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.

Facebook, stop picking on me.

Consider this an open letter to you, Facebook. You smug cow.

At this point, we are all shockingly aware that nothing matters until it is posted on some form of social media. Twitter exists so we can tell thousands of people whom we do not know intimate details about the mundanity of our lives, #Iameatingabanana. Instagram is the Twitter of the illiterate. Look, I am eating a banana. Vine is for 6 second clips of you eating your banana. Social media is in fact fueling the frivolous. Many people, myself very much included, are fooled into believing that something as everyday as eating a banana is news worthy. Newsflash, unless the said banana has the ability to jump from the cracked screen of your iPhone and make me a sandwich, it probably is not. BANANA.

Don't get me wrong, I tweet utter shite. Last week I tweeted that I was 'wide awake', hashtag did you need to know? Did I make an urgent and blistering impact on your life? Did the Daily Mail write a piece on it? Probably, but also on rotation was 'Woman eats yoghurt', 'Woman wears T-Shirt' and 'Woman has a nose'.

But Facebook, you are on my shit list. And here is why. Facebook is a lie. A complete and utter misrepresentation of our ACTUAL lives. Everything (and I do mean everything) you have ever snogged, married, or avoided is documented on Facebook. After all, it is not official until it is Facebook official.

Our 'friends' list is a who's who of people you haven't gotten around to un-friending. There are the girls in high school that you hung out with for a summer and now have new-borns and new-builds. There are the people we had a cheeky fumble with in the back of a pergeot 106, they are the people that you stay "friends" with so you don't have to admit that they meant absolutely NOTHING to you. Zilch. Zipper. Then, there are the mean, the meaner and the meanest. Those who the mere action of un-friending would create more drama than Kim Kardashian shaving her head in favor of a toupee. I have 599 "friends" on Facebook, but in the past 23 years of my existence no more than 100 people (tops) have attended any one of my 23 birthdays.

My social media representation is in fact a lot popular, a lot funnier and let's face it...a lot fitter than the real deal.

But that is not where my beef ends. My falling out with Facebook stems way back, back when the we saw our 'wall' change it's name by deed poll to our 'timeline'.

Who do you think you are Facebook? Micheal Parkinson? When I reach the end of my days, will you present me with an over-sized red photo album and whisper those intolerable words 'This, this is your life'...sponsored by Facebook. Mark Zuck-it-berg. When was the precise moment that Facebook became the virtual equivalent of our autobiography, our Wikipedia page, the sole source employed to document our every move. Is Facebook really that high in the pecking order?

Facebook is like the cat that got the cream. It has no problem showing you endless photos of your ex boyfriend scuba diving with your replacement. But, whilst the status on that sepia photo of the newlyweds reads 'It was a Vera Wang and Tiffany's kinda day', it really translates to; 'I am willing to over look that my hubby thinks my special place is around six inches south of where it really is because his bank account is just beeeeyond'.

Look, a little self-promotion is not a bad thing. We all do it. Go forth and toot that horn. But for the sake of our down-in-the-dumps days, our lonely days, our my-makeup-went-wrong-days, let us remember that it is far easier to carve perfection in the vortex known as Facebook than it is in real life.

For now, the battle against social media is over. We lost, we are robots, robots living online.

P.S I feel as if I am cheating on my boyfriend, but like all boyfriends...there are days when they just piss you off a little.

Happy tweetings,
B xx

My truly impressive ability to stick at absolutely nothing.

The new year is here, and I have made a resolution make absolutely no resolutions. Or lists, no lists...unless it's a to-do list as the only listing on that list is 'Ryan Gosling'.

Another January con which I am in no way subscribing my derriere to is the January detox, the dry January or the "fools guide to the galaxy" as it is more appropriately known. Why, in the most miserable month of the year, you would actively choose to make yourself even more miserable is beyond me. Instead, in the words of our formerly full figured friend Miss Jones; 'I choose Chaka Khan and vodka.' Mainly vodka.

Whilst I am in no way encouraging the consumption of alcohol, I am in no way condemning it. And here's why. The essential part of any detox is not rocket science. It is state school, bunsen burning, GCSE at it's best. Many expensive pills, potions and powders promise to rid you of those pesky toxins that have taken up residence in your lady area. Now, being a proud owner of both a lady area and a B in GCSE Science (double award huh hummm), I shall translate. They make you pee. Well, so does beer. More so. So Siri, I shall take my fruit in a martini please as no pleasure quite so sweet is worth giving up for the extra two years spent in a geriatric home in sunny Southend.

