Unforgivable Wrong Music Choices

Right, this post is just a bit of a crabby moan really, but it's been plaguing my mind pretty much all year!

Inappropriate music. It's a real bug bear of mine, I just can't abide it.

You know how everyone has their own completely irrational thing that just turns them into a facist monster? Mine is inappropriate music - I cannot bear it. I'm really sensitive to music anyway, I've been known to walk out of a shop because they are playing bad music - not that I'm a snob, but I don't think it's unreasonable to not want to spend half an hour trying on clothes to the soundtrack of Mis-teeq telling me how to spell their name (incidentally, it's "M with the I with the S - T double E Q")

But this year has been particularly bad, to the point where I have found myself infuriated and offended, and that seems to have left some angry residue in my psyche. Am I overreacting? Perhaps. I'm not suggesting that these have done anything wrong per se but... Ah, who am I kidding? There is no excuse for using wrong music - and the people responsible should be shot. In the head. With a rusty spoon.

EXAMPLE 1
Volkswagen Car Advert - The Kinks: The Days

This one upset me to the point that every time it came on, I had to mute it, and stop myself from throwing my remote at my telly. Calm down, I would tell myself, it's not telly's fault. It's Western society's money grabbing manipulative sales-driven cynical corporate consumerism that is to blame. Throw the remote at that, not at lovely shiny telly. 

The Kinks - Days. This song is an under rated classic, a thing of beauty and thus a joy forever - I have had this song down as the song I want played at my funeral, since I was 14.

(Yes, I was a morbid but well prepared 14 yr old. I recommend you all chose your funeral song and make it expressly known to all of your loved ones - otherwise I guarantee you will end up being buried to some Westlife song or Goodbye My Lover by James Blunt. Yeah - now you're seeing my point..)

Anyway, that one was blasphemy in my eyes - sentimental twaddle used to sell cars - breaks my heart.

EXAMPLE 2
Life on Mars - Title Sequence/Opening Credits Music

Now this one I just think lets itself down.
Life on Mars was a wonderful BBC series. Incredibly well written, acted and directed - a fascinating, clever in depth commentary on the human psyche via the moral dilemmas surrounding 'the force' (not that force, the other more truncheon-wieldy one) - it's an emotionally compelling, humorous, not-your-average cop drama, that keeps you guessing until the very end (what has happened to Sam, we wonder - accidental time travel, an alternate dimension, limbo, is he experiencing a complex neurological construct due to being in a coma? - fuck Lost, this is a proper journey of mystery, with a proper ending!) - then add the insurmountable Philip Glenister and the endlessly watchable John Simm into the equation, as two characters with a captivating dynamic, and there you have it - a real BBC gem.

A quick synopsis (no spoilers):
Sam Tyler is a detective in the modern day Manchester police department. Sam’s girlfriend is kidnapped by a serial killer he is hunting and, while trying to find her, Sam is struck by a car. Upon waking, he discovers he is in Manchester, 1973. Sam tries to discover whether he has actually traveled back in time, is in a coma imagining 1973, or if he has imagined 2006 and is actually crazy.

Now, as much as I rate this series, and I rate this series in a big way, I always truly hated the theme music. The first time I heard it, it grated instantly, and I still can't listen to it without scowling a little.
I get it - it's a difficult one, you can't have music with any of the trademarks of the modern era - neither can you go with 70s theme music, because either way you're letting slip the answer to the underlying secret of the show by synesthetically setting a decade theme in the collective subconscious of the viewers.

And yes, the makers/the beeb are far too smart to fall into the trap of making Bowie's Life on Mars the theme tune, thus negating the genius of the title, and the clever use of Bowie music in the show itself (either that or they couldn't afford the rights) - either way, I'm grateful.

However, did they really need to go with this nondescript mashup..?

To me, it sounds like it could easily be the theme tune to a crappy daytime Channel 5 hospital drama - and now we're here, I'm actually not too keen on the visuals either..

Disclaimer: I never watch Channel 5, so I am not referring to any existing Channel 5 programme. Any resemblance to any crap Channel 5 hospital drama, existing or in the works, is purely coincidental. And mathematically unavoidable.

I'm sorry, DCI Hunt and DI Tyler - I just feel it doesn't do you justice.

EXAMPLE 3
Twilight Breaking Dawn: Part 2 - Closing Credits - Bruno Mars

Right, where do I start with this one?

The inappropriate mis-use of this song is actually the perfect analogy for just how disappointing this movie was. This movie, by the way, not the franchise, just this appalling excuse for a movie. As a genuine Twilight fan (shut up) I think that this abomination of a film should be taken out the proverbial back door and shot. But not before it's been tortured for crimes against humanity. Ok, maybe not humanity, but the large chunk of humanity that genuinely rate these films/books, and have spent a lot of time defending them. Well well done for proving us wrong, in the most careless, cynical, blatantly just-for-profit way possible. Next time just punch me in the face and take £8 from my wallet. It would be better spent.

Not only was this poorly written, lazily put together, with no thought for momentum or scene transition or basic storytelling, lacking any attention or care - it also had, it would appear, replaced its' music department with a box of Pop Tarts.

The first film in the 'saga' won my heart with a brilliantly light sequence of a vampire baseball game set against Muse's Supermassive Black Hole (which in principle is something that should upset me, as a Muse fan, so big win there!) - and the atmospheric use of rock music in general was nice. A little cliched, but well thought out and earnest in its' careful song choices. Whereas this last monstrosity of a film lost my heart long before I'd heard this Bruno Mars song lazily chucked in at the credits, this just acted as a kick in the teeth. It basically said to me - ha! This'll teach you to sit through such a shoddy film - you should have walked out during the Wolf scene, which was clearly directed by the team behind Sesame Street. Except without the sense of humour.

