Thou Shalt Not date anyone that frequents my gym

“Well, what do you reckon to him then?”
“He’s a total ‘Monet’ Mate”
“A what?”
“A Monet; From far away he’s lovely to look at but up close it’s different story, my word hes dumb”
“I’m not asking him to write me bloody poetry”


But thats exactly what I’m asking, well in a round about way I am.


Because just like the girls that fill your Tumblr, and me full of envy, with their seemingly endless legs and flawless skin, I would still find myself bathing in the harsh light of the ever sobering morning after with someone who doesn’t know his Tom Ford from his enviable cheekbones or his Helvetica from his perfectly defined triceps and despite my newly found and seemingly detrimental addiction to Geordie Shore I refuse to wake up next to someone who for all intents and purposes could not split the Sunday Paper and its subsequent supplements with me over tea and toast.

Call me picky if you must but pseudo intellectual pillow talk just will not do and there really is no substitution for sharing the style section.

Thou Shalt Not Emulate the greats

The B-Sides

It would be unwise to assume we are the only ones in this game of cat and mouse;

A game so riddled with dogs that it only appears to exists somewhere between a joke and reality.

We both understand that you’ll figure me out eventually;
regardless of the influx of field mice.

After all nothing says trust fund punk,
like French pastries and the smell of skinny hazelnut lattes still clinging to my hair.

The bands come and go and the predator prey tension becomes more palpable,
I wonder if you actually own a player for your newly acquired vinyl.

My Vans and refusal to participate are giving me bloody heels; The glass in this slipper digs deeper and it starts to feel like I’m fucking with fire.

So I let it run just to see what I’ll get,
you spill your drink on your shoes and it becomes apparent;

history just reshits itself.

I can hear the dogs and it’s just like before;
It’s no secret that I never did have a head for figures.
I have all this stuff lying around, from previous projects,
I’m trying to hide it but it’s giving me a headache.

A thousand words and a multitude of leftovers mapped out like a constellation; concealed beneath the uniform denim,

you sense my unease as I attempt to signal that I’m not his girl.

Maybe I’ll take that Paracetamol after all.

Thou Shalt Not Question their beliefs

"You're Not Punk and Im Telling Everyone"

Testosterone finances the décor; the anticipation palpable,
Bodies begin to line the walls as gender roles are heightened,
Fighting Feminism; Strongbow in hand.

Await no special treatment here; a sign of weakness within the ranks,
The layout reconsidered as Natural Selection accelerates,
Time to elect; Fight or Flight.

A hundred and eighty square feet; Chivalry abandoned to accommodate Ego,
Anarchical traditions upheld between sets,
Nothing ventured; Nothing gained

Equality clad in uniform denim; laden with intentionally obtuse statements,
Sewn at the hands of bewildered`Mothers,
Abandon the expectations; Facilitate the stereotype

Dreadlocks illuminated by the hue of paradoxical I-phones;
Crass set to screensaver
Privileged upbringings concealed beneath layers of ink,
Celebration of new wounds; Closely guarded upon their return.

Tales of squats recounted in Suburban homes;
The parody flourishes, Anecdotes exchanged between courses,
Punks not dead; Resurrected by the middle classes

The Daily Mail held in literacy esteem; Curtains twitching never questioned,
The perfect canvas for their duvet lead activism
Secret identities adopted; Rejection spurred by parental discontent.

Thou Shalt Not Strive to be the witty one

“Best equip to observe and record”

Words of uncertain origin clumsily traced upon skin,
On tip toes clad in pale silk,

Beyond the protective boundaries,
Security dwindles and is overcome,
forced to move South,

Fifteen thousand feet,
climbing

The dream begun to grow cold,
confined within the medieval walls, governed by the elected,
The words of past lovers recently disregarded,
accelerated by the collapse of the Roman rule,

Cobbles underfoot, uncomfortable to the soul,
dense with a notion of the undercounted

Eighteen thousand feet,
climbing still,

The earliest attempted explanation, A place to hide in a time of hostility,
Abandoned, designated for regeneration,

Significant territorial expansion quells the doubt,
A certain fate hung for petty theft,

The role of the trendsetter revived;
Flourishing under its own unique administration,

Twenty six thousand feet and cruising.

