My favourite guilty pleasure at the moment has to be the BBC's attempt at reducing high art to the lowest common denominator with Desperate Romantics. Despite the fact that most people now view the Pre-Raphaelites as a big bunch of wets with a fondness for foliage and a giant thing for gingers, at the time, they were as scandalous as the YBAs, with saucy sex lives to match.
But of course today's audiences couldn't possibly be expected to find blokes opaquely challenging the morals of the day via the medium of lilies, irises and pansies at all intriguing. I suspect that the book this was based on was being read by a producer who was watching the DVD of David Tennant's Casanova at the same time. The result is a costume drama for the Facebook generation, involving good looking, kind of familiar actors, a lot of running around, rapid editing and bonkers music.
The soundtrack is the sort of hectic, hurdy-gurdy, twiddly, tinkly circus music that makes it feel as though the whole programme is winking at you like an epileptic with a tic for an hour. Rossetti seems to have unearthed Sylvester McCoy's entirely unlamented costume from his stint as Doctor Who in the 80s. Poor Aidan Turner (who's very good, and totally fanciable in Being Human), appears to have been told to play Dante Gabriel as if he were Robbie Williams in his Take That days: superficially good looking and charming, but increasingly riven with jealousy as he realises that his talent is a very mediocre one indeed when viewed along the same bit of wall as Millais' (the Pre-Raphs' equivalent of Gary Barlow). In short, he's a desperately irritating twat, who spends most of his time hanging out in suspiciously clean and smoke-free taverns, blagging booze off his hapless mate.
Naturally, Lizzie Siddal proves that the world of modelling hasn't changed much since the 1850s by promptly falling for him. Lizzie has been cast as the original supermodel, cannily refusing to get out of bed and back into a bath for less than £30. The girls' part in Desperate Romantics is largely to take part in top notch reality show The Victorians' Next Top Model. They valiantly hold chronically uncomfortable poses, are asked to convey a variety of conflicting emotions that would give ANTM's Mr Jay a run for his money, solely via the medium of their hair and an upturned gaze and prove that in order to create great art and lasting fame as a model you have to really suffer. I suspect Lizzie was less than thrilled to discover that the gig which was billed as 'frolicking around in a hot tub' actually translated into, 'pretending to drown in a bath heated by guttering candles for 10 days'.
She manages to go one better than Kate Moss, Claudia Schiffer and Linda Evangelista by nearly dying of pneumonia. This at least means that the RA snobs can stop thinking of her as one up from a prostitute for five minutes, while they ask her what she thinks of the resulting Ophelia. No such luck for Holman Hunt's model Annie Miller, who clearly is a whore because she's got really violently curly hair. Oh, and she's doing Holman Hunt and you'd have to be paid to do that. Even the BBC have painted him as a delusional, slack-jawed twonk.
I keep expecting Ruskin to end each episode faced with a brace of hopeful girls as he declares, 'I only have one portrait in my hands...'
The titian stunners will presumably soon have competition in the shape of gorgeous pouting brunette Jane Morris, and of course the Brotherhood will be racked by scandal when mild mannered Mr Millais does a bunk with desperate housewife Effie Ruskin. Was Ruskin really hiding in the closet with a pencil-drawn porn stash? It's as likely as the RA letting prostitutes stand proudly in front of the paintings they'd modelled for at private views, I suppose.
Still, I await next week's episode, complete with dream sequences, bonking and random casting (Mark Heap as Charles Dickens? I guess Simon Callow was too expensive or gave the script more than a cursory once over...) with eager anticipation. And I might do double culture this week by going to see the Waterhouse exhibition at the RA. I'll put some curlers in and see if any thrusting young artists want to depict me as an obscure Shakespearean heroine or a fallen woman. I don't get out of the bath for less than a tenner, mind.
Wednesday 29 July 2009
Tuesday 28 July 2009
Why have I still not got swine flu, pig colds, hog pox or similar? Why? At first I thought swine flu was going to be like every other 'pandemic' that's been dangled in front of us, threatening to wipe out billions worldwide over the last few years. SARS was going to turn us all into zombies! 'QUICK! PUT ON A FACE MASK! DON'T LEAVE THE HOUSE! CRY EVERY TIME YOU HAVE TO GET ON A TUBE FULL OF DISEASE-RIDDEN MANIACS!' Oh, hang on, no-one seems to be the slightest bit ill. Avian flu was going to rain death from the skies via every bird from wrens up: 'PANIC! WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!! SHOOT THAT SWAN!!!' Oh, hang on, it's gone away.
Swine flu was going to not only affect everyone in the world ever, but was, in an improvement on 28 Days Later/that BBC drama that was on not long ago which I can't remember the name of, going to herald, at last, Animal Farm crossed with zombies! Egypt decided to go the whole hog (sorry) and kill all their pigs, just to reinforce the fact that two legs were still good and four legs were bad. Very bad. They're probably still eating bacon sarnies now. We were promised loads of helpful government leaflets, which have still not arrived. 'Oh, business as usual, then', I thought, as the nation remained untroubled by pig-faced zombies. But then, as if by magic, two people I knew succumbed in a week. One of them sits literally about two foot away from me! I started practising Sarah Lancashire/Julie Graham expressions for the ensuing drama.
