Sugarplum Dot Fairycake

Scruffy, stubborn and homeless.

2011-07-17T11:50:00.008+01:00

Employment, or lack thereof, is the only thing I think about at the moment. I'll probably start to blog about it quite often because, let's be honest, I have bog all else to do.

I finished my job as a Sabbatical Officer over a month ago and have been in a state of constant despair ever since. I have lost count of the number of jobs I've applied for and have only been interviewed for two, both of which I was highly qualified to do yet neither of which I got.

I'm claiming Job Seekers Allowance, and they're not kidding with the 'allowance' part. It's barely enough to buy food for the fortnight. Feeling horrendously sorry for myself, and actually a little teary, I was brought crashing back down to this earthly hell with a bump in the Job Centre when listening to some of the conversations around me. As bad as my situation was, it could definitely be worse. There was a lad opposite me telling the advisor that he had finished college but couldn't get a job, and a middle-aged woman beside him having her eligibility to claim called into question because she'd taken voluntary severance. (That's hardly the same as jacking it in, is it?)

Whatever happens, however bad it gets, I expect with a degree from Edinburgh and bags of work experience, I'm in a better position than either of those two. Not much consolation, but a bit of perspective at least.

It gets worse, though. Later in the week I realised that I have to move out of my flat. I love my flat and I love my flatmate. This is the only place I've had in Edinburgh where I've been happy to stay beyond the one academic year. I've actually been here now for over two years, but no job = no money = no home.

I don't actually know where I'm going to go. I'm relying on the kindness of friends and hoping that I find a job soon so I can get back on my feet, but going through all of this has really made me question what the hell other people do in this situation.

What do you do when you have no job and you can't pay your rent? I'm lucky enough to have friends who don't mind me staying with them for a little while until I get sorted, and if worst came to absolute worst, I could move back in with my mum, though that would mean sharing a bed with her, which is probably a bit much at my age!

Being unemployed, skint, losing my home, having to sell things that I own and love, having to impose upon my friends, having to listen to people "advising" me on what they see as the best career path for me without any regard for what I am actually good at or what would make me happy and feeling that they have every right to do so because I'm claiming jobseekers... all of this is shit, but what if I didn't have friends ranting at me, or letting me sleep on their couches? What if I had nothing to sell? Where would I go? What the hell would I do?

Doesn't bear thinking about.

Reclaim the Night

2011-05-25T21:12:00.008+01:00

This morning, EUSA President Liz Rawlings was a guest on BBC Radio Scotland's 'Call Kaye' programme discussing the aims of the 'Reclaim The Night' march happening in Edinburgh on Saturday 28th May.

After the show I wrongly quoted Les Gray, Chairman of the Scottish Police Federation of saying that the message of this march should actually be that women should "wear more and drink less." It wasn't actually Les who said this, it was a clip from a caller, so I sincerely apologise for attributing the comment to him when tweeting about it later.

Despite this, I am still extremely concerned by other things that Les said, as well as the way in which he reacted to this comment and questions related to it.

The debate was supposed to be about whether or not the aims of the Reclaim the Night movement are fair and sensible, which are to raise awareness of the issue of violence against women and empowering women to work towards feeling safe in their own communities.

The crux of the argument is that societal attitudes and behaviours need to be addressed in order for women (or anyone else for that matter) to feel that they are safe on their own streets. No one is saying that as a result of this march we'll all be out and about in places that we judge to be unsafe, but that society must to start working to change this so that women do feel safe at night.

Most importantly of all, the fear of violence and/or becoming the victim of violence is always the fault of those causing that fear and perpetrating those crimes, not of those who are subjected to it.

So what was Les Gray's reaction to all this?

1. To paraphrase, he said that the Reclaim the Night march will not get us anywhere. Women should feel safe, but they're not, so we should just use our common sense.

This clearly misses the point. We are well aware that there are places in which it is not currently safe for women to walk around at night. That's precisely why Reclaim the Night exists. Just because we can't at the moment go where we want when we want does not mean we should not be able to.

2. A text message was read out implying that women who go out dressed in revealing clothing are asking for it, since some men can't control their "biological urges" to procreate. Host, Kaye Adams said she expected Les's head would be about to "jump off" at hearing a view of that nature, to which Les replied he "[couldn't] comment."

Kaye gave Les the opportunity to condemn this disgusting attitude, which lays the blame at the door of the victim if she's raped while wearing a mini skirt and excuses the actions of the man who simply can't control his apparently understandably and totally natural "primeval urge" to be a rapist. Les did not take this opportunity. Someone in his position should be working tirelessly to tackle this dangerous societal attitude and certainly has a duty to challenge it, but he failed completely to do so.

3. The organisers of the Reclaim the Night march should ask the police to give out leaflets to women on the march giving advice on personal safety.

How is this any different to asking women to "stay indoors at night" which was precisely the advice given in the seventies which started these marches? Of course women should be made aware of how to keep themselves safe, but this is not where it ends. The police and the government should be working to eradicate violence on the streets, not just handing out literature and leaving it to us. Why didn't Les acknowledge this?

4. Les said, "if you take anything away from this session today at all, it's the drink awareness."

Well, Les, as Chairman of the Scottish Police Federation, I think you are letting down every woman in this country with your sheer blindness to the point.

Drinking alcohol to excess makes you less able to defend yourself, yes, but you are conflating two issues. I may well be less able to defend myself if I'm drunk, but I should not have to fear being attacked in the first place and this should never have to be the focus of a campaign against violence and sexual assault against women. If people in Les's position could see that, then something might actually be done by the powers that be to effect the change that we so clearly need.

Worst of all, Les finished by saying, "you're as well just carrying a big placard saying, 'come and attack me'" and if that's a fair position to be taken by the Chairman of the Scottish Police Federation then we might as well all chain ourselves to the kitchen now.

But if you do lock yourselves indoors, ladies, don't drink while you're making that trifle. You might break a nail, and who's fault will that be?

Not to Labour the point...

2011-05-05T16:59:00.008+01:00

Below is a blog post I wrote back in May and decided not to publish, mainly because I was so upset by the abuse I got the first time round that I felt it wasn't worth the hassle. Since the main political parties in the UK and in Scotland are now having their conferences and the leadership elections are coming up in Scotland, and because I'm now kind of over it, I thought I'd go ahead and throw it out there.

I no longer live in Scotland so I don't get a say in what the Scottish Labour Party do, but I really hope the party and the people in it have learned something from their actions both before, during and after the election so that they have a chance of winning back trust from the Scottish people. I will be watching from Oxford with baited breath!

I have been referred to in the past as a "core Labour voter" - the kind of voter who will always put my cross in the red box, no matter what. I called myself "core Labour" too. I believe in Labour values, so why would I ever vote elsewhere?

Then last year, I heard that Scottish Labour had drafted a policy called "Carry a Knife, Go to Jail", a divisive, populist policy in favour of mandatory sentencing. It is a policy which, if implemented, would create a profile of the 'type' of person likely to be jailed for carrying a knife; a stereotype based on a stereotype.

I could go on about why I hate it - the reasons are many, but that's not the point. Let's just say, it was an eye-opener.

It was at this point that I started to get a real interest in Scottish politics and I quickly realised that though my core values had remained static, I couldn't necessarily say the same for my party; at least in terms of policy (or lack thereof) and especially in terms of the running of their election campaign.

As a result of some very careful thought, on 5th May I changed the way I voted. I wanted to vote for the candidate in my constituency whose ideas, attitude, passion and belief best reflected my own. I was voting for a representative, not a party; and I think it's important to make that distinction, especially when you still have the opportunity to vote for a party on the regional list, as you do in Scottish elections.

With that in mind, I gave my constituency vote to Alex Cole-Hamilton. A Scottish Liberal Democrat, yes, but that's irrelevant as far as I'm concerned. He was incredibly vocal during our "Write to Mike" campaign and contacted us regularly to give advice on how best to make sure Mike Crockart MP kept his pledge and voted against increased fees at Westminster. Hugely supportive from the off, a real advocate of student issues and a thoroughly good guy in my experience. He also shares my distaste for mandatory sentencing and pledged at a hustings in Edinburgh that he would never, ever vote for it in parliament, so we're clearly on the same page.

When it comes to voting for parties, rather than individuals, I voted Labour on the Lothians list. Even though I'm not hugely happy with Scottish Labour (and judging by the SNP landslide we've seen I'm certainly not alone), I'm still attached to my Labour values and at this moment in time I wouldn't have given my vote to any other party.

So there's a difference, isn't there? My preferred party is still Labour, the party of which I am a member, albeit a critical one. My preferred constituency candidate, the individual who I felt would best represent my views, was Alex Cole-Hamilton and my different votes on different ballots reflected this distinction. I was very well aware of what I was voting for on the two separate ballots.

Imagine my horror then, when I received a barrage of personal attacks via Twitter on Thursday afternoon and most of Friday, for daring to talk about my vote publicly. The people dishing out the abuse were fellow Labour Party members, who felt that I had betrayed the party and even some who thought I'd betrayed students. (They are also people who would have been more than happy for me to talk about my vote publicly had it been for their preferred candidate.)

Never mind that I disagree with a core Labour policy on knife crime.

Never mind that I still voted for the party on the list, despite this.

Never mind that it is my vote and I choose how to cast it when voting for an individual to represent me.

Never mind that Alex campaigned against increased tuition fees and still speaks out against them.

Never mind that he signed up to NUS Scotland's 'Reclaim Your Voice' campaign and all of the Higher Education commitments that came with it.

With that in mind, I'm struggling to see how I could have "let down the students I represent" in choosing Alex, even if being a Sabbatical Officer mandated me to vote for certain party members in parliamentary elections. (It doesn't.)

Worse still, those criticising me felt that it was okay to do so in as rude a way as possible and that I should just expect it because I'm a Sabb. As though being a elected means I give up my right to freedom of thought and opinion. Of course I have to vote in the way that a handful of students tell me to, and if I don't, I should be prepared to lap up the bile they throw at me unquestioningly, because it's all par for the course.

Personally I'd argue that if these people spent as much time thinking about what went wrong, or what our party might need to do to fix the mess in which it finds itself in Scotland, or thinking about how they were voting, and what they were voting for, then our party would undoubtedly be a better one in a much stronger position and may have fared better at the polls.

I am deeply hurt that I was told 'Student Leaders' in NUS would be "crucified" for "voting Lib Dem" - something which I neither believe to be accurate nor appropriate to say on Twitter and which misses the point that this was a constituency vote, not a vote for a party. I am also hurt that I was branded a "Failed Vice President" for choosing to vote for a fantastic candidate, rather than blindly for the candidate who carries the same red card as I do.

I'm really grateful to the vast majority who got in touch and told me that they admired my actions and my thinking, even if they disagreed with my conclusions, and I'm really proud of myself for sticking it out and fighting my corner.

For me, this is not about party politics or even about my vote in and of itself. I felt the need to spell out precisely why I fought long and hard against the few who criticised me, not just because I wanted to defend myself and the person that I voted for, but because I really want politics to get better.

I want the people who were campaigning for Scottish Labour to start thinking about what they are supporting and to ask themselves why. I want every voter in Scotland to question the purpose of having both a constituency vote and a regional vote and to think about how they might best use it.

Most importantly, I want every single member of every single Students' Union in the country to recognise that their Sabbatical Officers are theirs to hold to account on the issues that directly affect their interests as SU members. They do not (and never will) have the right to dictate how they vote in their own constituency elections. I am more than happy to discuss the reasons for my voting the way I did (as I have done here) but I will never do so in my capacity as a Sabbatical Officer because the two issues are unrelated.

Yes, I do expect to be criticised publicly for things I do in my private life, but not because I think it is right. Expecting undue criticism is entirely different to accepting it, and that is something I will never, ever do.

Seven Things

2011-04-10T13:17:00.004+01:00

Rebecca, my lovely flatty and writer of Bexpress Yourself has tagged me in a little game, and since I'm always yearning for excuses to blog, I am more than happy to play along.

She has given me a 'Stylish Blogger' award, even though we both know that any sense of style I have comes straight from her wardrobe. Once she and her love move to the other side of the world I will go back to being a scruffy mess.

The aim of the game is to write down seven things about myself, and then tag some other bloggers too. Since my blogging has fallen behind somewhat of late, I'm definitely going to struggle with the last bit, but here goes...

1. I tweet. A lot. http://twitter.com/StevieWise

I tweet so much that I sometimes think I should remove myself from Twitter, as I'm sure it will get me into trouble somewhere along the line! I do love Twitter, though. For me, it has become a place for gathering news, keeping in touch with people I've met through work and a place to have a lot of fun. I have made lots of new friends through Twitter, some of whom I've never 'met' in the traditional sense, but who I would consider to be friends in a weird and new sort of way that I'm still getting my head around. In short, get on Twitter.

2. I sing really loudly when I'm in the flat on my own.

My flatmates presumably don't know this about me, for obvious reasons. My neighbours, however, probably do.

3. I have a super-loud laugh.

I once laughed a couple out of a pub because they simply couldn't hack it. They were clearly miserable gits so I don't care, but the real problem with it is that my sense of humour is such that I find things hilariously funny and guffaw out loud where other people barely manage a brief titter. It's not necessarily the joke that makes me laugh, though. It's often the concept of humour itself that I enjoy. It's a wonderfully intelligent trait of the human race and my favourite thing about people.

4. I love gin.

I love nothing more than a lovely G&T on a summer's day. Or winter's. Or in Spring or Autumn too, really...

5. I have had more jobs than anyone I know.

I've worked since the age of 14, in every sector, doing everything imaginable and yet I've never met anyone who is worse at handling money than I am. I should sort that out.

6. I am mottephobic.

I am genuinely terrified of moths and butterflies. The one joke I never laugh at is the one when someone thinks it's funny to show me a photo of a moth. It isn't. I live my life in annual cycles of moth avoidance. For around three months of the year, I don't open windows. These also happen to be the three hottest months of the year, and I am well aware that they are rapidly approaching... I need help!

7. I seem to have developed a tendency to date men with weird jobs.

Either that, or it comes back to the 'finding everything funny' thing. Conquests incude:

The Barrister

'LG' (Lifeguard)

The Lee Evans Tribute Act (I shit you not...)

Plus an undisclosed (yet small) number of others...!

There are only two men I've been with that I haven't nicknamed according to their jobs, and now that I think about it, they're the two with whom I've felt most compatible. Note to self: avoid men with weird jobs.

The (Everlasting) Adventures of Miss Mop. New Year Edition.

2011-01-09T13:09:00.009Z

If you've read my blog before, you will probably be really excited to read the latest installment in 'The Adventures of Miss Mop'. (Miss Mop is the nickname I've given to my invariably insane friend in order to hide her identity.) She knows who she is... Let's just hope her various boyfriends never find out.

Mop's adventures are extraordinary, really. You may remember the time she pissed herself on her boyfriend's carpet. Or the time she broke into his house and set off the alarm. Or the time she got so drunk on a visit to Edinburgh that I had to put her to bed in order to save myself from her explicit vitriol. All good fun.

Since she's such an interesting specimen, I thought the second post of this year should definitely be dedicated to catching up with her recent exploits.