Thou Shalt Not Forget to tune in

Dear ITV,


I am writing to you today to congratulate you on your current choice of programming; A selection of shows so incredibly dumbed down that I can actually feel my IQ soaring upon merely tuning it.

Forget therapy, a moral compass or quality education this is 'Life Affirming Television' for the masses.

Take “Take Me Out” for example, the new dating show in which you have cleverly managed to blend Blind Date with a generous helping of St Tropez and a healthy dose of humiliation.

An instant fix of self-esteem for singletons across the country, though a promotional avenue I feel as a concerned consumer, you’re missing a trick in not currently utilising.
In fact I’d go as far as to suggest that your description in the TV Times should in future simply read;

“That could be you up there, clapping along to what you would have yourself believe is the R&B music when in fact you know deep down it’s actually your ticking biological clock. It could be, but it’s not, celebrate by tuning into ITV this Saturday at 9pm”

Though I don’t suppose you’ve had chance to catch any of this series yet have you?
Not with the prospective contestant hunting you’ve had to do; after all those rocks wont overturn themselves will they.

For those of you unfortunately unfamiliar, Take Me Out comprises of Thirty Single, Desolate and ill advised blue eye shadow toting women dolled up in River Islands finest, standing behind a row of podiums each equip with an all important light.

A Performing Monkey, Potential Suitor, then arrives in the "Love Lift" to a specific, and often hilariously unwisely selected piece of music before he performs his "talents" for the line of women in incorrectly sized dresses.

One bloke actually balanced a ball on his head like a seal last week,
I shit thee not, on National television.


As these testosterone riddled halfwits perform the women signal then their interest by either keeping the light on their podium on or turning it off, thus explaining the basis of the shows catchphrase "No Likey, No Lighty"

Inspiring stuff I think you’ll agree.

All of this is then followed by the increasingly Northern host Patrick McGuinness, essentially Cilla Black with an even more unbearable accent, interviewing the women on their decision to want, or not in most cases, to sleep with the dancing fool in front of them.

In conclusion which ever aspiring WAG has her light on at the end of the final round the monkey gets to go out with, lucky him, at which point we get to look forward to watching their date, aired the following week, in which both parties awkwardly discover they have absolutely nothing in common, live at opposite ends of the country and slowly realise the likely hood of dating someone who you attracted by balancing a ball on your head and strutting around to Akon in front of a mocking nation was not going to form the basis of a serious relationship.

ITV I applaud you this is truly the work of geniuses.

Thou Shalt Not Forget to look twice

Dear Unilever,

I hate to be the bearer of bad news to teenaged boys the country over, I do, but I feel it’s my duty to dispel the latest Lynx advert myth that you have created before we see a repeat of the 2007 Lynx Lift Ad fallout, whereby women across the nation were expected to dole out sexual favors in lifts upon the mere whiff of what smells to any woman over the age of 18 like High School locker rooms, Embarrassing teenage sexual experimentation and Desperate adolescent boys.

The very same women that this time round you would have the Nation believe carry out the mind numbing task that is the weekly shop clad only in our best draws; Despite the fact that our desire to display our undies to everyone else in Sainsbury’s is particularly unaffected by the halfwit peacocking up and down the aisles toting a newly acquired, and frankly pointless, ‘Borrowers’-esque size can of Lynx.

I understand the notion of “suspension of belief” I do and I can even almost forgive you for the semi naked weekly shop drivel but trying to have me believe that The Saturdays’ fragrance of choice is Impulse is frankly beyond any suspension I can muster.

Come now; is it not common knowledge that The Saturdays all use “Au Du Boyband Boyfriend” anyway?
The starlet fragrance of choice made using only the perfumed tears of heartbroken female JLS and McFly fans the country over.

And even if, heaven forbid, they ran dry of that but there is always; “Eau de Auto Tune” and “Eau de Distinct Lack of Talent" their new signature perfume created using only their deep seated fears of being ousted as the talentless mannequins they really are” to douse themselves with before I imagine they would turn to the puzzling and frankly nauseating medley of smells that is Impulse.

