry about than me, but I was seriously bricking it. I shouldn’t have worried, Marigold carried the performance and it was a massive success. At the time (I was 9), there weren’t really camcorders, but the flash bulbs were dazzling the cast and I remember feeling giddy with happiness.

Tonight I am going to re-live some of those memories by going to see Joseph at the Adelphi Theatre, starring none other than Lee Mead of ‘BBC’s Joseph’ fame. Tickets have been near impossible to come by, and so I’m particularly tickled pink to be going. Unfortunately, my mum isn’t so happy. She made me promise when I was 9 years old if I ever went to see Joseph at the theatre that we would go together. Unfortunately, Steve wasn’t to know about this solemn pact, and I was met with a frosty silence when I announced my impending theatre trip last night. Fair enough, as my mum was my staunch supporter in learning all of the Joseph lyrics for my big performance. We had the tape on loop in every family journey we went on and it drove dad and Stephen absolutely crackers.

The shocking thing is that the lyrics were not only embedded into my 9 year old grey matter, they have also carried with me into my near 30’s, and are as clear to this day as they ever were. Last night I threatened Steve that I intended to sing along loudly to every song and he laughed nervously. I feel that tonight, some inner diva might once more be discovered. I feel like I’m back in that classroom next to Marigold, waiting nervously for our cue to get on that stage and sing our hearts out.

England vs. Israel- my take.

On Saturday I embraced my inner man, and went to see England take on Israel at Wembley.

I’m not going to pretend I know anything about football, but this seemed to me like a game which was so one sided at times I almost nodded off- sacrilege I know when the attendance was 90,000 odd very enthusiastic people and then me.

We arrived at Wembley entrance P, through the turnstiles, up two flights of rather sparkly escalators (no stairs in sight) where there was no pushing, shoving or even a hint of antsyness and into the carpeted area where we proceeded to take our seats in block 533. Shortly afterwards, the boys decided to go and find some beers and came back ashen faced proclaiming: ‘they aren’t selling any beer, at all, in the entire stadium’. Surely a foot balling travesty? I don’t know much, but I know a dry game is a dull game.

On a positive note, the stadium was awesome and probably captivated me more than the footballers. I spent most of time marvelling at the architecture and trying to work out how the roof shuts and asking Steve how HE thought the roof shuts, only to be met with eyes cast to heaven followed closely by stern glares. I unfortunately missed Michael Owens’ (apparently rather good) goal as at the time I was rummaging through my bag looking for my phone (or trying to find my lip gloss one or the other). There were no helpful replays, or large indexes to show me what number meant who, and I only worked out that Michael Owen was number 10 by the 88th minute.

The highlight of the game for me was when one of the Israeli players went down in a rather harsh tackle, and the physio came running onto the pitch with some kit of one kind or another- presumably a sponge and some cold water. The physio in question wasn’t as you’d expect, buff, toned and ‘body-is-a-temple-ish’ but rather very porky with larger breasts than mine. Much larger. Simply by running across the pitch he managed to rouse the crowd into a heartfelt rendition of ‘who ate all the pies’ and ‘you fat bastard, you fat bastard’. I laughed, and then I inwardly ticked myself off as I thought that having 40,000 odd people laughing in your face might not be very pleasant.

Shortly after this half time was upon us, and so was the rush to get ‘refreshments’. For me, this meant gazing in horror at the obscenely overpriced selection of crap on offer. Pie and a tea- £8, Sausage roll and a coke £6, sweaty pizza slice, £5. Even I could see this was not a good deal and so back to our seats for the 2nd half.

I don’t think I’ll ever truly get football. By the 80th minute, England were 3-0 up. A good thing you would think. But rather than bask in reflective glory at the surprisingly decent efforts of the team (given how infrequent this appears to be), or wait til the final whistle to give them a cheer, half the crowd were pegging it out of the stadium, like ants from a nest which has had boiling water poured into it.

Again, I asked Steve why they were doing this. He said to avoid getting caught up in the madness of trying to leave. All very well and good, but the 15 minutes you stand to miss including injury time, probably equates to something like £8 per person based on ticket price. What a waste of money. Why rave about ‘supporting your country’ when you can’t even stomach some moderate inconvenience and a minor queue. Pathetic I thought as we sat until the final whistle was blown

What a stupid mistake.

Turns out the ‘premature leavers’ had a very good point and after 45 minutes of queuing for a train, I rather wished we’d abandoned ship around the 80th minute. Rather strangely (and no doubt due to time elapsed since last alcoholic intake) the crowd were sedate and quiet, shuffling along, talking quietly, not so much as a cheer. Is this what has become of the football fans? At one point the queue passed by a road-digger and I even said to Steve ‘I wish someone would drunkenly try and climb on that and drive it’….did they? No.

