Christmas Presents......(this will be very dull for you readers).

I have no idea why I'm writing this on my blog, other than that I am stupendously bored and waiting for the next batch of family to arrive in 20 minutes or so. So, here is a list of the prezzies I got this xmas :)
From Family: -
1. A new camera (after I lost/broke 3 already. No idea why my parents risked a fourth, but I'm not complaining)
2. Artemis Fowl series (random, but whatever)
3. 2 Jonathan Stroud books (my fav author -- am kind of scared that one will be a disappointment, and so haven't risked reading it yet......)
4. Harry Potter 6 (a chance to mock the APPALLING acting of Ginny Weasley)
5. Marley and Me (weepfest)
6. Russell Howard Live: Dingledodies (watched it on xmas day -- HILARIOUS!!)
7. Ashes to Ashes, series 2 box set (long live Gene Hunt)
8. Ant and Dec's autobiography (pathetic, I do realise, but I do love them :))
9. Peter Kay's autobiography (just for a giggle)
10. Scouting For Girls album (possibly the most commercial band alive, but still a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine)
11. Chocolate (lots. Obviously)
12. Clothes (an inexplicably named 'boyfriend blazer', baggy comfy jumper and soft brown, marginally more stylish jumper)
13. Shoes (red heels and beautiful grey boots -- God love New Look's wide fit range)
14. Wicked mug (makes me smile everytime I have a cup of coffee :))
15. Mock the Week book (was reading this earlier today and snorted inelegantly just as grandma walked in, so she made me read it to her -- the joke involved gross sexual acts, the queen and swearing. Grandma was not amused)
16. Make-up pack (desperately needed)

From Friends: -
1. 2 tacky romance Julia Quinn novels (already read one -- was the cheesiest yet, and that is saying something)
2. Gene Hunt quote book (epic)
3. Wicked soundtrack (addictive)
4. Four Weddings and a Funeral sountrack (surprisingly good)
5. Cranford series (no words can satisfactorily describe my joy)

If you made it this far down this post, I offer my congratulations. You must be astoundingly bored too. I recommend Youtube. ;)

The five story endings and why only two should ever be used.....

Yesterday, my friend Roz and I went to the cinema (as we do every Wednesday because I have an Unlimited cinema card and she has orange Wednesdays) and saw - for lack of alternatives - Me and Orson Welles. Yes, shamefully, that is the Zac Efron one.

Now to be honest, the film itself wasn't too bad. The guy playing Orson Welles was truly awesome, Claire Danes was funny and Zac Efron was.....well, the guy playing Orson Welles was truly awesome. But on the whole the film had a lot going for it.....until the ending. It wasn't sad, it wasn't irritating, it just sort of...petered out. There was a definite conclusion, but it was a bit of a wet fart. This led, naturally, to a debate between myself and Roz on the different kinds of endings. We came up with five definitive categories, which are.....

1. Happy endings: e.g. Pretty Woman. The best. There's a solid conclusion, the threads are tied off and you watch the credits rolling up with a great big smile on your face. Almost every rom-com in the world has this ending, and anyone who doesn't like it is lying. And the best kind of happy endings, well, it's sealed with a kiss (bit of an in-joke there, sorry :P).

2. Profound/sad endings: e.g. The Green Mile. Now generally speaking I don't approve of endings that make me cry, but to be honest it's easily done, and the brutal truth is that some films just wouldn't work without a sad ending. I know it's depressing, but wouldn't it feel like a cop-out if Satine miraculously recovered, John Coffey was proven innocent and Juliet woke up in time to stop Romeo? So at the end you cry like a little baby, but you're not really surprised and you know that it had to happen. Sad, but true.

3. The nonexistent endings: e.g. The Golden Compass. I'm sorry, but it doesn't end, it just STOPS! They're so infuriating because there is no proper conclusion; you think that you're just reaching the middle of a very long film, and then the credits roll! I mean WHAT THE HELL?!?!?!

4. The writer-changed-his-mind-at-the-last-minute endings: e.g. (this one was added by Roz and I forgot the example she gave me :S.....they really irritate her though....). Basically, these are the ones wherein you were expecting a happy, cheerful, satisfying ending. But, at the last minute, everything suddenly changes, and before you have time to get your head around it the credits roll. With these you leave the cinema feeling just confused!

5. The wet fart endings: e.g. Me and Orson Welles. Pretty much described above. There's a conclusion and an ending, but you still leave the cinema feeling kind of unsatisfied...