Oh, and don't think that we didn't notice you using R-Pats' song from the first film. Oh, we all noticed. We are just saving our vitriol and fan-fury for something much more important: stopping this from ever being made (more to come on this subject, but thought I'd slip it in to prepare you, dear reader).

Side note: I like Bruno Mars, actually. 'Marry You' genuinely makes me want to get married in Vegas on a whim with a boy I'll never see again. It doesn't stop this song from being an insultingly bad choice.

EXAMPLE 4
Coca Cola Christmas advert - Natasha Bedingfield..!

I am a full on Christmas convert. I never cared for it much as a kid; every year I was shipped out like a wartime evacuee from the City to the countryside to spend Christmas with some family friends who were nice people, but extremely large - numbers wise - and extremely well-off. This meant that I spent my Christmases surrounded by luxury, mountains of presents, plentiful food, hustle and bustle - but me being a quiet, insular child with my headphones on and my shy little head in a book, I spent the entire time feeling uncomfortable and small, and insignificant, and different, and poor. Little did I know how familiar that feeling would become when entering secondary school..

Anyway, when I hit my 20s, Christmas had done a full circle and suddenly became something that I had control over: who I spent it with, where I spent it, who I bought presents for, how much egg nog I was going to swig - honestly, I must have already hit 20 or 21 when it dawned on me that I was no longer tied in to my mothers' Christmas regime of upper class suburban torture, I could have my own - so I did. I had several in fact, my first of my Christmases I spent on my own, in my flat, with my cat, having spent all of December making lists of the food I was going to eat, the films I was going to watch, the drinks I was going to make etc etc - I absolutely loved it. Liberation.

I spent subsequent Christmases at various places - with various friends who also had no family to return to, 'London's orphans' I called us. One year I spent in a huge 5 bedroom in Dalston where my friend and I drank his housemate's 100 yr old bourbon and played cards til the wee hours, another I spent with two Filipino guys who gave me shells to wear in my hair and whom I taught to make Yorkshire Puddings, another I spent with my best friend's family who played charades like an Olympic sport while I stuffed my face with lemon cake.

Each one was lovely in its' own unique way, but the Christmas that most feels like mine are the ones I spend with my urban family at Pickled Lily's house. We've had three Christmases together, all 4 of us, and I hold them dearly to my heart. We do all the traditional things - tree decorated with love and lights, big christmas lunch with all the trimmings, crackers and mince pies, presents on christmas day morning, Bucks Fizz and egg nog, eat Quality Streets and watch the Doctor Who special, play board games on Boxing Day - and all of this we do whilst having a laugh and chilling out, without all the drama of a family Christmas (you know; the politics and dramas and fights and underlying repressed British tension and resentment - one friend of mine texted me from A&E this year whilst her grandad was having a panic attack, her mum was getting hammered and throwing up on an orderly, and her 30 yr old step sister was chucking all her presents in the bin..)

You know, being able to choose my own Christmas may be one of my favourite things about becoming a grownup. Really.

But, I digress - my point being that one of the most magical feelings is when you first realise that Christmas is coming. I mean genuinely - when Summer is over and you get depressed as Winter looms ahead - September is spent watching the leaves change and rueing the loss of Summer, October gets cold and Halloween comes and goes without making much noise, November brings with it two things: rain, and the promise of Christmas ahead. So come November, you know that it's coming, you tell yourself to make preparation and start thinking about presents (so that you don't find yourself desperately jumping off a night bus on Christmas eve and sheepishly giving your loved ones scratchcards and fags from the corner shop) - however, you only start to feel it approaching when a few things happen. One of those things is the Coca Cola advert.

Holidays are coming, holidays are coming, holidays are coming..

Ahhh it's so naff, and so American and earnest - but it's that very thing that turns you into a little kid - the animation, the jingly jangly bells, the snow, the commercial version of white-bearded Santa popping up on your screens swigging a diet coke and winking at you - ahhh, nothing quite says Christmas like it.
Seriously.

And every year, my Facebook gets inundated with status updates (including my own) excitedly proclaiming that Christmas has officially started - the Coca Cola advert has been on!

However, this year... This year, luckily I didn't catch the advert until just before I left for Christmas week - but when I saw it was on, I dropped everything, turned the volume up, and sat excitedly in front of the telly like a child or a happy dog, expecting some lovely sappy sentimental nonsense that melts the ice over my cynical heart, and of course some reindeer and snow and jingly bells, but what I got was this..

What.. the.. fuck.. is Natasha Bedingfield.. doing on the Christmas advert..?

A brief, incoherent scene based on some half-arsed premise of Santa holding a snow globe with 'the world' in it - and to top it all off, the irritating self satisfied snotty private school pretending to be 'ghetto' voice of Natasha horse-mouth Bedingfield. I could have handled the stupid visuals if there was only a good song going on!

I'm sorry. I will compose myself. I am aware I've now regressed into an illiterate teenager (cf: 'horse-mouth') - but I just watched all of the above to check video quality, and it's taken its' toll on my mental health and sanity.