As for diets, where do I begin. I like to view the world plainly. In all it's glory. Do not try and convince me that the fast diet will make feel like Gywneth Paltrow floating on a river of liquid gold whilst Kodaline serenade me about smashing bottles and fizzy willies. It was Paltrow herself who said 'Beauty fades! I just turned 29...so I probably don't have that many good years left in me.' Well, if my maths is correct that equates to six years left of my "beautiful life" to do with what I choose. I have two options, do I munch on a celery stick and complain my protruding hip bones or do I live a little and create stories my grandchildren will want to listen to. PG 13'd of course. As far as I see it, life is about finding the balance between cigarettes and tofu.

A balance I am yet to find.

I am aware that, Houston, I have a problem. I have a truly impressive ability to stick at absolutely nothing. Haircuts, diet plants, relationships, Starbucks orders...blogs. I am a free agent with a dodgy success record, a marathon runner never to see the finish line, I am the coupon which promises you a free lippy...as long as you spend twice the cost of the promise first. But only the worst kinds of people are ever done of evolving. I do not look in the mirror and think 'hold the phone, call off the search party this, this is the absolute definition of perfection.' I am forever enrolled in the school of me.

So calm down my wee chums, Rome was not built in day. We do not need to usher in the new year with grand declarations of what we will do differently whilst tweeting 'New Year, New Me' and other vomit inducing sentiments. Instead, and in light of recent realizations to do with my temperament, I propose that we make small but significant changes. I for one will stop sponsoring my days by Cadburys, and convincing myself that cake if eaten after 4 o'clock is simply 'tea'...a socially acceptable and highly recognized meal time.

But for now, that is quite enough. Pass the wine.

B xx

All by my selfie.

Once again I have become delinquent with my writing. I would like to blame a hectic schedule, the loss of my fingers and thus my ability to type but, I can't. Maybe it is a good thing, I have had less to moan about, lesser to get on my nerves. Miley is still twerking but I have come to terms with it and even given it a trial run in my bathroom mirror. I'll stick to skankin'. Skankin' I can do.

This week (haha, said like I update weekly) I shall lay to rest the debate of the selfie. If you are unfamiliar with the said 'selfie', I am talking pout perfect, fabulously filtered, completely and unequivocally delusive photographs of your mush (and I should know, I am guilty as charged...check my Instagram).

The selfie is your friend. Not only your friend but your best friend. It promises to serve it's queen and it's country and to keep the Guide Law. It promises to flatter you, bring out your best side and lift your spirits when they have fallen flatter than your hair. Vain? Of course. We are taking pictures of ourselves, by ourselves. If this is not the very definition of vanity then slap me and call me Janet. But do we give a teeny tiny rats arse? No. There are enough people sat impatiently behind the security of their computer screens just waiting for an opportunity to compare our noses to that of a gherkin, and our legs to that of a chunky chip rather than a french fry...so selfie your self silly. If it makes you feel good, then let your freak flag fly.

There are a few golden rules when it comes to the selfie. Number one, selfie few and far between. As much as I love your face Rihanna, I don't need to see it for breakfast lunch and dinner. Treat your selfie like that chap you've been flirting with over Twitter, treat them mean to keep them keen.

Number two, a selfie with a friend is like a free pass to Thorpe Park, just as thrilling but minus the guilt.

Number three, a 'lickin-lips' selfie is never okay. It does not matter whether your background is full of pastel posies or giant raffle won teddies, if you wouldn't put it in a frame DO NOT put it online. The internet is a breeding ground for all things news worthy, it is not a vault, a vast space of nothingness in which nothing truly exists. It is the real world with real problems and real dangers, tread with care and caution. Oh, and avoid the 'belfie' (the bottom selfie). Making sure your InstaFANs recognize you when stood behind you in a queue is not necessary really...is it?

According to a new Study on the DailyMail (hardcore stuff), the selfie holds the ability to leave you on your selfies. With every picture we post we drop a facebook friend, a follower...a like. The title reads: 'Does your selfie spell social suicide?', well does it? Do we really care if our housemate posts a picture of themselves when we know full well that they are sat in their room alone, passing the time with a fuchsia pout? Does it deem them socially inept or deserve a barrage of abuse? No, no it does not. Instead of letting your green eyed monster get the better of you, why not press like? Or better yet make a POSITIVE comment. It won't hurt I swear, in fact it is probably the easiest way of doing that 'one nice thing a day' shizzle you promised yourself at New Years.

