CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!

This weekend I truly got into the Christmas spirit.

On Saturday I opened my TWO advent calendars (one picture and one CHOCOLATE - was a deprived child and never allowed one before), bought Christmas cards, decorations, planned mine and Wigan's mini Christmas Roast and decorated our tree. All to the the XMAS party classics CD.

And I had a lovely time. It was wonderful and I am truly in the Christmas mood.

Our Christmas tree is a little pathetic looking. Being only three foot tall. And really quite bald.

But we covered it in far too many baubles. And loads of other foil based decorations.

We even topped it off with an angel (homemade by Wigan and I out of our cheese grater with some tin foil wings stuck on the back).

After that I decided that we needed to give the windows a bit of a christmas look. So we made paper snowflakes (and may I just add, Wigan was truly appalling at this. she is being paid an obscene amount of money to look after a couple of kids, and all they do all day is crafts. and yet ask her to make you a paper snowflak..... well after frustrated grunts, angry jabs with scissors and severe snowflake envy, the Wigan admitted defeat)

We have also got very into the festive food. The Wiganer has set a new record for eating. She has managed to get through not one, but three boxes of mince pies.Since december started.

We have a fourth, but it has been hidden, and is only being adminstired under strict supervision.

She is blaming the Tesco buy one get one free offer.

I shall be keeping you all up to date with my festive antics over the next few days. As I'm sure you can tell, they will be extensive.

Worst day at work EVER

I work in a pub. It's nice. I quite like it. As with any job it has its ups and downs.

Last week wednesday however, secured itself as the worst day at work EVER. In fact so many things went wrong, it stopped being awful, and all I could do was laugh.

My pub is called The Albany. It is opposite Great Portland Street tube. Which is on the Metropolitan line. As is Wembley.

And last wednesday (the day of doom) happened to be the date of the England v Croatia Euro cup qualifier.

So, for those who have not yet worked it out, my pub was well and truly in the firing line.

But that's ok. I'm good when its busy.

So I get to work. And it's just me, the Polish guy Kasper, who is lovely, and Greg. He is in charge.

No one else turns up. So we are understaffed. By two people. Problem number one.

I notice that we are a little low on glasses. And all the tables, and the bar, in fact all available space is inundated by dirty glasses.

I go round, at great personal risk, as angry, thristy England fans do not like bar staff who are not making them drinks, and collect glasses.

The dishwasher is broken. We have no way to wash glasses.

There is a dishwasher (albeit from the 19th century) downstairs.

The lift is broken.

So, to clarify, we are missing two staff members, we have no clean glases, the dishwasher is broken, and the only way of getting them clean is literally to carry them, glass by glass, down two flights of stairs, and we are so busy, people are queuing to get into the pub.

After about an hour of constant abuse (wearing a football shirt seems to remove any concept of common decency, turning even the most respectable gentleman into nothing short of a yob) the crowd starts to die down.

The queue for the bar is still about 8 deep, but we can see light at the end of the tunnel.

I then hear a very strange noise, followed by screaming.

Water is POURING out of the ceiling. in the middle of the pub. In sheets. Within minutes, the surrounding customers are ankle deep in water.

Greg's solution is to put newspaper down. This swiftly turns the water into a swamp.

By the end of the night, after many people saying, "er, your floor's really wet" and "why have you got papier mache instead of carpet", aching arms, and more smashed glasses than whole ones, and it is time to clear up.

I am just about to leave. To go home to a clean(ish) house and sleep, when my Wiganer calls me. To inform me she has just been sick. A lot. Joy. Home will be nearly as good as work.

Football.........

I don't understand football. I don't pretend to. Nor do I particularly want to. I sometimes feign interest for the purpose of the boyfriend but in all honestly I find the entire activity dull and a little pointless (boys chasing a ball - little reminiscent of dogs in a park?).

And yet. the other day I, yes the embodiment of ultimate football disinterest, had to do a report on Ebbsfleet United.

They have become the first football club to be run by fans via a website called MyFootballClub.com. Members pay to join up, and then, alledgedly, get to have a personal contribution to how the team is run.