So my (completely unqualified) advice to all future scriptwriters/authors is this: pick 1 or 2. Please, for the sake of anyone and everyone reading/watching, actually give your story and ending. Cheers muchly. :P

Scrooges of the world, shut up and leave our festive spirit alone!

So, it's that time of year again. The lights, the presents, the food, the presents, the alcohol, the presents, the parties, the presents, the presents, the presents, the PRESENTS......

And not just the ones for myself. Naturally.

No, in all seriousness, I absolutely adore Christmas, and not just for the presents (which I'm not gonna lie, helps) but for the whole atmosphere. Birthdays are great because you spend a day being fantastically happy, but Christmas is so much greater because everybody is fantastically happy. It's the combination of everything that all comes together to culminate in the absolute best time of the year, and here's my little shortlist of what makes Christmas so awesome: -

1. Decorations - let's face it, who can walk past a fairylight-strewn, snowman model-adorned, wreath-smothered house without feeling just a little bit more cheerful? The Removal of the Christmas Decorations is quite possibly the most depressing day of the year (when I was little I used to lock myself in the bathroom and refuse to participate in such sacrilege), in the same way that putting them up is one of the most exciting.

2. Food - do I really need to explain this? Free chocolate, Yorkshire puddings and brandy cream - but not all together (hopefully that was obvious).

3. Family - Christmas day is a day that everyone should spend with their family, and my own Christmas is generally full of laughter, alcohol, drunk adults, superb food (a la my auntie) and hilarious games that get progressively louder as the night goes on.

4. Friends. Christmas party + alcohol + friends = comedy. Lots and lot of comedy.

5. Weather - now I know that everybody hates December weather; it's cold and wet, but when I refer to weather I'm talking about what you hope the weather will be, rather than what it is. Every year, people hear the word 'snow' on the weather forecast, completely tune out and subsequently ring everyone in the phonebook, informing them that this year it really will be a white christmas, and you know so because it was on BBC News. What you missed was the fact that they actually said "Snow is a possbility for the highlands in and around Scotland," but, despite the fact that it has never happened before, you always hold out for that tiny little flake of white on Christmas morning.

6. Music. Everyone who says they hate Christmas music is lying. Yes, it's generally very bad, but that doesn't stop it filling you with a warm, squishy feeling of satisfaction that it's almost Christmas!

So you Scrooges out there who think that Christmas is a 'consumerism' holiday, or a 'waste of time and money', I think I speak for everyone that possesses festive spirit when I say sit down, shut up and accept the fact that nobody cares what you think, you miserable twerp.

And to the rest of you, Merry Christmas!!!

Short, precise and to the point.

This is a situation that personally I think is felt the world over by students of all ages, though particularly A-Level/Uni students that actually GET work over the weekends (all younger years, this isn't a shot at you -- trust me).

This weekend, I have to write a history essay ('Why was the Petition of Right passed in 1628?') and makes notes on another historical topic ('Why did the Peasants Revolt break out?'), plus the standard living nightmare that is 'Wider Reading'. Then I have to write the draft/commentary of my English Language coursework. As well as that, I have to write a monologue + commentary for English Literature and a 'tension graph' for Hamlet (whatever the hell that means). And then answer questions on Research Methods for Psychology.

And yet, I still end up writing a blog/on Facebook/writing/reading/watching meaningless television for as long as I can justify, which means that I'll be awake until about 4am on Monday finishing most of it off. Now, I know that all of this will happen. I know that I will be grumpy as hell on Monday. And yet......it happens every weekend.

So my question is simply this: WHY?!?!?!?!?!

My standard rant on Katie Price/Jordan/whatever the hell you want to call her.

Right. Katie Price. Straight to the point: why the HELL is she famous?

Possible Reason Number One: Yes, she has big boobs, but so does my Great Auntie Mildred, and she isn't plastered all over the front cover of (admittedly tacky) OK! magazine on a semi-permanent basis!

Possible Reason Number Two: She's pretty. Excuse me, have you SEEN her face!! The parts that aren't plastic are usually either covered in make-up or stretched so tightly across her poor, abused skull that any semblance of genuine human features are completely unreachable.

Possible Reason Number Three: She's intelligent. *snort*

Possible Reason Number Four: She can sing. Youtube it. Just Youtube it.

Possible Reason Number Five:.................okay, I'm stuck.

