To continue your education...

I've just had an amazingly enthusiastic Hard Drive Clean Up - files deleted all over the place, hurled towards the Trash Can merrily. Always very satisfying to know there isn't a load of rubbish clogging up the computer; my justification is that I want to get everything sorted in all aspects of my life before 2007 starts, so I can begin afresh. In reality, I was a touch bored and needed something to do... Anyway, I unearthed another poem that I wrote down when I was in Argentina at some point. They're the lyrics that go with a piece of tango music, and I obviously liked them enough to bother sitting and writing them out. Thought I'd throw them on here in a bid to educate at least one reader out there. I've given the weblink at the end so that those of you who read Spanish can see the far superior original.

Nostalgias – 1936, Cobian and Cadicamo

I want to drown my heart with wine
to extinguish a crazy love
that more than love, is pain…
And that's what I'm here for,
to erase those old kisses
with other lips' kisses.
If her love was short lived,
why is this cruel preoccupation
always living in me?
I want to drink for both of us
to forget this obsession,
but I remember her even more.
The nostalgia
for her laughter,
for feeling her fire-like breath
next to my lips…
The anguish
of being abandoned
and of thinking that soon another will
whisper tender words to her…
Brother,
I don't want the humiliation
of begging, crying,
of telling her I can't live without her.
From my sad solitude
I will see the falling of the lifeless roses
of my youth.

Moan, bandoneon, your sad tango
maybe you also are in pain
for a broken love…
Cry my silly, lonely and
sad soul tonight,
dark, starless night.
If drinks bring relief,
here I am with my sorrow
to drown it at once.
I want to drown my heart with wine
to then make a toast
to my defeated love.

'Nostalgias' in Spanish

Because things are not always as they seem

Jose Marti poem that sums up something for me today. I've put the English translation as well as the Spanish original. Not feeling particularly talkative, so this will have to do for now.


Because your eyes were two flames
And your brooch wasn't pinned right,
I thought you had spent the night
In playing forbidden games.

Because you were vile and devious
Such deadly hatred I bore you:
To see you was to abhor you
So lovely and yet so villainous.

Because a note came to light,
I know now where you had been,
And what you had done unseen —
Cried for me all the long night.


POR TUS OJOS ENCENDIDOS... (Verso XIX)

Por tus ojos encendidos
Y lo mal puesto de un broche,
Pensé que estuviste anoche
Jugando a juegos prohibidos.

Te odié por vil y alevosa:
Te odié con odio de muerte:
Náusea me daba de verte
Tan villana y tan hermosa.

Y por la esquela que vi
Sin saber cómo ni cuándo,
Sé que estuviste llorando
Toda la noche por mí.

'O wad some Power the giftie gie us...

to see oursels as ithers see us!'
(To translate for those incapable of understanding Robbie Burns: 'Oh would some Power give us the gift to see ourselves as others see us.')
Thought that was a rather apt way of starting out today's rant - and being a Burns snippet, it comes across as more intellectual than quoting the title of a Ricki Lake show that was the genuine inspiration behind this. Unfortunately, I can't remember exactly what that episode was called, but since it was Ricki it'll have been something about ten lines long, dotted frequently with exclamation marks.
It was yet another 'makeover show' - when you've run out of people willing to embarrass themselves in front of the nation, just set about transforming them instead - and this time it was concerning married women who dressed in what can best be described as men's clothing. Somewhere inside, the show struck a chord with me. You would not believe the number of times miniature old ladies have been on the point of questioning my going into the women's bathrooms, and I had one particularly ghastly experience in an airport where the check-in staff kept referring to me as 'Mr', despite the fact they were holding onto my passport that clearly suggests I am otherwise. After a few of my withering looks, they did manage to giggle out an apology - damn, I should have taken the chance to sue the airline for, well I don't know what but I'm sure there's something. 'Gender assassination'. Someone successfully sued an airline carrier for veterinary bills and 'distress caused' because low-flying aircraft startled their pet parrot, who fell off his perch and promptly broke both his legs. I think I have a pretty strong case in comparison to that.

Oh, how I wish some people had the gift to see themselves as others (or in particular, me) see them! Why do some of the guys in Oxford wear their collars turned up? How did it become the fashion to tuck jeans INSIDE knee high boots? And what is with kids these days having rucsacs so low-slung they bounce against the backs of their knees? And I wish people would learn that a fake laugh is as noticeable as the enormous zit on their face they're trying desperately to pretend doesn't exist.

In need of filling in some time the other day, I went through one of those endless lists of questions that ask you ridiculous things like, 'Have you ever been caught speeding?' 'What is your favorite [sic] color [sic] for eyes?' (And briefly digressing here, how is it in 'romance novels' - not that I'd ever read such trash, of course, this is all based on hearsay - the heroine invariably has 'violet eyes'. Has anybody ever had violet eyes?? I think it would be more disturbing than appealing). 'What is one thing you'd like others to know about you?' In response to the latter, I put: 'I'm not as miserable as I look.' Thus notifying the world at large that I am aware of how I'm perceived, and frankly I wish more of you would take the trouble to find out something about me before branding me as 'a right misery guts.' If after talking to me for a couple of hours you still reach that conclusion, fair enough. You're probably an exceptionally boring creation who I couldn't be bothered to come out of hibernation for.

I think most people are rushing around desperate to convey one impression of themselves to the world, and not stopping to consider who they really are as a person, as an individual. Even when I was being teased at school for being 'the geeky kid with glasses', I never wanted to change who I am or how others perceive me just to give myself an easier ride. And I wish people would back off, stop trying to transform me into a partygoer with the tightest of tops and the most non-existent of skirts - someone who goes around getting drunk and then accusing any man she unintentionally sleeps with of raping her. (Notably this is usually the case when the male in question is particularly unattractive, in which case he 'undoubtedly' spiked her drink).

Words of wisdom for the day, and paraphrasing someone or other but I really can't think who just now: remember, you are not a sheep.

On Being a Drunk

I think I've found my destiny today - I must work at Being A Drunk. Really, I do the whole thing remarkably well, and courtesy of the ludicrously cheap alcohol prices here in Spain, can afford to. I have access to endless mournful music options thanks to having satellite TV, and furthermore a never-ending supply of tear-jerking movies. In addition to these key components, I am equipped with enough tragedies throughout my life to mull over, and a heart that has been broken frequently enough to justify plunging into the lower reaches of the wine glass.
Moreover, I have the ability to feel everything in my very core. Where someone else would feel sad, I feel tortured; when someone else would be happy, I am ecstatic. Being able to have anything experienced on an emotion-scale that ranges far higher and lower than the average, I am the ideal candidate for the role of Drunk.
I wonder if there are sponsorship programmes available. There are for every other damn thing.

On the Joke that is Journalism

Perhaps sometimes I go out of my way to make my headings have an element of alliteration about them, but I like to do it. Besides, today's is accurate. Journalism these days is a joke - I imagine there are a few newspapers somewhere out there that say things as they really are, but generally speaking everything is influenced by something/someone or other. I have a particular bone to pick with the BBC today, who ran an article in their magazine section entitled, 'Intimate Strangers.' Essentially, some woman or other is wandering around London taking photographs of the people she always sees on the way to work, but never speaks to. The article is written as if she's had some incredible revelation about life in the 21st century, and the comments the BBC has chosen to put up as reactions to the article generally show readers exclaiming, wow! I've always thought this as well! How utterly cool?!
Shoot them all now. What the BBC should have done is run alongside this article another regarding the total lack of education in our country today. Has nobody else noticed that what this woman is basically doing is working on something Walt Whitman came up with over 150yrs ago? ('Crossing Brooklyn Ferry', for all my equally uneducated readers out there). This lack of communication she has noticed is hardly original... and overall, his poem is far more effective than her stream of photographs with 'fascinating' stories attached to each picture. Perhaps she is secretly scheming to turn the UK into America, in the sense that all people will be disturbingly friendly and enthusiastic about their fellow citizens. Americans are an awesome lot to watch; I particularly like the breed that appear as the audience on the likes of the Oprah Winfrey show. But really, keep them in America - the British 'stiff upper lip' should be celebrated, not denegrated.
Oh, I emailed this point into the BBC - the part related to Whitman and originality anyhow - but obviously it hasn't appeared as a 'comment'. Who is moderating these things? I remember attacking some ridiculous article about popular books, with everyone being 'surprised' that their favourite novels were invariably in the Waterstone's '3 for 2' offers. At this point, I cast my eyes heavenwards and shake my head...
While I'm on the subject, I'm absolutely fed up with seeing peoples' 'favourite book lists' that are merely designed to impress others. It is incredible how Dostoyevsky can suddenly become somebody's favourite author because at some point they managed to struggle through, 'Crime and Punishment.' Likewise, these lists invariably include a Dickens, an Austen, a Woolf if the person has any pretensions of feminism, and a J K Rowling if they aim to appear 'childlike'. People who have read, 'The Alchemist' are suddenly leading experts on Paulo Coehlo - had they bothered to read more than about three of his books, they'd have realised that all his ideas are summed up in those and further novels are mere repeats. Yes, they're interesting ideas, but I like a new concept in each book, not repetition of a successful formula.
I suppose the most depressing 'favourite book' lists are those which only incorporate, 'To Kill a Mockingbird', 'The Great Gatsby', and, 'Pride and Prejudice'. These books are the standard GCSE syllabus in the UK, and the fact is the reader hasn't actually gone beyond what the curriculum told them to read by the age of 16.
No wonder the journalists of today apparently don't know about one of the classic American poems. With the likes of 'York Notes' to help students out, who actually needs to KNOW anything these days?

