Thursday 26 July 2007

Dear Mr. Driver

Dear Mr. Driver,

You are probably already aware of this, being the all-knowing knobjockey that you are, but I thought I'd state it here again just for kicks:

Tailgating me will NOT make me go any faster. Ever. As a matter of fact, just to annoy you, I'll probably slow down and start tapping my brakes randomly in the hope that I'll see your head explode with frustration in my rearviewmirror.

Yes, I know you drive a much bigger car than me. Well done. I'm sure your wife/girlfriend/bum chum is only delighted that you've compensated for your tiny penis and general lack of ability in the bedroom by buying a car that resembles a small tank. I, however, don't have a penis and thus I don't feel the need to drive a big car, nor do I feel the need to prove to all those anonymous people on the motorway that I can drive at 100 miles per hour for I am KING OF THE ROAD! RAWRRR!!!

You see, I actually believe in fuel efficiency and whatnot, and that's why I drive at a steady 65mph most of the time. Which is also the reason why I drive in the slow lane whenever possible. But, ocasionally, there are cars or trucks out there that are actually driving slower than me. I know! Crazy, isn't it! Must be a granny driver or something. Anyway, on ocassions like these I actually have to overtake these vehicles, and so I have to pull into the middle lane. But fear not, King of the Road, for there is a third lane that you can use to pass me out and leave me quaking in your dust and petrol fumes. This is not a race track. You do not get points for driving on top of me. Use your common sense, have some manners and use the fast lane.

Oh, and whilst you're passing me out in that third lane, don't flash your fucking lights at me. I know I'm driving slower than you. And I know that it's majorly inconvenient for you to have to overtake me. But you know what? I don't give a fucking rats ass, and if you flash your lights at me, I'll flip the bird right back atcha.

Now, there have also been moments when both the slow lane AND the middle lane are chock full of cars that are driving slower than me! Yeah, I know! Must be a fucking Sunday, right?

Anyhoo, this means that I have to pull into the fast lane whilst I pass these dinosaurs out. Yet again, if you've been thundering up the fast lane for three minutes now, you should have seen me pull into your lane to overtake. So, you know what, you really should know that, as soon as I've overtaken I'll pull back out of your way. Driving so close to me that all I can see in my rearview mirror is the front grill of your stupid-looking SUV is neither intimidating nor is going to make me put the pedal to the metal. You're just going to have to wait, aren't ya? And, like I said before, if you start flashing your lights or any of that other nonsense, I'll slow right down so you'll be stuck behind me forever. Have a little patience, and you'll be on your way before you can say "Back the fuck off buddy!"

And, finally, if you're on a slip road either coming on or off the motorway, driving on my ass is one of the worst things you can do. Slip roads are not meant to be driven at 90mph, mostly because they tend to be quite bendy and, even though I know you THINK you're God, you're actually not, and you, just like me, have no idea what's around that corner. Remember this morning when you were up on my ass all the way round that bend, trying to make me go fast than the 50mph I was already doing? And remember when I saw that big oil patch and slowed down to 40mph because the road was already wet? And remember when we went 'round the corner and saw that woman who's car was embedded in the ditch because she'd obviously just skidded in the oil? And remember how we had to swerve to avoid her car? Well, my fucktacular friend, if you'd been in front doing your 90mph stunt, you would have whalloped straight into that car, and probably into that woman, probably killing both of you instantly. So really, I saved your life this morning. You're welcome.

I won't do it next time.

Kindest regards,
The girl with her middle finger extended in the car behind you.

Wednesday 18 July 2007

Kate Moss needs a wash

I'm not having a good week.

So far, my laptop has suffered from a hard disk failure and my desktop computer at home seems to be going through a mid-life crisis and will only show me a GRUB command line when I switch it on. To those of you who don't speak computer, that basically means "A Big Pain in the Ass".


*sigh*

Added to which, I've just been roped into working on a big legal project at work which I have been trying to avoid like the plague for the past few months. But they finally caught me. And that makes me sad.

