Interrailing (Day 4)

Due to the fact that there was absolutely no natural light whatsoever entering our underground dorm (only weird red atmospheric lamps), Em and I both woke up utterly disorientated. After asking our Swedish roomies the time, we discovered it was midday! Woops..

Then as true Brits, we embraced Praguish culture by going to Tesco's to do a food shop. Since we didn't understand Czech, we had to take a gamble on the water bottles... and lost. It was fizzy. Ew.

For the rest of the day, we wandered around getting a feel of Prague. As hipster travellers, we felt that most of the tourist traps were too mainstream so we stepped off the beaten track to quieter roads. So after crossing over Charles Bridge (a must-see), admiring street artists and the like, we stumbled upon a John Lennon Wall and pub! Scouse.

Crossing back over the river, we went to Old Town Square in search of the astronomical clock. 1 hour later there was still no sign of the damn clock so we sat dejectedly on the curb eating our Tesco sandwiches and doing some more people-judging watching. It was only after getting up from finishing our food that we realised that we'd been sitting with our backs to the enormous astronomical clock the WHOLE time.

So we made it back to our hostel after our exploration and thought we'd cook up some pasta in the hostel kitchen. What happened after this was awful.

First off we had a look in the fridge. Big mistake. I think I could see living organisms growing inside it. There were plates of uncovered, half-eaten food stacked up and dripping down the sides. Random slices of bread were strewn over everything as if someone had been practising their aim. 

Finding a pan proved to be a challenge and the only one we could find had been abandoned with congealed macaroni in the bottom. After severely sterilising the unhallowed utensil, we finally got our pasta going.

But I'm sad to say that things only got worse as we were cooking the pasta.

A guy came in with a pan and cooked a huge batch of spaghetti. He then dolloped half of it on a plate. After SMOTHERING the spaghetti in ketchup he went to eat. Weird but acceptable.

Then the guy returned after eating. He fished out the pan with the other half of the spaghetti and flopped the congealed and still piping-hot mess onto another plate and proceeded to STICK IT STRAIGHT IN THE FRIDGE. Not covered, not waiting for it to cool, not stirred. Just a hot globule of spaghetti. And this is the same fridge I described before.

After he left, we opened the fridge and could see the teetering plate giving off steam. Vile. But that wasn't the end of it...

A few minutes later, the guy's friend walked in. He fished the plate out of the ungodly fridge, put it straight into the microwave, then smothered it in ketchup and ate it. Absolutely vile.

Understandably, we were completely put off our own food but we knew we had to eat before heading out on a Prague pub crawl that we had booked onto earlier with the Belfastians.

Our stomachs still churning after "spaghetti-gate", we made our way to the Belfastians' lovely hostel and were yet again greeted warmly by the owners who warned us against mixing drinks. The dream team reunited, we made our way to the pub crawl along with two guys who claimed that they were from Liverpool. They were from New Brighton. (Have a look on Google maps.)

This pub crawl was immense. A free t-shirt. Unlimited free vodka shooters, absinthe (it burned the soul), wine and beer for the first hour. We seriously mixed some drinks. 4 bars and ridiculous conversation later ("Andy Murray plays badminton"), we (except 2 of our team) made it to the largest club in Central Europe. It was unbelievably amazing until both mine and Em's shoes broke and my shorts ripped. A creepy teenager who "looked like Jesus" kept following us around so a large part of our time in the club was spent running around the different floors "avoiding Jesus". Bare-foot and exhausted, we made the pilgrimage to KFC and shared an emotional bargain bucket as we said goodbye to our Belfastian friends. The next morning it was time to move on.

Interrailing (Day 3)

So we'd thoroughly nailed Berlin and now it was time to move on. But before leaving Berlin, Em and I visited Checkpoint Charlie, despairing at the huge McDonald's situated right on the spot of the historic landmark... and then guilt-eating away our own hypocrisy with Twix Mcflurrys.

Then it was time for the 12:46 train to Prague! Us, and the rest of the interrailing peasants were herded into the stuffy train corridors with no room to move and no room to breathe. But me and Em pride ourselves on being problem solvers so it wasn't long before we were sneaking into an air-conditioned and oasis-like reserved compartment where we immediately made friends with a group of Irish girls who were doing the same thing. Sadly this peace ended abruptly when we were sternly ousted from the compartment by an angry 8 year old Asian boy and his apologetic mother.

We rejoined the rest of our kind in the crammed corridor as people tried in vain to find friends and seat reservations. A particularly memorable moment for me was when an angry, determined, large German man who, despite the lack of feasible passage, went on to barge, prod, shove and swear his way through our ranks. I genuinely had to hold my breath as he elbowed me in the stomach to increase his momentum. Very pleasant.

But before long all this was forgotten as we nestled into our sweaty corridor amongst our fellow interrailers who WERE ALL IRISH. I think that the whole of the Irish youth must have planned a mass exodus to central Europe during summer 2013 because they were EVERYWHERE. One guy from Dublin, who was incredibly difficult to understand, talked about the beauty of post-it notes but soon left us at the sight of an empty chair. Yet all in all, the time passed fairly quickly, especially when we got talking to a group of people from Belfast. And as the train pulled into Prague Station, we were exchanging email addresses with the intention of going out together that night.

