another way to waste one's day

During the heady days of my second year at university I first ventured into the world of the weekly column. Called 'North by South', it made sweeping regional generalisations based on the often tragically amusing anecdotes that comprised my life in Newcastle. I managed to string it out for 18 issues and get my face recognised in Marks' and by drunk student clubbers, who would often subsequently remark that I was an ignorant southerner or something, and that they read my weekly 600 words of self-indulgence solely because of how pleasantly angry it made them (this is another tragically amusing anecdote, by the way). Plus it allowed me to write about Greggs every once in a while.

Were I to try writing one now, I'd be a bit stuck. After all, today, my last work-free day before I lose another sunny weekend to an air-conditioned hole, I have achieved the following things:
- hemmed an early 90s Aztec-print charity-sourced skirt WITH POCKETS.
- secured a 'tutoring' gig.
- taught myself how to tutor about King Lear (i.e., read King Lear)
- enjoyed the news that Nick Griffin was refused entry to the Buckingham Palace tea party - Go Queen!
- baked a couple of cakes, cocked up the icing. I think it looks 'rustic'.
- Decided that any attempts to make my late 80s hounds tooth-print summer trousers acceptable enough for Milton Keynes (teaming them with savage wedge boots and a top not sourced from my floor) was not worth it to watch Toy Story 3 and reluctantly changed out of them (comfy) into early 90s mum jeans (comfy, but nothing in comparison).

Hardly face-recognising quality content. This became all the more apparent when I was directed to Neil Boorman's new column on viceland.com. Unlike me, he's actually formed copy on events of interest to more than one person and writes about them with Paxman-esque withering 'tude whilst owning a diversely proportional amount of qualifications. Check it outttt.

G is for Grunions and Graduating

This Sesame Street-style means of titling posts has really popped out of nowhere, and indeed not only illogically starts on the seventh letter of the alphabet but seems there to stay. There is good reason, however, and that reason is the invention of the word GRUNION. I've relished that ol' Biblical nugget 'out of the mouths of babes and sucklings' many a time, including on Bowlface. But that's because time and time again it comes true! Grunions, as well as being a little-known eel-fish hybrid which are known for an 'unusual mating ritual', are also old people, according to the definition invented by an 8 year old Bowlface relation. More specifically than 'old','those who need a concession'. The fact it's been so well thought out really pleases me. Granted, if you look on urbandictionary.com there's a load of crude and frankly disgusting definitions of grunion, but using it to describe my Dad through his age alone is way more fun. Especially when it's used in a form of secret code.

So that was Sunday tea time, when I reverted to a happy childish place to deflect the academic pomp that was my graduation ceremony the next day. Yadda Yadda, multiclapping, wearing family heirlooms, not tripping up the step, being hooded by the 'hooding marshall', proceeding to wear the hood a bit like the Scottish Widow afterwards, eating a load of celebration food, making Mummy and Daddy Bowlface proud.

So, satisfied some Newcastle cravings and almost said a fairly comfortable cheerio to my student days before arriving back at the Shire to think that falling into the world of teenage style bloggers was a great progression. I really should know by now that putting even the smallest of toes into this giant talent pool only results in a state of misery and feeling I've failed in life. Tavi Gevinson, as practically any cult glossy magazine fan will know, shot to fame at 13 for her forward-thinking and ludicrously good blog. Ok, so she's 14 now, but at that age I was wearing dead people's jewellry and trying to grow boobs, meanwhile she's mastered the bowlcut/granny glasses combo that even at 19 I didn't wear as well. However, green is not a good colour for me, so I put the envy away and started following her on twitter. This resulted in a plethora of other teenage style 'rookies' (ha!) who all look like they should be on an American Apparel billboard, if only their mothers would let them out. Here's a couple of my faves:

http://ifthesokfitz.blogspot.com/
http://hipstermusings.blogspot.com/

politics in moving pictures

Be pretty wrong for a historical moment like my first ever vote to go past undocumented. Not that I've voted yet, but it's all in the name of building tension. Being surrounded by student media types politics chat is the next most popular variety after dissertation chat, and infinitely the less boring. Cleggmania has got its grip firmly on Newcastle, and Wendy Taylor, Lib Dem PCC for Newcastle East, looks a lot like my favourite ever history teacher, which gives her a few (albeit superficial) points up on the £18 grand food bill expense man Nick Brown.