Apparently my ticket stub could be flogged on eBay for a tenner… presumably for some geek’s scrapbook.

Next time I get offered tickets to go and see England play, I think I’ll be passing. I’d rather go to Wembley for something worthwhile, like a guided tour of how the roof closes. Now that’s something I’d like to know about.

Christmas by the seaside

It’s September and so the most obvious thing to turn our thoughts to is Christmas. Well, isn’t it? No, of course not. But if we were retailers or working on Christmas related campaigns we’d already be obsessing about the intricacies of trees and decorations and the number of cards to stock. Thank god we’re not.

So why have I got Christmas on the brain? Is it the yearly e-mail which pings around the office telling you the opening days over the festive season, combined with a light but very heartfelt threat that some people must be around to man the phones, prompting the crazy rush to print and complete holiday forms? No. Is it the text message from my dad telling me that the Christmas Derbyshire cottage has been booked ‘If we happen to be around?’ (which would of course mean spending half our festive season sitting in a car on the motorway when we could be in Spain). No.

The reason I’m thinking about Christmas today is because I was reminiscing with my housemate about her time spent in Brighton organising a (not to be named but I’m sure you can guess) local Brighton paper’s Christmas grotto in Churchill Square shopping centre.

The process went something like this:

September- Begin recruitment of elves (x 18 approximately) and Father Christmases (x8) – Elves should ideally be attractive, young and fit into the pre-ordered elves outfits (although must be careful not to breach any discrimination laws- too ugly? Get out of town. Too fat? Lose some weight lard arse) Santa’s should ideally have white beards, be plump and jolly and have a nice demeanour with children.

The reality of the staffing situation was slightly different however with the following recruitees:

Megalomaniac Santa

A Santa for 5 years or so years on the trot who believed it was his god given right to be Churchill Square Grotto’s one and only Santa and have a say in all matters ‘grotto’. Such was his commitment to the Santa-ing cause that he begun uninterrupted facial hair growth in February in order to have a genuine, fluffy unruly beard. I’m not entirely sure, but I imagine he was quite an angry character.

Sullied Santa

Who had a rather unfortunate aroma of stale wee and was a suspected alcoholic. This led to complaints due to him upsetting the more delicate children (whilst making the edgier kids feel right at home.)

Pervert Santa

Who had a tendency of propositioning the elves in a highly inappropriate manner, including asking them whether they would like to find sex toys in their Christmas stockings.

All in all, my friend had created a fun, happy, safe place for children where they could live out a special cherished moment in the bosom of the grotto. It was very unfortunate therefore that one such little angel found himself a little bored in the long queue to meet one of the depraved Santa’s and to bide the time decided to pick at a live wire running along the ground. It was even more unfortunate when the little darling electrocuted himself and my friend had to close down the grotto, complete with 2 hour back to back queues and hundreds of angry parents and snotty kids who were due to meet Santa, because of ‘health and safety’ reasons.

I could never begin to tell you the amount of joy Christmas in Brighton bought to me, you just can’t beat a daily influx of emails entitled ‘Trouble with the elves’ or ‘Complaint about incontinent Santa’….ahhh, those were the days.

London Grottos are no doubt a much slicker affair- you don’t find depraved Santa’s in Harrods window display, slumped against the window, taking a slash against a pine tree or handing out dildos. Mr Al Fayed would not stand for it.

Like one pea and one carrot in a pod

Moving in together should be one of those exciting rites of passage in a relationship which both halves of a couple embrace wholeheartedly.

After being together for a total of almost 3 years, Steve and I have started to realise (with everyone getting married around us) that it might be time that we start to consider doing something grown up with our relationship, something like moving in together. So why does the very thought of sharing with a boy (or more accurately Steve make my tummy flip in a heady combination of fear and excitement? Is it the lack of female company that I’ve grown to love and rely on? Is it the prospect of having to hang up a never ending supply of formulaic black socks and boxer shorts? Or argue over toilet seats and ‘mystery pubes.’ Or is it the inevitability of nights spent on my own whilst Steve is mincing around some exotic destination with work, or just stuck behind his desk until midnight?

Moving in with Andy in Brighton never felt this way, but then I was ten years younger and had nothing to lose. We upped from our different parent’s houses and stayed in a B&B until we found somewhere to rent. And then we worried about jobs and bills and all the other stuff once we’d got settled. Now I look back at this as absolute bloody madness!

