It's Chriiiistmas!

It’s Chriiistmas!

Well, I know there are many irritating things about Christmas… the expense, the cold, the god awful Christmas songs which play in every shop you enter from mid October onward, the bustling with millions of other shoppers begrudgingly buying stuff for people with the knowledge that not only would you rather spend the money on yourself, but whatever you’re purchasing will be half price in the sales in a week anyway. Aside from that, there’s the decorating, the enforced cheer, without which you are immediately accused of being a scrooge, the drunken shame following office Christmas parties, the social minefield of phrasing countless Christmas cards to people you don’t know (and often don’t like) in an acceptable manner, the prospect of spending an entire two or three days with your while family and trying to look happy about it, the cooking, the washing up after the cooking, the guilt at having out on half a stone after too many mince pies and Baileys, the guilt over the knowledge that you’ll swear to go to the gym in January to work it off, but will do no such thing, the guilt over the fact that you shouldn’t be feeling any of the above… the list goes on. However, I’m going to look to the positive. Play devils advocate, be the perpetrator of all things ‘in the spirit’- bearer of glad tidings and all that. Get ready people. Spirituality, economic sense and cynicism aside, here are all the things that are great about Christmas!

1. Acting like a child.
It is very rare in adult life that you get the opportunity to leap about, get openly excited without the fear that whatever it is you’re exited about (I’m thinking all the usual suspects here: promotions, bonuses, first dates going well, etc.) is not going to come about. Christmas, whether you like it or not, comes every year, so you may as well get into it. After all, your partner may buy you what you actually wanted this year, rather than a scarf/a blender/some socks.
2. Getting in the festive spirit.
And by festive spirit, I mean gin, rum, vodka, whisky… basically, whatever you fancy. Mulled wine is my particular favourite Christmas perk. But the festive spirit means you can drink too much, too often, and at a push, at whatever time of day you like. Wine at lunch? Champagne breakfast (on the day of course)? Mulled cider on your way home? Baileys in front of the telly when you get home? Port with some tasty cheese? Ah, go on, get in the festive spirit.
3. Getting away with stuff.
By this I mean playing the festive guilt card to get other people to do things for you. ‘Can I leave early today?’ ‘Shall we get dessert?’ ‘Can I borrow a tenner?’ All of these things can be agreed to, simply by adding the suffix ‘come on, it’s Christmas’. Thereby, even if whoever you are speaking to doesn’t really want to agree to whatever you’ve proposed, they know they will look like a miserly sod if they do not comply. Ha. Gotcha.
4. Twinkly lights.
Now, even if you hate Christmas, you have to admit, December is bloody miserable. You get up in the dark, you come home in the dark, it’s cold and it rains every other day. You have to arrive in work wearing twenty three layers of clothing, and race to get them off once you get into the heated office before you sweat like a pig and smell awful for the rest of the day. The world is either grey or black. Lots of people suffer from seasonal affective disorder in the winter months, and just think how much worse it would be without Christmas lights! There’s nothing nicer than getting home into the warm, and putting the tree lights on while you watch telly. It’s like a big Christmas hug. The wet freezing streets in town look much less ominous when the overhead twinklies are reflected in the rainy tarmac and you can’t see the drab December sky because of the multicoloured, star and snowflake shaped loveliness above your head. I know they’re tacky and they’re no good for the old carbon footprint, but the alternative, i.e. plan old gloomy December, is much worse.
5. Old friends.
Now this is closely linked with points one and two. Never is there a time of year when more old friends are in the same place at any one time. They all head homeward, they’re all happy to be off work. And the lot of you are more than ready to get into the festive spirit(s). And you’re all in the frame of mind that it’s perfectly acceptable act like children. At no other time of year can you meet old friends without a slight nervousness - what should you say? Are their lives going better than yours? Do you have the same things in common as you used to? Will there be awkward pauses in conversation? Should you meet for a nice lunch somewhere? Etc etc. However, at Christmas those concerns are put on the backburner. The whole mad bunch of you can meet in whatever dive of a pub you used frequent in your youth. You’re all in the mood to act like irresponsible kids, and by the second mulled wine, you’re all wrapped in tinsel, and the awkward conversational pauses were a hazy forethought. Just for one evening, it’s like you’re kids again, and everyone is simply happy to see everyone else. To be drunk and silly, to gossip and dance like twats, to forget all the money you’ve spent, the jobs you have, the worries at home, and to relive your teens. The fun, not the angst-ridden parts that is.

