Monday, March 28, 2011

Don't worry, I'm a professional.

How did you spend our one day of British Summer? Did you wear shorts? Hmm? Did you?

Did you get out the paddling pool, and dust off your flip flops?

25th March, sunshine, R.I.P.

I'll tell you what I did, on that glorious one-of-a-kind day. I failed my driving test, again.

HA HA HA HA. It's getting rather more amusing with each fail.

I got off to a rather bad start when I was instructed to put the window down. Have I ever put the window down in this car? No. I just pressed the confusing little buttons next to the handle. Nothing happened. I eventually figured out the futuristic technology, and alas - window down. Which is fine, isn't it, if the buttons I'd so happily tried first, in my pot-luck approach, had not been to adjust the wing mirrors. The left of which is now facing the road.

I'm pretty sure I died. I think I'm using up my nine cat lives on these tests.

It's alright I consoled myself, that mirror was only perfectly adjusted for your left reverse. I'm sure that won't come up. Let's just hit these buttons again at random and see what happens.

What was nice though, is that the strangled choking/gurgling/mucus snorting sounds from the examiner (which I can only diagnose as a chest infection, due to my limited time watching ER) acted as a  kind of radio replacement.

I have developed a really detailed, justifiable story as to why I failed. The short of it being, trying to drive on the wrong side of the road on a Dual Carriageway. You'll just have to take my word for it, that it was an unavoidable and savvy move.

HOWEVER, only 4 minors.

So I don't know why he couldn't just get over it.

He said, 'Was that your first test?'

I said, 'No, my fourth.'

He said, 'Oh, right.'

Roll on number five, and a few less suicidal turns.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Rock and/or Roll

Thank you for all of your imaginary comments. It's really coming across; this overwhelming desire that my readers have, to be like me. I thought I'd provide you with an essential checklist, a checklist which should you choose to loyally follow, will create you anew in my image. Yet a warning young, impressionable reader: this is not a quest for the faint hearted.


1. Subconsciously be tricked by your mother into being a fat child. Have her sing you a lullaby most nights, including the line 'I will bake a cake, for my Gemma dear, when she does awake.' Always wake up wanting cake. Find cake. Destroy that cake.

2. Get your nose pierced by a stoned man in the back of a dodgy jewellers when you're fourteen. You will forever have a bumpy scar from the mess he made of your face. Your nose will hate you, and in apt revenge, always have a cold.

3. Your first thought when the sun's out - 'Great, I can get loads of washing done.'

4. Get a black eye the cool way. Have a conversation walking backwards in a leisure centre. Decide to turn around just in time to meet the metal gym bar. Congratulate your street self.

5. Steal some sweets and get chucked out of brownies. For reasons why see 'Cake Lullaby'.

6. Dislocate jaw. Terrify everyone in A&E with your disfigured facial bones, and inability to swallow.

7. Try to kill your examiner on every driving test, at least once.

8. Be a tomato at the gym, and try to wear a pink crop top - the combination is dashing.

9. Realise that your mother is one of your best friends. And that this is not because of a shortage of friends, but because of your mother.

10. Realise that this is starting to sound like Baz Luhrmann's 'Sunscreen' song. DANCE.

11. Dye your hair fluorescent pink. Let it fade to orange. It goes with your acne.

12. Get a perm at thirteen. It really is as bad as you remember.

13. Find a wild Gingerbeard in the woods. Train it. Educate it. Let it pretend to be a doctor.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

'All aboard the disappointing, deliberating, devestatingly dire 8:21 to Leeds.'

Oh the insufferable injustice of a relationship with Northern Rail.

Why am I paying £3 every day to be intimately pressed against a pensioner?

Why can't they master basic mathmastics by comparing the number of passengers to the number of seats?

Why platform 13B, wait no platform 3A, wait no, sit on the first train for 15 minutes, wait, sorry, we've lost your train, let me just check my coat pockets and get back to you?

You're telling me that a considerable chunk of my wage is making it's sad, slow walk into your bank account every month, and the best you can do is, 'I apologise on behalf of Northern Rail for this delayed/over crowded/technically unsafe/oddly smelling/several inexplicable pauses/hot journey.'

Why does nothing ever change? I've been getting these commuter trains from all over Leeds for three years, and the sheer consistency of the problems amazes me. Seriously, look at my face, my mouth is hanging open, my eyes are wide. I. Cannot. Actually. Believe. It.

