Benefit fraud

Received a letter from the TV licensing authority this morning, informing me that if I didn't contact them in the next two weeks to buy a TV license, I'd be taken to court. Er - excuse me?? Called the toll free number, that is not toll free from my phone here as the university has us on some stupid system or other, and spoke to some suitably stupid sounding cretin who supposedly sorted the problem out. The outcome is this: I will not be hassled for the next three months, and after that period an Officer will visit the premises to ensure I don't have a TV and then - having confirmed this - they'll leave me alone for a year.
Just out of curiosity, how much money is it costing them (and therefore, the taxpayer) to check I don't have a television? Why can't these blasted companies put all their resources into finding the real Fraudsters in this country? Easily done: drive around any of our council estates, and the houses with satellite TV and a car parked outside are probably cheating the benefit system. Although saying that, the amount of income support people receive in this country is now so high that maybe the presence of sat.dish and car wouldn't prove anything: they should be looking out for people with dubiously good suntans and sporting a Rolex and maybe then they'll find someone cheating the system.
Half of the people in the UK have lost any concept of pride these days. They say they get a better deal living off the state than if they were working - but personally, I'd rather work in a factory and at least earn my own wage than just take handouts from the government. Am I right in thinking that in the USA people can only claim for six months when 'out of work' then they're on their own? Seems to me that needs to be done in the UK for a while, get some people out there into the real world.
Check out the picture: kids of four years old 'working'. No, I don't agree with that at all, but I can assure you they're a darn sight nicer than the brats my country seems intent on producing these days. And you actually want to help them, rather than throw them into nearest available canal after beating them soundly with one of their multiple playstations.

Back to reality with a bump

As I tuck into my cut price milk chocolate santa tree decorations, I am decidedly disgruntled. While in Goa, I succeeded in frying my mobile phone battery - correction, an idiot of a Welshman did this for me with some blasted gadget or other that he said would do the trick. Ambled into Oxford centre this morning and after fighting my way through the bargain hunters (and what a ghastly breed of people they really are) managed to speak to an offensively ugly sales person in Dixons. Who informed me a replacement battery would be around GBP60, and that was if they could get hold of it, which they can't. As apparently my phone was only made for a brief period and discontinued. He essentially also pointed out that most people who own mobiles aren't stupid enough to fry the battery in the first place... and then tried to sell me a replacement handset for nearly GBP200. It may be Christmas time but I'm not a total sucker.
In effort to make the trip into town not entirely wasted, I poked my head into Waterstones (bookstore) who ostensibly had a Huge Sale taking place, but personally I don't want Jamie Oliver's cookbooks at any price. Nor a guide to Restoring Antiques, fascinating though I'm sure it was. (Aside: my milk chocolate santas are faceless. Disturbing. Or is it more disturbing that I'm concerned by the lack of face on a chocolate tree decoration? Oh, I don't know).
Well, the upshot of all that is: you can't contact me by phone. I haven't checked my messages in nearly three weeks so if you've texted and are offended by lack of response, there is my reason. If you want my landline number then email me and I'll send it you. Bear in mind that I have no way of getting anybody's mobile number either so I can't call even if I want. At least it gives me an excuse to be permanently online for the next few days. I'm now reminded of a great quote from Wilde that I'm going to paraphrase for my purposes: my huff has arrived and I'm departing in it.

A few quotes from Really Dumb People

I have ranted to some of you recently about my being permanently pursued by an amazingly stupid couple out here. Anyhow, I thought I would throw a few choice examples in your general direction as some of you don't entirely believe just how dumb people can be.
1. Him. 'So yeah, I wanna round up all the fookin' Muslims and put 'em all in one bloody big room and just, you know, shoot 'em. You know what I'm saying?'
Me. 'You don't think that is slightly...hmm... extreme?'
Him. 'No, for f**** sake, they like killed our white BROTHERS didnt they.'
Me. 'Um... yeah.' (Seriously, how can you argue with that??)

2. Her, reading out horoscopes from newspaper. 'This month, you will feel a lot of fatty goo.'
Me. 'Huh??'
Her. 'Fatty goo'.
Me. 'Let me see... er, you mean fatigue'.
Her. 'Oh... What's that?'
Dear Lord, if you exist, strike her down. I swear my seven year old niece knows the word 'fatigue', both in terms of spelling and meaning.

3. Him. 'Uh - I hate it when people have bad table manners. It really grosses me out like. You know what I mean?'
As he promptly spears an onion on his fork, rests elbow on table and proceeds to gnaw at said pickled vegetable.