You see, the part that really gets to me is this. She isn't passionate about any of her so-called talents, because she's only using them as money-making schemes to fuel her borderline obsession with plastic surgery, boozing and partying. In particular; writing. She has either two or three autobiographies out (I can't tell you which because I refuse to type her name into Google), which is pointless for anyone under the age of forty because they just haven't had enough life to be genuinely interesting -- there's no ending to their story! And then, the novels. Well, those pathetic piles of bog-roll standard, tree-killing, wastes of paper that are apparently now regarded as genuine literary material by the British public.
I'm sorry, but that woman can't SPEAK properly, so how the hell are we supposed to believe that she churned out two freaking novels in four years! Now I have actually read the first two pages of each book (the imaginatively named Angel and Sapphire), and let me tell you -- they are utter crap. I mean, I have read my fair share of crappy books but these were in a whole new league -- and that's after some poor ghost-writer (whose name will never be known) was paid a pittance to whack the thing together as quickly as possible.
The thing is, had Jordan not already been 'famous', she would never have bothered even trying to write a book because a) she couldn't and b) she just wouldn't want to. And even if she had, publishing houses would have laughed in her face if she'd sent that piece of garbage in. And now those books are bestsellers. Because she has big boobs.

I rest my case.

Study sessions with friends - why do we even bother?

Today I spent a (thoroughly enjoyable) 6 hours of my life with my friend Amy, a fellow History AS student who also has absolutely no idea what goes on during the 5 hours a week we spend sitting in history lessons. And today we organised a 'study session' to help each other out with the grippingly titled 'How important were the ideas of the Humanists in weakening the authority of the Catholic Church in the years before the Reformation?' essay which, apart from having a number of pointlessly capitalised words, sounded like the epitome of the 3 D's; difficult, dull and d'oh so pointless.

But despite our misgivings we pulled out our stupidly heavy books, spread them artistically on the table between us and bent, pen poised between our fingers, over the sheet of mockingly blank paper. Of the six or so hours we spent in that position, I think an hour or so was spent on actual work.

Granted, you may see this as a failure, but as far as I am concerned, I spent 6 hours of my Sunday sitting at a table with a fellow history student, several immensely educational/tedious books opened between us and a pen in my hand. Legitimate? I think so.

In any case, this blog must here be cut short because, unsurprisingly, I have an essay to write.

I wear hoodies. Do I want to knife you? No. It is raining.

This post is going to be uncharacteristically short because I am very tired, my bed is calling and if I don't fall asleep soon then I might actually do some homework (plus I made seven typos in the first five words of this sentence. Bad sign).

Essentially, I was walking down to the corner shop this afternoon, admittedly wearing no makeup, looking knackered and wearing a very baggy hoodie. But I do not think that this was quite scary enough for the woman walking up the road towards me to look up, blanch and hastily cross the road, only to cross back after I had walked past. I had half a mind to walk up to the presumptive bint and ask her what he problem was, but felt that this wouldn't be helping my case much.

And my case is this: -
1. Yes, I wear hoodies. Why? Well, because actually it was raining quite hard, and since umbrellas seem to be allergic to me, I had no other means of keeping dry.
2. Yes, I looked rough, but I wasn't feeling my best and was being forced to nip down to the shop to buy bread.
3. Yes, I am a teenager. No, not a criminal, chav or hooligan. Teenager. There is a difference. Learn it.

Now please, adults, stop stereotyping us. I don't assume you're a boring, lifeless twerp because you're wearing a suit, do I? So please don't assume that because I'm wearing a hoodie, I'm a delinquent. Cheers muchly.

"When I Was Your Age........"

Alright, be honest. How bad is it that last night, at the tender age of sixteen, I used the phrase "When I was your age....." for the first time in my life? I mean, I thought I had another few decades to go before those dreaded words slipped out of my mouth, quickly followed by the horrifying, wide-eyed realisation that I am ALREADY turning into my mother. But seriously, I think I had good reason; see what you think.