So, I will leave you with this: music is a tool to be used very carefully, and with great respect and reverence and, if possible, love - when combining it with any form of media, it can transform a simple scene, advert, visual, picture - into something magical, or something aesthetically insulting, and in severe cases, blasphemous. (I'm still not over reacting, I swear)

This is my last blog post of 2011, and funnily enough, rather than go out on that note - I will go out on a slightly more optimistic note in regards to the use of music in the media, from an unlikely source. The London fireworks, which are more often than not, a complete waste of time, money and neck movement - this year, were spectacular. I was genuinely speechless. And a big part of that was due to the fantastic use of soundtrack - hopefully this is a good sign for 2012 - bring it on!

Women. Aren't They Stupid.

Right, so today after having spent the morning wrapping presents, and the afternoon having tea with Charolastra No.1 I sat down to watch a bit of telly (Michael Buble Christmas Special - yum. Michael Buble has that clean-cut well groomed butter-wouldn't-melt look that says "I'm such a good guy, all mothers everywhere will adore me"- but he has a twinkle in his eyes and a sideways smile that says "Behind closed doors, I would do so many naughty things to you" - and I would let you, Bubbles, oh how I would let you..)

Anyway, I'm watching the telly - and an advert comes on for some board game that you can "buy now and receive in time for Christmas!" Now, I had never heard of this game but my ears pricked up, my spidey senses tingled, and I knew immediately that this was something I would find myself ranting about. The game was called His and Hers. The advert went something like this:

So already, you know where I'm going with this, right?

Well, rather than launch into a full on rant, I will just transcribe the advert for you (I think it speaks for itself, but I'd like to be clear..)

ADVERT 1

Man: What does a sweeper do on a football team?

Woman: Clean the dressing room?

*A mop & bucket falls on Woman's head*

Man: Early bath for you..

Voiceover: Ahh silly women, they never understand football.

ADVERT 2

Woman: Heat, More and Now - are words associated with what?

Man: ..Cooking?

*Woman hits man over the head with a frying pan*

Woman: Do you want seconds?

Voiceover: Ahh women, always in the kitchen reading trashy magazines. No wonder they can't come up with a decent one-liner.

ADVERT 3

Man: How does Bond like his Martini served?

Woman: Quickly?

*Man throws Martini over Woman*

Man: What's the matter, you look.. shaken.

Voiceover: Bond. He makes hilarious quips before he throws things at women.

"HIS AND HERS: A GAME THAT CELEBRATES OUR DIFFERENCES."

---

Right so admittedly, the voiceover parts I may have added myself. But, that is basically what they are saying. The advert I watched actually wasn't either of these - it was a Star Wars one. So you can imagine my cheery amusement at that one. It went a little like this:

Man: I'm asking you a really obvious question about Star Wars.

Woman: Oh, I wouldn't know that, because I'm a woman so I only watch Titanic and The Notebook. On a loop, all day, in between painting my nails and brushing my hair. Because I'm a fucking moron, it would appear.

Voiceover: Women. Aren't they stupid.

---

Now, I'm not going to do it - I'm not. Honestly, I'm not. I've already just written furious spitting paragraphs on the many, many, many problems with the sexism that is so shamelessly rife in popular tv and film culture alone, and had to delete them all. The reason is that I've promised myself I will not do an angry feminist rant, because that just perpetuates the stereotype of the angry irrational woman (not that it matters if she happens to be right - she's over-reacting, and probably on her period. Sorry, I also swore that I wouldn't be passive aggressive - but if I'm not going to let myself be aggressive, I have to let the gorram fury out somehow!)

Anyway, I looked it up on Amazon - if I wasn't so broke, I would have bought it just so that I could ridicule and pull it apart on this blog, in greater detail.. But as it is, I am broke, and it costs £25. If I ever find it on Ebay for under a tenner, I will buy it and let you know.

But, here's what I found on Amazon..

Product Description

His and Hers - This latest addition to the fantastic Logo family brings a humorous new twist to the great debate - are we really that different? If you play His and Hers you'll find the answer is a hilarious YES!

Product Description

Men are endlessly mystified about the contents of a woman's handbag, their wardrobe and what they read in their magazines... equally, women don't understand a man's need for gadgets, power tools and their obsession with sport. The His and Hers board game is a celebration of our differences as seen through everyday things. Divide your friends into single sex teams, and have some FUN celebrating what makes women women and men men. 

Right, I'm not being funny, but is it the Nineties? Are we actually back in the nineties with post-Carry On / pre-Girl Power, Men=Football+Beer / Women=Boobs+Shoes ??

What I read there in that description is Men = sports, gadgets, power tools, Women = handbag, wardrobe, magazines. Tag words that were rife in popular culture in the nineties, but were laughed out in the naughties as old fashioned sexist caricatures. Or so we'd thought. 

Although wait, I don't even need to read the description, as they've spelled it out loud and clear on the box:

Lets have a closer look on what is placed on the 'His' Section, and on the 'Hers' Section - ie. what signifies 'man' and what signifies 'woman' (beyond blue and pink, obviously) 

His: Football --- Hers: Nail Polish
His: Pint of Beer --- Hers: Cocktail
(a glass of wine for the lady, a beer for the gent)
His: A Tie --- Hers: A Neck Tie

(!!! - presumably for when she's handing out tea and wet cloths on airplanes, to men in their suits, on their business trips)
His: Yorkie Bar --- Hers: A Galaxy Bar
His: An Electric Screwdriver --- Hers: A Hairdryer
His: A Spanner --- Hers: A Blusher Brush
His: Brogues --- Hers: Pink Stiletto Heels
His: Boxer Shorts --- Hers: Sexy Knickers
and my personal favourite...
His: A Wallet (!!) --- Hers: A Handbag 
(A handbag which presumably her husband has bought her. Seeing as he has the wallet.)

