Sunday, 30 May 2010

Gary Coleman


I'm very saddened by Gary Coleman's death.

I know he wasn't the cute, chubby cheeked Arnold Jackson for all his life, but despite his considerable health problems he was an absolute and unquestionable star in Diff'rent Strokes.

Diff'rent Strokes is my all time favourite TV show, so angry was I when the now defunct channel 'Trouble' stopped showing it, that I sent a perfectly rational email to demand it be added back to their evening progarmme schedule once more. They just sent back a generic 'Thank you for your opinion, it means a lot to us, but Diff'rent Strokes will not be shown on Trouble anymore, but we wish the cast members much luck for the future.' Well too late for that... Dana Plato had already died from an overdose, Todd Bridges had been in and out of prison on countless charges and Gary Coleman had sued his parents and lost all his fortune to people who took advantage of him. Nice one 'Trouble' - I'm glad your station got shut down.

Which was my favoutite episode? I always liked Arnold in school plays - he made for an amazing Romeo (see below) and his portrayal of Abraham Lincoln is also worth digging up.

Wednesday, 26 May 2010

I Hate... Butchered Words / Crimes Against English

If Lily Allen writes a song and nobody hears it, is it still shit?

I get it, I get it; her cutesy baby voice (i.e. weak) is a total juxtaposition against the ‘sassy’ and ‘in your face’ subjects of her songs. I get it, but it’s boring and thin.

None of her lyrics carry any kind of word play and no singular words cause any kind of interest or tingle in brain – kind of like a loudmouth version of Dido. E.g. ‘My tea’s gone cold / I’m wondering why I got out of bed at all’. Each lexical constituent is boring enough on its own, but then put them together and you’ve got yourself the world’s dullest and most uninspiring lyrics EVER.

So, on the back of Lily Allen winning ‘Songwriter of the Year’ and ‘Best Song Musically and Lyrically’ for The Fear, here’s some of my least favourite lyrics of all time which frankly offend the English Language and all its speakers:

It's five o'clock in the morning / Conversation got boring

There were people from the city having lunch in the park / I believe that is called al fresco

It’s not fair and I think you’re really mean

Now I’m not a saint but I’m not a sinner / Now everything is cool as long as I’m getting thinner

(That last one particularly gets at me as this rhyming couplet is supposed to be the big wham-bam climactic finish. It fails to blow me away)

Friday, 14 May 2010

I Hate... Knowing that I'm being judged / Exams

I bought Berol Handwriting Pens this week - therefore it's officially exam season.

Tuesday, 11 May 2010

I Hate... False Advertising / Be Careful in the Water

Does this advert:
a) make you want to buy swimwear from H&M?
OR
b) make you feel more sea monster than model emerging from the sea?

Saturday, 1 May 2010

I Hate... Having my hair cut / The Rape of the Lock


I went for my annual hair cut today - a day which causes an eruption of pure fear in every fibre and follicle of my being.It was time. My hair was so stupendously thick and heavy that it hurt my scalp to tie it up.

However there are many aspects of the hairdressing experience that make me close my eyes and wish I was anywhere but a hair salon. So many so, that I’ve compiled this handy dandy list:

1) The Small Talk – Oh the mindless chit chat, how I dread it. Do you really care what stage of education I’m in? And I don’t mean to sound like a snob, but I don’t think your hair cutting and combing NVQ is quite as challenging as my degree module in Latin, but I’ll nod along when you say you sympathise with my work load. And no, I’m not going on holiday this year, no I’m not going out on the town tonight and yes, I am aware that my hair is long... That’s why I’m here, idiot – just wash my hair please.


2) The Sink – Am I the only one who finds the sink intolerable? They ask me if it’s comfortable, but I feel as though I have to oblige, otherwise I’ll be judged for adjusting the basin. SO MUCH PRESSURE. Then my suffering is increased by an unexplainable and unfounded fear that I might have nits and will therefore be ejected from such a trendy cosmopolitan establishment, where everyone has perfect fringes and wear all black ensembles.

3) The Snip – Okay, so I don’t have nits. I’m still in the salon. How much hair do I want cut off? Well, in regular human terms, two inches. Yet hairdressers seem to have a wholly different measurement system as they seem to translate ‘two inches’ into ‘the majority of my hair’. Whilst I weep a little inside every time I see a chunk of my hair fall to the floor, I’m getting flash backs of the time a ‘top stylist’ (you know, the one who is arrogantly name checked on the price list) cut me a ridiculously short fringe and made me cry instantaneously. I’m not normally a praying kind of gal, but I’m hoping to high heaven it won’t happen again. Major crossed keys.


4) The Mirror – I find sitting in front of a mirror during the gruelling process punishing. The longer I have to look at my face, the wonkier my eyes become, the greyer my skin grows and my reflection ends up as one big jumble that wouldn’t look out of place in a police line up of murderers, who will state that their childhood and repressed memories made them do it.

5) The Aftermath – Having begrudgingly paid for this cosmetic torture, I return home only to regret every cut to every strand, and look up pictures of models with long hair and wish I had my hair back (although I know full well that my hair NEVER looked like theirs before this fateful day) .


Until next year.