I spent the evening 'babysitting' a fourteen-year-old's party. Now, by 'babysitting' I mean that myself and two friends were in the same house at the same time and the only vaguely responsible people present, therefore apparently becoming 'in charge'. Now, as I'm sure any of you would do, I took the opportunity to try and show-off my maturity and coolness to a bunch of people too young to really see my true geeky self, but it backfired horrendously. As it transpired whilst talking to these young teens, I was in fact pretty much on a parr with them, in terms of ''maturity''. By that, I mean that they were: -
a) actually dating, rather than having six 'boyfriends' at one time and no-one really caring
b) all familiar with the concept of being drunk
c) doing things that I didn't even know the meaning of at their age.
And all I kept thrinking throughout the evening was 'You are fourteen!!' I mean, I know that's only a little younger than I am, but when you consider everything that happens between beginning your GCSEs and beginning your A-Levels, I thought I was light-years ahead of those 'kids'.

And it's not just them. My younger brother - a year nine - quite frequently refers to concepts and insults that I am clueless as to the meaning of. He calls me a 'noob' on a regular basis, and I am far to proud to ask whether this is actually a bad thing (though I'm sure it is). I also overheard him referring to someone being 'teabagged' the other day, and if my friends are to be believed, this is something overtly dirty, disturbing and (frankly) disgusting that my little brother, as far as I'm concerned, shouldn't even know the non-slang CONCEPT of.

It makes me wonder what kind of a society we're living in, when you start to feel outdated and old before you're even out of your teens. I mean, they've barely hit puberty for crying out loud! And it also makes me grudgingly agree with my mother - maybe teenagers really are growing up too fast these days. But when I ran this past the fourteen-year-olds, they snorted derisively and said simply, 'You think we're bad? You should talk to Matt.' Now I'm not sure who Matt is or what he's done, but frankly, I don't think I want to.

Defy Gravity? Hell, I'd defy anything to see that show again.

Last Saturday, I passed three hours of my life with the loopiest grin you have ever seen sitting comfortably on my tear-stained face. Sat in seat T31 of the stalls in the Apollo Victoria Theatre, I would have been bouncing off the walls, if the walls had not had various pointy carvings, twiddly bits and the occasional (well alright, just one) dragon built onto them. That's right, last Saturday, I went to see Wicked. And what a Wicked night it was (be prepared for many more appalling puns during the course of this blog).

Now I'll freely admit to being a great lover of Musicals, but my love of the cheesiness in them was forever scarred by the festering pile of rotted brains that is the film (and I use the word 'film' with the utmost reluctance) High School Musical. So I was a little wary on entering that, since I was no longer keen on cheesy and had never been a big fan of The Wizard of Oz, I wouldn't enjoy as much as, for example, The Phantom of the Opera. But, quite frankly, wow. It had everything; great costumes, actors and songs (oh my!) and, for me, Wicked blows The Wizard of Oz so far out of the water, it's no longer even relevant.

For anyone that doesn't know, the plot of Wicked follows the story of the young Wicked Witch of the West - Elphaba - and her friendship with G(a)linda the Good Witch, following them from their meeting at 'Shiz' University right up until after the events of The Wizard of Oz. I know - it doesn't sound good. But when you throw in a few brilliant characters, a sprinkling of truly epic one-liners, Vivienne-Westwood-on-crack style costumes, enough twists to get you blissfully and dizzily stunned and a load of incredible songs, you have the feast for the eyes and ears that is Wicked.

The actress playing Elphaba - a 27-year-old Londoner named Alexia Khadime - had quite honestly the most powerful voice I have ever heard, and she belted those songs out at a volume and intensity that almost rendered you oblivious to the pitch-perfect notes. Following her rendition of 'Defying Gravity', jealousy had painted me several shades greener than she was - and believe me, that really is saying something.

But though her voice completely eclipsed anyone else's, I have to say that, in my opinion, she was out-acted by the wonderfully irritating Glinda - played by a Lancastrian actress called Dianne Pilkington. Glinda is twee, annoying, girly and, when excited, shoots through the octaves at a pitch only actually legible to bats. She is one of those characters that, should you meet her in real life, would have your blood boiling before she even opened her mouth, but on stage she was brilliantly funny and just generally fantastic.

In terms of acting, other highlights include Oliver Tompsett as Fiyero (tall, charming, handsome, singer and dancer - fiver says he's gay), a wonderfully Northern Alex Jessop as Boq and an actor I've just forgotten the name of as Doctor Dillamond. And that's before you get to the songs. Oh, my God. The songs. There's no way I can possibly do justice to them in a blog - you'll really just have to see for yourself.

So basically, I charge you all to defy your parents, defy your finances and defy gravity (poor effort, I know - it was all I could think of) to get your backside down to London, and sink into three hours of the wondrous, wondrous Wicked.

