My Life Behind the Scenes.

Once again I have become slack with my blog posts. I do however have an excuse…I have had a virus and have been bound to my bed for weeks on end. But, as Florence of the Welsh variety teaches us “the dark days are over” and life goes on.

I am struggling to find something that I want to write about this week. Normally I write about what has grated on my ever-thinning nerves, and trust me, there is a lot I could write about but, why? Why would I want to indulge in, or donate extra minutes of my time, to those fart-in-a-lift areas of my life. Instead, I shall write about one area of my life that I am eternally grateful for...my life behind the scenes.

As many of you may already know, I work in the entertainment industry. A part of my position is to work in direct contact with those who are in the spotlight. It's a funny thing, the spotlight. I mean, let's break down the word "spotlight". Spot, a confined area of space which can draw attention. Light, to illuminate. A spotlight is, by definition, designed to illuminate 'a place or person'...singular. Anymore than one lit being is just a light. In order to be spotlight-worthy we must in someway distinguish ourselves from the general population, whether it be through fame, or achievement, wealth or significant loss. Whilst that is all well and good, it is something that I could not desire less for myself. And, here is why...

The spotlight is a very fickle thing, it promises to be your best friend until uh-oh, a wrinkle has appeared on your forehead, the roles stop coming in and that twenty-something in the gold bikini is occupying the chair next to your leading man. The light fades, the bulb flickers here and there and eventually seeps into darkness. So what's next? The lucky ones will have looked ahead with a logical mind and revel in the freedom that has finally been paved before them. The unlucky ones can be found at the local DIY shop, looking for a replacement bulb, be it a role that they may have once shunned, a best of record, plastic surgery or snogging an unusual suspect. Don't get me wrong, the undeniably talented shall never leave the spotlight and their light shall never flicker. But is that all it is cracked up to be? No...just look at Robin Williams, Amy Winehouse and Jimi Hendrix. It is for this and many reasons that I have always regarded the spotlight to be incredibly destructive...there is something to be said for being normal and I am hoping by the end of my ramblings you shall think so too.

One aspect of the spotlight which makes me squirm uncontrollably is the incessant need to be beautiful. I am not perfect but all the same, I am not displeased when I look into the mirror. Cue the gasp of horror. Yes, I did just say that...I am sure I would be typing a very different sentence if say, I was in the spotlight...possibly a shopping list of all I would change. We have all seen pictures of the Kardashians with big red circles littering their bodies, pin pointing the exact coordinates of their imperfection. Can you imagine what that is like? I find it hard enough to go to work with a pimple that is not covered in a mountain of cream concealer without the tabloids plastering it across their front pages. The spotlight brings with it a pressure to look perfect, a pressure that has cost the entertainments industry billions upon billions of dollars. Hours on end are scheduled into the lives of the wealthy for teams to prim and prune the smallest details to avoid an outing when put under the spotlight. Nah, not for me. I love my sweatpants and I love my makeup free mush, there is nothing quite like being able to rub your eyes without panda paranoia. Instead, we should revel in the relief of the permission we have not to be perfect. Revel in the little things in life; going to the corner shop in our pyjamas, blurting cream soda from our nose in a fit of giggles and tipsily tripping in the street in our sisters heels, wearing pink and orange together in some crazy fashion mix up, drinking full fat lattes. Revel in obscurity, for there is no one to tell you you can't. Revel in a life behind the scenes.

This may all be a phase. A distaste, if you will, towards those who are currently tipped as our generations idols. There's Miley Cyrus, Kanye West, Lindsey Lohan...all of whom live lives totally out of our reach. It is this bizarre condition, present in our world, that makes us believe that those whom we choose to idolise cannot be like us that makes my blood boil. What happened to the incredibly creative and accomplished Emma Thompson's of the world, women who openly admit to spending a third of their lives living like potatoes in a cottage in Scotland whilst 'growing a beard'. Women who have experienced life and can teach me more than how to twerk on a weekend.

