Posted in Picture, Writing

30 is the New Awesome

I have noticed that my posts have been a bit negative recently (I had a particularly bad period this month.  You’re welcome).  I have decided to balance this out by focussing on things that I actually find enjoyable and I’m going to start with my thoughts on being 30.  Despite my occasional moans, I love being 30 and hope that this article will instil a little less dread in those who are nearing my age and a new, more positive perspective for those who are already there.  For the 21 year olds who may be reading this, you can take your snug-fitting vaginas and pert tits and fuck off.  No one is interested in anything you have to say.
 
The decision to accept my age as a positive thing occurred the other month after buying my first ever anti-wrinkle cream.  I currently have three wrinkles and since it took me 30 years to gain three wrinkles I thought that by the time I am 60 I will have six wrinkles.  That is how it works right?  Well, I don’t want six wrinkles so I went to Boots and bought some wrinkle-prevention cream.  As I was smearing it onto my face, the Bryan Adams classic ‘Summer of ’69’ came on PlanetRock Radio (Sky channel 0110 – get involved) and it made me come over all reflective.
 
There are many down sides to being in your thirties and my teenage years were without a doubt the best days of my life – almost too much fun – but then I think, ‘would I go back there if I could?’ –  No fucking chance.  Being young involves far too much giving-a-shit for very little reward.  High School for me was the Care capital of the Universe.  Literally everything had to be a drama and it usually involved copious amounts of tears, alcohol, cigarettes or boys.
 
This is exactly what he looked like. He did have an axe.

Take my first attempt at losing my virginity, for instance.  I was living in Malta at the time and it happened at my then boyfriend’s house when his parents were out for the afternoon.  We were in the bedroom clumsily trying to figure out what the hell we were supposed to do to get rid of the terrible burden that is a teenager’s virginity when, about an hour in (and nowhere near actually having sex), his Grandad decided to come round for a visit.  ‘Sweet of him’, I hear you say – yes well his Grandad was in the circus; he could inflate hot water bottles with his lungs, rip the Yellow Pages in half with his bare hands and there were pictures hanging above the fireplace of him pulling an Air Malta plane using only his 3 foot high, hairy body and a chest-harness.  He also didn’t speak any English, which for some reason made him seem more scary to me.

 
Needless to say I was pretty naked and very unprepared for this impromptu visit.  We instantly panicked and, as I heard his Grandad coming towards the bedroom, my boyfriend tried to shove me into the 3cm-wide space under his bed.  This was clearly not working so he picked me up, threw my clothes at me (a pair of denim dungarees, a la TLC, no less – I miss dungarees, when are they gonna come back in fashion?) and, literally the second before his grandad came in the room, jammed me into his wardrobe.  The wardrobe door was slatted so I could see his muscly little circus feet wandering around the bedroom and for a few minutes it was touch and go as to whether or not I would successfully prevent myself from involuntarily shitting the pants I was not wearing.  Malta is a Roman Catholic country so you don’t often find naked teenagers in wardrobes and when you do, it is not considered the high-five moment it is in this country.
 
He eventually left the room and, after quickly getting dressed, I spent the next 15 minutes trying to get out of the house without him seeing me.  It was very James Bond and involved climbing extremely high walls in my socks, hiding behind plants and a lot of SAS hand signals.  I eventually emerged out into the street victorious, only for his grandad to drive past in his van beeping his novelty horn and waving at me.  He knew I was in there the whole time, the little bearded bastard. 
 
That is just one scenario out of a similar hundred that happened to me in my youth.  I spent these years permanently exhausted from either school work, numerous attempts at losing my virginity (I would like to stress that they were all with the same guy – I was generous with my time but I was by no means a slut), boarding school drama, acne/frizzy hair worries, clubbing or generally trying to fight the system.  Most of it seemed enjoyable at the time, but looking back now – absolute arsed!
 
Being in my thirties could not be further from all that hassle. These days it is very rare that I will care about anything and when I do, I don’t really care that much.  I suppose I’ve learned that no amount of stressing changes the fact that sometimes in life you just have to do things that you don’t want to do.  I used to be a bit of a free-loving, tree-hugging, animal-bumming hippy until I got a mortgage.  I now work on an oil rig raping mother earth to within an inch of her life every day so I don’t starve to death.  It’s not ideal but it’s also not as simple to save the world as you think it is when you’re young, so I just close my eyes and get on with it.  Anyway, when you hurry up and get the shit stuff out of the way, it means that there is more time for the fun stuff, see?
I can't seem to find this on their website. It must be limited edition.