For A First Job Interview.....Well, You Didn't Puke.

This morning, I had my first ever job interview. I'm not going for anything fancy - just a customer assisstant at Marks and Sparks, the eternal home of darling old grannies, mums galore and the occasional sheepish student. Or so I thought.

The interview day started well -- I got up half an hour late, swore loudly, and resolved to save time by leaving my hair natural. On walking past a mirror, it became evident that this really just wasn't an option, and I instead resolved to skip breakfast. Following the loud and determined roar of my stomach, I settled on resolution number 3: don't bother checking the bus timetables, just wing it. Luckily this wasn't an issue on the way there, since my mother took pity on me and dropped me off at some traffic lights (you know the situation, you're in the middle of conversation when the driver starts yelling 'HERE! HERE! GET OUT HERE!' at which point you promptly stagger from the car and - in my case - fall over).

On entering Marks and Spencers, I was faced with a sea of permed white heads, not one of which reached above my elbow - I mean, I know I'm tall, but I swear anyone over the age of about 65 is part-hobbit - which did nothing to ease my fish-out-of-water feeling. After spending the next fifteen minutes or so desperately searching for the customer services desk, I found another interviewee standing nervously at the side and asked her if she'd had to hand a note in to get off school. She was 22. Now blushing scarlet, I was happily collected from the desk and taken through a sliding door only openable by a special card (THAT made me feel special), up some stairs and into a small room with a desk, two chairs and a very small window. Now beginning to feel a little like one of those innocent schoolkids that get bumped off in bad horror films, I was given three sheets of laminated paper and told to learn the information on them and prepare myself for a role-play. Oh, sweet Lord.

Ten stomach-twisting minutes later, a very short (do they put something in the water??) woman entered and began demanding that I give her a standard-sized, Velvet Rose loveseat. After politely explaining to her that we did not have the Velvet Rose loveseat in the standard size, but we do have it in large, or standard in several other colours, she once again insisted that I hand over a standard-sized, Velvet Rose loveseat. I told her that unfortunately the line had been discontinued, but they were still available from many other stores and online, from which there was a 20% off discount on the delivery charge. She told me she wanted a standard-sized, Velvet Rose loveseat from THIS STORE. By this point, I was having to forcibly restrain myself from beating the woman into a misshapen pulp, but repeated all of the options again, now angry enough to forget my nerves.

In the middle of what was now bordering on a full-blown argument, the woman I can only describe as a spoilt brat smiled brilliantly at me and asked me to wait outside, which I did so, wishing I was a more tolerant person. The period that followed could have been anything from twenty seconds to three hours for all I can tell; all I remember is chewing my nails, twitching nervously every time a door opened and accidentally knocking over a plant. But eventually, the short woman reappeared, now apparently having morphed into a perfectly nice M&S employee, and told me I'd passed. I more or less collapsed into my chair. I was then led into another small room containg a desk, a chair, a small window and - this was new - an official-looking woman with offensively age-inappropriate scarlet hair. It was at this point that we discovered that I could not work the necessary hours.

But despite this, I left the store with a smile on my face, glad to have rid myself of the 'first interview' stigma, glad to have not failed miserably, and glad to be returning to the comfortable familiarity of my school. That is, until I reached the bus stop and realised I had absolutely no idea how to get there...

Joining The Bloggers

It has to be said that I never thought I would be a blogger. In fact, up until a few days ago I was probably closer to a blog-buster (which, for those of you who can't figure it out, is someone who is reasonably vocal in their dislike of blogs). I just didn't see the point; so you'd occasionally post a random snippet of your life for no-one to bother reading, and hope to achieve your fifteen minutes of fame through it? No thanks.

But then a few days ago, a good friend of mine sent me a link to the blogger website with a note saying 'Check it out -- a place for you to post a rant to the whole world!' and, when I'd finished being mildly insulted about the jab at my 'one-woman heated discussions', I thought about it and realised that maybe blogs weren't such a bad thing after all. I used to think that they were for people who had nothing better to do, but I definitely don't come under this category -- due to AS Levels, job-hunting, writing a book (don't laugh), a social life and (rarely) sleeping, I definitely have many, many more productive things to be doing. But I figured, even if this is read by no-one, it's still an opportunity to vent frustration, record moments worth remembering and hopefully give my friends (presumably the only people bored enough to read this) a good laugh in the process.

Plus, it's another way of delaying History homwork.