Diane Keaton, is a woman whom I believe to be a lost idol. I am sure most of you who are reading this, possibly hoping to find ramblings about lost love or bittersweet bitches, do not know who Ms Keaton is. Father of The Bride...all I have to say, google it. Keaton, in her memoir 'Then Again' speaks of her mother's most alluring feature as her complexity, which is something I find incredibly fascinating. What a fabulous world we would live in if our complexity was what our allure depended on. I would be batting them away with a stick. Maybe it is this that has left me disliking the spotlight as once you are in the spotlight all your deeper complexities fade, you become and open book, a public library where anyone and everyone can take out the book that is your life.

So, next time you are turning green whilst perusing the zoo of celebrity-ville, be grateful that you are not the one behind the bars being stared at by the millions.

xx

My mistakes? Why, I think you may be mistaken.

To this day, this hour, this minute, I still feel guilt for the mistakes I made at the beginning of last year. LAST YEAR. Even writing it down feels ridiculous. Voicing them is another matter, I know my nearest and dearest are bored of hearing about them, yet I continue to justify them with various quotes I found on Tumblr over copious amounts of tea and biscuits*. (*whiskey and cigars**) (**gin and peanuts)

So why I am I writing about them now? To let go? To wave my white hanky as they sail away on the wave that is life? Probably not, no. I am writing about them now because I have been given the means to. Blogging is a wonderful thing, it is one of the only ways you can talk endlessly about tiring topics and not be interrupted. No one will hold their finger to your mouth and soothly whisper, 'hush now'. No one will blurt 'yeah but...'. And no one will put on their white coat and play psychotherapist, reeling off quotes about how 'it is all practise for the real thing'. Guilty. That one is mine.

My mistakes are a black hole, they are sucking away my time, energy and consideration. They have effected other relationships in my life, relationships that mean more to me than my mistakes ever could. So I have decided, enough is enough. Take me as I am, my mistakes come free of charge like that crumby lipgloss you got with your monthly magazine, sticky sweet.

One thing we fail to comprehend when our heads are full of youthfulness, naivety and freeze hold hairspray is that mistakes are just that, mistakes. Mistakes when young however are merely naiveties, naiveties made to learn from. If we do not learn from our mistakes then there is a 95% chance we will make the same mistake again, and we will keep on doing so until it really sinks in. I mean, I can offer up hundreds of photos of me with hair backcombed into oblivion. It does not look good. Yet, I am still sat here with hair that could hold the contents of a dolls house, a family of mice and the cast of Mama Mia. Big hair is a mistake I am yet to learn from. But, just like sandals and socks and jeans in snow...I will.

Mistakes when young are merely naiveties made to learn from. #bloggin pic.twitter.com/LEjdGS6ZkY

— Briony Gaffer (@brionygaffer) March 2, 2014

It is precisely this idea of learning and imparting knowledge that has led me to try my hand at self help. I shall not bore you with various philosophies that roots lie quintessentially in bullshit, but tell you what I have learnt from the mistakes that make me well...me.

1) Mistakes are not for the faint hearted:
In order to make a mistake you must muster the bulls to put yourself out there, get hurt, get stupid and get just a little bit naughty. Whilst my mistakes may feel like the end of the world now, they will feed the world of my grandchildren and transpire into tales that will whip the ass of Cinderella. That sounds, horrendous. Please remove that image from your muddled minds. I'm sorry.

2) You cannot regret what once made you smile:
Enough said.

3) Perfection leaves no room for improvement:
Mistakes teach us how to forgive. I am a self confessed failed-forgiver. Like cross words, forgiveness is a lot easier said than done. But, there comes a point where you have to look at that persons presence in your life and ask 'does this one mistake outshine all the good?'. If no, then grow a pair and let it go. They have tortured themselves enough already, they don't need you handing them the whip.

4) "Life lessons" is code for mistakes:
I have always been told that it is the fear of being nothing, achieving nothing and becoming nothing that should in fact be bigger than the fear of making mistakes at all. The moment we distort our view and look upon our mistakes as lessons, will be the moment the terror of encountering them on the journey that is life is lost.