But what's really annoying me this week is this: jeans. Specifically, skinny jeans. Like these:


I went shopping for jeans last Friday. I went to the Manchester Shopping Mecca (a.k.a. The Trafford Center) with the sole intention of purchasing a new pair of jeans. I was willing to spend a bit of money, for I have finally come to the realisation that there is a BIG difference between buying a cheap pair of jeans that just... don't... seem... to fit... right, and spending a bit more money on good quality jeans that fit perfectly.

The Trafford Center is disgustingly incredible. It's what ancient Rome would have looked like if Las Vegas puked all over it. And threw some palm trees in for good luck. It's all marble pillars and neon signs and just incredibly, beautifully, headache-inducingly tacky. I love it. But I can only go there about three times a year or otherwise my credit card starts sobbing. As does my boyfriend. And my feet.


Anyhoo, I started at one end of the mall and systematically worked my way through each shop, looking for a pair of jeans. And I discovered that apparantly we're only allowed wear skinny jeans now, for clothing manufacturers have decided that any other type of jean is just crap, and we have to do what the clothing manufacturers tell us because it's the law.

Every bloody shop I went in to just had row after row of these stupid skinny jeans. Oh sure, each row varied slightly - here's one with high waisted jeans (who wears these? Seriously?), here's one with ultra-low rise jeans, here's one with jeans made of velcro or something that looks slightly wet so you look like you're wearing leather trousers but guess what? You're not! But all the jeans were skinny - not a boot cut in sight.

Now, I don't like skinny jeans. At all. Partly because, unless you're borderline anorexic, skinny jeans make you look fat. They're one of the most unforgiving items of clothing I've ever seen, and unfortunately, I've seen a lot of unforgiving clothes. They just make people look unbalanced, like they've got huge bodies and little chicken legs. Unless, of course, you're anorexic in which case you simply look like a beanpole.

But more than this, I hate skinny jeans because anyone who wears them looks like they're trying to imitate that skanky crack whore Kate Moss. Kate Moss has ruined fashion for me. Everything she wears immediately turns into "This Season's Must Have!!!" and suddenly the streets are lined with clone after clone, dressed in skinny jeans and vest, with manky hair, bad eyeliner and a junkie boyfriend hanging out of their shoulder.


Why is this woman being hailed as a fashion icon when, as a matter of fact, all she does is wear a variation of the same bloody thing every day?

Anyhoo, I've ranted about this before so I'm not going to do it again. Suffice to say that Kate Moss has ruined so many items of clothing. Want to wear a waistcoat? Can't - you'll just look like a Kate Moss wannabe. Want to wear a minidress? Can't - you'll just look like a Kate Moss wannabe. Want to wear wellies at a festival? Can't - you'll just look like a Kate Moss wannabe.


And other such annoyances.

So, back to the original story which was... oh yes, jeans. As I may have mentioned, I don't like skinny jeans. I much prefer bootcut jeans. They suit every body shape, they feel good, they look good and they look even better with heels. What's not to like? But I literally could not believe my eyes on Friday night. Every single shop I went to seemed to sell only skinny jeans. Topshop used to have a great range of jeans called Moto, but these now only come in the skinny variety. I went to Levi's, but the only jeans they had that weren't skinny were those weird engineered things that look like you're wearing them backwards and that really aren't comfortable.

I even went to Miss Sixty. I clung tightly onto my wallet to try to stop my credit card from shrieking like an idiot and proceeded to try on pair after pair of jeans that cost upwards of £150. And I was prepared to buy them if they looked nice! Honest! And I have a major, MAJOR problem with paying that much money for ANY item of clothing, let alone a pair of jeans. But I was willing to do it, if they had nice jeans.

Luckily for me they didn't. Even their so-called bootcut jeans were suspiciously skinny-like, making my legs look all weird and shrunken (I don't know why but skinny jeans make my legs look short, even though they're actually fairly long). I was beginning to think I'd have to just buy a tracksuit and live in that instead.