Passing absintherie after absintherie, we made it to our hostel and were shown to our 10 bed dorm. We must have delved 2 storeys below ground level (accompanied by a severe temperature drop) before we finally found our freezing, bare-bricked, windowless and doorless (there was a curtain) room. It reminded me of a winery, except that fine and aged wine was replaced by less fine and less aged travellers. For example, the two Swedish guys in our room who looked about 15 and sat in the room THE WHOLE TIME listening to Euro-trash and playing chess on their phones. They really needed to get a life some fresh air.

Em drew a WONDERFUL map to the Belfastians' hostel and we headed out. Their hostel was amazing, cheap, and the owners were lovely. Once we told them the hostel we were staying in, the owner replied "yes your hostel is bad." We bought in wonderfully cheap pre-drinks and food and cracked out the card games in their fabulous and luxurious and pleasant (we weren't envious at all...) hostel.

Our first night out in Prague began with 3 of us desperate for the toilet whilst we all roamed around looking for a club and arguing over the factors of safety and proximity. Proximity won the day as we hurried past a scary-looking scantily-dressed woman dancing on a podium by a club door. We then got in a dubious lift (I don't know it just was) which took us up to the actual club.

It was our first night out in central Europe and we quickly ascertained: good DJs, decent enough music... and horrific dancing. Here's a quick list of the people we interacted with:

• Wannabe Channing Tatum: this guy honestly thought he was in Step Up and writhed around the floor a lot.
• Sandy at the end of Grease: she had come to the club alone in what looked like a black swimming costume.
• Romeo and Juliet: they thought that if they stopped dry humping for even a second, they'd die. EW.
• The Dad Dancer: you know the one - tall, bald and flailing. Except this one also wore sunglasses.. at night.. inside.

And all these people were drawn to us like moths to a flame because we were CLEARLY the best dancers in da house. After feeling we'd represented Britain fantastically, we proudly made the obligatory 3am trip to McDonald's and walked back to the hostel, marvelling at the ease of flat shoes.

Interrailing (Day 2)

Apart from being woken up at 5am when the two English girls came back steaming drunk fairly quietly, Em and I slept soundly until the morning. We said goodbye to the two Israeli guys who were moving along to their next destination but not before having a heated discussion about the best starter Pokemon. (bulbasaur obviously.) Then we went out to explore the area around our hostel and to find the nearest shop. The nearest shop turned out to be a Netto...

..After fleeing from the nearby Netto, it was time for sightseeing. Optimistically, we decided on walking to Berlin's city centre. Although strenuous, the walk turned out to be fruitful as we meandered through the Tiergarten and technology area whilst also seeing the Reichstag and Brandenberg Gate. At the Brandenberg Gate upon recommendation from Em's dad we bought a currywurst each and this powderful deliciousness definitely replenished our energy.

Currywursts devoured, we queued in an irritatingly short line for an irritatingly long time to book a free visit to the top of the Reichstag, only to found out that it was just the terrace open as the famous dome was being cleaned for A WHOLE WEEK. (Honestly, I could have done the job with some Dettol wipes in a day.) But anyway, we booked to go later that day so set off on our favourite method of transport across the city to see the last remains of the Berlin Wall.

The contrast between the two areas of Berlin was immediately noticeable as we left the gleaming office buildings and bustle behind. I'm not suggesting that the eastern bit was the slums or anything, it just felt different. We sat down on some grass next to the wall and river and enjoyed being serenaded by a horse-headed guitarist playing ACDC (yes this did happen, no we weren't stoned). But speaking of stoned, our neighbours on the patch of grass were a bunch of teenage boys who we watched try and roll a joint for a good half an hour. We then stumbled across a sign for a beach bar called Yaam and thought we'd have a look. Feeling sand under our feet, listening to some reggae and smelling A LOT of weed, we wandered through the open-air bar reflecting on the pleasantry of this drug-themed hour of our day.

We passed the time waiting for our Reichstag visit by getting utterly lost back at our hostel (an old nunnery) and marvelling at the stamina of German nuns. Realising we had no food for the next day, Em and I begrudgingly dragged our feet to Netto with the self-justification that carrying the shopping back in M&S bags meant that it didn't really count. For dinner that night, we somehow managed to find a kitchen we'd barged into earlier and microwaved our Uncle Ben's rice. Much to the confusion and disgust of two German girls who were cooking fresh pasta and sauce, we ate straight out of the bags. But their looks of pity soon turned to envy as we threw away our packets and left, leaving them to wash up their pans and plates.

We took a train (surprising I know) back to the Reichstag and since we were early, settled down on a bench in a square by the Brandenburg Gate and some fountains. It was early evening by then and much of the bustle of the day had ended as we soaked up the warm evening and mellow tunes of a nearby saxophonist. This probably doesn't sound special but for me it was pretty darn BOSS, just lying there people-watching. NB: when Em and I say people-watching, we mean people-judging.