(Additional thought: whoever came up with the headline, 'EU hardens tone on enlargement' should be promoted. Plus, check out this link for proof of wonderful journalism: http://www.thelocal.se/5818/20061215/ )

A passing thought

Continuing on from my previous post, I found a rather good way of, well, putting it. Courtesy of Oscar Wilde. There are a multitude of things around for me to rant about right now, but I'll just finish off the issues broached in my previous post first. In an attempt to show that I have some sense of organisation.

Each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.

On the Curse of Mushy Movies

'Love Actually' was on television the other day - one of the ultimate disasters of the movie industry, an almost unwatchable 'triumph' of the Romantic Comedy genre. Every now and then, I'm not averse to indulging in an afternoon of 'Pretty Woman', sniffling along to the, 'it must have been love...' lyrics.
The problem - the curse - of such movies (aside from a regular dose of seriously bad acting and appalling lines gracing our television sets) is that they create impossible expectations. Everything works out: the guy gets the girl, the violins play at appropriate moments, and major character defects can be set aside without a second thought. A film should be made with the reality taking centre stage: the girl will always be too shy to speak to the guy and will not suddenly have an epiphany one hour in and gain boundless confidence; the guy will be incapable of kissing without emulating a vacuum cleaner and the 'moment' will be shattered; the guy who 'knew' and 'bonded' with the very soul of the woman actually did so via a few comments that by chance were the right ones to make, not because of any particular understanding on his part.
And so we wander around the planet, looking for an ideal that cannot be found. Ignoring the parts of people we don't like in a bid to find 'the one' - ignoring a gut feeling that tells us something is wrong, because we don't want it to be wrong. Someone can come so close to what we believe we want and yet not be 'quite right' - and here is the dilemma. Do we believe in the suggestion proposed by countless movies, that it will 'all work out in the end', and thus labour on with a relationship that is ultimately flawed? Or do we cut short the good times, the wonderful moments, because we choose not to ignore the writing on the wall and rather we act on it.
Is it not more true to say that throughout your life, as your ideas and expectations change, so will the person who you want to share it with? All other traditions of social orders have been eradicated in the last decades - women are on a more or less equal footing with men in the work place (please, nobody bother with the statements against that; I read 'women's studies' after all and know all the arguments back to front), borders and boundaries are continually being smashed. Why is the 'nuclear family' still that to which most people aspire? Just because it has been tradition that one male and one female have a group of whippersnappers and all stay together in some merry masquerade or other, does this mean it is the correct - the most appropriate - option?
I don't ascribe to this view of 'children need a stable environment', not in the sense that most people mean when they say it. Children need someone who is prepared to be an adult and teach them how to cope with the world; they don't need the 'best friend' so many parents try to be these days, or to be given the latest gaming machine every Christmas. Children need the security of knowing they can 'try life on', as it were, and if they make a mistake there will be someone to help put them back together again. This stability and security they need can only be found within, not by spending their childhood in the same house and being dressed in the fashionable clothes, liking the right music and knowing the right people.
Because I have learned this lesson - that my security lies only within me - I find it difficult to surrender any part of myself to a relationship. To share a world with somebody else is to take a risk, to have to believe that it is as important to them as it is to you. You are trusting that the other wont shatter your construction - and that means relinquishing a hold on individual security.
But Mushy Movies don't consider all of this.
Mushy Movies especially ignore the problem of a person who is afraid to be himself. How am I supposed to trust someone who doesn't trust himself to BE himself? Who, after years of careful training, has forced himself to be neutral, impartial, and ultimately safe. Am I supposed to wait and hope that he finally cracks and becomes permanently the person I've seen on fleeting occasions when he forgets to employ neutrality? Or do I acknowledge the writing on the wall and walk away?
Why is it I'm so sure about everything else, but can't quite get this issue sorted out. Later tonight, I imagine I'll watch Leona perform in outstanding fashion on the 'X Factor', I'll see her streaking towards a now inevitable stardom. 'Reality TV' - so unreal, such an illusion. Baudrillard is The Guy when it comes to illusion/reality - a review of 'The Vital Illusion' states that:
'Baudrillard considers how human cloning—as well as the "cloning" of ideas and social identities—heralds an end to sex and death and the divagations of living by instituting a realm of the Same, beyond the struggles of individuation. In this day and age when everything can be cloned, simulated, programmed, and genetically and neurologically managed, humanity shows itself unable to brave its own diversity, preferring instead to regress to the pathological eternity of self-replicating cells. By reverting to our viral origins as sexless immortal beings, we are, ironically, fulfilling a death wish, putting an end to our own species as we know it. '
Mushy Movies have caused a potential reality to be an illusion; the attempt to encapsulate a human emotion destroys the possibility of it's existence. The layers of illusion piled on illusion mean that nothing is as it seems - and furthermore that nothing is real. Perhaps the 'studied neutrality' I referred to earlier is at least an acknowledgement that anything else would be unreal, a replica.
I think I've answered my own question. Much as I agree with Baudrillard - I don't want to. I need someone who is fighting the illusion, turning aside the mirror, who believes in the resurrection of a reality. I wrote once that man was inevitably doomed once he created paintings on the walls of caves in an attempt to replicate his world. But it is possible to escape the illusion we have made of this world - I have to believe that. Something nobody has been able to capture, but centuries of poets and artists have attempted to, is the essence of humanity - for argument's sake let us call it 'the soul.' Poetry has touched my soul, has reached out to me, made me feel alive. But nobody has been able to replicate that which we do not fully understand. And therefore I need a guy who is willing to bare his soul to the world, isn't afraid to move beyond the illusion, to feel everything as an extreme, to be wholly alive. Anyone who neutralises their emotions doesn't want this, and is content to be surrounded by the reality of illusions.
Maybe nobody reading will quite follow my points there, but I've sorted something out in my mind at least. Hopefully it will make a reader consider their position - if only in regards to the curse of the mountain of mushy movies.

Something I Like

Maybe that title is being slightly too optimistic, but I thought I'd raise a few eyebrows at least. The post regards something I like - but that needs a heck of a lot of changes to make it into something I love. This morning, after the doctor had finished prodding and probing and regaling me with stories about her depressingly successful son (I was at school with him), I ambled into Plymouth to investigate the snazzy new shopping centre that has been causing road traffic chaos for most of the last two years. I believe architecture students from around the globe are being brought to come and mock the 'modern' design that is indescribably hideous - a peculiar mix of stone, brick, wood, glass, metal, and there's probably every other 'resistant material' in there somewhere.
The shops are no different to those that previously graced Plymouth's streets, but are just relocated within the sparkly new centre. I have to confess, however, that I like it. Dammit, I do. I feel like an alcoholic announcing that I have a drink problem: 'Hi, I'm Jane, and I like shopping malls.' Seriously, what a concept. Shopping all under one roof, so I don't have to get cold and wet and mess about with nasty umbrellas, and a range of eating facilities scattered throughout to keep energy levels up. I could even park my car and go from car to mall without a drop of rain touching on me. Genius. In hotter climes, they of course have the advantage that you can go shopping without the very real possibility of dehydrating and fainting, equipped as they are with air conditioning.
(Plus they always have bathrooms, clean ones, although those in Plymouth's new facility are rather odd: the wash basins are all joined together, thus creating one long trough to wash in. Peculiar).
Changes that need to be made? Well, obviously, I would appreciate if at least two of the shops within the mall were ones I actually wanted to go to. I want a selection of extensive and varied bookshops, clothes that I might feasibly wear (and moreover are priced at a rate that I might feasibly consider), perhaps a discount flight centre would be nice, and if they could have installed a WIFI system that would certainly upgrade it. A shop that sells shoes that are large enough, trousers that are long enough, and - ooh - affordable glasses.
And I'm going to cheat now by putting a link to a BBC article that is one of the best I've read in a long time: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/6199716.stm
Strongly recommend a quick squiz in that direction. I was intending to offer my viewpoints in relation to the article, but I seem to have gone on about malls for a while so will instead amble off and do something useful. Like test-run the chocolates I bought this morning. My stomach is probably suffering from lack of chocolate substances, and this is the sole reason it remains unwell.

On Cramps and Comments

I could send one of those tiresome 'travel experience' updates out to the world at large here, but will restrain myself. There is nothing more tedious than reading that someone got from A to B via train or bus, why they made that decision, and whether or not they regretted it.

Furthermore, as a frequent recipient of such emails from globetrotting friends, I would like to state here that in future I have no desire to read someone's opinion on the comfort of a bed in Vietnam that I am never likely to stay in; an individual's bargaining skills, nor indeed an apparently endless analysis of the merits of one tour operator over another.

Thus my comments regarding Morocco will be limited: if you have a weak stomach (and mine is indisputably one of the more pathetic roaming this planet) be prepared to starve yourself for the duration of your stay in the country. The hygiene standards are impossible to compete with when your digestive system turns it's nose up at mere lemonade at the best of times. I am now in my eleventh day of extreme stomach-illness, that necessitated an early return from Morocco, a quick diversion to a hospital in Gibraltar, and indeed a week's respite care in Plymouth. (If my optionally returning for a seven day stint from the glories of sunny Spain to the misery of a distinctly moist and windy England isn't proof enough of my state of health, I don't know what is). Tomorrow, I go in pursuit of antibiotics. I can't stand to eat another forkful of rice while looking despondently along the table towards my mother settling down to her Marks n Sparks treats.

Well, that was the 'cramps' part - incase you missed that. Now onto the 'comments' part. I was informed today by a fellow blogger that he'd left a comment for me, so I eagerly scampered to my website to check it out. A few hours later, still no comment. Hmm. After much investigation, I have just found comments left to me over approximately the last eight months. Ah. It seems I had some peculiar setting going on which meant they didn't show up. Therefore, this is addressed to all those who have responded with questions to some of my rants, demanding further justification for my apparently outrageous viewpoints, and indeed on occasion daring to argue with me. I apologise profusely for not following up complaints/observations and even allegations. I believe settings are now changed, and people can comment away in peace. If, that is, I have any readers left to comment.