I could go on but I want to shoot myself already at the thought of another two days in the immediate vicinity of this couple. What have I done to deserve this?

Anyway, all of you: Happy Christmas! Think of me hurtling across the world in a steel capsule, if you like, while munching into your fiftieth mince pie of the day. Hope you all have a lovely day (those of you who don't celebrate Christmas, just have a nice day in general. Eat too much and drink too much, good excuse to). And while I'm here, incase I forget, have a damn good new year as well.

Er - crikey

Was going to add a post just confirming to you readers out there that yes, I'm still doing NOTHING at all in Goa but ponce about on a beach most of the time. Was going to be lighthearted natter, with bit of a rant thrown in about couply-couples for good measure, but just saw my bank balance online and haven't the heart.
No, firmly fed up now. Will go and eat chocolate and mope.

Goa Gabble

(Well, you try coming up with a good and relevant adjective beginning with 'G').
Brief post (ignoring the German rant that should be following on from my series - will have to be postponed a while). Merely saying hola, I'm here. That would be Goa. Ostensibly India but fairly firmly agreed with everyone here that Goa is not even remotely representative of that country. Having spent a few days being ripped off in one poncy establishment, have moved down to a hut on the beach - my upturned palm tree comes complete with bathroom attached, which is rather a novelty considering the last place I was at had a bucket of water for a shower. (Which is GREAT if you've got some suitably nice guy handy to help you out...). Having a few mozzie issues but dealing with them with my mighty 100% DEET. (You people all concerned about the environment, don't bother starting to give me a lecture on the effects of DEET - personally my immediate concern rests with what the blasted environment is doing to me). Tan is not exactly doing what it should - have spent half the time quaking under a beach umbrella terrified of emerging incase I burn. However, have six days now until I am moving to a different beach with hardly any shade at all so am building up my resistance levels in that time. So far, no obvious burn patches to report... no obvious tan patches either, come to that. Huh. Grr.
Am slightly concerned by the fact I actually miss some of you guys. Am all for my Independent Travel but think I may actually have to glare at some of you next year and drag you off to a villa far away - okay, northern Spain would do it in the summertime. Greek island. Somewhere. Anywhere. Get those thinking caps on, chaps and chapesses!
No, the sun is NOT going to my brain... Dammit.
Off for dinner of some description. Could have a full english breakfast if I so desired - yeah, not exactly 'India' at all, is it.

Flirtatious French

I'll get over to the French in a minute, but first my excuses in advance for this posting. Let's just say that this morning I'm not firing on all cylinders - and having received a text at 0450 from my housemate informing me that he was still at large on the town, I dread to think what sort of state he is in. Praise be to extended drinking hours... Speaking of whom, much grr-ness going out to him, it is NOT amusing to kick large puddles of water over a girl repeatedly. Okay okay, I know I'm not exactly a 'girlie girl' and didn't have make-up or fancy hair-do to worry about, but even so. Chuh. Feel guilty. (And you can pay me back in drinks at some point). For the record, Reader, I'm nowhere near organised for India. Haven't entirely decided how I'll fit in all I have to unless shops stay open all night and I get no sleep. Hate being disorganised like this.

The Flirtatious French. I must admit my experiences of the French have been fairly positive. Obviously as an English lass, on principle I have to mock their garlic-eating, cheese-consuming, vino-guzzling habits. And also make regular jokes about the 'French Resistance', and something of a lack of it. How many Frenchmen does it take to defend Paris? They don't know, they've never tried...
But that aside, I like the French. Correction: I like French men. There are generally two species, and we had a representative of each in my Lancaster boatclub. There is the pale skinned, dark haired type - the one you imagine wearing a striped jersey cycling along with suitable quantities of onions and baguettes attached to the bike. He is the quieter, more subtly romantic type, the one who would have been in the Resistance and would die saying 'vive la France'. Then there is the other - taller, blonde, more Scandinavian in appearance I suppose. The one who over-exaggerates his French-ness because he knows his charm is irresistible. Many fond memories of just such a guy, who firmly retained his accent, drank wine in copious volumes, spent his summers sailing off Corsica, and charmed my socks off on regular occasions (and possibly a few other items of clothing as well).
The French seem to me to be an incredibly proud nation. And why not indeed - their capital city is surely one of the most genuinely romantic places in the world, they have beautiful mountains in the south, beaches, Cannes, croissants. For those of you have not eaten croissants as made in France, you have not eaten croissants. And going to 'La Brioche Doree' at the airport doesn't count as eating French food.
I've spent about a fortnight in Paris, and on pretty much every day there was a strike of some sort. France has more public holidays than any other country in the world (if anybody can really be bothered to count them all up and tell me I'm wrong - go for it. You clearly have no life and should not be reading my blog). The fact that France keeps on going is something of a mystery, given that at any one point a good half of the workforce are missing in action. I imagine that it would be a valid excuse to turn up to work and say, 'Monsieur, I am so sorry, but there was this charming lady - '. 'Say no more, say no more. I hope you had a beautiful time together.'
From what I understand, France is under invasion again. This time from those ghastly middle class Brits seeking desperately a 'second home' for no reason other than their kids have gone off to college and they don't know what to do with themselves. Rural France is now swarming with Brits, off to follow the footsteps of that Year in Provence. 'We will become bilingual, grow our own lavender, be beautiful and tanned'. Translation: we will speak French with a ghastly accent and believe that the smiles made in our direction are ones of encouragement, rather than the poor person trying to stop breaking out in laughter; growing lavender will become buying tonnes of that plant in dried form, and hanging it randomly from 'the quaint beams', and as for being beautiful and tanned... Lardy and lobster-like would be more apt. Much as the Brits would love to become French, we can't, and should accept this before we start.
France is a country of romance and mystery, of Sartre and de Beauvoir, the Moulin Rouge and Les Miserables. And - returning to my title - complete flirts. They know they're charming and beautiful and irresistible and play on this massively. Girls: watch out. You know you'll have a fantastic time, that your knees will melt when he kisses you, but the chances of him remaining faithful are nil. Accept that, and you're in for some fantastic 'va va voom'.