Somehow, out of a group of 5, including a boy, and an avid football fan, I managed to land this story. But, in a truly professional manner, I took a deep breath, and went for it.

I interviewed the club director (a man called Roly - like the pudding). And he didn't seem to notice my utter football ignorance. In fact, at the end he asked if I spported Ebbsfleet. That was followed by an awkward silence.

Using the interview I wrote up my entire report, and by the time it came to reading it, I actually understood the whole concept.

Don't get me wrong, I asked a LOT of questions, needed a LOT explained to me, and still have not got the correct football jargon. But I did it.

And I have now developed a very strong attachment to Ebbsfleet United. In fact, given a few more weeks, I may become a real fan.

Croydon nights

Many people think Croydon is a dump. And many bits are. Many also think that Croydon is dangerous. Again, they are not far wrong.

Fair enough, you will without fail see at least six fights, police vans line the streets, you have to go throug metal detectors to enter most of the clubs, and many of the other clubbers represent the crudest cross-section of society I have ever encountered (and I have a friend from Romford).

But there is something about Croydon that I am strangely attached to.

If you want a cheap, fun, cheesy night out, Croydon is probably your best bet. There are pubs where you can buy a round of five drinks, and still have change for a tenner (The Goose). There are clubs where you pay a whole £2 to get in. Mojama's is a good laugh. There is a Walkabout. And a very nice new cocktail bar (Svelte). And almost anywhere you can dance like a complete lunatic, and not get a single shocked/scared/disapproving look (the wiganer loves this).

And while many of the people you meet may have complete potty mouths, they are surprisngly friendly. One girl I met was more than happy to indulge in near acrobatic dance moves with despite not knowing her at all. Another didn't seem to mind at all when my wiganer accidentally spun into her. In fact, the opposite - she grabbed her hands and joined in.

Don't get me wrong, after long Croydon does start to drag, but go there once a month and I guarentee you will start to develop this strange love.

Old School Internet

My internet troubles have now come to resemble a saga of epic proportions. We now have a phone line (thank you Bt - we only had to wait a total of two months). And should finally have a wireless broadband package by december.

So, until then, I am stuck using this internet cafe.

And what a charcter building experience this is. The cafe is basically the front room of a guy's house. There are about 10 computeres in here. The newest, I would estimate, is about 20 years old. In fact these computers are so big, not one can have been made any earlier than the mid-80's.

Eacgh computer is precariously balanced on coffe tables. Most of these are missing at least one leg (some helpful bricks, and in one case a pile of mouldering newspapers is the replacement)and due to the vast size of the computer there is no room for either a mouse, or a keyboard.

So, the keyboard is balanced on my lap. The mouse is on the floor. Although I must be careful when reaching down for the mouse as my chair has three normal legs, and one, and no I am not joking, about a third shorter than the rest. It's a bit like being on a rocking chair. But less stable.

Today I have been lucky. As only two of the keyboards actullay have a full range of letters, often you have to wait for one to come free if you are indulging in activities such as writing a blog. Sometimes I've thought I can get away with it, but if the missing letters are "a" and "d" it really is impossible. There is one keyboard which is missing an "@" - fine, except for that all important internet acitivity of emailing (although, saying this, the internt here is so slow, that someytimes I wonder if it would perhaps be less stressful and more time efficient just to post a letter).

Periodically throughout my stay in here I am offered by the mute owner, "carribean coffee". As far as I can tell it is just two heaped teaspoons of kenko coffee and some hot water in a chipped mug. It's no tea at the Savoy.

ALl in all though, I shouldn't complain. Last time I was here I stayed for 2hrs, printed off about 20 pages, and was only charged £1.

Tea for Two at The Savoy

My Wiganer turned 22 on thursday. And in tribute to her being old, I took her for tea at the savoy hotel.