The Reichstag itself had full on airport security and we made it through, chatting to a nice guy from Orlando. Up on the terrace, we looked at the beautiful panoramic views of Berlin and the horrible view of bad German male haircuts. The leafy Tiergarten looked out of place in the concrete landscape, much like the teenager's quiff looked out of place on his shaved head. (You can't even comprehend how proud I am of that simile.)

Back in our hostel room, we chatted to the two English girls and said hello to three new Asian girls. The Asians really didn't help the stereotype, keeping to themselves and packing and repacking their stuff numerous times in between checking their iPads. The last bed in our room was claimed by a quiet guy from Cape Cod who said about five words before we all went to bed. Understandably so, I think he must have been overwhelmed by the overpowering stench of feet and oestrogen in our room.

My Experience of Interrailing (Day 1)

I have a genuine excuse for my lack of posts over the past fortnight - My friend Em and I have been interrailing through Europe! (Check out interrailing here http://www.interrail.eu/)

Since this was a completely new experience for us, I thought that I would write down our adventures as we went along and now share them with you through posts for each day. Hopefully this saga might encourage you to try travelling too and even entertain you just a smidgen...

Our flight from Liverpool to Berlin was on the 8th of July and as we boarded the plane, Em and I were hit by the sudden realisation that we were totally unprepared. All we had with us were vague directions to our pre-booked hostel in Berlin and our booking for a Venice hostel on the 19th of July (plus essentials like knickers, ID and Berocca). The response from EVERY single person, including my hairdresser, who we told about our trip to "stay safe" and not "go off with strangers" still ringing in our ears, we buckled our seatbelts and wondered how we were going to survive the next fortnight by ourselves.

The man sitting next to us on the flight only exacerbated our fears by telling us how "brave" we were to be travelling alone so we silenced him with the gift of some Bitsa Wispa and tried to calm our pulsing hearts. What were we letting ourselves in for?

We arrived in Germany at around 9:30pm and headed for our first train journey. Not wanting to use up one of our 10 days of unlimited train travel, we pressed random buttons on the ticket machine until we came up with the cheapest ticket and bought that, hoping for the best. If the ticket turned out to be invalid, we agreed it would be best to pull the old "me English sorry no comprendey" gaff until we were left alone. Luckily, no such trouble passed and we made it to the hostel 3 trains later at around 11:30pm.

Neither of us had stayed in a hostel before so we didn't know what to expect as we entered our 8 bed mixed dormitory. Two girls greeted us whilst we claimed our bunks and it turned out that they lived 40 minutes from where we come from - definitely a pleasant surprise with which to ease into hostel life. They inquired after our ages and immediately groaned, claiming that they were "the oldest people in Europe" at 24 and 25 years old.

More pleasant greetings soon followed as two Israeli 19 year old guys entered with pizza and shared it with us. The two girls from England got ready to go out as Em and I chatted to the two Israeli guys in the common room. After disclosing that we were from Liverpool, we were met with a thickly Hebrew-accented but touching rendition of You'll Never Walk Alone and the chatting continued in the same bizarre but friendly manner.

When an argument started on the subject of which guy's sister was hotter, Em and I made are excuses and went to bed, slightly more pacified than we had been a few hours earlier. 

Our interrailing trip had begun...

Toaster Problems

Sorry for lack of posting recently. I finished my exams a week ago and thought I would have more time to write but I was a very busy bee...

... until my toaster broke.

Anyone that knows me will understand what a massive catastrophe this was.

A couple of days ago my friends and I went out on the raz / lash / pull / graft etc. (i.e. we frequented Liverpool after dark) and there's nothing that I like better after a late night than some golden brown buttery goodness the next morning. So this is what I had.

After deciding that three pieces of toast was not nearly enough, I got out some more bread. (Granary for the win) I placed my plate carefully on the surface nearest to the toaster to reduce the wafting and therefore cooling of the toast. I readied my knife in the butter next to my plate in order to optimise melt capacity. I was all set. I got out the bread and slotted it into my beautiful four-slotted beast. I set the dial to 2/7 because burnt toast is for losers and people who don't understand the beauty of the world. I did one last check of my preparations and pushed the lever down...

... all the electricity in my house switched off.

No joke.

The trip switch had done its irritating job of ensuring everyone's safety because the fuse in my toaster had blown. My dad went to reset the trip switch and everything returned to relative normality.

I think this was when I began the experiencing The Five Stages of Grief because I was completely in denial of the fact that my beautiful appliance had broken. I pushed down the lever on the toaster again and...

... all the electricity in my house switched off... again.

By this point, my dad, brother and friend were understandably getting annoyed at me as dad lumbered off to do the trip switch again.

My friend remembered we could do toast on the grill in the oven but this is when the second stage of grief kicked in - anger. I was FUMING (angry) that I would have to subject my bread to the ugly burn lines of the oven grill and I became even more worked up when I realised I wouldn't be able to get my bagels to remain soft on the outside but toasted on the inside if I used my oven. Nope, I was not happy.