One I do remember in particular from a few months ago came from someone accusing me of being the 'gap year traveller' I ranted about in a particular posting. Short of issuing forth a frothy mass of expletives, I am unable to respond as I wish. And since I never intended this blog to be x-rated, I'd best shut up and go be lethargic elsewhere.

(Picture from last post: Saadian tombs, Marrakech. By the by).

Morocco

I am not yet ready to relate the tragic tale of my near-death experience in Morocco that has resulted in my somewhat reluctant temporary return to the shores of England, but I thought I'd throw out a few photographs for willing observers to peruse. If anyone has any space available on their prayer cards, please set it aside for referencing myself - and in particular my stomach - when you are conversing with Him Upstairs. Right now, I need all the help I can get.

Knobbly Knees

I thought I was fairly effective at being female but there are whole areas of female-ness that it seems I know nothing about. I'm obviously forever amazed by the volumes of make-up women are prepared to plaster onto themselves in a bid to appear 'attractive', and nail varnish and I are absolute strangers. I remember a post a few months back that talked about a woman ironing her hair - something I've now learned is relatively common practice. Incredible. However, in the last two days a few more things for me to potentially be neurotic about have presented themselves.
The first was an entire photo-spread in something like 'Heat' magazine, with pictures of the typical glamorous stars who are normally paraded in front of their readers as the 'ideal'. There were endless captions, though, regarding the knobbliness of the various celebs' knees. I looked and looked and looked, but could find nothing of the hilarity the reporter clearly found in the images. What the heck constitutes a sexy knee? And moreover, are there actually women out there who wake up miserable because their knees are 'unattractive'? Incredible.
And I saw a snippet of a documentary regarding women with small breasts. Now, I'm not exactly well endowed but hey, you get over it. You think, 'at least they wont be around my knees when I hit forty'. Actually, you don't even think that - you just go, er, right, that's me. I've just watched some insane woman put these enormous plastic suction cups on her breasts at night in order to enlarge them for all of twelve hours. This obviously interrupts wildly with bedroom activities, which frankly is the least of the disturbing thoughts that came to mind. Why are women so obsessed with the way they look?
A final one. This one really took the biscuit - unfortunate expression perhaps, in light of what it is. I discovered that women actually take laxatives in order to lose weight - as in, high dosages of laxatives. Are they insane? Heck, if you want to be slimmer, eat less and go to the gym. Don't pump your body with drugs.
I just cannot envisage doing anything so extreme to my body. Supposedly for 'myself'. My 'self worth'. Dear Lord, how do parents get it so wrong? I've just looked at my knees again and I have no idea if they are knobbly or not, attractive or not. And frankly, I'm much better off not caring.

Just a Rant

No particular focus to this - at least, I'm not starting out with one. Perhaps I'll find a peg on which to hang my ranting feelings.
Like, for example, the message board on Facebook. I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook (as I do, perhaps, with most things and people on this planet), and at the moment am in Hate mode. For those of you not in the know, it is essentially a MySpace for university students - and for those who don't know what MySpace is, well, I'm afraid you'll just have to go and find out. I can't do all the legwork for you. To get in touch with somebody else via the website, you can either send them a message - delivered to what is basically an email inbox only the recipient can access - or leave a post on their 'wall', as it is referred to. I can understand leaving a message on somebody's 'wall' if you have a particularly witty remark to make, for example, that is relevant to the world at large. But there are whole swathes of people who like to leave what can only be referred to as highly personal messages on this wall, for all the world to see. Why can't people conduct relationships in private? Don't people want to create their own world apart from the rest of humanity, that is for them and them only?
And another thing. I am fed up with people who make the dramatic statement, 'Oh, you MUST meet so and so, you'll really like them!' For one, don't bother to presume to know who or what I'll like. For two - oh, I can't even be bothered to explain the 'for two'. Its all too depressing.
Now I shall retreat into my world, and urge everyone else to get back into theirs. In our joyful capitalist society our need for other people has been diminished to merely offering services for payment; why do we need to pretend otherwise.

Bless Microsoft Geeks

Well, wandering around attempting to fix internet issues this evening (I was steered, I might add, by English computer guru courtesy of this Skype business I've finally gotten connected to - people who know me, add me, I do enjoy bellowing into the corner of my laptop where the microphone is buried, and having a good ol' natter). Anyhoo, an error message came up at one point, clearly something that some Microsoft geek enjoyed creating in a bored hour, and I really rather liked it so thought would share with the globe at large:

Through a series of highly sophisticated and complex algorithms, this system has determined that you are not presently authorized to use this system function. It could be that you simply mistyped a password, or, it could be that you are some sort of interplanetary alien-being that has no hands and, thus, cannot type. If I were a gambler, I would bet that a cat (an orange tabby named Sierra or Harley) somehow jumped onto your keyboard and forgot some of the more important pointers from those typing lessons you paid for. Based on the actual error encountered, I would guess that the feline in question simply forgot to place one or both paws on the appropriate home keys before starting. Then again, I suppose it could have been a keyboard error caused by some form of cosmic radiation; this would fit nicely with my interplanetary alien-being theory. If you think this might be the cause, perhaps you could create some sort of underground bunker to help shield yourself from it. I don't know that it will work, but, you will probably feel better if you try something.

On Spaniards and Spaniels

Technically, I have very little to say on the subject of Spaniels, but sure I can produce something in order that the nice-sounding title is justified.
My absence has been due to ambling down through France and Spain, finally being deposited in a remote hideaway an hour's drive from Malaga. (A ghastly city if ever there was - claims that the historic centre is 'beautiful' are made somewhat redundant, I feel, by the miniature size of this historic centre in comparison to the rest of the tower-block hell). Courtesy of a few bargains at the local Carrefour (about three hours away), I have enough food to feed a small country for a good few years, and having unpacked my clothes also have tshirts and jumpers enough to dress most of Asia. In addition to this excess, I have God knows how many TV channels (despite the endless possibilities of satellite, I'm still just watching good ol' ITV, providing me with the inevitably grim final grand prix of the season), three terraces, and a substantial (and varied) selection of my books. In other words, I don't need to leave this spot for the forseeable future: just as well, as the roads are frankly terrifying and I'm not wild about driving along them.
Oh - to drag spaniels into it, I'm living next door to eight dogs, five cats, three horses, and their lovely English owners who are also my landlords and creators of the nest in which I find myself. I find in the few emails I've sent I have resorted overwhelmingly to the term 'lovely' to describe everything, but there is no word more apt, I'm afraid. It just is.
In my limited experience of Spaniards so far, they are a fairly miserable bunch who talk with outlandish accents (very different to those of Argentines and Peruvians anyway) and have an endless capacity to loathe the English. Well, can hardly blame them for that, but I wish they'd understand I loathe most of the English too.
Being an efficient sort of soul, I've tracked down the 'local' (hour away) rowing club - after discovering that they row on the sea and have a tendency to be out and about at 9am, my thoughts ambled along different lines and I'm thinking of launching myself firmly in the sailing direction. Many happy memories of charging about in boats as a whippersnapper, and feel I should get back into that. Particularly since my brother is currently intent on building his own boat (we're talking 28ft beast here, not the next Bootle Bumtrinket). (If you haven't read/watched, 'My Family and Other Animals', you should first feel ashamed and then dash off for a copy).
Well, expect more regular postings - I know I keep promising this and never manage to maintain posts, but honestly, I've remarkably little else to do here so may as well update you all, if only on the weather forecast (sunny and bikini hot).

(There is meant to be a photo of me on here illustrating the suitably idle life I have planned for myself. If it hasn't appeared, ah well, next time).

Ain't that just a kick in the teeth

There's a photography exhibition in Plymouth right now - 'Earth from the Air'. Absolutely captivating pictures from all around the world, plus there are endless interesting (and somewhat depressing) facts. The ones that tell you how many millions of people leave on less than a dollar a day; the number of people who are develop AIDS every hour, and how many die from it. The kind of figures that make you feel guilty for complaining about being stuck in a traffic jam on the way home in your unjustifiably expensive car. And in my case, the kind of figures that make me want to raid the local church every Sunday and yell at the hypocrites inside. (Who furthermore really annoy me by parking along both sides of my road in such a way that it is barely possible to drive along for a good few hours. Oh what selfless individuals they are, really).
Anyhow, given that I had been blasted with these figures (coupled with my present reading of 'IOU' regarding cancelling third world debt) and almost immediately after set to packing up all the stuff in my room on the offchance that the house is sold while I lie around in Spain for the winter, I was more compelled than usual to take vast quantities of stuff to carefully selected charity shops. (Anyone who gives to Oxfam: go check out where your money really goes, you'll soon stop your philanthropic gestures).
The point of my rant is this: I've just realised a whole pile of clothes that were MEANT to go in a box clearly somehow made their way into a charity shop bag. I'm fuming, as this includes a £45 pair of FatFace trousers. (Slight exaggeration - I did get them in the sale for a bargainous £12. But still). I'm now praying that the kind of people who frequent charity shops are not the kind of people who have intelligence enough to realise the quality of said unworn trousers; given that I live in Plymouth, retirement capital of the universe (various Spanish locations and most of Florida aside), chances are they should still be there. I will possibly blow a fuse if they are not.
Now I know what some of you readers are thinking: there is no sacrifice in giving just what you don't need. Personally, I think I do enough for the blasted environment and worldwide misery without having to donate a damn good pair of trousers that I do have a genuine need of. Given that I'm now going to have to replace them, so will thus just spend twice as much in a multinational corporation evil company, thereby perpetuating horrendous work conditions for people around the globe.
Yes, logic dictates they should rightly be returned to me. Cross your fingers.

