ITV have really taken the cake with their "Celebrity Love Island". FFS can we scrape any more off the bottom of the barrel?
Concept: Take a bunch of Z-List "Celebs" who are desperate for any sort of publicity, shove them all on a Fijiian island, and hope they shag eachothers brains out. Oh but we can't show the shagging, cos we're a responsible family TV channel. That's why we are rotting your brains with this mindless, pointless CRAP that dumbs down TV even more.
The "Celebrities" include such luminaries as:
* Beckham-shagger Recebba Loos whose last TV deed included wanking off a pig
* Media-whore-orgy-freak Abi Titmuss (Hereafter known as "Scabi Titface")
* Liz from Atomic Kitten (you know, the cute one that can NEARLY sing)
* Once-cool Geordie TV presenter Jayne Middlemiss
* Wannabe "IT" girl Lady Isabella Hervey
* Calum Best (only claim to fame seems to be the famous alcoholic footballer dad)
* "Nightclub-owner" and Jodie-Marsh-shagger Fran Cosgrave, who is quoted on the breathlessly syrupy ITV website as saying "All you needed to romance me used to be two pints of Guinness, a bag of crisps and a push-up bra"
Now these are the kind of people you want to take home to your mum aren't they? They just EPITOMISE romance in every way! What a fucking excellent choice of wonderful people to bracket under the word LOVE!!!!!
I tuned into this one night and was amazed at the levels of boredom, absurdity and banality of the shite they wibbled on about. THESE PEOPLE ARE NOT FUCKING CELEBRITIES!!! The very word CELEBRITY has been shat on, cheapened, and devalued beyond any hope of rescue, by these piss-poor excuses for human beings that continually invade the tabloid rags, the chat shows, the "Sleb" magazines, and anywhere else that may afford them any sort of publicity. They have achieved nothing but airing their filthy rancid knob-cheese, breast implants, and kiss and tell rubbish to a population that seems to find who they shag interesting and whose continuing interest in their no-hoper lives will keep fuelling trash TV like this until we all fucking wake up and start ignoring these filthy turds of humanity.
The "Sleazy Senorita" Rebecca Loos once again dragged up her Beckham affair and wibbled on about how Posh weighed 8 stone - WOW! I was transfixed! Scabi Titface whined on about orgies and lesbian affairs and porn TV, and Fran burbled about how he had his heart broken at the tender age of 19. I cried buckets .... really ... no, I did really!
The ITV website is a must for a laugh a minute, the webmasters there must have sick bagks permenantly installed at their desks. Tune in at http://www.celebrityloveisland.tv/ for such gems as:
"Given that our Fijian hideaway is ram-packed full of megastars, it’s sometimes difficult to remember who they actually all are" and "Abi Titmuss is famous for many things beginning with ‘s’, but until tonight you might not have thought that spelling was one of them"
I personally would like to track down the morons who conceived this programme and put them up against a firing squad. No, actually that's too good for them, too quick a death. Maybe force them to spend an hour with Ms Titface or Ms Loos, to listen to them whine about how they have been "unfairly treated" and "misrepresented" by the media that they so intensly court.
I know that "reality" TV is really a farce, all pre-arranged, all planned out, all geared to shock and to bring in viewers. My own small brush with Reality TV opened my eyes to it all, but these Slebs willingly go along with it and do whatever they are told, like puppets, like those people on 80s TV-fest The Word "The Hopefuls" who did anything to get on TV, including drinking their own puke, bathing in cow shit, and snogging toothless grannies.
Our Love Island Puppets will happily get horny with whoever the programmers tell them to, safe in the knowledge it will bring along another kiss and tell front page SUN newspaper headline, ousting such unimportant headlines as "Iraq security chief assassinated". Dutifully followed by more gushing OK Magazine "How we found love as we shagged up a palm tree" articles. And so it will continue - AS LONG AS IDIOTS OUT THERE CARRY ON WATCHING AND READING ABOUT THESE PEOPLE.
YOU HAVE TO STOP - NOW! It's the only way to stem this flow of TV TRIPE. It worked for "Celebrity Wrestling", that was withdrawn after poor viewing figures, and it can work for Love Island and any other Reality TV programme that is foisted upon us. FFS Big Brother is hitting our screens soon, isn't that enough tripe?????
Last Saturday's Daily Mail featured an article by ex-Mirror editor Piers Morgan, about how the reign of Z-list celebs is now over. Ironic for a guy who helped to build the Celebrity Culture in the first place, but I bloody hope he's right.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Friday, May 20, 2005
Puschairs
Today it was mayhem in town, and the main culprits were fucking PUSHCHAIRS . Every aisle in every shop was blocked by them, paired with a woman who didn't give a stuff about the fact she was blocking everyone's path, while she browsed the £1.99 socks in Primark.
Why on earth are pushchairs nowadays so BIG?? They are like 4x4s of the Buggy World, specially the bloody "sports" 3-wheeler ones, with their huge fat wheels, industrial quality tyres, and massive undertray that is big enough to carry another kid, and the ridiculous plastic bubble "rain cover" so you can seal your kid in at the slightest sign of humidity.
Why do we humans have to have everything BIG, it's Americanism coming over here and it has to be stopped. First the Chelsea Tractors: why drive a normal hatchback to Asda when you can drive a fucking huge gas-guzzling beast there instead?? "It's bigger, I feel safer" say the stupid mums who drive them. Is it the same attitude about pushchairs now? "It's bigger, my hermatically sealed-asthmatic-allergic-to-everything-never-been-near-a-germ child will be safer in it, safer from dangerous grannies and their walking sticks, or uncaring teens who may throw a Mars Bar wrapper at them.
I started out politely, saying "excuse me" and waiting to be let thru. But they carried on browsing and only moved their pushchairs about 2" out of my way, allowing me to squeeze through, holding my bag up to avoid smacking little Timmy on the head as he sat there wiping his bogies over the clothes. Or they would glare at me and look hassled as they moved, as if I was the one causing the problem. Then as I stood browsing myself, they barged past me with a curt "excuse me" as they skinned my ankles with their tractor tyres if I didn't move fast enough. If I'd had my industrial-thickness VANS trainers on I'd have not budged my foot just to see if they'd ram me repeatedly to get me out of their way.
I walked through to the next shop and was frequently cut up by more women with their child-tractors as they walked right across my path, forcing me to stop in my tracks as they ponced by. One woman was pushing a young kid that was old enough to NOT be in a chair anymore but was as fat as butter - I resisted the urge to tell her to make the little brat walk, but heaven forbid that he may drop his Walls Feast he was guzzling.
These new über-buggies also take up the luggage racks on buses and trains too, so if you've had a hard trek around TopShop and you want to dump your overpriced hipsters anywhere, well tough! One über-buggy takes up the whole bloody rack, and you get clobbered if you sit or stand nearby when mummy wrenches it out with one hand while hanging on to a screaming little Timmy with the other.
I remember the old buggies when I was younger - skinny little things that carried your kid, and one hook for a shopping bag and that was it. Simple, easy to handle and functional. I think todays chariot-wielders should pay "Buggy Tax" on them and be forced to undertake driver training so they can learn the etiquette of interacting with humans in shops, malls and on paths. Start the legislation now!
Why on earth are pushchairs nowadays so BIG?? They are like 4x4s of the Buggy World, specially the bloody "sports" 3-wheeler ones, with their huge fat wheels, industrial quality tyres, and massive undertray that is big enough to carry another kid, and the ridiculous plastic bubble "rain cover" so you can seal your kid in at the slightest sign of humidity.
Why do we humans have to have everything BIG, it's Americanism coming over here and it has to be stopped. First the Chelsea Tractors: why drive a normal hatchback to Asda when you can drive a fucking huge gas-guzzling beast there instead?? "It's bigger, I feel safer" say the stupid mums who drive them. Is it the same attitude about pushchairs now? "It's bigger, my hermatically sealed-asthmatic-allergic-to-everything-never-been-near-a-germ child will be safer in it, safer from dangerous grannies and their walking sticks, or uncaring teens who may throw a Mars Bar wrapper at them.
I started out politely, saying "excuse me" and waiting to be let thru. But they carried on browsing and only moved their pushchairs about 2" out of my way, allowing me to squeeze through, holding my bag up to avoid smacking little Timmy on the head as he sat there wiping his bogies over the clothes. Or they would glare at me and look hassled as they moved, as if I was the one causing the problem. Then as I stood browsing myself, they barged past me with a curt "excuse me" as they skinned my ankles with their tractor tyres if I didn't move fast enough. If I'd had my industrial-thickness VANS trainers on I'd have not budged my foot just to see if they'd ram me repeatedly to get me out of their way.
I walked through to the next shop and was frequently cut up by more women with their child-tractors as they walked right across my path, forcing me to stop in my tracks as they ponced by. One woman was pushing a young kid that was old enough to NOT be in a chair anymore but was as fat as butter - I resisted the urge to tell her to make the little brat walk, but heaven forbid that he may drop his Walls Feast he was guzzling.
These new über-buggies also take up the luggage racks on buses and trains too, so if you've had a hard trek around TopShop and you want to dump your overpriced hipsters anywhere, well tough! One über-buggy takes up the whole bloody rack, and you get clobbered if you sit or stand nearby when mummy wrenches it out with one hand while hanging on to a screaming little Timmy with the other.
I remember the old buggies when I was younger - skinny little things that carried your kid, and one hook for a shopping bag and that was it. Simple, easy to handle and functional. I think todays chariot-wielders should pay "Buggy Tax" on them and be forced to undertake driver training so they can learn the etiquette of interacting with humans in shops, malls and on paths. Start the legislation now!
Friday, May 13, 2005
WAKE UP
Been back in the UK for 5 days now, and it's shit. I hate having my life dictated to me by the ticking of a clock again, I hate having to rush cos there's no time left, or to be frustrated cos work is crap and I'm clock watching, only the clock isn't moving. I found myself rushing in my lunch hour today as I had so many errands to run, then I stopped myself and thought why should I rush, whatever I need to get can wait, I'll go another time. I'm through getting so stressed and worked up about needless meaningless crap. So I slowed down and ambled, and felt a lot better.
The streets of Norwich teemed with people, people with shiny new carrier bags full of crap - crap they don't really need but have convinced themselves that they really want, must have, else they will shrivel up. In a few weeks or months those same treasured posessions will doubtless be in a landfill or in a charity shop. Stressed mums dragged their kids in and out of McDonalds, satisfying their every whim just to get 5 minute of peace, before the sugary chemical milkshake kicked in and off they went again. Tubby teens were out in force, eating their crisps and ice lollies, yet still yearning for the body of a supermodel.
Everyone was preoccupied, everyone else was clock-watching, everyone was in a rush. But occasionally you spot people who look different, they walk different, their eyes are different, the way they watch the other teeming masses; it's as if they - like me - are the ones who have woken up, who have realised what the life they used to lead was, and now want nothing more to do with it.
Like in "The Matrix", when you take the right pill and you wake up...WAKE UP, and it hits you that your entire life was a farce, you followed the masses, you did what they did and what they expected you to do, and it all turned out to be a bunch of crap. Your eyes are opened and what you now see is ugly and has to be changed, and it's up to you to fight and change it, make it better, make it what YOU want it to be, not what the tainted, biased and controlled Governments and media want it to be, not what the crappy "fashion" and "lifestyle" mags want it to be, not what your friends and family expect it to be.
I'm through buying meaningless crap so the money will be used for better things, things that get me away from this grimy city life and help me to escape and get some peace. I'm going through my entire flat and gutting it of junk - only the most sentimental things will remain, everything else is going on Freecycle for other people who want it to use. I've kept things in boxes for over 4 years now, and never used them - why? What's the fucking point of that? They are going, it's all going. First clean out the flat, then start on my life.
Ten days in Dahab made me realise that I want more freedom, a simpler life, less shit to worry about, and to be as far away as possible from this modern life and the way we all live it.
The streets of Norwich teemed with people, people with shiny new carrier bags full of crap - crap they don't really need but have convinced themselves that they really want, must have, else they will shrivel up. In a few weeks or months those same treasured posessions will doubtless be in a landfill or in a charity shop. Stressed mums dragged their kids in and out of McDonalds, satisfying their every whim just to get 5 minute of peace, before the sugary chemical milkshake kicked in and off they went again. Tubby teens were out in force, eating their crisps and ice lollies, yet still yearning for the body of a supermodel.
Everyone was preoccupied, everyone else was clock-watching, everyone was in a rush. But occasionally you spot people who look different, they walk different, their eyes are different, the way they watch the other teeming masses; it's as if they - like me - are the ones who have woken up, who have realised what the life they used to lead was, and now want nothing more to do with it.
Like in "The Matrix", when you take the right pill and you wake up...WAKE UP, and it hits you that your entire life was a farce, you followed the masses, you did what they did and what they expected you to do, and it all turned out to be a bunch of crap. Your eyes are opened and what you now see is ugly and has to be changed, and it's up to you to fight and change it, make it better, make it what YOU want it to be, not what the tainted, biased and controlled Governments and media want it to be, not what the crappy "fashion" and "lifestyle" mags want it to be, not what your friends and family expect it to be.
I'm through buying meaningless crap so the money will be used for better things, things that get me away from this grimy city life and help me to escape and get some peace. I'm going through my entire flat and gutting it of junk - only the most sentimental things will remain, everything else is going on Freecycle for other people who want it to use. I've kept things in boxes for over 4 years now, and never used them - why? What's the fucking point of that? They are going, it's all going. First clean out the flat, then start on my life.
Ten days in Dahab made me realise that I want more freedom, a simpler life, less shit to worry about, and to be as far away as possible from this modern life and the way we all live it.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Kids and junk food
This from Pinky's blog, interesting, yet seems common sense to me but most parents choose to ignore it. What's it going to take before it finally sinks in that processed foods, fatty foods and sugary foods are BAD when fed to your kids every bloody day!!! How long can parents continue to be so blind and not notice little Timmy is 3 times his normal weight? Or so hyperactive that he can't sit still for more than 30 seconds??? Are they going to have to raise the issue in an episode of EastEnders, just to seep through to the nation's conscience???
Quote
Kids and junk food
'Diets high in processed foods are causing bad behaviour and learning difficulties in children, scientists have warned. They claim junk food stops the brain working properly, leading to underachievement and a host of disorders.
Such foods not only lack the vitamins, minerals and essential fatty acids that boost brain power but actually reduce the body's uptake of nutrients that improve concentration, a study has found.
Patrick Holford, who runs the Brain Bio Centre which tackles mental health problems through nutrition, said: "We're seeing outrageous imbalances in brain chemistry caused by the kinds of foods that sadly millions of kids are eating, and no one's doing anything about it. These kids are digging their own graves with a knife and fork. We know some fats found in processed and fried foods should be avoided."
In a study of children with learning and behavioural disorders such as dyslexia and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, half the children were given omega-3 essential fats capsules for three months, while the remainder were given "dummy" treatment with capsules of olive oil. In some cases, children improved their reading age by up to four years.
Dr Richardson, who is also co-director of the Food and Behaviour Research charity, said that unhealthy dietary fats can actually displace the healthy fats in the brain. Known as trans fats, they are mostly found in processed foods such as crisps, biscuits and cakes.
Many teenagers get 40 per cent of their calories from fat. The researchers are worried that such poor diets could permanently damage brain development.'
Quote
Kids and junk food
'Diets high in processed foods are causing bad behaviour and learning difficulties in children, scientists have warned. They claim junk food stops the brain working properly, leading to underachievement and a host of disorders.
Such foods not only lack the vitamins, minerals and essential fatty acids that boost brain power but actually reduce the body's uptake of nutrients that improve concentration, a study has found.
Patrick Holford, who runs the Brain Bio Centre which tackles mental health problems through nutrition, said: "We're seeing outrageous imbalances in brain chemistry caused by the kinds of foods that sadly millions of kids are eating, and no one's doing anything about it. These kids are digging their own graves with a knife and fork. We know some fats found in processed and fried foods should be avoided."