Then boom. Next came bargaining. I went back over to the toaster and used the extent of my scientific knowledge to unplug it and plug it again. I even fiddled with the wire at the back. It couldn't be broken, not after all the good times and the bad times I'd shared with it. Maybe we could swap the wires with the microwave. Surely something could save it. But alas, no.

This is when waves of depression washed over me like the Mersey on a stormy day. What was I going to do without my beloved and trusted appliance? What would we do with the breadcrumbs it had meticulously been collecting in the tray at the bottom for years? I couldn't imagine finding another toaster like it. This was the end of an era... a warm, toasted, buttery era.

It was only yesterday morning that I finally gained acceptance of what had happened. Mum and dad, realising that I couldn't cope for long in this limbo state with no proper toast, rushed out to Costco and I woke up to find a new chrome machine placed precisely where my old friend had been. It was a gut-wrenching moment but it was inevitable.

I know one day I'll look back at all the fond memories I've shared with my old toaster, but at the moment it's still too raw... like my bread. I haven't been able to bring myself to use the new toaster yet even though I understand this day will come soon.

But until that day,

RIP my old faithful toaster, you've served me well. I hope you're having fun in that great kitchen in the sky.

Keep toasting.

x

That's all for now, folks.

Fast & Furious 6 (2013)

IMDB.com summary:

Hobbs has Dom and Brian reassemble their crew in order to take down a mastermind who commands an organization of mercenary drivers across 12 countries. Payment? Full pardons for them all.

Now let's be honest, plot really isn't the be all and end all in a Fast & Furious film. In fact, it's not really important at all. Any resemblance to narrative merely serves as an underfed milkmaid who is obliged to milk the bursting udder of the cow of bombast for all it's worth but who gets none of the rewards. (I don't know why I'm using a cow metaphor, I'm sorry about that.) So yes, just ignore that metaphor... and the whole plot.

The same can be said for the script. One perfect example goes something like this:
Person 1: "Be careful!" *dramatic pause* Person 2: "This is who we are."
Phwoar.
The dialogue is only really there because something has to fill the gaps between the action scenes. Usually this filler takes the form of a romantic scene.... again, it is perfectly acceptable to ignore these and I have to say that they do drag the film out time-wise more than is necessary.

Having already seen the rest of the franchise, I still couldn't remember the names of any most of the gang. Any characterisation is irrelevant although there is some enjoyable banter between Ludacris and Tyrese Gibson.

Now let's get onto the crucial stuff. Cars. More cars. Cars racing. Sweat. And enough baby oil to ensure that The Rock is suitably saturated for the duration of the film. Beautiful and ostentatious escapism at its finest, ladies and gentlemen. There is also the added bonus of seeing the gang racing through a different city - this time it's London and the spectacle is incredible. As ever, there is the obligatory underground racing scene... (because of course every major city in the world has one, right?) In true Fast & Furious fashion, these scenes are visually stunning, and make it worth the money. The film never fails to try something even more unbelievable than the previous action sequence. I'd love to contemplate a particular favourite part of mine but all I'll say is that the whole cast from now on must only be known as The Flying Squirrels.

So in summary: don't watch it with the expectation of being intellectually challenged.

Watch it with the expectation of getting more than your money's worth for a film with the title "Fast & Furious 6".

That's all for now, folks.

The Habitual Tea Drinkers Society

There still exists a stereotype of Britain in this day an age of people sitting down for "elevenses" or afternoon tea in top hats. I recently visited America and the amount of times a person thought it was amusing or just plain fantastic for us to be ordering a brew was phenomenal.

They probably also think we own tiny dogs called Tilly and Milly who we keep at our country home when in actual fact, this is what most of us see everyday.

2013 Tea Party

But then I got to thinking, what's wrong with this stereotype of Britain? Maybe we should embrace it! I used to hate tea, until I envied my mum and Granny for being able to sit down with a pot which is when I began to force myself to drink it...and now I love it! I'd never really considered myself as a "proper" tea-drinker until I contemplated my own daily tea-drinking schedule. After compiling the list, I feel a bit stupid...

Here is my daily tea schedule (open to change):

My Tea schedule

Morning:

Standard morning - Green Tea

In-need-of-a-pick-me-up morning - Apple and Cinnamon Tea

Lazy morning - Blackcurrant

Ill morning - Lemon and Ginger Tea

Elevenses:

Out-and-about elevenses - English Breakfast Tea (the run of the mill tea)

Already-tired elevenses - Another Green Tea

Lazy elevenses - Orange Tea

Still-throwing-up elevenses - Camomile Tea

Post-lunch:

Standard post-lunch - Red Bush Tea

Knackered-and-it's-only-just-been-lunch - Yet another Green Tea

Lazy post-lunch - Blackcurrant Tea

My-whole-body-is-now-on-fire - White Tea

Afternoon / returning home:

Standard afternoon - Red Bush Tea

I-still-have-work-to-do-at-home-this-evening- Apple and Cinnamon Tea

Celebratory-tea-for-my-lazy-day - Fruit Punch Tea

Urgh-I-want-to-curl-up-into-a-ball-and-watch-Pride-and-Prejudice-this-evening - Hot water with lemon

Settling down in front of post-watershed TV:

Standard evening tea - Camomile

Going-to-pull-an-all-nighter - Green Tea

Lazy evening tea - White Tea

If you're still trying to force down drinks after being ill all day.. stop. Just go to bed.