I saw Mop while I was at home over Christmas. She was supposed to come to Edinburgh to visit me, but just before that was struck down with a case of Appendicitis and rendered unavailable at the last minute. Fair enough. On my return to the Fylde Coast about a week later I arranged to meet Mop for dinner. Having recently passed her driving test, she insisted on taking to the wheel.

"Are you sure you're OK to drive?" I asked. "You've had quite a serious operation."

"I'm absolutely fine," she said, "honestly. It's not a problem."

So that evening I boarded her vehicle and away we went to our local Chinese restaurant.

What happened next shows Mop to be the absolute nut-case I always knew she was.

The snow on Christmas Eve had been trampled, compacted, frozen and hardened, making the pavements of Fleetwood Lancashire resemble a shabby Madison Square Garden. Imagine my incredulity then, when Mop clambers out of her vehicle (having just had an operation) wearing six inch heels.

Imagine further my horror once she started moving...

"Absolutely fine," she says.

ABSOLUTELY FINE?! The woman couldn't stand up! She was bent over double like Quasimodo on his period, trying desperately not to fall down on the ice and die. What an absolute idiot.

Time of the month.

Though I don't quite know how we managed it, we got through a lovely dinner without any emergencies and afterwards Mop dropped me at the pub, refusing to come in for a drink since she was in so much pain. Again, fair enough.

The next day, however, Mop phoned me to tell me a little gossip. "How could she have gossip," I hear you cry, "She went home in tortuous agony!"

Well, turns out that having dropped me off at the pub she got a call from a friend inviting her to a party that she actually saw fit to go to. I was slightly offended, of course, but that's not the point. Whilst there she bumped into the (now ex) boyfriend referred to in earlier posts. Having woken up in his bed on Christmas day last year, this year she somehow managed to muscle her way back in for a repeat performance. What spiced it up a little for round two, of course, was the fact that she was in extreme pain and had a weeping wound on her torso to prove it.

I have no idea how she does it, but if a pre-menstrual Quasimodo with a near-constant flinch on her face can get laid then there has to be hope for the rest of us! Well done, Mop, and thank you.

Let's See What Happens.

2010-11-20T12:12:00.013Z

A few people recently have asked me where the hell my blog has gone. Truth be told, the dreaded dissertation got the better of me, and doing anything other than that got in the way. Then I graduated and got a job and sitting around writing blogs for procrastination took a back burner since someone is now paying me to do shit. I'm going to give the whole blogging thing a go again, though, assuming I find some time to do it. Let's see what happens.

In order to get up to date, I thought a sweeping run down of everything that has happened over the last few months was probably in order first. So here goes:

February 2010: Stand in a student union Sabbatical Officer election. General terror, stress and fatigue ensue while trying to run said election and write dissertation. Not much writing is done, but I win the election, so, you know, every cloud...

March 2010: Vice-President Academic Affairs elect at Edinburgh University Students' Association realises she has less than a month to write almost an entire dissertation. General terror, stress and fatigue continue.

April 2010: Dissertation completed, after a month of constant reading, writing and tea drinking. Surprisingly, no cigarette smoking. Degree looking finally achievable.

May 2010: With just one exam, degree completed. Holiday (to Turkey) for the first time in years. Probably the most skint I've ever been in my life after a few months of not being able to work due to lots of electioneering and dissertating. Looking forward to starting new job at end of month.

June 2010: Officially take office as VPAA. New life begins, and it's brilliant. Still pretty skint. Finally graduate.

July 2010: Settling in at EUSA. Pretty scary but amazing all the same. The phrase "let's see what happens" becomes my most used as I start doing things at work that I've never tried. Gambles tend to pay off. Phew!

August 2010: Edinburgh Fringe Festival begins. Since EUSA let out most of our buildings to Festival Partners, I and my fellow sabbies get free passes. See lots of shows, bump into loads of celebs on scale of relatively unknown > pretty bloody famous. Very fun. Still skint.

September 2010: Freshers' Week happens. When you're a sabb Freshers' is like writing your dissertation in less than a month. No sleep, food little but often. Ill at the end of it. Still pretty skint.

October 2010: Work continuing. Big wins for students happening all the time. Browne review has reported so Student Union focus has changed entirely to fees & cuts. Proudest moment as a sabb so far: Bollocking Lib Dem MP Mike Crockart who phoned to try and catch me off guard. Mobilising students for NUS - UCU National Demo in London. Things going well. Break-up gets in the way a bit. Elected to NUS National Executive Council on a Widening Access to Higher Education platform which is pretty exciting.

November 2010: National Demo happens. It's amazing. 250 students from Edinburgh travel to London on five overnight buses and we manage to avoid any chair-throwers at Millbank. I do a lot of going out and getting drunk, leading to lots of hilarious embarrassment. Plan is to stop doing that so much now.

Wow. Who knew I could sum up ten months of my life so succinctly?! At least we're pretty much up to date now though and I can get blogging again! So, let's see what happens.

Thames Valley Bob Sleigh Team

2010-01-14T13:39:00.002Z

This has just made my day!

I can imagine that they'll be criticised for this, but in honesty I think that this is an instance where technology is a bit of a pain in the arse. As if stuff like this didn't happen all the time before there were video cameras to film it. Even when there were, no one would ever have seen it were it not for YouTube. Police officers have stressful jobs, especially the ones who have cause to carry riot shields. I think I'd be inclined to let this one slide. So to speak...

BBC News story here

2wo Bad Boys With The Power To Rock You

2010-01-14T12:45:00.009Z

Why do I never learn that doing anything other than the dreaded disser***ion is only going to cause off-the-scale levels of stress? I can see it coming... in about a month's time I'll have my head in a bucket whilst being physically sick at the thought of getting this horrendous piece of work out of the way, plus doing my job and everything else that I do that makes me happy, which is therefore preferable to the Big D.

Par example, we have 5ive (yes, I did it... 5ive) coming into the union tomorrow and I have agreed to work. Not because I can afford the time but because I am a has-beens whore and I live for this shit.

The problem is, that this:

Has now become this:

So we're not actually getting 5ive. We're getting 2wo. 2wo bad boys with no power to rock me. And still, I would rather chaperone them than do my work.

I have a problem, quite clearly. Watch this space for post-gig report!

Happiness is...

2009-12-27T21:14:00.003Z

Rage.

2009-12-20T18:50:00.007Z

Is it really, really sad that I have found myself to be genuinely gutted that poor Joe McElderry was beaten to Christmas Number 1 by Rage Against The Machine?

Thought so...

It does, of course, say a lot about the impressive power of internet campaigns. I just wish that that boring bloke from Rage would stop going on about how 'sterile' the pop music industry is.

All the "we have manipulated the charts" and "Rage did it" Facebook statuses are completely overlooking the fact that Rage would never have had a number one were it not for the X Factor any more than Joe would have done.

So, well done, RATM!

(Bitter, much?)

Rage Against The X Factor

2009-12-17T00:28:00.014Z

We all know about the huge push to get Rage Against The Machine's Killing in the Name to the Christmas No. 1 spot in order to end years of X Factor domination. It's a lovely idea, but will it work? Early indications show that Rage is outselling Joe McElderry's The Climb on all digital download sites that I've been able to find.

Avid Rage fans (or zealous X Factor haters) have even gone to the lengths of doctoring X Factor clips to publicise what has actually become a huge campaign. Voila!

(Watch it all the way through, it gets better!)

My prediction is, however, that the hype will be short-lived. Today, The Climb was released on CD single, which means that all the grannies, the Christmas shoppers and the twelve-year-olds who don't have iTunes accounts will go out and buy it.

I haven't bought Killing in the Name, but only because I already own it. I have a cunning plan for my gig on Saturday night, which is to play the first few bars of The Climb, await the horrendous booing from the drunken punters, and then slam on some Rage so that they all go mental! Should be fun, as long as I'm not lynched...

I kind of hope that Joe doesn't become the first X Factor winner in five years not to have a Christmas No. 1, but mainly because I love an underdog, and a viral Facebook Group has, surprisingly, made him just that.

Disturbing Gifts

2009-11-26T13:24:00.007Z

Imported goods? Fine. But at least make sure their sentiments translate across the pond!

My boyfriend nearly vommed all over me when we found this little gem in Clinton Cards on Princes Street.

"A GIRLFRIEND is a sister you choose"

Back In The Game

2009-11-24T10:41:00.003Z

I had my last hand in on Friday, which also happened to be the penultimate essay that I will EVER hand in at University. Amazing. So, as a treat, I got myself a beautiful Gingerbread Latte and some fruit loaf from Starbucks! I know they're everywhere, and I do try to buy myself prizes from local businesses where possible, but when it gets to this time of year, I just cannot resist a Triple Grande GBL.

Not only that, but I had a very special visitor this weekend, as the best treat of all. Miss Mop came to stay! It was always going to be interesting, but nothing could have prepared me for the hilarity she had in store.

Firstly, she arrived and I took her for her first ever GBL. She had never had one before. Like, never. Mental! Then, we went to the National Museum of Scotland and got dressed up! They actually have period costumes for you to try on. I'm pretty sure only the kids are meant to do it, but I was treating myself so what the hell?!

We then met up with our friends for lunch in Teviot, one of Edinburgh University's student union buildings, where she asked me what "shitcake mushrooms" were. Then we hit the town!

Mop was on form all night, but it was only on the way home that things took a turn for the unbelievably hilarious. I refused to let her get a cab. We would have waited for one in the rain for at least twenty minutes, by which time, if we just walked, we could have been home and cradling a brew in bed. Mop was not pleased, especially when I told her that she was not allowed to remove her shoes while we walked up a cobbled alleyway in the dark for fear of her contracting some horrendous disease by stepping on a discarded I-don't-know-what.

I eventually allowed her to do so when we got onto the main road, and only if she was careful. When we eventually got home, my outraged visitor let rip! Not only did she lay into the fact that I had made her walk home, she even began laying into the food served in Teviot, exclaiming, "Bloody students! That's the last time I ever let a student cook for me!" Brilliant.

Here were some other gems:

"I don't believe this. I come to Edinburgh, I get AIDS in my feet. I've got AIDS feet. It's not funny."

"Edinburgh changes at night. There was no talk of AIDS at Cafe Rouge."

"Stevie, stop tweeting. Your blog's good, but this Twitter. I don't agree with it! At least on Facebook you can play Farmville."

Perhaps you had to be there, but I'm still laughing now!

Gender Revo-loo-tion

2009-11-02T11:50:00.009Z

This week I wrote a piece for The Student in response to a news article which appeared on the front page last week. The headline, "Teviot loos go transgender" was not only factually inaccurate but also theoretically incorrect. Only one toilet was affected so the plural "loos" was inappropriate. Also, the correct term is "gender neutral toilets" not, "transgender". Only people can consider themselves to be transgender, not inanimate objects.

Although the article itself was well-balanced, the inaccuracy in the headline resulted in widespread misconception, with many students thinking that all toilets would be affected, or that new toilets were to be built. I was even chatting to a former Edinburgh student (now living in Cambridge) who had heard about it and was under the impression that lots of money was being spent on it. Well, it isn't. So that's why I wrote a column on the subject for the Comment Section. And here it is!

Lots of people have been talking this week about the installation of gender neutral toilets in Teviot in the very near future. News of the impending changes appeared on the front page of The Student last week, and a slight panic seemed to set in, with one particularly concerned, but understandably anonymous source being quoted as enquiring about “what would happen to girly bathroom banter?” A terrifying thought though that may be, there are, of course, wider issues to be considered.

Don’t get me wrong; my immediate first thought upon hearing about gender neutral toilets was the terrifying prospect of having to hold my breath, shield my eyes and don my wellies in order to limit my ammonia intake every time I dared to use the facilities. Worse still, imagine the scene at The Big Cheese when the rugby boys are in! Some sick initiation ceremony involving the freshers being challenged to piss in one another’s direction while someone attempts to catch it in a plastic pint glass is definitely not something I want to witness whilst reapplying my lip gloss.

These concerns are, however, completely ridiculous once we analyse the facts.

Firstly, out of all of the toilets across every EUSA venue, only one toilet is being affected by the change. Just one. Not even one set of toilets containing several cubicles. Just one toilet.

Secondly, this one toilet is buried so deeply into the recesses of the building that if we took a swab we’d probably find some of Gordon Brown’s pubic hair stuck to the underside of the seat; a disturbing legacy from his early days as rector of the university in the mid-1970s. In fact, Gordon’s probably the only person alive who even knows where that toilet is. I reckon that only about one in ten people reading this article will even be able to tell me where Teviot’s Dining Room is. Incidentally, it is outside this room that the chosen loo is located.

Thirdly, and most importantly, the only change actually being made is the replacement of a sign that currently reads ‘gents’ by a sign that reads, ‘toilet’. It’ll probably cost less than a VK Apple in the library bar, will go unnoticed by the vast majority of students, and yet will hugely improve an awkward situation for those students who do not identify within the gender binary.

Students who visit The Pleasance regularly and, like me, are too lazy to walk up the stairs, use a gender neutral toilet every time they use the disabled access toilet by the bar downstairs. There is also a gender neutral toilet upstairs by The Pleasance theatre that has remained unnoticed and inoffensive for quite some time. Other universities have gone much further than we have in the provision of gender neutral toilets and there is still much to be done at Edinburgh to keep up this trend. So what’s the big deal? Except that the changes don’t go far enough, of course.

Trick or Treat?

2009-10-30T19:19:00.006Z

I love Hallowe'en and I love dressing up. I usually dress as a boy, weirdly. My favourite costume ever was when I dressed as a school boy for my friend's birthday party, complete with black eye and shorts with pocket-fulls of props such as condoms, cigarettes and army men.

This Hallowe'en I'm really sad that I'm not going to be able to get dressed up and play out because I have to be up shockingly early on Sunday morning. Imagine then, my disappointment, when I stumbled across this article on the Guardian website's Life and Style section offering what they describe as "more demure" costume ideas for women.

All very well, until we get to the Pig's-Blood-Beauty, Carrie on the end there! Demure is not the word that I would use! Can you imagine spending an evening chatting to pals about the X Factor's very own horror story, Jedward, while your glass slips through your bloodied hands and your hair hardens and sticks to your face? Hot. Worst still, the Guardian went for a tomato ketchup and pomegranate juice concoction to create the look! Demure? No.

One Night Up Paris

2009-10-29T20:43:00.011Z

I've been co-editing the Lifestyle section in Edinburgh University Student Newspaper, The Student, for about six weeks now. Occasionally I even get to do a bit of writing, and last week our section featured reviews of three different bikini waxes from three different salons in Edinburgh. The reviews were hilarious, and one girl even took a photographer with her to capture her pained expressions as she underwent a Brazilian. Thankfully, nothing else was caught on camera as far as I know. I personally couldn't resist telling everyone that my beautician gave me, and I quote, "a little wedgie", in order to get a full of view of the area.

It was later that week, however, when I went out for a few drinks for my friend's birthday, that I heard some shocking news. Apparently, the birthday boy had been chatting to the editor of rival Edinburgh Student Newspaper The Journal, who expressed his concerns that his paper would never win a Student Media Award like "Student Newspaper of the Year", which they lost to The Student earlier this year.