But will I pay an extortinate amount of money to drive in, and park in the city? I will not.

Will I get a man in a taxi to ship me about at £13 a pop? I will not.

Will I keep making frustrated noises whilst crampt in a stuffy, late carriage, my arse cradled by the hands of a sitting teenager, my chin resting ever so gently on the shoulder of a nicotine-stinking goth? Why yes, yes I will.

Because Northern Rail, you have backed me into a very tricky corner, and there is no escape.

You complete bastards.

Monday, March 21, 2011

As seen on screen

Okay, I was going to do some editing. I really was. But a dog ate my editing utensils. Who would've thought that the ridiculous lies which we generated as children would come to be so true and applicable in our adult lives. Those frigging dogs.

Also, because there is a natural link between the two, I can't stop yelling at adverts. I keep finding myself, fingers curls into fists, red in the face, swearing at the patronising, marketing ploys that they are. I'm sick of being accused as stupid by my own television. I think I'd be happy with a teleprompter which simply read 'product', 'price', 'possible reason for purchase.' So that you're happily munching away on your cereal as you read, 'Activia yoghurts, pretty extortionate considering how cheap they are to make/£2.57 for 6, For women who want to attempt more regular bowel movements.' Done. Dusted. Happy as that obscure reference of a man called Larry.

But what we do get, what the men and women in over tight jackets, inhaling coffee and bullshit do give us, is a series of simplistic analogies, which really have no bearing upon either the product itself, or its use in our lives, as Sarah from Liverpool jumps up and down on her bouncy castle/bank account with joy. Cue reality, us fuming outside Natwest, because like Royal Mail, they only exist at the most inconvenient of hours when no one really needs them.

Or the car that instantly means we can afford that luxurious mini break, and the elusive status we always wanted, and that model-esque girlfriend. From a Vauxhall Corsa hatchback. (All the more persuasive for the beautiful weather and the lyrics, 'What a nice day for a drive in the city.' Nothing better when the sun's out, stuck in traffic in a hot car.

Constantly force-fed make-believe, unattainable versions of life for morons, the equivalent of a man with a hovering fork of spaghetti making 'choo choo' noises as he zones in on your mouth. Well, you know where you can shove that spaghetti mate.

And don't even get me started on 'Icer, Icer baby.' I had to buy myself a present in order to get over the sheer horror of that advert, a 6 pack of Activia yoghurts.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Bullying for beginners

Alright already, calm down! I'll tell you! Jeez. My banister bruise is doing okay, if okay meant the same as horrific. My arm looks like I've been hit by a cricket bat wielded by (types 'cricketer' into google) Sangakkara (a suggested cricket player from google).

Hey, so I've developed this new sport during my lunch breaks. It's called 'Bullying.' At the moment I'm just bullying Ginger Beard, by sending him a ridiculous amount of offensive emails. It began rather innocently, but now provides me with a healthy, daily dose of amusement. Even when he doesn't reply, I find myself to be incredibly happy. It's just the thought of him reading it and being hurt/confused/depressed/sad. Here's a taster, and I hope you too, can share my joy.

Also, and I think this is really important to note, spell cheker isolates his Phd qualification as a spelling and a grammatical error, which leads me to question - is it real? Is this something we should be aknowledging as anything more than one man's delusion?

From: Gemma Rutter 
Sent: 09 March 2011 12:10
To: James Glover
Subject:

This the right email sunshine?


From: James Glover
Sent: 09 March 2011 12:49
To: Gemma Rutter
Subject: RE:

Depends on who you are and what you want?

Thanks,

James Glover, MEng PhD

From: Gemma Rutter [mailto:Gemma.Rutter@kaplan.co.uk]
Sent: 09 March 2011 12:51
To: James Glover
Subject: RE:


My name is Todd, and I want your face. Would that be possible? (Please let me know as soon as you can, because I have a deadline of 4pm to collect as many faces as possible)



Kind Regards
Gemma Rutter

From: James Glover
Sent: 09 March 2011 12:54
To: Gemma Rutter
Subject: RE:

Sorry Todd I don’t play those kind of games.  I saw the film “Hannibal” at a young age, and it still haunts me.

But I do know a girl with a moonface. Its a bit generic, but if you’re only after numbers it might do.