As baffling as their agents decision to accept your endorsement proposal was, akin only in fact to the inexplicable situation which saw Kerry Katona genuinely believe she had a career to attempt to revive, is the even more bewildering classification of said offending spray. As you freely admit it’s not a deodorant, anyone with a sense of smell would be able to say with a degree of certainty that it’s not a perfume and despite "Frankie’s" trusty recommendation it’s still pretty much guaranteed to make you smell like a puberty and pocket money. What then, in the name of all things Smash Hits, is this canned hogwash?\

A concern that I had to temporarily shelve recently in favour of a more pressing matter; that of the troubling nightclub toilet situation that appears to have arisen recently.
A situation that I am convinced is thanks in part to your campaign of soft focus half-truths and trendy haircuts.

A state of affairs that sees the very same women who are expected to nip to the shop for something as humdrum as a pint of milk in their Agent Provocateur’s now also having to face dodging various hysterical or excessively inebriated women clad in New Looks finest, two sizes too small, lining the mirrors of their local watering hole spraying every inch of their mahogany stained selves with Frankie’s “favourite” body spray.

A situation, coupled with one too many multi coloured shots, that lead to the manifestation of my despair in a protest along the following lines last Friday evening:

"Excuse me Love,


Could you do me a favour and spray that Ozone destroying canned cat piss away from me please?
Its just that I'm actually wearing perfume, you know the kind that doesn't come in a can, and I would much rather smell of that when I leave these god forsaken premises than something even my 11 year old self thought was rancid,

Cheers"


Thus I am writing today to request that you consider including a heath and safety warning in any such future advertising campaigns as me and my shiny new black eye and are looking at you, no pun intended, for the aforementioned chain of events.



P.S Whilst were on the subject of baffling celebrity endorsements;

JLS Condoms

I’m confused, is the packaging of condoms alone now contraception enough?

Thou Shalt Not be a guiding influence

It’s that time of the evening again; as the clock slowly begins to tick towards the small hours and your blood alcohol levels quickly begin to dissolve any ability you may have once possessed to form a coherent sentence people begin to drift towards the sanctity of the kitchen, away from the thudding of the bass, to where the party games really begin.

Sadly the simpler days of “Pin the tail on the Donkey” and “Musical Statues” have long since been forgotten, along with complimentary party hats and mountains of pastry based goods, in favour of slightly more risqué versions of the classics we once knew to be “Musical Chairs” and “Pass the Parcel”

As well as the old favourites new additions such as “Morality and Self Respect” played in very much the same style as “Hide and Seek” are thrown in for good measure but no student house party is complete without the very game guaranteed to strike fear into pseudo intellects the room over;

Topical Russian Roulette.

Which weighty topic will leave you teetering on the brink of social suicide this evening?

Will it be;

Religion and the battle of the imaginary or not so imaginary deities?

Art and the associated movements which still continue to elude you three years of art history lectures later?

Or

Music and the “genre defying” bands you have never heard of and definitely couldn’t spell?

Odds are you’ll be subject to endure at least two of the three before the bottle of cider you’re cradling like the child society expects you to have produced by your age runs dry and it’s probably a smart idea, unless you plan on becoming a hermit through choice, to have uttered at least one cohesive sentence during that time.


But never fear for help is at hand; simply make your excuses, brave the Alton Towers esq bathroom queue and dig out this handy little guide; Your fairy godmother of pretentious banter if you will.

We’ll have you quoting Kerouac and discussing Duchamp with conviction before you turn into a proverbial pumpkin.


This week: RELIGION

Avoid at all costs,

No more good comes from drunkenly discussing the mystery that is the creation of the universe than discussing why Kerry Katona thought she had a career to attempt to revive in the first place.

A mind field if ever there was one.

Religion is thankfully a subject that the vast majority of party goers leave well alone but should the time come, and trust me alas come it shall, when you’ve become cornered between the proverbial rock and the hard place, or in your case the fridge and the halfwit who seems to be single handily attempting to revive the teenage Goth boom of the nineties, and who subsequently gathers most of their religious beliefs from the Living TV favourite “Charmed” then it’s probably best you know your Pagans from your Protestants in order to be rid quicker than you can reference Richard Dawkins.