Anyway, if you've not been religiously following the debates and the constant news coverage and blahabaahahaa, (and it's utterly understandable) to form your decisions on the big day, then it might be worth taking a look at VBS's election series. It focuses on young representatives of all three major parties, and it's super enlightening. There's a moment in the Tory one where I swear the crying girl has been posessed by the spirit of the BNP member who used to prop up the bar in the Shire pub I worked in as a teenager. It's got to be seen to be believed.


On the complete flip side, Alan, who could potentially become the youngest MP ever, is totally adorable.

Not least because his hair matches his campaign colour in being a near-fluorescent orange, but also because he speaks as passionately about being a ginger as being a Lib Dem.

The Labour video shows Mo Iqbal, who is hoping to be the youngest Labour councillor in Greenwich (he's 23), doing some Bollywood Dancing and philosophise about what his dad might say about getting his wheel clamped. It's also an eye-opener.

Happy voting, y'all.

obligatory library post

OH, look, it's everyone's favourite three words. It can't really come to this time of year (being two weeks before hand-in date and the end of my degree) without a post on the library. Last year there were at least two, and plenty more mentions. I dare say the Robinson Library is feeling a little neglected. This might be why the library computer:
a) initially opened THAT site about Jesus
b) refused to open http://www.bowlface.blogspot.com/
c) opened Bowlface but instantly closed it down, THREE TIMES.
d) wouldn't let me sign in.

So, after much technical jiggery pokery I've beaten the system, promised the library it would get its annual post and here we are. I do have some relatively exciting news, however. After three years of university education I have managed to get the locating and issuing of a book down to less that thirty seconds. This is how long it should take, but I'm normally confused by the numbers or too short or looking suspiciously at that other girl from my course lingering around the same section for that one elusive, incredibly popular book on Vikram Seth. Yes, I know what you're upto.

BUT, even more exciting, I've discovered a SECRET LIBRARY ROOM WITH PRIVATE COMPUTER JUST FOR ME. Which means I can blog and check my facebook and do all those other things you're not meant to do because people tut in lovely, peaceful privacy. Shame the keyboard's so bloody loud. Ironically, this is probably the first and last time I'll ever use it, but it's nice to know I've got the best out of my tuition fees.

Dinosaur noise distraction

Um, Avatar, yes?

Yes, I know the 'I've-got-so-much-work-to-do' blog theme is getting incredibly tired now. However, as, unfortunately, Bowlface is musings on everyday activity and having too much work is current everyday activity, it's not going to change for a couple weeks. Yawn.

I'm currently blogging because I'm too distracted by the over loud dinosaur noises emitting from the room next door. My flatmates must have purchased the newly released Avatar DVD and are celebrating. By playing it, rather than making dinosaur noises. Although, having never seen the film (bit like Diana Vickers' Once it sort of passed me by. I was getting excited about Tim Jonze's Where The Wild Things Are and couldn't take any mythical creatures that hadn't been made out of paper mache and fluff) I wouldn't be an expert.

Added to the fact I've sat outside Newcastle's finest independent cinema, The Tyneside, drinking tea with various different friends, all afternoon and that essay on identity and narrative myth is really not being written.

On the cinematic theme, however, VBS have released another Vice Guide To Film (those busy little beavers) and it's on North Korea! My dad travelled to South Korea a bit when I was a kid, and I always confused the two, only realising in the last decade how totally mental it was as a country. Scrap that, only in the last couple years, and only since watching this did I realise how small my knowledge was on the whole affair. My knowledge being that Kim Jong Il was its crazy president who my sister thought was cute after Camp America's recreation of him. He is also a film director though. You should probably watch his monster movie Pulgasari afterwards.

My lecturer has a better blog than me

I can only dream of the day people will send photos like this into Bowlface

Not highly surprising, as Bowlface is, unfortunately, only updated weekly at the moment. However, it's more the nature of the blog, and indeed, that of the lecturer behind it that makes it so totally awesome.