The Return of Ranting Jane

Yes - I've been absent for ages. But I promise you, I will be returning in full rant-mode in the near future. Possess your souls in patience for a little longer.
(And a photo, just to prove I'm still alive).

Calling my Guardian Angel

I feel a rant within but can't quite locate the epicentre. Something is desperately wanting to escape - I think it is frustration and energy, being annoyed at myself for a multitude of sins. Maybe I should go for a bike ride tomorrow. Some depressingly large hills in the immediate vicinity that will have to be tackled, but it can't be worse than sitting practically rocking back and forth all day.

Have any of you watched English television recently? This evening there has been a typical selection, including 'Driving Mum and Dad Mad', 'Love Island' and the ubiquitous 'Big Brother'. The first on that list was particularly painful to watch - I say watch, I rather mean I had it on in the background as I ambled around the internet seeking inspiration. There is a fine line distinguishing between whether the kids or parents are more ghastly, causing me to return to the thoughts that frequently invade my troubled mind: is it really fair to have children when the world is such a bloody awful place to bring them into? There are enough kids out there going through ghastly existences; why not sort them out first rather than adding more to the problem. There's a scheme over here of fostering children - essentially looking after them for potentially years at a time, but not actually acquiring parental rights as such. Sounds almost like a noble idea, a family taking on an extra child for a few weeks a month to give somebody else a break. That is, until you realise they are being paid extortinate sums - hundreds of pounds a week - to be a Good Samaritan.

And people say my cynicism is misguided.

On another note, I've been half eaten by various bugs and flies and crawling creepies. Last week my foot took on the proportions of a large melon; today, a point on my arm is becoming increasingly prominent, itchy, and generally darn annoying. Not a person who can set something aside and leave it in peace, I intend to give it a darn good scratching. Things have to get worse before they can get better.

Mid-Life Crisis

I lowered myself into my deckchair this morning outside the cottage, with a supply of books to keep me going through the prime tanning time of the day. Barely had I opened the first tome when my neighbours emerged and provided me with considerable more hilarity and interest than Erich Fromm was offering.
The forty-something male appeared and headed towards the garage, from which he emerged clad entirely in leather and pushing a distressingly green motorbike. He then proceeded to do, well, something with it - involved an awful lot of revving followed by an awful lot of cursing - and eventually threw his helmet aside and stormed indoors. The long-suffering wife persuaded him to have another go at whatever it was he was doing; the final conclusion was that the bike was clearly not cooperating and as he charged off in the car, she returned inside, slamming the door, shouting about 'that bloody bike'.
Led me to wondering if the mid-life crisis is a worldwide phenonemon, or just a rite of passage experienced by the priveleged members of the first world. For one, the age of 'mid life' changes significantly in some countries, and at the risk of causing offence I suggest it is improbable that the behaviour of a male in his early twenties is barely distinguishable from crisis-mode anyway. But seriously, do all - for example - American males go through this? Suddenly have a desire to launch themselves at terrifying speeds around the country on a bike they barely know how to handle? Or do they plunge shivering into the sea, armed with nothing more than a board as protection against the elements? What does a hell's angel do at this time - buy a semi and get a job?
It seems to me that these days, a man's entire life is a crisis. If you believe Freud, they spend the first portion of their life wanting to sleep with their mother, and the rest of their life being disappointed by the woman they married who doesn't live up to the standards set by his mother. At 25, they have the realisation that despite having a job that involves them working in London (or similar ghastly collection of buildings), wearing a suit and being transported daily around the bowels of the city by train, they are unattractive to all the women in their office because the 40 year old boss earns considerably more and can thus buy their affections. By 30, they're been convinced by someone to 'settle down and have kids', trapped into weekends of painting pictures with the aid of potatoes and trying to become enthusiastic about planting cucumbers. By 40, they realise that although they now have the money to get those women in the office they'd been gagging after when they were 25, they have no energy left after playing endless games of Monopoly, and having slept in a bed with the same woman for over ten years they've realised there is a finite number of feasible sexual positions and are subsequently bored with such activities. Even if they somehow engineered a situation when they were in bed with the gorgeous blonde secretary, chances of anything functioning as effectively as it did at the age of 25 are close to zero.
Thus they try to prove they are still young enough (they don't even fool themselves, let alone the world around them - particularly the women) and buy fast motorbikes that will either scare the bejesus out of them or, as in the case of my next door neighbour, will have a fault they have no idea how to fix but will never admit it as this would result in taking said bike to some whippersnapper in a garage to repair, thereby admitting they are Old.
Which all leads us to the purpose of Men in the world. In a nutshell: to provide endless entertainment to women, and the tools to keep the world stocked up with more women to pick up the pieces when men, as ever, Get It Wrong. Bless their cotton socks, eh.

(As an aside, this is the one hundredth post you have inflicted upon yourselves as readers. Oh, happy day).

A few observations

Yes, yes, a distinct lack of blogging of late. Been feeling slightly lifeless recently, that's all. A few observations, comments, and things I've seen from the past weeks...

• an eight year old girl wearing bright red lipstick and lighting a cigarette, giving me what I believe is called 'attitude' when I looked at her open mouthed.
• fluorescent green lilos should be given to everyone at birth. The world would be a happier place.
• Antal Szerb should be read in his entirety by all.
• where have the Sebastians of Oxford gone? Despite everyone thinking they are one, nobody is. They aren't even a Charles or an Antony Blanche. When did the soul become an optional extra?
• why are all men incapable of making competent decisions regarding appropriate garments for swimming?
• Facebook and Ferraris are over-rated.
• home-grown tomatoes are the way forwards in the world.
• why would anybody choose to live in a city? To be subjected to the chaos and the noise, the anger and the mad panic for survival?
• it isn't possible to make-over three rooms in sixty minutes, whatever the television tries to convince me each day.
• haircuts are too expensive. Avocadoes are over-priced. Dentists charge indecent prices. Life is rapidly becoming unaffordable.

Which leads me to my new year's ambition (a new year, starting from July. Well, why not - there is the academic year starting in September, this will be the Jane year starting in July). Specifically: win the lottery.

I will return to your screens shortly with a rant to reaffirm my existence as genuinely crabby blogger. Meanwhile - patience, grasshopper.

Bad Parenting...

One of the things that really riles me is annoying kids. The ones who stand screeching in the middle of a supermarket aisle, or sneaking sly punches onto their friend's arm, generally being loud, obnoxious and spiteful. And then you see the person in the role of parent (because these days there is no guarantee that the person playing the fatherly part is remotely related to the child, and furthermore there is no guarantee that they are aware they might not be the real father) shouting and pulling at the child, or swearing and cursing in their face. No wonder such a brat has been created.
And 'bad parenting' does not necessarily mean that sort of behaviour either. In our current world, there are brand new methods of cruelty available - and I don't use the term lightly. A story has recently been related to me, telling of a woman with two young children who left them in the care of a husband she is supposedly in the throes of divorcing, and crossed the United States to have a weekend in bed with a man she'd met on the internet. The immaturity and selfishness of the mother are highlighted by her argument that she needed a 'weekend of fun' and that somehow equated to the above, and above all her lack of care for the kids. If she loathes the man to the extent she has implied, then leaving him in charge of her two babies is surely the most irresponsible thing she could have done.
The role of parent seems to be adapting across the years. Whereas once parents were essential for bringing up a child, it now seems they shirk responsibility at every opportunity - a recent study suggested something crazy like seventy per cent of parents in the UK wanted the child's school to set a bed time. Children have increasingly, in the western world, become prizes, showcases, extensions of a separated life. Unless they play five musical instruments, can tango by the age of six, speak multiple languages - and ideally can operate the DVD player before they can walk - then they are under-achievers. (And thus are automatically assumed to be suffering from ADHD and drugged to the eyeballs).
Whatever came of the old-fashioned ideas of allowing a child to develop into who they really are? Is it just me who thinks that the parent's job is to ensure this development, while providing the safety net in the background for when the child falls in the process. My solution to the problem? Sterilise everyone at the age of 12 (I would usually say 20, but these days it seems there are too many people becoming parents at impossibly young ages) and at a sensible point in their life, possibly at 24 years of age, they take a series of tests. If they prove themselves worthy of parenthood, the sterilisation will be reversed and they are allowed to procreate. The test can be re-taken up to three times, and if still failed on the third time, then neuter them. The world will be a much happier place.

On freedom and football

A few days after starting this blog of doom and gloom, I was offered a place at Oxford University. I can't believe how fast time flies - whether enjoying oneself or not - but I've finished. Dissertation handed in, books returned to libraries, champagne drunk, and a strangely deflated feeling acquired. I'm now yet another out-of-work graduate, clawing around for a reason for my existence and having considerable difficulty locating one. What with it being a whole week into the World Cup, I'm already becoming slightly fed up with that form of entertainment, and somehow sunbathing doesn't have quite the same appeal when you don't have that underlying feeling of guilt nagging at you simultaneously.
Speaking of which, I have Argentina v Serbia and Montenegro on in the background. Random aside that this must be the one occasion when Boca and River fans don't want to kill each other - united by the glorious game. Perhaps it does serve some purposes.
I went to the Careers Service this morning. Why? God alone knows. I have no desire for a career and had that confirmed for me; besides, it is ludicrous to expect somebody whose job consists of advising other people on How To Get A Life to be able to have any kind of understanding for my job-related dilemmas. (Summed up as: I don't really want one). Am mulling over the idea of asking for advice on how to become an escort, just to see their reaction.
In my slightly drunk, slightly sun-stroked state, I am therefore making a worldwide appeal, to all those single men with an extremely large inheritance to seriously consider approaching me. Please also send all openings for the post of Garden Gnome to me, I think that is definitely an option I should contemplate.