How bad was it going to be, though? Would my colleague have to be in a special plastic bubble in intensive care for a week? Would there be an army helicopter, trying to deliver Tamiflu to her flat, without her being able to open either the front door or a window (cue hazmatted men bursting through the skylights)? What if she were gathered up with all the other zombies, and sent off as an offering to the aliens, like in Torchwood? Turns out I've been watching too much telly and swine flu is basically just flu, but in the summer and with a fancy name. Yes, it's a good idea not to leave the house for a week, but that's really because you feel pretty shitty and wandering around central London groggily, looking like a club kid who's had too much ketamine, might get you arrested. And apparently you're not even given Tamiflu unless you're in charge of 30 children, or you've only got half a lung that's working usually or something, because it makes you feel 10 times worse than you would if you just sat in front of Loose Women with a Lemsip. God, why do I even pay taxes?
Despite these drawbacks (and a brilliantly patronising notice in our staff kitchen, with photos and text instructing me on how to wash my hands), I still feel like I want to get swine flu. I've missed out on nearly all of the cultural happenings of about the past two decades. I never went to the infamous Sensation exhibition at the RA, because I thought it was a load of pretentious wank and I didn't want to go all Daily Mail about being 'outraged by 'art'. This made it very difficult to have any reaction other than 'Oh', when I finally saw Damien Hirst's shark (by that time looking sadly baggy and a bit rubbish) at the Saatchi gallery about a decade later. I never went to Glastonbury, muddy or otherwise. I didn't go to raves in fields, I avoided ecstasy. I've only ever seen the last 15 minutes of Reservoir Dogs. I refused to read American Psycho (I don't care how ironic/satiric it was, I didn't want to read about a man drilling someone's skull and shoving rats where the sun don't shine for kicks). I even refused to watch the first series of Big Brother on some sort of spurious moral grounds. (No recollection of what those were now - I've long since got over any qualms re: watching total crap on the telly).
So now I want to be a part of it! I want swine flu! I want to say I was there, in the summer of 2009, that I was part of the statistics! But mainly I want a week off work, and am hoping I might lose my appetite, thus creating a free detox wherein I just sup green tea and lose half a stone and everyone tells me I look amazing afterwards. It's pathetic, but it's true.
Swine flu was going to not only affect everyone in the world ever, but was, in an improvement on 28 Days Later/that BBC drama that was on not long ago which I can't remember the name of, going to herald, at last, Animal Farm crossed with zombies! Egypt decided to go the whole hog (sorry) and kill all their pigs, just to reinforce the fact that two legs were still good and four legs were bad. Very bad. They're probably still eating bacon sarnies now. We were promised loads of helpful government leaflets, which have still not arrived. 'Oh, business as usual, then', I thought, as the nation remained untroubled by pig-faced zombies. But then, as if by magic, two people I knew succumbed in a week. One of them sits literally about two foot away from me! I started practising Sarah Lancashire/Julie Graham expressions for the ensuing drama.
How bad was it going to be, though? Would my colleague have to be in a special plastic bubble in intensive care for a week? Would there be an army helicopter, trying to deliver Tamiflu to her flat, without her being able to open either the front door or a window (cue hazmatted men bursting through the skylights)? What if she were gathered up with all the other zombies, and sent off as an offering to the aliens, like in Torchwood? Turns out I've been watching too much telly and swine flu is basically just flu, but in the summer and with a fancy name. Yes, it's a good idea not to leave the house for a week, but that's really because you feel pretty shitty and wandering around central London groggily, looking like a club kid who's had too much ketamine, might get you arrested. And apparently you're not even given Tamiflu unless you're in charge of 30 children, or you've only got half a lung that's working usually or something, because it makes you feel 10 times worse than you would if you just sat in front of Loose Women with a Lemsip. God, why do I even pay taxes?
Despite these drawbacks (and a brilliantly patronising notice in our staff kitchen, with photos and text instructing me on how to wash my hands), I still feel like I want to get swine flu. I've missed out on nearly all of the cultural happenings of about the past two decades. I never went to the infamous Sensation exhibition at the RA, because I thought it was a load of pretentious wank and I didn't want to go all Daily Mail about being 'outraged by 'art'. This made it very difficult to have any reaction other than 'Oh', when I finally saw Damien Hirst's shark (by that time looking sadly baggy and a bit rubbish) at the Saatchi gallery about a decade later. I never went to Glastonbury, muddy or otherwise. I didn't go to raves in fields, I avoided ecstasy. I've only ever seen the last 15 minutes of Reservoir Dogs. I refused to read American Psycho (I don't care how ironic/satiric it was, I didn't want to read about a man drilling someone's skull and shoving rats where the sun don't shine for kicks). I even refused to watch the first series of Big Brother on some sort of spurious moral grounds. (No recollection of what those were now - I've long since got over any qualms re: watching total crap on the telly).
So now I want to be a part of it! I want swine flu! I want to say I was there, in the summer of 2009, that I was part of the statistics! But mainly I want a week off work, and am hoping I might lose my appetite, thus creating a free detox wherein I just sup green tea and lose half a stone and everyone tells me I look amazing afterwards. It's pathetic, but it's true.