When you’re 19 you have the arrogance and naivety to believe that things will work out and a complete lack of fear regarding the consequences if they don’t. I guess this time round I’m almost 30 and feel like if it all goes tits up, life could really become quite a bind. And then there’s the practicalities of buying. I like period conversions with the pre-requisite drafts and wonky ceilings, nooks and crannies and Steve likes tasteful new builds with 30 degree static temperature all year round. I would like to live as far away from Clapham as possible, Steve would like to live in Clapham. I would like a big garden for a dog and for me to wear wellies in from time to time and Steve would prefer a decked patio where he never had to do any gardening. We’re both stubborn as hell and rubbish at compromising.

All this lack of unity sometimes makes me wonder whether we’re doing the right thing attempting to live together. Rather like making two opposing magnets sit next to each other, or cooking a vegetarian sausage on a meatie’s BBQ. I know that being with someone is all about loving each other’s differences, and I do try, but it doesn’t come that naturally to me. I have an inner innate bitch when it comes to the men in my life. I want things my way and I’m not scared to admit it. There. Isn’t that terrible. At least I have honesty on my side.

The only issue is I’ve chosen to fall in love with someone who is exactly the same. The net result is this:

Forecast: Stormy weather, excessive rainfall but with intermittent periods of bright, warm sunshine.

It’s not all bad, it’s just a little challenging at times.

Beep beep, beep beep, Yeah!

This morning on the BBC news there was a feature on learning to drive, and more specifically, the fact that they have now increased the number of theory questions on the Highway Code from 35 to 50 and the pass rate to 85%. They made one of their roving reporters sit the test and he scored 78%, with no revision and no preparation, but with 20 years of driving experience. Not bad I thought.

Driving for me came about as naturally as the desire to pull out my teeth without anaesthetic. Like many other 17 year olds I clamoured for driving lessons for my birthday and promptly caned through a pre-booked series of 20 or so with little to no progression or skill. By the time they ran out and I questioned my instructor on whether he felt I ready for a test to be booked he told me without so much of a glimmer of humour that I probably needed to practice in-between lessons as I didn’t seem to be improving at all.

Reluctantly, my parents dug deep and we booked me up for another 20 lessons by which point I was almost 18 and was humiliated to find all my peers sailing through this little rite of passage whilst I stalled, and revved and tended to go backwards on most hill starts. To this day I’m convinced my instructor only put me forward for my test as he was sick of the sight of me and couldn’t face any more time spent with me behind the wheel. Unsurprisingly I failed. Spectacularly.

At the end of the test I overtook a parked lorry on the left hand side of the road and came head on with another car. The worst thing happened. The examiner used his breaks and I swear there was sweat on his upper lip when he scribed a big fat ‘D’ for ‘dangerous driving’ on my script. Turned out that wasn’t the only D I’d acquired, quite a few in fact. Enough for a very big breasted women.

I cried and wailed and my parents cast their eyes to heaven at the thought of even more expense. We re-booked my test and I increased the frequency of my lessons to twice weekly, and hence, twice as expensive. This time round things were going swimmingly until a cyclist swerved off the pavement in front of me and proceeded to wobble precariously. After the last test ended in Dukes of Hazard style, I was insistent that I should err on the side of caution so proceeded to chug along at 3 miles per hour for what seemed like the whole test. Terrified that if I’d tried to take him on the outside, I would have ended up with a death on my hands. I failed for being over cautious (and for creating a huge traffic jam in East Reading).

By this time my pride had taken quite enough of a bashing and so had my parents finances and we agreed that I was not a natural and should probably accept the fact that I was destined to be chauffeur driven by friends, taxis and the like and for the next 5 years, that’s exactly what happened.

I always thought that a move to somewhere a little quieter than Reading would help me out, so when Andy and I moved to our little flat on Bloomsbury Place in Brighton I decided the time was right.

Patient boyfriend with car- check.
Less lairy driving conditions- check.
Solvent- check.
Big lesbian driving instructor called ‘Di’- check.

I was ready to rock and roll and I bloody did (eventually). I’m not sure whether Di terrified me into learning FAST, or whether driving around Brighton was in general, a much more pleasant experience (even taking into account the hills) or whether it was my lovely boyfriend at the time patiently allowing me to drive us to Asda in the Marina or up to the racecourse, but I passed with only 2 minor faults.

To celebrate Andy let me drive on the motorway to Reading to show off my new found skills. We pulled into my parent’s driveway and I swung the car around to park it in the (extremely narrow) parking bay with my parents standing proudly at the window watching my every move.

Andy said ‘Slow down’ and we crashed into the side of the wooden fences either side. Well, ‘I’ crashed might be more accurate.

Me and cars are no good together. Me and taxis on the other hand…