Arrogant Americans

Welcome to the first in a series of posts - starting off with Arrogant Americans, we'll glide gently into Flirtatious French, Jaded Germans, Sexy Spanish and Amorous Argentines. Ending on a high note with Boring Brits. I intend to be as controversial as possible, play on as many stereotypes as I can, and generally entertain myself. If you bother to take offence at any of my posts, er, I guess you don't know me so well... 'Tongue in cheek' is an apt description.

Arrogant Americans. It is a standard expression, and one I'm not entirely sure I go along with on all occasions. I mean, sure, they're distressingly loud and brash - sit in a coffee shop and if there is a single American in there, they will ensure that the entire place can hear their scintillating conversation. Being from arguably the most powerful nation in the world at present, principally because they go around building nuclear weapons while telling everybody else not to, some of the inhabitants do genuinely believe that saying, 'Hey, bud, I'm an American' will get them anywhere. America is a land that generates fads - some good, some just weird. The recent reintroduction of knitting as a 'cool hobby' mystifies me, and only a few months ago I remember reading about 'laughter therapy'. This has moved to London as well, and the basic principle is you go sit with a bunch of strangers and pay vast amounts to sit and laugh. At absolutely nothing - no Monty Python in the background or any encouragement. 'Laugh, dammit'. Huh. Weird.
The American Abroad was summed up beautifully by E M Forster in 'Room With a View', when a girl says to her father which city was Rome and he responds, 'Say, wasn't that the place where we saw the yellow dog?' Whereas some are swept away by history and artefacts - given that America has very little history of its own, having killed the natives who were busy creating it - others just don't have a clue.
Americans are a strange mix. They simultaneously love guns and power, attend rallies in their thousands to shout and chant (and be totally ignored by their President), and yet find me an American female who isn't obsessed with hair dye, nail polish, the latest Uber-Eyelash-Lift-Maxi from L'Oreal (or whatever it is that is in vogue at present). They repeatedly vote 'Everybody Loves Raymond' as a favourite show, and yet they are also responsible for 'The Simpsons'. While churning out ghastly Hollywood films, they have also been behind some of the most incredible writing of the last two centuries (Tennessee Williams springs immediately to mind).
They are enthusiastic about everything - tell am American they're going to spend the day, oh I don't know, learning how to cook a five course meal over a candle, and they will come from all over the land to attend such an event. Even a hint from their fine President that someone 'could attack at any moment' and they will take this to heart, stripping the shelves in local stores of torches, tinned food, bottled water, tape to put over their windows. Their basements - and how Americans love their basements - are permanently on stand-by as temporary home for when the (apparently inevitable) nuclear bomb lands.
One of the great things about Americans is their stupid, stupid pride. I tell you, there are many theories as to why America and Cuba aren't exactly on the best of terms. I say it is because the Americans are mighty cheesed off about the whole Bay of Pigs episode and would very much like the world to forget about it, and thus reject the existence of Cuba. Brilliant. Ignore a problem and yup, it really will go away.
Despite the fact Americans brought us MacDonalds, Coca Cola, a World League in a game that they themselves only compete in, some total lunatics (KKK and Bible Bashers for example), they did also bring us Ben and Jerrys. And for that, I can forgive them anything. God Bless America.