Monday 27 July 2009
I have a shameful confession. I have developed a massive crush on a man who is not David Mitchell. David! Forgive me! But then, as we're not going out anyway, it's hardly as though I am the last word in wanton adultery. And it's definitely not going to progress from unrequited to requited, because I broke Rule 3.4 of Being A Successful Singleton, which is 'Always dress to impress. Yes, even if you're only popping out to the corner shop, because it is Sod's Law that that is where you will meet someone handsome, funny and clever whilst you are buying an Observer and a loaf of bread'.
It was a Friday morning. As we do summer hours in my office (work a bit extra Monday-Thursday and you can knock off at 1.00pm on a Friday, thus making every weekend feel like a Bank Holiday - result), everyone treats it as an opportunity to dress down even more than usual. If you're only going to be in work for three and a half hours, you might as well be comfy. Besides, nothing ever happens on a Friday, right? Wrong! On this particular Friday, I get half an hour's notice that I am to attend a meeting with two comedy writers. 'That's OK', I think, 'all comedy writers are scruffy men who look like they live in a skip eating just-past-their-sell-by-date pies. No need to impress on the sartorial front, merely on the 'I could do you a perfectly good marketing campaign' front.'
But naturally, God enjoys laughing at me, and supplies me with a comedy writer who is artfully scruffy and has a dazzling smile. I am just scruffy. Gaaaah. There is much irony in the fact that my Friday afternoon is to be spent beautifying myself for a wedding I'm going to - I'm booked in for a facial; to have my eyebrows threaded (I've been avoiding the temptation to pluck them for a whole month, so the upper part of my face now looks like I'm auditioning for the part of the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz - so attractive! So polished!) and to have my hair blow-dried (my hair is thus on day 3 post-wash, and looking, well, skanky wouldn't be too strong a word). I laugh over-loudly at the comedy writer's jokes (even if they're not jokes, just stuff he's saying - mortifying), gaze at his dazzling smile and curse Rule 3.4 as I contemplate my choice of my least flattering or stylish pair of jeans, my most shapeless black top and my navy Converse, which don't really go with either item, but which are... comfy.
Damn you, Rule 3.4, for being right! Is there any way I can email the Comedy Writer a photo of me taken at the wedding, sporting the kind of makeover that makes family members cry with joy on Ten Years Younger, with the message, 'This is what I usually look like, by the way, I was just trying to put you at ease when you came in for our meeting'? Yes, that's a great idea, if I want him to think of me as deranged, as well as a girl who's been cross-bred with a Hobbit...
It was a Friday morning. As we do summer hours in my office (work a bit extra Monday-Thursday and you can knock off at 1.00pm on a Friday, thus making every weekend feel like a Bank Holiday - result), everyone treats it as an opportunity to dress down even more than usual. If you're only going to be in work for three and a half hours, you might as well be comfy. Besides, nothing ever happens on a Friday, right? Wrong! On this particular Friday, I get half an hour's notice that I am to attend a meeting with two comedy writers. 'That's OK', I think, 'all comedy writers are scruffy men who look like they live in a skip eating just-past-their-sell-by-date pies. No need to impress on the sartorial front, merely on the 'I could do you a perfectly good marketing campaign' front.'
But naturally, God enjoys laughing at me, and supplies me with a comedy writer who is artfully scruffy and has a dazzling smile. I am just scruffy. Gaaaah. There is much irony in the fact that my Friday afternoon is to be spent beautifying myself for a wedding I'm going to - I'm booked in for a facial; to have my eyebrows threaded (I've been avoiding the temptation to pluck them for a whole month, so the upper part of my face now looks like I'm auditioning for the part of the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz - so attractive! So polished!) and to have my hair blow-dried (my hair is thus on day 3 post-wash, and looking, well, skanky wouldn't be too strong a word). I laugh over-loudly at the comedy writer's jokes (even if they're not jokes, just stuff he's saying - mortifying), gaze at his dazzling smile and curse Rule 3.4 as I contemplate my choice of my least flattering or stylish pair of jeans, my most shapeless black top and my navy Converse, which don't really go with either item, but which are... comfy.
Damn you, Rule 3.4, for being right! Is there any way I can email the Comedy Writer a photo of me taken at the wedding, sporting the kind of makeover that makes family members cry with joy on Ten Years Younger, with the message, 'This is what I usually look like, by the way, I was just trying to put you at ease when you came in for our meeting'? Yes, that's a great idea, if I want him to think of me as deranged, as well as a girl who's been cross-bred with a Hobbit...
Thursday 16 July 2009
I have received excellent news with regard to my Odyssey In Search of David Mitchell. Apparently, he's been on Who Do You Think You Are, http://bit.ly/TvsR3 and has found out that his antecedents were... drum roll... sheep farmers. In Scotland. Hurrah! He is thus as thoroughly down to earth as I assumed he was. Hopefully this means that the manipulative producers of the show will not have managed to make him cry (impoverished sheep farmers - not that tragic?), which seems largely to be their aim each episode. Sometimes I wonder if they choose celebs for WDYTYA purely on the strength of whether people want to see them cry or not (Jeremy Paxman, Chris Moyles - it's a shame Margaret Thatcher's too far gone; she'd be ideal).