NB: If someone is offering to "fix a brew" for me, I find that it is common courtesy to accept/ask for a normal tea.. unless they SPECIFICALLY offer you something else.

Voila. So there is my average tea schedule. Just so you know, I'm neither massively rich nor have a tea compulsion, it's just that people often give me tea for my birthday and Christmas so I have compiled in my cupboard what I like to call the "Now" Album of all the best teas. (Excluding Earl Grey... I hate Earl Grey.)

So it's clear that I love tea. But I think that it's not the consumption of tea itself which has made the drink so iconic. It's the fact that everyone can bond over a cuppa - the event of drinking tea. It's the metaphorical bunting and Battenberg that accompanied the tea. You could offer your posh old Aunt a brew, or your builder, or your mum. And each time you do, there's a tiny invisible thread of tea leaves that connects you to another person, another tea drinker. And let's not forget the magical healing elements of tea. If someone is wins the lottery/loses a leg... it's only a matter of time before someone goes to put the kettle on. Drinking tea is a social event - whether it be celebratory or consolatory. And let's be honest, a mug is possibly THE easiest present in the world to buy someone.

So... what's your view of the whole tea thing? All hype or can't live without it? Favourite kind? (If you say Earl Grey I will hunt you down and make you eat all of the Earl Grey tea bags in your home.)

That's all for now, folks.

Why I Love A Cappella

A cappella - from an Italian phrase meaning "in a Church style" because historically in Church, music was provided by either an unaccompanied chant or choir.

And thus the style of music without instruments was born, and vocal chords became the instrument of choice.

Being in an a cappella group myself hasn't made me any more knowledgeable or any more qualified to talk about it, but it has inspired my love of a cappella so I would like to share that.

A cappella is not a modern term, nor does it only cover the unaccompanied pop we associate it with today although there does seem to be a revival of a cappella music in the past few years (think Pitch Perfect and Pentatonix).

And now I think it would be a good time to tell you why I believe a cappella music is the BUSINESS:

1. Breadth

So so so so so so so much stuff can be defined as a cappella, and that's what I love about it: it's not a genre of music - it's a style.

For example, this can be classified as a cappella music:

(Swingle Singers performing an a cappella version of Ave Verum Corpus by Mozart )


But this can also be classified as a cappella:

Both are incredible, and both are a cappella!

2. Technical skill

Don't get me wrong, I am in NO WAY saying that singing a cappella is more technically challenging than playing an instrument. I just think there's something especially commendable with singing 10 part harmony (for example) perfectly in tune, without going flat or sharp, and without the aid of pre-tuned instruments. And when you consider that a lot of a cappella songs nowadays are covers of regular songs, that means people are basically singing a guitar part anyway! Pretty darn cool eh? 

And again, I don't want to offend anyone but this post is about a cappella music in its true form - not those covers on youtube in which one person records and layers their voice for every instrument. There is definitely a LOT of skill involved in that process, but I just believe it's a different kind of skill to my idea of a cappella singing which is a bunch of people performing on-the-spot with no chance of re-recording or auto-tuning.

3. It's so fun

When else can you get away with singing incoherent noises that sound a lot like the "maaaooaaam" or "eeeeeeyooooore" to replicate guitar riffs or sound effects in songs? WITH THE ADDED BONUS THAT IT SOUNDS AMAZING.

(NB: For a simple beat box rhythm, repeat the phrase "boots and cats and boots and cats and..." over and over again without saying the vowel sounds)

Plus, no need to find an extension cable or wall socket or instruments or a tech guy or a room or electricity or space... you can just go and sing!

So

From the choral masterpieces of Thomas Tallis (check out If Ye Love Me), to Barbershop quartets, to modern pop covers, you're sure to find something you love. And I would definitely urge you to to find something! Or sing something... all it takes is one person!

Here are a few of my favourites to inspire you:

Pentatonix

Straight No Chaser

Swingle Singers

I might have accidentally on purpose dropped into the conversation that I'm in an a cappella group. We are an amateur Liverpool-based 5 part a cappella group called F#TM and we sing for fun. Sorry, I couldn't do this post without a tiny bit of self-promotion.

Here is a video of us performing:

Here is our channel:

F#TM Channel

And here is our Facebook page:

F#TM Facebook Page

Hope you enjoy it!

That's all for now, folks.