What, prey tell, was the reason for his pessimism? Apparently he wasn't keen on our little waxing feature, saying that it was "that sort of thing that wins awards... three girls getting waxed and writing about it?! Well, at least I think they were girls... one of them was called Stevie!"

Wonderful critique, Mr Editor. And what happens to be your name?

Paris?

Says it all.

Now I actually quite like The Journal and since I've only been working with The Student for a short period of time, it's not like I feel a huge sense of rivalry or anything. I'd really rather we all just got along nicely. Paris, however, decided to get personal. Criticise my writing, if you like, and I'll take it on the chin. But my name? Really, Paris?

The reviews were funny, light-hearted and most of all, completely appropriate for the lifestyle page in a student newspaper. Perhaps if Paris could see past the end of his own nose he'd be able to embrace that sentiment and get a life. A student life.

WTF Factor

2009-10-18T15:26:00.011+01:00

I love The X Factor. I love Cheryl and I fancy Simon. In fact, I think I even fancy Cheryl a little bit. I always hate Dannii. I wasn't in the slightest bit surprised when she made a tit of herself by bringing up a contestant's sexuality when judging him because she always talks shite. I don't for one second think that she was being deliberately offensive, I think she's just one of those moronic foot-constantly-in-mouth types.

I rarely like Louis, and I hate that he chose John and Edward to bring forward to the live shows. Cheryl was right. They can't sing. Fact. But why, oh why, oh why, has not one single judge picked up on the fact that they are almost never in time with the music?

Example:

Why haven't they pointed this out? What are SyCo paying these idiots for? This entry, from the man who slagged off Same Difference last year, who were light-years ahead of these foetal accidents. Tell you what though, after this week's performance Louis Walsh went up in my estimations. Dress them up in red PVC, make them recreate a Britney Spears video, and have them do a weird role play that makes everyone piss their pants and boy-oh-boy, you've got yourself a hit! (Shame they couldn't even do that in time to the music.) They get the comedy vote every time. Genius. And to be fair, all the groups are shit, so if he has to pick one, might as well take the Irish lads along for the banter. Fair enough.

Another question. Why did no one pick up on the fact that Rachel Adedeji can't sing? Or rather, that she can sing, but she can't reach the lofty notes in the ridiculous songs that she's being given. Why did no one notice how hard she struggled for those high notes? Why?

Example:

And check out that outfit! What's with the shoulder pads? Lovely in some cases, not a woman standing over 6' tall in heels with a shaved head. bad call, Minogue. Bad, bad call.

Third point. Why, oh why, oh why, did all but Simon and I fail to notice how amazing Jamie Archer's performance was? I have never been his biggest fan, but last night I would have paid good money to witness a live performance like that. In fact, I am notorious for having spent upwards of £30 every year for 9 consecutive years between 2000-2008 on Westlife concert tickets. Don't get me wrong, the 14 year old in me still loves Westlife, but only two of their members are even a patch on what Jamie pulled out of the bag last night, and yet Dannii and Cheryl failed to notice. WHY??

Watching the video again on youtube and hearing the warmth in his voice I felt like I was listening to an old 60s recording of some amazing rock ballad. The only criticism I had of the performance was that his nervous stance made him look like he was harbouring a urinary infection and the dish cloth that he has constantly hanging out of his back pocket makes him look like Fagin in Oliver.

Other than that, top notch, and he knew it. So why didn't the judges? Mental.

I reckon Dannii should go this week, then Rachel might have a fair shot, unlike poor Rachel Hylton last year, who had an amazing raw talent like Mr Archer here, only she didn't have Cowell to give her decent songs.

Don't let Dannii fuck up another Rachel's chances! Get her out, get Wise in!

The best laid plans

2009-10-13T10:31:00.008+01:00

Last week, my friend Colin decided to start a Trending Topic on Twitter.

For those of you who are yet to discover Twitter, a 'Trending Topic' is one that lots and lots of people on Twitter are 'tweeting' about. So, when Michael Jackson died, obviously, Michael Jackson, Jacko, MJ and Thriller were the words and phrases dominating Twitterland, and these words all appear as a list of links that take you to all the tweets that are using them.

We wanted to make the tweet, 'overpricedbakedgoods' trending because Colin saw a sausage roll priced at over £2 and we thought it would be funny. Here it is in action:

#overpricedbakedgoods

Turns out that it's not as easy as you would think, although with a little more work, I reckon we could pull it off. Either that, or I could do my dissertation.

Today, two or three days after the overpricedbakedgoods debacle, I discovered that my friends had been catching on to it without my knowledge, with one tweet from my friend Kate reading, "thinking about how much @CHRISDJMOYLES and Jeremy Clarkson are wankers who probably eat lots of #overpricedbakedgoods". Yes, that tweet went directly to Radio 1 DJ Chris Moyles.

Can't help but think you're not helping my case there, Kate! If I wanted one of the most popular men on Twitter to start disseminating the phrase overpricedbakedgoods in Twitterland, you pretty much ballsed that up for me didn't you?

So if any of you fancy tweeting about #overpricedbakedgoods in a positive, but preferably humorous manner, please let me know via Twitter (I'm @StevieWise). If you don't have Twitter, get it. It seems difficult to use at first but once you get the hang of the @s and #s you're pretty much an expert.

Help us make #overpricedbakedgoods a Trending Topic!

Texts From Last Night

2009-10-12T11:38:00.009+01:00

My flatmates and I enjoy reading entries to the website Texts From Last Night over a cup of tea of an evening, mainly because we're lazy student bums. Entries at the moment (11.40am GMT on 12th October 2009) include:

I just saw a hobo ride by on a unicycle. Good day.

My cat puked at the same time as me. Makes me feel better about myself,
except that he can stand it and I can't.

It wasn't sex, it was awkward naked time.

Stuff like that.

Last night, I had a bit of a Texts From Last Night moment of my own with my friend, Maz. We were discussing the death of Boyzone legend Stephen Gately, amongst other things. I thought I'd post it here, because it made me laugh, and made me realise how little time I spend doing things like getting my degree.

Maz: Talk to me. Are you sad about Steve? They are dropping like flies these A-Listers. Told the boyf to cut down on the butter now that men are dying in their 30s.

Me: I'm properly gutted about Steve. I love the Boyz so much. Make sure Gaz reins in the cholesterol intake. What were you doing when you found out? I'll always remember that I was wearing Matt's boxer shorts and frying an egg.

Maz: Haha! I was about to get into the shower with the G-Man and got a text from my friend. I called him back and told him it couldn't be true because the radio was playing happy songs!

Me: Ha! Apparently they've been playing Boyzone songs all night. Ronan will love the royalties.

Maz: I fear for my friend Ruth from school. She had a Boyzone duvet and used to kiss Steve every night!

Me: I had similar concerns about my friend Wendy who has been to every show they've ever done and regularly has fb profile pics of herself with varying band members. Her fb status was sombre today.

Maz: Oh no! :( Do you think they'll carry on. I hope it was underlying health problems and not drugs or suicide.

Me: I'm hoping for a drowning or a nasty fall. Perhaps his hubby murdered him? I'd rather that than substance abuse. Same old, same old.

Maz: Just natural causes. I think he choked on his vom cos he was found on the sofa after a night out. A poisoning by his lover who was jealous of his rekindled fame would be good.

So, yeah. That's about the intelligence level of our conversations. R.I.P. Steve.

Bad Food Guide

2009-10-07T23:49:00.005+01:00

Like a fourteen year old, I have just logged onto MSN to have a chinwag with my old mucker Colin and 'Windows Live Today' popped up asking me to read an article entitled, 'Foods that make you look bad'. I always hate these things, but Colin was in the middle of drawing me a picture and I was growing impatient so I thought I'd try and find out where I was going wrong.

The blurb at the beginning promised to reveal the "foods that are good for only one thing - making you ugly." (Emphasis added.) Gross.

I only got as far as the first example before I spat out an expletive.

Wine? Wine? No.

Only good for one thing? What about getting smashed?! And even so, I don't think for one second that drinking a bit too much cava is going to make me 'ugly'. Hungover, maybe. A bit bloated, maybe. Ugly? Fuck off.

It was when I got to the 'sugar' section where they warned me that I would become, and I quote, "a toothless hag" that I stopped reading and contemplated indulging in a letter of complaint.

The Great Escape

2009-10-03T11:04:00.000+01:00

Miss Mop has done it again. Awesome blog fodder, all the time.

In the latest installment of the Miss Mop saga, our protagonist decides to surprise her boyfriend with some lovely new items for his newly redecorated kitchen, delivering them to his home and displaying them sweetly whilst he is away on holiday. How sweet! Where the story takes a rather sinister turn, however, is when we learn that in order to gain access, Mop stole his spare keys without his knowledge. Weird.

Where it gets hilarious, however, is when she arrives at his home and unlocks the back door, gaining entry only to have her lovely, big, romantic bubble burst by a quiet and steady beeping sound. Stopping short in surprise and listening closely to work out what it was, I can only imagine the sheer horror that the poor girl must have felt when his house alarm began to screech.

Cruise pips Mop to the post for the lead role in Mission Impossible

So what did Mop do? Call him and explain the situation, asking for the code to silence the alarm? No, no. The intensity of her fear got the better of her. She bolted.

Fleeing the kitchen, she knocked a glass off the table, which fell to the ground and smashed to pieces, and yet Miss Mop kept on running. Slamming the door behind her, she took a dive into the bushes at the back of his garden, where she sat for forty minutes, believing for every second of those minutes that the police were about to swoop in and catch her in the act.

Eventually, the alarm stopped, and since this is not Beverley Hills Cop 3, the police were not automatically informed of an intrusion and so were not sending out their helicopter. Mop was safe. Except for the broken glass. She must remove this damning evidence and flee the scene for good if her relationship was to continue. What to do?

I'll tell you what! Rather than just call and own up, Mop went back to the house and crawled in on her stomach like something out of Mission Impossible, avoided the sensors, cleaned up the glass, and ran like the wind!

If this girl weren't so stupid I'd start to think she was making this shit up!

What? Are You Serious?

2009-10-02T20:00:00.014+01:00

Those of you born before the mid-nineties will no doubt have fond memories of lovely Irish pop group, B*Witched. How jealous would you be if I told you I spent Saturday night hanging out with one or two of them? (Don’t answer that.)

Ah, C'est La Vie!

Well, get ready to turn shamrock green! Edinburgh University Returners’ Week boasted a Big Cheese appearance by Ms Lynch, otherwise known as Keavy and Edele from B*Witched. Since EUSA’s Entertainments Manager was unavailable that night, I was called upon to step in as ‘event liaison’. (This is an industry term for ‘babysitter’.) It was my job to liaise with the tour manager in case of any problems, and essentially to keep them up to their eyeballs in EUSA buffet and bottled beer. I also had to deal with any problems over hotel and flight reservations and order taxis to get the act and their band to and from the venue as necessary. I had them on the phone from 8am on the Saturday morning as Edele couldn’t find her taxi at the airport, and on a few other occasions throughout the day. I had problems with their taxis and with their rider and by the time they arrived I was dreading the possibilities for disaster and was visibly shaken.

By way of contrast, my regular readers may remember this piece that I wrote about S Club’s appearance in Potterrow earlier this year, and how thrilled I was to have been in the same building as them, let alone to have chatted to and been kissed by at least one of them.

Well, to say that Ms. Lynch shat all over that would be an understatement. They were amazing.

Did S Club bring a band? No. Did S Club sing live? I wish they hadn't. Did S Club put on an amazing show with well-prepared dance routines and hilarious mic-chat? Did they balls! About as classy as it got was Paul’s bouncer-style striped tie and Jo’s over-use of the phrase “the bollocks” to describe her Scottish audience.

Keavy and Edele on the other hand, looked amazing, and their performance was flawless. The Big Cheese punters are a famously tough crowd, having been known to regularly boo and hiss at any act that gets in the way of their Cotton Eye Joe. I felt terrible then, when Ms Lynch's tour manager told me that the girls were to be performing six songs (also more than S Club had done), plus an encore if the crowd were “feeling that way out”. I couldn’t help but cringe at his naive optimism. An encore? At Big Cheese? How sweet!

Potterrow manager Jono's Christmases all come at once, and he isn't far off himself!

Amazingly, I ate my words. They opened with a fantastic rendition of C’est La Vie, although sadly without the fighting talk, going on to perform classics such as Roller Coaster and Blame It On The Weatherman, as well as two of their Ms Lynch tracks, which were also really good. The girls left the stage for a congratulatory hug in the dressing room at the end of a great show, only to be have their celebrations interrupted by the chanting of “one more tune!” from the crowd.

Gobsmacked, I informed the DJ that the girls were happy to perform an encore, and with admiration and incredulity, I watched on as Ms Lynch made Big Cheese history by returning to the stage to perform C’est La Vie to an adoring crowd on my first ever attempt at providing artist liaison.

An absolute success, and a fantastic start to the year.

Sex Education

2009-09-25T19:49:00.010+01:00

We all the spend the majority of our childhoods in education. Since we grow up into adolescence and beyond whilst still in education, it unsurprising that most of us can say we've had a teeny crush on a teacher at some point in the past. (Or present, if you're taught by Dr Steven Sutcliffe.)

When I was about ten years old, I had an amazing teacher who we all loved so much that the entire class sobbed for a whole day when he told us he was leaving us to work in another school. The scenes were pathetic, really. We ended up having to write our feelings down anonymously and handing them to him as some sort of therapy, and a few of us penned a little ditty which we performed to him and the rest of the class. We took the tune from the "I Love You" song from Barney, the big purple dinosaur, replacing the first two lines of lyrics were with the letters spelling out the man's name. Tragic.

Nevertheless, it was a difficult time for us, and although I can't say that I actually faniced him, I definitely had the strongest possible feelings that a ten year old has the capacity to feel. These feelings were bred from pure admiration and recognition of the passion that my teacher clearly had for his job and our learning.

This is partly the reason that this article made my blood boil.

The vice-chancellor of Buckingham University, Terence Kealey, has told the Times Higher Education Supplement that male lecturers should not only stop worrying about taking a sneaky peek at a young girl's breasts in class, but that they should in fact enjoy this endeavour, relish in it, take it home and show their wives what they'd like to do with it. It's a "perk of the job."

Now, I'd like to think that my admiration for my primary school teacher at the age of ten is no different to that which I have for a male (or female) lecturer at university. I'm even capable of having relationships of pure indifference when it comes to talking shop with the academic staff. According to this lech, however, we're all asking for it. My six scheduled meetings with my dissertation supervisor are not just that at all, but an opportunity for me to get in six extra hours of idol worship and for him to eye-ball my VPL and imagine what he'd do to me if he could get away with it.

That is, let's face it, exactly what he meant when he said, "the days are gone when a scholar could trade sex for upgrades". He seems almost disappointed! All men in his position, therefore, should accept this potential perversion as nothing more than a perk of the job and get on with it. As long as it's in the open, it's ok. After all, it's what all young women want. We aren't at university because we have strong and intelligent minds and a desire to learn and plan for our futures, we're there to find a husband, if not, someone else's. We have neither the ability nor the desire to prevent our feminine wiles from getting the better of us. Male lecturers are doing us a favour then if they accept this "look but don't touch" law. I wonder if he cited Peter Stringfellow as the source of this wisdom in the original document?