So there we have it. His and Hers. A hilaaarious celebration of our differences.

I'm laughing so much I had to put down my hairdryer and nearly spilt my nail polish over my copy of Heat magazine.

A Great Voice Falls Silent

Now, I class myself as an Atheist (as well as a Browncoat)
A humanist, an anti-theist, a feminist and, I have been told, a socialist.

I always knew that I was an atheist, but never had an intelligent reason as to why, beyond "because there is no God..? Duh?" - until I really discovered what atheism was, and why it was.

I was once asked by a Philosophy teacher at school, who happened to be a Christian priest, and an intelligent, thoughtful and decent man, as well as an admirer of free thought and inquiry (which seems oxymoronic, but he pulled it off somehow) - "How would you class your religious views? Would you say that you were an Atheist?"

"..umm, no, probably agnostic" I replied "I do not believe in any God, I abhor organised religion, and don't even ask me what my experience of people of faith has been, because I will have to swear. A lot. A lot more than usual."

"So not atheist then, you would consider yourself 'agnostic'?"

"Yeah, I reckon so. I'm an open minded person, I'm happy to be proven wrong. I don't consider other people's beliefs  'wrong' as such, they can believe whatever they want - I just so happen to believe in nature and the laws of the universe, and I consider God to be comparable to Father Christmas or the Easter bunny. I always knew that I was supposed to believe in them, but I never have."

I was barely 16 at the time, and more concerned with tracking down old T-Rex b-sides than I was with my spiritual growth, or the expansion of my understanding of the world or humanity or even history - I knew that I didn't believe in God, so what else was there to talk about? Did it matter whether I was agnostic, or atheistic or whatever? (I also definitely didn't understand what either of those terms realy means, I'm pretty sure I thought 'an atheist' was an angry protester who burnt down churches and was somehow a rude word, and that an agnostic was just someone who didn't give a shit either way)

--

Years later, perhaps seven or eight years later, I bumped into this philosophy teacher in a pub in North London.

We caught up, chatted briefly about old times (well, he chatted about old times, I winced in an awkward embarrassment as I generally do when reminiscing about 'old times' - I am uniformly embarrassed of almost everything I do, almost the instant after having done it)

He pointed out that I'd grown up into a young woman, with long brown hair and a smile, no longer a young girl with short pink hair and a snarl, and I pointed out that he still had the same goat-like beard and kind eyes.

Just before we parted he asked me "So, are you still agnostic? What are your religious tendencies these days, did you ever decide?"

I laughed and compared general views on agnosticism to general views on bisexuality.. one day they will come off the fence and pick a side.

"Ahh, I'm familiar with the opinion - there's no such thing as neutral, only unaware. And greedy! So, really, surely you haven't discovered God?"

"No," I said with what I hoped to be a wry, pointed sparkle in my eye, "I discovered Christopher Hitchens."

---

So, this evening, here I sit in my front room, having poured myself a glass of Black Label and lit myself a cigarette, in honour of a truly great man.

This one's to you, Hitch, from a grateful young Contrarian.

For a lifetime of fiercely demanding skepticism, free inquiry and rational thought - I, undoubtedly among many, salute you. And I thank you.

- CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS -

3rd April 1949 - 15th December 2011

“Beware the irrational, however seductive. Shun the 'transcendent' and all who invite you to subordinate or annihilate yourself. Distrust compassion; prefer dignity for yourself and others. Don't be afraid to be thought arrogant or selfish. Picture all experts as if they were mammals. Never be a spectator of unfairness or stupidity. Seek out argument and disputation for their own sake; the grave will supply plenty of time for silence. Suspect your own motives, and all excuses. Do not live for others any more than you would expect others to live for you.” 

A Scarlet Lady

Further to my re-ignited love affair with London (I have spent my life toeing the line between love and hate, and a recent chance stumble upon a breaking dawn rooftop view of my home town has pushed me full on into London-love again, and I have spent the week reconnecting with my city) - ah, I haven't lost my knack of getting stuck inside brackets (I don't know why - I use too many brackets, always have. What a strange quirk to have. I think it's my propensity to have 'side thoughts'..)

Anyway, I stumbled upon an old Pogues track that I always thought was particularly beautiful, and the way I feel when I end up in an old pub in the wee hours.

As with Shane MacGowan's typically distinct style of singing - as if through a mouth full of ale (not sure it's a technique so much as a side effect of having a mouth full of ale..) - people often miss his knack for touching lyrics, on-point observations and his truly romantic turn of phrase.

Ah London, you're a lady, laid out before my eyes
Your heart of gold it pulses between your scarred up thighs
Your eyes are full of sadness, red busses skirt your hem
Your head-dress is a ring of lights but I would not follow them
Your architects were madmen - your builders sane but drunk
Among your faded jewels shine acid house and punk

You are a scarlet lady; your streets run red with blood
Oh my darling they have used you and covered you with mud
It was deep down in your womb, my love, I drank my quart of sin
While chinamen played cards and draughts
And knocked back mickey finns

Your piss is like a river, its' scent is beer and gin
Your hell is in the summer and you blossom in the spring
September is your purgatory - Christmas is your heaven
And when the stinking streets of summer
Are washed away by rain
At the dark end of a lonely street,
That's where you lose your pain
'Tis then your eyes light up my love
And sparkle once again.

