"Where there is discord..." There is finally silence.

The Incident

My family are brilliant at many things; especially embarrassing each other. All parents have a deep unwavering love of showing people naked pictures of their children's first bath, but my family take it a step further.

Every year at Easter, The Incident is brought up. 

However much I plead, however much I beg, The Incident is still always mentioned. 

As a child, I was forced to go to a Church of England primary school. As most of my family are stubborn atheists, this was a slightly bizarre choice, but hey ho. Anyway, every year at Easter, there would be a re-enactment of the crucifixion. One year, I was cast to play Peter the apostle. I was really proud of myself, and did my best dramatic sobbing as Jesus was betrayed. I was convinced I'd get an envelope with my invitation to the Oscars and be whisked off to America. Obviously that didn't happen, but I was smiling for ages afterwards, and kept repeating my lines dramatically in the bath. 

A few days after the Easter play, there was the annual egg rolling event. For those of you unfamiliar with the joys of egg rolling, it basically involves 200 screaming children stood in a faintly sulphuric smelling school hall, rolling painted eggs down a huge ramp. I never won the egg rolling contest, (which was a constant source of disappointment) however spurred on by my role as Peter the apostle, I decided to enter the Easter bonnet competition. 

Prizes were awarded for the prettiest and most original bonnets. I was determined to win a prize, so I designed my bonnet a few days before. I knew I couldn't go with the usual egg themed idea, so I decided on flowers.  

What a mistake that was. 

I was absolutely sure nobody else would have chosen flowers. But I was Peter the apostle. I HAD to win. I couldn't just risk it with paper flowers.... so I went a step further. I stapled freshly cut daffodils to a straw hat. 

Yes, these little buggers. 

Now as a child, you think everything is immortal. Nobody will die and malaria and pestilence do not exist. So I didn't factor in the possibility that the daffodils might wilt.

So in front of a hall full of expectant parents, teachers and classmates, I  had to suffer the traumatic experience of marching around in a straw hat covered in dead, decaying daffodils. The lovely yellow flowers had wilted into a pooey brown mess, and my dreams were hanging in tatters. 

Needless to say, I did not win a prize. 

White smoke and holy mirrors

I was hoping for white smoke to signal a black pope - not only because it sounds irritatingly catchy but also because I had a quid resting on it. Cardinal Turkson was obviously not meant to be.
Instead, we have some Argentinian bloke, Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio as Pope Francis.

Anyway, It's not even been 24 hours and already the Fran/ Pope Francis jokes have got out of hand ( Mum, if you're reading this, IT'S NOT FUNNY)

Jim Bowen, is that you?

Immigration is not the issue

Okay. It's Friday 22nd February. A whole 8 days after valentines day.
I know Royal Mail have a woeful track record, but even I  can't still kid myself that Johnny Depp is my secret admirer and my valentines cards got lost in the post.
So at 15, I shall have to resign myself to spending the rest of my life crumbling  away in a wedding dress, Miss Havisham style.

But now, onto more pressing issues.  

I'd like to clear up a few myths about immigration.

Contrary to what 'The Daily Mail' would like us to believe, Immigrants are Humans.  With human tendencies. And human lungs, and human hearts, and weird  human obsessions. Not 'scum'. Or 'scroungers', and immigration is not the reason that the U.K is in the midst of a terrible recession. The halal shop on your street corner is not the reason the UK government are  £1,347.4 billion in debt. 

In the 1980's Margaret Thatcher single handedly demonised the working class, by making 'working class' something of a swearword. Working class jobs that people were proud to have, were eradicated.  By letting the UK economy 'thrive', she was actually encouraging a competitive economy, which meant that the UK manufacturing and labour industries were outsourced to cheaper developing countries, to drive prices down. This lead to the closure of mines (with viable coal still underground!) and the shutting of factories.

She also eliminated affordable housing under the 'right to buy' scheme, effectively demolishing the pillars of the working class community.