The exciting thing from David's point of view, is that, if he were to marry me, he could automatically raise the Mitchell clan several rungs up the society ladder because my antecedents include... drum roll... Joan of Arc. Joan of bloody Arc! I know - seems like the kind of thing that would come out of regression therapy, but I've seen the family tree with my own eyes - in the very dim and distant past, my family dates back to Joanie d's brother. It's long been a nugget of crazy family lore, which we often bring out to amuse and astound, but I was never quite sure if I believed it. However, when I was at home about a year ago, we dug through the giant desk that resides in the corner of the posh sitting room (my parents' house contains both a 'TV room' and a 'drawing room') which is the filing cabinet for all Important Family Paperwork. And there it was, as if by magic. Well, unless someone in the family nicked it a couple of generations back, from a visiting French dignitary, when they were impoverished potato farmers in Ireland.
The exciting thing from David's point of view, is that, if he were to marry me, he could automatically raise the Mitchell clan several rungs up the society ladder because my antecedents include... drum roll... Joan of Arc. Joan of bloody Arc! I know - seems like the kind of thing that would come out of regression therapy, but I've seen the family tree with my own eyes - in the very dim and distant past, my family dates back to Joanie d's brother. It's long been a nugget of crazy family lore, which we often bring out to amuse and astound, but I was never quite sure if I believed it. However, when I was at home about a year ago, we dug through the giant desk that resides in the corner of the posh sitting room (my parents' house contains both a 'TV room' and a 'drawing room') which is the filing cabinet for all Important Family Paperwork. And there it was, as if by magic. Well, unless someone in the family nicked it a couple of generations back, from a visiting French dignitary, when they were impoverished potato farmers in Ireland.
Monday 13 July 2009
The Picture of Doreen Gray
So, my weekend got off to a cracking start - I was purchasing wine in Thresher's pre- going to a friend's for dinner. I was about to pay for my bottles of Merlot (the nice fellow in the shop had upsold me two bottles for £8 - bargain), when said fellow says to me, 'Oh, just to check, you are over 18, aren't you?' I collapse in a gale of laughter. He is not raising so much as an eyebrow, much less a storm of matey, 'Ha ha, I'm trying to chat you up by flattering you' guffaws. He is looking totally serious.
'What, for real?' I say, still thinking this is an elaborate joke. He points behind him at the sign which declares, 'If you're lucky enough to look under 25, we might ask for ID' or whatever it says. Which I've always found perplexing anyway - if you only have to be 18 to buy booze, then why do they have to ask you how old you are if you look 25 or under? Makes no sense. By this stage, I'm getting a bit concerned that I am the subject of some sort of Punk'd/hidden camera feature (especially as I don't have any ID that proves my age - nobody has ever asked me if I'm old enough to buy booze, as I was a late developer and only started drinking when I was in my mid-twenties). I bellow, 'Jesus Christ, I'm 38!' at him.
'Well, I don't believe that' he says. 'What year were you born?' This is getting ridiculous. Quick as a flash, I reply, '1970', which shocks him somewhat (what, more than someone who might be 17 randomly adding a full 20+ years onto their age? I've known people who had a crisis about ageing when they turned 25; you're rarely going to be in a position where it seems like a great idea to pretend to be rocketing towards 40.) Thankfully, this stops him in his tracks (probably whilst he tries to do the maths to see if 1970 taken away from 2009 results in an age of 38). 'Oh. Well. Right. Um, I'm still not sure I believe you,' he says, 'but it's nice to meet someone who was born in the same decade as me'.
WHAT? The guy's in his 30s as well? This is nuts. I'd assumed he must be in his early 20s, so he couldn't imagine anyone being over the age of 30. Or perhaps he really couldn't see what I looked like - it was unfortunate that he had those eyes which, as my cousin says, look as though one's gone to the shops and the other's come back with the change. I decided to avoid having to try to prove my age by getting him to check my teeth (like you do with horses) or something, and just segued neatly into how infuriating it was dealing with 80s Babies who don't know the lyrics to Duran Duran songs, and how wrong it is that I now find myself regularly having to deal with work experience people who were born after 1990 (subtext: see, I have a job, I am definitely old enough to buy Merlot. Besides, if I were under age, wouldn't I be buying WKD, or Chardonnay, or something?)
This seemed to do the trick. I had my booze. He had an evening of wondering why any woman would (apparently) pretend to be 20 years older than she was. I had a very good laugh and skipped down the street (well, as much as you can skip anywhere when you're 38), delighting in the fact that the grey hoodie I was wearing, which I'd been cursing 5 minutes beforehand for being alarmingly casual, clearly marks me out as a Young Person. Who'd have thought it: hoodies, the elixir of youth. Bin the Botox and get yourself down to Gap for a cheap bit of jersey fabric with a zip. Quick, easy, and means that you can still frown if someone inadvertently goes the other way and guesses your age at five years older than you actually are...
So, my weekend got off to a cracking start - I was purchasing wine in Thresher's pre- going to a friend's for dinner. I was about to pay for my bottles of Merlot (the nice fellow in the shop had upsold me two bottles for £8 - bargain), when said fellow says to me, 'Oh, just to check, you are over 18, aren't you?' I collapse in a gale of laughter. He is not raising so much as an eyebrow, much less a storm of matey, 'Ha ha, I'm trying to chat you up by flattering you' guffaws. He is looking totally serious.