Big Damn Heroes

Joss Whedon, you are my Big Damn Hero.

In explaining why, let me start here.
Now, I consider myself a browncoat. Had I been alive in the Firefly universe (I am aware this is gramatically wrong, as the Firefly universe is set in the future, rendering that sentence a bit gramatically misleading - but consider that sentence to mean 'had I been alive in the fictional future' ..just do it, let's not quabble) - So, had I been alive in the Firefly universe, I would have set up my allegiance firmly in the camp of the Independents, I would have fought heart and soul in the battle of Serenity Valley and I would have picked a fight in an Alliance-friendly bar every U Day from then on. And had I ever encountered our Seargeant Reynolds, I would have spent the rest of my days following him around the verse where'er he may choose to go, with unfaltering faith and loyalty.

Yep, I like to think that I would have been Zoe. Strong, dependable, ovaries made of solid adamantium, capable of a lifetime of loyalty, bravery, and love. I don't quite have her Amazon thighs, but I do look mighty fine in leather.

Like many of Joss Whedon's female characters, Zoe is a 'strong female'. Many Joss critics seemingly deem him as anti-feminist, stating that he depicts women whose strength comes from fitting one charicature of 'female strength' which mainly involves wearing leather, kicking arse, and looking hot (Zoe, Buffy, Echo..)

The thing is, yes Joss Whedon writes blatantly 'strong female' characters - but what in the hell is wrong with that, exactly? Do we look at Harrison Ford's Indiana Jones and complain that his strength, humour and good looks are 'too obvious' and therefore disqualify him as a an example of 'iconic masculinity' to be admired? Is Rambo too toned, James Bond too suave? No! They can all be considered charicatures of some obsure notion of male 'strength', but that is part of the human condition - to look for traits which exemplify the very best in humanity, as we see it, and then make said traits into emblems of what defines a 'hero'.
Don't we all need big damn heroes?

But what Joss does so magnificently, is create characters with real strength and grit - and yes, I include physicality in that - where really is the harm in depicting women who are so adept at fighting, they could kick Rambo's arse right off his testosterone-fuelled brick shithouse of a torso? What, because us women are just so sick of that particular stereotype (!)
The thing that is often forgotten in these arguments is just how completely he writes his women - by also identifying their weaknesses; their varied, intricate, well-established, relatable weaknesses.

Now Zoe is a warrior woman. Your supposedly atypical 'strong female character'.
Ah man, how I would love to launch into a full blown character analysis here, but in case you needed a quick intro..

However, her very strength, and the origins of that strength, are put into question by Joss' storylines - her loyalty is questioned as blind flock-like faith, her emotional rock-hardness occasionally considered an inability to think for herself (cf: Battle of Serenity Valley), her priorities can be viewed as askew and her propensity to put herself in such regular danger mildly suicidal - all of this serving to make her strength a real, rounded relatable element of a person, not just using her 'strength' as a one-dimensional token 'label' to please the blind feminists, who would be apparently mollified for their female role models to just wear the outfit labelled "we are not weak.. see?", or the 15 yr old boys who get their jollys from leather-clad hotties.
It just so happens that in questioning Zoe's weaknesses to establish the authenticity of her strength, whether or not what we see as strength really is such, the answer is a resounding "HELL yes, in every way, and don't you ever doubt it, dong ma?"

Joss doesn't just write one kick arse leading lady and be done with it (lets not forget, Zoe isn't in fact a leading lady, she's just one of the Serenity crew) - no, he appreciates strength in all its' genderless forms.

Look, for example, at Kaylee - you could say that she is a 'weak' female character, the baby of the group - sweet, good-natured, fearful and feeble in combat situations, your gentle geeky spirit. But she has her own strengths - her kindness, honesty, her humour. And she inspires strength in the rest of the crew, by her very sweetness and sincerity - she is the selfless heart of the Serenity family. And her worth, in that regard, does not go amiss.

Joss' characters, male or female, have their own stories - their own strengths, weaknesses, hangups and failings - but in this particular 'women in the media' debate, what is most notable, rather than the validity of his depiction of 'strength', is the way Joss uses humour. Without going overboard on strident feminist ranting here, seriously - the way women are portrayed in relation to humour is positively archaic. For the most part, in popular tv and film culture, particularly American tv and film culture, the best you are going to get is a Jennifer Anniston humour - mild, anodyne, ditsy, characterless humour. And black women, ah you've got no chance - there is no such thing as an intelligent, witty black woman - just sassy mamas or eco warriors. (I sound like I'm over-reacting here, but I'm not - look around)

Whereas the Whedon-creation Zoe, Mal's second in command, is not only sexy and a physical powerhorse, who owns her femininity as well as her sexuality, but she is intelligent, and has a real droll wit, implying she has a sense of humour. And she's black. A black woman. I know - you wouldn't think this would be too much of a stretch, but in the current state of female characters in popular culture, it's verging on revolutionary.