This means that in the U.K, there is a lack of affordable housing and mass unemployment within working class communities. Rather than seek to remedy this, the government scapegoats immigrants.
Instead of asking "If there aren't enough jobs for British people, why should immigrants get them?" We should be asking WHY there aren't enough jobs, and WHAT we can do to remedy this.

One way to raise money  to go towards the creation of jobs would be through the scrapping of the nuclear warhead system, 'trident'. The government has spent in excess of £100 billion on creating and maintaining a weapon of mass destruction we don't want, need, or will ever use. If trident was detonated, it would have 8 times the power of the nuclear bomb detonated over Hiroshima in 1945, causing indescribable damage. Try telling the 1,000 or so employees of HMV that may loose their jobs that trident is more important than creating jobs in the U.K.
The government are to blame for this gross mis-spending, not immigrants.

Only a couple of weeks ago, an article appeared in my local paper 'The Telegraph and Argus' about a polish family living in Holme Wood that suffered terrible abuse simply for being Polish.  They had bricks thrown through their windows, and were threatened to "pay up or die".  In the end, they moved back to Poland.
I don't know this family's name, or how their story ended, I just know that it is not acceptable situation in 21st century Britain.

We should be proud of what a multicultural nation we are, with varied religions, languages, arts and culture. Wouldn't it be boring if we all stuck to the stereotypes? Immigrants built many great countries. The pioneering  British puritans of the 17th century, made America the most powerful country on earth.
  After all, it is merely a coincidence that we are here in Britain in the first place.  Homo Sapiens originated from Africa, and migrated West to Europe around 125,000- 60,000 years ago.

Pinch me, I must be dreaming

Hello hello hello,
I've got some questions that need answering. For the sake of my (questionable) sanity.
Firstly, I must ask; Am I dreaming?

In all seriousness, we're a mere 21 days into the new year, and already some pretty bizarre stuff has happened.  Correct me if I'm wrong but, on the same website #Cut4Bieber , #OrwellDay and #CBB have been trending. (Ironic, no?)
David Bowie has made the sneakiest comeback in musical history, still managing to exude cool at the age of 66 and with his head superimposed onto a doll's body.
Tesco have managed to alienate Jews and horse lovers alike, by including cute little piggies and ponies in their beef burgers.
The Pope has found new and interesting ways in which to erm... reach out to the youth of today.
Unfortunately, armageddon has hit the British Isles in the form of frozen flakes of water falling from the sky, resulting in a severe impairment to the U.K's journalism and many broken dreams. The effect of falling snow may have even caused several mental health conditions to form in the brains of 'wannabes', as 'Becoming famous' now constitutes sucking a used tampon and filming yourself in the act .However if turning vampire doesn't appeal to you, you could 'do a Katie Price' and  marry your 3rd husband in 8 years because a psychic told you so.

That's not all though. My personal favourite of this month's crop of non-news stories has to be Jimmy Savile's guest appearance on the tweenies. Not only was it tear inducingly funny, the song Jimmy introduced was 'one finger one thumb keep moving'. Again, another triumph of the BBC over the British taxpayer.

This is the stuff that makes history folks. 

Now that's what I call broadcasting

Hello.

 I sometimes listen to the radio.

Okay, that's a really banal statement, but you'll see where I'm going with this in a minute.

Anyway, the other day I was listening to  BBC Radio 4, when suddenly, an article about soft drugs came on.  The broadcaster in question was speaking about the beauty of 'weed bags'. Yes, I-SHIT-YOU-NOT, there was a fully grown man, on a national radio station, almost at the point of orgasm... over little polythene baggies used to store cannabis in. According to the aforementioned bloke, Weed bags should be "Stored in a museum, so people of the future can fully appreciate the beauty and hedonism of the 21st century." Apparently for him; "Finding them on the floor gives me a tiny insight into the mysteries of a total stranger's life."

Yeah, I wasn't quite sure I was fully awake either, but after establishing that I'd not nodded off after eating a large quantities of Brie, I realized that I bloody love the BBC.