Rather than spending precious Gillmore Girls rerun viewing time researching such nonsense may I suggest a hasty viewing of the 1996 film “The Craft” staring Queen of the nineties Goths Fairuza Balk. This invaluable 101 minutes of nineties cinema at its best should provide you with everything you ever need know to suitability engage your new pentagram toting chum just long enough for you to make a hasty dash for the door.

Failing that you could always distract them with a shiny semi precious stone or a coloured candle, if Charmed taught me anything it’s that they can’t get enough of that sort of shit.

Faux Goths aside all religions are essentially the same, encompassing blind faith in a being (or indeed beings) of higher spiritual standing than us mere morals and a sometimes dubious confidence in a collection of teachings that admittedly were probably produced with all the best intentions.

Despite this there are like anything various degrees of belief within each religion, a concept that seems most suitably simplified through the medium of hair metal.

Cast your minds back to the well published falling out of the notorious hair metallers Axl Rose and Slash.

As the line up of Guns and Roses changes yet again and Slash with his frankly astonishing head of hair exits stage left you now find yourself left with various chapters in the Church of Guns and Roses.

Firstly you have the original fans worshipping at the alter of the hay days whist polishing their aviator sunglasses and backcombing their hair like its 1987, often referred to as the “Fundamentalists” due to their unwavering faith in “Appetite for destruction” despite the fact that it is regarded by many non fans, more commonly know as atheists, as being actually a bit shit.

Then you’ve got the congregation of Slash air guitaring around the room like a Dad at a wedding and taking a much more level headed approach to proceedings, usually only visiting the place of worship on the major holy days to appease their conscious and avoid being smited down on their way home from the pub next week.

and lastly there are the disciples of Rose punching photographers in airports across the globe and inciting hatred from other bands and atheists alike with various half truths, more widely regarded as “the extremists” and generally missing the point entirely.



So there you have it, all three singing from fairly different hymn sheets but to essentially the same tune of “Welcome to the jungle”

Simple, no?

Either way I wouldn’t worry yourself about it, you’re going to wake tomorrow, red eyed and laced with regret from the evening before and no God could ever make the effect of three litres of own brand cider any less bearable, regardless of who you believe made the bird or the bees.

Thou Shalt Not Forget where you left your dancing shoes

“So what are you ladies up to tonight then?”

"Mate I don't mean to be rude but were buying Crumpets and a four pack of Fosters,
We’re hardly having a fucking rave are we."

Thou Shalt Not Tear and share

The last social interaction I had consisted largely of some old bloke at work telling me he had found God in his packet of Salt and Vinegar crisps.

If my life gets anymore exciting, I may self combust

Thou Shalt Not question the post drinking food of champions

"I don't even mind that I'm going home alone tonight, at least that way I get to have a fish finger sandwich when I get in rather than an awkward fumble with a virtual stranger"

Thou Shalt Not Consider nineties cinema to be non fiction

If I have learnt anything during my stint at University so far three things are for certain:

Firstly; Lectures that commence before 11am are automatically non compulsory, Secondly; There seems to be a worrying number of people who appear to have confused the arcane combination of sweatpants and flip flops with good taste and Thirdly; If someone asks you over with the premise of “Watching a film” after 10pm it goes without saying that the DVD you were initially promised will never actually make it out of the case.

With these essential findings shared and your minds firmly boggled from trying to decipher why anyone would wear sweatpants with flip flops I feel I should let my rant commence; For it isn’t the inconveniently timed lectures or the halfwits in inappropriate footwear that are driving me to distraction this week, instead it is the sheer amount of films I have been conned out of.

Is the notion of romance so dead and the art of seduction so forgotten that men are honestly enlisting the likes of Bill Murray and Wes Anderson to help get us into their bedrooms or have my expectations of romance been seriously corrupted by the Rom Com boom of the nineties?

If the latter is the case, and a quick survey of my house mates revel that may very well be true then I am in little doubt that I am not alone in blaming Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks for my unrealistic expectations of men, a second survey of said house mates also confirms these suspicions as well as the suspicions that conducting a third survey during “Hollyoaks” would probably result in the silent treatment.

So if this is really the case and there really are a generation of women out there who are as delusional as I then shouldn’t films such as “Notting Hill” “10 Things I Hate About You” and “When Harry met Sally” or indeed just Hugh Grant himself come with a health warning?