In a study of children with learning and behavioural disorders such as dyslexia and attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, half the children were given omega-3 essential fats capsules for three months, while the remainder were given "dummy" treatment with capsules of olive oil. In some cases, children improved their reading age by up to four years.
Dr Richardson, who is also co-director of the Food and Behaviour Research charity, said that unhealthy dietary fats can actually displace the healthy fats in the brain. Known as trans fats, they are mostly found in processed foods such as crisps, biscuits and cakes.
Many teenagers get 40 per cent of their calories from fat. The researchers are worried that such poor diets could permanently damage brain development.'
Monday, May 09, 2005
Ten days in Dahab ...
Some people go on holiday, get sunburn, drink too much, catch an STD, buy tacky souvenirs then go home back to their life and their job, and allow the holiday memories to fade, accepting the life they live and not feeling any urge to change it. And some people travel to countries and see how others live, work and play, then find themselves examining their own lives and wanting to change them. My diving towel is still damp, it still smells of the dive centre, it has sand in it, it brings back the warmth of the sunshine to me, I never want it to dry out, I never want to wash it.
I was looking forward to getting the hell out of the UK for 10 days of sun and scuba, travelling with my brother Iain and his girlie Hosanna, and their friends Darryl and Philippa. Gooseberry Central travelling with two couples but what the hell, I needed a holiday. We flew out with Thompsons holidays who projected the image of being a very “young and trendy airline” with their new 757 resplendent with uncomfortable plastic Recaro-branded seats, male air hostesses that were camper than a row of pink tents, and TV screens playing trendy “Yoof” stuff including J-Lo videos , Little Britain, The Office, and the dire “Ocean’s 12”. £3 for headphones if you wanted to watch though, or plug your own headphones in but then you only hear the sound in mono. Food madam? £7 for two sandwiches, or a “meal deal” consisting of individual portions of plastic food sealed in plastic bags or tubs, eaten with a plastic knife and fork sealed in plastic bags – a feast of environmentally friendly food packaging that would take hundreds of years to rot.
Average age of the plane inhabitants was about early to mid-thirties, and most of them were going to Sharm-el-Sheikh to sit by pools and roast themselves during the day, go to meat-market nightclubs to get pissed by night, gamble all their money in the casinos, get a shag from anyone who was up for it, then convince themselves they had a “fooking great time”. Guys wandered up and down the plane aisles in their “Amsterdam Ganja Tour ‘04” t-shirts, and girls wearing their ill-fitting hipsters showing their nice spare-tyre overhangs babbled incessantly about their tans. We were perversely fascinated by one girl who had the strangest-looking plucked eyebrows in the history of eyebrows, she looked like a brunette Penelope Keith but her eyebrows were the shapes of square brackets ], giving her such a strange look I was stopped from reaching for my camera to get photographic evidence…
We landed at Sharm and were told the temperature was 33oC – big cheer from all on the plane, fucking brilliant. Walking out of the plane we were hit by a hairdryer-warm blast of hot air, I felt my skin shrivel immediately, it was glorious – warm warm sun sun sun, I couldn’t wipe the fat grin off my face. Luggage queue, visa queue, stared at by various Arabian men, passport blah blah and we were met by a driver from the dive centre for the hour long journey to Dahab.
What a dustbowl of a journey … sand, dust, more dust, rubble, half built roads, Bedouin camps, camels, sand, did I mention sand? The minibus was boiling even with all the windows open, and I was already sticking to the plastic seats. Craggy mountains rose out of the ground like teeth of the desert, they looked like they would crumble at the slightest touch. The sky was blue, blue, so blue and not a cloud in sight.
The Driving Code of Dahab is pure genius:
* Drive on whatever side of the road you like as long as there’s nothing coming.
* If there IS something coming you can still drive on the wrong side of the road but remember to pull over just before they scream past you with horns blaring.
* If you’re talking on a mobile phone while driving, remember to look where you’re going while still driving on the wrong side of the road.
* When any driver overtakes you or if YOU overtake someone, you have to sound your horn to say “I’m coming so don’t swerve”.
* Take the racing line around corners, even if they are blind bends, and at night time don’t turn your headlights on until you see an approaching driver, when you promptly turn them on, beep as he passes, then turn them off again.
* When in Dahab feel free to grind to a halt in the middle of the road to chat to another driver, and move on when you please.
* Avoid the street goats unless you’re in a rush then just hope they don’t bend your already-bent jeep too much.
* Remember to leer at any passing female Tourist, while not looking where you’re going and trying to avoid goats and street-kids.
It’s hard to know where to start when describing Dahab. It’s being aggressively developed now and promoted as a major Dive Resort. Hotels are cropping up everywhere and there is already a Hilton on the outskirts of the city, resplendent in it’s pristine white Arabian architecture, with it’s manicured lawns sucking up precious water from the 24/7 sprinklers. So many new developments but as far as I know, no new sewage plant to cope with the influx of Tourist Shit that will doubtlessly be pumped out into the sea via a long pipeline.
I was scared shitless but the build quality of some of the new hotels – we’re talking seriously wobbly-looking brickwork with mortar that looks like it’s been randomly dropped on, patted down with hands, then squashed with another wobbly brick on top. Solid foundations, umm didn’t look like it! Then all cleverly disguised with lovely white plasterwork. How the f*ck do they stay up in a strong wind? But they obviously succeed because I saw no crumbled buildings. However, I’d advise not walking onto any brick hotel balconies in Dahab, specially if there is a fat person on the same balcony – could just be enough to tip the scales, so to speak…
After an hour of dangerous driving and a tape of brash Arabian Music set to repeat, we rolled up to the Marine Garden Bedouin camp, where we’d be staying. A large sandy courtyard flanked by the rooms and a large “Wadi” chillout area, it looked very nice. Our rooms were basic and mine had two single mattresses on the floor, some shelves made of wood cartons, one window, one socket and one light bulb. Someone had attempted to paint stuff on the rough white-plastered walls – stars, a house, some flowers, the faded chipped paint was very “Changing Rooms” rustic, only this was genuine not Linda-Barker fakery. The ceiling was smooth wood planks, each painted a different colour, and sunlight slanting through the gaps. I hoped it wouldn’t rain but I guess that’s stating the obvious … We met Salah, the dude who ran the place, dumped our gear, sat in the Wadi and I had my first taste of Bedouin tea, which is served in a tiny glass, is the colour of a morning urine sample, and is massively sweetened. Er yum!
The toilet block was a seperate building and was kept fastidiously clean by a very quiet guy who kept to himself but was constantly in attendance mopping the floors, emptying the poopie paper bins, and unblocking the loos that constantly blocked with the tiniest of turds - need larger U-bends guys ... the floor was tiled with VERY shiny and slippy tiles, and when wet they proved lethal, so if you were suffering from Dehli Belly and made a dash for the bog you were very likely to go flying onto your back and end up lying in a pool of your own poop with a huge bruise on your head.
Suddenly we were surrounded by Egyptian cats, and even better, about 7 or 8 kittens. Now I still maintain that Cats Are Evil, but after 10 days of Egyptian Kittenry I’ll admit to a soft spot for them – but only Egyptian cats, who are way cooler than fat, fluffy and pampered British cats. Egyptian cats are thin and sleek with small heads, very pointy ears, and a much more laid back attitude. The kittens were fab, a sprawling mass of big velvety paws that gently swatted anything in sight, wide and innocent eyes that never missed a movement, tiny tails that they constantly tried to eat or chase, and best of all, Banzai kung-fu giant “kitten leaps” on top of eachother that resulted in a rugby scrum of open mouths, swatting paws, squirming bodies, and high-pitched mewling. We had our breakfast with them every morning and they fell asleep in our laps, suckled from their mum, slept, then ran off to do some more Banzai kitten-rugby.
We dumped our stuff and walked to the dive centre “Desert Divers” (http://www.desert-divers.com/), a luvvely set-up full of friendly people who all knew Iain from when he worked there last year. I was introduced to too many people whose names I forgot immediately, and who told me that I had the same nose as my brother, which was a bit annoying cos he has a massive conk and I didn’t think mine was that big.
After sorting out our dive gear we went for a walk up the main drag of Dahab sea front. This is a bizarre fuck-up in the planning stakes because for some stupid reason they decided to build all the shops and restaurants right on the beach, then pave over the rest of the beach, leaving only 3m of beach in some areas. Other larger areas of beach have been taken over by the restaurants, who put shades and seating out there, and even build out into the sea by filling it with rocks and sand and putting their tables on there. Um why not build further back from the beach in the first place, and bloody leave some of it there for us to sit on!
By now it was dark and warm and bliss – people ambled, street dogs wandered, stretched, yawned then promptly lay down where they stood, regardless of whether it was in your way or not. Sleek cats frequented the outdoor eating areas, becoming your best friend if you had food on your table, and little kittens bumbled around and amused tourists with their squeaky mewls and their paw-swatting antics. Conflicting music of all genres crashed out at you as you walked along, some of it modern Western music and some of it grating Arabic prayer-music with bashing percussion that set your teeth on edge.
Young local kids, mostly scruffy little girls, accosted us with their plastic bags of anklets and bracelets and things made of beads, their cries of “buy one!” or “I know you want one!” hounding us as we walked by. I gave in and bought a nice key-ringy thing from one of them, she sat right up next to me and blinked up at me with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen, she had skin that would make a supermodel cry and she sniffled thru her bunged-up nose and waited patiently while I looked at her wares. The 0.0004% of me that is maternal said “awww she’s cute” while the other 99.99999% of me that is NOT maternal screamed “stop it, stick to your pet rats they don’t fuck up your life!!”. For 10 Egyptian Pounds/1 English Pound, the keyring was mine, and a fine piece of beadwork it is too. If it helps buy her food then great.
People sat on the main beach wall just watching other people, talking, making friends, laughing. Shops were open late selling a myriad of stuff, some of it horribly tacky and some of it beautifully crafted, their wares spilling out onto the pavements and shop fronts, the owners inviting you to come in and have a browse. The first Arabic phrase I learned was “la shukran” for “no thank you”. However, the shopping was brilliant and so cheap, fooking bargains galore to be had … I loved arguing and bartering with the owners, who always gave you an inflated price to start with, and always ended up selling it to you for under half that price.
The “Restaurant Boys” or RB’s as I shall now call them, were unrelenting. “Ahhhh you come eat with us my frrrriends” they said, while directing us towards their seating areas. We La Shukran’d ourselves to death over the ten days we were there, they never gave up in their quest to lure us into their lairs. “How are you, what are you doing, where you going, where you from, you come sit with me and talk to me” all the time, and if you said “England” most of them went “Ahhhh luvvely jubbuly” or “one banana two banana”, as if they had been taught to say it parrot fashion by idiot tourists, like people teaching a parrot how to say rude words. It got to the point where we took the back streets just to avoid “running the gauntlet” but on the occasions that we had to walk past them, I was always singled out because I was the only one who wasn’t walking with a boyfriend, despite my fake wedding ring to try and deter them. Because I find it hard to be openly nasty to people and say “fuck off and stop bothering me” I was an easy target.
Ahhhh Bibo, Akim, Waleet, Ahmet, Akhmed, they all wanted “dreeenks” with me, to “sit and talk” with me, to wax lyrical into my ear, to say all the things they save up for any other tourist girl they see, only I wasn’t so gullible. It’s fun, you say yes yes nod your head smile, have a laugh, take the piss, “La Shukran” then walk away, and the next day you have to repeat it all over again – with every single one of them. I have to admit some of them were rather tasty treats but I’d not touch any of them with a barge pole.
Right, onto the diving. Utterly fabulous. I can only describe it as swimming into the cinema screen during the coral scenes of “Finding Nemo”, only minus the talking fish and Disney political-correctness and moralising. You’ve all seen those aerial shots of New York City where the camera is looking right down onto the rooftops and onto the streets, as the skyscrapers pass slowly beneath you and the cars look like ants zooming inbetween them … I felt as if I was flying slowly over vast, vast coral cities, with the fish as the cars, zooming inbetween each piece of coral, going about their daily lives totally oblivious to the huge hulking shape of my hovering above them. So many colours and textures I can’t even describe, all blending together to produce stunning natural pieces of pure coral art. How I wished to be freed from the constraints of my heavy tank and noisy regulator and bubbling breath, to swim underwater silently and listen to the sounds of the reef, the snap, crackle and pop of the corals, to escape into the silence from the noisy world above, to never surface.
The dive sites we visited were the Eel Garden, a descent onto flat white sands that is carpeted with question-mark shaped eels that stick out of the sands and catch food from the currents. (http://web.ukonline.co.uk/peter.stensones/photos/photos_big_picture.htm?diving/dahab/new_year_2003/eel_garden.jpg) When you approach them they zip down into the sand again, and if you land gently on the sea bed and wait, they come out again right in front of you and continue feeding – awesome. Also visited Golden Blocks, Three Pools, The Lighthouse, which featured a lovely and massive Gorgonian Fan Coral that was 30m down, and Coral Gardens which was my favourite site of the whole holiday, The Islands, and the notorious Blue Hole – a site that has claimed many divers lives, but is a must see:
Descending from the Bells entry point, we went down a narrow ravine that looked out into the ocean, then at 27m out the ravine to look back and face a HUGE wall of coral and sea life that plummeted down, and down, and down … a yawning, abyssal, uncharted chasm of nothing but blue, blue underneath you, blue on top of you, blue to one side, and a visual overload of corals and sea life on the other. If you looked down for too long you felt that the darkness below you would suddenly suck you into it’s depths, never to be seen again. The lingering invisible threat of “what’s down there?” seeped into my mind and I had to start looking at corals and pretty fish, banishing thoughts of abyssal monsters that would come out and snap at my feet.
At 56m there is an archway and a passage that leads into the sea, it is trying to find this archway that many inexperienced divers have got Nitrogen Narcosis (http://www.scuba-doc.com/n2narc.htm) from the depth, and have lost their lives. Memorial stones are set into the rock in tribute to these divers and also as a warning to any idiots out there.
We saw some divers going deeper than us and as I hung suspended (yep, finally sorted my bloody buoyancy) over the chasm watching them fade away down into the darker blue, watching their streams of bubbles rise slowly to the surface like a glittering silver curtain, I couldn’t help but shiver inwardly – I’d never want to trade places with them. Vern, a smashing retired Aussie bloke and instructor dived the Hole with us and dared me to go down the Bells Chimney head first not feet first, I said yes but only if he dived in the niff – he refused but I still went head first down the chimney .
We also dived The Canyon, an essential dive for all fanatics of caves and cavern diving. A narrow crack in the seabed at 18m marks the main opening into the canyon, which depths reach over 30 metres inside. Snaking its way up from the depths, it emerges in a glorious, glassfish filled coral dome, the Fish Bowl. When the Canyon is full of divers you can hover over the top and watch the air bubbles stream out from the narrow crack, quite a spectacle when merged with the huge shoals of purple-eyed goldfish that are also there. When you’re actually IN the canyon you lie on your back and just look up through the opening at the blue above you and the divers hovering and waiting their turn (http://www.thisisvlad.com/gallery/albums/dahab/mini_IMG_5813.jpg). Some great photos to be had but the depth made my cheapo camera refuse to wind on – arse!
My brother was impressive as a diver, he had gone out to Dahab last year and had started with his Open Water certification then gone right up the ranks to be a Divemaster, then started work taking groups out to the dive sites. His buoyancy was spot on (apparently I’d been 50% overweight with mine for my last 4 years of diving!) and cos he’s a lanky skinny bugger, he looked like a sort of fucked-up bastard love-child of a seal and a stringbean in his wetsuit. Because he has long hair down to his bum he also has to wear a rubber hood to keep it under control, which added to the “Captain Condom” image. He soared slowly through the water with only a flick of his fins, floated upside down looking under corals and pointing stuff out to us, and on one occasion at the Coral Garden, he spread his arms and slowly rotated in an aeroplane “barrel-roll” style as he passed over the corals, seemingly doing so out of the sheer joy and freedom of being underwater and a witness to some of nature’s finest creations.