Not only do I want to hunt down Mr Weed-Bags and force him to teach Year 10 PHSCE in Leeds secondary schools, but I also want to hugely thank the BBC for spending tax payer's money on gems like this. 

I smile a little to myself every night in the thought that 'Hard working British tax payers' like this man here:

 are paying for the casual Radio 4 listener to be informed of the beauty of Weed bags.

So let's forget about scandals involving Jimmy Saville, Andrew Sachs and senior Tory MP's, The BBC is worth every single penny of tax payer's money. 

Aunite Beeb deserves a bit of love. 

                                          

Electioneering

I'm not even going to pretend I know anything about American politics . Everybody with a reasonable grasp of literacy and wi-fi has been blogging left right and center about the upcoming elections, and I could blog forever about how much of a misogynistic, homophobic, free market capitalism loving, Arab bashing, working class hating, Mormon idiot Mitt Romney is, until my beard grazes the floor.

So I'm keeping it simple. If reading this blog in a country called America:

Please go to your nearest polling station and put a cross in a box next to this man's name please.

And er.... COMPLETELY IGNORE anything this man says: 

Because the fate of the rest of the universe rests on YOUR  shoulders. 

Repeat after me, OBAMA GOOD, ROMNEY BAD.

Got that?

Bad tidings

Okay, so it seems to be the holidays again. Everyone I know is busy making strange outfits from bits of curtain and fake blood. Apparently it's some kind of  Western tradition  and if you ask strangers nicely, they give you sweets.

I personally plan on standing semi naked in the middle of my garden, belting out an acoustic version of OutKast's Hey Ya. Because if that doesn't scream 'Trick or Treat' at you, -sadly, nothing will. 

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

Hey, last night I went to go see a fantastic production of Tennessee William's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the West Yorkshire profile, courtesy of The Guardian,  and they published my review!! But because I'm so completely un-original I thought I'd publish it here too:

 The scene was set. On stage, a fan whirred monotonously round, doing little to dispel the thick soup of the Mississippi delta air, or the sense of frustration at the forefront of everything.

Maggie flounced on stage, and so 3 hours in the company of the dysfunctional and deeply unhappy Pollitt family began.

Admittedly this is not the smoothest of metaphors, but the only thing I can liken the play to is a 1950’s style EastEnders. Although Phil Mitchell fails to make a surprise cameo and denounce the Pollitts as liars in a booming cockney accent, he may well have done. All the parallels are there. Suicide, alcoholism, homophobia, a loveless marriages and deceit.  Lots, and lots of deceit.

The whole play is centred on the various family members lying to each other. Brick lying to Maggie, Maggie lying to Big Momma, Big Momma lying to Big Daddy, Big Daddy lying to Gooper and so forth.

All this is done with the utmost precision from the cast.  Zoe Boyle’s portrayal of cat like Maggie, oozing sexiness and beguilement is darkly contrasted to Jamie Parker’s portrayal of Brick and his cold indifference to anything but whiskey.

 Although not always mentioned in a review, it’s hard to imagine what the play would have been like without the score of lurking bass and crashing cymbals, courtesy of the Leeds Improvised Music Association.

To say that a few skeletons are un-earthed during the course of the play is an under-statement. Skeleton after skeleton surfaces from the dark waters of the Mississippi- and hit the audience right where it hurts.  In one scene, Brick lurches at Maggie with a chair, and narrowly misses sending her sprawling to the floor.  This sent up an uneasy ripple of laughter from the audience, which I found very disturbing.  Perhaps it is because Brick’s chair forced us to reflect upon our own lives, and realize that sometimes we are not so different from the Pollitt family.  Ensuring that long after the set was dismantled, and the saxophonist caught the bus home, the story of Cat On a Hot Tin Roof would lurk somewhere at the back of our minds.

If anyone else went to see it, feel free to comment below, I'd love to hear everybody's thoughts.

You can see it on the guardian site here, and add comments there too. 

*Also, sorry about the strange font arrangement- my laptop is menstruating.