(I tried to find a clip of the wonderful "Quiet Jayne, you'll scare the women" line from Bushwhacked, but can't seem to find it - but to me this is a bang on-point example of Zoe in all her real glory - dry, perceptive, calm, sardonic, and with a keen eye for the truth in any situation)

Anyway, this is just turning into a love letter to Firefly, which believe me I will be writing one day, as this is but a droplet in the ocean of love that I have for the 'verse, but my point for now is this:
In a world of lazy, one dimensional, misogynistic and down right dangerous depictions of women - in a world of your Jennifer Anistons and Penny 'lets-not-bother-with-a-surname's from Big Bang Theory and even Misfits (seriously, look again, you'll see the lazy lack of care they put in their one dimensional female characters - a point which seems to have escaped the general public and media alike) - in this world of anodyne, humourless, weak, bland, second rate, second class even, examples of 'women', Joss Whedon writes witty, intelligent, complex, varied, and yes - strong - female characters And he writes them well. Wonderfully, in fact. Why do I know this? Because he writes good characters. Joss Whedon is a brilliant sci fi / tv / script writer, and he creates brilliant, believable worlds, and characters - and he makes you fall in love with them, just as he has. And how does he write his female characters? As if they were people.

Over to you, Cap'n Whedon.

I Am The Captain Of My Own Metaphorical Ship

I just re-read some of my old blog.

With no false modesty, I think it's really good! It's sweet, and funny, and most importantly - honest. And I think is a good respresentation of me. Well, of me at the time.

I'm really fond of that blog. It was like a love letter to my own life, and to myself, and to the world, and I never really realised it. I thought it was just a diary of my mental life/brain/self.
I got a lot out of writing it, it helped me do a lot of real self-exploration (blurgh, pseudo-spiritual pop psychology hippies have ruined that phrase) - and a lot of much needed self analysis.

It also helped document my drama with men, over the last year of my 'Three Year Emotional Celibacy' that came after The Trilogy (of men, well boys, who screwed poor teenage Wednesday Girl up completely) - so much about the Trilogy was dealt with via that blog, particularly this one, which took me a good 2 years to finally finish, and 4 years to finally post..

The thing is, it's two years down the line, and I am different.
For a variety of reasons, or maybe just one - I have been in a relationship. And before you start, I don't mean that in the 'ohh love changes you forever, transforms you into a butterfly' sort of way, in fact I'm more of a subscriber to Bill Bailey's bang-on-point views of love - no, what I mean is.. the thing I feared most was a relationship. I had a whole big messy bunch of insecurities, and emotional hangups, and subconscious fears - and I took 3 years to myself, to really deal with them. I told myself 'I will deal with these' and then I proceeded to deal with them.

But the 3 years came to an end (a natural end - I didn't set myself a time limit!) and I felt ready. I felt strong, and complete, and young and wild, and I felt I'd put my demons behind me.

But I couldn't quite congratulate myself, as I couldn't shake a feeling of.. "Well, how do you know?"

I started to think that I may have just adjusted to my life, and pushed everything aside, and got on with things - which would be, I imagined, a similar feeling to 'the elusive 'dealing with it'.
So this would mean that, in fact, the feeling that I thought was clarity, and emotional wellbeing, could have just been a big old denial monster, hiding in the back of my mind, tricking me into rejoining the world of emotional landmines that is 'other people'.

And the only way that I would know, was by entering into a relationship (I don't know why I say that like a lawyer 'entering into a relationship' - what does that say about my opinion of relationships now! - hmm, save that thought for another time)

So I did, I met a guy, I fell in love, I became a participant in a genuine bonafide adult Couple.
And then I waited for my hidden baggage, for my invisible dusty old familiar emotional issues that I had known so well and carried around for so long, to fall out of me into a crumpled heap on the floor, like stowaways falling from a hidden cupboard on a ship already left its' port..

"A-ha!! There you are! So that's where you've been hiding! I knew it. You mischievous things, will I never be rid of you? Ok, go below deck and make yourselves comfy, I've got your beds and dinner laid out for you already, right where you left them"

(Are you keeping up with this naval metaphor? Good, because it's staying.)

So I waited for my old issues to emerge... but they never did.
I waited a bit longer, ever wary, knowing their tricks, telling myself "They're just waiting for me to get comfortable, then just when I'm feeling safe - bang! They'll pop out and shoot me in the head."
(Hmm, I've given my metaphorical 'Issue sea devils' a gun. Brilliant. Most people dread confronting their demons, I provide mine with artillery!)

But again, they never did.

And as time went on and I got further and further into the relationship, I started to realise - You know what? I think I did it. Way back when, all those years I spent in emotional turmoil, seemingly going over every single moment of my past, analysing everything to the point of madness  - that really was as worthwhile as I'd always told myself it was! Because those demons that I carried around, then got rid of, then suspected I was still carrying around - and now they are gone! I've checked twice - gone!

And I've gotta say, that felt pretty damn good.

The bastard of it is that I then fell in love with a man who had never even looked his demons square in the face, let alone given them a whole metaphorical ship, ammunition, and wrestled it out with them in the manner of an old Country and Western!

But anyway, my point being this - my blog, my beloved blog, was a well-needed, well-earned tool on the road to emotional wellbeing, and I needed it desperately. I poured my heart and soul into it, and in turn it showed me what I could not otherwise see in myself. And I took to heart every single element of clarity I gained from it - knowing that my blog would never lie to me. This was mainly because it was written by me, and so was, in fact, a big old mirror into my own self/ego - therefore anything I saw in myself that I didn't want to see, it would show me loud and clear.

But now, I am returning to the blogsphere.
Tellingly, I've created a new blog, rather than joining up the gaps between then and now by carrying on with my old blog. I think this is because they are two completely different blogs.
Ok I'm sounding a bit moronic here - what I mean is, way back when, I needed that blog for a certain type of self exploration. To deal with a lifetime of 'issue sea demons', as I now, it turns out, like to call them.
Whereas now, having learnt that I've put those sea demons to rest - what do I need this blog for?