5) Mistakes are the pathway to happiness:
Remember Thomas Edison? Of course you don't, neither do I. But for the sake of argument let's pretend that we both know who he is and we had posters of his mug plastered on our walls instead of Hanson. Well, he failed more than 10,000 times while working on the light bulb and in the end he succeeded. Ta-da, step into the light. By making a mistake we learn more about ourselves, what we want, what we don't want* (*Pizza Hut's new Cheeseburger Pizza) and what, or more precisely, who you want in your life.

I could go on but quite frankly, The Big Bang Theory is on and I fear that it would be a great mistake if I was to miss another second.

I shall leave you with this, 'Making mistakes has been the life changing magic that I was lacking before.' Mull that over a little, wash it round your mouth, hum and har. After all, as our friend with the lust worthy wardrobe teaches us: “Enjoy yourself. That’s what your 20s are for. Your 30s are to learn the lessons. Your 40s are to pay for the drinks.” - so mistakes, come at me.

All my love,
B x

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Is "meditation" code for sleep?

Is it considered inappropriate to bring a snack to a meditation class?

— Briony Gaffer (@brionygaffer) February 25, 2014

Last night I went to a meditation class. Pause for obligatory 'say wha!?' reaction. Yes, a meditation class and no, I do not consider tofu an acceptable meal, tie dye is not my go-to choice of print and I do not own a yoga mat. I have to admit I was not the one bearing an umbrella, holding it high and leading my troops into Exhibit Center where the class was held. I was in fact the supportive friend because; just as girls cannot pee alone they cannot mediate alone either.

Meditation is the act of chilling the fuck out. I'm sorry. Meditation is the practice of chilling the fuck out. You simply imagine something neutral, preferably something beige, and try your absolute hardest to prevent your brain from initiating a slide show of all the garbage that’s contained inside your skull. The key, spoken like a true expert, is to breathe. Which is a relief cause if we ain't breathing, we dead. And, as far as I am aware you cannot meditate when deceased, unless being deceased is actually one gigantic meditation which I guess...it is. The oxygen input you get from breathing, which has been used by the airline industry to tranquilize the most hysterical passengers, serves as a drug freeing the mind from all bad thoughts and negativity. Well, so it intends. The moment you will open your eyes will be the moment you will look at the world and say "Damn, I really don't give 2 pence about anything" and this, my friend, is called Nirvana.

This all seems a little easier said than done. A bit like knitting. Rid 'all bad thoughts and negativity'? I'm 23, that would take me years.

The problem I have with meditation is that we avoid confronting the very reason we have been coxed into meditating*. We shove and shun our problems to one side; a temporary and in my humble opinion, cowardly duck and dive from the reality of our lives.

Rather than confronting our inner most feelings, we leave them to simmer on the hot plate that is our conscience. Tell me, who are we parring off our problems to? As far as I can see it not one solitary being can claim any degree of ownership over another. It is as simple as that. We ultimately belong to ourselves, and even that is debatable. The problem with this is that we are consequently the sole proprietor for the business that is our own happiness.

This isn't to say that we shouldn't invest in other people, or shun a leap of faith into the world of loving and being loved. We should, as often as possible. Occasionally we will connect with someone who not only likes what we initially allow them to see but the inner core, the one you've have been searching so desperately for in those Pilates classes. They will like it so much that they would feel extreme pain if they no longer had access to it. They will want it for breakfast, lunch and dinner and there will come a time that they will want no one else to have it either. That is when two becomes one. Sorry, 90's kid problems. This springs all sorts of confusion, we are thrust into a world where even we cannot trust our own opinions or our own happiness. So much so, that we run to the nearest meditation class just to seek some means of escaping our own thoughts.

It is this notion of escape that leaves me quivering in my boots, the notion that in order to feel better we must not feel at all.