Last weekend, whilst outstaying our welcome at the pub, myself and a couple of literary mates had a bit of real-ale induced confession time. That confession being that, yes, we loved to try and work out what our lecturers did in their spare time; that we got small thrills from seeing family portraits when let into their offices on the premise of 'borrowing a book', and furthermore, these tutor-crushes had, in some cases, resulted in guilty googling.

This is not all bad though, as some lecturers are clearly made to be googled. Take, for example, Kate Davies. Although not a personal lecturer-fave (she terrified and inspired me in first year in equal amounts after shouting at people for talking whilst sporting Heidi-braids), the dedication of her blog, needled, to knitting, walking, and things that she'd like to take onto Radio 4's equivalent of show-and-tell gives her about a gazillion cool points. I can understand why my Davies-fan buddies got so excited upon discovering it.

Anyway, needled puts Bowlface to shame, and rightly so. There are daily updates informed, but not self-indulgent, musings, and an evident international fan base in the thousands. Hardly surprising considering this fan base is delighted with knitting patterns and knitting pattern-related competitions. Under the cryptic title of 'parliament', a whole other world of non-academic Kate Davies fans can be entered. In which a competition for the best woolly recreation of Kate Davies-created o w l jumper pattern resulted in a parliament of o w l s. Amazing is not the word.

Anyway, writing about Kate Davies' blog is like dancing about architecture, or something. Just check it out. And then send me an o w l jumper, that would be nice. I can't knit.

'But, what do you mean your parents can't pay your fees?'

Despite actively avoiding the massive stack of Sunday Times (of course it's the Sunday Times they ship in, it is Jesmond) in Tesco this morning in a vain attempt to do real work, the magic of the internet alerted me to these musings on the invasion of 'Rahs' to the North East's brightest city.

The Times did the same thing nigh on three years ago, when I was applying to study up here. On a near-scientific diagram of a 'Rah' they diagnosed that your average Imogen was likely to study English Literature at Newcastle. Upon arriving, I saw that, like Geordies being friendly and the Toon Army being real, the presence of Rahs in my first ever lecture was true to stereotype.

After overhearing a few corkers to use in the inevitable Rah-bashing conversations that ensue after Freshers' Week ("I'm so glad I broke into that twenty") and chucking out most of my pashminas, the Rah-infiltration has become pretty much part of daily life in Newcastle. Yes, from an outsider's view it's odd that there are hardly any people who aren't white (or orange), it's definitely weird that my local shop is a organic deli, surrounded by three boutiques crammed with Chloe, and it's frankly hilarious that the woman who does bikini waxes knows the ins and outs of everyone's social lives as much as what's between their legs. However, like any other kind of university demographic, you're used to what you know.

Giles Hatersley's amazement at the situation is nothing new - my Mum finally realised the grounding behind my Rah-gripes when walking through Jesmond this autumn - but it does mark the downside of putting such weight on the influx of public school kids. The majority of students at Newcastle aren't from public school, are all pretty skint, and, contrary to what the article may suggest, are Northern. The outcome of Hatersley's comments is probably not dissimilar to that of the mentioned 'Overheard at Newcastle University' facebook group - an embarrassing demonstration of prejudice from kids who are similarly middle class. I found it particularly amusing that the reporter's first name was Giles.

In the meantime, just to set a few facts straight:
- only people unacquainted with Newcastle call trebles bars 'triples bars' - it stands out like a sore thumb.
- Secondly, Eugenie has been seen rolling around outside Cosmic Ballroom, according to popular rumour. The fact photos haven't been printed, should they exist, suggests something about the censorship of the media.
- Thirdly, I've seen the aforementioned Princess wandering around both the library and outside The Grainger Market, both times without bodyguards. She does, after all, look like your standard Newcastle student - surely the big guys would give her away?

Noam. Like Gnome but with a far more logical name.

Best photo I've seen all day.

Contrary to what these posts may suggest, I'm actually a pretty busy person. This results in a seriously uncool hourly structuring of my daily activities, despite only spending six hours a week in official university stuff.