Hometown glory

I have some more D.I.Y. poetry... don't blame me, blame Miss Shah and Mrs Brown  who managed to bully me into writing a poem for the 'Letter to Leeds scheme'. I don't know if anybody has heard of it yet, but I think it's a pretty good idea.

Basically, The British Library is funding a huge project across Britain, entitled 'Writing Britain' and Leeds library has decided to grab a piece of the action, and on the 4th of December 2012 there will be an exhibition on all things Leeds in the central library exhibition space. 

The letters will feature as a backdrop to all of this, and within the letter you can write, draw and rhyme your feelings about Leeds.

So I thought I'd put my two pence in, and write an untitled poem:

I walk through this land, the place of my birth,

Leeds, West Yorkshire, Planet Earth.

My scuffed converse kick the ground, 

through my ears ring the sounds,

of the suburbs.

Teenagers skating by the city hall,

autumn leaves fading to nothing at all.

Random thoughts drift lazily across my brain,

I glance at the slate grey clouds

-It looks like rain.

All around me stranger's bodies hum,

who was it that said Yorkshire people were dumb?

Our accent isn't un-educated,

in fact, far from it,

It's warm and it's gentle and it cloaks me like honey. 

Okay so our football team always lose,

but we're better at rugby in yellow and blue!

From the pigeons sat on Prince Edward's head, 

to the  weeds at the back of my Grandad's shed,

and the library and the park and the giant chess set as well,

to the lights at Christmas and the tolling church bells.

I'll never be ashamed of the city I call home,

because I am Leeds right through to my bones. 

If you want to get involved (which I urge you to do!) go to Letter to Leeds to find out more. Once you've completed your letter, mail it to: 

 The Letter to Leeds scheme

Leeds Central Library,

Calverley Street

Leeds

LS13AB

Also, you can engage in the twitter debate by tweeting either @lettertoleeds or #lettertoleeds

Go forth and write your letters!

Another year closer to death

Hey, the 15th day in October just happens to be my birthday.
I share this date with the motley crew of people that are The Duchess of York, P.G Wodehouse, Nietzsche and Paul-Michel Foucault, so yeah. Happy birthday to me!

My life is now complete

Okay, I'll apologize in advance for this blog post. I've been a fan of Radiohead since the tender age of 11 and could probably do them as a specialist subject on Mastermind.

Anyway, I SAW RADIOHEAD LIVE LAST NIGHT! 

I know! I still can't believe it either.  

And guess what.........?

                                    THEY WERE BEYOND AMAZING!!!

And I don't say that lightly either. Even my Mum who is a staunch hater of any band that uses more than four chords in  a song had a good night. 

After Caribou had finished their set, Thom introduced the band with "Hello, I'm lady gaga!" and they stormed  straight into Lotus Flower. Manchester arena was up on it's feet screaming and doing Thom's dance. At this point my brain exploded. It really did, and plastered itself JFK style all over the neighboring seat.  

The rest of the night involved lots of dodgy dancing, several life affirming moments, Jonny Greenwood's fringe and a bit of vomit. 

I think the whole night can be summed up with a transcript of the conversation between the blokes sat behind us. 

Bloke 1: "The fact that they can play with two percussionists in such an odd time sig...."

Thom Yorke: "We're going to play a really, really old song now."

Bloke 2: "OHMIGODSHUTUP THEY'RE PLAYING PLANET TELEX!!

 I can assure that the other 21,000 people singing along to Paranoid Android had a good night. Not only was the set beautiful and the songs perfect, the musicianship was seamless. I understand that Radiohead aren't everybody's cup of tea, but you can't say that they're not good musicans because they really, really are. In fact the whole night was just brilliant. Every single second of it.

Anyway, I'll stop orgasaming over Radiohead and let you eat your tea, but before I go I would also like to remind you that it it's Thom Yorke's 44th birthday today, so happy birthday, you legend. He head a 'Free tibet' flag over one of his amps. You can't get more awesome than that. 