Forget smoking, I firmly believe a DVD collection as optimistic as mine is more detrimental to my health than twenty a day ever could be.

However all this considered we really should have seen this coming; after years spent enduring the renowned Primary School playground wooing technique that was “The Dead Arm” it’s hardly surprising that Romance never made it past Year Six, the very year that the Highschool tradition of “the sleepover” introduced me to the men that would eventually ruin my dating career before it had even stared; Freddie prince Jr, Heath and Tom.

Because I’m fairly certain we never saw Joseph Fiennes giving Gwyneth Paltrow a dead arm in “Shakespeare in Love” and if I remember correctly Tom Hanks never emailed Meg Ryans at 3am in “You’ve Got Mail” under the pretence that you would at least get to watch Bill Murray in his quest for a leopard shark, so at what point did it seem a good idea not forewarn cinema going thirteen year old girls to prepare to have bruised arms and egos for the forcible future rather than a perm and the ability to produce effortlessly witty pillow talk on a whim?


Put down the boxsets and lower your standards accordingly ladies.

Thou Shalt Not Date musicians

"As I was leaving he offered me a T-shirt"

"Oh thats sweet, like to walk home in?"

"No, a band tshirt, from his own band. I declined, obviously, mainly because it felt a little bit like memorabilia"

Thou Shalt Not Forget to tip the Postman this Christmas

"It becomes time to question your own morals when in order to establish the name of last nights sexual partner you have to check their post on your way out the next morning"

Thou Shalt Not Question our morals over a cider and black

"Can you hurry up and finish your pint please?"

"What? We've only just got here"

"Yes I realise that but on the short and yet excruciating walk from the bar to our table, I have avoided eye contact with James, Chris, David and Rob.
It's like a Whose Who of whose been in my mouth in here tonight"

Thou Shalt Not Disrespect your elders

My Nan is a comedy genius.

She just doesn't know it.



"Have you heard that your cousin Jason has gone and got himself an OBE?"

"Jason? Are you sure Nan?"

"Aye"

"Jason? Joy riding Jason?"

"It's in the paper, See here"

"No Nan, he's got an ASBO not and OBE"

"Oh bloody hell and I've just sent your Grandad out for a card"





"So apparently our Jim's youngest Sharon wont be getting early release in time for Christmas this year"

"Skirting over the fact that I have no idea who that is, why wont this mystery woman be getting early release?"

"Oh you do, she used to babysit you when you were little"

"Great you left me in the hands of a convict, unsurprising really"

"Dont be melodramatic, anyway they said she couldn't keep off the grass"

"Right"

"I thought that was a bit strict mind, not being allowed to walk on the grass, though I suppose rules are rules"

"I'm pretty certain they don't mean that sort of grass Nan"



My Nan is by far the best storyteller I have ever met, she makes a cracking a brew and is always the first to laugh at herself.

Stellar life lesssons I hope you'll agree.

Thou Shalt Not Psychoanalyse anyone over Cherry cocktails

"I'm sat in the train station next to a middle aged couple sniffing poppers"

"Romance is officially dead"

Thou Shalt Not Do the dance with all the actions

MISSING:

The last remaining shred of my dignity and self respect

LAST SEEN:

At 2pm when it finally occurred to me that I had spent the best part of an hour scrubbing "THUG LIFE" off my knuckles.

Thou Shalt Not Use "Cracking" as an adjective

Adam sent me a pretty snazzy Toy Story pencil case in the post, not because he is trying to "woo" me;
We are not twelve and it takes a least a pint these days, but because I am a child and I am easily pleased.


My Mother however is a little more suspicious insisting that it is in fact an apparent token of his affection.

"I am not romantically involved with everyone that sends me something in the post Mum,
If that were the case I would be in a fairly serious relationship with Natwest by now wouldn't I?"

Thou Shalt Not Give the game away

“Why are you smirking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you're going to shag something.”


Apparently we aren’t as allusive as we first thought when it comes to the opposite sex.

Thou Shalt Not Date Johnny Borrell look a likes

"Alright Mate, How did your date go last night?"

"He was actually wearing white jeans, I didn't know where to look"

"White Jeans?!"

"I shit thee not"

"Who the fuck does he think he is? Liz Hurley?"