Over and POUT.

xx

Frosty Jack's Girl.

Once again I have become slack with my blog. For this I apologize. If it makes you feel any better, which I am sure it will not, I have become as equally slack with my nails. I am currently fobbing off a chipped electric blue as an intentional ombre, a nod  to the blue skies we so desperately seek. A subtle hint, a push in the right direction, a silenced scream of 'GET YOUR ARSE OUT OF BED SUMMER AND MAKE ME LOOK ALIVE AGAIN'. Like fake fur and penciled-in brows, subtlety is key...

A wee while ago I passed over the reigns to you and asked: 'What in heavens name shall I bang on about this week?' You came back in your millions all guns blazing* (*two dedicated blog lurvers came back, qwerty keen).  You asked me to write about the reality of my life in comparison to my immature impressions of what would be.

Well, let me see. I envisaged myself an add on to the Spice Girls, a stand in for Sporty or Scary. I wasn't fussy, all I knew is that I liked leopard print and could kick a ball (the same is true now, just a different kinda balls and a less trashy kinda leopard) thus ('thus' - English graduate problems) I had all the qualities and credentials required to be Team Spice. I could not hold a note but who are we kidding, could Ginger?

All in all, life is exactly as I envisaged. See you next week.

NOT.

I shall not sit here and bore you with endless details about how my life compares to VB and the gang. I hold no comparison. I do not own a fifteen storey house, nor a driver, nor a scantily clad, boxer or briefs hubby with golden balls.

Instead, I shall tell you something I wish someone had once told to me at a pivotal point in my life - going to university. Oooosh, how current of me.

I have no problem in telling you that when I went to University I was inexperienced in many more ways than one. Playing a game of 'I Have Never' was a course in sobriety for me as vodka failed to pass my lips, round after bullshit round. Such in-experiences did not define me but they did, in some twisted manner, embarrass me. I warn you now, I feel as if I am opening a bit of a chapter here, going forward it may be best to read with Kleenex in tow and wine at an arms length away. Just kiddin', 'I'm a strong, independent woman...' etc, etc.

There is one thing I have learnt from endless games of 'I Have Never' however, as time has passed and I have grown up. That is, that people talk a lot of shit. A lot of it. In a Frosty Jack and Squash haze (yes, I was a that girl) I was somewhat impressed by all manner of places people had supposedly done the dirty. In a McDonalds toilet just off the M25, the back seat of a cinema, your parents en suite shower and a red Micra with only one wing mirror - and of course each time was like flying through a lilac sky sprinkled with rainbows on talking unicorns. Magical. Well, I'm calling it. I'm calling it BULLSHIT.

Why do we feel the need to boast about such supposed antics when we are teens? Tell me, because it is not big and it is NOT CLEVER - hash tag, not an innuendo. As far as I was concerned there were parts of me that I refused to loose with a side portion of regret, and if that meant fifty five THOUSAND rounds of 'I Have Never' before diving for a jelly shot then...so be it.

If you have been following my Twitter feed this week you will know what has been getting up in my grrilllll...all twerking, all smirking Miley Cyrus:

19h

Miley Cyrus's new video makes me want to have a bath, join a nunnery and read Jane Austen in buttoned up shirts and lace-up loafers. #ew

I mean, I don't see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind. But, when it is on a public platform in white leggings the probability is that I am going to get the hump. After watching the video three times, I am no wiser as to whether she is selling a track or herself? It is a mash up of giant teddies, gyrating and spanx with an underlying commentary of 'look at me, I may not be Rihanna but this country music gal can get norti, fancy a roll in the hay?'. You may well disagree but, tell me this; When was the precise moment smoke bellowing from your never-regions became attractive?

All in all...take your time y'all, when it all boils down to it it really is not as important as it may seem this solitary second. Instead be young, make mistakes because they are the only way your are ever going to learn. Just remember, sometimes it is okay to stand on your chair and scream "I have never...and I could not give a teeny tiny rats arse'.

Over and out. xx

Pugs Not Drugs.

Two things have happened recently that have, for lack of a better phrase, really gotten up in my grill. Yes, I did just say that.

One, I have been ill. I am no good at being ill. I am a workaholic and the idea of not being physically able to work fills me with dread. I spend my days in bed watching commissioned crap otherwise known as “Daytime TV”. The most stable relationship present in my little life goes off balance; my relationship with food hits a Kim K sized bump in the road as I live off white bread, jam and kiwi fruits for days on end. For some this may sound like heaven but, I assure you, it is not. It is my idea of hell, it is my equivalent of having a dinner party with Madonna, Perez Hilton and Paris Hilton – a platter of bony bodies, blank expressions and irritations at all angles.