My main concern is whether or not Dr Kealey has a mirror in his office? Apart from the one that he has set at a strategic cleavage-catching angle over the spare chair, of course.

"You, Miss Smith, could use an appendage in that. Oh sorry, I meant an appendix... In your essay."

Just look at him! He has a face like a bag of smashed crabs and could do with having some of that nose hair transplanted onto his head, the baldy bastard. I can't think of a single one of my female friends that would fawn over that smarmy toad. He hasn't even clipped his finger nails. It's chilling, actually.

I'm not sure what exactly it was that he was trying to achieve by stating these disgustingly immoral and unprofessional opinions publicly but his credibility has been damaged, not to mention the purely professional relationships that he could have enjoyed with his students. How dare he subject them to this? All I want from a lecturer is that they be passionate about their subject and passionate about my well-being and success. I do not want them to be passionate with their wives over their passion for my curves.

He ought to be removed from his post.

We all know you have a Halo...

2009-09-23T21:37:00.002+01:00

I'm a sucker for this kind of shit. I wish I was the kind of person who goes, "oh for god's sake it's obviously a publicity stunt. She looked like a bit of a tit after that Taylor Swift malarky she's got to do something to raise her profile... blah blah... pessimistic blah..." If I was one of those people I wouldn't have cried today during a youtube procrastination session. (Yes, I'm back at uni now.)

Papped.

2009-09-20T19:11:00.012+01:00

This piece is incredibly narcissistic, but I'm proud of what I do, and felt I would indulge myself this once.

A colleague of mine at EUSA did his last ever shift last night before moving down to London to start a PhD, and as we gazed on at a crowd of 1200 drunken revellers in Potterrow to a soundtrack of Journey's, Don't Stop Believing, he told me how proud he was to have been a part of their enjoyment for so many years.

This bit of philosophy got me thinking about how lucky I am to be a DJ. As hard as it can be at times in terms of dealing with pissed people, reading your crowd, working long, antisocial hours and essentially putting on a good 'performance', it is definitely the easiest job I have ever had in my life. Essentially, I get paid to listen to loud music, dance and chat. It's every stroppy teenager's dream come true! As a student I'm luckier still, since even part-time and temporary jobs are hard to come by these days it's more important than ever to have a special skill or talent and I'm so happy that I put in the effort to get to where I am with what I do.

Now that I'm working regularly, people are even starting to recognise me. I spent fifteen minutes recently chatting to a barman in Vodka Revolution trying to work out where we'd met and it turns out we'd had a bit of banter at The Hive (the club where I DJ every Thursday and every other Saturday). My friends sometimes mention what I do and people say, "oh, is she the ginger one with the glasses?" Well, If it's not me it's Sally Jesse Raphael.

"Of course I'll play a bit of Dizzee Rascal!"

Freshers' Week has by far been my favourite week for this sort of thing. It's been hilarious and sweet, all at the same time. People have been stopping me on campus asking me if I'm DJing that night and telling me how much fun they'd had at Potterrow. I have new Facebook friends that I met whilst DJing. I was even approached by two girls last night who told me that they had met my ex-boyfriend on holiday in Europe! I also met a lovely pair who decided that they would make it their mission to take a picture of me every time they saw me during the week. Behold:

Day 1. Papped.

A trend is born.

Spotted in the crowd at Oughan Quigg.

Matt steals my thunder.

If there are any Edinburgh University students out there who want to learn to DJ like I did, pop into the EUSA office this week and ask about joining the Ents Crew. They train you for free and then give you paid work so that you can develop your skills. You can also learn lighting and sound engineering, skills which can earn you really well paid work outside of EUSA and that look amazing on your CV.

If you're not at Edinburgh, find out if your university offer anything similar. It's easy to forget that behind every club night there are techies setting up and controlling the lights, sound and music. Lots of universities need students to help with this, and you could end up landing yourself the best job you've ever had.

Girls Can't Catch

2009-09-20T17:19:00.016+01:00

Last night I was called in to work at the very last minute as the union was without a lighting tech and we had in girl band Girls Can't Catch to perform for the last night of Freshers' Week. I was more than happy to don my 'CREW' T-shirt and a pair of trainers for the first time in months whilst trying to remember how to operate a lighting desk, so in I went.

Girls Can't Catch are a three-piece girl band who I had only heard of in passing from talking about a Girls Aloud concert at which they were performing. I haven't yet fulfilled my most burning ambition, so was unable to make it to that gig and see my idols perform. (I'll happily join the fan club of any band with a ginger in it. End of.) I was excited, therefore, to see some of what I had missed out on.

Frankly, not that much.

The girls were stunning, and looked beautiful in sparkly outfits and teeny shorts, but their performance was a bit drab. Since only hearing them last night, I can only remember one of the songs that they sang, which they said was their second single and was quite catchy, but not exactly groundbreaking. See this video and judge for yourselves:

After they'd left, I did what I always do when an act finishes their performance, and hot-tailed it to their vacated dressing room to see what they had left behind of their rider. Apparently all they'd asked for was a bowl of fruit and some oaty snack bars, so clearly it was their diet then that was to blame for their beautifully svelte figures. I was more interested in Irn Bru and a bag of chips to be honest so the booty went untouched.

Although their performance was slightly boring and the crowd weren't particularly receptive, they were obviously lovely girls and their singing was good. With some catchier tunes that better fit their cool, edgy look, I think they could do well. Watch this space.

Eoghan Quigg

2009-09-20T12:52:00.014+01:00

Monday 14th September brought X Factor's very own Eoghan Quigg to my beloved Potterrow. Much to my boyfriend's dismay, I wasn't working that night and insisted that he be my chaperon on this momentous occasion.

It was a strange evening all round, actually. Before we got to the club we went out for dinner to our local Chinese restaurant, where the waitress was unbelievably rude and exceptionally incompetent. At one point we asked for water, and we got one glass between the two of us. When we began explaining that we wanted two glasses of water she turned her back on us mid-sentence, only to return again with jug of water, but no extra glass. The two of us then shared our glass of water and finished our dinner over a horror movie on a wall-mounted widescreen television. I kid you not.

The restaurant saw fit to show scenes of a mad woman suffocating her neighbours with a clear plastic bag whilst I choked down my chow mein. Unfortunately, Eoghan Quigg wasn't much more digestable.

He was a bag of nerves when he arrived onstage, which was totally understandable considering his audience of peers, not to mention his forthcoming 5am flight which, as his tour manager announced, was "to get Eoghan back in time for school". Quigg, clearly unimpressed, was quick to announce that he didn't have to go school at all. We were less than convinced.

His show was good, but his chat was crap!

"Edinburgh, are you out to have a good time tonight?"
"Edinburgh, are you out to get drunk tonight?"

No Eoghan, as Edinburgh University Freshers, we want to have a shit night of total sobriety.

Despite his lack of stage presence (which was probably due to nerves) Quigg managed to pull off a pretty good performance, opening with Busted's, Year 3000, a guilty pleasure of mine. He then went on to sing High School Musical's, We're All In This Together, Boyzone's, Picture of You, as performed in last year's X Factor final, and not one but two Take That songs, which was weird, but acceptable, since he did a good job of it. Click here to see the video for his single 28,ooo Friends. Now why oh why didn't Eoghan include that masterpiece in his set? Shudder.

Once he'd finished, you couldn't see him for dust. He only managed to choke out a quick, "thank you" before legging it offstage to have a coca cola and a tangerine. He'd asked for beer on his rider but since EUSA don't condone underage drinking, the powers that be we forced to politely refuse... Bless.

New Venture

2009-09-18T13:50:00.004+01:00

As of this week, I have officially taken on the role of co-editor of the Lifestyle section at The Student, Edinburgh University's student newspaper. I'm very excited, since it means I get to be creative and write a little more, and my co-editor and I have some really good ideas for ways to develop the page. At the moment it's very fashion orientated, and those of you who know me will know that I certainly am not! I'm not sure what it says about me therefore, that I have decided to start an anonymous sex column for the page!

So, I want your stories! Whether they're funny, moving, silly or just plain weird, I want to hear about them. Did you pull during Freshers' Week? Has your boy/girlfriend said something hilarious during drunken sex? How was your first time?If you have anything you think I should know about please email me: steviewise@gmail.com
And don't worry, all entries into the column will be completely anonymous... This ain't no kiss and tell!

One of the biggest knobs of all time.

2009-09-14T13:02:00.010+01:00

I'm starting to enjoy that I can log on to Twitter and be safe in the knowledge that any breaking news or celeb gossip that is worth knowing about will be brought to my attention. This morning I found that Taylor Swift was a trending topic. I did a quick google search to see what was going on and found out that last night, after the American Country Pop singer won a VMA for Best Music Video, Kanye West stole the mic from her hands during her acceptance speech to make his views on her victory known.

Youtube keeps removing the videos I find! So here's one that the BBC acquired legally.

How rude! And how embarrassing for all involved. Embarrassing and not to mention incredibly upsetting for Taylor Swift, no doubt even more embarrassing for Beyonce Knowles who became unwittingly involved in the fiasco, and embarrassing for the organisers. I'm pretty sure Kanye isn't remotely flustered by his distasteful actions but I'm embarrassed for him. I'll never fail to be surprised by the arrogance that is bred by fame and too much money.

Boogie Tonight

2009-09-13T09:58:00.012+01:00

So apparently even quitting my cleaning job (as predicted) didn't free up enough of my time over the summer to keep the blog on the go. DJing twice a week until 5am and working during the day took it's toll on my social life, and not to mention my brain power. As of last night, however, Freshers' Week 2009 has officially begun! Hurrah! This marks the end of the summer and the beginning of my final year at university. Having a dissertation to write means procrastination will allow for blogging, but not before six nights of Freshers' Week DJing to keep me busy!

Being a DJ during Freshers' Week is a strange experience. The throng of teenagers poured into the union last night almost as soon as the doors were open, but what was strange was the realisation that I had 1200 people in front of me who didn't know each other. They had probably met only hours previously, and their pre-club chat must have consisted of, "so where are you from?"s and "what are you studying"s? The effect that this had was clearly visible. No one wants to make a tit of themselves and they're all feeling a little awkward, so what I was faced with was a dance floor absolutely packed with people who, until they were well and truly liquored up, weren't really dancing. Weird.

Another worry was that it was quite possible that they didn't know the tunes. EUSA's biggest club night (and actually, Edinburgh's biggest student night) Big Cheese, is your typical studenty cheesey club night, but I'm starting to wonder if Five, S Club 7 and The Spice Girls are going to be a little before their time. These S Club Juniors were born after 1990, and some as late as 1992, meaning that they would have been nought but bairns when Girl Power erupted and Geri Halliwell popped a boob at The Brits. In fact, I bet if you told them that that had even happened it would be news to them.

The night went incredibly well. We had Booty Luv in who were fantastic and absolutely stunning, and the kids just didn't seem to want to leave by the end of it. Certainly not before at least fifty of them begged me to let them dance on the stage and I had three or four of EUSA's free condoms hurled in my direction. One of the post-foetals even blurted out, "I love an older woman..." I'm not sure how old he thought I was or what his motivation was for saying it but it sent a brief shudder down my spine whilst he apparently shuddered into his briefs.

I am now left wondering, though, what is to become of our beloved student night? Big Cheese has been running for almost a decade, which is exceptionally long for any club night, but what happens if the kids end up to young for the tunes? I can't even play Billie Jean these days without half the crowd groaning and it used to be a firm favourite. My, how times are changing!

Tomorrow night: Beach Party. Monday night: High School Musical Party ft. Eoghan Quigg of X Factor Fame. I'll be attending the latter as a punter and excited is not the word!

Watch this space...

On the Fringe - Four Sad Faces & Paul Foot

2009-08-21T22:13:00.019+01:00

I have been studying in Edinburgh for almost four years, but have never before stayed here during August for the Fringe Festival. I have listened in wistfully for years as my friends discussed their celeb spots and told of their partaking in psychology experiments at the university in order to raise £5 for a spot of lunch since they'd spent all their money on shit comedy and over-priced beer. Well this year, for the first time, here I am.

Edinburgh in August is a different place. Getting to work on time is near impossible with tourists jumping on the bus at almost every stop asking, "vhere ist das Landon Road yah?" and idiots in fancy dress stuffing leaflets into your every orifice. Not only that, but any place that you can possibly imagine has become a festival venue. Just to give you an idea of the scale of this, apparently last year some woman used her city-centre flat as a venue. Patrons would purchase tickets and turn up at her address at a designated time to be buzzed in and given a comedy tour. Inventive is not the word.

So what have I been up to? Almost nothing, of course. I work far too hard for frivolities and am far too poor (as readers of The Herald and The Scotsman or viewers of STV news may have seen last week). That NUS don't pay me to be the Face of Student Poverty makes my life one vicious circle. Anyway, I digress. The point is, that I have managed to catch a few things, so this blogger-cum-freelance-critic would like to share her thoughts.

1. Four Sad Faces - Free Comedy Sketch Show - Rating: Fucking Terrible.

They say, "free" - it was to comedy what an orgasm was to Shakespeare - a complete waste of life.

These four youngsters were no doubt voted 'class clowns' in their sixth form year books but that in no way gives them license to bring a show to a world famous festival and call themselves comedians. I laughed more when my five year old niece turned to me at a family gathering and asked, "Stevie... do you sleep with your boyfriend?" It was, however, equally embarrassing to witness. Rename it Five Sad Faces, including mine.

2. Paul Foot - Stand Up Comic - Rating: Jolly Good!

A strange man with a strange haircut and fantastic stage presence. The show, 'By The Yard', required a little more energy than was readily available in a tiny underground venue with a small audience but it was certainly £7.50 well spent. My favourite bit was when my boyfriend let out a girly "whoooop!" when Paul asked if there were any students in the room, resulting in our featuring heavily in Paul's set. My favourite favourite bit was when Paul then referred to my boyfriend as "a cocky little prick" which is a fair enough assessment. I also enjoyed the following exchange:

Paul: I can see, Matthew, that you engage in relationships with women. What
is your girlfriend's name?

Matt: Stevie. (Moment of silence) It's a boy's name.

Improvised comedy gold ensued when Paul began imagining what it must be like to reveal to your parents, not that you are gay, but that your girlfriend has a weird name. What we liked most about it was that during his show, he actually made very few jokes but simply told a series of wild and ridiculous stories in a way that was often side-splittingly funny if sometimes a little too weird to digest. The show happens every day at The Underbelly (Cowgate) at 7.45 and is definitely worth a watch.

More reviews coming soon but certainly not very many. Although I am lucky enough to have tickets to see the critically acclaimed Sarah Millican in nine days time... very excited!

The day the world could have ended, and I fell in love with an idiot.

2009-08-07T12:57:00.017+01:00

It has just been brought to my attention that today is 07/08/09 and that earlier today it was 12:34:56 on 7/8/9. Wonderful! I'm kind of surprised that the weirdos weren't out in force praying for mercy for the armageddon.