Why it's OK to Fancy Older People

My desktop

As you can see from the screenshot of my laptop desktop above, I am a proud fancier of older men and I feel it is now time to voice my opinions on this wonderful subject. (I'm going to try to relate this to either gender)

Just so you know, I am most definitely NOT a relationship guru. Most of the examples I'll give are from my own limited experience as an 18 year old girl. These are just my ponderings and the advice I'd give to a friend.

Why it's OK to fancy older people:

1. The maturity thing

Because let's be honest, immature people are not attractive. I don't mean the Dougie-from-McFly sort of immaturity - that's more endearing than pretty much ANYTHING in the world. What I mean is someone who is on the verge of a breakdown if they don't get their own way. Someone who gets incredibly needy if you don't communicate with them at least 5 times a day. Someone who still "lols" at the mention of genitalia. We all know that person, and we all know we wouldn't go out with that person. Maturity has to be one of the main reasons a person is attracted to older people. Imagine going on a date, and the person you're sitting with knows that the posh French dish on the menu actually just means breaded chicken. And just imagine being with someone who knows a little bit more about alcohol than the difference between Echo Falls and Gallo. Someone with genuine (but not in your face) self-confidence and self-assurance is attractive. Emotional and intellectual maturity is sexy.

2. Looks are looks

Why hello, Miles.

It shouldn't matter if someone is your age or 10 years older than you, if they make your knees wobbly, then what's the problem. You're in a bar. In your left-side peripheral vision, you spy an 18 year old with acne, badly-cut bangs, trousers halfway down his thighs, laughing at the word "penis" approaching you. To your right, you spy Miles from the Apprentice making a bee-line for you. Should you in some way be obligated to lunge at the 18 year old? Don't lie to yourself, we all know which way you'd turn. If you find someone attractive, and they find you attractive, then why not lunge at them go and introduce yourself!? Which brings me to my third point.

3. Age is just a number

What a lad.

Right, I KNOW that this is the excuse used by many a pervert, but there is some truth in it. However, I still maintain my point that the whole fancying older people malarkey is more about personality (and looks) than age. You might be an incredibly mature 20 year old who gels incredibly with a 30 year old. *hippy American accent* YOU CANNOT DENY THE CHEMISTRY MAAAAAN. I have some proof of this whole idea. I have a friend who is my age (18), and she was recently dating a 29 year old. Everything was going great. She'd cook dinner with him and they'd go out with his friends, and she felt totally at ease. He seemed really nice, then one day.. poof.. she never heard from him again. Nothing. So you tell me - who was the adult in their relationship? It works either way. There could be an incredibly grown-up 18 year old and and a ridiculously young-at-heart 87 year old. (Think Hugh Hefner) Alternatively, there could be a totally childlike 20 year old and a wizened 30 year old. It all just depends on who meshes well. So there's another reason why it's OK to fancy older people - because it just so happens that you connect more with them than your own age group.

4. Self-esteem

Because I couldn't do this post without a picture of him.

NB: I AM NOT SUGGESTING THAT YOU SHOULD GO OUT WITH SOMEONE JUST TO MAKE YOURSELF FEEL BETTER.

All I'm saying is that there must be a kind of confidence boost to be gained from being with an older person. Whether it be "wow I can't believe this person likes me" or "wow look who I've pulled", there's definitely some sort of happy feeling that you're doing something right.

This guy isn't just any run-of-the-mill guy, this is an older, wiser and more confident M&S guy.

Things to think about:

So as well as the glory of bagging/fancying an older person, there are some things I'd consider.

1. Older men v. older women

One thing I really don't understand is why it is a lot more acceptable for an older guy to be dating a younger woman than an older woman to be dating a younger man. Think of the whole idea of the term "cougar" which has now become an insult. And think of the whole Harry Styles and Caroline Flack thing.. the media pounced on it and Flack has been "terrored" for it ever since. And now think of Peter Andre (40) and Emily MacDonagh (23). There's not been much on the subject... or perhaps that's just because it's Peter Andre...

2. Number games

Here are two things which I've heard frequently used:
"The Two Year Rule" - Never go out with someone above or below this age bracket in relation to your own age.

"Men mature three years slower than women" - what it says on the tin.

(I'm not going to bang on much longer so I'll leave you to ponder those.)

3. So you're thinking about dating an older person

The one thing I would beg you to honestly ask yourself:

"Why does he/she want to go out with me?"

If you don't have an answer to that question which you could tell your nan, then scrap the whole thing off.

So there you have it. YES it's OK to fancy older people... in fact, it's completely normal. Probably more normal in fact than being attracted to a dirty 18 year old who is still at the end of this post laughing at the word "penis". Basically, all I'm saying is that it's fine either way. Just remember that with whoever you end up getting wobbly knees over, make sure you're both comfortable and in it for the same, right reasons and you can't go wrong.

That's all for now, folks.

Summer Playlist 2013

Oooooo my first post about music. Since summer is fast-approaching, I thought I'd rustle up a playlist of songs which compliment those summer days spent chilling out, maxing and relaxing all cool.

