Saturday, May 28, 2011

You were working as a waitress at a cocktail bar.

Wasn’t drinking great at eighteen? Acquiring foreign and fascinating bruises, non too troubled about your fractured memory, consuming and gorging on a buffet of bottles, and the only real consequence – hugging the toilet  for a few minutes before running for the bus.

*Sigh* those were the days. Cue twenty-three; it’s 9am, you’re up and you feel dandy. Many routine tasks cause inane giggling. Hugely smug at lack of hangover. Convince self look great with last nights make-up as your new face. I could go out like this. I could keep this on. I look like the smouldering girl in an Maybelline advert. Awesome. You eat some cereal and your stomach thanks you. That 4am McDonalds was a great idea. It’s okay that you haven’t eaten fast food for two years because you’ve read about what they do to the chicken.

Ginger Beard suggests that you go get new tyres for the car. Excellent suggestion! Am giddy on life, and desperate to share it! Arrive at garage, am so confident and blurry eyed. Is lovely. Happy to spend anything on tyres. Must be safe. Drink some Ribena. Why don’t I drink Ribena all the time? So thirsty, so unbelievably thirsty. Have developed a dreamy new walk. See all children as threatening. Decide to go shopping. Unable to get a hold on judgement skills. Words are difficult to master. 3pm. Asleep. Woken by Ginger Beard. He’s concerned that if I sleep much longer then I won’t sleep tonight. Beg for takeaway. Manage some of takeaway after fetching it in Pajamas. Only have enough energy to watch two films. Sleep until mid-day Sunday. Headache. Look in mirror, horrific reflection. I hate the world. The world hates me. Look at txts sent on Friday night, not remotely English.

And yes, you managed to find a weirdo. You, who has been managing to find weirdos your entire life. Ones who sit next to you on the bus, cat call you in the street, fix their bulging eyes on you on the dance floor, make you bloody mix tapes, and find you at the house party. It must be something I give off. Well this one, this one in with a sweat band, and greasy black hair in a thin ponytail was the cherry on the weirdo cake.

"Odd night, like, such a peculiar night. Don't you think? There are just such bad vibes in here. My name's Roland. (Hugs me here, too sudden for me to escape, smells like socks, hugs me like toddler wanting his mum to love him.) "What's really odd is that alllllll of my friends were coming out tonight, and then like, none of them came."

I don't think that's odd. I think that's predictable.

"Speaking of friends", I masterfully interject, "I'm going to find mine."

"Oh," he says, gleefully, "I'll come."

And thus begins my dive into the mosh pit, the very pit I'd run away from. Into the young bodied, sweaty, pissed-up teenagers throwing themselves around, fitting and screaming, and chucking beer. But anything, ANYTHING was better than my new best friend Roland.

I'm glad that I was never rude, but I regret that he touched me, shared my airspace, or exists. I'm a passive bully. I'll only do it behind your back, relax.

I'll never get a nice, normal, clear-skinned, sane man walking up to me, unless he needs to know the time. Ginger Beard doesn't count. He's a scientist.



Tuesday, May 17, 2011

You have mail

This morning I took a wander up to toilets, never previously encountered. And on the back of the door was this sign: 'Please do not keep putting unsuitable items in the sanitary bins, i.e. fruit peel, coffee cups, sandwiches.' I love that. I love the idea of someone sitting on the toilet eating a tangerine. How brilliantly random. An office worker with a mocha between their feet, a banana wedged in their mouth, and a three cheese sandwich. It's not like there aren't bins in the bathroom and througout the building. Are toilet cubicles the new place to dine? Are we that desperate for a little alone time?

Perhaps someone has a vendetta against the cleaner. 'I shall constantly perplex them. This week, I will choose lego bricks, a light bulb, and three grapes.'

I am very pleased to inform you that I've had a reply, thus, the war rages on:

From: Innes, Moira
Sent: 16 May 2011 12:28
To: 'theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk'
Subject: billboard

hello Gemma
Thank you for your e-mail regarding Matt Darbyshire’s billboard.  It is always interesting to get feedback. 