Despite the apparent celestial harmony, the concept itself seems to be too much for some. For my faith in humanity to remain firm I shall have to assume that the universe was plunged into some sort of unbalance, causing the temporary reversal of the space-time continuum at the time of this monumentous occassion, (or some other such bullshit) and allow that to explain the discussions that I read regarding the subject on a Facebook thread.

I'm pretty sure that posting this here is entirely unethical, but it's well funny so I'll live with it.

The thread began with a Facebook Status which read, "Today is 07/08/09. Lv U Bby x x"

Much to my enjoyment, the following happened:

Then I decide to stick my oar in...

Bless.

What a way to make a living.

2009-07-28T18:13:00.007+01:00

My least favourite thing about being a student is the shit that you have to wade through to make money in the summer. I have not one, not two, but three jobs at the moment, plus my casual role on Edinburgh University Students' Association's Entertainments Crew, which basically means that I am running my weary body into the ground whilst single-handedly contributing to the rising levels of unemployment in the UK. I literally have ALL the jobs.

Today though, it hit me. I have officially reached an all-time low. It happened whilst walking home from the office job. I was absolutely exhausted from having worked my first weekend as a cleaner in Pollock Halls. When I was told I would be paid £7.88 per hour to don a tabard and a feather duster I practically broke my interviewer's fingers scrambling for her biro and screaming, "where do I sign?!"

It was whilst trotting down a busy Edinburgh street this afternoon where I slipped on the pavement, however, that I really knew that I had made a terrible, terrible mistake. I found myself bent forwards at a 90 degree angle as part of a desperate attempt to realign my centre of gravity, only to find that I had reversed the situation entirely rather than having simply corrected it. I was propelled forwards by my own body weight, losing control of my legs and taking longer and longer strides with every mortifying footstep until I found myself practically running down Constitution Street whilst bent double like a Disney witch. I eventually managed to regain enough control to stand up straight and desist in the madness, but not before a throng of grinning onlookers had gathered to delight in my misfortune.

"Och no hen, are you ok?"
"Eee you did well to stop yourself there lassie!"

One cretin even used the word 'spectacular'.

How is this related to the cleaning job from hell? Well, I dare say that had I not been in so much pain in my thighs from dragging vacuum cleaners and bin bags around and generally mopping up other people's shit all weekend I might have had the strength to regain my balance a little earlier in this whole debacle. As it was, my legs were hurting so much that they weren't strong enough to prop me back up. And what could be better for my glamour rating in this situation than my wobbly knees? Beautiful. I was like Dick Van Dyke in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Skip two mintutes into this video for an uncannily similar spectacle.

I can't believe how much I ache. My arms, back and legs are killing me. I received no training, and was expected to go and prepare rooms to an acceptable standard for a load of unfortunate holiday makers who'd spent the majority of their retirement funds on staying in student accommodation.

What's worse, was that my friend Kate who also works as a Pollock Halls dogsbody was followed round all morning by some jobsworth supervisor who firstly accused her of stealing someone's hairbrush and then of failing to make a bed properly.

a) Neither Kate nor I looked at this point like we'd ever seen a hairbrush. Dishevelled is not the word.

b) It's not rocket science. We've been making beds on a regular basis for as long as we can remember. If you have a special way of doing it, then let us in on it. Don't just send us on our merry way to hope for the best and then criticise us at a later date.

It is NOT worth it. I give myself two more weeks.

www.facejob.com

2009-07-23T20:37:00.012+01:00

On my lunch break at work the other day I read something really quite shocking. It wasn't an article, but an entire publication. My boss gave me a supplement from The Daily Star to read over my baked potato. It acts as one of those celeb gossip type things and was absolute tripe, obviously. Worryingly though, in terms of content it was most blatantly everything that I thought most people these days despised. Its focus on the importance of beauty actually bordered on dangerous.

It made me think about the sort of thing that you might find on a pro-anorexia website. The articles were badly written and focused almost entirely on how wonderful certain d-list celebs were looking now that they had successfully starved themselves. I was faced with a before and after picture of some WAG who looked no different now that she'd shed half a stone than she did before - but any amount of weight lost is a bonus, right?

Now, I realise that what I'm saying isn't exactly ground-breaking stuff. I'm not the first to bleat on about the importance of inner beauty and the negative impact of the glossies and their front page air-brushed examples of perfection, but at least they try and put up some sort of a fight against that argument. This thing that I was reading didn't even pretend to have any kind of a moral or intelligent stance on any subject. There were no explanations for their views or any reasons given as to why the reader ought to be interested in the crap they were churning out.

My favourite bit (and by favourite I obviously mean the bit that made me want to stick a rusty pin into at least one cornea) was when I turned to the 'readers' true stories' section. The story that was not only painted in an entirely postive light but which had even awarded a cash prize for being the best they had, was the story of a teenage girl who had been bullied on Facebook for having a big nose, and so spent her life-savings on a nose job. Bravo!

University? No thanks, I'm saving up for a bit of Rhinoplasty.

Someone obviously didn't get The Daily Star.

Now I'm not against cosmetic surgery in the slightest if it's well-considered and the patient is old enough to make an informed decision that it is the right thing for them. What I do not agree with, however, is allowing a child to become so upset with her appearance that she would dig into her savings account in order to make drastic changes to her face! I am especially uncomfortable with the ethical implications when a magazine prints a story like this without even hinting that cosmetic surgery is expensive and can in some cases be quite dangerous. There are other (probably more effective) routes to take in dealing with self-esteem issues than going under the knife at the earliest available opportunity.

I was genuinely shocked to find that this sort of thing can be printed so freely and have found yet another area in which I feel the press ought to be held more accountable for their actions. And what's worse than allowing people to read this encouraging tale of a child's £4000 self-esteem boost? Putting an advert underneath the article directing me straight to a cosmetic surgery clinic in London! Great!

Well that's one way for the newspaper to make up for the decline in advertising revenue.

Manning up.

2009-07-20T11:02:00.022+01:00

What is it about we, the Great British public, that makes us so shy in the face of adversity? What happened to the valour of men like St. George and William Wallace? Back in the day, if you gave us a dragon, we'd slay it. Send us an army, we'd conquer the bastard! These days some yuppie in a rush to get their side salad on their ten minute lunch breaks bumps into us in the street and we find ourselves apologising for their poor-manners whilst they look at us as they might a Big Mac. Or a tracksuit. Not to mention asking a favour of someone wearing a tracksuit. Ask a chav the time, risk a chinning. Simple as.

Or has it gone beyond fear? Perhaps we've reached a new evolutionary stage whereby we're so afraid that we're no longer afraid? Not asking for what we want, or saying what we think seems to have become part of our nature as human beings. Example: I had a hair cut a couple of weeks ago. I'd done a bit of window shopping and found a place that looked alright - a nice sofa in the window, plasma screens, a girl on the desk with beautiful hair. Perfect, no?

No.

I went in, asked for a trim and the stylist began her work whilst I nervously awaited the inevitably chilling question: "please can you take your glasses off for me?" Gulp.

I agreed and she went on with her work. Whilst chopping away at my locks, she deemed it appropriate to outline the intimate details of her sex life. It was the worst salon-chat I'd ever heard, and she was so busy telling me about the sexy man she had had in the day before (to her salon, I should specify) and how black men really do, in her experience, have massive penises, that she failed notice that I was being transported back in time, creeping closer and closer to the early seventies with every snip.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I was given permission to put my glasses back on, only to be so shocked at what I saw in the mirror that only my own will power stopped me from smashing said glasses and stabbing her to death with the shards. I had never seen a monstrosity like it. I practically had a mullet; it was shorter on top with one long thin layer underneath. I hated it, and we both knew it. So what did I do? Demand that she fix it? Refuse to pay? Ask for the manager? No, of course not. I told her it was lovely and paid her no less than £40 to have made me look like the Kellogg's rooster. I had to go to another salon down the road and have the entire bottom layer cut off. I ended up having two hair cuts in one day.

"Well, it's not exactly what I had in mind..."

So why didn't I say anything? I can't afford to spend £70 in a day on hair cuts. And it doesn't stop there. I know people who have consumed things in restaurants that they didn't order. I even know a vegetarian who once choked down a Sea Cucumber in order not to offend her hosts. I was on a train the other day and was faced with a pair of old women who played the "respect your elders" card before I even had chance to ask them to shift out of my prebooked seats. There were other seats around and the train wasn't moving. There was no reason why they couldn't have moved allow my two friends and I to sit in a line, but I wasn't prepared to push the issue. What's worse is that when you do say what you think, people roll their eyes and tell you you're agressive.

What is wrong with the British public? I think it's high-time that we let go of a bit of decorum and started saying what we think and doing what we want to do. Should I point out that the salon in question was KHD on South Clerk Street, Edinburgh? Probably not, no. But there you have it!

How liberating!

Swine.

2009-07-17T16:05:00.013+01:00

Miss Mop is beginning to make for some interesting blogging!

Guess who has Swine Flu?!

That's right, Miss Mop certainly won't be getting herself into any embarrassing pickles any time soon, unless her mother - her designated "Flu Buddy" - decides to spill the beans on any further incontinence issues that she may suffer as a result of a particularly violent coughing fit, for instance.

What's really worrying about this latest entry into Miss Mop's catalogue of mishaps is that not only does she have Swine Flu, but she went to work whilst suffering the symptoms. Now, I shouldn't like to reveal who exactly Miss Mop's employers are, but let's put it this way... if the News of the World got hold of it they'd have a fucking field day. Potential headlines include:

SWINE-FLU PATIENT SINGLE-HANDEDLY BRINGS BRITAIN TO ITS KNEES

IDIOT INFECTS THOUSANDS

PRISON SENTENCE FOR FLU SWINE

That sort of thing.

And not only that, but once her colleagues had taken note of her high temperature, sodden brow and hacking cough and forced her to leave, what did Mop do? Hot-tailed it on down to the bloody doctor's surgery. What an a-hole! No wonder we're no longer able to contain the virus if idiots like her go sneezing it all over town. Around sick people too! I was enjoying winding her up by suggesting that she ought to pick out the lining for her casket while she can until she retorted, "Oh don't be silly. Only people with underlying health problems die." And why do we think that is, Mop? Because people like you go sneezing and wheezing into medical centre waiting rooms! I can't think of anywhere better to take my personal share of a pandemic.

Here's the best bit. Why did Mop decide to go to work that day, despite the fact that she could barely stand and had less control over the liquid running from her arm pits than that from her bladder on her boyfriend's landing? Well, said boyfriend was coming home from a holiday that day, and being too ill to go to work meant being too ill to see Mr Luvva-Luvva.

How sickeningly romantic.

Mop tries to pass off her face-masks-in-bed idea as a new penchant for S&M

Seventeen Bras and a Gillette Venus Razor for Sale. No Perverts.

2009-07-10T13:36:00.017+01:00

I am not known as a feminist by any stretch of the imagination. I have even been known to say in the past (somewhat controversially) that I don't like feminists, since the ones that I had tended to encounter seemed to have got it entirely wrong. They were either fighting desperately to achieve dominion over men, or even just failing to understand that gender equality doesn't have to be about power and money, as long as it is about respect. Although I have recently come to realise that not all feminists are like this, and feel rather ashamed of myself for making such sweeping statements so casually, still, I'm light-years away from burning any of my bras.

That is, until I read this article on the BBC news website yesterday.

It is the story of 16 year old Shakilus Townsend who was stabbed, beaten and killed by several members of a notorious South London gang whilst he cried for his mother.

What was the angle that the BBC took on this story? Did they focus on what were the disgusting and terrifying acts of a group of men? Did they try and ask why these gangs are operating and what can be done to stop them? Did they balls! They focused on the fact that Shakilus had been purposely led to meet the gang by his 15 year old girlfriend Samantha Joseph, who was also seeing the 18 year old gang member who would become one of Shakilus' murderers.

I only wish that they had decided to focus more on the hard facts rather than printing headlines like, "How lovestruck boy was lured to his death" and referring to Joseph as a "teenage temptress". They even finished with the line "Joseph now faces a life sentence and will have plenty of time to mull over the part she played in the death of an innocent boy." Well thanks for that, O Wise one.

I can't remember the last time I was so offended by an article. What's missing?

a) This was a 15 year old girl. A child.
b) She was involved with an 18 year old man. An adult.
c) That adult was a man capable of murder.

And we are focusing on her apparent use of feminine wiles to appoint blame?

The same story ran in several other publications and in none of these did I see such a blatant display of sexist and sensationalist bullshit as I did on the BBC News website. Even the Metro that I picked up for free on the Number 49 bus handled it better. They, like me, did not condone her actions, but managed to report on the situation without focusing solely on her "betrayal" and made no value judgements whatsoever. They even pointed out that Shakilus himself was involved in and had been convicted of street crime as a member of a rival gang, a fact that was missing entirely from the BBC story.

I would love to know who at the BBC allowed for this article to be published. It is now the second article I have been outraged by on their website in recent weeks, the last one being an article which suggested that Lothians MSP George Foulkes had said that politicians ought to be paid more. This was not at all what he was saying, and they even posted a video to prove it! My issue here is not whether Foulkes thinks that or not, it is that the BBC put so blatant a sensationalist spin on the story, misquoting him entirely.

Again, in this instance, there were other things that they could have focused on and still got a pretty good story; the fact that Foulkes threw a proper wobbler on national television was a story in itself. So why the spin? In the story of Shakilus Townsend's murder, the important facts are that gang culture and knife crime in Britain are getting worse, and that a child was savagely murdered in broad daylight. So why are the BBC reporting on "honey traps" and making cutting statements about moral virtue?

Responsible journalism should report the facts. Nothing else. Mr. Journalist, I don't care about your point of view.*

*A little irony intended.

Whatever Trevor.

2009-07-06T17:43:00.016+01:00

Friday 3rd July was a busy, busy day for me. I was lucky enough to watch my two friends graduate. Here is a picture of their graduation and my pitiful non-graduation. That's twice now. (Next year. Please, God. I'm a Religious Studies student for [your] sake.

(MA)zing!

These brainy ladies achieved the two highest firsts in the year, both winning substantial amounts of money for doing so. Lots to live up to, then. Cheers guys.

I had a wonderful day, despite the fact that I felt like a colossal failure for suffering a Wayne Rooney-esque metatarsal injury last year that left me braving the cobbles of the Royal Mile on wooden 'Tiny Tim' crutches for several weeks, only to subsequently fall into a penniless and hunger induced depression, forcing me to retreat. Cutting my losses, I dropped out (again) and spent a summer telling myself that I was above education and that instead of going back to uni (again) that I would sell caravan holidays for a living and listen to people complain about them afterwards. Good one, Wise.

Luckily I saw the light and hot-tailed it back up Edinburgh at the last minute for a third helping of potential failure, and seeing my smart arse friends in their gowns on Friday made me glad I did.

It is later, however, after I head over to the Graduation Ball where I would be DJing, warming up for none other than Radio 1's Trevor Nelson, where our story begins. (I.e. I find something to rant about. Obviously.)

When he finally arrived after missing his flight from Gatwick, ending up in Glasgow and terrifying us into thinking that he wasn't going to arrive at all, he showed up surprisingly punctually. He arrived on stage, greeted my colleague Cheese and I with a smile and a handshake, and began to unpack his (measley number of) CDs. As he took out his headphones, I kindly approached the mixer and removed mine in order that his could be plugged in. How thoughtful of me.