Anyway, what this results in are minor celebrations when something I thought I had to do doesn't happen. Like, for example, the realisation I could register for the dentist over the phone, whilst checking my Facebook, rather than cycling a couple miles and filling in some forms. Lush.


The subsequent celebration of this extra hour and a half of my life has resulted in some voluntary self-education. It's something I've become especially keen on in 2010. Radio 4 is constantly muttering out of my battery-powered Roberts (it doesn't really do music any justice), and I pick up a newspaper most days, even if the sport section remains on the coffee table for the next week.


Therefore, when I heard about VBS's interview with Noam Chomsky, I got pretty mega-excited. Not least because he went from my mind's peripheral knowledge - I'd maybe be able to shove him in, not necessarily in the right place, in a pub quiz - to the central stuff a few days ago. Yes, Noam Chomsky is up there with Marmite, vintage floral denim and pumping up my bike tyres. A couple of linguistics kids were chatting about Chomsky, comparing him to the Einstein of the field, and then I found out that the guy who was the degree programme coordinator in my School of English and titles emails with 'BOLLOCKS, BOLLOCKS, BOLLOCKS' was his pupil at Harvard. That brings us a couple degrees of separation closer, anyway.


This is the interview, anyway, and it's really good. Get self-educating.

Glee: 1, Revision, Nil.

Wanted to get an Oncomouse in there but it totally wasn't working.

The snow's gone, turned into rain and looks thoroughly miserable, seen out by two little snow bunnies keeping me entertained as I gazed out of the library window when I was meant to be learning quotations.

The snow bunnies were also a pretty indicative sign that I should leave the brown brick construction of pressure that is the Robinson library, not least because I'd been whispering very loudly about them to my friend on the next desk. In the Silent Zone. Where I normally glare at people for doing the same. I would hate myself for hypocrisy, but c'mon, SNOW BUNNIES.

Anyway, when I got home the long-lost flatmate had returned. And I'd received an amazing home-adapted real ale box of Mummy Bowlface baked delights. 'Smushing' on the flatmate's bed with chocolate fudge slice and a catchup was completely essential. Then it was tea time, then it was attempted revision/irrelevant research time (I know what an Oncomouse is now) then it was what I'd been waiting for for three weeks: Glee time.

This programme has been as heavily trailed as 90210 and How I Met Your Mother, which isn't saying much (actually, I've got a bit addicted to 90210's second series). However, it had all the components for being really great. I could tell from the advert:

High School teen cliches, check.
Musical theatre inclusions, check.
Unfeasibly attractive teachers, check.
Unfeasibly witty American jokes, check.

I was totally not disappointed. From the crazy wife of attractive teacher (am I just getting old or were teachers never that hot in school?) and her 'craft room' and hysterical pregnancy, the cute ginge with OCD and fun leaflets on bulimia, and the soundtrack entirely created by kitsch choral interventions, rather than ruining Interpol or Patrick Wolf or someone who really doesn't want their fans to know they've sold out, all makes for a new reason to drink less. As in a Monday night going out tradition, rather than a dependency I don't have on alcohol.

Anyway, Glee is so, well, gleeful, that I've even commented on the Guardian website about it, as well as updating you lovely Bowlface followers. The fact I've got an exam in under two hours has obviously nothing to do with it.

Oh, to be the plaything of werewolves and vampires

Meeting the inlaws - they want to suck your blood, yeah!

