Pofaced by poetry

Poetry is a thing I do not like.

So for my first scribblings properly published (be it in an anthology of 'children's' writing- beyond belittling) to be of that godforsaken medium poetry is vexing. To say the least.

Don't get me wrong, the odd witty limerick in it's place can border on being a hoot, and I'm not averse to a bit of verse in the manner of Shakespeare or Chaucer (it would be heresy to say otherwise). But bog standard, everyday poetry is just not my bag. It seems self-indulgent, conciously pretentious, and I'm always a little suspicious of something that 'can mean whatever you want it to mean'. It is, in conclusion, not a pleasure to read. Which is what reading should be.

Seeing my own two poems (the word must now be in italics in order to convey my scorn and disgust) in black and white between the covers of a real live book is squirm-inducing. I wouldn't be so annoyed, but they said that to submit any script writing it would have to be five pages long. Mine was only two, so I fell back on the poetry. Yet, on receiving the book today, there are many, many examples of people's script writing that is far less that five pages. Grrr...

So I now look like I think I am a poet, having selected what I consider to be my best work to submit to the compilers. When in reality I more than aware that they are tripe. However, the advantage of poetry is (and this is it's only saving grace) that somebody may take my poems to mean that they are actually fantastic. Suckers.

Atleast I am not the truly appalling young girl who insisted on giving a reading at the distribution of the anthologies. Brat does not cover the half of it. I blame the parents; two pushy individuals already asking what was on the course next year, and smiling and applauding indulgently when their darling had finished her reading and was looking disappointed when not presented with a bouquet. Still, the mother did shout out (rather rudely in my opinion) to some unfortunate who stumbled into the library where it was all being held 'The library is CLOSED, being a Wednesday'. It is actually Thursday today. Dimwit. I bet she is an avid reader of poetry.

Tell me something I DON'T know!

The problem with being all knowing is that people will insist on telling you things you just already know.

For the pains of remaining passive and a sponge to surroundings, one must endure frequent repetitions. It is like a life on a loop.

But the lesser mortals must be humoured I suppose. Those who are built like watering cans: a large cavity where the water can be stored but a spout from which it leaks, spurting information everywhere so that it must again be poured back into the central system. One is either a sponge or a watering can, I find.

Omniscience just isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I better copyright the 'anna'

Being a bohemian, individual, quirky kook is not a lifestyle choice or the result of an image decision. It is more of an image indecision.

What those words mean is synonymous to 'interesting'. You know, said in that heavy way, reverberating with connotation and issuing from a contorted false smile. Trying not to be offensive, yet insinuating distaste all the same. It is something to say when there is really nothing to say. Except, what in the name of fashionista are you wearing, you blind clotheshorse?

To be a bohemian, individual, quirky kook requires an absolute ignorance of all fashion trends currently rife on every spring chicken with access to a Primark, or alternatively wearing all of them at once, rendering each unidentifiable and the antithesis of 'hip'. Never knowing what to wear is also very important, with last minute mishmashes providing statement looks. Planning an outfit gives a polished and refined look. Piling everything on in a state of hurried panic, layers skewiff and mismatched accessories, gives that coveted kook image. Which is why it is the look of choice pour moi. Due to the sheer nature of it not being a look. Merely a 'whatever-is-to-hand' coverage device. So when I answer the door in stripy pyjama bottoms, vintage ACDC ripped t-shirt, straggly scarf, various chains and dangly earrings, haphazardly hairclipped hair, and thick woolen toasties, remember that it is the result of careful preconception and hours of perfecting.

In fact, for my next night out I'm aiming to channel 'colourblind baglady chic'. A look I just know I can pull off.

Me: Can I interest you in a Human Rights badge? It's in aid of Protect the Human Week. Only £2 and comes in three jaunty colours! The height of fashion, everybody wants one. Human Rights badges!

Sullen Year 12 male tw*t: Grunt. Nah, yer alright. (no eye contact and concluded with a shrug)

Me (in my head): I'm alright! I'm alright? Yes, because it's so much trouble to accept the money that would be going to a good cause and potentially save a life. Yes, I would much prefer to bypass all financial acceptence and move straight along to the next hapless victim of my nagging and guilt tripping. Thanks for doing me such a favour by declining to cough up a measly couple of quid and enabling me to take my wares elsewhere. I really couldn't be more grateful.

Me: Ok, thanks anyway! We're here all week! (insane grin)

Media Victim

My intellectualism has been violated.

I though I was being original. I thought I was being perceptive. And yes, goddamnit, I thought I was being clever. Hailed as being 'inspired', in the words of a certain English teacher and documented for all to see in the oh so official report, my coursework thesis was a masterpiece issuing forth from the deepest and most intellectual recesses of my brain.

Or so I thought. How naive I was. I am the victim of subliminal messaging. I have been well and truly had by the media machine. And I feel used.