It was lovely. And very sophisticated. And we had lots of teeny tiny sandwiches. and some even teenier cakes. and socnes. and tea. a lot of tea. in fact, some might say too much tea.

and there was a lovely piano player thumping out some tunes (many musical classics, a bit of whitney, then some britney, and most surprisingly of all, Michael Jackson's Thriller - interesting as a classical piano version)

Now, while tea was lovely, possibly the best thing about the experience was the people watching. Behind was the most upper class woman I have ver seen. She clearly came in everyday for her afternoon tea, and a glass of champagne. Reading her highbrow paper, and chatting with the waiters.

The Wiganer was rather concerned when looking at her, that she had not managed to finish all of her miniture food, saying ratherly loudly "Well. She's not getting 'er money's worff". To which the lady responded by asking a nearby waiter for a selction of tupperware to take home her remains.
On seeing this the Wiganer decided that we should ask for more sandwiches and cake. Not eat them. And take them home in tupperware. Which we did. (Word of warning - don't try it with the egg of or the salmon sandwiches - not only does the bread go very dry, but warm egg and salmon are not pleasant).

Opposite us were a family of six, (four kids including two toddlers) and two very posh parents. After whinging about their daughter's riduculous assortment of "allergies" (posh version of having a fussy eater) they finally got the food. the little boy threw most of his onto the floor and refused to eat anything except for ham sandwiches. Wiganer commented, again in the booming northern tones "that's a waste that. Just take 'em down McDonalds".

After a lot more nosing into other people's business, drinking five litres of tea between us, taking an obscene amount of photos, making a short video tour of the tea room, becoming thoroughly excited by the toilets (you get your own personal towel!), and overhearing a comment from two old ladies ("do you think this is their first time here?") we eventually left, a full three hours after we went in.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I would recommned it to anyone. But do try and get the tupperware. We still have a whole other savoy tea to enjoy today as well.

Citizen Journalism

When I was at uni I took part in Citizen 1000 - a citizen journalism project set up by BBC Coventry and Warwickshire.

At the time I did it mainly becuase it looked fun, you got a bit of very basic training and it looked good for my CV. I really had no idea of the big raging debate that surrounds the concept of citizen journalism.

I've just been making a web page about user generated content on the internet, and much of the criticism inspired by UGC refers to the unreliability and poor ethical standards of a lot of citizen journalism.

Now, when I was involved, being based in the west midlands, there was rarely anything more exciting to report than a fallen tree blocking one of the routes out of leamington, or a retired woman giving tips on how to protect your roses from frost.

But if there had been, I still don't really see how there could have been a problem. For one thing, the attitude that Citizen 1000 took was that citizen journalism was a good way of keeping up to date with all the areas that BBC Coventry and Warwickshire covered. For example, I was a link to Warwick Univeristy, while a woman I met at the training lived in Kenilworth, hence being a link there. It was not viewed merely as a cheap way of getting news, but a way of inspring interaction and involvement from its audience. None of us felt exploited because we weren't paid; that wasn't why any of us got involved.

The BBC also exercised a certain degree of editiorial control over what we submitted, and what was actually broadcast or published online. Even if one of us had wanted to display poor ethical standards or unreliable news, we would have been caught out at the first hurdle.

I admit that perhaps other companies are not as rigorous in their checks as the BBC, but I do think that news companies enlisting the help of citizen journalists are generally fairly careful.

It seems that the area most people really mean when they moan on about citizen journalism is the world of blogging, video posts and YouTube. It is here that people can go unchecked and unpoliced. They are able to write whatever they want, and need to follow no ethical or moral code in order to be published.

If people want to class this as citizen journalism then I will admit the presence of a problem. But personally I would define citizen journalism as the involvement of the general public with a journalistic institution; an institution that can impose or translate a certain ethical code onto submissions.

And maybe this is where the real debate lies - not in the ethical and moral nature of citizen journalism, but in it's tecnical definition.

Infernos

On friday I experienced the joys of Infernos. A black box situated on Clapham High Street, I had been warned of its horrors by all and sundry, and yet curiosity got the better of me and I had to find out for myself.

So my housmate and I (a broad northern lass, from town of pie-eaters, Wigan) decided that in the name of research we would go.

First pleasant surprise was that it was free for girls before 10 (we then realised this was solely an attempt to balance out the massive majority of male clientele, but we did save a tenner).