I was pondering this, just a few minutes ago, and went to make myself a cup of tea - when my mind went down an alleyway of its' own..
'So, why do you need this blog, when its' primary use previously was as a form of therapy? You are 'fixed', you no longer need the therapy, so surely the intelligent thing to do would be stop going to the therapy.. Are you clinging on to the past? Again? Now that you're back on your own, are you just finding things that used to bring you comfort, and trying to make them fit now? You know that won't work, so why are you doing that?'


(Yes, this is how my brain works - and it speaks to me in that harsh self-satisfied tone too. Stupid brain.)

'OR perhaps you still need it. Perhaps you never did get over those demons - they just wore the mask of M's demons, giving you the perfect excuse not to address yours and pretend that they'd gone away. That's it, you used his demons as a way of ignoring yours.. '

I genuinely started to panic a bit at this point, going with these thoughts, and thinking 'oh shit. It was a lie. I'd never actually dealt with anything..' and then I mentally shook myself out of it - What the hell was I thinking?? In harmlessly wondering what is the purpose of my new blog, I've let my self doubt nearly convince me that someone elses' demons were my own, in disguise, and thus the last 2 years of my life have been a lie, and the previous 3 years, a complete waste of time.
How obscenely ridiculous, and worrying is that?

And then it hit me - self doubt.

That's what I've been left with. In the ship of my emotional sea demons, the captain of all of these was Self Doubt. And whilst I spent all my time and energy hauling everything else overboard, all the remnants of my past pain and insecurity and regret - I was left with only one. The very oldest, sneakiest, most vicious and familiar of all.

'Captain Self Doubt, we meet again'

Captain Self Doubt
(and one of his sea demons!)

He smiles a toe curling, evil smile, and I realise - he hasn't been hiding, he's been here all along. Hiding in plain sight.

He's been with me a long time, our Mister Self Doubt - in fact, let me flashback to a moment in my teenage years that has suddenly never felt so poignant - I always wondered why it stuck with me.


I was around 14/15 (ahh the classic age for an 'I learned a life lesson' flashback) - and I had just taken a Chemistry test. I was in my period of lazy rock rebellion and as such was failing at school. I got called in for a meeting with the Chemistry teacher (a chubby blonde 30-something woman who, like most teachers, went back and forth, obscurely, from loving me to hating me, with no real in between, and for no discernible reason, at least not to my glaring teenage eyeliner-clad eyes) - so I assumed the meeting was to discuss how I'd inevitably failed the test, and why this meant I would never go to University, and would never make anything of myself, as everyone knows you're not a proper person until you've got a degree.


I was wrong - well, I had failed the test, but the teacher pointed out something else, very carefully and slowly to me - she made me look through the papers, and asked why had I received a 20% mark rather than an 80%?


I looked through, and answered in equal measures of stupidity and churlishness "Because I'm shit at Chemistry"


"No," she pointed out (looking back, I imagine she rolled her eyes) "Look closer - it's because you doubt yourself. For pretty much each question, you've written an answer, then crossed it out and put another answer. And each time, your original answer was right. Why did you doubt yourself?"


I flicked through the pages. She was right - I hadn't even noticed. In nearly all of the answer boxes, I'd written something, then gone back and changed it - each time changing it to the wrong answer. I had no answer for her, stunned, already feeling that this had some bigger relevance that my hormonal adolescent addled brain would not fully comprehend until years to come, and then a few years to come after that..


"Your original instinct is good. You are a natural learner, and you know much more than you realise. But you have a lot of self doubt, which tells you that the things that you know, are wrong. You're going to have to watch out for that."

Ahhh little did she know, my Chemistry Yoda, and little did I know - how true those words were.

That moment always stuck with me - I have always been good at identifying important matters, even if I don't understand their relevance at the time, I will keep them with me until I do - however, I thought I'd figured that one out. I thought that I'd learnt that particular lesson - and I've talked about this with Pickled Lily many-a-time (yep, Pickled Lily is still a feature in the blog, as she is of course still a feature in my life)

I had been through a similar revelatory period a few years ago, and had interpreted this as 'going with my gut' The lesson being that my gut knows best - I have good instinct, so always trust my gut - see it was right all those years ago, in that Chemistry test.
Whereas, if I'd just followed that train of thought a little farther, to its' full destination, I would have understood that half of the lesson was trusting my gut, the other half was not letting my self doubt get in the way.

Christ, what a long winded way of going about explaining/discovering why I am back in the blog world!

Haha clearly it's not to write anything of any importance to anyone but myself - but still.

The important thing is that I've discovered that this blog really is of use. It's not just me regurgitating old impulses and old habits - its a brand new vessel. And I have figured out what the difference in me is between now and then. And in the process, have discovered an old foe. Self Doubt.

I see you now, taking credit for my victories, and berating me for your failures - well no longer. I'm coming for you, Cap'n Self Doubt. You may have a head start on me, and it may take me a good long time, but I've got the wind in my sails, and I'm coming for you.

A Morning View

I recently quit my job (the phrase 'effective immediately' is a joy to say - try it next time you want to quit your job and never return. It's immense.)

So as such I have lots of time on my hands - I have plans for next year, but I'm slightly in limbo as I've got 2 weeks until Christmas, and it's just impossible to get anything done with Christmas approaching. So I'm taking some down time, then getting my arse in gear come January.