The second is Cara Delevigne.

Now, I whole heartedly believe that you cannot hate nor dislike a “celebrity” figure whom you do not know. You can dislike what they stand for, yes. But, you cannot dislike them.

My beef with Cara stems predominantly from the world she derives. Cara’s world is a world that revolves around a core of all things skinny, "beautiful", chiselled and leggy. Cara's world is one I have worked in myself. No, no, I have not graced the cover of Vogue or strutted my stuff along the catwalk at Chanel and Burberry - quite obviously, I have not. I was indeed one of the many minions that sat behind an office desk playing Pictionary and letting the words "on trend" dribble from my mouth more regularly than my own name. "Oh my, your skirt, you are sooooo ON TREND". "What did you have for breakfast?" "Muesli with greek yogurt" "Oh my, how ON TREND". Even the words in written form leave me all of a quiver.

I would rather appreciate fashion on my own terms than work within in it on someone else's.

I for one, could no longer be a part of an industry that pretends to support women whilst bombarding them with impossible images of so-called “perfection”. Whilst I am not an expert, nor can I lay claim to years upon years of experience within the fashion industry, I am a girl, and I have eyes. Eyes which have seen what goes on both in front of, and behind, the camera.

It may not come as a surprise to you but, the images you see in magazines are ENTIRELY IMPOSSIBLE. In life, we do not have an entourage of professionals priming and primping every hair that happens to fall across our heavily made-up face. I kid you not, during a photo shoot for a fashion magazine, you would be lucky to get six shots before a stylist, hairdresser or makeup artist leaps in to paint, spray, comb and pin every miniscule of a models minute frame. After the “production”, and never has the word been used more appropriately, closes its curtains, room is made for the “make-believers” to erase very possible imperfection  imaginable – a poxy spot, a crinkled hand, a solitary hair or, if you are Sienna Miller, a crooked grin (Sienna's Vogue US 2007 cover sees her smile made 'less toothy' via the infamous airbrush and her neck and shoulders switched in from a previous and unrelated shot).

If you need further convincing, watch The September Issue, everything I hate about the fashion industry is crammed into 140mins with not a laugh to mention. Ah, this is a whole other blog post.

My issue with the fashion industry this week stems from their failure to acknowledge and further, take action on, an incident which hit the papers early last week: Cara's little habbit.

By ignoring the incident in question, Cara has quite simply gotten away with the possession (and use - she ain't dusting no cupcakes) of DRUGS. Which makes me wonder, is ignorance really that blissful?

  

What message does this send to teens decorating their walls with pictures of Cara, those with eyebrows unruly and untamed in homage to Cara's big, bushy brow? If you are young, rich and beautiful, you can get away with anything…even substance abuse?

So why, in a world so insistant of capturing every waking moment of their fashionistas, have they skipped capturing this? Well, quite obviously, it shows imperfection. Something the fashion world has no liking for and further, no willingness to promote. Imperfection is a dirty word in the world of fashion, it is like trying to squeeze a heard of buffalo into a Mini Cooper...it just doesn't fit. But by ignoring the problem entirely, they have sent out a message that is deeply troubling. A message that is far from healthy for our teens to be digesting. It implies that Cara's behaviour is normal and not worthy of a mention. Fashion has shrugged it's shoulders and uttered "meeeehhh" to DRUGS.

What else is okay? The subjection of women?

It is about time the fashion world admitted it's faults, banished all ideas of perfection and gave us something real. A reaction that is not as bland as a celery stick would be a good place to start.

And, if the package in question does appear to be a clear bag full of Cara’s fave sweetner, I shall eat my words…and the sweetner for that matter. Until that moment, I shall remain confussed, short of compassion and somewhat disappointed.

X

Don't hate the player, hate the game.

Last night over an earl grey and left over Easter eggs, my pal uttered the following thought provoking or in my case, blog provoking, words: "all girls are crazy, we give a boy previews of our crazy in the "seeing" stages of a relationship and offer tickets for the full show when the girlfriend/boyfriend label is slapped on".