I am calling a stop to this form of self harm. We are enough. We know ourselves better than anyone. It is the mass misunderstanding that we are incapable of exercising our own opinions, solving our own problems and dictating our own happiness without them being signed off by someone else that has sent us packing to the nearest meditation class in the first place. Instead, I intend choose to trust myself because well, I have done pretty well so far. I have been in a relationship with myself for the last 23years, the longest relationship I have ever been in and we, me, myself and I are very happy together. Why? Because there is no other way. Sometimes, we need to stand alone just to see if we can still stand at all. If more people were to take responsibility for their own happiness the world would be a much happier place. People would smile on tubes, high five in the street...hell, life would be one gigantic Pharell video on acid.

That shall be all,
B xx

*I feel that a declaration may be called upon here: I know nothing about meditation, and I may well be missing the point entirely but this is the opinion I walked away with. Without honesty, I would be well, just another blogger on the highway for an easy publication.

Nope, I don't have as many hours in the day as Beyonce.

I would have to beg your pardon if you were to tell me that you have not found yourself rocking backwards and forwards, closed eyes, closed heart, panting 'What would Beyonce do? What would Beyonce do?' at least once in the last month. No, just me?

Yes, Beyonce is a powerhouse. ALL HAIL BEYONCE. But can we do as Beyonce does? Simple answer, no. Why? We do not have as many hours in the day as Beyonce. And boom, the problem with this form of self harm hits us in our non-Beyonce faces.

We have become a nation of caffeinated over-thinkers, cyber bullied by untouched pictures of Beyonce defying logistics and gravity with no makeup and no bra. Over-thinkers that think all life's trials and tribulations can be solved by following the actions of one solitary super-woman. What shall I do with my hair? Beyonce it, cut the sucker off. What shall I have for breakfast? Beyonce it, scrambled egg whites and a vegetable smoothie* (*eggnog latte and a tomato and cheese pastry...please Bey, you ain't separating nothing unless it's your gigantic pills of cash). What does 1+1 equate to? Beyonce it, one plus one equals two.

There are few questions in life that cannot be answered with those two powerful words: Beyonce it.

I like that Beyonce is a role model. Rightly so, she is a powerhouse. I love Beyonce, nearly as much as Kanye loves himself. But, it is the impression society has been forced to consume that we too can live like Queen B that leaves me questioning where my life went so wrong? Should I have entered beauty pageants? Was I denied my passage to Beyonce-hood by my inability to look cute in pictures whilst parading up and down a catwalk and performing tap routines in a cowboy hat? Did my parents fail me because they did not quit their adequately paid jobs to manage my three piece? I am 23, if I am to measure my life against that of Beyonce's then I am precisely 15 years behind on finding my first girlband* (*apply within).

This.must.stop. This culture of calculations and criticisms is sucking the joy we feel from achieving the little things in life. Yes, you only made it to the gym once in the last month but that was once more than last month so have a cake...you deserve it. Back when I was in primary school you would practically shit yourself with excitement if you were chosen to take the register back to reception. Where's that joy gone? I want that back. No, I didn't hit the top spot with a surprise album and no promo BUT I did clear the plug of rotten hair this month soooooo *victory dance*.

There is one fundamental "but" that most fail to take into consideration when wondering why that squat you did this morning hasn't shifted the baby weight yet. We do not have as many hours in the day as Beyonce. For example, laundry; Beyonce doesn't know what detergent will best rid the chocolate stain that lives on ALL.YOUR.CLOTHES. Airports; Beyonce doesn't turn up the obligitary three hours before departure, the plane waits for her. That's three hours back right there. Doing the dishes, in fact all forms of housework; Beyonce has only ever donned a pinny in a cute-ironic way, 'Look Jay, I am washing up, like those normal people we read about'.