And then I remembered that last bastion of good jeans - the Gap. Now, most clothes at the Gap are way too preppy for me, and as such I never shop there. But I remember buying a fantastic pair of jeans there a few years ago, which I still wear and love and which seem to get better with age, and so I thought I'd give it a try. I walked through the door (thankfully absent was the perky sales clerk who just really, really wants to help you - that shit don't go down in Manchester), and made my way to the jeans section. My heart sank. Right in front of me, flipping the bird and sticking it's tongue out at me was a big pile of skinny jeans.

I fell to my knees, raised my fist and my face skywards and shouted "Nooooooooooooooooooo! Not you too! Not the Gap!!!"

Actually, come to think of it, what I did instead was turn on my heel and made to march out, disgusted. And then I saw them. Tucked away in the corner. Bootcut jeans. Proper actual bootcut jeans! And there was much rejoicing!


I tried them on and they were perfect! I'm in love with them. I was tempted to buy ten pairs right there and then, but then regained my composure and pranced up to the till with my treasure. And as soon as I get paid on Monday I'm going to go back and buy another pair.

Gap - I should never have doubted you. I heart you.

And thus ended another successful adventure.

Thursday 5 July 2007

Whatever happened to live and let live?

[begin rant]

Velvet Revolver have just released a new album, Libertad, which I *ahem* managed to get my mitts on last night. Before, um... 'receiving' said album, I looked up a couple of reviews online to see what the general vibe was about the music. It's been three years since their incredible debut, Contraband, and I was interested to see what people thought of their new offering. I'd head so many rumours - that Pharrell Williams (of N.E.R.D.) was going to be producing it, that Slash had walked out of the studio saying "I thought this was a fucking rock band, I ain't playing fucking disco", etc., etc. - that I didn't really know what to expect.

For the most part the reviews were good - really good - but one stuck out in my mind as being particularly stupid ignorant amusing. Some guy something along the lines of "It just sounds like Stone Temple Pilots and Guns 'N' Roses" and then proceeded to call anyone who liked the album a "fag".

*sigh*

I get so tired of this shit. People taking the piss out of other people for listening to certain types of music or certain bands or whatevs. What is the problem here? Why do you care if all I want to listen to is shouty-shouty music? Or country? Does that make me less of a person? If you prick me, WILL I NOT STILL BLEED?!?!

Heheh.

I had a similar blood-vessel-about-to-burst-in-my-head experience a couple of weeks ago when I heard about people throwing bottles of piss at My Chemical Romance when they headlined at Download.

Now, I know I've just confessed to recently becoming a fan of MCR, but this mini-rant emerged back at the start of last month before I'd listened to much of their stuff. In fact, MCR were really only brought to my attention when I saw footage of all those silly people throwing bottles at them on stage. And they're not the first band that this has happened to.

Personally, I just don't see the point. Do you really think that any band are going to stand on stage in front of, oh let's give a conservative estimate of 30,000 people, and pay any attention to the hundred or so that are throwing bottles at them? Or will they look at the remaining 29,900 people who are singing along and jumping up and down to the songs and continue to play for them instead?

Hmm... it's a toughie!

But more than that, at the time that My Chemical Romance were on the main stage, Korn and Suicidal Tendencies were playing on the other two stages. Why were those hundred or so morons throwing bottles at MCR when they could have been watching either of these two other bands? Why would you waste your time throwing missiles at an "emo fag" band when you could have been watching some "proper metal" band on another stage just a few feet away? Or when you could have gone to the bar and had a drink? Or when you could have gone back to the campsite and cranked up Slayer at full blast and started headbutting your friends or whatever it is you do for fun?

I don't get it.

I don't understand this mentality of "if it's not what I like, then it's shit". My ex-husband used to do that a lot. "If it's not Canadian, it's crap" was his motto. Which is fine, you know, as long as you keep it to yourself. But he would constantly ridicule people from other nations, including his best friend's girlfriend who was Greek, and including me, Irish, because of our "funny customs", etc. Why would you bother? All it results in is a lot of pissed off people and, in this case, divorce. Because this was a major factor in us breaking up. That and the fact that he's a cheating, lying, lazy bastard, may he rot in hell forever.