Next surprise. This nightclub is carpeted.

As my wiganer pointed out "a bit of vomit on tha' and tha'll stink". So true.

Surprise number three. There are fish tanks EVERYWHERE. With real fish!

This we felt merited a photo. And provided a uninterrupted hour of fun. there were big fish and little fish and black fish and blue fish, and my personal favourite, a fish with a moustache.

So anyway. we were in. And despite the seriously bad decor, the carpet and distinct lack of other females, it is not too bad.

We have a little dance to some seriously cheesy music. Then we have a bigger dance. Then the wiganer tells an irishman that his irish dancing is poor, and to learn from her. And before we know it we are having a lovely time.

I'd be missing out a lot of the evening if i didn't admit that there were a lot males that enjoyed following us. But while some of them were downright weird, the majority were actually normal.

we spoke to two army men who had just got back from managing troops in Helmand. I spoke to a whiskey salesman that specialised in whiskey from Islay. And another that worked for vintage publishing house.

All in all, our night in infernos was a good'un. yeah, the music was dominated by 80's and 90's cheese, with the odd bit of rnb thrown in, but it was not too hot, offered sufficient dancing space for the wiganer to throw out some shapes, and is right on our doorstep.

And at the end of all that, we came home having change from a tenner.

The Periodic Table

I've just filled in the Books section of my profile. I've always avoided filling in sections like that as the pressure is too great.

But today I felt I had to. In honour of my degree.

And my god, it was hard. And I don't feel I've done it justice.

Just looking at the list though, I feel strangely proud and protective of my choices, and one of them especially I feel needs a little backstory - Primo Levi's The Periodic Table.

Possbily, if I ever had to choose a definitive favourite, impossbile though it would be, I would probably settle this one.

Levi was an Italian chemist, who (being a Jew) ended up in Auschwitz and survived. Although he wrote books about his war experiences, in The Periodic Table, he explicitly says that this book is not about that. For the remainder of his life he was held up as a holocaust survivor, and with that came an overwhelming sense of guilt - something he never really managed to overcome (he committed suicide in 1987).

The Periodic Table celebrates the life that he really wished everyone to see - his life as a chemist. It is a brilliant, moving, comic and profoundly insightful book, and I urge anyone who hasn't, to read it. As I bore all those that know me, the last piece of punctutation at the end of the last sentence of the last paragraph of the last chapter of the book is the most emotional things I have ever read.

It is a book about a man who wanted to be famous for what he loved, and yet spent his whole life being famous for something he wished to forget.

And putting aside all the sentimental crap, the life of a chemist is really really funny.

London Transport

Before I moved to London, my expectations of the transport were low.

But having been here for nearly two months I have yet to see any real problems.

It's expensive. I'll give you that. And today I was sat outside Neasden station on a met line train for 10mins. But thats not really all that bad.

It seems to me that Londoners have been spoiled, and in the way that a child can become bratty and selfish as a result of overindulgence, it seems that many Londoners have too.

I went to Warwick Univeristy, and because I would rather have had bamboo stuck down my finger-nails rather than live in Coventry, I lived in Leamington Spa.

For those of you who don't know, that left me with a daily commute of approx. 1 hour. More at rush hours, less at 3 in the morning after a night at the union.

And it was worse than the tube. If you missed a bus, you had to wait. And not just 3 mins. Sometimes 10. Sometimes, even 20. 20 whole minutes. Outside (none of this underground, sheltered malarky - outside, open to the miserable elements of the west midlands).

And so now, being in london I love the tubes. And the buses (90p for a trip to anywhere - amazing!) are even better. And I know that the tubes can be busy and stuffy and smelly and hot, but at least they are there. And if there are problems, there are so many alternatives. And if people really want to winge about transport, they should try the wonders of leamington spa.

Turner prize: A Retrospective

this weekend i felt that i needed to embrace the many cultural opportunites that london has to offer.

and so i went to the turner prize exhibition at tate.

i am not renowned for my artistic interests, and usually my preferred approach to galleries is to get round them in about 15 minutes, and then sit in the coffee shop.

however, i was pleasantly surprised with this one. i loved it.

there were the obvious winners that are always intersting to see. the cow in formaldehyde being one (and gosh, cows really do have tiny brains don't they?)

but the thing that i most enjoyed was the massive range of art forms that were there. the thought process behind many of the pieces is often so insightful and imaginative.