Schizophrenia explains it all...

Thank you BBC for providing me with a fantastic excuse for being a bit of a tart at times. (Was going to use the word 'awesome' in there but feel have massively over-used it of late, is due to being surrounded by Americans influencing my vocabulary with their appalling lower-middle class attempts at adjectives). Apparently, according to some research by the OU and Newcastle Uni, people who are 'artistic' generally have 'schizotypal traits' and this somehow leads them onto having more 'sexual partners' (aka, thump monkeys, in non technical terms). See? I have academics backing up my actions. In addition to this, people who have accused me of being mild-Aspergers (something low down on the autism scale) have further added to my strong arguments that I simply Can't Help It.
Do you think this defence would stand up in court? No, I didn't either.
I was going to lead this into a whole expose (e with an accent there) on the merits of sleeping with people, but am pulled up short - you'll be glad to hear - because I had an email the other day that reminded me of two people who read this blog and maybe, well, maybe I should stick with a more moral approach to life. (Hello J & G, I hope you don't take everything I say on here entirely literally and I haven't lowered myself in your minds).
Right - today is my day for Sorting Out India since I have done very little in that direction, down to I don't have anywhere to stay yet, no travel insurance, the batteries in my camera have died, and oh bugger, I haven't started taking anti-malarials and think I should today. Or is it tomorrow. Doh. I did arm myself with vast quantities of sun lotion of various factors in Sainsbury's yesterday (really feel that when you spend over £20 on such a substance it should come complete with Free Man to rub it into your back), and for safety's sake endless packets of diareeze for the inevitable Delhi Belly. (I say 'inevitable', since I don't eat curry and am ludicrously careful when I travel I think, fingers crossed, I should be okay). Despite increased lardiness, the bikini does still fit, and I managed to squeeze into my shorts the other day for when I'm in the tourist areas. Which I get the feeling could be a large portion of the trip as I really do need a beach, palm, monkey and book and not much else.
Somehow made it to nearly midday and I've achieved nothing. Right - off out to be Efficient and Organised. Despite my schizophrenic, Aspergers, personality. Ha.

Getting fed up with being cold...

As most of you are fully aware, I just don't 'do' cold. Terrible things happen to my body. At the moment, for example, I have the Annual Zit Convention taking place on my chin, and the blighters clearly have a lot to discuss this year as they're settling in for the long run by the looks of things. Additionally - and totally illogically - when it is cold my body gets mighty confused by everything and takes it upon itself to sweat gallons. Put me in a hot climate and I'm fine, into a cold room and suddenly GUSH, leaking all over the place. As with many others, I am forced on a daily basis to wear a hat, something I put off until the last possible moment because my already ghastly hair becomes somehow ghastlier when it has been concealed by a warm fleecy number for anything over thirty seconds. My face becomes white and pinched, my nose alternates between streaming or Rudolf-impersonating, and as a final defence invites a load of spots to come visit in an effort to, I don't know, provide padding and get warm or something.
In addition this year, I have the joy of having to deal with a bike. Gloved hands are not nimble enough to get the numbers of my bike lock code into the correct order, and therefore I start my day off (frequently at 6:30am) with a nice bout of frostbite-inducing metal-touching. This whole process is repeated every time I leave my bike somewhere, and thus I am caught between walking to avoid the bike-related nastiness, or cycling to avoid the walking-related nastiness. Neither exactly gets the whole body warm. Could really do with being able to row to lectures - now that gets every muscle group going.
I hate being cold (especially in this country, there is remarkably little point when snow is a freak occurence and generally it is cold for no reason at all), I look terrible when it is cold, and I hate having to make the decision between being warm and wearing ten jumpers in true Michelin Man style, or being cold but remotely fashion-conscious. As fashion-conscious as I get. I am a person designed for warmer climes, ideally a place that magically turns cold on the rare occasions when I want it to - you know, snuggling up by the fire with somebody (in actual fact have never DONE this, just always rather fancied the idea), playing a nicely flirtatious game of snow balling (have done that and honestly can't recommend as ended up in casualty with the other party, him having slipped and almost broken his wrist), y'know, couply wintery stuff.
No, warm places are the way forwards. That way as well you get to avoid any nasty surprises when you leap eagerly into bed with someone - I mean, a pair of speedoes doesn't exactly leave much to the imagination and you have advance warning of what are actually very narrow shoulders cunningly disguised by clothing, or such nasties as the Hairy Back.
Right - I'm off to hand wash all my jumpers. Since the only warm jumpers are woollen ones, which obviously can't go in the washing machine. Another stupid thing about this blasted time of year. GRRR.
Oh - quickly though. My brief bonus of recent days. I drove an E-Type Jag. V12 engine. Yuh huh, I did too. Think I have possibly found an activity that supercedes sex - or at least bad sex. Driving an absolute BEAST of a car. (Yes Andy, maybe you're right, sex in the back of an E-type could in fact be the ultimate experience. If somewhat uncomfortable).