'What, for real?' I say, still thinking this is an elaborate joke. He points behind him at the sign which declares, 'If you're lucky enough to look under 25, we might ask for ID' or whatever it says. Which I've always found perplexing anyway - if you only have to be 18 to buy booze, then why do they have to ask you how old you are if you look 25 or under? Makes no sense. By this stage, I'm getting a bit concerned that I am the subject of some sort of Punk'd/hidden camera feature (especially as I don't have any ID that proves my age - nobody has ever asked me if I'm old enough to buy booze, as I was a late developer and only started drinking when I was in my mid-twenties). I bellow, 'Jesus Christ, I'm 38!' at him.
'Well, I don't believe that' he says. 'What year were you born?' This is getting ridiculous. Quick as a flash, I reply, '1970', which shocks him somewhat (what, more than someone who might be 17 randomly adding a full 20+ years onto their age? I've known people who had a crisis about ageing when they turned 25; you're rarely going to be in a position where it seems like a great idea to pretend to be rocketing towards 40.) Thankfully, this stops him in his tracks (probably whilst he tries to do the maths to see if 1970 taken away from 2009 results in an age of 38). 'Oh. Well. Right. Um, I'm still not sure I believe you,' he says, 'but it's nice to meet someone who was born in the same decade as me'.
WHAT? The guy's in his 30s as well? This is nuts. I'd assumed he must be in his early 20s, so he couldn't imagine anyone being over the age of 30. Or perhaps he really couldn't see what I looked like - it was unfortunate that he had those eyes which, as my cousin says, look as though one's gone to the shops and the other's come back with the change. I decided to avoid having to try to prove my age by getting him to check my teeth (like you do with horses) or something, and just segued neatly into how infuriating it was dealing with 80s Babies who don't know the lyrics to Duran Duran songs, and how wrong it is that I now find myself regularly having to deal with work experience people who were born after 1990 (subtext: see, I have a job, I am definitely old enough to buy Merlot. Besides, if I were under age, wouldn't I be buying WKD, or Chardonnay, or something?)
This seemed to do the trick. I had my booze. He had an evening of wondering why any woman would (apparently) pretend to be 20 years older than she was. I had a very good laugh and skipped down the street (well, as much as you can skip anywhere when you're 38), delighting in the fact that the grey hoodie I was wearing, which I'd been cursing 5 minutes beforehand for being alarmingly casual, clearly marks me out as a Young Person. Who'd have thought it: hoodies, the elixir of youth. Bin the Botox and get yourself down to Gap for a cheap bit of jersey fabric with a zip. Quick, easy, and means that you can still frown if someone inadvertently goes the other way and guesses your age at five years older than you actually are...
Friday 10 July 2009
Bride and Gloom
As a long-term singleton who's had my fair share of disastrous attendances at wedding receptions*, I took a somewhat evil delight in this article on brides who sink into a mire of despair after their Big Day (which they've probably spent a year planning) is over: http://bit.ly/YkTIf
For a start, imagine spending £20-25k on one day - a day that's largely spent having a meal (chicken or salmon?), listening to a few ropey speeches and dancing to Abba. (I swear, if I have to go to one more wedding and have to pretend I'm having a good time whilst dancing to Dancing Queen, I will punch someone). Jesus, if I had a spare £25k knocking around, I'd be able to upgrade my flat to one with a garden and finally get the cat I've always dreamed of. Cat and I could live happily ever after, with none of the 'grim sort of life-is-at-an-end, jail-doors-closing claustrophobia that nearly always hits post nuptials'. (Well, Cat would never suffer from such claustrophobia, as he'd have a cat flap to escape through and could go and investigate next door's garden; for me the claustrophobia would depend on the size of the flat. But then I live in London, where the world is your Oystercard, so one need never feel overly hemmed-in).
Then there's all this mad guff about being 'a princess for a day'. Personally, I blame Princess Diana - her gigantic dress and rise from normal, Sloane obscurity to front page ubiquity because she'd managed to 'bag a Prince' (rather than bagging Prince, which would've been much more interesting in the long term), set my generation off on a quest to be the ultimate Bridezilla. The tragedies of basing your wedding dreams on a woman whose marriage was legendarily unhappy, and whose demise was untimely and horrifying, are myriad.
But why would any modern woman want to be a princess for a day? It's such a ridiculous, twee notion. You might as well say you want to be a fairy for the day. I mean, I'm as keen on a swishy frock as the next girl, but the idea of miles of duchesse satin, a veil and a tiara gives me the shudders. Trying to look all demure whilst high as a kite on stress and the fact that you haven't eaten for a week in a last-ditch attempt to look 'the best you've ever done' is a recipe for disaster. I'd be swearing like a Sex Pistol and in a heap of bad tempered tears before the vows were out.