In a state of confusion I nodded. Yes I agree, I am crazy. However, over a similar earl grey affair hindsight came knocking. Am I crazy? Crazy in comparison to who? Kate Middleton? Well okay, yes. Although, she married a prince, sun bathes topless and wears a kitten heel so, you do the maths. Amanda Bynes? Hell no, the day I get facial piercings and dye my hair a colour only describable as "shit" is the day I shall throw my hands up and confess to crazyhood.

I am, in fact, rather dull. My idea of a date is a takeaway and a film, I know which wine is my wine (pause for those shouting "urm, all wine is your wine alccy"), I only drink one cup of tea a day due to the fear fear of staining my teeth and I have been known to go to a car booty donning a bum bag. I do not attend underground raves on the reg, nor do I find the idea of parading my pins in a dress made of meat even slightly appealing. Although, if there is a George Foreman clutch included in the stylists wardrobe then I could be convinced. Convenience innit.

Wow, painted myself as some kinda picture there.

What was my point? Ah, crazy. Cray cray.

Every girl has contemplated what she did to make a relationship slide down the shitter. Ew. As the dumpee we convince ourselves that we have lost the loves of our lives, disregarding the claims we made at the start of the relationship which go a little like this: "he's not my type", "I can't see it going anywhere" and my personal fave "I'm just not looking for a relationship".

Then it hits us. We were the problem. We turned crazy. It was probably that pesky pill, yes, that's it, that pesky pill is to blame. Well, unsurprisingly to you, I am calling bullshit on it. Bullshit on the whole thing.

Girls are simple. If we like a guy (or another lady friend) we tell them. We flirt, we twirl our fingers through our hair and on the odd occasion we experiment with a new eyeshadow in the hope that it will make our eyes sparkle a la Kim K. If we want to see the object of our affection, we ask. If we do not like a guy (or another lady friend) we don't tell them we do. We do not flirt, we do not twirl our finger through our hair and we spend money on bar after bar of chocolate because, that too, can make our eyes sparkle. Now don't get me wrong, guys can be simple too. But, and here comes the scientific part of my monologue, girls are made according to a different recipe, sugar and spice and all things nice, you know the one.

According to certain scientists we as women create a chemical whilst, and how should I put this, exercising with a personal trainer. Humm, 'trainer' may be the wrong choice of word, let's change it to 'workout buddy'. That chemical, otherwise known as the cray cray chemmy, sparks involuntarily questions to pop into our minds, questions like 'where is this going?', ''does he like me?' and 'how long have I got before the bugger scarpers?'. When it comes to the apple of our eye, even when we try to keep it light, we inevitably end up in the dark.

Whilst these questions may appear crazy, they in fact migrate to the minds of all girls. Each and every one. So when you think about it, crazy becomes the new normal and Taylor Swift becomes a marketing genius.

Think about it, or don't. Life is too short to sweat the small stuff. Instead, understand that every thought that has passed through your mind, has taken up a residency in anothers.

B x

 *Declaration time, all circumstances are different, in some cases all of the above is utter rubbish and for that I apologise. Some flirt without intent, of course. Some play the game. And some are so god damn terrified of being rejected that they back off, or read their situation entirely incorrectly and act (never has this verb been more appropriate) out of character and do things we would never normally do. Guilty as charged on the last humdinger.*

"It's just a part of the job"

First off, I must apologise. My life has become frantic recently and my blog has, somewhat reluctantly, taken a back seat. Whilst that is no excuse, it is mine. Although, even that doesn't shift the wave of guilt sweeping over my Batiste barnet.

When thinking about what to ramble on about this week, the familiar ole topics came knocking. Twitter - nope, already bored you to tears on there (why else would you be seeking other means). Facebook - hell no, if it wasn't for the fear of loosing each and every puzzle piece of my social life, I would have deleted that long ago. Bieber - well, obviously. Bieber's new haircut - even the mention of it leaves me blinking through salted water.

Then it hit me...this morning's tweet (blast, Twitter creeped it's way in).

"There is far more dishonest journalism available to youths than there is honest. We're smart, we can take it, give us something juicy."

Instead of falling into some bullshit, misinformed, argument about politics and Paris, I shall focus on THE excuse that comes before the dishonesty,  that which leaves me hot under the collar, and not in a good way. The excuse I talk (ramble) of is this: "well, it's a part of the job".

Now, that excuse would be acceptable if we were Lindsey Lohan's chauffeur taking weekend trips to the correctional facility over the spa facilities - because let's face it, it is part of the job. But when it comes to the manner in which the media treat celebrity folk, this excuse does NOT apply. After all, I do not recall the last time I heard of a star signing away all their rights to a human reaction.