I was flooded with awe, happiness, sheer open-mouthed-nearly-popped-out-my-regulator-amazement at the beauty that was in front of me, but at the same time I felt a constant sadness that the downfall of these beautiful reefs was already set in stone, the destruction had begun, the roads being built to bus tourists in and the flood of divers trekking in and out of each dive site entry point … the fabulous visual feast and biological diversity that these and other reefs in the world offer is also their death and downfall. Snorkelers were seen walking on the tops of the reef, we spotted snapped coral, found bits of it in chillout areas, collected plastic bags during our dives, saw the inevitable Coke can on the sea bed. There were plenty of respectful divers there for sure, but there is always that small percentage who truly seem to not give a shit, and think that the one seashell they collect, or the one fag butt they flick into the sand, or the one plastic bottle or bag they leave to blow around “won’t make a difference”. But combined with all the other “don’t-give-a-shit” people, it fucking DOES make a difference.
You suddenly feel so small, so insignificant, so fucking inferior when faced with any breathtaking sight of nature in all its glory, there in front of your eyes, living, breathing, growing, teeming, and not giving a shit about whether you are there or not. But at the same time it’s so fragile, so delicate, so easily destroyed by a Tsunami, an oil slick from a careless tanker, a clumsy diver with three left fins, overfishing, drag fishing, souvenir hunters – the power that the small insignificant human being in its multiples all over the world can wield, the power to utterly destroy nature, twist it, fuck it up totally with our mindless pollution and our careless attitudes.
The diving I’ve done in Western Australia paled into insignificance compared with Dahab (well except maybe for Busselton Jetty - http://www.rache.plus.com/img/scuba/jetty/index.htm). I’m not clued up on what all the different fish and stuff are but there were tons of ‘em – most notably what looked like normal Goldfishes, except they had ultra-violet coloured eyes that contrasted fabulously with the bright orange of their bodies and the rich blue of the sea. Baby barracudas, large Napoleon fish, and yes, I found Nemo – clownfish EVERYWHERE, always in pairs, always near an Anemone. I cursed my new digital camera underwater housing, which had broken and flooded on its empty test-run on our first dive – my digicam could have got great pics but I had to settle with a poxy reusable one from the local shop, which takes quite crappy photos. Better than nothing though!
The Jeep rides to and from the dive sites were death-defying feats of bravery – rocky roads, petrol fumes, wayward goats on the street, a close encounter with a camel at the Blue Hole, and shoehorning yourself into the back of the dodgy jeep with half a dozen air cylinders and your dive gear either strapped precariously to the roof or crammed in with you, threatening to burst you out of the back door onto the road at top speed. Not to mention the frantic Arab music always on a loop, always with garish percussion and blending seamlessly with the crunching of the jeeps gears. I’d have not changed a thing though, those bumpy hot dusty cramped rides to the sites were totally part of the entire trip for me. So were the post-dive chillouts at the local Wadis, with pizza and Bedouin tea, camels rocking sedately by, and Arabs staring at the girls in their swimsuits. Iain’s Arabic is very good and one of the waiters who came to take our order was impressed and fascinated at this “Eeeenglish” lad who was so keen to learn and speak the language. He ended up sitting down, offering us all ciggies, and conducting an Arabic lesson with him, his face a picture. Then his boss came out and barked at him and he jumped up, invited Iain back the next day to talk more, then scuttled off to fetch our pizzas.
When we weren’t diving we were chilling out. If you do NOT like lazing around in the sun, doing nothing, and chatting and people watching, then don’t come to Dahab. I sat in the sun for hours on the roof of various eateries, just watching, observing ... the RBs and their persuasive tactics, the cats and dogs, the Arab horses being ridden along the beach, the noisy Japanese tourists talking at the tops of their voices, Ali the incredibly-tanned and rather fierce-looking chainsmoking owner of the Sun Restaurant to-ing and fro-ing with food for his customers, the cheerful banter of the shop owners, the snorkelers, the PADI dive courses trekking to and from the bay to practice their mask clearing, and the tourists – the red, sunburned, impractically dressed, overweight, beer-bellied tourists a big percentage of them Brits, and truly making me ashamed to BE a Brit … it was fascinating and not in the least boring, and all bathed in glorious bright colourful warm happy sunshine.
However, away from the bright lights of the main beach strip, the rest of Dahab needs a good sweeping up. Dust, goat poop, litter and rubble line every street, the kerbs are about a foot high and lethal to cars (that would stop the School Run Mums HAHAAA), the street goats hide in the shade and eat unmentionable things, street kids wander around on the boiling concrete barefoot, cars honk constantly, with cries of “taxi??” whenever we were spotted. Camels are tethered to walls, scary smells of God-knows-what waft over you depending on what you are walking past, and local shops offer all sorts of necessities like loo roll, bottled water, and plastic pyramid incense-holders …
Huge camels are ridden around by the tiniest boys you have ever seen, and they seem to keep them perfectly under control too – usually just randomly beating them with a stick seems to convey the correct orders, and the camels gurgle and grumble and get on with it. New buildings are spotted around in the usual scary-brickwork styleee, and there is a conspicuous absence of ANY Arabic/Egyptian women on the streets. It’s either kids, or men, or tourists. It seemed that the only women in Dahab were the tourists. For sure, the only grossly FAT people in Dahab were the tourists, with a few exceptions. I never saw a single fat kid, unless he was a pinky-white sunburned tourist kid. Is this because they’ve not got much food or because they lead much more active lives and eat much less crap than our roly-poly mollycoddled inactive asthma-ridden idle children?
The cheaper cafes in the back streets do brisk business, but mostly with the locals – tourists who may venture in there would be put off by the number of flies that frequent them, but you soon learn that the flies are just a way of life and they didn’t do us any harm. We ate at a few places during our stay and were warmly welcomed, particularly “Captain Condom” and his Arabic. The food was great and bloody dirt cheap, the tables and floors clean, and there were no RBs nagging us to come in, we went of our own choice. A visit to the local fruit shops is also a must, with divine juicy peaches and a huge tray of lush, large, sweet strawberries for the equivalent of 50p – fucking brilliant.
One evening we were driven out up one of the mountains to watch the sun set. A big group of us and friends from Desert Divers took rugs and food and joints, and settled in with a fab view of Dahab as the sun faded. Nearby was a group of tourists being carted around on camels, I got hysterics watching one poor bloke who was jerking back and forward in the saddle, his nads must have been the size of grapefruits…and we all crossed our legs when the camel went to kneel down, shooting Mr Tourist forward onto the pommel and briskly off into the sand, where he got up and attempted to walk in a straight line without his legs crossed.
My payback came when one of the young lads brought a camel over to see us, and while I was trying to photograph it as it loomed above me, it kicked and nearly trod on my bag, then unleashed a torrent of perfectly formed dark round dry poops all over my nearby flip-flops. The young lad laughed, said something in Arabic and left me there, blinking at my poop-covered footwear while everyone wet themselves laughing. I took a pic of the poopy flipflops.
As the sky darkened and the first stars came out, I wished that there was only the five of us on the rug, so that we could all be silent and drink in the sky above, and the surroundings. The guys that had driven us and the others out to the mountain were talking constantly and their mobile phones were ringing with comical Arab polyphonic nonsense, leading to animated loud and annoying conversations. I lay on my back (avoiding the camel poop) and looked at the stars, minus the light pollution of the UK – lovely. Night times were the best, we usually spent them at the Marine Garden camp, sitting in the Wadi surrounded by kittens and talking, reading, getting thoroughly stoned (apart from me, I only passively smoked everyone else’s), or I would go and lie in the hammock overlooking the sea and read my books or plug into my stereo and Artie Shaw. I’ve never read so much in such a short space of time, it was great to be looking at text in a book again, instead of on a bloody computer screen. Or we’d go wandering around the shops, “La Shukran” the RBs, and bump into people that Iain knew and sit around chatting and people-watching. My diet consisted of chocolate, honey and banana pancakes, fruit juices, water, falafel and pizzas. I didn’t have any milk or any fibre or broccoli (shock horror) for ten days and by the end of my stay, my digestive system was complaining…oops.
On our last night we resolved to get up at about 5.30am and see the sun rise from the roof of the dive centre. However we didn’t get to bed until about 1.45am so that idea went out of the window. I awoke on my last day at about 6.15am though, and refused to lie in bed daydreaming, so I got up and went for a wander with my camera. It was fab, I wished I’d had more early mornings. The sun had just risen and was still low in the sky, giving off a gentle warmth and a lovely golden light. It was dead quiet, the shops and restaurants were only just coming to life, and thankfully, no RBs in sight. Early divers clanged their tanks and hissed their regulators, the sea was mirror-calm, and the dogs were splayed out over the main walkway, scratching lazily and raising their heads to sniff at passing tourists. I went down to the beach and found a big rock, sitting on it and putting my feet in the water. Got some fab pics of this nice quiet time, but the silence was shattered by two of the dogs coming onto the beach and play fighting, spraying me with sand and water as they lolloped and sploshed around near me, finally running off and leaving me slightly soggy. I moved up onto the dive centre roof and watched as more of the restaurants came to life, but thankfully without their blaring music. Guys went for a swim, or sat on the walls with their faces up to the sun, said morning to eachother and chattered away in Arabic as they plumped cushions and raked the sand ready for the days business.
They all splashed water onto the main walkway but they never swept it, so it dried and remained just as dirty as before they splashed it. The walkway is a lovely red paved pattern with a thick snake of black twisting down the centre, and would look fab with a bit of a scrub, but I guess there’s so much dust and sand around it’s kind of pointless. By now it was about 8am and the sun was already getting too hot. In the distance something big arched out of the water three times and then disappeared – the local dolphin, that had come right into the bay with it’s baby a few days ago, and frolicked with snorkelers while we WEREN’T in the water – bugger.
I wandered down to the Blue Moon and had my final choc, banana honey pancake of the day and a fabulously rich strawberry juice. I also sorted out their PC, which had booted up in DiskCheck mode and they didn’t understand what was happening. After a quick Disk CleanUp and words of advice they gave me a discount on their breakfast. Said byebye to all the RB’s, duly collected some email addresses off two of them, ignored their “I’m missing you already” and such tripe, then went back to the Marine Garden to pack up.
Went for a final snorkel and hovered on the surface, just hanging there and watching the coral life, the pinkypurple jellyfish and the shimmering shoals of tiny glass-like fish that swim just under the surface. No dolphin reappearance unfortunately, if that had happened I would have died happy there and then. Divers swam deep underneath me and their bubbles rose up and tickled my face as they came to the surface.
The minutes ticked by towards my Return to the Oblivion that is My Life in England. Dried off, brought bags to the dive centre, had a final chillout and helping of Bedouin Tea, said goodbye to everyone, and tried desperately to hang on to every second that ticked by. I was so glad I’d got up early, it made the day a lot longer. The minibus picked us up from Desert Divers and then it was another maniacal hour long drive to Sharm airport.
We left the sandy warm hairdryer-hot desert and entered the concrete airconditioned hell that is the airport. Shiny polished floors replaced the rough Bedouin rugs we were used to, and the freezing aircon gave us a reminder of what was waiting for us back in Blighty. Passports, baggage, check-in, and a sit down to people watch all the tourists filter into the lounges. We played Spot The Pink Brit, as all the lobster-red fatties waddled past us with their fat kids and their bags full of tacky souvenirs. Penelope Keith with the Awesome Eyebrows also walked past, looking browner but still hilarious. Once again I reached for my camera but Iain stole it from me in the nick of time … many divers were spotted with their huge kit bags, “Dive Now Work Later” t-shirts, and natural non-lobster tans.
Back on the plane I wished I’d put my trousers on, my bare legs were slowly turning to ice from the freezing blast of air that accompanied us all the way home. A baby at the back of the plane screamed and gurgled that irritating sound that only small babies can make, and I got ready to chin Kevin the Air Hostess if he bumped my shoulder one more time while mincing down the aisle. A constant stream of trolleys went up and down, up and down, and we were harangued by questionnaires, charity scratch cards, and a duty-free catalogue containing hideous delights such as chocolate-scented bunny keyrings and fake pink diamond-encrusted watches. Thankfully we weren’t subjected to Ocean’s Twelve again but this time something worse starring Dennis Quaid. I gave up halfway through and went back to my stereo and dreams of what I’d just left behind.
A woman on the seat opposite me was reading a UK newspaper, I tried not to look but the headlines drew me – murder of a 14 year old, election misery, Howard resigns, NHS waiting lists, Jacko and his kiddy fiddling, more inflated libellous cases, mindless celebrity gossip, z-list slags getting their tits out – I just looked away, I didn’t want to know, I’ve still not switched the telly on since I’ve been back, it’s just too miserable to do so.
Due to turbulence pockets we took a slightly different route home and we missed out on seeing the Giza Plateau again (I missed it the first time round too, wasn’t near a window). The captain cheerfully announced that the forecast in Britain was approximately 9oC with projections of rain for the rest of the week and a top temperature of a roasting 16oC. Joy. I watched the plastic waste mount up from the airline food, Darryl and Philippa were forced to pay £7 for two sarnies cos they were starving, and I resolved to eat my own arm for food rather than pay such vastly over inflated prices. How dare they charge £3.50 for two slices of bread and some salad, it’s taking the piss that they are normally about £2 in the shops, but what the fuck is the difference just because you are a few thousand feet in the air?
During the five hour trip I pondered where my life was going. I guess everyone gets depressed when they return from a brilliant holiday, but they generally accept the life that they go back to, and just get on with it. I’ve been sick of my direction in life for a while now and I was NOT looking forward to returning to my flat full of stuff that I’ve accumulated, some of it useful, some of it a waste of space, but yet I’ve not thrown it out. I’d spent ten days living so simply and having so much spare time because I had no possessions to fill up my time with and to spend time faffing with, no computer to spend endless hours on, no TV to suck my brain dry. It’d be great to just shove everything into storage and do something completely different for 6 months, then to come back here and try to start again, doing something I enjoy.
But I feel so chained because of my rent, my bills, my accumulated possessions, the cost of storing them, the cost of finding another place to live when I return then finding a job that’s enough to pay the bloody bills again. Part of me is the Sensible part, wanting to have a secure financial future and not have the money worries, to have the pension, the savings, the house etc, and another part of me is the “Fuck it and enjoy life while you can” part that wants to just wander the world and experience it. People tell me “just do it”, tell me it’s simple, and it is simple because countless people have done it, but I’m so entrenched in a rut it seems like a Blue Hole-type chasm I need to climb out of, in order to just get started. I have to do something before it’s truly too late and I will never be able to do anything. I’ll start by having a major de-clutter of all my shit, downsizing, then taking it from there. In the meantime, my brother may be revisiting Dahab in September and I may hopefully be joining him again. I also have to get used to flushing my loo paper and not chucking it into the nearest bin …
I’ve just been to Lidl to buy some food, I fitted in with all the Chavs that were shopping there, with my unwashed airplane hair and bags under my eyes, but I didn’t care. I stood in the queue of lifeless people with my broccoli and Bran Flakes, and waited for the checkout lady to ignore me while she scanned my food … looking at them all, I was dying to tell them that 72 hours ago I was hovering over beautiful corals and fishes, bathing in the sun, teasing kittens, and scoffing chocolate banana honey pancakes while being hassled to “buy one, buy one” by scruffy little girls – but they’d probably not believe me, they’d assume I was drunk or on drugs. Stuck in traffic driving home, the greenness of the trees looked out of place, too lush, too green. A fat girl walked home from school eating a bag of crisps while her little brother kicked a plastic bottle along the path, out into the gutter, then walked off and left it there. Something has to change! Only I can make the changes, I have to get started.