Why can't people just live and let live? Who cares if I listen to what you consider to be crappy music? If I'm not forcing you to listen to it, and I'm not preventing you from listening to something more to your liking, then what's the frickin' problem?

People annoy me at times.

Oh, and before I forget, to the person who wrote that Velvet Revolver just sounds like Stone Temple Pilots and Guns 'N' Roses mixed together - what the fuck were you expecting?! It's the lead singer of STP and three of the members of GNR!!! What did you think they'd sound like?!
Also, for the record, Libertad rocks!

[end rant]

Wednesday 4 July 2007

I have the emo

A couple of days ago, I found myself painting my toenails and fingernails black whilst nodding my head to My Chemical Romance.

I stopped for a moment.

I looked in the mirror.

I was wearing a black vest under a black hoodie, with dark blue (almost black) jeans and a scruffy pair of converse. I had recently dyed my hair so it was looking quite dark. Earlier I was bored and had painted eyeliner on for something to do. My skin was paler and more corpse-like than usual from being cooped up indoors for so long.

The panic building slightly within, I did a quick stock take of my feelings, man.

Apathetic - check.
Disheartened - check.
Grumpy - check.
Dejected - check.
Spirits at an all time low - check.

Oh dear gods. There's no doubt about it.

I have the 'emo'.

But, wait a minute; isn't the 'emo' only for kids? I'm an adult. I'm not angry with the world. I have a good job. I live in a nice apartment. I recycle and I buy flowers for my living room. I have plenty of friends and my parents definately DO love me enough.

Plus, I don't have one of those silly haircuts.



So what's going on? What's with the general feeling of malaise that's been hanging over me for the past couple of weeks? Why am I suddenly listening to Green Day, Funeral for a Friend and AFI and the like and thinking they write bloody good songs? With an emphasis on the bloody. Why have I become so anti-social? Why does the thought of interacting with people fill me with dread and a slight loathing? Why do I feel an affinity with the teenage boy from Little Miss Sunshine who hasn't spoken in nine months? Why is it that the only thing I want to do right now is crawl under my duvet and shut the world out?

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!

*ahem*

Could it be the simple fact that I haven't seen sunshine in about five weeks? Could it be the fact that it's been raining non-stop for about thirteen days now and I'm at the stage where I'm actually sodden on the inside? Could it be the pervading smell of damp coming from everywhere? Could this be what's making me feel like curling up into the foetal position on crying myself softly to a never-ending sleep?

Probably.



I used to scoff at the idea of Seasonal Affective Disorder. I used to think it was a clever little marketing ploy that some man with a neat little ponytail thought up of in a boardroom somewhere. He even shrunk it down to a snappy and appropriate T.L.A. (that's Three Letter Acronym for all you non-cynics). Why? So he could flog us extra bright lamps which promise to cure the depression.

And then I realised that I'm always much, much happier when the sun comes out and that, in the depths of winter, I spend most of my time walking around in a daze wishing I was a bear so I could hibernate until the sun comes out again. I'm not even too bothered by warmth, as such. I just want to see that big fireball in the sky, beaming down at me and sending me sunny-love-vibes and then I feel all good again. And now, looking outside at the grey sky with the rain pelting against my window, I'm convinced I suffer from S.A.D.

So here's an idea.

You know all those emo kids that live in sunny places like California and France and, oh, I don't know, Cuba? You know the ones. They look something like this:



I propose we start up some sort of S.A.D. <--> Emo exchange programme where we send teenagers from hot and sunny countries to rain old England where the weather and generally shite climate will match their mood perfectly. People will EXPECT them to be emo over here. It's the law. And, in exchange for this wonderful opportunity to indulge your inner whinger, us adults affected by S.A.D. will take your place in said hot and sunny country to soak up the rays and get a tan and generally feel much better about themselves.

Doesn't that sound good?

So, if you've got an emo teenager or cousin or brother or sister, pop him/her in an envelope and post it to me and we can start putting the wheels of this happy clappy No-More-SAD-Emo's™ exchange programme into motion.

I thank you.