But at least now I'm armed with defences next time I go to a wedding and, on finding out I'm there On My Own, some faux sympathetic moron gives me the, 'aww, poor you, you haven't found anyone special yet' head tilt that coupley people at weddings seem to exult in. I can print this off, whip it out of my bag, shove it at them and make them read it, whilst repeatedly poking them in the chest, bellowing, 'BEING SINGLE ISN'T A DISEASE, YOU KNOW. UNLIKE DEPRESSION'.
* The best one was the wedding I was invited to in Cornwall, by a girl whom I was at school with. Despite only being invited to the evening do (I was coming from London, mind you, which necessitated a 2-night stay at a B&B), I dutifully went along, thinking that there would be lots of old school chums to have a natter with. Me, my old school friend Lucy, her partner Peter and their son Joe spent a pleasant day by the seaside killing time before the evening. We then got ourselves spangled up in our frocks and finery, and got a taxi over to the reception, arriving in time to hear the usual speeches involving people we didn't know, and raucous antics we'd had no part in. We managed to secure a glass of champagne, but it looked like the food had already been eaten. We, needless to say, had not eaten since lunch.
Post-speeches, we caught up with the bride and groom. I'd never met the groom (why is this the case at so many weddings, that you don't actually know 50% of the main players?), so the bride introduced me as her old school friend. 'Ah, Alex', said he, 'I've heard a lot about you.' 'Oh, have you?' said I, wondering which of my many attributes the bride had told him of. 'Yes', he said, 'are you the one who's a lesbian?'
What. The. F*ck? Who the HELL asks a question like that of someone they've never met before? If I were a lesbian, is that really the first thing that anyone in their right mind would ask? It's astonishingly rude. For once I was totally stumped for words, and just muttered, 'No, no I'm not'. So much for wearing a pretty frock and doing my hair and make-up all nice and, you know, making an effort. It was after this that I found out that it was a pay bar, and none of us had any money, as we'd assumed it would be free (pretty much the only money we had needed to be saved for the taxi back to the B&B). So I couldn't even get drunk!
Matters were compounded by the fact that the only other girl who was there from school was one whom I'd never liked. Having had her third child literally about two weeks previously, she bounded over to me and immediately said, 'Alex! How are you? Married? Children?' God almighty - half the wedding thinks I'm a lesbian, the other half is sure that by my advanced years I must've done the decent thing and got married then popped out a couple of sprogs. So that was another short conversation.
I was then subjected to a truly terrible live band, and bravely hopped about with a sea of six year olds, 'hanging onto my smile' (as my mum says when she's trapped in apocalyptically bad social situations, yet doesn't want to throw a JLo-style hissy fit because she's too polite and is a trouper). I thought at least I could dance to a few rubbish disco tracks and get some exercise. But no - the band and the six year olds it was. Sustained only by a few bits of pork in a bap (there was a hog roast, which always sounds like the height of medieval decadence but is, after all, just a very large Sunday roast, but without any of the attendant trimmings) and a dwindling vodka and tonic, I was desperate to leave, but had to wait for everyone else as a/ we only had enough for one cab and b/ we were in the middle of the countryside, so there was probably only one cab every 100 miles anyway.
When I got home, I ordered a present off the wedding list (God knows why I felt obliged to do that), and chose a carving knife, in the hopes that the bride might one day stick it into her horrible, rude husband's chest.
As a long-term singleton who's had my fair share of disastrous attendances at wedding receptions*, I took a somewhat evil delight in this article on brides who sink into a mire of despair after their Big Day (which they've probably spent a year planning) is over: http://bit.ly/YkTIf
For a start, imagine spending £20-25k on one day - a day that's largely spent having a meal (chicken or salmon?), listening to a few ropey speeches and dancing to Abba. (I swear, if I have to go to one more wedding and have to pretend I'm having a good time whilst dancing to Dancing Queen, I will punch someone). Jesus, if I had a spare £25k knocking around, I'd be able to upgrade my flat to one with a garden and finally get the cat I've always dreamed of. Cat and I could live happily ever after, with none of the 'grim sort of life-is-at-an-end, jail-doors-closing claustrophobia that nearly always hits post nuptials'. (Well, Cat would never suffer from such claustrophobia, as he'd have a cat flap to escape through and could go and investigate next door's garden; for me the claustrophobia would depend on the size of the flat. But then I live in London, where the world is your Oystercard, so one need never feel overly hemmed-in).
Then there's all this mad guff about being 'a princess for a day'. Personally, I blame Princess Diana - her gigantic dress and rise from normal, Sloane obscurity to front page ubiquity because she'd managed to 'bag a Prince' (rather than bagging Prince, which would've been much more interesting in the long term), set my generation off on a quest to be the ultimate Bridezilla. The tragedies of basing your wedding dreams on a woman whose marriage was legendarily unhappy, and whose demise was untimely and horrifying, are myriad.
But why would any modern woman want to be a princess for a day? It's such a ridiculous, twee notion. You might as well say you want to be a fairy for the day. I mean, I'm as keen on a swishy frock as the next girl, but the idea of miles of duchesse satin, a veil and a tiara gives me the shudders. Trying to look all demure whilst high as a kite on stress and the fact that you haven't eaten for a week in a last-ditch attempt to look 'the best you've ever done' is a recipe for disaster. I'd be swearing like a Sex Pistol and in a heap of bad tempered tears before the vows were out.