So there, you Christmas doubters, you scrooges and humbugs. Ignore the lack of cash, the fact that it’s often more capitalism than Christ nowadays. Yes you’ll be fat and poor and the twinkly lights will be gone come January, but sod all that, there’s lots of fun to be had in the mean time. It’s only two weeks away now… quick! Get in the festive spirit! And shout along with good old Noddy Holder! It’s Chriiistmas!

An Almost Pleasant Pheasant

It’s not often in the city that you hear about people going hunting. It’s not often in the city that you see any wildlife, unless you count pigeons and raggedy-ass city foxes screaming in the middle of the night and knocking your bins all over your garden. So, I was quite excited when the chef at work announced his mate had been out shooting and had given him three pheasants, and that one was mine if I wanted it. So, in exchange for a shot of rum, I was handed a bin liner containing the bird. ‘You know what to do with this, right?’ he asked me.
‘Of course’, I replied.
‘And you’ll be alright with it? My wife won’t let me bring it in the house’.
‘I’m from Lincolnshire’ I replied. The implication being, of course, that I was a country girl. I’d encountered plenty of freshly shot game in my youth, I’d seen my mum pluck and gut birds when I was a kid, and excitedly helped her out. There’s nothing more exciting when you’re a kid than the prospect of mess, guts and gore, and really getting your hands dirty. And you assume, as you get older, you get more worldly wise, tougher, more able to cope with the events life throws at you. And in a way, you do. What people, myself included, forget, is that despite the city hardening you up in many ways, it also mollycoddles you, takes you away from anything natural, and hands you a whole lot of things on a plate - often a plate prepared, cooked, and then washed up by, someone else.

It was more my partners reaction that suddenly made me squeamish. I told him I’d brought home a pheasant from work, which was fine until he learned that the pheasant was currently in a bag, in the kitchen, still feathered, still with feet and beak attached. And the look of horror on his face both amused me and took me by surprise. Promptly, (and I know I’m far too old to behave in this manner, but it was too easy) I grabbed the bird from the bag and chased him around the lounge with it. And I don’t care what you think. It was worth it to see him hide in the corner, hands in front of face. Daft, I thought. This is how all our meat starts. What is there to be squeamish about? However, when I got the (literally) bloody thing out onto the chopping board, I have to admit (although, not to my partner of course) I changed my tune. Gone was the no nonsense Lincolnshire lass, and in her place was a city girl confronted by a horrible dead carcass, eyes white, and so many feathers! So what the hell happened? Anyone from back home would have laughed out loud. So, I decided, I had come this far. I wasn’t being defeated by a dead bird. Into a bucket of hot water poor Mr Pheasant went, and while he soaked, I poured myself a very large glass of wine, and put his poor sopping body on my chopping board. I took a very big swig, and started plucking.

Not so bad, I thought, as I put all my muscle into pulling out the feathers, and dropping them into the bucket on the floor. Not so bad until I got to the top, grabbed a big chunk of feathers at the breast, and the skin peeled away right up to the neck, revealing shiny blood covered tendons and veins. More wine. I looked at the poor bird, its little head still feathered and attached, but its skin hanging of around the base of it’s bloody neck. Head off I thought. So I took a second (and another large gulp of wine) and picked up the knife. I held its now bald body up, placed the knife on the lolling exposed neck, grimaced, and then cracked it. It came away pretty easily, and I quickly chucked it in the bucket, out of sight. My partner came in, poking his head tentatively round the door, obviously morbidly fascinated. That was the worst bit done, or so I thought, and I wasn’t going to let him see me being squeamish, so I chopped off the feet, and chucked the body in water in the sink.

By now, my bird was beginning to resemble something on a supermarket shelf, and with its sad little head out of sight, the pheasant torturing guilt had subsided. Only one job left to do. Just gut the thing. Not so bad right? Well, I’ll spare the details, but Christ, the smell! As soon as it hit me, I remembered it from when I’d helped my mother as a kid, but, as a grown up, I’m sure it was worse. Also, as a kid, it wasn’t my kitchen, so I had no responsibility to clean guts out of the sink. That smell stuck in my nose for the rest of the evening. I felt like Macbeth, with blood forever on his hands, guilt tormenting his soul about what he had done. I’d killed that poor creature! Well. I hadn’t actually. But I’d stopped it resting in peace!