The reason I haven't added a bunch of top 40 songs to my list is NOT because I don't like top 40. It's just because you'll probably hear so much of that stuff on the radio anyway so there's not much point me putting it on here.

And don't be thinking that I'm some music guru who knows and enjoys all music under the sun. I stumbled across most of these songs during my travels across the tinterverse and thought I'd share the ones with you which I thought were "summery" and which I myself enjoyed listening to.

So here goes! (In no particular order)

Chris Malinchak - So Good To Me

(Simply spine-tingling)

Sion Russell Jones - So Long

Golden Silvers - Magic Touch

Tuxedo - Do It

Hall & Oates - You Make My Dreams Come True

(Oldie but a classic)

Gabrielle Aplin - Panic Cord

Kishi Bashi - Bright Whites

(give this one a minute)

Haim - Falling

Gorillaz - Up On Melancholy Hill

Foals - My Number

Frank Turner - The Way I Tend To Be

DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince - Summertime

(because you can't not have it)

Yes, I realise it's a bit random, but then so is life.

Enjoy!

That's all for now, folks.

Scaredy Cat

This post should really be called "Change" but I liked this photo too much.

So with two weeks left of life as I know it, I thought I'd get the obligatory nostalgic post out of the way.

I can't remember the last day I didn't get a knot in my stomach thinking about how soon everything I know will be over.

OK, maybe I'm being a little over-the-top but the title did grab your attention didn't it? Yes, I know it did.

Anyhow, the thought of University and beyond TERRIFIES me.

Never again will I put on a slightly-too-large uniform and rush into school to see all my friends in their slightly-too-large uniforms and complain about our slightly-too-large uniforms. I won't ever have another 9am-4pm day where I come home and count down the days to the next 18th birthday. I won't watch Glee on a Sunday evening with my mum. I won't be at school any more. I won't even be in the same half of the country any more.

After rereading the previous paragraph, I admit it doesn't seem terrifying at all. And perhaps I'm just a nostalgic and melodramatic person but I really don't like change.

Why don't people like change? Is it the worry that these are your glory days and it's never going to be as good as this ever again?

Is it because change always comes at the end of something else? So it's not the change, it's the END before the change that we hate the idea of?

Or is it the idea of having to start something new?  Perhaps we don't mind the end of something. Perhaps it's the making new friends/creating a new self-image/"the first day" syndrome that's the hard part.

Ah so many questions. And no answers. Just horrible stomach-knotting feelings.

Most of my friends can't wait to get to University... does this mean that they are less bothered about change?
It's not as if they liked school any less than me. In fact, some of the troopers have been at my school since nappies which is at least double the time I've been there.

So maybe it's not that they feel any less terrified than me.. maybe they're just less vocal about it.

So why do some people deal with change a lot better than others?

I'm sure my friends will all be having a competition on the last day of school to see who can make me cry over the most trivial thing. But why do I respond to change in a more negative way than other people? But maybe that's the point. Maybe I don't.

Maybe that's the hard thing about change: we all live individual lives, so we all have individual memories and experiences about the thing that's coming to an end, so we all feel alone and suffer slightly different stomach-knotting feelings to everyone else because we're in our own individual sad and nostalgic bubbles.

Oh look, a sad and nostalgic bubble.

Wow, it turns out writing about this is quite therapeutic.

OK, you've suffered through my selfish thoughts long enough. I promise the next post will not be so self-indulgent or bleak.

I've just counted, and I used the word maybe: (not including this time) 6 times; and the word perhaps: 3 times.

So obviously I don't actually have a clue about any of this. If you,  YES YOU, have ANY ANSWERS then PLEASE don't hesitate to contribute.

Oh dear, this whole post had been pretty useless. It's just the ramblings of a sad and nostalgic person with a knotted stomach living their life in their own sad and nostalgic bubble.

That's all for now, folks.

Iron Man 3 (2013)

Voila - my take on Iron Man 3 since I have literally just got in from seeing it.


IMDB.com summary:

When Tony Stark's world is torn apart by a formidable terrorist called the Mandarin, he starts an odyssey of rebuilding and retribution.


It has been a while since I've seen the other two Iron Man films but I can safely say that it is better than the second, and dare I say the first too.

Directed and co-scripted by Shane Black, you can see how it was written by the same man who wrote Lethal Weapon with its bizarre interjections and EXTREMELY tongue-in-cheek tone. The tone is what makes Iron Man 3. I don't want to give anything away but there are times when the film almost becomes a pastiche of the superhero film, and it works tremendously well. Little moments which occur in pretty much every film of this kind are openly recognised, flaunted and inverted in some way to great comic effect.

Robert Downey Jr has developed the role of Tony Stark as a continuation from the second film. We see him suffer from anxiety attacks which he tries to brush off in a very human way. Again, I don't want to spoil it but his moments with young Harley Keener (Ty Simpkins) are brilliant. As usual, RDJ is a very charismatic protagonist. (Attractive as ever, by the way, especially the hip gyration he treats us to near the start)

Ben Kingsley Ben Kingsley Ben Kingsley Ben Kingsley. Just brilliant. (Can't think of anything else to say which wouldn't be a mahoosive spoiler sorry)

Guy Pearce makes a very believable and hypnotic bad guy in the form of Aldrich Killian, although I don't understand why he doesn't wear socks...