My latest distractions

My username on MSN informs the world that I am officially 'busy until June 16th'; I have stayed in recently on many evenings I could have gone out; I've missed out on rowing in order to hurry back to my computer. In theory, I'm eagerly working away on my dissertation - in fact, by now I am supposed to have a complete rough draft ready to email to tutor. Half of it still remains to be written, however, and this is entirely due to the latest distractions I have discovered.
First of all, I stumbled across a website called YouTube - never mind the home videos people have uploaded, I'm more interested in searching for episodes of Seinfeld and Scrubs to get me through the day. When I feel that I should at least pretend to use my brain at some point, I switch across to online Sudoku (dammit, I'm determined to complete one of the 'evil' level ones). After frustrating myself completely with this, I move over to the latest rapidly developing addiction, and probably the most 'dangerous' of them all.
Online poker.
My heartfelt curses go out to a certain Swede for introducing me to this concept, and for telling me about the site which gives you - no questions asked - $10 to start you off. As someone who just about understands the rudiments of poker, I make a few completely stupid moves on occasion and then follow them up with the perfect hand and up goes my overall balance once more. The problem is that I can feel myself learning the rules as I go along and 'getting the idea', and indeed improving my playing. Which, if I'm not careful, is going to lead to me just adding A Few Pounds to my poker account from what is a very real bank balance and becoming firmly lost in that world.
Having a seriously addictive personality does have its advantages. It means that once I get started on this damn essay, I'll sit there until it is done, and done properly. Which means it'll just take me a good chunk of a day to finish - BUT, I know perfectly well that once I start I really will get firmly stuck into it. And I can't face the idea of staring at an MS Word document, checking that word count every two minutes.
Right, I'm going to read through my notes one more time, try and gather some focus - and it if hasn't happened after ten minutes then I'll give in and watch a few more Seinfeld episodes. Curses to this technological age and the uber-fast internet provided by the university. One feels obliged to make use of the awesome 100Mbps speed.

Supporting Schumacher

For those of you not in the know - and if that does apply, then you are in disgrace, go stand in the corner feeling ashamed - Schumacher gained pole position at the Monaco grand prix over the weekend. Hours later, after apparently much deliberation, he was moved to the back of the grid for the start of the race - in any circuit it would be virtually impossible to win from the back, but particularly at Monaco. The fact he ended in fifth place demonstrates both his abilities as a driver, and Ferrari's undisputed skill for producing formdiable cars.
Years ago, when Schumacher was starting out, there were a few dubious moves here and there and his integrity as a driver was called into question. A few sharp raps on the wrist later, however, and he is widely regarded as one of the best - if not the best - drivers of all time. You don't become world champion a record seven times for nothing, and speaking of records he has indeed smashed all of those known in the F1 world. I think it was at the Italian grand prix a few seasons ago that his personality was called into question again, when he raced the day after his mother died (and, by the bye, won). One does wonder what the hell else he was meant to do in the situation. It isn't as if the race could be moved, a replacement on a par with him located. When you consider not only the millions of pounds that would have been involved if he hadn't raced, but moreover what his mother would probably have wanted, you can't really question his motives there.
Last year, Alonso stole the crown from Schumacher. For the first time in years, Schumi actually has a genuine competitor and in all honesty, he's probably delighted. If you consider the dedication he has given to Ferrari, the skill with which every manouvere is calculated, you realise that he does not turn away from challenges.
And you also realise that he has skill enough to win without cheating. I for one am furious about the accusations thrown at his door, and the implications of the punishment that was doled out to him. Courtesy of a few terrible races at the beginning of the season (thanks to Ferrari and Bridgestone's reliability, not driver error) Schumi has some serious ground to make up on Alonso if he's to challenge for the Title again. Throwing him to the back of the grid when there was no evidence - mere speculation - is appalling behaviour by the stewards. It is purely because he is such a brilliant driver that the punishment was carried out; had he been a less experienced driver, he'd have been given the benefit of the doubt. Maybe received the standard 'drop ten places on the grid' penalty. I loathe the manner in which some people just can't stand success in others. All the 'congratulations' and 'good lucks' you receive over the years should come with the amendment: 'but don't do too well...'. Not that I'm putting any of my supposed achievements on a par with Schumacher's, but I have managed to lose multiple friends over the years and it seems the only reason is because I ended up doing things they themselves would never have the guts to do, or indeed the ability. How can you be friends with anyone when there is jealousy involved??
Dammit, this world is screwed up.
And if Schumacher doesn't get that title by a few points at the end of the season, I'm sure Alonso's win wont taste quite so sweet.

Oxford Summer VIIIs

It is when writing this kind of post that I become horribly aware that there are people actually reading this rubbish. It can be incredibly difficult to craft a post that veils the true identity of somebody that I'm describing here - but there is always the consideration that, given most people know what I think of them anyway, should I really bother to take that much care? I have three weeks left in Oxford and no social life for the duration courtesy of dissertation duties and maybe it really doesn't matter any longer...
Which means I can mention various VIIIs experiences with ease. Like the cox who tried to kill our entire crew by smashing us enthusiastically into a wall - think my facial expressions on the following two links sum up what was going through my mind (and, chances are, simultaneously coming out of my mouth).
http://www.jetphotographic.com/showphoto.php?id=104789
and -
http://www.jetphotographic.com/showphoto.php?id=104790
But oh, what a difference a day makes. The highlight (and simultaneously, one of the lower points) of VIIIs week has to have been holding off a men's crew for some considerable time - by the simple means of two highly cunning plans: one, confuse the hell out of the crew behind and make them steer into a bank, and two, row at a frankly unfeasible rating for as long as humanly possible. Proof that we looked something like a crew can be found here:
http://www.bigblade.net/rowing/events/2006/oe06/thursday/displayimage.pl?src=divisions&im=3472&offset=1
There were the almost inevitable personality clashes over the course of the races, mostly smoothed over by the calming presence of the other coach and the odd glass of Pimms. People fell in rivers, boats were smashed, mud was enthusiastically spattered, and the concept of 'technique' became, at times, a thing of the past.
As coach of Linacre women's 2nd VIII, albeit for a brief period of time, I've been asked to give a brief speech this evening - something I'm endeavouring to wheedle myself out of. However, were I to say anything it would be along the following lines...
Bringing together this crew has been pretty tough work. I remember sitting here in the common room with Russell, thinking that all was going to be absolutely fine, the blissful bubble promptly being burst by Helen's announcement that she could possibly be pregnant. And from thereon our beautifully constructed crew line-ups gradually disintegrated into mere shadows of their former selves. Outings came and went, and I issued endless decidedly empty promises that I would find eight women eager to thrust themselves into the rowing world. Much arm-twisting and shameless begging later, we finally had our line-up. Courtesy of some serious glares from me and an inability to be impressed by anything unless shedding skin and blood had been involved, the group finally came to realise what my version of 'firm pressure' meant and gave in. With Helen's mellow and curiously mothering tones working to smooth over my frequent angry outbursts, we formed a monster of a crew - ah, those sweet voices and innocent faces are mere covers for the beasts within, a camera crew on Donnington Bridge capturing some particularly fantastic moments of sheer grr-ness. Particularly given the few outings we had to train as a set Eight, I'm excessively proud of the achievements of my crew. I say 'my crew' carefully, for one does often wonder whether one makes the blindest scrap of difference to anything going on in the boat. Congratulations to Leanne and Colleen in bow, keeping that boat rhythmic and sat - and providing endlessly entertaining contorted facial expressions; to Kim and Monika who have come on in leaps and bounds in a few short weeks to become seriously hard-core beasts; to Catherine and Miranda as our consistently mighty engine-room fighting for every stroke, and to Carrie and Ellie, our careful stern pair who have kept up a cracking rating resulting in some awesome racing. Finally to Helen and our 'lucky number ten', who has endured the hells of morning sickness and the Wrath of Jane, to stay calm and cool and keep our boat together. And thanks to everyone - special mentions to Russell and Bobby - who have listened to my rants with barely suppressed smiles and slightly raised eyebrows, kept me a version of sane, and ensured that all have lived to tell the tale. I have some awesome memories from the last few days, and I believe there are even photographs with me smiling in them to prove it. Good luck to everyone in their rowing futures, and when you're feeling as if you just can't go on: dig deep, and find that Beast Within.

On unveiled cruelty

As is fairly evident from the very existence of this blog, I complain about things. I can't see the point in patching things up, pretending they are wonderful, if they are fundamentally flawed. If something isn't cooked properly, what on earth is the point in eating the entire thing and only saying a few days later well, you know, it wasn't quite warm enough... If I have to queue for half an hour in a supermarket to pay for the sum total of three goods, I feel at liberty to point out the multiple errors that have led to this unnecessary delay. I've ranted about planes being late, people being self-pitying, probably somewhere I'll have mentioned in passing that the weather in this particular part of the globe isn't exactly ideal for, well, anything. Other than the umbrella industry, I suppose.
I feel compelled to make comments about the people around me; as far as I'm concerned, there is nothing wrong with sitting on a bench in a park and quietly berating all about me for a good hour. Remarking on their dress sense, their unnecessary lardiness, the manner in which they walk, the way they laugh, a particularly unfortunate haircut. Two key points: first, they never hear what I say, and second, given that I spend the majority of my existence in the same jeans and jumper, the comments are invariably to some degree describable as 'tongue in cheek'. My generalised statements about an entire group of people are just that - generalised statements, intended either for my personal amusement or to further some ridiculous argument I'll have gotten myself into.
If I've been unfortunate enough to get to know a person - in other words, I'm not making assumptions about them - then I feel justified in making remarks about said person's personality. Probably not directly to them, but rather to someone who has no connection whatsoever with that person so comments wont get back to them. If I dislike someone, I make a concerted effort to avoid them. I hate insipid remarks, fake smiles, false conversations as if I actually give a damn about their annoying life, and am fairly effective at getting the impression across to people that frankly, I just don't want to know them.
What I do NOT do is make a remark about somebody's personality that is for one, unfounded and for two, is regarding somebody I do not know. I'm not so sure why I'm so incensed by the accusation that has been laid at my door this evening - I know it came from somebody who knows the sum total of bugger all about me, and that anybody who DOES know me would never make such a remark. Am fuming.
On a totally different note, heard a completely stupid thing on the radio today: top 21 ways for a guy to make a woman fall in love with him. (On that sentence alone, I could write an entire thesis). One of these which the presenter regarded as particularly romantic was, 'kiss her in the middle of a sentence.' Excuse me? What, ignore what I'm saying and give me a smacker on the lips? Suicidal move, I'd say. 'Give her flowers for no good reason'. Men need to be told this? Still? 'Tell her how much you love her all the time, every day'. Er - no. The concept of 'broken record' springs to mind. I have my 'top 21 ways' summed up in a single remark, that is written on a mug sitting at my desk. My brother gave it to me at Christmas a few years ago, chose a particularly apt quote for me.
“Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.”