Anyway, I’m over it now, and the moral to this story, if you can call it that, is as follows. My kitchen is now clean, and you’d never know the horrors that took place there. The gory remains have been safely disposed of*. Mr Pheasant, when cooked, looked just as appetising as anything in the butchers, and much more appetising than anything in the supermarket, and, it tasted bloody lush. So, city dwellers, lets get our hands dirty. Take away is great, but nothing is as satisfying as doing it yourself, short of shooting the damn thing and really being responsible for the whole process. And, a thought possibly more horrifying than any of the afore mentioned process – maybe Gordon Ramsay had a point when he butchered his kids pet chickens in front of them. Or maybe not. I’m undecided!

*N.B. Another note to city dwellers: When I said ‘safely disposed of’, I may have lied a little. May I advise if you are attempting anything similar, to weigh down your bin lid. Bloody foxes have left a right feathery mess, right across my garden! Damn wildlife!

Bristol Old Vic - 'Our Country's Good' Review

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Call me a pessimist....

Call me a pessimist, but what the hell is going on with this country at the moment? Has everyone gone a little bit mad? And more to the point, has everyone lost the will to care?! Everyone has a degree nowadays. That’s millions of well educated young people – socially aware graduates – many of whom are either out of work or in dead end jobs (it’s a recession don’t you know) all over the UK. So what happened to the idea that the youth are the leaders of tomorrow? We have lost whatever little faith we had in politicians, we all complain about how badly Labour screwed things up, reel in disgust at MP’s spending thousands in expenses having their gardens/homes/chandeliers tinkered with while we’re all skint and miserable. We’re involved in a war that most of the country disagreed with from the start, and whose very basis was fuelled by yet more political lies. People like Nick Griffin are playing on our dissatisfaction and political malaise and winning popularity spouting nonsense about white supremacy, and what options are left to change this? Well, we have to choose between smug publicity whore David Cameron, Brown again (I needn’t comment on that one) and the lovely Nick Clegg, who is just thrilled the others are so utterly vile that he might actually get a look in. Either that, or lets go for a proper change. Something really different. Whose available, lets see, oh yes, the KKK’s new buddies - the British National Party. Come on! The depressing thing is (oh yes, that wasn’t the worst part) that none of us likes it. We all complain about it, often quite eloquently, when we’re down the pub, and then continue or dissatisfaction silently the following day. I know it’s the British prerogative to have a stiff upper lip and all, but forgive me if I’m mistaken, but wasn’t the whole idea of democracy that we could elect someone who represents our interests?

So how is it then that a nation of such well educated, socially and politically aware young people has allowed such a depressing list of options?
We know our parents royally messed up, letting Maggie do arms deals with Iraq on the sly (as well as stealing milk, obviously) then tried to amend the situation and were won over by young Tony’s charismatic grin, watching passively as he toadied up to yet another mad Bush. But come on, live and learn! The similarity between Blair and Cameron’s smarmy tactics is horribly obvious. What’s the point of remaining a staunch supporter of any political party if the blighters are all the same? There must be some of us out there better suited to the job. Some of the many honest people who are guided by wanting to make a change rather than by the potential size of their expense account!

In previous decades, the young were guided by materialism, by aspiring to live like glamorous celebrities, by greed. We could buy the lives we wanted, an interest in politics was a side thought. But for gods sake, put the credit card down, cut it in half, we can’t afford it anymore. The vast majority of graduates are slaving away in call centres, working as recruitment consultants, or out of work altogether, struggling to pay off massive student debts by and legitimate means available. Was that the master plan? No! And who qualifies as a celebrity now? Jordan? Paris Hilton? Victoria Beckham? Isn’t that enough to curb our aspirations for materialism and fame?! We’ve got more brains, and more potential than this! I know we all express our displeasure and irritation about the current state of affairs down the pub (when we can afford to go that is – thanks again Brown) but lets get off our collective arse and try and come up with some better options to change the situation. The previous generation buggered it up, and it’s our job to fix it. We’ve got the intelligence, the awareness and the numbers, all we need to do is ditch the feeling that we’re not in control. This is a good country, and we’ve been apathetic for too long. Even America has managed to sort itself out to some extent. Yes, it took some serious, serious mistakes to get them in gear, but they’ve got Obama now. He’s yet to prove himself, but at least they got a candidate in the running that you could afford to put some faith in!

It’s time to sort it out, and it’s impossible that our current political leaders are the best we have to offer. We’ve got the time, and the skill to fix this, I’m sure of it. Hey – maybe I’m not such a pessimist after all.

Bristol Painter Tom White - a beautiful exhibition

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Is it me?!