Gillian Wearing's winning piece was a film of a group of police men and women, standing as though they were being photographed. they were filmed for 60minutes, stuck in this format.

there are a few who look as though they have drifted off. some others have really bad cases of the fidgets. but towards the end, all of them just look very uncomfortable. at the end there is a huge sense of relief.

in the description of the piece, it says that the artist wanted to explore ideas of surviellance and the feeling of being constantly watched. this is now something very central to all our lives, and to use the police in this exploration, i feel adds a further dimension to her work. the police are people of authoirty, the people that often act upon the findings of today's constant surveillance and cctv footage. without getting carried away, i thought that piece especially was very interesting.

other interesting ones for me were Anish Kapoor's scultures, using an intense purple pigment. the effect was that you can't really focus at all on the pieces. and the colour is so intense that you feel as though you are losing your balance. all from a piece of art. amazing.

chris ofili offers a moving tribute to stephen lawrence, a young victim of a racist attack, but without entering the realms of cheese. in fact, i didn't even notice the tribute until i realised that in the tears of the woman in "no woman no cry" is the face of the murdered teen. then, on reading the description, i looked for the words written behind the painting, where it says "rip stephen lawrence". the tribute was so unintrusive, and yet so definitely there, that i found the effect profoundly moving.

i don't know if i am now becoming a bit geeky, having entered this whole new world of art and all. but next weekend i'd quite like to venture to the national portrait gallery. and not just to use the coffee shop.

this blogging malarkey is harder than i thought. especially with not having the internet and all.

and since having my phone stolen i can't even indulge in the wonders of mobile web access. in fact my phone at the moment doesn't even have a colour screen.

but anyway. back to blogging. and the struggle i am having with it.

i have never kept a diary, and so sharing my innermost thoughts doesn't come naturally. and not being a natural internet buff, being online is also not an automatic choice.

but i have decided to step up my blogging efforts, and try to actually keep up with (deep breath) writing it everyday.

Pet Peeve

I think I am fairly tolerant.

I do not mind queuing. I have no problem with loud noise, or being woken up. I don't even get cross when my toilet seat is left up.

However, I recently discovered that when it comes to being put on hold, I lose all human rationality, and come to resemble a dragon.

Having recently moved to a new flat, I have no phone line and hence no internet. So I made an appointment with bt.

For two days I wait in, and by the end of day 2, Mr. bt has failed to make an appearance.

Ok. Fair enough. It is not the end of the world. I shall call up and see what can be done.

Well. After 2 hours (yes TWO WHOLE HOURS) of being on hold. And having listened to the most appalling 90s musical collection. And being transferred to 6 different people/departments, each more useless than the previous, I no longer appear a member of the human race.

My eyes are bloodshot. My face is bright red. I am screaming at probably-extremely-nice-under-normal-circumstances Angela a list of expletives so horrific they should not be repeated. And my boyfriend has retreated to the street outside - he can no longer endure the stress levels.

The phone conversation is useless. Nothing gets accomplished. Nobody knows what has become of Mr. bt. In fact, there is apparently no communication between the people in the bt office, and the engineers (WHY???). And then there is the final straw.

"Now Miss Howe, if we could take a landline number for you, we could call you back and arrange a new appointment".

The stupidity levels are astounding.

After a good sit down, cup of tea and some regulated breathing I returned to normal. Yet, even the process of writing about this endurance test is enough to get my heart rate up again.

And if it ever gets resolved, if I ever get a phone line, the internet, any connection to the outside world, I shall let you know.

Embarking on a postgrad in broadcasting at Westminster Univerisity, I have been introduced to this weird world of blogging. Is it like a diary? An opinion page? A space to rant? An outlet for all the strange Jessci thoughts that occur on a day to day basis? I'm not really sure. But I have 12months to give it a go.