If you can swim, then LEARN TO DIVE. If you never dive you are missing out on such a huge percentage of life, so many beautiful things that you would only ever see on your TV screen, they are waiting for yout under the sea. But if you dive then HAVE SOME RESPECT for the reefs, the fish, the water, the beach, every aspect of your surroundings. Watch your buoyancy, stay clear of the corals, do not touch or take anything off the reefs, do not leave litter at the dive sites, and most importantly, leave each site with a new found respect for nature, and make sure you are more conscious of the impact your life has on the environment and this world that you live in. And if you see any pricks defaming the reefs or marine life in any way, get over there an' fookin' chin em
I was looking forward to getting the hell out of the UK for 10 days of sun and scuba, travelling with my brother Iain and his girlie Hosanna, and their friends Darryl and Philippa. Gooseberry Central travelling with two couples but what the hell, I needed a holiday. We flew out with Thompsons holidays who projected the image of being a very “young and trendy airline” with their new 757 resplendent with uncomfortable plastic Recaro-branded seats, male air hostesses that were camper than a row of pink tents, and TV screens playing trendy “Yoof” stuff including J-Lo videos , Little Britain, The Office, and the dire “Ocean’s 12”. £3 for headphones if you wanted to watch though, or plug your own headphones in but then you only hear the sound in mono. Food madam? £7 for two sandwiches, or a “meal deal” consisting of individual portions of plastic food sealed in plastic bags or tubs, eaten with a plastic knife and fork sealed in plastic bags – a feast of environmentally friendly food packaging that would take hundreds of years to rot.
Average age of the plane inhabitants was about early to mid-thirties, and most of them were going to Sharm-el-Sheikh to sit by pools and roast themselves during the day, go to meat-market nightclubs to get pissed by night, gamble all their money in the casinos, get a shag from anyone who was up for it, then convince themselves they had a “fooking great time”. Guys wandered up and down the plane aisles in their “Amsterdam Ganja Tour ‘04” t-shirts, and girls wearing their ill-fitting hipsters showing their nice spare-tyre overhangs babbled incessantly about their tans. We were perversely fascinated by one girl who had the strangest-looking plucked eyebrows in the history of eyebrows, she looked like a brunette Penelope Keith but her eyebrows were the shapes of square brackets ], giving her such a strange look I was stopped from reaching for my camera to get photographic evidence…
We landed at Sharm and were told the temperature was 33oC – big cheer from all on the plane, fucking brilliant. Walking out of the plane we were hit by a hairdryer-warm blast of hot air, I felt my skin shrivel immediately, it was glorious – warm warm sun sun sun, I couldn’t wipe the fat grin off my face. Luggage queue, visa queue, stared at by various Arabian men, passport blah blah and we were met by a driver from the dive centre for the hour long journey to Dahab.
What a dustbowl of a journey … sand, dust, more dust, rubble, half built roads, Bedouin camps, camels, sand, did I mention sand? The minibus was boiling even with all the windows open, and I was already sticking to the plastic seats. Craggy mountains rose out of the ground like teeth of the desert, they looked like they would crumble at the slightest touch. The sky was blue, blue, so blue and not a cloud in sight.
The Driving Code of Dahab is pure genius:
* Drive on whatever side of the road you like as long as there’s nothing coming.
* If there IS something coming you can still drive on the wrong side of the road but remember to pull over just before they scream past you with horns blaring.
* If you’re talking on a mobile phone while driving, remember to look where you’re going while still driving on the wrong side of the road.
* When any driver overtakes you or if YOU overtake someone, you have to sound your horn to say “I’m coming so don’t swerve”.
* Take the racing line around corners, even if they are blind bends, and at night time don’t turn your headlights on until you see an approaching driver, when you promptly turn them on, beep as he passes, then turn them off again.
* When in Dahab feel free to grind to a halt in the middle of the road to chat to another driver, and move on when you please.
* Avoid the street goats unless you’re in a rush then just hope they don’t bend your already-bent jeep too much.
* Remember to leer at any passing female Tourist, while not looking where you’re going and trying to avoid goats and street-kids.
It’s hard to know where to start when describing Dahab. It’s being aggressively developed now and promoted as a major Dive Resort. Hotels are cropping up everywhere and there is already a Hilton on the outskirts of the city, resplendent in it’s pristine white Arabian architecture, with it’s manicured lawns sucking up precious water from the 24/7 sprinklers. So many new developments but as far as I know, no new sewage plant to cope with the influx of Tourist Shit that will doubtlessly be pumped out into the sea via a long pipeline.
I was scared shitless but the build quality of some of the new hotels – we’re talking seriously wobbly-looking brickwork with mortar that looks like it’s been randomly dropped on, patted down with hands, then squashed with another wobbly brick on top. Solid foundations, umm didn’t look like it! Then all cleverly disguised with lovely white plasterwork. How the f*ck do they stay up in a strong wind? But they obviously succeed because I saw no crumbled buildings. However, I’d advise not walking onto any brick hotel balconies in Dahab, specially if there is a fat person on the same balcony – could just be enough to tip the scales, so to speak…
After an hour of dangerous driving and a tape of brash Arabian Music set to repeat, we rolled up to the Marine Garden Bedouin camp, where we’d be staying. A large sandy courtyard flanked by the rooms and a large “Wadi” chillout area, it looked very nice. Our rooms were basic and mine had two single mattresses on the floor, some shelves made of wood cartons, one window, one socket and one light bulb. Someone had attempted to paint stuff on the rough white-plastered walls – stars, a house, some flowers, the faded chipped paint was very “Changing Rooms” rustic, only this was genuine not Linda-Barker fakery. The ceiling was smooth wood planks, each painted a different colour, and sunlight slanting through the gaps. I hoped it wouldn’t rain but I guess that’s stating the obvious … We met Salah, the dude who ran the place, dumped our gear, sat in the Wadi and I had my first taste of Bedouin tea, which is served in a tiny glass, is the colour of a morning urine sample, and is massively sweetened. Er yum!
The toilet block was a seperate building and was kept fastidiously clean by a very quiet guy who kept to himself but was constantly in attendance mopping the floors, emptying the poopie paper bins, and unblocking the loos that constantly blocked with the tiniest of turds - need larger U-bends guys ... the floor was tiled with VERY shiny and slippy tiles, and when wet they proved lethal, so if you were suffering from Dehli Belly and made a dash for the bog you were very likely to go flying onto your back and end up lying in a pool of your own poop with a huge bruise on your head.
Suddenly we were surrounded by Egyptian cats, and even better, about 7 or 8 kittens. Now I still maintain that Cats Are Evil, but after 10 days of Egyptian Kittenry I’ll admit to a soft spot for them – but only Egyptian cats, who are way cooler than fat, fluffy and pampered British cats. Egyptian cats are thin and sleek with small heads, very pointy ears, and a much more laid back attitude. The kittens were fab, a sprawling mass of big velvety paws that gently swatted anything in sight, wide and innocent eyes that never missed a movement, tiny tails that they constantly tried to eat or chase, and best of all, Banzai kung-fu giant “kitten leaps” on top of eachother that resulted in a rugby scrum of open mouths, swatting paws, squirming bodies, and high-pitched mewling. We had our breakfast with them every morning and they fell asleep in our laps, suckled from their mum, slept, then ran off to do some more Banzai kitten-rugby.
We dumped our stuff and walked to the dive centre “Desert Divers” (http://www.desert-divers.com/), a luvvely set-up full of friendly people who all knew Iain from when he worked there last year. I was introduced to too many people whose names I forgot immediately, and who told me that I had the same nose as my brother, which was a bit annoying cos he has a massive conk and I didn’t think mine was that big.
After sorting out our dive gear we went for a walk up the main drag of Dahab sea front. This is a bizarre fuck-up in the planning stakes because for some stupid reason they decided to build all the shops and restaurants right on the beach, then pave over the rest of the beach, leaving only 3m of beach in some areas. Other larger areas of beach have been taken over by the restaurants, who put shades and seating out there, and even build out into the sea by filling it with rocks and sand and putting their tables on there. Um why not build further back from the beach in the first place, and bloody leave some of it there for us to sit on!
By now it was dark and warm and bliss – people ambled, street dogs wandered, stretched, yawned then promptly lay down where they stood, regardless of whether it was in your way or not. Sleek cats frequented the outdoor eating areas, becoming your best friend if you had food on your table, and little kittens bumbled around and amused tourists with their squeaky mewls and their paw-swatting antics. Conflicting music of all genres crashed out at you as you walked along, some of it modern Western music and some of it grating Arabic prayer-music with bashing percussion that set your teeth on edge.
Young local kids, mostly scruffy little girls, accosted us with their plastic bags of anklets and bracelets and things made of beads, their cries of “buy one!” or “I know you want one!” hounding us as we walked by. I gave in and bought a nice key-ringy thing from one of them, she sat right up next to me and blinked up at me with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen, she had skin that would make a supermodel cry and she sniffled thru her bunged-up nose and waited patiently while I looked at her wares. The 0.0004% of me that is maternal said “awww she’s cute” while the other 99.99999% of me that is NOT maternal screamed “stop it, stick to your pet rats they don’t fuck up your life!!”. For 10 Egyptian Pounds/1 English Pound, the keyring was mine, and a fine piece of beadwork it is too. If it helps buy her food then great.
People sat on the main beach wall just watching other people, talking, making friends, laughing. Shops were open late selling a myriad of stuff, some of it horribly tacky and some of it beautifully crafted, their wares spilling out onto the pavements and shop fronts, the owners inviting you to come in and have a browse. The first Arabic phrase I learned was “la shukran” for “no thank you”. However, the shopping was brilliant and so cheap, fooking bargains galore to be had … I loved arguing and bartering with the owners, who always gave you an inflated price to start with, and always ended up selling it to you for under half that price.
The “Restaurant Boys” or RB’s as I shall now call them, were unrelenting. “Ahhhh you come eat with us my frrrriends” they said, while directing us towards their seating areas. We La Shukran’d ourselves to death over the ten days we were there, they never gave up in their quest to lure us into their lairs. “How are you, what are you doing, where you going, where you from, you come sit with me and talk to me” all the time, and if you said “England” most of them went “Ahhhh luvvely jubbuly” or “one banana two banana”, as if they had been taught to say it parrot fashion by idiot tourists, like people teaching a parrot how to say rude words. It got to the point where we took the back streets just to avoid “running the gauntlet” but on the occasions that we had to walk past them, I was always singled out because I was the only one who wasn’t walking with a boyfriend, despite my fake wedding ring to try and deter them. Because I find it hard to be openly nasty to people and say “fuck off and stop bothering me” I was an easy target.
Ahhhh Bibo, Akim, Waleet, Ahmet, Akhmed, they all wanted “dreeenks” with me, to “sit and talk” with me, to wax lyrical into my ear, to say all the things they save up for any other tourist girl they see, only I wasn’t so gullible. It’s fun, you say yes yes nod your head smile, have a laugh, take the piss, “La Shukran” then walk away, and the next day you have to repeat it all over again – with every single one of them. I have to admit some of them were rather tasty treats but I’d not touch any of them with a barge pole.
Right, onto the diving. Utterly fabulous. I can only describe it as swimming into the cinema screen during the coral scenes of “Finding Nemo”, only minus the talking fish and Disney political-correctness and moralising. You’ve all seen those aerial shots of New York City where the camera is looking right down onto the rooftops and onto the streets, as the skyscrapers pass slowly beneath you and the cars look like ants zooming inbetween them … I felt as if I was flying slowly over vast, vast coral cities, with the fish as the cars, zooming inbetween each piece of coral, going about their daily lives totally oblivious to the huge hulking shape of my hovering above them. So many colours and textures I can’t even describe, all blending together to produce stunning natural pieces of pure coral art. How I wished to be freed from the constraints of my heavy tank and noisy regulator and bubbling breath, to swim underwater silently and listen to the sounds of the reef, the snap, crackle and pop of the corals, to escape into the silence from the noisy world above, to never surface.
The dive sites we visited were the Eel Garden, a descent onto flat white sands that is carpeted with question-mark shaped eels that stick out of the sands and catch food from the currents. (http://web.ukonline.co.uk/peter.stensones/photos/photos_big_picture.htm?diving/dahab/new_year_2003/eel_garden.jpg) When you approach them they zip down into the sand again, and if you land gently on the sea bed and wait, they come out again right in front of you and continue feeding – awesome. Also visited Golden Blocks, Three Pools, The Lighthouse, which featured a lovely and massive Gorgonian Fan Coral that was 30m down, and Coral Gardens which was my favourite site of the whole holiday, The Islands, and the notorious Blue Hole – a site that has claimed many divers lives, but is a must see:
Descending from the Bells entry point, we went down a narrow ravine that looked out into the ocean, then at 27m out the ravine to look back and face a HUGE wall of coral and sea life that plummeted down, and down, and down … a yawning, abyssal, uncharted chasm of nothing but blue, blue underneath you, blue on top of you, blue to one side, and a visual overload of corals and sea life on the other. If you looked down for too long you felt that the darkness below you would suddenly suck you into it’s depths, never to be seen again. The lingering invisible threat of “what’s down there?” seeped into my mind and I had to start looking at corals and pretty fish, banishing thoughts of abyssal monsters that would come out and snap at my feet.
At 56m there is an archway and a passage that leads into the sea, it is trying to find this archway that many inexperienced divers have got Nitrogen Narcosis (http://www.scuba-doc.com/n2narc.htm) from the depth, and have lost their lives. Memorial stones are set into the rock in tribute to these divers and also as a warning to any idiots out there.
We saw some divers going deeper than us and as I hung suspended (yep, finally sorted my bloody buoyancy) over the chasm watching them fade away down into the darker blue, watching their streams of bubbles rise slowly to the surface like a glittering silver curtain, I couldn’t help but shiver inwardly – I’d never want to trade places with them. Vern, a smashing retired Aussie bloke and instructor dived the Hole with us and dared me to go down the Bells Chimney head first not feet first, I said yes but only if he dived in the niff – he refused but I still went head first down the chimney .
We also dived The Canyon, an essential dive for all fanatics of caves and cavern diving. A narrow crack in the seabed at 18m marks the main opening into the canyon, which depths reach over 30 metres inside. Snaking its way up from the depths, it emerges in a glorious, glassfish filled coral dome, the Fish Bowl. When the Canyon is full of divers you can hover over the top and watch the air bubbles stream out from the narrow crack, quite a spectacle when merged with the huge shoals of purple-eyed goldfish that are also there. When you’re actually IN the canyon you lie on your back and just look up through the opening at the blue above you and the divers hovering and waiting their turn (http://www.thisisvlad.com/gallery/albums/dahab/mini_IMG_5813.jpg). Some great photos to be had but the depth made my cheapo camera refuse to wind on – arse!
My brother was impressive as a diver, he had gone out to Dahab last year and had started with his Open Water certification then gone right up the ranks to be a Divemaster, then started work taking groups out to the dive sites. His buoyancy was spot on (apparently I’d been 50% overweight with mine for my last 4 years of diving!) and cos he’s a lanky skinny bugger, he looked like a sort of fucked-up bastard love-child of a seal and a stringbean in his wetsuit. Because he has long hair down to his bum he also has to wear a rubber hood to keep it under control, which added to the “Captain Condom” image. He soared slowly through the water with only a flick of his fins, floated upside down looking under corals and pointing stuff out to us, and on one occasion at the Coral Garden, he spread his arms and slowly rotated in an aeroplane “barrel-roll” style as he passed over the corals, seemingly doing so out of the sheer joy and freedom of being underwater and a witness to some of nature’s finest creations.
I was flooded with awe, happiness, sheer open-mouthed-nearly-popped-out-my-regulator-amazement at the beauty that was in front of me, but at the same time I felt a constant sadness that the downfall of these beautiful reefs was already set in stone, the destruction had begun, the roads being built to bus tourists in and the flood of divers trekking in and out of each dive site entry point … the fabulous visual feast and biological diversity that these and other reefs in the world offer is also their death and downfall. Snorkelers were seen walking on the tops of the reef, we spotted snapped coral, found bits of it in chillout areas, collected plastic bags during our dives, saw the inevitable Coke can on the sea bed. There were plenty of respectful divers there for sure, but there is always that small percentage who truly seem to not give a shit, and think that the one seashell they collect, or the one fag butt they flick into the sand, or the one plastic bottle or bag they leave to blow around “won’t make a difference”. But combined with all the other “don’t-give-a-shit” people, it fucking DOES make a difference.