A few weeks ago I, along with fellow Beliebers, squirmed at the way Bieber (a human - if you were wondering) was treated by a photographer after a "troubled" tour in the UK (proof, the weather dampens spirits).

Biebs, my floppy haired guilty pleasure, reacted. *PAUSE* for those who fainted due to the shock of what they have just read. Yes, you read right, he reacted. Now, I don't know about you but, the moment a bald headed hooligan with a camera shouts words only deemed acceptable after the watershed in my direction, is the moment people will look back on and say in hushed tones, "ah, that was the moment she lost it". If they haven't whispered that already.

In our society there is an unwritten rule, otherwise known as "bollocks the jealous make up to allow themselves to get up in the morning". We appear to believe that those who have dared to have dreams, pushed towards what they want to do, worked day and night tirelessly to make a name for themselves, had the audacity to be noticed and the sheer abruptness to step into the spot light deserve to be punished. Not only do they deserve to be punished but, they deserve to be told they are *insert series of expletives here* and then told so again by a mass of media mobs, and again by a rampage of the Twitterati and then again, by those outside the scrutiny of the public eye.

The "public eye" has become a dirty word. The meaning of the word has become tainted by those outside of it, more specifically those who have a brain the size of a walnut or a penis the size of a jelly bean.

If that photographer had spoken in the same way to the owner of a pet store, he would make the front pages along with a name for himself as a spiteful, nasty, low life bastard with an aversion to goldfish and hamsters. However, if the person on the other end of his tongue is a celebrity we brush it of with a huff a puff and those fatal words, "well, it's a part of the job". Well, I am calling bullshit on it, I am calling bullshit on the whole thing. The word "celebrity" is a mask, a persona. Underneath the mask, the lobster head piece and the perfect pout is a person, a real life being who (and this is not for the faint hearted) has real human emotions. They curse, they pee and on the odd occasion outside of award ceremonies they have a good ole cry. I just hope you aren't the ones making those tears fall.

Talk next week,
B x

P.S If I have sounded somewhat Carrie Bradshaw-esque, moaning, groaning and making every word a sentiment that in some way can be related to shoes, then I am sorry. I am on the third DVD in the series 6 box set and it's starting to take it's toll.

P.P.S In my life, I do more than watch reruns of Sex and the City...I watch Breaking Bad too.

Twitter truths...

'I just didn't get it at first but, now I am hooked' - a sentence each and every one of Twitter's 175 million users have let fall from their mouths.

I am indeed a member of the Twitter party. If Twitter was a club, the bouncers would know my name, I would skip the queue, high fiving Gazza on the way to the glass elevator. If Twitter was my local chippy, I would be welcomed by those altogether appealing yet, somewhat soul destroying words; 'usual tonight is it Briony?' If Twitter was a gym membership, I should be on my way to getting the next six months free...I think you get the point.

I, Briony Gaffer, am a Twitter addict - the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem.

The Guardian website posted an article which claimed that Twitter was 'harder to resist that cigarettes and alcohol'. According to US researchers, we ordinary folk are more likely to fall victim to the urge to tweet, than we are to pull the cork from the bottle of red currently taking up residence on your kitchen counter.

The funny thing is, as I sat dismissing the study with a 'pfffttt' and a 'c'moooon', the first thought that came to my mind was: 'Twitter needs to hear about this'.

Twitter has become an ever present part of our lives, it is the person (and I use the word 'person' lightly) we turn to when we feel the need to brag. It is the person we share a joke when we have come across an unfortunate street name. It is the person we cosy up to and flatter, when all we really want to do is sell them something.

Twitter is a cocktail party. A networking event if used correctly. It is not the main event but, rather the backstage hub. Whilst others are relentlessly dropping business cards on to the tables of the savvy, the internet smart are dropping tweets, collecting a following of thousands. The clue is in the title, 'social media', the media will always be secondary to the social. It is gym class in high school on a social platform; if your following is less than desirable the chances are, you will not get picked for the team.

Don't get me wrong, I am not stabbing my ole pal Twitter in the back, I am merely opening your eyes to the reality of the social networking site. Twitter is the Regina George of Mean Girls, it knows it is a bitch.

But like that one that broke your heart, we still harper feelings.

And, like most high school gangs, there are a whole host of Twitter characters.

First there are The Conversationalists, those who turn to Twitter rather than the messaging app on their iPhones. The thought process somewhat baffles me here, do they think we can't see? Or are they inviting us along too? I shall opt for the second, there will be many a birthday party or netball match at which I shall crop up. Isn't that how Paris and Nicole became social butterflies? Gate crashing.