That means I've got two weeks of great mellow time - which I'm spending laying about the flat, pissing around on the internet, watching Xena and making cookies and then eating said cookies. Joy.

Yesterday I took an afternoon nap (which I should know by now, is ridiculous. I am not a nap person.) consequently I found myself bolt upright at 5:30am wondering if having a coffee would somehow push me off the edge and send me straight to sleep (scrambled logic admittedly, but warm milk was doing fuck all!) - so ended up taking an early morning stroll around North West London.

I left the flat in almost darkness, in two pairs of leggings under some jeans, a giant all-purpose weather coat and massive headphones acting as ear warmers. I instantly regretted my decision to leave my nice warm toasty bed to be outside in wind so icy it was like headbutting a snowman - but I continued on nonetheless, and had a genuinely cracking morning.

I walked along the Grand Union canal (which is right outside my house, and is one of those things I never ever take for granted - every time I walk past it I marvel at its' quiet beauty) and found a little canal boat selling cups of tea to passing cyclists, so got myself a cup of tea and wondered along the canal feeling pretty wonderful (if slightly mental).

As the sun started to rise, I found myself amongst quite a large block of industrial buildings (I think I was somewhere past Ladbroke Grove) - and amidst them I spotted a tiny alleyway - it was called something really cute, I can't think what, I wish I'd made a note! Anyway I followed it and it lead to some little old stone steps, which I couldn't help but walk up - I felt like I was in Pan's Labyrinth or a similar magical horror story -and after a little urban climb, I ended up on the roof of one of the industrial buildings. Not very glamorous and exciting - walking up the rickety stairs a part of me thought "I've definitely discovered the back entrance to Narnia" - but after getting over the initial disappointment, I realised I was in quite a cool, random spot.

I put my bag and tea down, lit a fag, and looked around - and at that moment it hit me.
It was beautiful. Genuinely, heartstoppingly, beautiful.
A clear view of a morning sun rising across foggy grey London rooftops - I felt like when you look at other people's travel photos of Vienna or St Petersburg or New York - except it was my home town.
I felt like I'd never properly seen London before, like I was looking into it's dark, gentle, old, proud heart - and and it was strangely nostalgic.

Anyway, wildly unprepared, I hadn't brought a camera - and I will regret that forever.
But it looked and felt a little like this..

Soundtrack To My Relationship

So as per my previous post - I don't think I can fully tell the story of me and M (and thus the story of my last two years) properly, and give it its' full dues. So in lieu of that, I will take you on a journey via the soundtrack of my relationship. 

---

---The very beginning. Sitting in the basement office singing along to the playlist, this always made my heart sing and really enjoy my crush on one of the bar Managers..

"Open up your mind and see like me, open up your plans damn you're free

Look into your heart and you'll find love love love love.."

---

---Bluebelle and I used to joke in the office that this was my song. I always loved the poignancy, but little did I know. He had a girlfriend when we met, this was the last time I felt strong and in control before we got together.

"I said boy, oh boy, I'm not your substitute lover"

---

---A harmless crush starts to turn into something altogether more dangerous. We shared that Christmas together at the bar, and I almost forgot that he was not mine, and he knew that. It was my own reminders that kept the situation in check. It should have been his, but even then I was the one in control. Although I only know that through hindsight.

"When I see you walking with her, I have to cover my eyes"

---

---The first time we met outside of work, we listened to this in the back of the cab, drunk at 4am in the morning after a magical, blurry night. I felt exactly like this, like rushing along a fast railway track on a cold Autumn evening, heart racing, the wind in your face..

"The impossible is possible tonight, believe in me as I believe in you - tonight"

---

---The sensation of falling through the air. Falling, falling, falling in love..

"And for you I keep my legs apart, and forget about my tainted heart. 

Hands down, I'm too proud for love - but eye to eye, thigh to thigh, I let go"

---

---I named him M, rather fittingly, before discovering this is his signature song.

"Je dis aime, et je le sème sur ma planète 

Je dis M, comme un emblème, la haine je la jette"

---

---It felt wonderful. For a while I was a rainbow.

"Have you seen her all in gold - like a queen in days of old.

She shoots colours all around, like a sunset going down - have you seen a lady fairer?"

---

---The mystery and bitter sweet taste of love kicks in. True magic and true cruelty. 

There is a reason that the French have an idiom for an orgasm - la petite morte, the small death. Ecstacy, euphoria, transcendence and melancholy. Love is a bit like that, in my experience.

"Fate, up against your will, through the thick and thin
He will wait until, you give yourself to him"

---

---A short lived period, as the magic is replaced by revelation, disappointment and anger. The steep fall from his pedestal in my eyes. We never quite recovered, try as we might over the next year.

"The truth is hiding in your eyes, and it's hanging on your tongue, just boiling in my blood.

How did we get here? Well I think I know.."

---

---When I discovered that I absolutely need someone stronger than me, or as strong as me, to help carry the load. I don't want to always be the strong one. It makes me weakened.

"You should be stronger than me, you've been here 7 years longer than me. 

You should be stronger than me."

---

---Feeling it slip away. 

"I try out a smile, and I aim it at you. You must have missed it, you always do."

---

---This song came on my ipod one tube journey home, and the phrase 'the writing's on the wall' really rang true. It just wasn't to be. If I'm honest, he just wasn't enough for me. He could have been, but for whatever reason he couldn't bring it out of himself. 

"We're not over but the writing's on the wall. We keep trying just so we can say we gave it all.

We're not over but the writing's on the wall. This time next year we'll be no more."