If you'd like to find out more about my night in Manchester, checkout the setlist here, some reviews of the gig here and here and the rest of the tour dates here! 

The revolution is live

As you know, I occasionally have a stab at some DIY poetry....and if it's not completely rubbish it ends up on here.

So, here is a poem I have cobbled together entitled 'The revolution will be televised' as a tribute to the late Gill Scott-Heron. It was inspired by a recent Philip Larkin reading I went to at Ilkley literature festival, and of course Gill Scott-Heron himself. 

Now I hope everyone here is familiar with the legend that is Gill Scott-Heron, jazz musician and soul poet. His works were mainly about consumerism in 1970's/1980's America, and racial segregation.  He's someone that inspires me greatly, and I was incredibly sad when he passed away on the 27th of May 2011. I just wished he was still alive now, to witness the effects of the Arab Spring, and an underground revolution amongst the youth of Russia!

But anyway, here it is. 

The revolution will be televised,

In 4 parts on prime time ITV2,

Sponsored by Wonga.com with an interest rate of 4214 percent.

The revolution will be televised.

The revolution will be televised,

Hashtag revolution

With a facebook page and multiple tumblrs,

Highlights published in newspapers owned by Rupert Murdoch,

The revolution will be televised.

The revolution will be televised,

Featuring soundtrack by Adele, Coldplay and Gary Barlow doing a closed fist open fist key change,

Page 3 models will make philosophical comments,

And the revolution will be televised.

The revolution will be televised,

With a montage of the Olympics and Mo Farrah’s twin girls.

Margaret Thatcher as the first women prime minister and the elimination of the working class.

A disabled soldier will hand out awards,

Because the revolution will be televised.

The revolution will be televised,

And during the break refreshments will be available

 Drinks of caffeine mixed with cane sugar and chocolate sprinkles

Colonel Sanders grinning down, with sachets of ketchup and polyethene cutlery,

The revolution will be televised.

The revolution will be televised,

It will not feature sax solos from Gill Scott-Heron, because he passed away in the spring of last year.

                  Available from freeview, Sky T.V and other satellite providers,

The revolution will in fact, be televised. 

If you're interested in Gill's original song,  here's a brilliant montage I found on Youtube.  

Ah, those were the days.

Hey folks!
It's that time of year again....the dreaded first week of September.
And we all know what that means, don't we?

It means getting up at 6:00am again, trying to perfect a semi-graceful manner in which to run for the bus, and physics revision. Poo. As well as all of that, It's GCSE year! And as Micheal Gove has decided to launch the biggest shake up of the British education system since the 1980's, that should be....fun.

Anyway! It's not as if I haven't already been going to school almost every year since the tender age of 4! 

Going back to school has led me to reminisce about my Year 7 days. To be honest, year 7's are generally not the coolest people on the planet, but aged 11, I was the worse than most children. I was the epitome of all that is uncool. 

I really, really was.  

I had a hair cut that made me look like the love child of a wookie and the Bee Gees. 

I also had  face eating and soul destroying acne, and on top of that, my school bag was so big it looked like it was  about to eat me. So you can imagine how attractive I looked. 

Consequently, I wasn't one of the popular kids, a thing which has stuck with me forever. 

So, let this be a lesson to you all.  Benzyl Peroxide and GHD's are your best friends!

Scotland and psychedelics

Eyyup campers!
I don't wanna bore you with holiday stories or anything,  but our annual family holiday was to sunny Glasgow this year!

The hotel was gorgeous and the Scots were friendly, however I had an interesting few days...as I mainly spent the holiday vomiting into a wastepaper basket and inspecting the Scottish National Health Service! In the end me and Mum had to go home early, but not before we went to the amazing Gallery of Modern art! 

We saw lots of really weird and wonderful exhibitions, including the handprint of one of my all time favourite authors!

Aldous Huxley himself. An author loved by millions, famed for his surrealist influenced novels and being off his head on Mescaline in the name of art and science. 

That's Scotland for you! 

Will the media please give teenagers a break?