Developing morals...

Right - I am frustrating even myself here. This is a combined rant of 'morals' and 'singledom', and distressingly the two are finally coming together for me. If you scroll back a few months, I remember writing a post with the pros of singledom, and this definitely included the option to randomly sleep with guys on odd occasions. Which is satisfying on a number of levels, including the fact that I could easily go beyond my standard 'physical level' as it were and ended up with some particularly delectable individuals.
Okay, just had a ten minute break to amble down memory lane. Where was my point going... Oh yes, I used to have it made. I lived on my own in the middle of nowhere, thus it was very easy to have 'gentleman callers' and nobody had to be any the wiser on university campus the next day, plus I was used to living by myself, being by myself, and was absolutely fine with that. I am now living in a shared house which means that nobody can call (let alone anything else) without somebody noticing, and also I've gotten used to having people around. I now generally loathe weekends as half the people I know in Oxford go careering off in the direction of their respective partners and leave me to twiddle my thumbs or spend time with one of the very few single people I know here. And their numbers are dwindling rapidly as more and more are finding 'other halves'...
This has a point. It definitely had a point. Oh yes. I was quite willing to settle back into a lifestyle of debauchery (housemates and their comments aside) when I came to Oxford but have found from somewhere, God knows where, morals. They are messing with my life. This weekend I was forced to tell someone not to visit on the basis that they like me too much for 'casual sex'. Do you have any idea how frustrating this is?? It ultimately means I'm on the lookout for something more than that - and yet, simultaneously, I don't think I'm ready for 'more than that'. I am actually destined to be single and henceforth celibate. (Oy - some of you, stop laughing). In two weeks time I have the ultimate test of how strong my new found morals really are: I'll be hitting the tourist trail in India and everyone knows what some of the huge perks are of international travel...
So all of you get your fingers crossed that soon I either find a guy to genuinely sweep me off my feet (much as I disapprove of such dramatic gestures) , or I get over my moral-goodness. I'm starting to annoy myself with half the prudish comments I come out with these days. Sigh.

Neruda

Indeed - Neruda. I thought I'd educate some of you out there. Pablo Neruda, amongst multiple other things a fairly awesome poet from Chile. Have spent the evening cheerfully immersing myself in a deepening depression by reading through some of poems of the most undiluted misery that I know. Anyway, I thought I'd put one on here - which is ultimately, well okay you decide what it is. But whichever way you view it, unless you are a peculiarly soul-less individual, you must surely view it as a beautiful work of art. I apologise for those of you who read Spanish and are offended by the poor English translation...

Tonight I Can Write by Pablo Neruda, translated by W.S. Merwin

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starryand the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her.
To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.This is all.
In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's.
As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body.
Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Why I curse the radical feminists...

For those of you lucky enough not to be in the know, the radical feminists were those bra-burning enthusiasts of the 1960s/70s who 'liberated' women from the role of house-wife and home-maker. I say, blast them. I could be living it up at the moment, married to some fool of a guy who charges out of the house at the crack of dawn and doesn't return until late in the evening, working his socks off so that I and our inevitable sprog have somewhere to inhabit. What were those feminists thinking - we women had it sorted. Okay, so every now and then there was the odd plate to wash, but we now have the wonderful invention of the dishwasher. And the huge bonus feature is that you don't even have to see the guy most of the time - he's too busy out and feeling important and 'manly' earning a decent wage. The joy of the fling with the milkman is lost forever as single women frankly don't have time for such delightful indecencies. They are too busy balancing work and social life and child care and household chores.
Whereas loads of women were suddenly up in arms, declaring that we wanted the same rights, I say they were the fools. 'Patriarchal society' indeed. Women had it MADE, and the guys didn't even seem to question it. We could sit around all day reading and 'bettering ourselves' by learning to play the piano, perhaps doing a spot of needlework, taking a gentle stroll about the garden and upon returning to our easy chair by the hearth arrange the flowers we found there. Constructing a cake - although not exactly my forte - is hardly classifiable as a tough day's work.
No, now I'm expected to work. To have a career. To be terrifyingly independent to the point where I either terrify all guys who daren't speak to me lest they anger me, or to the point where I refuse to speak to them for fear of giving up some of my hard-earned independence that I should really appreciate because so many women fought for it.
Damn them.
Damn 'liberation'.
I am CLEARLY designed for a life of idleness, perhaps pushing a pen about a page once in a while at a pretence of earning some money. Looking after kids? Fine by me - since my future sprog will not be attending school and I do actually want to see my children occasionally. Ghastly places, schools, full of other peoples' ghastly children. Not having my kids bullied and teased and 'stressed out, man' for the sake of their experiencing the 'real world'. They'll have to live in it some day - stave it off as long as possible. Everyone so intent on achieving and 'fitting in' (thanks, UK government, for the latest idea on guidelines for three month olds and what they should be able to do) they forget that hang on, we've only got one life, might as well at least have an attempt at enjoying some of it.
Yeah - its a grand, idealised theory I know. Will go back to university work with a view to joining the rat race before much longer...