You suddenly feel so small, so insignificant, so fucking inferior when faced with any breathtaking sight of nature in all its glory, there in front of your eyes, living, breathing, growing, teeming, and not giving a shit about whether you are there or not. But at the same time it’s so fragile, so delicate, so easily destroyed by a Tsunami, an oil slick from a careless tanker, a clumsy diver with three left fins, overfishing, drag fishing, souvenir hunters – the power that the small insignificant human being in its multiples all over the world can wield, the power to utterly destroy nature, twist it, fuck it up totally with our mindless pollution and our careless attitudes.
The diving I’ve done in Western Australia paled into insignificance compared with Dahab (well except maybe for Busselton Jetty - http://www.rache.plus.com/img/scuba/jetty/index.htm). I’m not clued up on what all the different fish and stuff are but there were tons of ‘em – most notably what looked like normal Goldfishes, except they had ultra-violet coloured eyes that contrasted fabulously with the bright orange of their bodies and the rich blue of the sea. Baby barracudas, large Napoleon fish, and yes, I found Nemo – clownfish EVERYWHERE, always in pairs, always near an Anemone. I cursed my new digital camera underwater housing, which had broken and flooded on its empty test-run on our first dive – my digicam could have got great pics but I had to settle with a poxy reusable one from the local shop, which takes quite crappy photos. Better than nothing though!
The Jeep rides to and from the dive sites were death-defying feats of bravery – rocky roads, petrol fumes, wayward goats on the street, a close encounter with a camel at the Blue Hole, and shoehorning yourself into the back of the dodgy jeep with half a dozen air cylinders and your dive gear either strapped precariously to the roof or crammed in with you, threatening to burst you out of the back door onto the road at top speed. Not to mention the frantic Arab music always on a loop, always with garish percussion and blending seamlessly with the crunching of the jeeps gears. I’d have not changed a thing though, those bumpy hot dusty cramped rides to the sites were totally part of the entire trip for me. So were the post-dive chillouts at the local Wadis, with pizza and Bedouin tea, camels rocking sedately by, and Arabs staring at the girls in their swimsuits. Iain’s Arabic is very good and one of the waiters who came to take our order was impressed and fascinated at this “Eeeenglish” lad who was so keen to learn and speak the language. He ended up sitting down, offering us all ciggies, and conducting an Arabic lesson with him, his face a picture. Then his boss came out and barked at him and he jumped up, invited Iain back the next day to talk more, then scuttled off to fetch our pizzas.
When we weren’t diving we were chilling out. If you do NOT like lazing around in the sun, doing nothing, and chatting and people watching, then don’t come to Dahab. I sat in the sun for hours on the roof of various eateries, just watching, observing ... the RBs and their persuasive tactics, the cats and dogs, the Arab horses being ridden along the beach, the noisy Japanese tourists talking at the tops of their voices, Ali the incredibly-tanned and rather fierce-looking chainsmoking owner of the Sun Restaurant to-ing and fro-ing with food for his customers, the cheerful banter of the shop owners, the snorkelers, the PADI dive courses trekking to and from the bay to practice their mask clearing, and the tourists – the red, sunburned, impractically dressed, overweight, beer-bellied tourists a big percentage of them Brits, and truly making me ashamed to BE a Brit … it was fascinating and not in the least boring, and all bathed in glorious bright colourful warm happy sunshine.
However, away from the bright lights of the main beach strip, the rest of Dahab needs a good sweeping up. Dust, goat poop, litter and rubble line every street, the kerbs are about a foot high and lethal to cars (that would stop the School Run Mums HAHAAA), the street goats hide in the shade and eat unmentionable things, street kids wander around on the boiling concrete barefoot, cars honk constantly, with cries of “taxi??” whenever we were spotted. Camels are tethered to walls, scary smells of God-knows-what waft over you depending on what you are walking past, and local shops offer all sorts of necessities like loo roll, bottled water, and plastic pyramid incense-holders …
Huge camels are ridden around by the tiniest boys you have ever seen, and they seem to keep them perfectly under control too – usually just randomly beating them with a stick seems to convey the correct orders, and the camels gurgle and grumble and get on with it. New buildings are spotted around in the usual scary-brickwork styleee, and there is a conspicuous absence of ANY Arabic/Egyptian women on the streets. It’s either kids, or men, or tourists. It seemed that the only women in Dahab were the tourists. For sure, the only grossly FAT people in Dahab were the tourists, with a few exceptions. I never saw a single fat kid, unless he was a pinky-white sunburned tourist kid. Is this because they’ve not got much food or because they lead much more active lives and eat much less crap than our roly-poly mollycoddled inactive asthma-ridden idle children?
The cheaper cafes in the back streets do brisk business, but mostly with the locals – tourists who may venture in there would be put off by the number of flies that frequent them, but you soon learn that the flies are just a way of life and they didn’t do us any harm. We ate at a few places during our stay and were warmly welcomed, particularly “Captain Condom” and his Arabic. The food was great and bloody dirt cheap, the tables and floors clean, and there were no RBs nagging us to come in, we went of our own choice. A visit to the local fruit shops is also a must, with divine juicy peaches and a huge tray of lush, large, sweet strawberries for the equivalent of 50p – fucking brilliant.
One evening we were driven out up one of the mountains to watch the sun set. A big group of us and friends from Desert Divers took rugs and food and joints, and settled in with a fab view of Dahab as the sun faded. Nearby was a group of tourists being carted around on camels, I got hysterics watching one poor bloke who was jerking back and forward in the saddle, his nads must have been the size of grapefruits…and we all crossed our legs when the camel went to kneel down, shooting Mr Tourist forward onto the pommel and briskly off into the sand, where he got up and attempted to walk in a straight line without his legs crossed.
My payback came when one of the young lads brought a camel over to see us, and while I was trying to photograph it as it loomed above me, it kicked and nearly trod on my bag, then unleashed a torrent of perfectly formed dark round dry poops all over my nearby flip-flops. The young lad laughed, said something in Arabic and left me there, blinking at my poop-covered footwear while everyone wet themselves laughing. I took a pic of the poopy flipflops.
As the sky darkened and the first stars came out, I wished that there was only the five of us on the rug, so that we could all be silent and drink in the sky above, and the surroundings. The guys that had driven us and the others out to the mountain were talking constantly and their mobile phones were ringing with comical Arab polyphonic nonsense, leading to animated loud and annoying conversations. I lay on my back (avoiding the camel poop) and looked at the stars, minus the light pollution of the UK – lovely. Night times were the best, we usually spent them at the Marine Garden camp, sitting in the Wadi surrounded by kittens and talking, reading, getting thoroughly stoned (apart from me, I only passively smoked everyone else’s), or I would go and lie in the hammock overlooking the sea and read my books or plug into my stereo and Artie Shaw. I’ve never read so much in such a short space of time, it was great to be looking at text in a book again, instead of on a bloody computer screen. Or we’d go wandering around the shops, “La Shukran” the RBs, and bump into people that Iain knew and sit around chatting and people-watching. My diet consisted of chocolate, honey and banana pancakes, fruit juices, water, falafel and pizzas. I didn’t have any milk or any fibre or broccoli (shock horror) for ten days and by the end of my stay, my digestive system was complaining…oops.
On our last night we resolved to get up at about 5.30am and see the sun rise from the roof of the dive centre. However we didn’t get to bed until about 1.45am so that idea went out of the window. I awoke on my last day at about 6.15am though, and refused to lie in bed daydreaming, so I got up and went for a wander with my camera. It was fab, I wished I’d had more early mornings. The sun had just risen and was still low in the sky, giving off a gentle warmth and a lovely golden light. It was dead quiet, the shops and restaurants were only just coming to life, and thankfully, no RBs in sight. Early divers clanged their tanks and hissed their regulators, the sea was mirror-calm, and the dogs were splayed out over the main walkway, scratching lazily and raising their heads to sniff at passing tourists. I went down to the beach and found a big rock, sitting on it and putting my feet in the water. Got some fab pics of this nice quiet time, but the silence was shattered by two of the dogs coming onto the beach and play fighting, spraying me with sand and water as they lolloped and sploshed around near me, finally running off and leaving me slightly soggy. I moved up onto the dive centre roof and watched as more of the restaurants came to life, but thankfully without their blaring music. Guys went for a swim, or sat on the walls with their faces up to the sun, said morning to eachother and chattered away in Arabic as they plumped cushions and raked the sand ready for the days business.
They all splashed water onto the main walkway but they never swept it, so it dried and remained just as dirty as before they splashed it. The walkway is a lovely red paved pattern with a thick snake of black twisting down the centre, and would look fab with a bit of a scrub, but I guess there’s so much dust and sand around it’s kind of pointless. By now it was about 8am and the sun was already getting too hot. In the distance something big arched out of the water three times and then disappeared – the local dolphin, that had come right into the bay with it’s baby a few days ago, and frolicked with snorkelers while we WEREN’T in the water – bugger.
I wandered down to the Blue Moon and had my final choc, banana honey pancake of the day and a fabulously rich strawberry juice. I also sorted out their PC, which had booted up in DiskCheck mode and they didn’t understand what was happening. After a quick Disk CleanUp and words of advice they gave me a discount on their breakfast. Said byebye to all the RB’s, duly collected some email addresses off two of them, ignored their “I’m missing you already” and such tripe, then went back to the Marine Garden to pack up.
Went for a final snorkel and hovered on the surface, just hanging there and watching the coral life, the pinkypurple jellyfish and the shimmering shoals of tiny glass-like fish that swim just under the surface. No dolphin reappearance unfortunately, if that had happened I would have died happy there and then. Divers swam deep underneath me and their bubbles rose up and tickled my face as they came to the surface.
The minutes ticked by towards my Return to the Oblivion that is My Life in England. Dried off, brought bags to the dive centre, had a final chillout and helping of Bedouin Tea, said goodbye to everyone, and tried desperately to hang on to every second that ticked by. I was so glad I’d got up early, it made the day a lot longer. The minibus picked us up from Desert Divers and then it was another maniacal hour long drive to Sharm airport.
We left the sandy warm hairdryer-hot desert and entered the concrete airconditioned hell that is the airport. Shiny polished floors replaced the rough Bedouin rugs we were used to, and the freezing aircon gave us a reminder of what was waiting for us back in Blighty. Passports, baggage, check-in, and a sit down to people watch all the tourists filter into the lounges. We played Spot The Pink Brit, as all the lobster-red fatties waddled past us with their fat kids and their bags full of tacky souvenirs. Penelope Keith with the Awesome Eyebrows also walked past, looking browner but still hilarious. Once again I reached for my camera but Iain stole it from me in the nick of time … many divers were spotted with their huge kit bags, “Dive Now Work Later” t-shirts, and natural non-lobster tans.
Back on the plane I wished I’d put my trousers on, my bare legs were slowly turning to ice from the freezing blast of air that accompanied us all the way home. A baby at the back of the plane screamed and gurgled that irritating sound that only small babies can make, and I got ready to chin Kevin the Air Hostess if he bumped my shoulder one more time while mincing down the aisle. A constant stream of trolleys went up and down, up and down, and we were harangued by questionnaires, charity scratch cards, and a duty-free catalogue containing hideous delights such as chocolate-scented bunny keyrings and fake pink diamond-encrusted watches. Thankfully we weren’t subjected to Ocean’s Twelve again but this time something worse starring Dennis Quaid. I gave up halfway through and went back to my stereo and dreams of what I’d just left behind.
A woman on the seat opposite me was reading a UK newspaper, I tried not to look but the headlines drew me – murder of a 14 year old, election misery, Howard resigns, NHS waiting lists, Jacko and his kiddy fiddling, more inflated libellous cases, mindless celebrity gossip, z-list slags getting their tits out – I just looked away, I didn’t want to know, I’ve still not switched the telly on since I’ve been back, it’s just too miserable to do so.
Due to turbulence pockets we took a slightly different route home and we missed out on seeing the Giza Plateau again (I missed it the first time round too, wasn’t near a window). The captain cheerfully announced that the forecast in Britain was approximately 9oC with projections of rain for the rest of the week and a top temperature of a roasting 16oC. Joy. I watched the plastic waste mount up from the airline food, Darryl and Philippa were forced to pay £7 for two sarnies cos they were starving, and I resolved to eat my own arm for food rather than pay such vastly over inflated prices. How dare they charge £3.50 for two slices of bread and some salad, it’s taking the piss that they are normally about £2 in the shops, but what the fuck is the difference just because you are a few thousand feet in the air?
During the five hour trip I pondered where my life was going. I guess everyone gets depressed when they return from a brilliant holiday, but they generally accept the life that they go back to, and just get on with it. I’ve been sick of my direction in life for a while now and I was NOT looking forward to returning to my flat full of stuff that I’ve accumulated, some of it useful, some of it a waste of space, but yet I’ve not thrown it out. I’d spent ten days living so simply and having so much spare time because I had no possessions to fill up my time with and to spend time faffing with, no computer to spend endless hours on, no TV to suck my brain dry. It’d be great to just shove everything into storage and do something completely different for 6 months, then to come back here and try to start again, doing something I enjoy.
But I feel so chained because of my rent, my bills, my accumulated possessions, the cost of storing them, the cost of finding another place to live when I return then finding a job that’s enough to pay the bloody bills again. Part of me is the Sensible part, wanting to have a secure financial future and not have the money worries, to have the pension, the savings, the house etc, and another part of me is the “Fuck it and enjoy life while you can” part that wants to just wander the world and experience it. People tell me “just do it”, tell me it’s simple, and it is simple because countless people have done it, but I’m so entrenched in a rut it seems like a Blue Hole-type chasm I need to climb out of, in order to just get started. I have to do something before it’s truly too late and I will never be able to do anything. I’ll start by having a major de-clutter of all my shit, downsizing, then taking it from there. In the meantime, my brother may be revisiting Dahab in September and I may hopefully be joining him again. I also have to get used to flushing my loo paper and not chucking it into the nearest bin …
I’ve just been to Lidl to buy some food, I fitted in with all the Chavs that were shopping there, with my unwashed airplane hair and bags under my eyes, but I didn’t care. I stood in the queue of lifeless people with my broccoli and Bran Flakes, and waited for the checkout lady to ignore me while she scanned my food … looking at them all, I was dying to tell them that 72 hours ago I was hovering over beautiful corals and fishes, bathing in the sun, teasing kittens, and scoffing chocolate banana honey pancakes while being hassled to “buy one, buy one” by scruffy little girls – but they’d probably not believe me, they’d assume I was drunk or on drugs. Stuck in traffic driving home, the greenness of the trees looked out of place, too lush, too green. A fat girl walked home from school eating a bag of crisps while her little brother kicked a plastic bottle along the path, out into the gutter, then walked off and left it there. Something has to change! Only I can make the changes, I have to get started.
If you can swim, then LEARN TO DIVE. If you never dive you are missing out on such a huge percentage of life, so many beautiful things that you would only ever see on your TV screen, they are waiting for yout under the sea. But if you dive then HAVE SOME RESPECT for the reefs, the fish, the water, the beach, every aspect of your surroundings. Watch your buoyancy, stay clear of the corals, do not touch or take anything off the reefs, do not leave litter at the dive sites, and most importantly, leave each site with a new found respect for nature, and make sure you are more conscious of the impact your life has on the environment and this world that you live in. And if you see any pricks defaming the reefs or marine life in any way, get over there an' fookin' chin em
Thursday, April 21, 2005
You can keep LONDON I don't want a part of it....
I spent Sunday in London with my folks, I went to the Royal Festival Hall with my mum for a concert (St Matthews passion - fab), while my dad met up with my bro and they went to the Imperial War Museum.
I realised about 10 minutes after arriving in London that each time I visit it, I loathe it more and more. The beautiful "Old London" with it's churches, minsters, architecture, heritage, monuments, museums and history is slowly being drowned by the "New London" with it's misfit architecture, filthy sooty streets, Millennium eyesores, and what must be the scruffiest dressed people in the universe.