But at least now I'm armed with defences next time I go to a wedding and, on finding out I'm there On My Own, some faux sympathetic moron gives me the, 'aww, poor you, you haven't found anyone special yet' head tilt that coupley people at weddings seem to exult in. I can print this off, whip it out of my bag, shove it at them and make them read it, whilst repeatedly poking them in the chest, bellowing, 'BEING SINGLE ISN'T A DISEASE, YOU KNOW. UNLIKE DEPRESSION'.
* The best one was the wedding I was invited to in Cornwall, by a girl whom I was at school with. Despite only being invited to the evening do (I was coming from London, mind you, which necessitated a 2-night stay at a B&B), I dutifully went along, thinking that there would be lots of old school chums to have a natter with. Me, my old school friend Lucy, her partner Peter and their son Joe spent a pleasant day by the seaside killing time before the evening. We then got ourselves spangled up in our frocks and finery, and got a taxi over to the reception, arriving in time to hear the usual speeches involving people we didn't know, and raucous antics we'd had no part in. We managed to secure a glass of champagne, but it looked like the food had already been eaten. We, needless to say, had not eaten since lunch.
Post-speeches, we caught up with the bride and groom. I'd never met the groom (why is this the case at so many weddings, that you don't actually know 50% of the main players?), so the bride introduced me as her old school friend. 'Ah, Alex', said he, 'I've heard a lot about you.' 'Oh, have you?' said I, wondering which of my many attributes the bride had told him of. 'Yes', he said, 'are you the one who's a lesbian?'
What. The. F*ck? Who the HELL asks a question like that of someone they've never met before? If I were a lesbian, is that really the first thing that anyone in their right mind would ask? It's astonishingly rude. For once I was totally stumped for words, and just muttered, 'No, no I'm not'. So much for wearing a pretty frock and doing my hair and make-up all nice and, you know, making an effort. It was after this that I found out that it was a pay bar, and none of us had any money, as we'd assumed it would be free (pretty much the only money we had needed to be saved for the taxi back to the B&B). So I couldn't even get drunk!
Matters were compounded by the fact that the only other girl who was there from school was one whom I'd never liked. Having had her third child literally about two weeks previously, she bounded over to me and immediately said, 'Alex! How are you? Married? Children?' God almighty - half the wedding thinks I'm a lesbian, the other half is sure that by my advanced years I must've done the decent thing and got married then popped out a couple of sprogs. So that was another short conversation.
I was then subjected to a truly terrible live band, and bravely hopped about with a sea of six year olds, 'hanging onto my smile' (as my mum says when she's trapped in apocalyptically bad social situations, yet doesn't want to throw a JLo-style hissy fit because she's too polite and is a trouper). I thought at least I could dance to a few rubbish disco tracks and get some exercise. But no - the band and the six year olds it was. Sustained only by a few bits of pork in a bap (there was a hog roast, which always sounds like the height of medieval decadence but is, after all, just a very large Sunday roast, but without any of the attendant trimmings) and a dwindling vodka and tonic, I was desperate to leave, but had to wait for everyone else as a/ we only had enough for one cab and b/ we were in the middle of the countryside, so there was probably only one cab every 100 miles anyway.
When I got home, I ordered a present off the wedding list (God knows why I felt obliged to do that), and chose a carving knife, in the hopes that the bride might one day stick it into her horrible, rude husband's chest.
Thursday 9 July 2009
'All the single ladies! Put your hands up!’ – this article struck several chords and is rather funny… http://bit.ly/fcNpI
It sums up my life exactly. The one time I did go to a singles party, which was organised by some quite well connected people (who worked in films, telly and the like), it was a disaster. It was the usual thing of men skulking in corners, and then regarding you with extreme suspicion if you dared to reverse the natural order and go over and talk to them. All us girls who’d gone along, full of hope, ended up screaming with frustration.
What is wrong with men? Why do they treat you like you're a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Atila the Hun if you try to initiate a conversation with them? You'd think they'd like it - saves them having to make the effort and risk being shot down in flames, but no, they back into corners, give you a look as though you're about to drag them down a sperm bank and demand immediate insemination and then run away, desperate to find an unchallenging 25 year old to chat up instead.
I am, however, finally tempted to do internet dating, as I'm so bored of my entire life at the moment, that even going on rubbish dates might make things more interesting. Just baulking at the idea of a/ writing a profile b/ choosing a photo and c/ worrying that my ego will get dented by nutso blokes who seem good on paper, but less so in person. So I have come up with a top solution: I shall just marry David Mitchell. He seems nice, clever, funny, and is as horrified by the idea of dating as I am. Plus he's been single for 7 years, which is about the length of time since I last tried going out with someone (it's too depressing to work out how long it actually is - plus it's another big tick on the 'pro' side on the 'why David Mitchell should go out with me' list).
The last two blind dates I went on were disastrous. The first guy said he had to leave early (despite our numerous emails pre-date, he'd failed to mention this), because he had to get up at the crack of dawn the next day to go on a hedge-laying course. He claimed he’d already been on a dry stone walling course. I tried to tease him about the fact that he obviously liked to put a lot of barriers up in his life, and he didn’t go for it at all. He wouldn’t even walk me to the tube station! Rude man.