Let me be clear, I am not criticizing Beyonce. I am criticizing the mindset that has led us to believe that we are not successful, powerful, significant or accomplished in comparison to Queen B. We should in fact feel the opposite. I have a full time job, a degree, 11 GCSE's, a blog, a home, an incredible set of family and friends and a project on the horizon and I do all my own washing, cooking, beauty-fying, shopping, tweeting, dragging-myself-out-of-bed-ing, dating, cyber stalking, high-fiving, queuing and sock-organizing. So for now Beyonce, you are dismissed. I am doing just fine.

B x

Dear Twitter, I want you to be the first to know...

I hope my child's birth isn't commentated by Twitter. Morgan Freeman via a megaphone, maybe. But Twitter, no. #jonasbaby

— Briony Gaffer (@brionygaffer) February 3, 2014

Something came to my attention today that caused me to put down my soy latte and copy of Heat. Uh huh. Seriously. The something to which I refer was a news article about the birth of Kevin Jonas baby girl. I can't claim to be a Jonas junkie, or whatever slang name their fans have been branded with (probably something ending in 'aniacs' or 'ators'), but as a committed moaner re the world of social media my attention was bought.

Kevin Jonas commentated the birth of his first daughter via Twitter.

Are we okay with this? Hell to the freakin no.

We are a vine away from having our children's birth broadcast via live video link, sponsored by Samsung. Nurses all over the country are shooing camera phones from baby's grand debut. Away from the destination they had tapped into their teeny tiny sat navs before they heard of the imminent media intrusion.

As far as I can remember, for my last 23 birthdays, Christmas's, Easter's and Valentines I did not once register for a virtual gift. A one word micro blog didn't keep you out of Middle Eastern Prison. An e-card didn't salvage your relationship. It made it worse. 'Congratulations on your engagement, here's that hash tag you've been eyeing up for weeks...and you thought we hadn't noticed.' Why should a baby, without the capacity to think for it's self have it first moments splashed all over our newsfeeds? Or worse, why should a baby have a newsfeed?

The idea that the first thought that came into Kevin Jonas head after the birth of his baby girl was 'sheeeeet, Twitter needs to know about this.' is just damn right depressing. Not content with fooling us into believing that we have a social life, Facebook and Twitter have now fooled us into believing that we are not alive unless we are live online.

In August Kevin teased his followers, kindly pointing out to us that he and his lady friend know the sex of their own baby. HOLY MOLEY. The parents know the sex of their unborn child!? Shut the front door Siri! Stop the press! Call The Midwife! Button down the hatchet! And you could know too. But, here's the hitch: to find out the sex of the baby fans had to download the Jonas Brother's app. Their marketing team were high fiving their way to the bank, jumping on the back of what is supposed to be a private FAMILY moment. A moment surrounded by balloons and cuddly toys, not emoticons and voice notes.

Waiting to welcome #babyjonas to a world of amazing, gentle clean! pic.twitter.com/afeWHBvd4F

— Dreft (@Dreft) February 2, 2014

And yes I confess, I was indeed one of hundreds of thousands hooked to their iPhones watching the live coverage of the Royal Baby's grand reveal. But I am British, we love a royal. And a street party. It would be sacrilege if we didn't. Like not reading Harry Potter, saying no to a cup of tea and peeing alone on a girls night out...it's all grounds for deportation.

And, I am aware that I am not addressing the real dangers of social media as we know it. There are downsides to everything, possibly more immediate than Kevin Jonas and his redundancy from The Purity Ring. We all know of the dark side to Farmville. Addiction, spam, a false sense of maternal responsibility. I mean, there's probably even more vegetarians now.

But, there are just some things that are best kept off our screens. Something as delicate as the intimate details of your daughters birth, is one of them. I don't know about you but the idea of 6million people knowing the precise moment of my contractions, chanting 'breathe, breathe, breathe' in unison, is not up there on my list of things to do before I die. What's next, a very public sweepstake to note the exact date and time of her first period? A reality show to auction off her virginity? Dear God, no.

Here we go we're pushing!!!! #babyjonas

— kevin jonas (@kevinjonas) February 2, 2014

For now, let's use Twitter for was it was invented for...witty one-liners about how many chicken nuggets we ate before dawn #YOLO, and subtle stalking.