Hello folks,
I've mentioned this issue on my blog before, (Here http://thelunaticshavetakenovertheasylum.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/take-bow-mr-govethen-do-us-all-favour.html and here http://thelunaticshavetakenovertheasylum.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/thatcherisms-not-dead-only-resting.html )  but needless to say, it's something that really irritates me.
And the issue in question is The-media-bandwagon-of-telling-teenagers-that-the-exams-they-are-sitting-are-getting-too-easy.
So rather than reinforcing my point and writing it all again,  Dean Burnett from The Guardian has done all the work for me and written this rather brilliant article:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/brain-flapping/2012/aug/22/gcse-results-exams-easier-impact

Anyway, I wouldn't have time to write about politics, would I?

I'm clearly far too busy being a working class youth,  loitering on street corners, getting pregnant and being illiterate.

I wish journalists would give teenagers a break sometimes. After all, we'll be the ones deciding which care homes you end up in.

Sisters, we salute you.

Hey Folks!

At this point, I'm sure you're all aware of er...Russia's pussy situation. (okay, stop laughing it's actually quite serious) 

If you haven't, you need to escape from whatever woodland you've been living in, and head over to 

http://www.amnesty.org.uk/pussyriot and http://freepussyriot.org/ pronto!

A balaclava clad Russian punk band, criticizing the Russian Orthodox church (and it's vice like hold over Russian politics) and Putin's regime, has been imprisoned for 2 years on the medieval charge of 'Blasphemy'.

Whilst you may not agree with gatecrashing a church service and singing punk songs, Pussy Riot's message is a far deeper one.

Their aim is to highlight what really happens underneath the veneer of Putin's regime. In recent years Russia seems to have been making small steps of progress towards respecting human rights, but this is clearly a crumbling facade.

Although now cruelly imprisoned, Pussy Riot have achieved their aim. Everyone from Paul McCartney to my Gran is watching Russia's every move, with the message that Russia is wrong, and the hope that Pussy Riot will be freed. 

So, whilst you're drinking a brew, all cosy and warm in bed tonight, spare a thought or two for the martyrs of Pussy Riot, in a freezing prison cell, missing their families, all in the name of free speech and punk rock, whilst Putin relaxes in comfort and grandeur. 

                                                             Girl Power!! 

We didn't do too badly, did we?

So, the Olympics are over.
That's it for another 4 years, but bloody hell, we went out with a bang.
Now I'm not your stereotypical patriot. I don't have 'England '66' tattooed in fading ink across my bicep. I'll never sacrifice my life or kill another human being in aid of my country. I don't hate The Queen, but I'm not her biggest fan either, and I certainly do not agree with the amount of taxpayer's money we spend on her each year. I'll also happily admit that I don't attend church on Sundays, and my stint as a Girl Guide was short lived.
However, during two weeks in the middle of August, I felt quite proud of our tiny little island.
Our tiny little island that is famous for it's class system, sarcasm, and the national drink of some Chinese leaves in hot water,  which will now be remembered for the Olympics.

As I've said before on this blog, the London 2012 Olympics are far from perfect, but we did a pretty decent job! We hosted them with a smile (albeit sometimes a forced one), which turned into mild surprise when we ended up 3rd in the medal table with 29 gold, 17 silver and 19 bronze medals, and realized that we are much better at sport than Eurovision.

So anyway, I'll stop rabbiting on about my national pride, and give the closing ceremony a mention.

Other than the questionable decision of inviting One Direction, Jessie J, Take That, Ed Sheeran (who murdered a Pink Floyd song) The Spice Girls and er... Naomi Campbell (Blood diamonds anyone?) 

It was pretty damn good!
I'll refrain from making George Micheal jokes, but you really can't fault The Pet Shop Boys accidentally  dressed as The KKK!

Another highlight was 80,000 people erupting into John Lennon's Imagine, whilst a sculpture of his face was constructed  IKEA style with some white boxes.  Somewhat ironically, this was set to the background of some confused North Korean athletes, who will probably never understand peace, and unsurprisingly  won all the medals involving weapons. 