Thanks,

James Glover, MEng PhD


From: Gemma Rutter [mailto:Gemma.Rutter@kaplan.co.uk]
Sent: 09 March 2011 13:03
To: James Glover
Subject: RE:

I do appreciate you offering up another face, but it’s only really ginger faces that I’m interested in. You see, we’re setting up a Freak Face Festival next month in Leeds, and I really need to get the faces now, because there’s so much paper work. In case you change your mind, the process involves Nicholas Cage coming round to your house and taking your face off. Don’t be alarmed if John Travolta turns up, it’s part of an age-old disagreement. However they may cause considerable damage to your person and home.



From: James Glover [mailto:J.A.Glover@leeds.ac.uk]
Sent: 09 March 2011 13:24
To: Gemma Rutter
Subject: RE:

Thankfully the face Im offering has ginger skin, so would work wonderfully well in the FFF. Additionally it is highly popular with acne so I will throw in the spots for no extra fee. The face has however got a slight sag eye problem, especially in the morning. I do understand that “Bernie eyes” have been known to be contagious, but I think with the proper safequarding any contamination of dirty dirty Nottingham can be avoided.

Additionally its quite important that any celebrities who come to claim the FF utter timeless quotes such as.....

“If I wanted to send you flowers where would I.......no wait, let me rephrase..............would you be grateful if I let you suck my tongue?”

“did the casing fit?”
“it fitted like a condom”

Or would it just be the standard,

“I want to take his face....off”

It really is a deal breaker.

Thanks,

James Glover, MEng PhD

Saturday, March 12, 2011

X-men are real!


View 2011-03-1...jpg in slide show




I know what you're thinking, did Wolverine do this? Close, but it was actually an envelope. I think we need to take a good hard look at the motives of office stationary, and ask ourselves: Are they really on our side?
Gingerbeard observed this injury of mine and proclaimed, 'I'm not really bothered.' So I have attached a photo of my ghastly banister bruise in week two.

View 2011-03-1...jpg in slide show
I know you can't exactly see it. Just imagine it. Imagine that it shocks you in its multitude of colours. What a truly horrific thing this banister has done. But don't panic, I don't think it's broken. Just fractured.

In other news, a man in a taxi tried to run me over in town. During his 35mph romp up the main street he suddenly felt inclined to sharply swerve onto a side road. My side road. Which I was in the middle of. Maybe getting to see an emergency stop in action, will make mine on the driving test, significantly more impressive. But in my proudest moment yet as an almost driver, I threw my hands in the air and screamed, 'INDICATE!'

The brown haired, black car, spluttering little fucker.

Also, I'm writing. Well, I'm not exactly writing, I'm editing. Ok, so it's not exactly editing, but I did purchase a rather fetching paperchase notebook. I spent a good five minutes talking with the cashier girl about how beautiful it was, which can only be considered as vital research for my future career as an author. Everytime I bump into someone they ask me how my writing is going. On par with, how's the baby? how's the new job? How's the house move? It's my big, defining feature and I suck at it. I don't think the blog counts. I'd really like the blog to count.

So I'm going to go and write now, after I've edited something, after I've finished staring at my shiny notebook like a salivating magpie.


Sunday, March 06, 2011

Exploding Knees

I didn't go to the gym this week, but I did compromise by wearing my gym socks yesterday. I felt considerably gym-tastic. And even though I'm currently paying £30 a month to wear those specific socks, I feel that my fitness level and general health is much improved.

Speaking of how much my life is improving, I've managed to edit three chapters of my novel, and it's only taken me 3 months, which considering they culminate in approximately five pages, is pretty good going. And it all makes me wonder what other miraculous things I could achieve if I just put my mind to it.

I experienced a slight set back in my awesomeness last night, when trying to climb someones stairs. I ran straight into what can only be described as the remnants of a banister. The only upside is that I can add the bruise shot to the collection of photographs I send to my mother, to try and extract her sympathy. I was such a sickly child, that it now takes very severe injuries and illness to illicit a reaction. So far my most successful gambit was showing her how much of my hair is turning white, to which she said, "Oh Gemma, shit."

But anyway, I digress. My new employer's are recruiting volunteers for their annual climb up a massive mountain charity event. I was thinking about attempting this in flip flops. Not only will I be able to justify an investment in several pairs of summer footwear just in time for the upcoming two days of British summer, but the flip-flop sound will be very relaxing for my comrades, and set a steady rhythm for us all.

Last year, someones knee exploded. Will anyone sponsor me if I try to ensure that my knee explodes? To be honest, it sounds like a jolly promising adventure, resulting in a hilarious anecdote. Let me know.