November's been a quiet month for blogging. Mainly because I've been stupidly busy, and so very little of blogworthy action has really occurred.
Sure, I discovered a few new food shops, and was reverted to a child-like state of not knowing what a lot of jungle-like looking produce was, but until something really major happens (bigger than a butcher chopping a neck off a sheep for my tea with a ban-saw), bowlface stays pretty quiet.
However, last night broke this drought as I went to the 12.05 am screening of the latest effort from The Twilight Saga. It was called New Moon, there was a cloudy sky, but that wasn't stopping any Robert Pattinson fans or otherwise - myself being in the latter category - turning up in practically PJs to watch this new blockbuster before anyone else. Seriously - we booked our tickets back in October and there were only a few left - it's a big deal.
Gotta say, was a little disappointed by the lack of small goth turn out. Instead, the massive corporate cinema was full to brim with university students, with more JWUKFABDAHLING teeshirts and other odd slogans on jersey tracksuit bottoms than you could shake a stick at.
Granted, it was bedtime o' clock. It's also Newcastle. The Geordies were in tiny waistcoats and bodycon dresses and heels. God knows why - the only men in the cinema were reluctant boyfriends, consoling themselves bitterly with nachos.
So, after several hours of queuing we arrived at the screen entrance where a terrified man was desperately trying to keep control, shouting things like "YOU'RE IN L6, TAKE THE FIRST STAIRCASE" to hundreds of hyper women. I bet he'd worked the Sex and The City launch and thought he'd nailed it. But no, my friend, teen sci-fi lovers are a very different bunch.
Watching the film amongst such a crowd was quite, quite hilarious. Think canned laughter and then some. When the supposedly 16-year old Jacob whipped off his shirt to reveal every muscle known and otherwise to man, (to stop the bleeding of the heroine's head, natch - he's a werewolf so, unlike vampire Edward, he didn't immediately want to eat her in a sexual-tension-y kinda way) I was suddenly back, being six, and watching Man O Man! as a massive pervy "PHWOAR" went up.
When creepy vampire boy surprise-proposes to the same heroine, the screaming was even louder. Every joke and amusingly cringe shot in the film received a bucket load of chuckles. Best film-watching crowd, ever.
As it stands, I'm still very much in the Jacob camp. Fans will appreciate this reference. After all, why would you want a weird skinny bloke with sparkly skin and constant anxiety when you could have a love able, buff. fuzzy giant werewolf, huh? It's hardly surprising Robert Pattinson's grown a puberty beard in real life.

Livin' a lie...my attempts to be part of the AU

Every Wednesday the majority of active young Newcastle university students don ludicrous fancy dress, imbibe an equally ludicrous amount of cheap alcohol and have a jolly nice time demonstrating their athletic prowess in a series of basic mating rituals.
Although this was something I took part in on a fairly regular basis in first year, with age comes wisdom and the downsides of going out with a fiver (two £2 trebles and £1 club entry) have far outweighed the economic benefits.
However, last night I was dragged out. The sporty flatmate has a smaller sibling up to stay and it was pretty much obligatory that we showed him a good time, AU (Athletic Union)style. So, abandoning hosiery for the first time in six weeks, putting as much makeup on as the average drag queen and trying to flex some muscle I embarked upon the AU experience.
A pint or two later, some army camouflage paint in dubious places and and I was almost in the swing of it. Getting caught up in Newcastle's Women's Rugby parade - dressed as babies, mums and grans - during some obligatory chanting: "he stuck his c*** into my q*** and I said get in, get out, stop f****** about you're playing for Newcastle now" and the ever popular, somewhat socio-politically dubious anti-"poly" ditties - and any kind of acceptance I'd begun to feel was rapidly vanishing away.
My pariah state once within the official AU club did have some brilliant comedy advantages, however. My favourite being the following conversation:
Rugby Boy: "Hey, what bar crawl are you on?"
Me: "errm scuba?"
R.B: "cool. I play rugby"
Me: "I see"
R.B: "So, scuba, huh?"
Me: "Yes. I don't actually dive, my flatmate's just the social sec. I don't do any sport of any kind"
R.B: "I'd go diving any time with you"
Me: "I don't dive."
Flatmate rescued me just before the inevitable lunge.

My life is like a Geordie college movie.

Ha, ok, so the college-movie state was ironically referenced in that title. But there's nothing like a bit of Freshers' Week action in a very small city as an unwilling student Unionist to make you feel that there should be a punk-pop whiny soundtrack to all those little red bricks.

Essentially, what with one thing and another, I've spent the last four days in Newcastle not actually ticking off anything on my to-do list because I keep bumping into people. Which is really nice, but after spending half an hour trying to get from the Union building to where Joan, my bike, was locked up 200 yards away I'm starting to worry about doing any kind of academic work at all...