Gwyneth Paltrow returns to the role of Pepper Potts and it's nice to see a development in her relationship with Tony Stark. I'm not really the biggest fan of Paltrow but I suppose she did what she had to do with her own limited character exploration she was given.

I would say that the film is a lot more plot driven than some MacGuffin-based films. There are some nice twists that you really don't see coming but I would say that overall, it's perhaps slightly too long. I can forgive that because of the overall fresh air it breathes into the genre.

Watch out for the Liverpool FC cameo - a moment of true glory.

I don't think you could go and see this film without enjoying it. 2 hours and 15 minutes of mostly effortless fun with stunning special effects and a suitably grand accompanying soundtrack.
Just go see it.

That's all for now, folks.

WAIT I NEARLY FORGOT - If you are happy to sit through 8 minutes of credits at the end of the film, there is a brilliant little post-credits scene with a special cameo...

Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005)

So I thought I'd get things started with a little something on one of my favourite films.

Me and You and Everyone We Know is written and directed by Miranda July.

It's probably not a film that everyone will enjoy but I think it's a film that everyone should see.

There are so many levels at work that you're bound to pick up on something or connect to someone.

Here is the summary from IMDB.com

"A lonely shoe salesman and an eccentric performance artist struggle to connect in this unique take on contemporary life."

OK, Perhaps that doesn't sell it but I can promise you that the film has a lot more to it.

Take Robby Swersey for example - the younger son of the aforementioned "lonely shoe salesman" called Richard. He is the innocence we crave. He spends his time in online chatrooms and "talks dirty" in the most funny and moving way. When asked "are you touching yourself?", he looks down at his fingertips which are touching on the edge of the desk... so he replies "Yes." I challenge you not to fall in love with Robby Swersey. And the final conclusion of that story arch is beautiful, so I won't give anything away.

"Back and forth... forever."
Robby's dirty talk. You'll have to watch the film.

Then there's Robby's older brother, Peter. He resents his father like only a teenager can, so his father tries to capture his son's attention by setting his own hand alight. Peter strikes up a slightly bizarre and unlikely friendship with a younger girl called Sylvie, which also has a moving ending.

The love story between Richard and the performance artist called Christine (Miranda July) is incredible. This was the first film in A LONG TIME where I haven't cringed or closed my eyes through a relationship portrayed in a film. So little is said but it's so effortless.

And there are two teenage girls across the road who seem desperate to grow up but who are not yet ready to do so.

Keep an eye out for the scene where Richard and Christine walk down the street talking about stages in a relationship and how their unsaid conversation mirrors the dialogue. This probably doesn't make any sense but just go watch it.

For many people, I can imagine that this film will seem like a piece of indie crap. But if you accept that what you're watching is low-budget, quirky and has slightly dodgy music, I can promise you that whether or not you enjoy it, you'll come out at the end knowing you've watched something thought-provoking.. even if you don't have a clue what thoughts have been provoked.

This has been my first ever film review thingy, so bear with whilst I'm getting used to it all.

I hope I've inspired you or at least convinced you to give this film a go!

That's all for now, folks.

North from Northwest

After having a haircut this afternoon, I decided that this was a good day to start a blog.

No particular reason.

Don't worry, I'm not going to be one of those people who is pretentiously unpretentious - you know, who ever-so-casually mentions their interest in Siberian Independent film and the post-apocalyptic haiku.

I will probably just write about things that interest me.. things that interest 99.9% of the population.. things like film, music and books. I might also write about any ponderings that a ponderer might have. I like to think that with a Liverpool postcode comes scouse wit so perhaps I will try and incorporate that.

"Why are you starting a blog" I don't hear you ask.

Well, I think I'm suffering from a pre-life crisis. I turned 18 (happy birthday to me) recently and I started to think:

"By the time Babe Ruth was 19 he was playing for the Boston Red Sox; Mark Zuckerberg had commercialised Facebook; Bill Gates had co-founded Microsoft; Mary Shelley had written "Frankenstien".

Inevitably, this made me a bit depressed.

So I've started a blog.. probably to "compensate" for my lack of achievement.

The name of this post is "North from Northwest". As a potential English undergraduate, I shall proceed to do a close reading of this title.

Northwest - I live and come from the North West of England.

North - NOT LITERAL. I don't know where I'm going, but I hope I'm going "up".

"North from Northwest" - a naff homage to Hitchcock. (I like film, I like puns, I like Hitchcock.)

So at the start of my "proper" life now that I'm 18, I'd like you to accompany me for however long my whim lasts.

NB: If I ever post something that makes me sound pretentious, I can pretty much promise you that I stumbled a cross it on the tinterweb. And maybe you will stumble across my stumblings on this blog. And maybe.. just maybe.. you'll enjoy them too.

That's all for now, folks.