Placing art in the public realm where it is chanced upon as opposed the deliberate act of visiting a gallery  alters the context and viewers experience. As with any art work, the artist has a clear intention  and concept but knows that the work will be received in a variety of different ways depending on  the viewers’ individual experiences.  Arguably this is more the case when the work is placed in such a public situation  where for the majority, the  viewing is incidental to their reason to be in the station.

Matt’s intentions are multi-fold and combine various interests and concerns including the design and look of the ‘ experience economy’  where the spheres of culture, health and retail all  promise to enhance and transform our lives.  What is presented is a composite image of his personal views on the  hard-hitting public  health campaigns  and the fluffy advertising of the time and relates to a project he undertook at the MIro Foundation in Barcelona. The opportunity of presenting the work as a billboard returns the  idea to the appropriate context of mass advertisements.

I feel it is valuable that everyone is at liberty to  embrace or dismiss the work and for me the fact that you have thought about the image and content is what is important .  I don’t expect everyone of the thousands that see it to spend time contemplating its merits but trust that many will have left asking questions.

best
moira

Moira Innes
Director
Leeds Met Gallery & Studio Theatre
G12 Northern Terrace
Leeds Metropolitan University
Leeds
LS2 8AG


I can't resist. It's not like I can read that, and go on living my life, doing nothing.


Hi Moira,

Thank you for taking the time to reply, it is much appreciated.

I completely agree with you that the idea of art we 'encounter' is a fantastic way to experience something different, and not confined to a gallery environment. I do however believe it's a shame that something a little more obvious/influential could not be in it's place, considering the volume and variety of commuters who see it everyday. Unfortunately the only question I have heard asked regarding this work is, 'What does it mean?' I feel that it is a real shame that the artist has set forth with such thought out principles, only to ultimately confuse the public. Have you had much response to this billboard, acknowledging, or lining up with the artists intentions? I am all for art which teaches me something, surprises me, alters or challenges my perspective, amongst many other effects, but have only felt frustrated thus far.

Do you happen to know the source of funding for this project? I only ask, because the station itself is unable to run remotely to schedule at the best of times, and I find myself wondering if the money could be a little more appropriately spent. I'm sure a lot of people's lives have been improved by looking at a playful puppy, but I'd just like to get home on time more often.






Monday, May 16, 2011

Or the puppy gets it!

I would like to apologise to the woman in the train station that I 'took out.' One minute I was happily walking along to the exit, and the next minute I was trying to run her over. This is all because someone shouted 'Free!' and held up something shiny. Normally I tut at people like me, who run over, salivating, palms together. But my inner Magpie, and greedy cake smeared little child, wanted it. I would have it! I didn't care how many people had to die, as I brashly ignored the unspoken code of giving way to oncoming traffic if turning right. It was worth it. The chicken cup-a-soup was mine.

And it was full of chickeny goodness.

People have killed for less than this.

Also, is there any legislation to protect toilets against what office workers are doing to them? I have beheld some horrific scenes recently, where the lavatory has been what I can only call 'destoyed.' Are there companies who will come in to lecture nine to fivers on their diet? Why aren't the culprits in A and E? What's happening in their bodies is vicious, it's monstrous. The poor cleaner lives in the ground floor toilets. She's always in there. It's a constant battle. This is exactly the kind of crime they had in mind when the electric chair was first out forward as an option.

Fry them, fry them all.

It's incredibly distressing. It makes me feel sick. And then I have to go throw up over a toilet.

I was considering letting the billboard situation go. But then I read this on the Leeds Metropolitan Website:

"The day-glo paint bombs work not only with the wording of the caption but as compulsory post-millennial icing, masking the drab 1980s corporate, colourless ad language of cutesy animals and black retro fonts with tokenistic, upbeat, candy-coloured social appeal. With an eye on the techniques employed by art/Aids activists of the 1980s such as Barbara Kruger and Group Material, Darbyshire combines slogans from the hard-hitting Eighties HIV public health campaign posters with the innocuous, familiar toilet tissue adverts also from that period. While these issue-based adverts created widespread fear at the time, Aids is still a global pandemic and alongside noting a worrying return to the politics of the Eighties here in the UK, Darbyshire asks whether we have in fact regressed in our fight against HIV/Aids too."