Absence makes the heart grow fonder -

or so somebody once said. My absence from blogging duties has been duly noted by enough people to force me back online. It is half past midnight and I'm alternating between checking the election results - I care that much I didn't quite get around to voting... - and making use of my latest distraction: online sudoku. Possibly the latest convert in the country to this dastardly game, I've sped through the 'easy' and 'medium' levels, am conquering 'hard' and fully intend mastering 'evil' before the weekend is out. I'm sure my tutor will regard this as a worthy pastime, and a valid excuse for distinct absence of essay on Monday morning.
It isn't that there has been a lack of rant-worthy subjects of late - goodness me, no. I just had a few weeks with no internet access, and the space between me and my blog grew... We quarrelled briefly on the subjects of Art, Style and Purpose, but Blog has finally submitted and agreed that it cannot control the contents I hurl toward it. I will therefore go out of my way to make this a particularly disjointed post, before settling back into more Rhythmic Ranting in the next couple of days.
Firstly, a brief query about the purpose of self-service checkouts. I have had the misfortune to use a few of these recently; shops seem to have installed them with the sole idea of aggravating their customers. The CONCEPT is marvellous - no talking to some cretinous dolled up check-out bird (me? stereotype? never) and discussing the weather, clubcards, and my ability to pack bags alone. I can sidle up to a machine that means I can have the fun of swiping barcodes and producing the Beep - but that Beep is all too often followed by an error message. 'Illegal Product In Bag, Please Remove', or similarly dramatic terms for a pint of milk. Buying loose fruit/veg is something of a nightmare, as one has to go through a selection process and in some instances bother to count the number of items. Does this really save time? And heaven forbid you make use of the 'cashback' option: the machine can't quite cope with that, so a human is dragged in from the depths of the Poultry Section or wherever they were, and wearily operates as a cashback machine for you, the heavy sighs implying you forced them away from something Really Interesting because you were Too Lazy to Queue Like Everybody Else.
God, I hate those blasted machines.
Second point. As readers should know, if they have studied each post carefully (I look forwards to the day somebody chooses 'rantingjane' as their specialised subject on MasterMind), I am a member of Linacre College, Oxford. As with all colleges, Linacre has their own library facility, complete with array of suitably slow computers that function as and when they choose with total disregard to deadlines. Connected to one is a scanner, and a couple of weeks ago a friend of mine had reason to use said scanner. Now, scanners are funny things - for some reason, they save the last image that was, well, scanned. I could well make a few snide comments there about the potential to catch a few people out scanning things they shouldn't, but I'm actually rather miffed right now. Someone has used that scanner to presumably copy print-outs of two of my photos that were posted on this blog months ago. Why anyone would print out and then copy said pictures is beyond me, but there you have it. I don't particularly want to imagine what said images are currently being used for... I appreciate that I loaded them onto my blog and therefore they have become available to the world At Large (or at least the part connected to the internet in general, and RantingJane in particular).
I'm working on the assumption that whoever it is responsible for this action is a reader of my blog. In which case: make note of the point that I'm fairly certain that a certain I.T. bod in college would be able to work out who was responsible for the action, were I to ask them. And I could make everything rather embarrassing for that somebody, were they tracked down. Just a thought...
On a considerably more positive note (from my view at least), Conservatives are currently up 50 Councillors, and Labour down 46. Awww... do people not trust Labour any more? None of those honest, upstanding citizens that are the remnants of the Front Bench? Shucks.

On Procrastination

I always like to observe in a detached sort of manner how I suddenly develop an extra ten or so interests whenever a deadline looms on the horizon. And while on the subject of deadlines, I wonder why I still bother creating 'my own deadline' because it is invariably totally flexible and it is impossible for me to stay within the boundaries.
If I've a deadline approaching, the number of trips to a supermarket in a week will quadruple - 'must find the best offers, save money' - and likewise, in a rather contrary position, my visits to the pub will increase as well. I justify not setting an alarm because otherwise I'm too tired to work effectively; it surely is better to get a Good Night's Sleep, wake up refreshed, bright eyed and bushy tailed. Never quite happens like that, because I then end up missing pretty much the entire morning (I have given up recently and decided that mornings just don't exist for anything other than a slow wake up process coupled with GMTV). By the time it gets to two in the afternoon, you've wasted so much of the day that plans are already being formulated to justify setting aside that Full Day Of Work until tomorrow. At about 9pm, assuming there is nothing watchable on television (and what is defined as Watchable becomes increasingly vague as deadlines approach), and there are no plans to pop to the pub, I manage to feel a twinge of guilt and launch into work head-on. Which means I end up being awake until about 2am with a growing feeling of panic, realising how much there is to be done and Dear God, why didn't I just do it three weeks ago. Firm plans are set in place to get up the next day and get on with it, but somehow when that alarm goes at 0730 you forget the enthusiasm of the night before, throw the stupid thing to the other side of the room, and slumber until around 11am. Oops.
You can always tell when I have a deadline because my room is close to immaculate. Books are neatly ordered, clothes folded, pens in the pen pot and not a speck of dust in sight. The justification for all this stems from the general idea that I can't work in a disordered mess and therefore the room MUST be tidy. Hmm. I'll also frequent the gym considerably more than usual - even better if I can get out on the river - with the theory being that I need to release those endorphins tucked away somewhere and then gain enthusiasm out of nowhere for my work.
Although maybe that is an inaccurate description... I am enthusiastic, I am genuinely interested. (So interested I've read every single book in the library, relevant and otherwise, remotely linked to my subject - one can never do enough research, right?). I object to having to form my ideas into a ten thousand word extravaganza that will be scrutinized and analysed and subjected to the glares of superiors making derisory comments. It doesn't actually take that long when I get going, am fortunately a ludicrously fast typist and I never start writing until I know exactly what is going in that essay, its just the thought of crouching over a computer for ten hours or so that really puts me off. Suddenly, the world becomes an endlessly fascinating place that I can't bear to be away from.
And on that note, I'm going to pop by the Botanic Gardens on the way to the library. See how the plants are getting on now that Spring is, well, springing. The librarian is hunting down an article that I've convinced myself I Really Need and it is entirely because I haven't read said article that I can't start work on the essay. Think my nails also need to be clipped, my duvet changing, my teeth flossed and my room hoovered. All much more important, in the grand scheme of things, than actually settling down to work.

A few positives...

It has been suggested that perhaps I set up an alternative blog to list all the positive aspects of this wonderful world of ours. I considered the possibility briefly, before realising that all said aspects can probably be incorporated into a single posting. I'll try and pinpoint a few of them and see how it develops - who knows, maybe this post will be the pathway toward becoming an optimist.

Beaches. Actually, this isn't technically true. I like the idea of beaches - I spend hours imagining a suitably tropical paradise to escape to, ideally complete with monkey and palm tree. In reality, though, sand gets right on my nerves, and I cannot bear the feel of sand between my toes. I'm much more of a 'lie on a convenient rock' sort of person, although there is of course the issue of grinding my bones on that. Hm. Maybe I don't like beaches after all.

Ice-Cream. Now, surely, I can't find fault with the likes of Mr Ben and Mr Jerry, a fantastic duo who have accompanied myself and millions of other women on those inevitable tear-filled nights. The problem is, of course, it is very easy to enter into that dangerous cycle: eat ice-cream to feel better, then realise the vast quantity of calories consumed. Therefore feel miserable, and lo and behold, head back to the freezer department. Ice-cream is really only suitable as a reward for, say, running a marathon - those poor calories need replacing ASAP. Unfortunately however, I can't say as I ever run for the bus, let alone slog away for twenty-six miles. Hm.

Family Photographs. I do enjoy a good few hour session going through photographs - the ones of you and your siblings looking really rather daft, and your parents with outrageous hairstyles. (In the case of my mother, winged glasses are a prominent feature in many snaps. Most unsettling). Being child number three, there are considerably fewer photos of me than of my brother and sister - the novelty of 'cute child in funny hat', or, 'first time waddling' photos had somewhat evaporated by the time I appeared on the scene. Which does no end of damage to one's ego, realising you are the Less Interesting and Non Innovative Number Three. Sigh.

Massages. These are lined up neatly alongside beaches, I'm thinking. Something I dream about for hours but when it comes down to it, really can't stand them. First massage experience was in Jamaica: legs riddled with mosquito bites and the damn woman insisted on rubbing in some substance that burned pretty damn painfully. Risked a second attempt in Goa a few months back: thought I was getting a bargain, about five pounds for one and a half hours of personal attention. Not only do I dislike being forced to strip and then rubbed down by some random woman, but she also came close to permanently removing my kneecaps.