On the plus side, the other thing I'd forgotten about Newcastle was quite how brilliantly Geordie it is. Sounds stupid, I know, but three months in the south clearly has some impact. I had to slowly wheel Joan down Northumberland Street it was so blimmin' busy. Mainly because there were a group of "cheerleaders" grinding, quite ironically I thought, to dance music containing the lyrics 'I don't mean to be disrespectful'. When you'd got past those there were the Greggs queues, the old lady trolleys and buggies and Primark bags and buskers and the rest. How I'd underestimated the lunch rush I've no idea.

Anyway, onto the market and even before I'd got in a guy came out of his white van to tell me I'd locked Joan up wrongly, as "you'd just have to loop it o'er tha seat, pet, and you'd be haway, like". He was, of course, quite right. However it was most disconcerting to find my independence vanishing before my eyes as he watched me chain her up, only to give his approval from the van afterwards. See, things like that just don't happen in the south. Not in cities, anyway.

This was followed by people taking great interest in my bike basket as a shopping receptacle - the grocery guy packing it for me, whilst saying 'whey aye', a lady half my size apologising as I strode around the market with it, and a few comments on how pretty it was. Joan was touched.

Thus, I cycled home, sweaty after a three month cycling break, in the September sunshine, full of that yummy feeling of Geordie acceptance. Everyone should be as nice.

Things I hear in the pub: #2, Arguments about Feminism

I bet they'd just say the tits are better on the bird behind the KP peanuts.

Saturday night, and the second of my twice-weekly shifts behind the bar in my local. Again, the German men were in, trying out every type of ever-changing local ale, which prompted yet another discussion of their origin. At risk of repeating the last post, I'll keep it to a quotation, 'well, I suppose they can't be Dutch, their shoes aren't made of wood'.

Eventually the group of slightly entertaining middle-aged men dwindles to one increasingly drunk old man who repeated everything he's already said in the past four hours. I would have thought little about his incomprehensible ranting had I not come home to an email with the subject heading 'a woman is worth half of a man'. This was clearly some kind of begging charity email that I guiltily discarded to my junk mail, attempting to lure in money with a shocker of a subject. However, it chimed in with Mr. Drunky's last rant before popping round to the rival Shire pub for Karaoke.

Claiming himself the epitome of chivalric behaviour - which is obviously why he was staring at my chest on a Saturday evening rather than spending quality time with his wife and son - he was bemoaning the lack of gentlemen in my generation. Although I agreed with him that holding doors open and being polite were admirable qualities in a man, there was a point of contention when he said he refused to accept drinks from women. Clearly plenty offer to buy him them ALL the time.

In short, I found myself getting onto a metaphorical feminist soapbox, arguing that if he deems women equal why are they not worthy to buy a man, and especially such a questionable specimen as himself, a pint with their career-woman money?

I'm no raving feminist. Indeed, having sat through half an hour of a woman shouting 'I AM A WOMAN. I HAVE A VAGINA, I MENSTRUATE, AND HELL, I EVEN MASTURBATE SOMETIMES' in between Simone De Beauvoir quotations during a first year Feminist Literary Theory lecture, I'm yet to work out my view on this broad and quite frankly, dangerous, territory. I'm quite scared of feminists and I'm a girl. Yet, I found myself embodying that same lecturer on Saturday night, banging my fist on the bar with the same ferocity she hit the lectern.

I'm clearly never going to be cut out to be the giggly, bosomy bar maid, but there just aren't many girl-friendly pubs round here. Maybe I'll leave a copy of The Female Eunuch hidden amongst The Daily Mail next time I'm working.

Student Life: something a broadsheet guide can never prepare you for

Oh god, I know, I know, all my posts these days seem entirely initiated by what I've previously read in the paper. Thing is, at this current moment in time, occupation and location, the broadsheet is my only source of intellectual wisdom. Sad, but true.

Anyway, A level results come out today. Right now teenagers will be rushing up to school gates, trying not to look like they care that this is what they've been built up for the entirety of their non-compulsory educational lives and they're on the brink of filling their pants.

The mere two years ago that I went through a similar experience seems like an age ago. Mainly because two years in university teaches you a hell of a lot more than the normal eight seasons. I'm not pretending I'm all wise and philosophically rounded now - how bloody boring - but I know enough that the Times' student supplement clearly hasn't been written by anybody who's graduated in the last three years.