B xx

Justin Bieber, is that you?

Bieber, we're over. It's not you, it's me, I draw the line at prison. X

— Briony Gaffer (@brionygaffer) January 23, 2014

If you have read any of my previous posts you will know at least one of the following things...

1) I have a Justin Bieber mug
2) I have a Justin Bieber mask (for the boyfriends...I joke)
3) When I'm feeling blue, I watch the Justin Bieber movie and scream 'HE'S.JUST.SO.TALENTED.', "PLAY THOSE DRUMS BIEBS, PLAY THEM".
4) I genuinely believe that in a former life I was his mother.

But like any desperate mother there comes a time when enough is enough. He has pushed my buttons for the last time and the threat of sending him to an all team building, all tree climbing, summer camp is looming. He is one DUI away from the naughty step. A tequila shot away from the having his allowance cut. A biniki clad hottie short of a detention. But I have had an epiphany. A life changing epiphany which could quite possibly be the long lost cure of Bieber Fever.

Justin Bieber is Joffrey Baratheon from Game of Thrones.

Let us unpack that statement for the culturally challenged. Game of Thrones is a series, no, a religion. A typical show contains more nudity than a Kardashian sex tape. Ah, winter is cumming. It can no better be defined than "that porno show starring Mayor Carcetti from The Wire".

Joffrey Baratheon is the teenage leader of the seven kingdoms, the Justin Bieber of times gone by. And, due to the misfortune of being a teenager and fabulously inbred, Joffrey is a royal shit. If Monday morning was a person, Joffrey Baratheon would be your guy. His only two fans are his mother and his aunt...and they are the same person. He is an inexperienced, whiny, child who believes his political problems can be stabbed away in an instant. Literally. I was not the only being to bust into a spontaneous rendition of Timberlakes classic 'Dick in a Box' when Joffrey was captured. You know you did it too. And if you didn't, you're wishing you did.

And where does Bieber fit into this I hear you cry? Well, let me explain. Justin Bieber and Joffrey Baratheon have been given all the responsibilities of an adult with no manual on how to handle them. You only have to look at pictures of Bieber meeting with the Prime Minister of his home country, Canada. Why, oh why, is he dressed as a a drunk house painter? As we have come to learn, dungarees are never the one. Chuckie ruined dungarees for red headed children and it is about time the rest of y'all got the hint too. Justin, first names terms, is not a girl, not yet a woman, all he needs is time, a moment that is...SORRY, nineties child problems. He is in fact a tiny adult, Justin Bieber is a hobbit.

His debut song opens with Usher calling Beiber up for a favour. A favour. In what mystical world does Usher stumble upon a life altering problem and think "who you gonna call...? Justin Bieber". When The Rasmus penned their lyrics, Justin Bieber was never in the mix for their phone-a-friend. Dr Jones, maybe. But Bieber, no. But we are not the target market here, the target market is a generation that only exists in a world far, far away where the greatest problem resting on their shoulders is puppy love. They are a generation with Ludacris on speed dial. A world of folk unable to grow a respectable moustache but able to make grown up decisions.

I whole heartedly believe that I have a better moustache than Bieber.

— Briony Gaffer (@brionygaffer) January 18, 2014

But we can not blame Bieber for this. I mean, Bieber would not be anywhere as near as popular as he is if he was to write about real teenage problems. Less 'Beauty and the Beat', more 'Beauty and the Boner?'. Less 'As Long As You Love Me', more 'As Long As My Mum Doesn't See'. In fact, we all need to take a little more responsibility for the fall of this popstar, Justin Bieber isn't the problem, we are.

Anyone who has been a teenager for more than five minutes, knows that it sucks all sorts of exquisite arse. But can you imagine going through those soul shattering times with the rest of the world watching. Justin Bieber is the spokesperson of a sham reality that the majority of us are not to privy to. Does this mean we should destroy him? Perhaps. But history isn't on his side, so we may as well be.