Complaining (specifically, on my blog). Ach, I love it. It gives me immense please to know that on a daily basis I am offending people, being annoying, insulting and cutting, all combined with a smug, self-righteous and downright arrogant attitude. I think I've just concluded that everything I thought I liked is actually fraught with hidden mini-hells, and that the creation of a 'CheerfulJane' counterblog just wouldn't work. And on that note, I'll leave you and indulge in a few episodes of, 'Family Guy'. Stewie for President, I say.

Bright Young Thing

Felt somewhat like a veritable Bright Young Thing yesterday. The weather co-operated with plans and thus allowed a trip to London in a Porsche with the roof down (at least part of the way - practicalities won over in the end), and the day culminated in attendance at the Apollo Theatre to see Kathleen Turner and Bill Irwin in Albee's, 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?' An excellent performance which even included interval-entertainment: the surrounding A-level English Lit. students made various 'knowledgeable' remarks about the play, bland comments and a clear misconception of the Key Points. That four people can captivate the attention of hundreds for over three hours is really rather an achievement.

'Get a teenager while they still know everything.' Those kids last night certainly thought they knew everything. I felt like turning round and yelling at them to back away from English Lit., leave it on the shelf where it should be. Shakespeare and Chaucer will not take offence if we set them aside in preference for something such as, oh I don't know, physics. Anything. Anything with a PURPOSE to it. If they aren't careful, they'll wind up writing pointless 2500 word essays for the next three years (why 2500? why?), looking for links where there are no links, tapping out iambic rhythms with a pencil and finding it genuinely exciting when a line of a poem breaks with that rhythm. And if that English Lit. student isn't damn careful, they'll wind up reading something even more pointless for a Masters - maybe even Women's Studies if they're particularly unlucky. They'll drop over ten grand on a nine month course from hell that barely makes them more employable and leads to a significant decrease in sanity.

Which all means that taking a break occasionally and launching into that illusion of being a Bright Young Thing is essential for survival. I will of course continue to make disparaging comments about people who go armed with picnic blanket and bottle of champagne to punt haphazardly up the river and all that sort of Cliched Behaviour - but, I'm going to carry on being a part of it all. If I'm going to be in debt, I may as well enjoy the process...

Ah, Vanity

I just saw something hilarious on television that I have to share with you. A woman was quite literally ironing her hair - pulling up a section from her head, towel on one side, iron on the other. To check the final effect, she glanced into the reflective iron base.
Maybe that whole scenario is 'normal' for some of you, but it has to be one of the more ludicrously daft moves in the pursuit of beauty that I've seen in quite some time. I find it generally rather insane that everyone with straight hair wants curls, and everyone with curly hair wants it straight - and to that end, they will utilise a variety of curling tongs, straighteners and God knows what else, a lethal array of instruments. Eyelash curlers look like some modern kind of thumb screw, many women - painfully, I'll add - pluck their eyebrows into almost non existence. I would say that most women in Britain spend over two hours a week applying, removing and perfecting nail polish, and that doesn't include the idle use of emery boards to achieve the preferred shape of nail.
I have one Luxury Item for my body in my entire room, and that is my recently acquired Body Butter. Wow, that stuff is fantastic. Don't generally like wandering around smelling like a fruit basket but will give in for the silky smooth feeling on my legs, mm mmm.
So the average female on a night out ends up spending a good half hour curling/straightening her hair (this assuming that emergency 'highlights' don't have to be put in place); another half hour transforming her face into a mask of heavy black curled lashes, pouting red lips, maidenly blushing cheeks and eyebrows firmly plucked into position (sometimes so much so that they actually have to be redrawn). The shortest skirt is then drawn on over waxed and lubricated legs, the tightest top squeezed into, carefully buffed feet are crammed into tight, impractical heeled hell, and standing in front of the full length mirror the female can breathe a sigh of satisfaction. Or she could do, if she weren't sucking her stomach in while busy practicing her husky voice and come-hither looks.
The fact that said female will then proceed to get blind drunk, remove shoes on the giggling walk home, mascara probably run ever so slightly after that quick weep in the bathroom with the other girls over some guy or other, and thus be transformed from 'beauty' (disputable anyway) to dishevelled mess is of course totally irrelevant. The fact that no guys will value her above the status of Tart will not deter the evening's proceedings. For a brief moment, she will have looked her terrifying version of Fabulous and that is, apparently, enough.
I may look something of a mess half the time, what with my loose jeans, inevitable black polo-neck and sensible shoes, but at least I'm a safe option. My lack of make-up means that I can't be transformed from fairy to fright overnight, and because I don't spend time ironing my hair I will probably at least be on time for any meeting I arrange.
While I'm making snide comments about other women, I want to throw this in too. Watched some of the Commonwealth Games diving this morning - the men had fantastic bodies, 'chiselled' is the word that springs to mind. Muscle bursting out of every limb. Some of the women - 'athletes' - had cellulite. I jest not. What hope is there for the rest of us if they can't avoid the doom of the dimples?? Oh dear.

Furious with fake illness

It is inevitable with some of my rants that I tread on a few peoples' toes, but this one is definitely going to leave some of you fuming. Excellent.
I'm here to complain about the proliferation of mental illnesses. Let's take ADHD first - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Dear Lord, just look at those terms all clumped together... its incredible, isn't it, how many more kids have been diagnosed since this illness has been 'discovered'? It essentially boils down to bad parenting, and that is frankly the end of the matter. Kid is brat, parent can't cope any longer, parent goes to doctor, doctor says, 'oh, looks like another case of ADHD to me' and throws ritalin at the child. Ritalin is a controlled drug, which basically means parents with children taking it are given grants from the government to assist in 'care'. Additionally, if that child needs the ritalin during school hours it is a nightmare having to go to certain people to dispense it appropriately. Parents are willing to have their ghastly children dosed up to the eyeballs for a bit of peace and a few quid a week.
Next on the agenda: bi-polar disorder/manic depression. I feel qualified to speak on this subject for a number of reasons, the first being that I used to know a guy who suffered from depression and it was real, very real. I've been to the Bipolar Organisation website this morning and from what I can work out, I suffer. I mean, heck, I have mood swings like nobody's business, and strangely enough they seem to come at particularly stressful times in my life... What, you think, dear Reader, that you may have it too? Funny that, eh. I think its called 'being human'. (Read the first chapter of 'Three Men in a Boat', the narrator is disappointed to find out the only ailment he doesn't suffer from is Housemaid's Knee). Guess what - if I amble along to a psychiatrist and say sheesh, check me out, I go mental sometimes and I can't control it, he'll potentially whack me onto a load of drugs and just for kicks I'll get money from the government to support me.
Next up: 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time'. Or whatever the hell it is called. If one more person tells me that, 'as a psychologist, I found it fascinating, a very real impression of what it is like to have Asperger's Syndrome', I will actually kill them. (And thus demonstrate my bi-polar tendencies in the meantime, apparently. Bonus). The only way this book can be described is in terms that I don't wish to go into on my blog, but it is appalling, degrading, and frankly inaccurate. Asperger's, for those not in the know, is essentially low-grade Autism. Sufferers are, for example, unable to judge social situations well and have difficulty reacting to people and their feelings. Heck, it seems I have Aspergers as well. More money for the Ranter.

I wonder how much money is poured out to these 'sufferers' on an annual basis? And in addition, how much in benefits is granted to those who are obese, those who can't work because they're smoked for years and now have no lungs to speak of, those who've drunk themselves half to death and are being kept alive by an expensive concoction of surgery, drugs and rehabilitation. Just think, if all that money were taken and put aside - and heck, we have to be talking millions if not billions here - we could use it for something useful. Hell, a cure for cancer maybe. More research into Alzheimers. Illnesses that are genuine and painfully real. I am sick to death of people who complain about their 'hard life dealing with depression' when they don't know the meaning of either the word 'depression' or the concept of 'hard life'. I recommend they move their self-pitying asses into a cancer ward. Go to a radiotherapy department. Self-pity doesn't bloody come into it. For all I care, you can go take your twenty-first century mental health problem and jump because all it amounts to is you feeling that you haven't had a fair deal. Life isn't fair. Life sucks. People who have worked their entire lives for the benefit of others are informed that their retirement gift is a nice dose of cancer; babies are born horrendously deformed; a young mother can be killed in a freak accident. Let's make it topical and think about those poor sods currently fighting for their lives after helping out with a medical drug trial.

Take responsibility for yourselves and be damn glad that you can. Enough said.

On Being Decidedly Fed Up

Well, this is my blog and I can put what I like on it. You don't have to read it.
You aren't obliged to read about how I currently hate pay-as-you-go phones almost as much as I hate contract phones, in that I've been trying to top up the stupid thing by their fancy automatic method for the past twentyfour hours and the damn service is 'currently unavailable'. I thought technology was meant to make my life easier, not raise my blood pressure through the roof.
Neither do you have to read about my inevitable work struggles, that backlog created through a subtle combination of initial idleness and eventual illness. I say idle, I don't see what is wrong with having a few days off here and there - how was I supposed to know stomach bug from hell would strike and force me to lie quivering in my bed for days, the lack of food and water leading to a brain that functions only to say, 'stomach hurts, don't eat, I'm no longer interested in Ovid and his relation to eighteenth century women poets'.
I guess you don't have to know that I'm back in the throes of one of my, dear God, what am I going to do when I graduate, depressive states. What is the point in it all? You either do something remotely worthwhile in which case you get paid either nothing or as close to nothing as government rules allow, or you sell your soul and work for some giant corporation that is hardly necessary to the continuation of health, humanity or the globe in general but has managed to convince a good portion of the world's population that its continued existence is essential. What was the argument I was having yesterday? Oh yes, the EU. Isn't it such a marvellous creation - thanks to the EU, I could go work in France or Germany with no problems at all. Brilliant. The fact that a few hundred years ago I could go work and travel wherever I bloody well wanted and didn't need the nod of some huge umbrella organisation to do so is of course irrelevant. The EU is merely functioning to bring the world back to what it used to be - but being part of this globalised hell in which we all have to live, it'll never work. Not fully.