 

By far though, the best part of the night was Beady Eye's (sadly not Oasis, but you can never have it all) rendition of Wonderwall, which brought back memories of Year 8 music lessons and also brought a tear to my eye. 

The Who then played everybody out with My Generation, in an explosion of tears and confetti. 

At this point I received a text from one of my mates, enlightening me to the fact that the guy playing bass for The Who, was wearing a suit made of wool  from her parents factory. 

I shall take that as my Olympic claim to fame (however tenuous it may be) and politely decline to mention my wool allergy. 

                                                 So, that was the Olympics 2012.  

I shall leave you with a picture of some constipated divers.

  

Technophobia

Hey there folks,
I Just thought I should write this blog post as a farewell to my laptop. Because on Friday, my old bacteria, sticker and dirt covered laptop, will sadly be sent off to the home of obsolete software in the sky. I know it's only a laptop, but for 7 years, it has been there to let me tweet, blog, and browse whenever I feel like it.
It has also been my rock, quite literally, in that the thing is built like a TANK.  And when I say tank, I mean TANK.  I once dropped it on to  my toe, and a solid concrete floor.  My laptop didn't even suffer a scratch. In fact my toe suffered more, and the floor was decorated with nice pool of blood.

So although I'm looking forward to having a laptop that actually works, with decent software, a webcam, and  Windows 7, please have a moments silence for my old friend.

Society's growing problem....

Hello there fellow homo-sapiens,
I'm  still having a brilliant time on my summer holidays, Team GB are doing fabulously and all is very lovely on planet Fran.

I've even cracked MSN messenger out, just to reminisce over old times. I remember when being on MSN was so cool, before facebook and twitter and all that shebang. I suppose it's a retro form of communication now, I feel old.

Anyway, I'm writing this blog , to inform you of a growing problem amongst the European and  American public. The situation has got so bad, that soon the problem could become  pandemic and spread further...

And that, dear reader, is this. 

 People wearing band t-shirts, who don't like the band. Everyone is doing it, chavs, hipsters, middle aged dads, the lot. And to be quite frank, It really, really irritates me. It's up there with my top 10 pet hates, and the thing is, I don't even UNDERSTAND why people do it!
 I mean I wouldn't go out in a 'CAMERON IS MY HOMEBOY' t-shirt, so why do people who don't like Nirvana wear  Nirvana t-shirts?!?

Take this conversation here.

Me: Hey, I never realised you liked Nirvana! I wish Kurt was still alive....anyway, what's your favourite album? Mine would probably have to be Nevermind, it's just such a classic. 

Person in offending Nirvana T-shirt:  Ummmmmm......I quite like Smells like Teen Spirit?

Me: Yeah, I think he wrote that song after something Courtney said, although I really like Urban Outfitters
you know, because that's where you bought your t-shirt isn't it!

Person in offending Nirvana t-shirt: OMG! You must be physic!

Me: yeah...something like that.

To quote one of my friends: 'It's those girls in fake Stone Roses t-shirts that look like tumblr and instagram threw up on them.' Morrissey would not approve. (Although does he ever approve of anything?)

So, please spread the word  to your friends and family about this terrible problem, and remember that prevention is better than the cure, however if this problem does affect you, please remember that OXFAM is your friend. 

Postcards from far away

Well, summer has been eventful so far!
As well as generally lazing around, drinking tea and reading funny postcards from the lovely Ella Weeks, I have been...er....watching the Olympics.

Now, I know what you're thinking. I have moaned incessantly about the Olympics, from the moment 7 years ago, on the 6th of July 2005 when we found out we'd won the bid. For 7 whole years, I have groaned, complained, protested and whinged. There's no denying that the Olympics isn't perfect, so far, there have been: deaths, un-acceptable and shameful corporate sponsorship,a horrific scandal concerning DOW chemical, and a cancelled Glastonbury! 