 

I say ‘fun stuff’ but I’m not entirely sure that as you get older the things you consider fun are technically ‘fun’.  Take spending money for example.  Being young meant being skint and yet there were so many awesome things I could have bought if my pockets had contained more than the bus fare home and a broken cigarette.  Now that I do have the disposable income, what do I do with it?  I spend it all on scented fucking candles and bottles of Febreeze.  I have become obsessed.  A Yankee Candle shop opened in town recently and I instantly touched myself inappropriately.

Another change I have noticed is the conversations I have with taxi drivers.  I used to only ever talk to them about two things: Why I was hungover or how much he would charge if I was to hypothetically throw up all over the back seat.  Since turning 30, I still only ever talk to them about two things but now it is either about the bypass and how ridiculous it is that we still don’t have one, or it is to discuss my feelings about the plans for Donald Trump’s golf course and the effect it will have on the local community – I was against it until I found out Tiger Woods was a dirty slut, now I say “build the fucking golf course and get his hot little black ass as close to my house as possible”.  There are plenty of places for badgers to live, but how often will I get the chance to exploit the personality flaws of Tiger Woods in Aberdeen?  Exactly.

The concept of mail has also started to morph into an entirely new creature in our household.  I received a letter the other day asking if I wanted to be on the Aberdeen Citizens Panel, and I THOUGHT ABOUT IT.  I actually, seriously considered it.  They said I could voice my concerns.  I have concerns!!  I also contemplated joining the postcode lottery and almost filled up those plastic bags for donating your old clothes to charity.  This morning I received one of those letters from Cancer Research with a pen enclosed asking me for some money.  Normally I would throw the letter in the bin and think “Boost! Free pen!” but not today.  Today I thought “That reminds me, I must start thinking about donating to some sort of charity”.  I then threw the pen away because when I tried to use it I couldn’t get the image of bald children out of my head.  Get a grip!

It’s not just the receiving of mail that is becoming an issue, I have also started sending more.  In the past three months I have written four complaint letters, one to a magazine, one to iTunes, one to my neighbour and one to my postman asking him to stop being such a cunt and actually put my mail through my letter box as opposed to leaving it outside on the fucking pavement.

Hmm, maybe I do care about things after all.  I take it all back – I think when you reach 30 it’s not that you stop caring, it’s just that you stop caring about yourself.  I would go so far as to say that when it comes to me, this is pretty much it, so as time goes on I worry less about what I say, what I look like or what people might think of me.  Instead it is other people I worry about: my friends and family, Steve Jobs (he has pancreatic cancer and cannot, I repeat, cannot die before my upgrade is due in August.  I don’t like the iphone 4 so he needs to get designing), the postman, the Middle East, my neighbour and the shambles that is today’s society.  I’ve found that it is much easier (and way more fun) to judge other people rather than yourself so, as much as I loved them, you can poke your twenties.  Anyway, I’m only at the very beginning of my thirties so if you squint really hard whilst dangerously drunk you could argue that, on the scale of things, I am still just a baby.

I will leave you now with a few things I have said recently which have placed me firmly in the bony, arthritic grip of old age.

-“You know, I don’t know enough about birds.”
-“I’m not keen on those new-builds.  I’d rather have a house with a bit more character.”
-“Well Billy, I’m gonna need new hiking boots if we are going to start climbing Munros.”
-“Oh, but if we go to Sainsbury’s now it’ll mean that I’ll miss Escape to the Country! It’s my all-time favourite programme you fascist!”
-“Okay then, sign me up for the Baker Hughes 10k run.”
-“Granted those shoes are nice, but would you class them as comfortable? Because I’m not really sure I would.”
-“I really want to see The King’s Speech.”

Sshhh, it’s all gonna be okay……..