The coach journey into Liverpool Street took us through the outskirts, properties crammed and bursting out of the pavements, shops with shutters down, black bulging bin bags in the gutter, litter litter everywhere, filthy windows, filthy unpainted doors, broken railings, so many tatty houses all no doubt with ludicrous price tags just because they were in London. Lovely old buildings with exquisite masonrywork were standing next to hideous modern steel and glass blemishes that had been erected with no consideration for their surroundings (hideous new building like this right next to the Houses of Parliament, check it out).
Miles of cracked pavements, some of them dotted with red sprayed circles where there are plans to replace them (eventually). Lovely lattice-brickwork pedestrianised areas spotted with grey blobs of chewing gum, flower borders and small lawned areas overgrowing and unkempt, grafitti everywhere, litter everywhere, the Thames with its lovely shade of shit-brown, its fetid stench, and floating parade of litter, and gaunt beggars puffing away on expensive ciggies while asking for spare change for their next pack of Marlboros. Concrete steps and slopes had been chipped away by skateboarders, and crumbled brickwork spilt out from every stairway.
I realise that I am describing most large cities in the UK but London is meant to be our flagship - one of our biggest tourist attractions, bringer of foreign income, shining contender for the Olympics (interval while I fall off chair laughing). All I could see was "Shithole" plastered over every slab of dirty concrete I passed by.
Whilst people-watching with my mum in a grotty street cafe, we tried in vain to spot a smartly-dressed human being. Why do Londoners always dress in shit? I get the impression they all think they are being cool, trendy, hip, arty and very "London" but they all looked like f*cking dossers. Fat girls who have no right to wear hipsters were spilling out over their waistbands, guys were wearing their jeans halfway down their arses, girls with greasy matted dreads, girls with badly fitting stretched coats, guys in hideous ancient badly-fitting jackets shuffled along in battered trainers, it was like being in one huge shelter for the homeless. Maybe I'm too used to spenidng time at Forties events, where the men and women were all beautifully tailored in clothes that flattered their figure, whatever that figure may be? I was just sick of looking in all directions and seeing SCRUFF.
I guess it can't be helped - mass production of clothes and todays junk and processed food generation of all shapes and degrees of fatness can't be tailored for anymore, so clothes are made to just "hang" on our bodies, not shape to them and flatter them.
In all my entire day in London just painted a very depressing scene. In my mind it's no longer the flagship of our country, it's just overhyped, overpriced, tired, dirty and polluted. I was very relieved as we sped away from it on the train and I was surrounded by greenery and space once more.
On a slightly different note, aren't parents embarassing? My mum is 64 now and my dad 67 - they are in amazing shape for their ages but they're at that stage in life now where they say stuff too loud and don't care who hears it.
Mum sat in the middle of Liverpool St Station and said loudly "ooh there are a lot of Chinese people here aren't there....and they all look the same!" she also commented "there are too many male couples walking around", even though I pointed out they could just be mates hanging out together, and if they were a couple then so what? She whinged loudly about the skateboarders, and while I agree that they were doing a great job trashing all the concrete steps, they could be doing worse things like peddling drugs on a street corner, or mugging grannies like her.....
During our lunch break she picked up one of the chicken salad wraps I had carefully prepared that morning, and likened it to "a floppy wet penis" (cue surprised looks from neighbouring table and me crawling under said table), then when we met back up with my dad and brother for a meal on a Thames-side boat restaurant, dad commented loudly about "big stiff poos" floating by the window, before beaming around the restaurant like he had told the funniest joke of the universe.
I know that you are meant to turn into your parents when you get older, so I'd like a volunteer now to monitor my progress and shoot me if I ever get close to my own dear folks....
I realised about 10 minutes after arriving in London that each time I visit it, I loathe it more and more. The beautiful "Old London" with it's churches, minsters, architecture, heritage, monuments, museums and history is slowly being drowned by the "New London" with it's misfit architecture, filthy sooty streets, Millennium eyesores, and what must be the scruffiest dressed people in the universe.
The coach journey into Liverpool Street took us through the outskirts, properties crammed and bursting out of the pavements, shops with shutters down, black bulging bin bags in the gutter, litter litter everywhere, filthy windows, filthy unpainted doors, broken railings, so many tatty houses all no doubt with ludicrous price tags just because they were in London. Lovely old buildings with exquisite masonrywork were standing next to hideous modern steel and glass blemishes that had been erected with no consideration for their surroundings (hideous new building like this right next to the Houses of Parliament, check it out).
Miles of cracked pavements, some of them dotted with red sprayed circles where there are plans to replace them (eventually). Lovely lattice-brickwork pedestrianised areas spotted with grey blobs of chewing gum, flower borders and small lawned areas overgrowing and unkempt, grafitti everywhere, litter everywhere, the Thames with its lovely shade of shit-brown, its fetid stench, and floating parade of litter, and gaunt beggars puffing away on expensive ciggies while asking for spare change for their next pack of Marlboros. Concrete steps and slopes had been chipped away by skateboarders, and crumbled brickwork spilt out from every stairway.
I realise that I am describing most large cities in the UK but London is meant to be our flagship - one of our biggest tourist attractions, bringer of foreign income, shining contender for the Olympics (interval while I fall off chair laughing). All I could see was "Shithole" plastered over every slab of dirty concrete I passed by.
Whilst people-watching with my mum in a grotty street cafe, we tried in vain to spot a smartly-dressed human being. Why do Londoners always dress in shit? I get the impression they all think they are being cool, trendy, hip, arty and very "London" but they all looked like f*cking dossers. Fat girls who have no right to wear hipsters were spilling out over their waistbands, guys were wearing their jeans halfway down their arses, girls with greasy matted dreads, girls with badly fitting stretched coats, guys in hideous ancient badly-fitting jackets shuffled along in battered trainers, it was like being in one huge shelter for the homeless. Maybe I'm too used to spenidng time at Forties events, where the men and women were all beautifully tailored in clothes that flattered their figure, whatever that figure may be? I was just sick of looking in all directions and seeing SCRUFF.
I guess it can't be helped - mass production of clothes and todays junk and processed food generation of all shapes and degrees of fatness can't be tailored for anymore, so clothes are made to just "hang" on our bodies, not shape to them and flatter them.
In all my entire day in London just painted a very depressing scene. In my mind it's no longer the flagship of our country, it's just overhyped, overpriced, tired, dirty and polluted. I was very relieved as we sped away from it on the train and I was surrounded by greenery and space once more.
On a slightly different note, aren't parents embarassing? My mum is 64 now and my dad 67 - they are in amazing shape for their ages but they're at that stage in life now where they say stuff too loud and don't care who hears it.
Mum sat in the middle of Liverpool St Station and said loudly "ooh there are a lot of Chinese people here aren't there....and they all look the same!" she also commented "there are too many male couples walking around", even though I pointed out they could just be mates hanging out together, and if they were a couple then so what? She whinged loudly about the skateboarders, and while I agree that they were doing a great job trashing all the concrete steps, they could be doing worse things like peddling drugs on a street corner, or mugging grannies like her.....
During our lunch break she picked up one of the chicken salad wraps I had carefully prepared that morning, and likened it to "a floppy wet penis" (cue surprised looks from neighbouring table and me crawling under said table), then when we met back up with my dad and brother for a meal on a Thames-side boat restaurant, dad commented loudly about "big stiff poos" floating by the window, before beaming around the restaurant like he had told the funniest joke of the universe.
I know that you are meant to turn into your parents when you get older, so I'd like a volunteer now to monitor my progress and shoot me if I ever get close to my own dear folks....
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Visions
A mixture of the curious and the devout have flocked to an underpass in Chicago to see the supposed image of the Virgin Mary which has appeared on a wall. Police have started regular patrols at the site which has attracted hundreds of devotees.
Many have left candles and flowers at the site which has become a pilgrimage point in the United States. A picture of the late Pope John Paul II and the Virgin Mary in a similar pose as the image on the wall had been put next to the site.
Despite some who believe it is a divine image, there may be a more physical explanation. Officials at the the Illinois Department of Transportation say the image is merely the result of salt run-off but they have no plans to scrub it off. A spokesman for the department said: "We're treating this just like we treat any other type of roadside memorial."
Some visitors are true believers though. Elba Tello, of Chicago, said: We have faith. We can see her face."
But another on-looker, Victor Robles, said: "I see just a concrete walkway and an image that could happen anywhere. "If that image helps more people feel closer to God then maybe that is a good sign."
========================
What a bunch of idiots. They are basing their ideas of Mary on artistic representations of Mary throughout the ages. Nobody KNOWS what she looked like (if indeed she ever existed), but it's quite probable that she was NOT the delicate-featured white woman we are all used to seeing in church windows and statues. She was probably anything but delicate-looking, with manky teeth and terrible hair, and would have darker skin, NOT white. It's down to the old inkblot test theory - you can see what you WANT to see in whatever you look at, regardless of what it really is.
If an image of a manky woman appeared on a subway wall nobody would know who it was so they'd likely ignore it. Mary could be walking among us every day but we would pass her by, probably mistaking her for some foreign scruffy illegal immigrant.
I suppose that if some salt on a subway wall gives people strength and helps them get through the day then that's a good thing, but FFS when is common-sense going to come into play with all of this???
Many have left candles and flowers at the site which has become a pilgrimage point in the United States. A picture of the late Pope John Paul II and the Virgin Mary in a similar pose as the image on the wall had been put next to the site.
Despite some who believe it is a divine image, there may be a more physical explanation. Officials at the the Illinois Department of Transportation say the image is merely the result of salt run-off but they have no plans to scrub it off. A spokesman for the department said: "We're treating this just like we treat any other type of roadside memorial."
Some visitors are true believers though. Elba Tello, of Chicago, said: We have faith. We can see her face."
But another on-looker, Victor Robles, said: "I see just a concrete walkway and an image that could happen anywhere. "If that image helps more people feel closer to God then maybe that is a good sign."
========================
What a bunch of idiots. They are basing their ideas of Mary on artistic representations of Mary throughout the ages. Nobody KNOWS what she looked like (if indeed she ever existed), but it's quite probable that she was NOT the delicate-featured white woman we are all used to seeing in church windows and statues. She was probably anything but delicate-looking, with manky teeth and terrible hair, and would have darker skin, NOT white. It's down to the old inkblot test theory - you can see what you WANT to see in whatever you look at, regardless of what it really is.
If an image of a manky woman appeared on a subway wall nobody would know who it was so they'd likely ignore it. Mary could be walking among us every day but we would pass her by, probably mistaking her for some foreign scruffy illegal immigrant.
I suppose that if some salt on a subway wall gives people strength and helps them get through the day then that's a good thing, but FFS when is common-sense going to come into play with all of this???
How can this happen?
Student gunman Jeff Weise fired 45 times during his rampage through the halls of a Minneapolis high school last month, it has been revealed.
New details of the Red Lake High School shootings show the teenager killed all seven of his victims in three minutes. The 16-year-old then wandered through the school firing at random, wounding other students.
Weise killed five students, a teacher and a security guard on March 22 after earlier killing his grandfather and his grandfather's girlfriend at their home. The teenager arrived at the school armed with a shotgun and a semi-automatic pistol and wearing a bulletproof vest.
The FBI said Weise's personal journal and e-mails suggested he planned the attack in advance.
=============================
This is such a sad story - HE WAS 16 YEARS OF AGE and he planned this murder in advance, and executed it with the clinical detatchment of a seasoned killer.
What makes a child so young so ANGRY and so full of hate that he would do such a thing?? It's almost beyond my comprehension the rage that must have been inside that young boy. What caused it? What happened in his childhood to fuck him up so badly? I don't know anything about his background, who he was brought up by, whether there was any abuse, any history of mental problems. But this certainly goes beyond your average teenage hormonal hissy fit. How on earth are we going to spot the signs and help these kids before such deaths occur?
Will the media and the family once again blame Marilyn Manson? Will they blame the State for "letting him down", will they blame the school for messing with his mind, will they blame his friends and peer pressure, or TV and movies and their "promotion of violence"? It seems that before they start lashing out at others they should take a long hard look at themselves and their parenting and the 16 years of that boy's life. Then they and other parents should bloody learn from it.
Meanwhile in the good ol' US of A, they continue to sell firearms to Tom, Dick, Harry and Harry's mom without decent background checks, Hollywood keeps churning out violent movies, TV keeps showing them earlier and earlier, parents install TVs in their 5 year olds bedroom and leave them to be brought up by Big Bird or Arnold Schwarzennegger, and the desensitising, dumbing down, and maturing-too-quick of the next generation continues. Land of the Free, home of the Dead....
New details of the Red Lake High School shootings show the teenager killed all seven of his victims in three minutes. The 16-year-old then wandered through the school firing at random, wounding other students.
Weise killed five students, a teacher and a security guard on March 22 after earlier killing his grandfather and his grandfather's girlfriend at their home. The teenager arrived at the school armed with a shotgun and a semi-automatic pistol and wearing a bulletproof vest.
The FBI said Weise's personal journal and e-mails suggested he planned the attack in advance.
=============================
This is such a sad story - HE WAS 16 YEARS OF AGE and he planned this murder in advance, and executed it with the clinical detatchment of a seasoned killer.
What makes a child so young so ANGRY and so full of hate that he would do such a thing?? It's almost beyond my comprehension the rage that must have been inside that young boy. What caused it? What happened in his childhood to fuck him up so badly? I don't know anything about his background, who he was brought up by, whether there was any abuse, any history of mental problems. But this certainly goes beyond your average teenage hormonal hissy fit. How on earth are we going to spot the signs and help these kids before such deaths occur?
Will the media and the family once again blame Marilyn Manson? Will they blame the State for "letting him down", will they blame the school for messing with his mind, will they blame his friends and peer pressure, or TV and movies and their "promotion of violence"? It seems that before they start lashing out at others they should take a long hard look at themselves and their parenting and the 16 years of that boy's life. Then they and other parents should bloody learn from it.
Meanwhile in the good ol' US of A, they continue to sell firearms to Tom, Dick, Harry and Harry's mom without decent background checks, Hollywood keeps churning out violent movies, TV keeps showing them earlier and earlier, parents install TVs in their 5 year olds bedroom and leave them to be brought up by Big Bird or Arnold Schwarzennegger, and the desensitising, dumbing down, and maturing-too-quick of the next generation continues. Land of the Free, home of the Dead....
Monday, April 18, 2005
Modern Art
An artist has vandalised nearly 50 cars - in the name of art. Mark McGowan scratched dozens of cars in England and Scotland with a key. McGowan, who once pushed a monkey nut for seven miles with his nose, said his artwork examined the "worldwide pandemic" of keying.
"What I have been looking at are issues of property and linking it with art and performative action." he said. "There is a strong creative element in the keying of a car, it's an emotive engagement. Maybe it will enter the mainstream like graffiti."
Other stunts include:
I'm sorry but MODERN ART PEOPLE ARE WANKERS. Keying cars is not art. Rolling across London is not art. Stuffing chips up your nose is NOT ART. I hope everyone whos car he scratched sues his arse off.
Can someone please explain to me why these people are taken seriously??? Why Tracy Emin's unmade bed surrounded by condoms and alcohol is art? Why a flickering light in a blank room wins the Turner prize? Why the Tate Modern is so full of crap?
I think the cleverest thing about "Modern Artists" is that they actually FOOL people and critics into believing the crap they spout, and then pay obscene amounts of money for it.
How can you compare the old masters of painting and sculpture, and the skill, passion and time spent creating these masterpieces, with unmade beds?
"What I have been looking at are issues of property and linking it with art and performative action." he said. "There is a strong creative element in the keying of a car, it's an emotive engagement. Maybe it will enter the mainstream like graffiti."