Who wrote this? And why are they still allowed to inhale oxygen?


  • Matthew Darbyshire | Untitled Billboard (Leeds Station)‏




  • To gallerytheatre@leedsmet.ac.uk
    From:Gemma Rutter (theminorkey@hotmail.co.uk)
    Sent:12 May 2011 12:41:19


    Hello,
    As a regular commuter through Leeds Train Station, I was very curious when I first spotted this billboard. I have recently discovered the reason for it, and the supposed political statement that the artist is making.
    Could you please let me know if you believe that anyone, whether they be educated in the arts, a professional, or Joe Bloggs, would be able to interpret a puppy covered and surrounded by paint as a comment on Aids campaigns in the 80's and our current lax attitude?
    I like to think of myself as having a rather average IQ, but am unable to draw anything from this billboard which remotely resembles the artists intention.
    Any clarity you could provide would be much appreciated. Also if you could let me know the exact date that it would be removed, and the source of the funding for the project, that would be fantastic.
    Kind Regards,
    Gemma Rutter

    The worlds smallest violin

    I could never find anything in my bottomless handbag, so I decided to buy one with many, many sections. Now, I still can't find anything, there are just more possible places it could be.

    The main activity of my weekend was purchasing a wooden contraption to sit all the herb jars in. They don't fit. Shall I kill myself now, or wait a bit?

    In other, more pressing news, the BBC have drawn our attention to a few groundbreaking findings. Thank God, that someone has thought to ask the questions that need asking. 99% of policeman, in perhaps the most urgent survey ever to exist, believe that government cut backs will have a detrimental effect on crime, and even, public services. I'm just relieved that our dwindling funds are being pumped into the most deprived areas. Perhaps someone could ask the police about their opinions on Marmite, and whether or not they would describe the holocaust as 'regrettable.'

    My life was also threatened today, when, as I was blowing my nose, Ginger Beard said, 'You know, doing that significantly increases your chances of having a stroke." So, for all those out there, noses happily buried in Kleenex, release them now. Drip, people, drip! And while you're at it, drink one glass of red wine a day, wait no, drinking is bad for your health, exercise, but not too much, save the animals, but don't fall behind on your iron intake, water the flowers, but don't contribute towards a hose pipe ban, look stunning, but be happy in your own, inadequate skin.

    Alright, so I'm having a bad day. Luckily, as I rounded the corner of the station, that yappy, tail wagging son-of-a-bitch puppy was still very firmly there. And no, they haven't had the decency to reply to my reasonable email. Shall I send them another one? I want to send them another thirty-four, different emails in different colours, and different fonts. And then they'll reply. And then I'll say, 'Just wanted to share the joy of being pestered by something pointless camouflaged as something worth sharing, like the billboard' HA HA HA.

    I'll sleep on it.

    Tuesday, May 10, 2011

    We took her breath away.

    Hey, so, if you go for a drive with your left wing mirror pushed in, turns out, it's okay as long as you never turn left. It is odd however that I didn't notice, if we agree that you're supposed to use them, and they're not (as I like to think of them) the cars ears. In my defence, the wing mirror ended up in this state because, thanks to Ginger Beard's experimental, diagonal parking, it was necessary to save its life.

    What do you get if you cross a packed train carriage, with a bitter National Rail employee, and a women with Claustrophobia? A really uncomfortable, yet somewhat entertaining journey. I am experiencing some wondrous sights on these good ol' reliable trains. The panicking lady in question did a bit of river dancing between the door and the platform, before deciding to face her fear. She then proceeded to turn white, squeeze her eyes shut and gulp oxygen, whilst at the same time unintentionally hugging a stranger's belly.