Only a month and I get to don bikini and shorts as standard clothing once again. India, here I come. Absolutely can't wait for sun, real sun! (For all of you who are concerned reading that - don't worry, I will cover up away from tourist areas. I do have respect for other cultures...). Tanning. Wow. Heaven.  

Gossip

I remember a friend once telling me a story about some mutual friends of ours who had recently broken up. According to the story, the guy turned up on the girl's doorstep one evening with a list that included what annoyed him about her, what she could do better (strong indications that the bedroom department was involved here), and why they should break up. She promptly slams door in his face and well, yes, it was kind of over after that.
Come on - that just wouldn't happen. It was entertaining. I made the mistake in a moment of pre-lecture-boredom of telling yet another mutual friend of this episode, and within a few hours had received a complete rant of an email from the girl in the tale informing me that I was a malicious canniving bitch who shouldn't spread such rumours. I might have felt guilty except that this particular wench was instrumental in making my life hell for more than a year with regard to my personal life - and she really did get personal. No comedy stories of something that blatantly couldn't have happened. (Er - well, I'm really hoping not...).
So as a rule, I'm against gossip. I like gossip - I mean, I'm interested in people. I love knowing the ins and outs of this and that but if somebody tells me to shut up, go away, leave it, then generally I do. Because I know what it is like to be perpetually discussed and have a private life analysed that frankly has nothing to do with anybody else.
I've gotten to the point where I'm so against gossip that I deliberately go out of my way to ensure the opposite of whatever is implied actually happens - in other words, I let annoying mindless moronic idiots dictate half of my personal life. As a general rule, I don't care what other people think. And as a general rule, people don't say what they do really think about you - except somehow as regards your 'chosen partner'. Which should be the most sodding personal aspect of your world and yet it is seen as open territory to be discussed at large.
I could rant forever about this, my past experiences have made me so mad. But I'll shut up now and just leave you readers with the thought that if I choose to mention something to you, if I talk to you about something, then okay. Discuss it. Otherwise, go jump. None of your goddam business. GRRR.
NB. This is not directed at anyone specifically. Maybe warning a few of you for future reference.

U.S. Spending...

This is a brief rant - and I'm sorry, not returning to the light-hearted rants as proposed in my previous posting. I was just googling around on the internet and came across a website that informed me of the US spending on foreign aid, the figures for 1997. It would seem that America spent a massive $3284million funding overseas arms transfer, and yet managed only to expend $65million on peacekeeping forces. This means that the US spent roughly fifty times more money starting wars than trying to stop them. Anybody see any logic in this?
And just to annoy myself somewhat further, I have scrolled down the website and found some other baffling figures. Now, I know that the US does ultimately have the interests of the US at heart, but bear in mind I am looking on the website that highlights the US Spending on Foreign Aid. Implication being, what the US spent on helping a few bods abroad. $715million promoting US exports and, get this, a further $45million to, and I quote, 'Finance feasibility studies and other services for major activities in developing countries to support economic development and U.S. exports.' I believe I'm missing a point in here somewhere, but from what I see the US is doing the sum total of bugger all to help with any economy other than that of the US.
Are people really inherently selfish? I like to think not, but maybe that is just me being overly hopeful on occasion. Have a feeling Dawkins', 'The Selfish Gene' may be relevant here. Must get me a copy.
Oh - Happy Halloween, dear Reader!