It was at this point, however, that Trev turned to my male colleague without a word of gratitude to myself and sniggered, "haha! Got an assistant have you?"

What a cheeky bastard. Apparently, if you were born with a vulva you are in no position to be able to work decks and a mixer. Who could ever imagine that perhaps I was there as an employee in the entertainments industry? Surely, as a woman in a pretty frock, I could only have been there to help out the men-folk by serving iced beverages and perhaps providing sexual favours if I'm really lucky. That's it, I must be the DJ's girlfriend. How sweet of me to help out.

The way I see it is this: Trev turned up with about seven and a half CDs. He played some alright tunes, but at the end of the day, the majority of the people there would have preferred to dance to Gina G and the Spice Girls than Bob Marley and James Brown. Not only that, but he was about four foot three and a half inches tall and left the bottle of Jack Daniels that EUSA had provided for him barely touched. Cheese and I not only towered over him, but after he had gone we sat up until broad daylight the following morning polishing off that bottle of Jack. Moreover, it has recently some to my attention that Mr Nelson stole one of Cheese's CDs! Apparently Trev has a penchant for Pink and Christina Aguilera.

Now who's the girl?!

If you don't laugh... (Part Deux)

2009-06-28T02:08:00.006+01:00

I'm getting stick from my boyfriend at the moment for my immense sadness over Michael Jackson's death. He's away getting felt up by randy Europeans so my outpouring of grief has happened via text message, a medium through which we all know it is difficult to convey exaggeration or irony in any way. Examples include my texting him to imply that I was sitting alone in my living room sobbing my heart out and watching MJ's music videos all day (which was only half a lie to be fair), and my sending him a text message that simply read, "I miss Michael."

Needless to say, although I am genuinely still reeling over his death, and still can't quite believe it, I am purposely over-egging the pudding slightly in order to wind him up. He just doesn't seem to be getting it!

To that end, I decided to have commissioned a piece of artwork. We're all familiar with the life and times of my good friend Miss Mop, but not only is she adept at alienating her loved ones, she's also a dab hand with the old Photoshop. One call to her got me the following little gem, which now features on my Facebook profile picture.

Bad taste? Perhaps. Worth it just to see his reaction? Definitely!

The Jailhouse Rock

2009-06-27T13:27:00.011+01:00

This morning, whilst continuing my current morbid obsession with watching Michael Jackson videos I stumbled across something beautiful.

Check this out!

Inmates at the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center (CPDRC)
Cebu, Philippines, practice the performance of their weekly dance routine.

Move over Diversity! These guys are amazing! Admittedly, I am slightly unnerved by the frightening ending. I'm not sure we ought to be simulating the vicious attacking of women in our prisons, but it's fantastic nonetheless.

As I scrolled through the videos, I was sorry to find that some of them have had the audio replaced due to stringent and in this case unnecessary copyright laws, but some of the videos that were available to watch with full audio were so good I found myself grinning like a Cheshire cat and desperate to share them. After reading about them, I'm also surprised that I've never heard of them before. Apparently, they're quite famous!

In the next gem, my absolute favourite, the inmates perform their routine to the song Jai Ho as featured in the brilliant movie Slumdog Millionaire. You'll notice that the chap who plays Jamil Malik appears to be a star of sorts, having also been positioned at the top of the formation for Michael Jackson's Thriller.

Jai Ho indeed.

I've always been critical of the way that prisons are run in the UK and of the way in which they're used primarily as deterrents and punishments rather than places of protection for those who are a danger to society or to themselves. I am also critical of the fact that there is not enough work done with those who are in prison towards rehabilitation and ensuring that they are less likely to re-offend upon their release. The people who are responsible for the choreographing of these routines and allowing for their performances are, in my view, actually doing something to combat these issues. The performers are doing something positive with their time, getting exercise, being given goals, making achievements, and no doubt rebuilding the confidence that must be so dangerously whittled away during a spell in the can.

If the prison service in the UK took a more positive approach to understanding why people commit crimes in the first place and dealing with that, not to mention accepting that the legal system is not infallible and that it sometimes gets things wrong, then perhaps our prisons would be less crowded, the people of Britain might feel more safe and 'criminals' themselves would be given the chance to adopt a more positive outlook, potentially reducing the number of people who reoffend. I say "perhaps" because I'm aware of my tragically stoic (and typically student) idealism, but it certainly couldn't do any harm.

Here's another one that was uplifting to say the least. Enjoy!

**Since writing this just hours ago, I found out that the CPDRC inmates have performed a special Michael Jackson Tribute in his memory, and wonderful it is too! Here it is. (Lady Wise shed a tear..!)**

Michael Jackson, 1958 - 2009

2009-06-26T14:55:00.018+01:00

You'd have to be an idiot not to know by now that Michael Jackson passed away yesterday. Par example: Facebook Status - midday today: "Whoa. Michael Jackson dead?"

Idiot.

How on earth had this person managed to dodge the already gushing stream of MJ jokes, Facebook and Twitter tributes and not to mention the non-stop media coverage. To be fair, the lady responsible for this awareness felony did move in with her boyfriend this week, so I imagine she's been too busy consuming confectionery off his naked body to keep in touch with current affairs. She must, however, be in a minority.

I found out, much to my dismay, whilst in the middle of a DJ set last night. I looked at my phone to find my inbox brimming with messages. Sadly enough that was an event in itself, and I knew something was up. Nothing, but nothing, could have prepared me for the horror that lay in wait. Jacko. Dead? No freakin' way.

As a lifelong fan, I was gutted. As a ticket holder for one of his London shows in July, I was asolutely devastated. I couldn't work out if the people who had text me were doing so in order to show their sympathies or if it was some sort of payback for my having scoffed about it for so long.

"Oh hi, Lynda. Listen, I'm going to have to book a weekend off work in July. I'm going to see Michael Jackson. Yes, I know it's six months away. Just keeping you in the loop..."

"You're going to see who, sorry? Britney? Ha! Give a shit?! I have tickets to Michael Jackson!"

Clearly if the latter is the case I deserve everything I get, but in my defense, the day I found out I had been one of the lucky few to grab tickets to this iconic event I was so happy that I ran around my flat screaming for at least an hour when I had an exam to sit that day. I have always been a huge fan, and the event was made all the more legendary on contemplation of the fact that my mother saw MJ live in concert when she was my age, and he was still black. A generation on, I was to follow in her footsteps: the ability to bridge a generation gap, not to mention the impact of scandal, rumour and peculiarity, and still to be loved by millions regardless, is the mark of a true legend.

There are concerns from many today that the press coverage of MJ's death is detracting from the 'more serious' and 'more newsworthy' items that would otherwise have adorned our front pages. As far as I am concerned, this overlooks and indeed undermines the fact the power of music is a wonderful thing - even scientists can't explain why we love it; how songs become stuck in our head, how we can remember lyrics without having to have heard them for decades and sometimes without even remembering that we ever knew the song in the first place. Certain pieces of music remind us instantly of past events, people and places so vividly that we can recall the most intimate and intricate of details, and this is why I believe that Michael Jackson's death really is a matter of great importance and even greater sadness.

No matter what he did or didn't do, what he was or wasn't, he was primarily an artist whose work was, and will be, appreciated for decades. He spent almost his entire life making the music that shaped our own lives.

There are those who argue that we have no right to be upset since we didn't know him at all, but I believe that they are wrong. The people who have listened to his music have been touched by it, as has music in general. We have adored his work and it has become part of us. Michael Jackson was music, I will always be a huge fan, and I am deeply saddened by his death.

Lipstick? Check. Perfume? Check. Wet floor sign? Check.

2009-06-22T10:25:00.004+01:00

I had a rather interesting conversation with a friend of mine yesterday, who we'll refer to as 'Miss Mop' and she knows why.

Miss Mop told me that she had gone out with work friends and got so hideously inebriated on half price cocktails that she was forced to leave the club by 12.30am. Her colleagues had to help her into a cab, where she proceeded to make rude faces to the back of the cabby's head, and then have to promise to "behave" herself after said cabby caught her licking the window. I wish I was joking.

She eventually made it in one piece back to her boyfriend's house, only to wake up on the sofa in her birthday suit the following morning with no recollection whatsoever of how she got there.

That, however, was not the only mystery. Her boyfriend had several questions for her.

a) How did you get here?

b) Why are you naked?

c) What's that wet patch on the stairs?

I'll just run c) by you one more time.

c) What's that wet patch on the stairs?

Needless to say, Mop had had an accident. She couldn't be sure, because her movements since embarrassing herself in the taxi remained a mystery, but since there were no empty beakers or signs of regurgitation, all evidence pointed towards her having marked her territory on her boyfriend's shag pile.

Mop was mortified. She tried to sort it out after he'd left for work but she was still a bit drunk and had to get herself to work too, so the patch remained. She then spent the entire day feeling ashamed and embarrassed and praying to God that the house would remain cool throughout the day lest her boyfriend should return to find his home smelling like a pensioner's pants after winning the National down the bingo.

"Don't worry about it darling. That carpet needed a good scrub anyway."

I, of course, found this utterly hilarious. Although I'm glad it wasn't me, I can honestly say that I have found myself in similarly horrendous morning-after-the-night-before situations and the embarrassment usually wears off. She asked me what I'd do if I were her boyfriend, to which I replied that I'd call her a freak and dump her immediately. I was joking of course, but situations like this do make me wonder if it's worth it.

We students put our bodies through so much stress and strain for a bit of a laugh on a night out, only to find ourselves scrambling around in the morning for some sort of vomit receptacle whilst hoping to god that we haven't pissed in the wardrobe.

It made me think of the following article that my friend Kate posted on her Facebook page recently, which describes the end of term activities of the UK's "brightest minds". Cambridge University students get wrecked.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1193135/Cambridge-students-celebrate-end-exams-binge-drinking-festival-women-jelly-wrestling.html

Granted, I'd sooner allow my boyfriend to relieve himself on my carpet than read much of anything that the Daily Mail churn out, and when daring to lay my eyes on this I was outraged at the suggestion that these hardworking students are to be considered in some way sub-standard for letting go after eight weeks of solid graft.

Miss Mop's tale of woe, however, got me thinking more about it.
Is it really worth it?

Why do we do it to ourselves? What do we get out of it? Yes, I love nights out with my friends, but they often cost me a lot more than the £20 I spend. We do horrendous things that we regret in the morning. Of course, if we're lucky we can't remember what we did, but you can guarantee you'll find out by the time all your mates have posted pictures of you on Facebook with your pants on your head having vommed in your hat. What's more, is that these days, social networking sites like Facebook which document your every movement from the minute you sign up to them are like a permanent record of your past misgivings. Allegedly, these are used by potential employers as part of the applicant screening process, which is the last thing we need as graduates at the moment.

With that in mind, although I don't really believe it is all that much of an issue, if I had to choose between giving up Facebook or giving up drinking, what would I do? Despite the fact that I love a good drink and know exactly how to laugh at myself, the story of Miss Mop and the Cambridge elite has really made me think that there are some aspects of student life that might come back to bite us later. (i.e. in the cost of going up a jeans size every year.)

Everything but the kitchen sink

2009-06-20T13:02:00.003+01:00

I had a call from a web-deprived pal yesterday asking me to google a very important question for her.
Can you take GHD hair straighteners in your hand luggage on Ryanair flights?
Good question. So, I had a look at the guidelines on the Ryanair website.

Absolute, total and utter hilarity ensued. What I found, was the following:

http://www.ryanair.com/site/EN/faqs.php?sect=bag&quest=prohibiteditems

This is a link to the page listing which items are prohibited from being carried into the cabin.
I actually cried tears of joy and incredulity whilst reading this list aloud over the phone to my friend. I still can't believe some of the things that are specifically prohibited from being taken on board.

Guns, Firearms & Weapons - fair enough. That's to be expected. My friend was crestfallen, however, on being informed that she was not allowed to pack her crossbow. Nor her Cattle prod.

The cabin crew weren't sure how to react on being informed that a passenger had stuffed their

Fiat Cinquecento into the overhead luggage area.

She was also forbidden from attempting to squeeze the following ridiculous items into her handbag:

axes & hatchets
throwing stars - whatever the hell they are.
kayak and canoe paddles - because they would fit nicely in the overhead storage..?
infected blood, bacteria and viruses - rank.

My favourite prohibition was the one that specifically forbids the carrying of any item with its own internal combustion engine, including lawnmowers.

Lawnmowers?!

Who on God's green earth would try and get a lawnmower in a rucksack? They might as well be telling people not to pack their washing machines. What's most worrying is that the very existence of this list says to me that there must be people out there who would actually (or worse have actually) made some sort of attempt to carry these items on board.

At least we know one thing, though. It didn't say explicitly that hair straighteners are ok, but if they weren't it would bloody well say so! It was the only item that I couldn't find listed on the Ryanair website. Well, that and the kitchen sink!

Who ate all the Humble pie?

2009-06-18T18:53:00.003+01:00

After DJing for the last two nights in a row and working a full day in between, needless to say I woke up (this afternoon) feeling groggy and irritable. This was not the best time, therefore, for it to have come to my attention that MPs expenses were being opened up to the public. I logged on, found my local MP for Blackpool North and Fleetwood, Mrs Joan Humble, and had a browse.

At first it all seemed above board. About as risque as it got was her claim for 640 tea bags and a tin of chocolates: essential morale boosters. When I looked at her Additional Cost Allowances, however, which include the provisions for her second home, to say I was disgusted would be like saying that Nick Griffin is "just a bit funny with Asians."

Her claims for redecorating at a cost of almost £1200 I can cope with. We mustn't let these places fall into disrepair. Her fully lined curtains at a couple of hundred quid? Fine. But her having spent £400 a month on food, almost every month in 2004/05 is not cool. It means that her food bills for that year were more than I received from the government in student loan payments that are intended to help cover every aspect of my living costs. Joan's out enjoying boozy lunches while I'm living off pasta on toast and council pop.

For the first time in my life I felt compelled to write a letter to my local MP demanding an explanation. Am I to assume that no receipts were produced for this food since it comes to a nice round figure each month? It's in instances such as this that I think my belief in the Labour ideology isn't necessarily shared by those who are supposed to represent it.

Greedy Bitch.

If I spent £400 a month on food I dare say I'd be like the side of a house. As we can see from this photo, however, Joan's rather svelte. Is she eating all the pies or pocketing the proceeds?

I hope she chokes on a pheasant bone.

If you don't laugh...

2009-06-17T18:56:00.001+01:00

This week, I've had a little time off work and therefore very little to do. So look what I've been up to!

First of all, this is brilliant.

Now, I am NOT the type of girl to watch the sort of videos that this animation sees fit to mock, but like any student or regular YouTube patron, I don't have to have seen it to know when it is being referred to.

N.B. The rest of his videos are shit.

Secondly, this week, I found out that my boyfriend owns one of these:

Mother arrested on suspicion of child abuse.

In the interests of my own street cred, I will explain the circumstances that apparently led to his owning of such an appallingly sickening item. I would love to allow the reader to believe that he is simply nothing more than a weirdo. Since I have my own rep to protect, however, I won't.