The Follow Me Frankly's, those who know what #ff actually means. Those who sign off not with their name nor a cheeky 'ly' but, 'follow bk plz'. Maybe my mother drummed the concept of 'stranger danger' too hard into my muddled mind but, this is one I have yet to get to grips with.

The Braggarts, those who brag about the pony Daddy bought them who has now learned to tip toe it's way to the fridge and pour a glass of mineral  water. The type that post pictures of their dinner as if to say 'hola boys, look who would make a good wifey ;)' - you're all thinking it. It is like having a second slice of chocolate cake or a cheeky fumble, the only one that is stimulated is you.

Then there are the virtual equivalent of the door to door salesmen, just slightly less shabby. This can, in some cases include the rich and famous, when was the last time you saw Kim Kardashian post a tweet that was not littered with words misspelt due to the added addition of the Kardashian K?

At this point, I feel the need to send out a wee declaration because, let's face it, I don't want to loose any of my lovely followers. I am pinpointing those you too have bad mouthed to your pals over a cheeky glass of vino. Twitter is of course full of wonderful folk who have something valid, interesting and more often than not, funny to say. I am also not in any way claiming that I do not hold a percentage of each of the personality traits as listed above, I am guilty, guilty as charged.

After all, why are you here? Because I tweeted the link.

The art of the written word...

I am a strong believer in all things wordy. I am often known to touch type lessons in life and love to various names admist my address book - whether they are required or not. I take great pleasure in writing, normally doing so without the consideration of who may be reading it (sorry, it's probably better this way, if I believe my writing to be sent into the vast emptiness of cyber space then, y'all probably get more honesty than you need ever require).

At this point I feel it is necessary to jump back to my first declaration: 'I am a strong believer in all things wordy' - ah yes, I do love to pick and mix my words until you are sweetened to sickness by the taste. I mean, let's face it, my introductory paragraph could have sounded more like this: 'I love words. I give free life coaching to my friends via text. I like writing. I rarely think of my readers reaction to what I write.' But, where is the fun in that, it is like watching Rylan dye his beard black, we are neither entertained not inspired to do the same. Please note, I do not have a beard that I have been toying with the idea of dying all the colours of the rainbow. But, if I did I would probably go white and forge a career in dressing as Santa or a Smurf, when outside the holiday season.

I am loosing my point.

My point is that, it is time we start appreciating the art of the written word. Gone are the days (I hope) that is was deemed cool to abbreviate the life out of a language that has been centuries in the making. Gone are the days that we use a Capital Letter For Each New Word - and if you did that, shame on you, you are the reason ITV have fallen victim and rebranded using small face letters.

We are intelligent people, when we turn on the radio we do not desire to hear about your 'bang bang shoes', nor being 'in da club'. As much as it sounds out of character to say it (c'mon, I like Bieber) we are sick of being parred off with in adequate English and meaningless lyrics. We want honesty, meaning and something we can relate to whilst we pour our hearts out, singing into the mirror (we all do it) The Ivor Novello was not handed out to any of it's recipient based on album sales nor whether they could melt butter with the flick of their honey toned locks; they were given on the basis of their word use, the art of the written word.

At this point I shall stop - I know the piece is about the art of the written word but, there is only so much "art" y'all should be subjected to from me.

So, instead I suggest you press play on the YouTube clip above. Get ready for a lesson from George The Poet on how it is really done.

Check out M Read's blog, he has a wonderful piece on written communication to get you thinking. He also suggested I wrote this piece, thank you. http://19london.blogspot.co.uk

Suggestions please...

Hello everyone and a warm welcome to y'all...

I am currently sat in bed drinking tea from my Bieber mug - which, for someone who supposedly doesn't drink tea, is looking somewhat over used.

I have a few blog posts up my sleeve that I shall be posting in the week however, I would love you all to get more involved with what I write. Therefore, any suggestions you may have concerning topics are more than welcome. Please leave them in the comment box below and I shall get (was about to say tapping - but, no shan't) typing.

I would also love to read some of your writing - let's form a writers community, a club, the equivalent to a band - focusing on the art of the word rather than our haircuts.

Hope you all have a wonderful day, play safe in the snow me wee pals.

Over and out, love n' peas, etc etc,
Briony x

Back when I was younger...

When I look back to my high school days two things come to mind: pigtails, and not in the Baby One More Time sexy Britney way and, photosynthesis.