Creating Priorities

This rant is brought about by my increasingly frustrating Women's Studies course and an article I read on the BBC website today (I do have other sources, honest, just rarely cite them). Apparently, China held a mass speed dating event with over five thousand people attending. The concept appealed on the basis that they have no time in their working lives to meet other people, and thus the 'speed' element was fairly essential as well.
This comes after I have been delving into de Beauvoir this afternoon (distractions of films, MSN, phones and housemates aside) and I'll quote her as it makes life easier: 'According to the Platonic myth, there were at the beginning men, women, and hermaphrodites. Each individual had two faces, four arms, four legs, and two conjoined bodies. At a certain time they were split in two, and ever since each half seeks to rejoin its corresponding half.' See - I like that concept. At the risk of being viewed as amazingly cheesy by the world at large, I would even dare to say I think it is beautiful. And frankly, I seriously doubt that the Gods intended us to meet the other half of ourselves at some government organised mass speed dating effort. Doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the story, does it?
This does relate to my Women's Studies course. Everybody has been bellowing recently about how we should have equal rights, how women should be able to go out to work even when they have children, how men should do their share of the housework. I am fed up with this attitude everybody has these days of 'wanting everything' and somehow expecting it. Plus, they want it NOW. I know I'm not the most patient person in the world, but I can hardly be accused of being a 'serial dater' - one of those girls who spends their entire time with one boyfriend or another, staying together as long as it suits, not because there is actually any feeling between them.
I like the idea of things being 'meant to be'. Not least because it takes a great deal of pressure out of life, and because it means there is no point battling against things all the time. When something is meant to happen, it will. And furthermore, when you take the step to have children it should be because you actually want them, not feel you need them as some form of fashion accessory. I've no argument with people wanting a career - go for it. Just don't expect to have the 'family life' as well.
I feel as if I've been getting overly serious of late on this blog... Hm. Must cut down on that and revert to light-heartedness or I'm going to lose a few readers, methinks.
I'm off to pop my blisters. Cursed blade handles.

Bless this Age of Technology

As a general rule, technology and everything that goes along with it (instruction manuals the size of small dwellings, the potential to lose entire essays in the click of a button, the development of such ailments as 'repetitive strain injury' adding unnecessary strains to the over-stretched health service) annoys the hell out of me. Today, however, I'm more inclined to thank part of it - despite having completely lost my voice courtesy of a particularly vicious cold, I'm still able to rant to you. I could rant that too much effort has gone into the creation of this technology allowing me to post to worldwide readers my frustrations with loss of ability to speak, and not enough effort has gone into ensuring my voice stays with me at all times. But frankly, I don't have the energy.
So what has Technology really done for us? It has removed the necessity of washing dishes - replacing this relatively calming activity with the requirement to bend and lift, bend and lift, as you empty the dishwasher (RSI resulting). It means that we can hurtle around the world in a capsule and arrive in Australia less than twenty four hours after leaving home, thus replacing that three month cruise where people used to meet and form lifelong friendships. On the flight we are provided with eyemasks and earplugs to block out any thought of the presence of others. Whereas years ago people would walk down the lane to a barn and dance the night away with their close-knit community, we now travel potentially miles and miles to launch ourselves into a room filled with glaring lights flashing erratically and 'music' being forced on us at such a volume we are unable to speak to those immediately next to us. Technology means I can talk to a coffee farmer in Jamaica more easily than my next door neighbour; I can form friendships with people across the Atlantic more readily than with others in my home town. Everybody who uses the likes of MSN knows that it is remarkably easy to say things that you wouldn't ordinarily in conversation - to some extent you are distanced from your words as you type them. While some say this is a positive, I say otherwise: you can end up in situations that you would never normally have intended, having convinced yourself that somebody 'knows the real you'.
Technology has essentially allowed us to become increasingly disconnected from the world around us as it strives to demonstrate just how connected it can make us. A three year old boy sat with the dead body of his mother for two weeks in Scotland recently: nobody knew he was in the house, or that she had died. My God, what has the West become?

Like a fish needs a bicycle...

Well okay, I hold my hands up and admit this post actually has nothing to do with fish - I just always liked that expression and have an excuse to use it, given that I am embarking on a rant about bicycles. Focussing primarily on the inability of particularly female cyclists to ride safely around this city. I am fed up with ambling along merrily in my cycle lane and coming up against any of the following:
a. somebody 'pulling out' into the lane without stopping to check if anybody is already hurtling their way along it. Much slamming on of brakes (which reminds me, really should make it so that my bike brakes at least pretend to function).
b. some prat of a person stopping for no reason. No reason at all. Maybe they thought their phone was ringing, maybe a particularly colourful butterfly was speeding past, or maybe they just thought hey, my legs hurt, I'm going to stop for a minute. Someone behind me? Pah, their problem.
c. I was cycling along yesterday behind a girl who I had been trying to overtake for a while but she kept swinging out a tad too far, then, just to add to her obvious stupidity, she randomly pulled onto the pavement and carried on cycling. Awesome - I speed up to pass and she suddenly slams back off the pavement into the cycle lane, causing me to go out into the road and virtually into the path of a car.
There are multiple other scenarios I could detail, but essentially what I'm saying is this: everyone who comes to Oxford with the intention of cycling should be given a road-safety test. And if they fail, they can damn well walk. And have the walking-safety test while they're at it - i.e. LOOK FOR BIKES COMING. Good God, for a city of supposedly intelligent people, there are some mighty dumb ones as well.