Here's the issue. I CAN'T work for any of those organisations - the ones that actually pay remotely decent wages - even if I wanted to. Not only because I have acknowledged all the lies and its ultimately fake construction, but because of the environment. I can't get up at 6am every day and squeeze myself into the confines of a suit, ram myself into a packed tube train and get hurtled across London via the odd bomb or two into a nice and modern chrome-with-glass office. To sit around and push paper and pretend it means anything to anyone. To have to work myself half to death because that is what other idiots are prepared to do and why the hell should they get promoted if I'm not. It would kill me doing all that. Or if not me, any element of me that feels remotely alive.

Yes, today is just going to be one of those days. Marvellous.

On dreaming of a foreign land

Once more, I regret to inform those readers tuned in for a good old-fashioned Jane-style uber-rant that they will be disappointed. I am in a prodigiously fine mood and can't see it changing in the course of creating this post.
A few years ago, I spent three weeks wandering around Italy armed with a backpack and a distressingly short and annoying school companion. I'm not entirely sure what she was doing there, how she came to accompany me, but I do know that ever since this hellish experience I refused to ever travel with anyone again. I was suddenly responsible not only for myself but for an apparently wholly incompetent defenceless little girl, who accepted the advances of amorous elderly Italians with open arms. My sojourn in beautiful Italy suddenly combined the intended role of impressionable young tourist with those of protector, translator and picker-up-of-pieces. One heavenly day I finally had a break when I escaped to the island of Capri. I sat in the bow of a wooden rowing boat, armed with an Australian, a large quantity of grapes and a carafe of wine, and was rowed slowly and steadily towards the Grotta Azzurra. You enter the grotto from the sea via a low archway, that leads you into what is frankly the most beautiful place I have ever encountered to date. Our boatman was a particularly good sport, as he rowed us to the shadows towards the back of the grotto and - when there was a gap in the influx of other tourists - signalled for us to dive in. Everything turns to silver as soon as it touches the water, and there was I, fully-clothed, in paradise.
There is a point to my sauntering down memory lane. I've been fixated on the idea of returning ever since, and finally could have an opportunity on my birthday this year. Hopefully this time I'll get to actually stay on the island, a few days of escapism in the middle of dissertation production. If anybody has any great ideas on how I can actually live there for eternity, please inform me in the immediate future. I'll be sure to make it worth your while...

Oxford - heaven or hell?

I've been asked by a fellow, suffering Oxfordonian to express a few views on those negative aspects of Oxford that nobody really gets to know about until a few months too late (i.e. you're installed on course, signed away even your distant relation's bank accounts, and have finally worked out after many traumatic trying-on sessions how the damn gown is meant to be worn). If, dear reader, you do not frequent Oxford University then banish whatever myths you have heard about the place...

Everyone knows that Oxford represents academic excellence - which simultaneously means, academic hell. You may be the bright spark in your school, but the first conversation you have here is guaranteed to be with someone streets ahead of you intelligence wise, and you'll spend the subsequent few years battling to break into the middle of the pack. At the end of the year, you'll be shuffled into an exam hall with the other poor sods on your course and given three hour tests. Just to make the experience unique, Oxford requires that you wear full sub fusc - guys, yes, you will be sitting exams in a bow tie. In addition to trying to learn a few thousand (useless) facts, you'll be forced to devote a good portion of your precious time to learning how to tie the damn thing correctly to avoid additional exam-morning-stress.

If you do really well in the exams, perhaps you'll think of studying for a Phd. Correction: at Oxford, you will work towards a DPhil. There is no logic behind this slight tweaking of the issue other than Oxford likes to be Different For No Good Reason. Considering the laboratory facilities are archaic in comparison to what is on offer at other schools, and in many instances the lecture halls and accommodation are just plain impractical, being Different For No Good Reason is maintained by Oxford in order to ensure elite status of the university.

Oxford these days is even complete with groupies - or rather, anti-groupies. The Animal Liberation Front (think that is what ALF stands for) provides background noise for all in geography/zoology/biology lectures, a bunch of die-hard protestors who have achieved absolutely nothing other than quadrupling the cost of building a new lab. I too am against futile animal testing, but please, anyone who threatens me - a Women's Studies student who wouldn't be able to jab a needle into anything that was going to squeak back at me - well, they kind of annoy me.

At Oxford you are given three days to write an essay, and the end product is peeled apart word by word until you realise that only four of the three thousand words were in the right place and meant something. You are granted a place here on the basis that you are intelligent enough to be here, and the rest of your time will be spent listening to tutors who are intent on proving that you are worthless. You pay an extra two thousand odd pounds a year on top of tuition fees to be a member of a college, which gives you no extra priveleges whatsoever and means nothing to anybody outside the institute. You attempt to retreat into your chosen sport for a 'break from work' and find yourself in bi-weekly competition with other colleges, and those without a cut-throat attitude to winning will not make the team. You are poked and prodded and directed and, unless you're careful, left a mere shadow of your former self. The likes of Charles and Sebastian do not reside in Oxford - much as I like to see the ivy in the botanic gardens, there is the constant nagging thought I should be doing something Useful. Being surrounded by so much success, it is hard to avoid getting dragged into the challenge.

Up until now, I've been successful in avoiding certain aspects of Oxford. I haven't taken to drinking gallons of coffee so I can squeeze in an extra few hours work, I don't sprint towards the library at the end of a tutorial to get the books required for the following week before any of my fellow students can pantingly arrive in my glorious wake. And, for the sake of my sanity, I intend to keep it this way: drifting along on the fringes, nobody entirely sure if I'm a genius or a complete dunce. I'll take Oxford for what it is: a feature on my CV. A game I played for a year. I've had some unforgettable and unique experiences here, don't get me wrong, and I'm suitably grateful for the opportunity to be part of the academic glory.

But dear God, I can't wait to get the hell away from here.

On solving the economic crisis

I set someone the task yesterday of giving me a topic to rant about - 'baths versus showers' was the outcome of that conversation, and I tried valiantly to feel passionately about either but frankly failed. So I'm sorry, this is going to be on something totally different.

We are constantly informed in various television programmes that death is nigh for the majority of us. 'You are what you eat' exists to find clinically obese people to slim down with a diet of ghastly looking vegetable juices and nut roasts, while, 'Celebrity Fit Club' (can never remember if is 'Fit' or 'Fat' in there) rounds up a host of blubbery minor celebs to be put through an 'arduous' training regime to make them lose weight practically before our eyes. While I'm mentioning this programme, can I also mention the ridiculous nature of it: someone who is over twenty stone being set the task of losing three pounds in a week, it isn't exactly much to ask is it. (Another total aside: on 'You are what you eat' recently, a guy lost four stone in eight weeks. That equates to an average of seven pounds a week. If he'd been on 'Celebrity Fit Club' he'd have been told off for losing weight too fast. Huh). A recent episode of the Celebrity Blubber Fest saw one man being informed that he was so overweight, so lacking in nutrients, that the presenter's computer programme had worked out he was actually dead. Which goes to show a few things, including that those packages are totally pointless.

Anyway, this is my point. Every day on the news there is some ghastly story about the increasing rates of, oh I don't know, lesser-spotted cancer of the ear lobe, and how we should all be watching out for it. And yet today, the BBC reliably informs me that a recent study suggests we're all living so long that by the year 2050 retirement age will have to be set at 85years of age.

Yes - that's right. Take a step back and read it again. Your average university graduate (and since by 2050 the government will have worked it so that EVERYONE goes to university) will be working for 64 years. They'll then have two days to look heavenwards, say, phew! I need a rest after that - and promptly get whisked off to a Higher Place. (Anyone who doesn't get rewarded by going to Heaven after working that long, it seems to me the system is a bit screwed).

This is ridiculous. On the one hand, it is apparently a minor miracle any of us make it past forty, and on the other hand we're being punished for living too long. Someone is getting their facts mixed up...

I'd also like to point out a few further problems with people working until they are 85. For one, I would say the majority of new mothers rely on their own parents to help look after the newborn whippersnapper. This wont be possible under legislation to have both mother and grandmother slogging away full-time. Family bonds will break down even further as a result, and nobody will have any time to see the child. We'll breed a new generation of socially inept individuals (and men who will constantly be on the look-out for a 'mother figure' in their girlfriend. That just isn't healthy).

Another issue with this: you'll have a few 95year olds in residential care homes, being looked after by a gang of hip-replaced, incontinent workers who themselves need an afternoon nap just to get through the day.

Here is my solution to the problem. Get rid of all these 'labour-saving devices' that exist in all shops, factories and businesses these days - get everyone employed again. Those that genuinely can't work can of course get benefits, and once you hit 65, as is now, your pension starts popping through the door. If you want to carry on working, by all means go ahead - and no discrimination. This will all have a few effects: one, all those lazy sods who never intend getting a job but prefer to live off the government - well they wont be able to do that anymore and they wont be able to use the excuse there 'are no jobs'. (Maybe, just maybe, there will be an element of 'pride' and 'self respect' creeping back into the country as well). Two, everything will slow down a wee bit, this is true - but that is a good thing. (Refer to post of a few days ago where I asked, 'where did the time go to just stop and smell the flowers?'). Three, with everyone working and everyone paying some portion of tax, the government will have an awful lot of spare money kicking around. This can go towards a few useful things such as, heck, pensions for those over 65. Who on earth wants to spend their entire life on a treadmill?