High School will teach you many things, things that will prepare you for later life and further education.  But, providing you with a list of mathematic equations or the formula for typing the word 'boobies' into your scientific calculator is not the aim of my post. Yes, we are taught many a' theory during our school years but, let me ask you this, when was the last time you used the pythagoras theorem to get out of a parking ticket!? Instead I shall impart unto you the things that you will never learn in high school, the things I have learnt since graduating and entering the real world.

High school will not teach you...

1) How to balance a checkbook, nor what the phrase 'I'm balancing my checkbook' means.
2) How to apply makeup. There are gangs of women on the highstreet, in Tesco's, in your local library who will insist on wearing foundation through their brows, myself included.
3) How to  format your CV, write a cover letter or apply for jobs - Google is your friend. Remember this and you will get far.
4) That leggings aren't, nor shall ever be, trousers.
5) How to clean a mirror without leaving smeary marks.
6) If you mess up, it is not your parents fault. Learn from your mistakes and be better.
7) The things you where considered cool for in school, the smoking, the alcopop benders, will not make you cool in later life. Listing 'lurking/looting in bus stops' does not make for an impressive vocational activity on your resume.
8) How to tell the difference between The Real Housewives of Orange County.
9) Apart from rent, you will end up forking out for food bills, water bills, electricity/gas bills, insurance, phone bills, travel bills, the list goes on and only increases in size as your family does.
10) Love lives do not undergo a drastic change the moment you hit your thirties - you will be surprised how much your love life in your thirties resembles your love life in your teens. Oh, and being played, still happens and still hurts just as much. (If you are reading this and thinking, you are not 30! Well, I have it on good authority.)
11) How to Hula-Hoop, only Grace Jones can teach you that.

There are many more but, to be frank, Emmerdale is on and I cannae maintain my concentration.

Feel free to help me out. The list is endless.

Over and out.

Feel the burn...

Sooooo, day two of my running resolution. To my, and no doubt your, shock and amazement, I have completed my second run of 2013. I managed at least 30 meters further than last time, which I am currently celebrating with an Orange Matchstick.

The pain circulating in my calves and thighs has grown ever the more intense but, on the bright side, it is stopping me from crawling to the fridge for yet another Matchstick. Win, win.

Stay tuned.

Slow and steady wins the race...

As many of you may know from Twitter, or possibly from hearing my screams as I squeeze into budget trainers, I have taken on a new challenge. Running. Now, I am fully aware that this may be my first and last post about running as, from past experience, the art of running has failed to grip me. And yes, I shall call it an art because, let's face it and be frank, it is bloody hard.

At this point in my post I feel a wee declaration maybe necessary. I am not running to loose weight, you will not hear me moaning and groaning about how many calories I have burnt per half mile. It is a part of what I would like to call: the sodding guilt trip that is New Year. I have made many a'resolution and this year I aim to keep at least two. At least.

My resolutions involve:
a) Be nicer.
b) Be better.
c) Be better at being nicer.
d) GET FIT.

With three out of four being well, somewhat high in the sky, I am focusing the predominance of my attention on Resolution D.

So, with the aim of kicking myself up the derriere, I shall write to you my experiences. Starting today, Thursday the tenth of January, otherwise known as the day I wore a pair of non-fashion related trainers for the first time in my 22 years on the planet we call home. It was a big day, public holidays should be announced, plaques should be engraved and a brass Fila statue should be erected. Erected, whey.

And how did it go you may ask...Well, not as badly as first expected. Yes, I only ran for half an hour, and yes, a pick n' mix of walking, running and hobbling was involved. But, overall I believe that the first step in my running adventure has been conquered. Watch out Forest, I'm a' comin'. I started out slow, avoiding all possible up hill climbs. I have to admit, that besides the wardrobe (which may I say is a revolution, huh, humm, lycra), my favourite part of the whole running experience was doing the mid-run check for cars whilst sprinting across t-junctions and over mini roundabouts. This is a point, and I think seasoned runners would agree, when your ponytail is mid-flight and your arms are outstretched, that you would be forgiven for thinking that you were Kate Hudson filming the running sequence from My Best Friends Girls. That, I liked. The burning pain current taking up residence in my calves, not so much. But, pain is the name of the game, it just means it's working...RIGHT?

I shall keep you updated. In the mean time I shall be spending money I do not have on lycra, and planting chocolate based snacks at various points en route, just in case those trainers guilt trip into taking them out me once again.

xx