At least I can look forward to fisting Billy in our retirement.
Posted in Writing

My New iPad – Not Just a Lover but a Best Friend

Two months ago I turned 30.  The night before the big day I went to sleep disliking Sheryl Crow but woke up the next morning thinking she was a truly exciting and valid artist.  It really does happen that fast.  I got up and was relieved to see that there was a substantial amount of presents in the corner of the living room.  This was good, I needed something to distract me from the sudden realisation that I was going to have to start thinking of a valid reason for being unmarried with no kids.  ‘I can’t be arsed’ and ‘I’d rather spend the money on beer’ was now going to make me sound more like an alcoholic lesbian than a care-free youth.

I was genuinely surprised (and slightly teary) to discover that my first present was an iPad.  People have suggested to me that this ‘oversized iphone’ is an unnecessary, almost gimmicky bit of gadgetry.  To them I say: “Fuck you!” and then I say “You need to re-evaluate the shambles that is your life and take responsibility for the fact that you just air-quoted the phrase ‘oversized iphone’, now be gone!” and then I say “Damnit, that would have sounded amazing if I had thought of it before they got in their car and drove away…………three weeks ago”.  Reluctantly, however, I am going to have to agree with these gimps.  No one needs an iPad, not even disabled people, and they need everything. It doesn’t really do anything that other products can’t already do, but if we all thought like that we would never have been blessed with such gems as: The Jesus-shaped toast stencil, the plastic banana protection case, the Slanket, the George Foreman Grill or literally anything sold by JML in all good Poundstretcher shops.

In other words, I am in love with my iPad.  Completely and utterly, head over heels, madly in love with my iPad.  We sleep together, we shower together, we cook together, we drink together, we sing the timeless Foreigner classic ‘Feels Like The First Time’ together………it’s our song.  The main reason I love the iPad is motivated by complete laziness.  It’s not so much what you can do with it, it’s where you can do it.  I can personalize it to the last detail so that it only contains things that I want to read about/watch/listen to and then take it with me to work, on a plane or, more importantly, to the bathroom. No more having to turn on the TV if I want to watch TV, no more having to buy a newspaper if I want to read a newspaper and best of all, no more having to boot up my piece of shit laptop to check my emails.  In comparison my laptop is like a giant, bumbling, club-footed beast, offensive to the point of Lady Gaga’s face.

Despite all this love, it pains me to say that there are two slight flaws with my new possession.  The first one is the bed sores that I have been gradually developing over the past couple of months.  The iPad makes it almost impossible to get out of bed.  This is my morning routine:  Wake up, pick up iPad, open facebook, try to scratch my eyeballs out to stop myself from having to read the immense pile of shit that some people feel the need to share with the world, close facebook, open Twitter, see if it is possible for Kanye West to be any more mental, close Twitter, open BBC News, read about Chilean Miners, close BBC News, open ITV Showbiz News, stare at Cheryl Cole’s amazing face, close ITV Showbiz News, open this blog, see if anyone has left me a comment (that would be a no), close this blog.  By the time I have done all this it’s like 2 o’clock in the afternoon and I have bed sores, but holy shit I am INFORMED!

The second flaw is the necessity to sacrifice one arm in order to carry the iPad around the house with me everywhere.  I’m basically an amputee.  I’m eligible for the 2012 Paralympic shotput event and I’m learning how to play the piano with my feet. If I’m honest it’s not ideal, but do not panic because I have a plan.  I watched this programme last week on Bravo called ‘We Find Your Medical Misfortune Fucking Hilarious’ and it featured this giant fat woman who had misplaced her TV remote.  Turns out it had made its way between two of her fat rolls and had been sitting there for like 18 months.  In that time the skin had engulfed the remote and kind of merged with it so that the remote had actually become part of the fat woman.  I thought this would be a great way to enable me to keep both hands free while still having the iPad at my fingertips.  It’s been a couple of days and so far it hasn’t even latched on but I’ll keep you updated on any progress.

Now that I have covered the pros and inconsequential cons of the iPad I am going to retire, re-group and eventually return to write a completely useless guide to the apps that I think deserve a place on my home screen.  In the meantime I suggest that you sell your children to Somalian pirates and go buy one immediately. Just sit back and let Steve Jobs put that snooker ball in your mouth, I promise it hurts good.

It would have been 5/5 fists but I’m retracting one because iTunes does my tits in: 

Have a listen: Foreigner – Feels Like the First Time