I was working as a barmaid and part time administrator at an accountancy firm in a tiny village up t’north when I decided, aged 19 that I wanted more. Now, if I’m honest, it was probably a little ambition, and a little sense of adventure that led me to this decision. But mainly, it was the prospect of having to spend the rest of my working days chatting to accountants that put me on the next train to reach the bright lights of Bristol. Anyway, off I went, to get a degree and a more fulfilling career, and that’s what I did. Well, the degree part at least. And I think I did alright; a 2:1 BA Hons in English Literature and Philosophy, a degree choice which I was advised would ‘equip me with analytical skills applicable in the workplace’, the proof employers needed that I was ‘motivated and able to work to strict deadlines’ and that ‘English is a desirable subject when applying for job’. Blah blah blah.

Well, what I have achieved, unlike most of my university buddies, is hanging onto my flat in Bristol (by the skin of my teeth, mind) rather than being forced by the substantial debt I have accrued to return home to live with mummy and daddy. But, a year after completing my course, the career part has yet to materialise. And it’s not though lack of trying, I promise you. Admittedly, I was unsure of exactly what I wanted to do when I finished Uni, but I knew I wanted to work in the media. And I went on a mission to get some experience. I did the unpaid placements around the bar job, the 5am starts helping out on radio breakfast shows, the shadowing of news reporters, noting and emulating their every move, and I really enjoyed it. Not as much as I would had they been paying me a handsome fee obviously, but I enjoyed the pursuit of the dream and the feeling of working toward something. When I got short of cash, I did office temp work in the day, and kept the bar job at night, but of late, even that work has dried up. I now find myself grovelling for the kind of jobs I want amidst a sea of other graduates, most from better universities (I went to UWE, god bless ‘em) who apparently have the edge in some way - a masters, a PHd, and more often than not, a father who either knows someone in the business, or from whose company afore mentioned graduate has gained ‘valuable work experience’ before applying for the post - whilst  their living costs have been provided for by Daddy of course. It seems that to a great extent, higher education is still better suited to the rich after all.

So, not one to be unrealistic about the situation, I decided that to afford to stay in the lovely city of Bristol, I would go back to what I know. I know my office admin. I can seat people in meetings. I can order stationary, and damn it, I can make a bloody good cup of tea. So apply I did. To many, many such positions, and got through to a fair few interviews. But what came up at each and every interview?  ‘So, you did a degree, you obviously don’t really want to be doing admin. Where do you see yourself in 5 years?’ My God! What do these people want?! I found myself becoming like a needy girlfriend. ‘I see myself with you! I love your company! Nothing thrills me more than the prospect of cold calling/a well organised filing cabinet/an up to date client database! And I must admit, every time I get rejected from a position I didn’t really want in the first place, a little more of the dream dies. Not to mention the ever growing fear that the repo man are coming for the telly, or my landlord may start collecting limbs in place of the (once again) late rent. I find myself beginning to be pleased if I receive a rejection by post. I mean, at least they took time to do more than forward the obligatory email template - ‘I’m sorry, due to the high calibre of applicants…’ and ending ‘N.B due to the high number of applicants, we cannot give individual feedback’. Well, ta very much. Or worse still, after two rounds of interviews, no reply at all. This is when you start to ponder. To really doubt yourself. And here come the niggling questions… ‘why didn’t they call/I thought they liked me/was I too keen/maybe I wasn’t keen enough/am I really that bad?! And there’s that needy girlfriend again.

It seems the only jobs available at the moment are recruitment consultant jobs. The market is awash with them, geared at graduates. ‘Are you commercially aware?’ they ask. ‘Do you have charisma? Then this is for you!’ Obviously, what they mean by charisma is, are you suitably lacking in soul and moral integrity to take a job which involves lying to your fellow graduates about the possibility of getting a good job. But hey, the money is good, and yes, I admit I’ve applied. I’m not sure however, whether the prospect of scraping by on minimum wage at the pub is any worse than actually landing a recruitment consultant position. Come back accountants, all is forgiven! At least you know where you are with accountants, even if where you are is considering a hardcore drink problem just to make the prospect of engaging in conversation more interesting.

On the upside however, at least I am qualified to philosophical about the whole matter, and I have the necessary skills in written English to write a rant about it. And where better to talk deep, meaningful philosophy than to drunk customers down the pub. I mean, we’re all pretty philosophical after a few gins, right? On second thought, maybe I have found my calling after all.