My boyf regularly appeared in musicals during his adolescence, and his mother thought it was best that he wear one of these little beauties in order that his bits and bobs would remain stationery during more vigorous dance routines. I imagine that this was more for her benefit than his, but her whipping it out and brandishing it like a blemish on my life was almost as horrendous as watching my boyfriend don said blemish over his jeans whilst laughing hysterically at his own sorry situation.

Well, you know what they say... if you don't laugh you'll cry!

The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas, John Boyne

2009-05-10T21:06:00.001+01:00

Since deciding to focus on post-Holocaust memory discourse as a topic for my impending dissertation, I have taken to reading lots of post-Holocaust literature - both fiction and non-fiction - and John Boyne's, The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas is the latest to grace my shelf.

I received a phone call today from a friend asking me had I seen the film, since she saw it this afternoon and was still reeling from it. Actually, I haven't seen the film and don't plan on going out of my way in order to do so, simply because I loved the book so much.

It's written from the point of view of Bruno, the child of a prominent Nazi military officer. Bruno is born into a socio-political situation that he will never understand, leaving the reader in the position of one who is able to interpret what he is seeing and experiencing more fully than himself, but even we can only understand these experiences insofar as Bruno is able to articulate them. His innocence is therefore transposed upon the reader in an extraordinary and disturbing manner, and in a way which it seems to me would be impossible to recreate in film. Bruno uses phrases such as 'Out With' and 'The Fury' instead of 'Auschwitz' and 'The Fuhrer' which are left up to the reader to decipher.

Bruno befriends one of the hundreds of people in the striped pyjamas who work on the 'farm' next to his new home at 'Out With' and a relationship of pure innocence develops between them that was so touching I had to revisit the final chapters several times in the same day before I could move on.

The book reveals an aspect of the Holocaust that has never been touched upon in anything else that I have read; it reveals the existence of the silent victims. The extent of the suffering is poignantly reconsidered by showing that all were affected regardless of gender, age, nationality or religion in ways that we will never be able to imagine.

It is a must-read.

Dream Team.

2009-05-03T16:21:00.005+01:00

A friend and I (Quasimodo) were recently discussing the following article:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-362101/Sweet-dreams-cheese.html

Firstly, I should point out that it was he who found it. I would never read anything that The Mail deems fit to show its readers.

The article discusses an experiment conducted by The British Cheese Board (excellent pun-work there guys) which questions the myth that eating cheese before bed gives you nightmares. The article is surprisingly entertaining, but being the skeptic that I am, I refused to believe that the results were anything but coincidental. Being the fervent time-waster that I also am, however, I decided that it would be a great idea to give it a go.

Quasimodo and I each took home a great big slice of Stilton and ate a measured amount with crackers, whilst talking to each other on the phone. (He lives alone... this is as good as it gets for him.) We then went to sleep with our notebooks and pens on our bedside tables and awaited the results.

Any correlation? Well...

First of all, we both dreamt LOTS. What my pal lists as one (really, really) long dream, I can only imagine must be several strung together. I also had several vivid dreams and this coming from someone who rarely remembers her dreams is quite something. Were they nightmares? Well, Quasi's did involve being offered £40 by a desperate gay man who wanted to borrow his GHDs, so in that sense, yes. For him, it was a nightmare. No amount of money could replace the potential loss of his most-prized possession.

The rest of his dream was a little more serene, although definitely still a bit weird. Edinburgh was, according to his subconscious, to be found in a suburb of Iceland where the taxi drivers sit in the back of their cars and use some sort of extendable steering wheel for navigation, and where political smear campaigns are conducted via LCD plasma screens on lamp posts. All very exciting. My dream, however, well that was a different story.

I can honestly say, I will never, ever be eating Stilton before bed again! 'Harrowing' is the only appropriate word. My subconscious self was taken on an emotional journey through confusion, to heartbreak, to actual fear that spilled over into reality. I was totally unable to distinguish between my dreams and being awake. I firstly dreamt that I was playing the dream game and had made a note of all my dreams, which then led me to believe when I woke up that I had already written them down. I hadn't. It was a dream. I then went back to sleep and suffered the trauma of my brother's death, having to move out of our house because my mother was too upset to live in it. I eventually woke up again thinking that it was real. I actually thought to myself, "why was I so worried about getting a train home to see my brother next week? I can't. He's dead!" Again, he isn't.

On realising my mistake, I was then overcome by a horrible sense of paranoia and fear, and was unable to move in my bed for fear that there was someone in my bedroom watching me! Weird? Yes. So please don't eat Stilton before bed. Ever.

On a lighter note, my dream sequence ended with snogging my friend's boyfriend. Fortunately she came home and we were forced to desist. She will remain nameless lest she should read this and unfriend me.

How I'd like to achieve my 'Funeral'.

2009-05-03T15:34:00.005+01:00

During a day of revision (joy of joys...) I stumbled across this little beauty. It's a video featuring amazing stunts and several Edinburgh University buildings and not to mention a bitchin' soundtrack. I am becoming exceedingly bitter about my mother's taking away of my bike last summer for it to be sold at cost to a pal of hers.

"But you don't even use it," said She.

Well, I would if I could do wheelies and shit.

You'll Never Get To Heaven (If You Piss Off A Religious Studies Student)

2009-04-13T16:15:00.002+01:00

When I was asked by Adam Ramsay, current President of Edinburgh University Students' Association to give an interview to the Edinburgh Evening News about the dire state of my financial affairs, I was more than happy to help (not least in the hope that it might lead to some Edinburgh millionaire donating a few bob, or perhaps even a mariage proposal). Although my hopes in that respect were dashed, no doubt because the photo in the printed edition was about as attractive as bath time at Ann Widdecombe's, I did get the chance to throw in my very-much proverbial two-penneth after a pair of absolute, total and utter morons decided to question how necessary a degree is to a girl with beginnings as humble as my own. Apparently, if your mum was a bar maid and your dad a taxi driver you have neither right nor cause to aspire to anything higher.

Well, I had a few suggestions for them too, but in order to remain calm and collected and to prove that actually our great nation will inevitably benefit from the entry of the working classes into the higher echelons of society, my response was surprisingly restrained.My friend Gemma wasn't quite so concerned about her public image...

http://edinburghnews.scotsman.com/education/Gemma-Fraser-Students-learn-a.5120612.jp

Strip The Willow

2009-04-12T12:41:00.002+01:00

This week I crashed the 21st birthday party of a girl I don't know. Typical student night out. I had such an amazing time though, that I felt it deserved a spot on my blog.

Felicity, the girl I don't know, through a stroke of Scottish genius, threw herself a ceilidh. The first time I saw the word written down about 4 years ago, I turned to a friend and like a true philistine asked, "what the hell is a see-la-da-huh?" Turns out, it's pronounced 'kay-lee', and is probably one of my favourite things about living in Scotland. The evening usually begins with a group of people looking relatively refined: girls in posh frocks, gentlemen in full highland dress, a band of men armed with fiddles, drums, guitars and accordions and a few quiet drinks. By the end of the night you're sweating Glenfiddich from every pore, all the girls have discarded their shoes, you've seen the genitalia of at least three unknown males and someone is admitted to A&E with a Wayne Rooney-esque metatarsal injury. I personally woke up the following morning with severe bruising under my right arm, red marks along my rib cage and friction burns on the soles of my feet.

Before this starts to sound too much like some sort of cultish sexual ritual, I'll explain that a ceilidh is a night of traditional celtic dancing, usually held in Scotland for special occassions such as birthdays and weddings. They are AWESOME. What I find most interesting about them though is how much the men up here love them. Where I come from the only time a bloke would even conceive of heel-toeing and do-si-doing whilst wearing a skirt and fancy bum-bag would be as part of some sort of elaborate suicide attempt. In fact, I called my friend Tom on my way to the hotel and told him all about it and the one word he could come up with to describe his feelings about it was, "gay."

What I love even more about them though, is the concept of a 'ceilidh band'. These bands can often cost a fortune to hire, and can range from bog standard, to really quite good, to bloody brilliant. I've seen them with just three or four people with cheap instruments and couple of mics, I've seen others who have laptops with virtual DJ programmes on them and the best one I've ever seen had a full drum kit and electric guitars. What I love the most about them, though, are the names that they give themselves. Weirdly, a decent number of them are sex-themed, such as:

Trevor's Fetish

Climax

The Foolish Virgins

Others include clever word play such as:

HotScotch

Flamin' Great Barndance Band

Licence To Ceilidh (nice!)

ThingumaJig

The Hosepipe Band (very clever, but no longer topical.)

Others are just plain wierd, like:

Beer And Baccy

Dropping Clangers

Famous Potatoes

Fiddle Faddle

My all-time favourite:

Ceilidh Minogue.

Brilliant.

Wanna See Bradley Swing? I did.

2009-01-18T13:27:00.004Z

I cannot remember the last time I rippled with excitement. (Those who are familiar with the woes of my love life will be unmoved by this.) S Club were coming to our student union and I was the DJ! I wasn't this excited when Alan Fletcher (a.k.a Dr. Karl Kennedy of Erinsborough fame and Australasia’s favourite GP/paediatrician/anaesthetist/psychiatrist/brain surgeon/vet) made his Potterrow debut. I definitely wasn't this excited for the Vengaboys, and at least then we were getting the whole troupe, whereas the group that had in its heyday been known as S Club Seven had only managed to scrape together three of their former entourage - Jo, Bradley and Paul. Not even Tina was up for it, and I reckon she’d need the money.

Nevertheless, I arrived at the venue clutching my camera and sporting an ear-to-ear grin to rival that of Oprah Winfrey’s after Barack Obama’s American presidential election victory. I was thrilled on entering the dressing room to find three S Club posters and a Sharpie laid out neatly on the table beside a bottle of champagne and five plastic beakers. I had to secure one of these posters for myself. I had to procure an autograph and I had to take some photographs and I had to be able to boast that I had conversed at length with every which one of them. I had been transported back to my adolescence when my friends and I would sit outside the school building at lunchtime singing Bring It All Back and choreographing our own dance routines in between eating Space Raiders and wishing we had boobs. I was driving my colleagues to distraction with my “are they here yet?”s and “will you come with me when I meet them?”s. My imagination was on a frolic of its own – maybe, just maybe, if I were to position myself in the dressing room immediately prior to their arrival and begin belting out a bit of Two In A Million, they would be so amazed by my vocal talent and persistent appreciation of their art that they would request, nay, demand that I performed alongside them as the new and improved Rachel Stevens. Perhaps Jo and I would become best friends, or Bradley might fall in love with me? (I wasn’t too fussed about Paul, illustrated by the fact that I had to be constantly reminded that his name was not Jon.)

When they eventually did arrive, things weren’t quite as Hollywood as I had expected. Just seconds before they walked in the door I had been crouching on the floor, bobbing up and down on my tip-toes in a vain attempt to relieve an horrendous cramp in my toes. Close shave. A spectacle such as that could have totally ruined my chances with Bradders. The next time I went into the dressing room, the guys had gone outside for one of many cigarettes and I got chatting to Jo’s mate, Cindy. Unbelievably intoxicated but friendly enough, she went on to dish some dirt on the workings of Celebrity Big Brother and her theory that the amount the stars are paid is directly proportional to the positivity with which they’re portrayed in the house. Her hypothesis stated that the stark contrast between Shilpa Shetty’s victory and Jo’s being branded a common racist was to do with the fact that Shilpa was paid £340k against Jo’s measly £40k. The racism had nothing to do with it, obviously. Bradley and Paul returned from their nicotine fixes just as Cindy finished telling me about her appearance on GMTV in defence of her pal, during which she played the ethnic relative card – “Jo ain’t no racist! Bradley’s her best mate, and she’s got an Indian cousin.”

Bradley was lovely, as expected. He said hello, used my name when he spoke to me and shook my hand. All very civilised. Paul on the other hand, well, he was something else. For starters, he was a rotter – there is no other word for it. The years have not been kind. He looked like a member of Busted a decade too late, wearing a slightly skewed black baseball cap, a black jacket with large metal zips and a tie with wide grey and black stripes. He was more bothered about polishing off the liquor than making small-talk with the DJ. My favourite part was when he scrambled for the champagne bottle, only to pour out half a glass and top it up with Red Bull. Classy.

Paul poses as a member of Potterrow's Option One Security team.

At this point I made a swift dash for the exit before Jo could return and my estimations of the trio potentially descend faster than Ulrika Johnsson’s knickers backstage at Gladiators. Half an hour later, I was standing at the front of the stage inciting screams from nigh on a thousand people for merely suggesting that the group may be making an appearance any minute.

“Good evening Potterrow... are you ready for S Club?”

Believe me, they were ready. Ten minutes later, I’m on the mic again asking the crowd to “give it up for S Club” and the show began. They were, in a word, excellent. They opened with S Club Party, moved on to a ten minute medley of some absolute classics, and ended with Reach and Don’t Stop Movin’. The audience were captivated, Cindy was at the back nursing a vodka and orange and shaking her thang (like she hadn’t seen the show twenty times already) and I looked on from the sidelines, thoroughly enjoying myself. Ok so their set was only twenty minutes, but twenty minutes of a recaptured youth is good enough for me.

It was during the performance that I caught my first glimpse of Jo, and was surprised by her appearance and general demeanour. I don’t mean to sound snobby, but she was dressed like something you’d see in the window of Peacocks and her vocabulary only seemed to stretch to, “Edinburgh, you are the bollocks!” – a phrase which she repeated robotically between each number along with several other profanities and allusions to S Club’s former squeaky clean image. Now, I don’t know about you, but I know that if I had made a fool of myself on national television, become a public embarrassment and apparently made an attempt on my own life as a result (according to Cindy), I would certainly endeavour to change public opinion. Instead she turns up looking a bit rough, acting a bit rough, and in turn offering me a further blow to the head with the fist of reality. What had I been so worried about? Why had I been acting like a twelve year old girl quivering at the thought of meeting three people who are, at the end of the day, just that: people. In fact, they are people with backgrounds pretty similar to my own. If Paul doesn’t like champagne, why can’t he top it up with a high-energy beverage? Just because he was once famous doesn’t mean he has to have refined his tastes. Similarly, Jo’s receiving an amount of money that would leave most Deal or No Deal contestants running around the studio, hugging fellow contestants and scoffing at The Banker, doesn’t mean that she should be prancing about a student union in Dolce and Gabbana.

I once heard someone say that acts appear at Potterrow (or indeed any other student union) on their way up, and on their way back down again. This has never seemed more true. These guys were just guys: foul-mouthed, badly-dressed, past-it pop stars with nothing better to do. (Note: I am in no way including Bradley in this summary. No criticism whatsoever. He was perfect. And great in bed.)

How Chuffed?