Then I went on one with a guy who’d been married, but his wife had died. That was going fine, till we started talking about the rubbish ‘new generation’ Star Wars films. I went on an extended rant about the final one, saying, ‘I mean, what on earth was the impetus for Anakin Skywalker to go over to the dark side? I mean, God, his girlfriend died, but really’. I realised as it was coming out of my mouth that I should just get my coat and go. I pretended, however, that I didn’t know his wife had died till he made some reference to it later. Needless to say, I didn't hear from him again.
So, David Mitchell. Yes, he looks a bit like a potato, but all men end up looking like that eventually – might as well know what you’re getting from the off. (I, of course, am no Elle MacPherson - I'd say I'm around a 6.5 on a good day.) Plus he’s a posho and my parents would like him, even if he does write for a vaguely leftie paper. Although, I suspect that this whole 'I've given up on dating' thing is a ruse by DM - much like in those Restoration plays, where lotharios were endlessly pretending to be gay so that they weren’t seen as a threat to single or married ladies, and then copped off with all of them, I imagine that poor David now has every woman over the age of 35 throwing herself at him, via Twitter, Facebook, his Observer column's online comments section and every time he nips to the corner shop for a pint of milk and some cheese. (I also imagine that DM has a touch of the Alan Bennetts and spends the time he's not on panel shows and writing comedy sitting at home eating cheese and biscuits).
So here starts my official Odyssey In Search Of David Mitchell. Someone out there must know him - please put me in touch! I'm very happy to have a virtual relationship via email, with very little actual 'dating' at all, thus minimising the pain for both of us. I can finally get my mum to stop worrying about me being single, and you can stop at least half of those women throwing themselves at you by squeaking, 'But I've got a girlfriend!' Everyone's a winner.
It sums up my life exactly. The one time I did go to a singles party, which was organised by some quite well connected people (who worked in films, telly and the like), it was a disaster. It was the usual thing of men skulking in corners, and then regarding you with extreme suspicion if you dared to reverse the natural order and go over and talk to them. All us girls who’d gone along, full of hope, ended up screaming with frustration.
What is wrong with men? Why do they treat you like you're a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Atila the Hun if you try to initiate a conversation with them? You'd think they'd like it - saves them having to make the effort and risk being shot down in flames, but no, they back into corners, give you a look as though you're about to drag them down a sperm bank and demand immediate insemination and then run away, desperate to find an unchallenging 25 year old to chat up instead.
I am, however, finally tempted to do internet dating, as I'm so bored of my entire life at the moment, that even going on rubbish dates might make things more interesting. Just baulking at the idea of a/ writing a profile b/ choosing a photo and c/ worrying that my ego will get dented by nutso blokes who seem good on paper, but less so in person. So I have come up with a top solution: I shall just marry David Mitchell. He seems nice, clever, funny, and is as horrified by the idea of dating as I am. Plus he's been single for 7 years, which is about the length of time since I last tried going out with someone (it's too depressing to work out how long it actually is - plus it's another big tick on the 'pro' side on the 'why David Mitchell should go out with me' list).
The last two blind dates I went on were disastrous. The first guy said he had to leave early (despite our numerous emails pre-date, he'd failed to mention this), because he had to get up at the crack of dawn the next day to go on a hedge-laying course. He claimed he’d already been on a dry stone walling course. I tried to tease him about the fact that he obviously liked to put a lot of barriers up in his life, and he didn’t go for it at all. He wouldn’t even walk me to the tube station! Rude man.
Then I went on one with a guy who’d been married, but his wife had died. That was going fine, till we started talking about the rubbish ‘new generation’ Star Wars films. I went on an extended rant about the final one, saying, ‘I mean, what on earth was the impetus for Anakin Skywalker to go over to the dark side? I mean, God, his girlfriend died, but really’. I realised as it was coming out of my mouth that I should just get my coat and go. I pretended, however, that I didn’t know his wife had died till he made some reference to it later. Needless to say, I didn't hear from him again.
So, David Mitchell. Yes, he looks a bit like a potato, but all men end up looking like that eventually – might as well know what you’re getting from the off. (I, of course, am no Elle MacPherson - I'd say I'm around a 6.5 on a good day.) Plus he’s a posho and my parents would like him, even if he does write for a vaguely leftie paper. Although, I suspect that this whole 'I've given up on dating' thing is a ruse by DM - much like in those Restoration plays, where lotharios were endlessly pretending to be gay so that they weren’t seen as a threat to single or married ladies, and then copped off with all of them, I imagine that poor David now has every woman over the age of 35 throwing herself at him, via Twitter, Facebook, his Observer column's online comments section and every time he nips to the corner shop for a pint of milk and some cheese. (I also imagine that DM has a touch of the Alan Bennetts and spends the time he's not on panel shows and writing comedy sitting at home eating cheese and biscuits).
So here starts my official Odyssey In Search Of David Mitchell. Someone out there must know him - please put me in touch! I'm very happy to have a virtual relationship via email, with very little actual 'dating' at all, thus minimising the pain for both of us. I can finally get my mum to stop worrying about me being single, and you can stop at least half of those women throwing themselves at you by squeaking, 'But I've got a girlfriend!' Everyone's a winner.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)