Inconsiderate Garden-Goers

Being a member of Oxford University has a few advantages - one of the possibly more minor ones being that you are granted free access to the botanic (botanical?) gardens here. After talking about them last night with a particularly drunk example of a Swede, I was reminded of my aim to 'see the ivy', as is done in 'Brideshead Revisited'. Anyhow, yes, I headed there early this afternoon to sit in the sun - armed with, for good measure, some of my course reading and a large bottle of water in an attempt to rehydrate my body. (The course reading obviously to rehydrate my mind rather than the more literal flesh and blood). Digressing. Right - found a nice bench on which to perch myself and ponder the imponderables of existence, and settled down for a good hour or so of doing remarkably little while pretending to do an awful lot.
Not five minutes after delving into those thoughts one only has in moments of distinct solitude, my peace was interrupted by a group of overgrown children. Specifically, women out celebrating the birthday of one of them and this apparently necessitating much squawking, fake laughter, and multiple air-kisses, that ultimate demonstration of the sophisicated mind in our day and age. After enduring the pointless and overly loud chat for a good ten minutes, I stalked off muttering loudly about quiet, rest, and the role of the recluse in gardens today. I doubt they took the hint, they were so busy exclaiming over a tea pot shaped as a country cottage. Delightful.
Just as libraries are kept silent, so perhaps gardens should be the outdoor version of a haven. Sometimes I like to pretend I'm not in a city and it is a bit difficult if people insist on being loud and brash right next to me while waving multiple carrier bags and passing round the cigarettes. Maybe I'll go back mid-week, should be quieter then... If not, will resort to the museum and spend my time among the dinosaur bones. How 'improving'.

Blithering Idiots

Yes, I know that I generally believe there are multiple categories of people who can be classed as Blithering Idiots. This particular rants refers to those whose bizarre intention in an interview is to make you feel about two inches tall (impressive for someone starting off at six feet) and as if every idea you ever had was stupid, pointless and a waste of thinking time. Honestly, I have never come across a pair of such arrogant IDIOTS in my lifetime. For those of you not in the know, I was trying to change from my MSt. Women's Studies to an MPhil in Development Studies. Seriously though, after the interview I doubt if I'd have taken it had it been offered, I am so MAD at the two who did the so-called 'interview'. It generally takes quite a lot to reduce me to tears but they damn well managed it. What is the point in establishing fairly firmly that NO, I do NOT have a 'social sciences' background and then proceed to tell me that none of my views are valid as a direct result of this. Additionally, how can you ask someone to constantly come up with 'data, quantifiable results' when they have asked my opinion on something. And what is the point in asking someone who is 23 and hasn't oddly enough studied the structure of levees, governmental spending, and all that rollocks, why Katrina happened? Heck, if I knew I'd be earning a bloody fortune right now.
I HATE that they ended up forming the image of me as somebody with a trust fund, a daddy's girl, a bit of an idiot who has faffed around with voluntary work at some point. How dare they? How dare they get it so wrong and not give me a chance to defend myself because every time I created a point or formed an opinion, it was knocked back on the basis that I clearly was stupid as hadn't done a social sciences undergrad?
Wow. Yes. So Women's Studies may NOT be the most glamorous of Masters to be taking, and half the people on the course may be classifiable as total and utter ejits, but at least dear God they are generally nice to one another. The course directors are personable. They are, in some capacity, human. So I'll hang around in Oxford for a year, end up with a Masters and frankly I no longer care if it is a distinction as I do NOT want to be around academics for any longer than I have to be. And at the end of a year, I'm moving to a tropical island and staying there. I don't care if that is selfish, everybody else bloody well is and I'm fed up with trying to think otherwise.
On top of everything else, just to add a GRR factor, they got my name wrong. How tough is it to remember to call me Jane when everything I sign says 'Jane', my email address is janethomas_uk and half the time I wear my Jane 'Schumacher' Thomas jumper. I mean, REALLY.
GRRRRRRR. Grr.