So, I didn’t get to meet Jo, I didn’t get my signed poster because some bastard nicked it, and I didn’t get to take any photos because I had neglected to charge the battery for my camera. (I deserved to die for this.) I did, however, have a fantastic night. Seeing the three of them on the same stage as me, having a laugh and doing what they do best, made me realise not only how quickly things can change, but also how highly we can esteem those who are no more or less human than we are. I have taken great pleasure in telling everyone I know that I have hung out with S Club, and even greater pleasure in telling them all that Bradley kissed me – a story which made it onto my Facebook status before his saliva was dry on my cheek. What I have also delighted in chronicling however, is the fact that these guys were, essentially, common as muck. They rocked up late, slummed it in the dressing room of a student union with a bottle of Chateau Shite, performed without a sound check and then went to Finger’s Piano Bar and got waaaaasted.

The fourteen year old me was pretty disappointed that she wasn’t swept away in the fame and glamour, but the twenty-three year old me is pretty pleased with what she got: a cracking show and some awesome piss-take material.

Faceblog.

2009-01-14T23:46:00.002Z

Suddenly over the past couple of days, at least three of my non-student friends have accused me, completely independently of one another, of spending too much time on Facebook. Now, I can't see how anyone can spend too much time on Facebook. My friends and I use Facebook, or 'Facey B' (pronounced 'fass-e-bee') as we like to call it, as our sole method of communication. All events, meetings, parties, birthdays and any other excursions or get-togethers are always arranged on Facey B. If you are listed as 'attending' on a Facebook Event, then attend indeed you shall. This is why I know I don't spend too much time on Facebook - no one in my friendship group can. What I am sure of, however, is that although one cannot spend too much time on Facebook, what one can do, is give too much away.

"What are you doing right now?" - Why? Who wants to know?

"Write something about yourself." - As if there isn't enough listed about me here already.

To prove my point, I decided to conduct a little experiment. Now, if you were to look at my Facebook profile, there is no doubt in my mind that you would be able to pin-point my exact coordinates at any given time. This information, of course, is only available to my friends, but others aren't so cautious. I drew a name randomly from my mind and typed it into the search box. I wanted to find out how much personal information I could gather about a total stranger, without their even knowing about it. A little unethical, I know.

I'm not gonna lie, I was slightly disappointed. I didn't get a phone number, home address or an e-mail address, but that said, what I did get was disturbing enough. I launched my assault against an unsuspecting woman from Blackburn, managing to retrieve her full date of birth, the name of the college that she went to, which premiership football team she supports, her career moves for the last eighteen months, and I even know that she finished work at 3.30pm last Tuesday because her status told me so. Which brings me on to my next point: The Facebook Status.

The Facebook status is by far the most annoying thing about the whole site. Daily I look at my news feed and see the same people changing their statuses again and again; the same people, apparently doing something new "right now" every ten minutes. You're not doing anything! You're sitting on your fat arse refreshing the 'news feed' and watching Jeremy Kyle quite clearly. Which probably explains why their English is so atrocious. Examples today alone include, "So-And-So jus ad a nice shower" and "What's-Her-Face is wounderin if she'll hav a valentine this yea". Not with that penmanship darling. And they're just the stupid ones! You also get the soppy, the aggressive, the frustrated, the ignorant and the sports fans. "Derek is raggy fuckin bastard chelsea". This come courtesy of an ex-colleague, Derek. (Taberner, not Lynam).

So it's clear, point proven, people are ridiculously open with their personal information on Facebook. Even those with private profiles like mine can slip up. After my disappointment during my initial experiment, I decided to conduct another. I trawled through one of my friend's groups until I found one called, "Some GAYYYY person stole my phone". This is an interspecific hybrid of the typical "I-lost-my-phone-whilst-backpacking-across-South-East-Asia-please-send-me-your-numbers". Come on mate, you were pissed and you dropped it down the bog, didn't you? And you never had my number in the first place, so piss off.

Well anyway, I looked at the wall for this group and found no less than two dozen mobile numbers belonging to people I didn't know. The most shocking thing, however, was that one of them was mine! I couldn't believe it. I actually laughed out loud. I too am an over-sharer, guilty as charged. But why? What are we doing? What on earth possesses us in this age of identity theft and bogus callers to so freely give away information about ourselves? It's the same with blogging. Why has it become so popular? There are millions of people writing them for all sorts of different reasons. Some people use them as some sort of artistic outlet, some use them just like an online diary or a collection of their personal thoughts and feelings, and some people even use them to make money. But why do we feel the need to write down or talk about everything?

I am definitely your average northern realist. My philosophy is, "put up and shut up or I'll chin ya." I've laughed at funerals, I'm not even kidding. My granddad died, which wasn't as sad as it sounds - I hadn't seen him since I was about four. My dad didn't want to go to the funeral so my mum and I went out of respect. I was pretty upset when I got there because I was handed a photo of myself at the age of three, my auburn ringlets resting on my grandfather's shoulder whilst I giggled away on his knee. I had obviously loved him at some point, so it was sad that I had no memories of him whatsoever. I admit I shed a few tears, but my grief was swiftly transubstantiated into hilarity when the priest said, "... and his granddaughter Stevie, who named a street after him." (The street that I named when I was eleven bore his Christian name, but it definitely had nothing to do with him.)

I looked across the aisle towards my aunts who were gazing gratefully at me, visibly touched by this extraordinary display of love-lost on my part. I then turned to look at my mum, who's shock clearly matched my own judging by her trout-like facial expression, and the longer we stared, the funnier it became. Before I knew it, we were sitting in our pews tittering into our hymn books. Alright, I was at a funeral, but the death part somehow made the situation even funnier.

You only have to read my previous blog to see this mentality - I don't mince my words when slagging off Kendo, and believe me, he is well aware of my feelings. During the incident when he mocked my degree choice I followed his, "it's only Religious Studies" with, "yeah, and that's my fist, want it in your face?" True story. Despite my hard-line approach to life, I am one of the millions who have tried counselling (albeit short-term and mainly because it was free), and like others I have now embarked upon blogging.

But where has this trend come from? What happened to the days of old when our parents were naught but wee bairns and their parents could think of nothing worse than airing their dirty laundry in public? If my mum had been seen to be scratching her every musing into her slate she'd have had it knocked out of her hand and been sent to the shop for her dad's Rizla. This was clearly the case for the ten years between my naming of that street and its coming out that my estranged family had spent all of that time cooing over the belief that it had been named after my grandfather. If someone had thought to express this sentiment at the time I would have set them straight immediately, but no one bothered and now I can't. But what's changed? At one time we wouldn't express our feelings to members of our own families and now we'll post them on the internet to be seen by all and sundry?

Blogging, for me, is fast becoming a chance to be a bit of a grammatical snob and generally just write things. I'm out to rekindle a long-lost-love for writing, but in doing so, I am clearly following a trend. I’m not sitting here writing fictional short stories, I’m writing about my past, my experiences, my thoughts and feelings. I laugh at funerals, I don’t write blogs! What am I doing? What are we all doing? When did upper-lips become so flaccid?

It seems to me that in this time of New Age religion, self-help literature and expensive therapy, wearing our hearts on our sleeves has become necessary and blogging is a great way to do it. Facebook, for me at least, is different. It’s a social networking tool and that is exactly how I use it. Blogging on the other hand, is therapeutic. It's a lot like my counselling, really. It's free, it gets me thinking and it helps to me to organise my thoughts. I’m writing things down that I didn’t even know that I thought, which is exactly what helped me during my counselling. Moreover, I didn't want to start blogging because as far as I was concerned, only saddos and losers did it; people with nothing to say and too much time on their hands, and at first I didn't tell anyone about it. It was the same with counselling. I did it because I was stressed, wasn't sleeping and had no motivation, but I never thought it would work and I never told anyone because I didn't know what they would think. But it did work, and I really enjoyed it and now I'm really enjoying this. So maybe it’s a good thing that we’re becoming so open. As long as it is moderated, (i.e. we don’t write our phone numbers on Facebook groups,) in my experience openness has helped me to sort myself out. My “put up and shut up” attitude still works – I still think we need to be able to handle our own feelings, and I still think we can share too much, but this isn’t hurting anyone, is it?

Co-hab(irrit)ation.

2009-01-13T19:23:00.001Z

Humans are social creatures, are they not? So why is it so difficult to live with other people?

I'm a student, so inevitably I have to share my living quarters with others. I tell myself that this is something I want, and in fact require: why the hell would I live on my own? A really good friend of mine lives alone in a beautiful flat in Leith and I have been inclined to think he's a bit of a Quasimodo for it, but I'm starting to think that he's on to a winner. Perhaps we are prone to thinking that we need companionship when really we don't at all.

Take Quasimodo for example, who I hope never reads this if this is what we're calling him. He pays a hell of a lot of money for his flat, but he has a hell of a lot of money so it's not an issue. Living alone in his turret suits him down to the ground because it means he can come and go as he pleases, eat when he wants, clean when he wants, practise his DJing when he wants without pissing anyone off, but most importantly, there is no one there to piss him off. If he doesn't have a flatmate, his flatmate's pals can't come in drunk and ringing the doorbell at 3am when he has an exam in a couple of days. (This happened to me.) Without a companion, there is no one about to leave smelly Japanese curry sitting out on the kitchen table for days. (This happened to me.) His flatmate can't make homophobic comments in front of his gay friends if his flatmate does not exist. (This happened to me.) When he's alone, no one will mess about with his expensive mixers and touch his decks. (This didn't happen to me and my mixer was not expensive, but it did happen to him.)

My point is, that as lonely as I would be if I didn't have any flatmates, I'm pretty sure I would spend a lot less time bitching and moaning and putting salt in the sugar and things. So why do we do it?

Obviously, there's the financial thing - I can't afford to live alone - but even if I could I know I would still prefer the company. And this is coming from a girl who has done nothing in her four year university career but constantly and incessantly whine about how irritiating her flatmates are. The a-hole that I live with now takes the biscuit. He's rude, arrogant, homophobic, sexist and no doubt carries round a rolled-up copy of the Telegraph at all times.

I once walked into our kitchen to make a cup of tea whilst I was writing an essay, to find him in there discussing touch-typing with a large group of 'friends'. (I use inverted commas because I'm almost certain no one likes him). He had his arm draped smugly across the shoulders of his Japanese girlfriend, (who's English for his sake I hope never improves lest she should realise he's a moron), and was defending his lack of ability to touch-type. If he can't do it, it isn't worth doing. I took the greatest and smuggest of pleasure in Judo-Chopping him by informing him that I can touch-type and find it highly beneficial. When one of his typist companions enquired about my essay, my lovely flatmate (who we'll refert to as 'Kendo') scoffed, "Well, I wouldn't panic too much... it is only Religious Studies."

This, coming from a man who sits in on a Friday night with a bunch of typists. This, from a man who allowed his love of Anime to reach such heights that his life now revolves around all things Japanese. At least during the course of my 'easy' arts degree, I have cultivated the art of good humour and intelligent conversation. This guy, on the other hand, thinks that he is so far superior to the rest of the serfs that he lives with that he locks his bedroom door before he leaves the flat. You know, in case we go in and steal his Pokemon cards.

What I have realised however, is that this guy isn't necessarily the problem; he could well be the solution. He is the one person in this flat that I really cannot stand. The rest of us get on fine, and in fact, one of the funniest nights we've had as a group (Kendo is never included when considering 'the group') was when we laughed our socks off for about an hour because my Polish flatmate had sent a Christmas card to Kendo's girlfriend, but not to Kendo himself. We had an absolute hoot when discussing the time I had sent a text to Kendo, signed my name at the end of it, and he called me to find out who I was! The creme-de-la-creme was when we came back to the flat this week and found his name scrawled all over sticky labels on his groceries. You're the only one who drinks sake, Kendo. We know it's yours.

So, I'm wondering, do we always have to have a distraction? Humans can live in small, confined spaces with one another as long as there is something there to irritate them more than the other person in the equation. Couples have children to distract themselves from eachother's toe-nail biting and toilet-seat ignorance. They then give their children pets so that they don't spend all their time bickering over the Nintendo. Students, if they're lucky, live with at least one wanker.

I am definitely a lucky girl!

Here goes something. I hope...

2009-01-13T00:08:00.001Z

So I decided to start a blog, inspired by the one and only person who will probably ever look at it - my oldest friend Sarah (or whatever her nickname is these days!)

Sarah is a keen writer. She has the ability to come up with great ideas and concepts and get them down on paper which is something that I would LOVE to be able to do, and which is also the main reason for my deciding to try and blag a blog. I'm hoping it will free up some thoughts and help me organise them, so that maybe I can become a good writer too!

The one thing I'm lacking that Sarah isn't, is a keen imagination, but then she has always been that way. We had so much fun when we were kids buying Bliss magazine and flipping immediately to the spells page, or subscribing to some ridiculous part-by-part series which taught us how to use gems and stones and other trinkets to our advantage. Not that I don't believe in that sort of thing necessarily - the power of the mind is an amazing thing. I'm just not sure that twelve year old girls who spend all their pocket money in the local news agent's know how to put it to good use.

We had fun though, and while I went on to become interested in religion and spirituality in an academic way, Sarah nurtured her love of the spiritual in a real way. She lived it. You might say that she dipped her Rainbow Feet in a few different puddles! It may seem odd to some people, but I've always envied that about her. She's serious about what was always an interesting game to me. Even when she first became involved in Wicca she was happy to discuss it where others would keep it to themselves. Especially in the area that we live where downing Snakebites is considered an art and spray-painting the acronym, 'MUFC' on brick walls is every man's bhakti. That's exactly the difference between the way our love of the 'other' and the 'different' developed: Sarah and I developed an interest in Wicca simultaneously, only Sarah considered herself to be a Wiccan, whereas I was studying a module in New Age spirituality at university and was asking her questions about it. I was an armchair scholar, and Sarah was my primary source.

Over the past couple of days, Sarah has been showing me a book that she has been working on and I have been helping her to edit it. I really enjoyed doing it, I'm an avid reader and half the time there is nothing I would love more than the opportunity to call an author and discuss their sentence structure. Sad, I know. The worst culprit by a long, long way is the King himself, Stephen King, whose, The Green Mile I read about five pages of and tossed it because I couldn't stomach the appalling, juvenile writing style. It's such a shame that someone like King, who has an amazing talent for concocting ideas, has no talent whatsoever for putting them down on paper. Of course there are millions who would disagree with me, but they're all shit writers too.

Now, I'm not for one nanosecond suggesting that Sarah is as bad as Stephen King. Few are. Her style is entertaining and her voice comes through really clearly in her writing. I just helped her out with a bit of housekeeping, but I enjoyed it so much that I found myself wishing that I had her imagination, and that I shared her mind's thought processes. I simply don't have the ability to reflect on the things in my life that have clearly inspired Sarah to write the things that she does. I walk along with my glasses in my back pocket, just trying to earn a quid or two, get a degree, and eventually become a lawyer. My mind is so focused on the present and the future that I haven't really given the past a moment's thought.

Eureka! That's all I wanted! I had a course of counselling sessions quite recently during which I discovered loads about myself really rapidly, just from talking it out. I told my counsellor at the end of my sessions that I might start writing a diary because I was worried that I wouldn't learn anything else about myself unless I kept on thinking. I never did write that diary but this first entry to my blog has proven my point. All I've done is write a few lines about an old mate and her book and I've realised that I'm shallow and ignorant to the world around me! And I'm happy about this?!

Yes, I am.

Well... it's quite therapeutic isn't it, this blogging malarky?