    Luckily she had the background noise of the blue-shirted train man, who decided it was an apt moment to vent his frustration at those nameless bastards. Firstly, they'd provided him with a toy train this morning, instead of a real one, which explained our suffocating confinement. Then they were making him pay for his uniform because he kept splitting his trousers. He asked us if we knew what time we were supposed to arrive, and which platform. What else could he do, when faced, elbowed, and lovingly squashed by the enemy - forty pissed off, morning breath, would it hurt you to suck on a polo, commuters? He made the right decision. And it's the only reason he is still alive.

    Does anyone know how to look after an Orchid? If I can keep this Orchid safe for six months, I'm allowed to have a pet. Unfortunately I have killed/neglected approximately seven other house plants. Any advice would be much appreciated, as I would like to get a dog like Lassie, that can alert friends and family when I have fallen down a well.

    My wise colleague, Hayley Crinnion, has put forth the theory that the billboard (you know, that small, justifiable piece of modern art STILL living in Leeds Train Station) is actually a threat to the puppy itself. This is a feasible possibility, that while we sit and ponder the unlikely, arrogant public reason provided for the billboard, a puppy, somewhere, is totally fucked if he makes a mess with the paint again.

    I will be composing an email to the artist/establishment in order to complain about its existence, and will keep you updated with my progress.

    Friday, May 06, 2011

    Confessions of a blogaholic

    This blog started out as a way to flex my fingers, an assurance that, nonsense or inspired prose, something would be written at regular intervals. What seems to have happened, is that I spend so much time on my blog, that I don't have time left for the, uh, the actual writing. I'm supposed to be entering a novel competition at the end of this month. And instead of working on this novel, and cartwheeling towards notoriety, I'm here, with you.

    I'm not complaining; It's lovely being with you.

    I just seem to have very firmly drifted into reality, and left my fiction on the back step. So I'll keep it quick (ensuring that the rest of my lunch break is very productive, all fifteen minutes of it).

    I think, I plan, I might, start putting up bits of fiction on here to be judged by your scathing eyes. Par example, a teeny weeny excerpt of this so called novel of mine. Which I am like, totally dedicated to right now. You know, trying to write a book, a book that actually warrants attention, is like having a whingey toddler pulling on your sleeve with a snotty nose; you don't really want to tend to it, but you can't really leave it in a supermarket (unless you're very crafty).

    And on that note of abandoning children, I will depart to spend some quality time with the blank page.

    Thursday, May 05, 2011

    Click Happy

    Hey kids, how goes it?

    I'm having a delightful time of life recently. The cream of the crop has to be yesterday's incident. I'm sat at my desk at work, suddenly overcome by a curiosity to see where all of my blog traffic is coming from. It turns out slagging off that puppy has drawn me much Google support. I also have a stronghold in Germany. I can only presume this is because of my German ancestry, which must be evident in my writing style.

    There are also a few sources coming in from websites. I clicked on them. Someone's doing a research paper on colour. I'm flattered. It is true that my life is very colourful, mostly black, but black is very in right now. And then there's this one link. This one, inoffensive, innocent link. You know what fills my screen, at work, surrounded by colleagues, eating my tuna sandwich? Hmm? PORN. Lots and lots of animated porn, and women with their legs open, and their breasts bouncing. I said 'Shit!' loudly, alerting all to the issue at hand. And promptly shut the bitch down. I haven't spoken about it. No one has spoken about it.

    I like to think that my blog is a kind of literotica for people, and listed on their site as an alternative to the visual. I guess the angst and frustration I channel here could be pleasuring the nation. Very likely. Go me. I am going to edit these posts, and sell the book to Ann Summers. Coming to a shop near you.

    Also, notice the link, that puppy is still fricking there. I have written documentation that restricts the lifespan of that billboard to April. It's May now, why is it allowed to live? I have nothing against dogs per say, but it needs to be destroyed. Every time I look at it this happens, 'How does this represent aids in the 80's? It's so pretentious. I hate you. And I hate this commute. And I hate this sardine shuffle to the exit. Stupid dog. Stupid painted dog.' I don't think I can go through these emotions every morning for the next month.