Other stunts include:
- Nailing his feet to the floor of an art gallery
- Pushing a monkey nut for seven miles with his nose to 10 Downing Street in a protest against student debt
- Sitting for 12 days in a bath filled with baked beans, with two chips up his nose and sausages wrapped around his head - to defend criticism of the full English breakfast
- Rolling himself across London for four-and-a-half miles singing We Wish You a Merry Christmas to highlight the work of office cleaners
- Cooking and eating a fox to draw attention to the plight of "crackheads"
I'm sorry but MODERN ART PEOPLE ARE WANKERS. Keying cars is not art. Rolling across London is not art. Stuffing chips up your nose is NOT ART. I hope everyone whos car he scratched sues his arse off.
Can someone please explain to me why these people are taken seriously??? Why Tracy Emin's unmade bed surrounded by condoms and alcohol is art? Why a flickering light in a blank room wins the Turner prize? Why the Tate Modern is so full of crap?
I think the cleverest thing about "Modern Artists" is that they actually FOOL people and critics into believing the crap they spout, and then pay obscene amounts of money for it.
How can you compare the old masters of painting and sculpture, and the skill, passion and time spent creating these masterpieces, with unmade beds?
Friday, April 15, 2005
Blue blooded?
Sannie pad adverts piss me off. The latest one I saw last night involves a warning that if you have your period and you sit down for long time then suddenly stand up, "your pad could let you down" - ie a load of blood could run down your leg. This is illustrated by a pic of a sannie pad and yes there it is again - BLUE LIQUID being poured all over it to simulate the blood.
FFS we all KNOW you mean blood, why not just use red liquid?? Actually, liquid isn't accurate at all cos it's thinner than blood and will absorb differently - they should have a slightly squidgy thicker liquid, and RED NOT BLUE.
It's like that on the nappy adverts too - blue liquid instead of yellow pissy liquid. And not a trace of a thick brown poo-substitute, which is mainly what babies do in nappies - yet this is wholly missed out of the advert. So all their harping about absorbency is crap when you think of the fact that the, errr crap - isn't ABSORBED at all into the nappy????
It's amusing that we have gory battle scenes drowning in blood, full-frontals, tits and arses, and even full on shagging on our TV and cinema screens nowadays, yet we still refuse to put accurately coloured bodily fluids on nappy and Always Ultra adverts. If Mel Gibson beheaded someone in Braveheart and blue liquid spouted from his neck, would we be satisfied? No! So we should demand realistic bodily fluid in our adverts!
It seems that the word PERIOD is still taboo in this modern age, I remember when Monica referred to "her period" in 'Friends' and there was a big OOOOH cos she's said PERIOD. FFS is this the dark ages? Is this blue liquid some form of denial that PERIODS EXIST?
Do sex education videos substitue white sperm for a nice pretty purple liquid I wonder??
We all bleed, shit and piss and we all know what colour they are so why try to deny it!
FFS we all KNOW you mean blood, why not just use red liquid?? Actually, liquid isn't accurate at all cos it's thinner than blood and will absorb differently - they should have a slightly squidgy thicker liquid, and RED NOT BLUE.
It's like that on the nappy adverts too - blue liquid instead of yellow pissy liquid. And not a trace of a thick brown poo-substitute, which is mainly what babies do in nappies - yet this is wholly missed out of the advert. So all their harping about absorbency is crap when you think of the fact that the, errr crap - isn't ABSORBED at all into the nappy????
It's amusing that we have gory battle scenes drowning in blood, full-frontals, tits and arses, and even full on shagging on our TV and cinema screens nowadays, yet we still refuse to put accurately coloured bodily fluids on nappy and Always Ultra adverts. If Mel Gibson beheaded someone in Braveheart and blue liquid spouted from his neck, would we be satisfied? No! So we should demand realistic bodily fluid in our adverts!
It seems that the word PERIOD is still taboo in this modern age, I remember when Monica referred to "her period" in 'Friends' and there was a big OOOOH cos she's said PERIOD. FFS is this the dark ages? Is this blue liquid some form of denial that PERIODS EXIST?
Do sex education videos substitue white sperm for a nice pretty purple liquid I wonder??
We all bleed, shit and piss and we all know what colour they are so why try to deny it!
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Stop them now!
It's official - fat girls should NOT be allowed to wear hipsters . At Banham Zoo I witnessed a girl who actually looked like she had a beer belly. She looked like the big dude out of The Incredibles - a huge belly and bum belted in over tight hipsters, then normal sized legs. As she walked past me and I got a side view of her, she actually had the classic "beer-belly overhang" of your average Tetley drinker. HOW THE F*CK DOES SHE THINK THAT'S ATTRACTIVE? How can it be comfortable for her to wear?
During the falconry display another young girl "of significant girth" sat down in front of me, once again in hipsters. As she sat down I don't think she realised that the whole of her lower back, top of her arse, and a good percentage of her butt-crack were promptly displayed to the whole audience sitting behind her. Oh how I longed for my camera...
People openly go "yuk" when they see beer-bellied men rippling down the street, but I bet I will receive a few nasty comments from people because of my comments on fat girls in hipsters. Isn't it much the same thing though? Why is it taboo to comment on a girl's size, yet funny when we comment on men's sizes?
And why don't clothing manufacturers just NOT make hipsters above a size 14, that would solve the problem overnight!
"They can wear what they want" you cry - well yes, but when it's screamingly obvious that it's too small for you or a poor fit, or very unflattering, or reveals acres of podgy pinky flesh, why wear it?? Are we that slavish to fashion? Discuss!!
UPDATE 13-4-05: fantasy_dreams701 you have a good point - when the f*ck are hipsters going to become unfashionable so people will stop buying them? Which celeb can we get to promote better-fitting trousers and make hipsters undesirable? If we want better fitting trousers the only choice is granny stuff from Debenhams or M&S, or in my case, repro 1940s trousers that cost me nearly £40. Hence learning to sew, then I can make my own and sod what the shops are selling!!!
During the falconry display another young girl "of significant girth" sat down in front of me, once again in hipsters. As she sat down I don't think she realised that the whole of her lower back, top of her arse, and a good percentage of her butt-crack were promptly displayed to the whole audience sitting behind her. Oh how I longed for my camera...
People openly go "yuk" when they see beer-bellied men rippling down the street, but I bet I will receive a few nasty comments from people because of my comments on fat girls in hipsters. Isn't it much the same thing though? Why is it taboo to comment on a girl's size, yet funny when we comment on men's sizes?
And why don't clothing manufacturers just NOT make hipsters above a size 14, that would solve the problem overnight!
"They can wear what they want" you cry - well yes, but when it's screamingly obvious that it's too small for you or a poor fit, or very unflattering, or reveals acres of podgy pinky flesh, why wear it?? Are we that slavish to fashion? Discuss!!
UPDATE 13-4-05: fantasy_dreams701 you have a good point - when the f*ck are hipsters going to become unfashionable so people will stop buying them? Which celeb can we get to promote better-fitting trousers and make hipsters undesirable? If we want better fitting trousers the only choice is granny stuff from Debenhams or M&S, or in my case, repro 1940s trousers that cost me nearly £40. Hence learning to sew, then I can make my own and sod what the shops are selling!!!
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Pay road tax and you can kill people!
Cycling home again last night and yet another female motorist with a car full of kids pulls out in front of me from a side street. Screech of brakes and torrent of vaguely abusive words towards said motorist (I'd been working late, was slightly stressed) and I carried on. She catches me up with her window wound down and screeches back "don't tell me what to do until you pay road tax". PARDON????
So let me see - you nearly knock me off my bike then tell me I'm in the wrong because I don't pay road tax? Fantastic! I'm sure that if I'd been lying in a heap on the road with a smashed bike and a smashed leg you would tell me the same thing? So paying road tax gives you the right to drive like a blind woman, nearly kill people, and STILL be in the right? I'll be going out tonight in my Volvo and picking a few off then....
So let me see - you nearly knock me off my bike then tell me I'm in the wrong because I don't pay road tax? Fantastic! I'm sure that if I'd been lying in a heap on the road with a smashed bike and a smashed leg you would tell me the same thing? So paying road tax gives you the right to drive like a blind woman, nearly kill people, and STILL be in the right? I'll be going out tonight in my Volvo and picking a few off then....
Monday, April 04, 2005
Poison gas?
Shock Jock Howard Stern got a new ruling from the lawyers this week: No long farts. Short farts are OK. Fart sounds made with the mouth (or, I assume, armpit) are apparently OK. But long farts from the fart factory are now feared to be illegal.
Yes, this is why mankind invented the law and broadcast technology: to argue about the the legal length of a fart.
There've been many final straws on Stern's back and he's lobbying to leave now whenever he can. He has also made clear that the minute the indecent indecency bill is signed into law, he'll do nothing but play records, for it's certainly not worth fines that could add into millions -- long after the alleged crimes -- for a medium he's leaving.
But this was the unkindest cut of all. Howard said he found farts funny at 5 and still finds them funny at 51. He makes no pretense of having a sophisticated sense of humor about this. They're just farts. Farts are funny. But now farts are illegal -- or lawyers think they could be, though no one will ever make it clear.
This is beyond silly, it's below stupid. Do we really need legislation about farts? Is it going to be tied in with the "War on Terror" that a fart could be construed as a noxious gas, produced to threaten the freedom of Americans (well, what's left of their "freedom"). Imagine the scene - you and your mate sitting in McDs enjoying a slice of corporate junk-food, when "Phhhhrrrrrrrt" *CRASH BANG* cue the arrival of anti-terror squads, "EVERYBODY DOWN NOW!!! YOU!! STEP AWAY FROM THE BIG MAC!! You're under arrest!!"
Yes, this is why mankind invented the law and broadcast technology: to argue about the the legal length of a fart.
There've been many final straws on Stern's back and he's lobbying to leave now whenever he can. He has also made clear that the minute the indecent indecency bill is signed into law, he'll do nothing but play records, for it's certainly not worth fines that could add into millions -- long after the alleged crimes -- for a medium he's leaving.
But this was the unkindest cut of all. Howard said he found farts funny at 5 and still finds them funny at 51. He makes no pretense of having a sophisticated sense of humor about this. They're just farts. Farts are funny. But now farts are illegal -- or lawyers think they could be, though no one will ever make it clear.
This is beyond silly, it's below stupid. Do we really need legislation about farts? Is it going to be tied in with the "War on Terror" that a fart could be construed as a noxious gas, produced to threaten the freedom of Americans (well, what's left of their "freedom"). Imagine the scene - you and your mate sitting in McDs enjoying a slice of corporate junk-food, when "Phhhhrrrrrrrt" *CRASH BANG* cue the arrival of anti-terror squads, "EVERYBODY DOWN NOW!!! YOU!! STEP AWAY FROM THE BIG MAC!! You're under arrest!!"
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Queueing
Along the main entrance corridor of Norwich Castle Mall there are two cash machines. Now this is a fairly wide corridor, flanked by shops, so it's very busy. WHY ON EARTH do people queue for these cash machines ACROSS the corridor?? Why not down the SIDE of the corridor, doesn't that make more sense?
Friday was another repeat performance. Half-term, a full mall, lunch hour, crowds of people, and a queue of cash machine TWATS stretching out ACROSS the corridor and blocking everyone off. Lots of "excuse me's" and people pushing through and woman in pushchairs barging past, and pissed off glances, and still nobody thought "I know, let's queue down the side, that will be so much easier!!!!" FFS It's common sense????!!!!!
I was dying to speak up and say "come on everybody why don't we all move?" but feared the "God she's nuts or drunk, ignore her" stares of the idiotic queue. After standing there being barged for 5 minutes while two teenage girls pissed around at the front of the queue, I gave up.
Friday was another repeat performance. Half-term, a full mall, lunch hour, crowds of people, and a queue of cash machine TWATS stretching out ACROSS the corridor and blocking everyone off. Lots of "excuse me's" and people pushing through and woman in pushchairs barging past, and pissed off glances, and still nobody thought "I know, let's queue down the side, that will be so much easier!!!!" FFS It's common sense????!!!!!
I was dying to speak up and say "come on everybody why don't we all move?" but feared the "God she's nuts or drunk, ignore her" stares of the idiotic queue. After standing there being barged for 5 minutes while two teenage girls pissed around at the front of the queue, I gave up.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Phenylalanine Part II
I had to reproduce this comment from a_Pashion81 on my blog about Phenylalanine:
"Any thoughts on all this food been taken off the shelves at the moment cos of the said Sudan cancer scare.. I think its bloody histerical...well for god sake...the cigarrette counters are still stacked and its proven without no shadow of doubt that smoking causes cancer! The Government obviously gets a fatter tax profit! I offered a friend of mine a pot noodle and she said "oh nooooo i can't eat that, its got that cancer stuff in it" as she lit up a ciggy!...and yes I can say she IS blonde lol"
Despite official sources saying "Sudan dyes (Sudan I, II, III and IV) are not appropriate as a food additives for humans despite the extremely low risk." and "The risk, if any, for anyone who has consumed food made with this chilli powder as an ingredient is so small as to be immeasurable, and consumers are advised not to be concerned.", the media's treatment of the Sudan scare and the Public's subsequent reaction have been OTT as usual (not that i'm too fussed, anything that stops you all eating chemical shit is fine by me). People recoil in horror when offered their usual boil-in-the-bag Spag Bol, then sit back and light up their cigarettes, safe in the knowledge that they won't get cancer cos they're avoiding Sudan 1.
FOR F*CKS SAKE
If Sudan 1 was a taxable food additive I'd bet that it'd still be out there. How can the Government continue this enormous blind eye, driven by nothing but pure greed? Why haven't the Cancer Research people demanded that ciggies are banned? If Sudan 1 caused deaths to the same level as smoking does, there'd be a massive terror alert and TOTAL BAN - for ever.
Why don't we just do the same as ciggies and put labels on the Birds Eye Lasagne saying "This will harm your baby", "This will give you cancer", or "This will kill you" - people would not TOUCH it would they! Yet people who are enslaved by their nicotine cravings ignore labels like this every day when they buy their Bensons. Then if they live in America, the SUE THE CIG COMPANIES for giving them cancer!
I guess banning ciggies would be a near impossible task now, there would be mass anarchy from the Addicted, and the black market would explode and be impossible and very expensive to police. The only thing that can stop the cig companies profits AND dent the purse of the Government is US and OUR WILLPOWER to quit. Only trouble is then, any money you save from not smoking would be eaten up from other taxes the Govt would impose to make up for the lack of ciggie taxes! We're trapped and it's so f*cking frustrating.
The only winners are the Ciggie companies, the Govt and the Pharm companies, who sit back and rake in the profits from their cancer drugs, knowing they have got a captive market.
Click here for an interesting article "Cancer industry promotes misleading warning on supplements in order to protect cancer treatment profits".
PS I am a non-smoker but my grandfather died a coughing, wheezing, hacking mess thanks to his love for roll-ups.
"Any thoughts on all this food been taken off the shelves at the moment cos of the said Sudan cancer scare.. I think its bloody histerical...well for god sake...the cigarrette counters are still stacked and its proven without no shadow of doubt that smoking causes cancer! The Government obviously gets a fatter tax profit! I offered a friend of mine a pot noodle and she said "oh nooooo i can't eat that, its got that cancer stuff in it" as she lit up a ciggy!...and yes I can say she IS blonde lol"
Despite official sources saying "Sudan dyes (Sudan I, II, III and IV) are not appropriate as a food additives for humans despite the extremely low risk." and "The risk, if any, for anyone who has consumed food made with this chilli powder as an ingredient is so small as to be immeasurable, and consumers are advised not to be concerned.", the media's treatment of the Sudan scare and the Public's subsequent reaction have been OTT as usual (not that i'm too fussed, anything that stops you all eating chemical shit is fine by me). People recoil in horror when offered their usual boil-in-the-bag Spag Bol, then sit back and light up their cigarettes, safe in the knowledge that they won't get cancer cos they're avoiding Sudan 1.
FOR F*CKS SAKE
If Sudan 1 was a taxable food additive I'd bet that it'd still be out there. How can the Government continue this enormous blind eye, driven by nothing but pure greed? Why haven't the Cancer Research people demanded that ciggies are banned? If Sudan 1 caused deaths to the same level as smoking does, there'd be a massive terror alert and TOTAL BAN - for ever.