Two well-loved novels, 'Emma' and 'Cold Comfort Farm', are to be the texts through which I am thumbing, skimming and, indeed, reading (oh yes, contrary to popular belief students do actually read texts as opposed to downloading internet summaries. Well, now that some stupid folk got caught and brought it to the attention of the education people anyway) for my coursework. How the female protagonists manipulate and control the situations around them is the basic idea. I won't bore with details, but it really is rather good.

Any roads, I have been duped into thinking that it was entirely my own concept and down to extensive reading and sensitivity to literature. But no. It is Hollywood. Well, the film industry anyway. Kate Beckinsale has starred as the main character in adaptations of both books. I must have sub-conciously retained this information and whipped it out unwhittingly through 'inspirational' (sorry, just can't help blowing my own trumpet, or stop reading my starry report in this case) coursework ideas.

Damn. My genius may not be as blindingly brilliant as I have always thought. I am in fact one of those philistines who is taken in by the glamorous and shallow showbiz world. Alas.

And damn Kate Beckinsale. Don't look into her eyes.

Modern Myths

Charvs are all thick, foul-mouthed yobs.
Oxbridge students are all posh, swotty boffins.
Emo kids are all morbidly depressed.
Anorexics all want to be skinny.
Old people are all inept.
Brothers are all infuriating idiots.
Those who bear the name of Kirk are all bonkers.

People who make generalisations are all stupid.

A lone charv can be an articulate and charming delight.
I have been to Cambridge and witnessed with my own eyes that there is also a percentage (be it a small one) of 'normal' folk. Also, I am applying so there must be some cool people.
I have, at least on one occasion, seen a dark eyed, side swept fringed youth crack a smile or two.
Some anorexics would actually like an arse.
My parents can, at a push, carry out simple day to day tasks reasonably well.
Brothers can be mildly amusing oftentimes, and perform dahing heroic acts with flair.

I make generalisations frequently. (This argument is somewhat lacking, granted)

Kirk's are all bonkers however.

Cock-a-hoop

I went to a cock show.

Ok, so technically it was 'puppetry of the penis' and an insight into the 'ancient art of genital origami'. But it was show about a cocks. A cock show.

You have to hand it to these guys, cashing in on what I imagine all blokes do and experiment with anyway. May as well entertain, have a laugh, and make some money by putting it all (and I mean ALL) out there.

And there is absolutely no point in being all highbrow and pious about it. Is it 'art'? No. It is fun. And funny. And a smidge squirm inducing. You may as well call a spade a spade I say. Or in this case, a cock a cock. You get what you're given, in that penis puppetry is essentially making objects and animals out of that oh so versatile appendage. To be snooty or superiour about such a concept is, frankly, a waste of time. If you don't want to see a bit of cock, do not buy a ticket.

But buy tickets they did. In their multitudes. I don't think, in all my years of absorbing culture, I have ever seen the Queen's Hall so busy. At the last count, four teachers from school, two doctors, and a secretary from the middle school had been sighted. Plus countless repressed Hexham housewives, young women up for a laugh and dressed to the nines, and a couple of dragged-along husbands. It was a cross between a hen party, stand up comedy night, and a naturist theatre trip. An experience unlike any other.

Highlights included 'the hamburger', 'the sea anenome' (complete with reflex disappearance when prodded), and the piece de resistance of one of the artistes being propelled along on a skateboard by a fan, using his, ahem, as a windsurfer.

I, being of the wrong sex and all, am not sure if these feats of human ridiculousness require much skill or certain, I don't know, flexibilities, but it was clear that a great deal of time, effort and practice had gone into each trick. All credit to them, they have the confidence and the girth to take them far. And lets face it, you have to be nothing less than cocky to show the world your cock (pun very much intended). They were from Australia though. Figures.

I'm sure glad the theatre is well heated mind. A chilly stage could have proved disastrous.

Is that a hot beverage in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?

'Highlighters at the ready...'

The absorbing task of highlighting philosophy jargon beckoning, Hedders glanced in his breast pocket repeatedly, obviously looking for said highlighter. No matter how many times he delved into the pocket, it failed to miraculously conjure up the luminous utensil. Getting quite distracted, and frankly frustrated, by this lack-of-highlighter-in-pocket-ness, I inquired as to what the pocket did actually contain. Curiosity killed the cat.

Or, in this case, made the cat laugh hernia-inducingly hard.

Casually as you like, a teabag was produced from the pocket. Why? Why would anyone carry a teabag around in their breast pocket? Just in case one happened across a cup of hot water, so one could be prepared? Did he have milk and sugar in his trouser pockets? Every eventuality must be catered for I suppose.

It transpires that the philosophy office does not, in its undoubtedly vast repetoire of teas, have 'fair trade organic green tea' to which Hedders is paricularly partial.

So naturally he must carry the pristinely flat, specialist teabag around in his breast pocket, all day, every day, it seems. Thereby leaving little room for such trivialities as highlighters.