However we've also had Mr Bean playing a synthesiser,

 a gigantic 100ft Voldermort, 

15 gold medals for Team GB, 

                                             and er....Boris Johnson dangling from a zipwire. 

Only in Britain. 

So, as much as I want to hate the Olympics,  well...I'm actually quite enjoying them, and so far, the opening ceremony has been a highlight, I loved it, and I'm sure the 27 Million U.K. viewers and the rest of the world (even if some of the Korean viewers weren't quite laughing at the classic British humour) loved it too. Especially the Arctic Monkeys. (Or to be even more specific, Alex Turner.)

The only complaint I would have that whoever said "It's a small world" Has evidently never had to sit through the calling out of the countries at the opening ceremony...bloody hell, I managed to have 3 cups of tea just through the S's!  I swear at one point they were just making countries up to make sure Her Maj was awake. Poor sod, I wonder if she was allowed Gin in the stadium? 

We'll remember the opening ceremony for years to come, and if I was old enough to bet, I'd put £100 on Danny Boyle getting a knighthood. The word legend is overused, but not in this case. 

So yes, as much as I have moaned about the Olympics, I will be avidly watching from my sofa, eating some custard creams, but sadly not dreaming. Because any one who knows me well, will know that Fran and sports don't really mix. Okay, Fran and sports do not mix AT ALL. I cannot throw, I cannot jump and I most certainly cannot  run. The only sporting talents I posses are the ability to walk to the fridge plus some mouldy swimming badge, (that will be floating round in my Gran's knicker drawer) saying that I can jump into a large body of water in my pjamas, and swim breaststroke for 100m. 

I think even John Prescott doing the hurdles has more sporting talent than I can only dream of. 

So please don't hold your breath to see me at Rio in 2016. 

                                    

                 

Anyway, enough of my ranting, GOOD LUCK TEAM GB!

Guest Blog: It's the end of school blues.

Hey ya'll!
It's almost the...

 we never actually thought it would happen! In fact we had lost all hope, and believed that year 9 would be an endless loop of physics, biology, geography and extreme mental torment over sports day.
However the whole shebang is bitter sweet, as our beloved form tutor Mr Hancox is retiring. We'll really miss his smiling face in form on a morning. "you're late, your top button is undone and you're weilding a chainsaw....HAVE A VIVO!"
Who knows who'll be our form tutor next year?!?! 
So, whilst things are going good, Maisie and I thought we should celebrate and write a guest blog, so over to you Maisie. 

 Oh hai. Right, where to begin? I'm at school, in front of a computer, so bored that I'm killing brain cells and staring at the wall of fame (It's the I.T. geek wall of seduction..) at the back of the classroom wondering why I'm not up there. So, now it's time for THE THINGS WE WON'T MISS ABOUT SCHOOL, (And a few things we will!) :


unos. Physics exams. Physics is advanced maths with waves, telescopes and the occasional atom thrown in just to confuse you a bit more. (And gallileo just for the hell of it. Blame the greeks.) IT'S HARD AND THAT'S ALL THERE IS TO IT.

zwei. Student Voice. It's basically like student council. But worse. We know that the things that 'Student voice co-ordinators promise us will  will never happen. They never do. These people are supposedly determined to change things. Well, supposed to anyway. They're only doing student voice to look like OFSTEAD robots.

troix. PE. A humiliating event for people who have no coordination,  You see other girls elegantly  performing a serve in volleyball, whilst I miss the ball before it's even left my hand, and then on that rare occasion when my hand decides to work in synchronisation with my eyes, I end up hitting the ceiling and turning it into a ball of death, knocking the girls on the other team over like pins in a bowling alley.

négy. (That's four in Hungarian if you didn't know). Starting at half past 8.  It is absurdly early to be revising for an exam! We then get the blame for bad results when half the stuff goes in one ear and out the other.

Anyway, school is annoying, and I am glad that it's the holidays, but I will miss my peeps, I love you all too much...

And that was Maisie Nutton, with another of our lovely guest blogs!