Why don't we just do the same as ciggies and put labels on the Birds Eye Lasagne saying "This will harm your baby", "This will give you cancer", or "This will kill you" - people would not TOUCH it would they! Yet people who are enslaved by their nicotine cravings ignore labels like this every day when they buy their Bensons. Then if they live in America, the SUE THE CIG COMPANIES for giving them cancer!
I guess banning ciggies would be a near impossible task now, there would be mass anarchy from the Addicted, and the black market would explode and be impossible and very expensive to police. The only thing that can stop the cig companies profits AND dent the purse of the Government is US and OUR WILLPOWER to quit. Only trouble is then, any money you save from not smoking would be eaten up from other taxes the Govt would impose to make up for the lack of ciggie taxes! We're trapped and it's so f*cking frustrating.
The only winners are the Ciggie companies, the Govt and the Pharm companies, who sit back and rake in the profits from their cancer drugs, knowing they have got a captive market.
Click here for an interesting article "Cancer industry promotes misleading warning on supplements in order to protect cancer treatment profits".
PS I am a non-smoker but my grandfather died a coughing, wheezing, hacking mess thanks to his love for roll-ups.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Aaargh put it away...
Today was the first mildly warm day of the year, and walking through Norwich on my lunch hour I observed the typical Brit reaction to this weather. KIT OFF!!!!!
Suddenly everyone had the urge to strip. It wasn't quite t-shirt weather but what the hell! The sun's out! Kit off!! Acres of pale pinky corned-beef flesh was revealed as girls who have yet to visit a gym donned cropped tops and short skirts, and let it all hang out - literally. Quiet word girls...midriff-baring tops are a privilege, not a right! I don't get it - if I looked in the mirror and saw that my flobby belly was hanging out over my belt, I'd totally not leave the house! Are they blind? Do they think it's attractive? (PS I don't have a flobby belly...) One girl was spotted in flip-flops, the lads donned their Oakleys and wore their sleeveless t-shirts, and pub beer-gardens were dotted with people sitting outside and rubbing their goosebumps. I suspected there was already a rush on to find a beach and lie on it.
I felt quite silly because I was still wearing my duffle coat! Pace yourself guys, summer won't be with us until July at the latest......I guess that here in the UK we are all so desperate for a bit of cheerful sunshine that the first sign of it and we go a bit bananas. I wonder how we Brits would cope if the tropics suddenly reversed and the UK became as hot as Australia. So much sun, so much heat! Aaargh! Kit off every day! Can't cope! Must lie on the beach and crisp myself in the first day!
Suddenly everyone had the urge to strip. It wasn't quite t-shirt weather but what the hell! The sun's out! Kit off!! Acres of pale pinky corned-beef flesh was revealed as girls who have yet to visit a gym donned cropped tops and short skirts, and let it all hang out - literally. Quiet word girls...midriff-baring tops are a privilege, not a right! I don't get it - if I looked in the mirror and saw that my flobby belly was hanging out over my belt, I'd totally not leave the house! Are they blind? Do they think it's attractive? (PS I don't have a flobby belly...) One girl was spotted in flip-flops, the lads donned their Oakleys and wore their sleeveless t-shirts, and pub beer-gardens were dotted with people sitting outside and rubbing their goosebumps. I suspected there was already a rush on to find a beach and lie on it.
I felt quite silly because I was still wearing my duffle coat! Pace yourself guys, summer won't be with us until July at the latest......I guess that here in the UK we are all so desperate for a bit of cheerful sunshine that the first sign of it and we go a bit bananas. I wonder how we Brits would cope if the tropics suddenly reversed and the UK became as hot as Australia. So much sun, so much heat! Aaargh! Kit off every day! Can't cope! Must lie on the beach and crisp myself in the first day!
Bus Behaviour
Ever noticed that when you are on a bus and all the seeats fill up, that anyone else who then gets on, will stand right at the front of the bus near the luggage holders? And the next, and the next, and the next, until the entire front quarter of the bus is crammed full of people.....meanwhile the whole aisle of the bus right to the back is free and empty with plenty of room for standing.
WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS?
I used to bus to work every day and marvelled at this strange phenomenon of human behaviour. As they'd get on the bus they'd look very briefly down the aisles to see if there were any seats, and sometimes even if there WERE a few free, they'd still crowd right at the front. Then whenever somebody else wanted to get off, they'd have to negotiate this dense ball of humans all struggling to hang onto the luggage rack - bloody nightmare when you had a big bag with you as I invariably did (cue lots of tuts as I dragged my bag past them, injuring them in the process). It's also not good for the old people as they aren't as strong at pushing past!!
If the bus was crowded when I got on I'd push past them all at the front and walk right to the back and stand there - but still none of them copied me. Are they that scared of maybe a few people staring at them as they walked the length of the bus??
The bus driver doesn't help by never insisting that they "step to the rear" or move down. One time he DID do this, and the idiots shuffled down a few feet and then stayed grouped together. Were they on a group-pheromone trip and didn't want to leave eachother's scent??? I wanted to scream at them "FOR F*CKS SAKE ARE YOU STUPID, LOOK HOW MUCH SPACE THERE IS!!!!!"
I vote for electrically-charged luggage racks, so that if anyone stands next to them the bus driver can zap them until they move.
WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS?
I used to bus to work every day and marvelled at this strange phenomenon of human behaviour. As they'd get on the bus they'd look very briefly down the aisles to see if there were any seats, and sometimes even if there WERE a few free, they'd still crowd right at the front. Then whenever somebody else wanted to get off, they'd have to negotiate this dense ball of humans all struggling to hang onto the luggage rack - bloody nightmare when you had a big bag with you as I invariably did (cue lots of tuts as I dragged my bag past them, injuring them in the process). It's also not good for the old people as they aren't as strong at pushing past!!
If the bus was crowded when I got on I'd push past them all at the front and walk right to the back and stand there - but still none of them copied me. Are they that scared of maybe a few people staring at them as they walked the length of the bus??
The bus driver doesn't help by never insisting that they "step to the rear" or move down. One time he DID do this, and the idiots shuffled down a few feet and then stayed grouped together. Were they on a group-pheromone trip and didn't want to leave eachother's scent??? I wanted to scream at them "FOR F*CKS SAKE ARE YOU STUPID, LOOK HOW MUCH SPACE THERE IS!!!!!"
I vote for electrically-charged luggage racks, so that if anyone stands next to them the bus driver can zap them until they move.
Monday, March 07, 2005
"Phenylalanine for tea please dear"
If I put the following chemicals in front of you, in liquid or powdered form - and asked you to eat them, I fear you would tell me to feck off:
Acidity regulator (Sodium Diacetate), colour (Paprika extract), sweetener (aspartame), Lactose, glucose syrup, sugar, drier whey, malt extract, raising agents (Ammonium bicarbonate, sodium bicarbonate), flavour enhancer (monosodium glutamate), lactic acid, pepper extracts, contains a source of phenylalanine.
These are from the ingredients list of "Cheesy Beans" flavour Mini-Cheddars. They taste BLOODY FANTASTIC but LOOK HOW CHEMICAL THEY ARE.
Are our bodies made to process such chemicals? What sort of strain does this put on our liver? Did you know that the average human body today contains 500 more chemicals than our relations of 50 years ago? The advances in toiletries and processed foods have caused this. Have we adapted to deal with them?
But what's more worrying is the presence of two ingredients - aspartame and phenylalanine. Phenylalanine is a hidden danger to anyone consuming aspartame. Most consumers don't know that too much Phenylalanine is a neurotoxin and excites the neurons in the brain to the point of cellular death.
The 1976 Groliers encyclopedia states cancer cannot live without phenylalanine. Phenylalanine makes up 50% of aspartame.
But it's also one of the essential amino acids found in proteins, and is found naturally in foods such as eggs, milk, bananas, and meat. I'm confused now - is it OK to eat or not? This website HERE says that we should avoid anything with isolated amino acids, and eat them in combination.
Are Mini-Cheddars potentially lethal then? Are a lot of these chemically-pumped foods? And if so, why are they still being sold? Think about how many chemicals you consume in one day - I dare you to keep a chemical diary of all the foods you eat, it will probably scare the crap out of you! Next time you go to Asda, read the label before putting it in your trolley.....
Our bodies don't need this crap - yes, Cheesy Bean mini-cheddars taste fab but it's not worth it!
Acidity regulator (Sodium Diacetate), colour (Paprika extract), sweetener (aspartame), Lactose, glucose syrup, sugar, drier whey, malt extract, raising agents (Ammonium bicarbonate, sodium bicarbonate), flavour enhancer (monosodium glutamate), lactic acid, pepper extracts, contains a source of phenylalanine.
These are from the ingredients list of "Cheesy Beans" flavour Mini-Cheddars. They taste BLOODY FANTASTIC but LOOK HOW CHEMICAL THEY ARE.
Are our bodies made to process such chemicals? What sort of strain does this put on our liver? Did you know that the average human body today contains 500 more chemicals than our relations of 50 years ago? The advances in toiletries and processed foods have caused this. Have we adapted to deal with them?
But what's more worrying is the presence of two ingredients - aspartame and phenylalanine. Phenylalanine is a hidden danger to anyone consuming aspartame. Most consumers don't know that too much Phenylalanine is a neurotoxin and excites the neurons in the brain to the point of cellular death.
The 1976 Groliers encyclopedia states cancer cannot live without phenylalanine. Phenylalanine makes up 50% of aspartame.
But it's also one of the essential amino acids found in proteins, and is found naturally in foods such as eggs, milk, bananas, and meat. I'm confused now - is it OK to eat or not? This website HERE says that we should avoid anything with isolated amino acids, and eat them in combination.
Are Mini-Cheddars potentially lethal then? Are a lot of these chemically-pumped foods? And if so, why are they still being sold? Think about how many chemicals you consume in one day - I dare you to keep a chemical diary of all the foods you eat, it will probably scare the crap out of you! Next time you go to Asda, read the label before putting it in your trolley.....
Our bodies don't need this crap - yes, Cheesy Bean mini-cheddars taste fab but it's not worth it!
Monday, February 21, 2005
Cat rescuer gets £80 ticket
COLD-hearted traffic wardens slapped an £80 ticket on a car — after the driver stopped for a cat she had run over.
Mum Carla Barroso, 40, was overcome with guilt when the moggy dashed under her wheels. She pulled partly on to the pavement and spent five minutes searching bushes for the creature. Two wardens swooped as she returned to her car cradling the badly-injured cat in her arms in Ruislip, Middlesex. Carla, who is to appeal, said: “They gave me a ticket for parking with my wheels on the pavement. “I explained to them about the cat and they had to have seen the whole thing happen. “I wasn’t obstructing the road. It’s ridiculous.”
A spokesman for Hillingdon Council said: “Parking attendants are instructed to issue parking tickets where they see vehicles with one or more wheels on the pavement or a verge, unless exemptions apply.” The cat was last night fighting for life at a vets.
======================
UNLESS EXEMPTIONS APPLY - so a half-squashed cat isn't a good enough exemption?? B*stards! I hope her appeal is successful!
Mum Carla Barroso, 40, was overcome with guilt when the moggy dashed under her wheels. She pulled partly on to the pavement and spent five minutes searching bushes for the creature. Two wardens swooped as she returned to her car cradling the badly-injured cat in her arms in Ruislip, Middlesex. Carla, who is to appeal, said: “They gave me a ticket for parking with my wheels on the pavement. “I explained to them about the cat and they had to have seen the whole thing happen. “I wasn’t obstructing the road. It’s ridiculous.”
A spokesman for Hillingdon Council said: “Parking attendants are instructed to issue parking tickets where they see vehicles with one or more wheels on the pavement or a verge, unless exemptions apply.” The cat was last night fighting for life at a vets.
======================
UNLESS EXEMPTIONS APPLY - so a half-squashed cat isn't a good enough exemption?? B*stards! I hope her appeal is successful!
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Blondes vs Brunettes - hey what about Redheads?
I came across a very weighty blog today that was discussing who was cleverest - blondes or brunettes. Not even a MENTION of redheads, as far as she's concerned we don't exist (maybe she just couldn't SPELL it).
Here is her argument - prepare yourselves, it's highly technical:
"y does evry1 fink brunettes r cleverer den blondes??? im blonde, + im 1 of d cleverest in my group (not boastin) but i am, + outta d 5 or us im 1 of d 2 blondes, + d blondes r d cleverest!!!! (go blonde!!!) i mean sum of d worlds leadin women r blonde!! so y du brunettes hav dis reputation as being cleva??? my m8 (d ova blonde) is dyin her hair brunette but shes got lovely hair!!!! so why d brainy brunette rep??????????? blondes r ment 2 av more fun + brunettes r ment 2 b brainy, but relly us blondes r jzt as brainy as n.e1 else!! sum1?????? plz explain??? BLONDES RULE!!!!!"
I am very intrigued, and I'd like a teen who types like this to please leave a comment and tell me whether you actually write your schoolwork like this, or whether you just use this slang to type faster - like a kind of teen shorthand. It should be made a rule in schools that if you hand in your homework written like this, you are sent back to sit in a class with a bunch of 5 year olds who are all learning how to write their names.
Surely this person must have been taught to write and spell properly in her early years....did the advent of youngsters having mobile phones undo all that good work? Even with predictive text, that helps you spell everything properly, they use this horrid style of grammar. Does this mean that when she spawns kids (many, I'm guessing), will she be teaching THEM to write like this? Are schools going to go the easy route and allow this form of shorthand to be become legal? How the hell can this tide of abuse against the english language be stopped?
On her blog she seems to to enjoy and promote books, and even has a book list, which is great (apart from Animal Farm which she describes as "a horribl buk") - could she have a proper grasp of english and is just typing slang to be like her mates?? Or are these a new generation of books that are written in txt spk? Aargh, someone out there will do this one day, just to make money.......actually that's a point........*composes email to publishing house*.
PS I'm not leaving the Blog URL cos someone will probably go tell her what I've written and she'll come on here quoting Nietzsche and totally humiliating me.
Here is her argument - prepare yourselves, it's highly technical:
"y does evry1 fink brunettes r cleverer den blondes??? im blonde, + im 1 of d cleverest in my group (not boastin) but i am, + outta d 5 or us im 1 of d 2 blondes, + d blondes r d cleverest!!!! (go blonde!!!) i mean sum of d worlds leadin women r blonde!! so y du brunettes hav dis reputation as being cleva??? my m8 (d ova blonde) is dyin her hair brunette but shes got lovely hair!!!! so why d brainy brunette rep??????????? blondes r ment 2 av more fun + brunettes r ment 2 b brainy, but relly us blondes r jzt as brainy as n.e1 else!! sum1?????? plz explain??? BLONDES RULE!!!!!"
I am very intrigued, and I'd like a teen who types like this to please leave a comment and tell me whether you actually write your schoolwork like this, or whether you just use this slang to type faster - like a kind of teen shorthand. It should be made a rule in schools that if you hand in your homework written like this, you are sent back to sit in a class with a bunch of 5 year olds who are all learning how to write their names.
Surely this person must have been taught to write and spell properly in her early years....did the advent of youngsters having mobile phones undo all that good work? Even with predictive text, that helps you spell everything properly, they use this horrid style of grammar. Does this mean that when she spawns kids (many, I'm guessing), will she be teaching THEM to write like this? Are schools going to go the easy route and allow this form of shorthand to be become legal? How the hell can this tide of abuse against the english language be stopped?
On her blog she seems to to enjoy and promote books, and even has a book list, which is great (apart from Animal Farm which she describes as "a horribl buk") - could she have a proper grasp of english and is just typing slang to be like her mates?? Or are these a new generation of books that are written in txt spk? Aargh, someone out there will do this one day, just to make money.......actually that's a point........*composes email to publishing house*.
PS I'm not leaving the Blog URL cos someone will probably go tell her what I've written and she'll come on here quoting Nietzsche and totally humiliating me.
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