    I also don't think it's too dramatic of us to gel together in our outrage, and burn it. Would anyone like to help? Remember that even a few, small people, can change the world for the better. Also, let me know if you have the following items which I can borrow:

    Flamethrower
    Massive Ladder
    Fire proof suit and headgear
    Exemption from arrest
    Keys to station

    Thank you in advance.

    Wednesday, May 04, 2011

    How to make friends and antagonise people

    I'm having a very difficult time enduring the conditions of my commute. Yesterday, I was delightfully cornered by three buxom, big mouthed women, who were incredibly smug about their upcoming days off work. One of them, the ugliest, announced that she had plans for the next seven weekends, and proceeded to list them.

    "Booked up, completely booked, hardly time to breathe. This weekend I'm phoning my mum, next weekend I'm sewing up a hole in my sock. Then I'm catching up on my recorded Sky back list, then it's a holiday with the girls, I say the girls, not everyone can make it, and it's in the UK."

    I thought, please, please divulge the location of this 'holiday', so I can make sure I'm not there, in body or spirit. Then another one talked about a fabulous Spanish resort that she was going to with her family, but mentioned no dates. Great, now I have to avoid Spain for the foreseeable future, all of Spain. Thanks. The third continually yawned in my face, covering only her nose. It left me to imagine that her nostrils flared unnaturally, and had been the topic of previous nasty remarks.

    Will this ever end, I asked my poor, suffocating, sprayed in the remnants of their lunch self. Will it? No, because the logical jump for the conversation to make is Osama Bin Laden. They were in mutual agreement, that his death wasn't going to stop anyone 'doing' terrorism. I really hate it when people do terrorism. And they all seemed genuinely very excited about possible revenge. I guess that the first woman was hoping for an event large enough that it would busy her for that eighth, looming weekend. I guess the second woman was hoping for an event long enough, so that she could bob off to Spain for a few weeks. And I guess the third woman would just bloody love another excuse to have her mouth open.

    Upon nearing my departure from the love train, I said 'excuse me' to a so far quiet lady to my left. She too, was getting off, and said, 'I too, am getting off.' I said, 'IF we can get off', and gestured at my new friends. And she, without the slightest hint of sarcasm said, 'We will make them get off.' And I knew, that like me, her day had also been ruined by their complete disregard for personal space, and political opinions.

    Could the class one travels by, not be concluded by conduct, rather than cash? It's not that I don't enjoy an elbow tentatively rubbing against my breast, and being privy to a loud re-telling of Susie's break-up, and a briefcase nudging my crotch. I do. It's just a suggestion.

    Sunday, May 01, 2011

    Shut. Up!

    I'll tell you what's nice; your first time on a motorway and you get hit by a sponge baton. That's nice. I didn't have a clue what it was at first, just that it had fallen off a truck, which it was previously tied to. It's not the best feeling. But it was alright in the end, what with it being practically a child's flotation device.

    It's been a truly magical time back in good ol'Notts this weekend. I have an odd-shaped burn on my neck and chest which seems to resemble a trombone. Which can't be helped when you have a mother who considers factor 4 to be sunblock. I had a conversation with an old friend about seeing the Eiffel Tower whilst she's in New York - A bizarre idea we both seemed to convincingly share. I had a brief, passionate confrontation with a polish man, over some cafe seats in the sun, desperate to achieve the trombone tan.

    And I've been trying (ish) to like, become a fully qualified accountant. To be honest, I was hoping it would be a bit like, 'If Billy has two apples, then how many apples does Billy have?' Instead it's more like this: 'If  $%^&***  was translated into Latin, and then from Latin into musical notes, calculate the worth of X.'

    Maybe I'm a bit special. Maybe after all these years of focusing on words, and grammar, and the technical construction of sonnets, the part of my brain reserved for logic has shrivelled. Part of the problem is that all the examples start with, 'You own a business called...' and I'm thinking about the interior design, and how I'd manage the staff, and how success would affect my wardrobe choices. Is that so wrong? Is it because I love 'The only way is Essex?' Should I give up accountancy, and take up Botox?

    I'll get a tiny dog for my handbag, speak only in acronyms, and make predatory advances at unsuitable men.

    I guess the last word on the subject was always going to be O.M.G.