Yeah, yeah, so they've got a whole page on Twitter and all that, but seriously, when do people drink 'half pints' on Freshers' Bar Crawls? Half pints? Half pints are pathetic, almost cute little things that I serve to the elderly in my village local. They even come in patronisingly miniature pint glasses to demonstrate the lack of intoxication. All good students know that Freshers' Bar Crawls are done once, and very rarely again, because they are the most restless and expensive way of having organised fun, and because the hangover you get from incessant shots of sugary forms of some kind of fermented animal is truly ungodly. Especially to those who've spent the whole summer choosing what kind of laptop to buy.

The feature on the £230 day-long pre-university cookery course also took me aback. Not least when one of the attendees thought of the potential to 'start up a supper club' was a brilliant idea, with menu inclusions being a salad of figs, goats' cheese and walnuts and homemade lamb-burgers. Apparently, it'll make 'everyone want to share', which translates to 'people robbing your food'. An average £15 per week student food budget goes on Shreddies, 3 kilo bags of penne and tinned tomatoes et al. Creative cooking comes in the form of mustard mash. Even if you do fancy trying some culinary talent, Fresher kitchens are invariably so disgusting that dinner becomes whatever you can create fastest and get the hell out of there. Never mind, they'll soon realise the delights of cheese on toast and angel delight, and Jamie O will get stashed to the back of the cupboard, or maybe used in an inventive drinking game.

However, the icing on the cake was found in a little column called 'The Knowledge' - apparently the Bible to getting though Freshers'. Some, very true: 'Girls who wear pink pashminas study history of art' - although in Newcastle that's practically everyone, and even up there I think the Pash may have died out by next year. 'You will be showered with freebies, all of which will be worthless' - again, very true. I think it was only the flatmate with the smallest chance of getting laid that used the Players Bar, 'Do Not Disturb - got lucky at Players' door sign. But then, again with the cringe, 'Retro is cool in clothes, children's television programmes and gadgets such as SodaStream'. Firstly, wrong. Anyone who likes 'Retro' also likes Flares, the 70s nightclub. Secondly, my almost-entirely vintage wardrobe is only admired by my flatmates for fancy dress purposes, my vintage record player marked me as a pretentious loser and anyone who still wears teeshirts with Zippy or other Rainbow characters on is clearly a mature student having a midlife crisis.

Enough rant. No doubt my 3rd year self will be just as sceptical of my 2nd year self should I get round to graduating. My advice? Never forget the trackies. I may not leave the house in mine, but they get nearly every student through hangovers/overeating/all-nighters.

Abercrombie and Itch

It's a bit wrong how nine of her would weigh the same as two of them.

Waah.

As shopping goes, I'm pretty tolerant of stressful situations. I can tackle a stinky charity shop without shame, delve into dubious boxes at car boot sale with delight, and even rummage through sale rails with relish. Arguably, working in a vintage shop prepares you pretty well for most gross selling situations, but even so, I'm no retail wuss.

Or so I thought. Abercrombie and Fitch, for the blissfully unaware, is a hugely overpriced preppy American brand which exploits rich parents of demanding prepubescents by selling 70 different colours of four identical garments: the hoodie, the polo, the vest, and the jogger. Every now and then they might go a little crazy and chuck a skinny jean in there, or, as my recent visit demonstrated, a plaid shirt, but essentially that is what they create.

As the above image would suggest, the target market is not really for those who wear many clothes, or indeed, are prepubescent. However, judging by the size of the female sales assistants and the fact my size 6-8 sister snugly wears an Abercrombie M (medium), the waist of an 11 year old is a prerequisite. Unless you are male, in which case I imagine the sizing is similar, as despite a six pack, every polo must be worn nipple-protruding tight. For an early noughties cultural reference, see LFO's 'Summer Girls' video here.

The irony of the seemingly wholesome image Abercrombie likes to throw out there is that the shop itself is a LIVING HELL HOLE. They've taken a beautiful, rococo ceiling-ed mansion hidden away off Regent Street, painted the entire interior black, pumped it full of seriously cheesy yet unrecognisable dance music and A&F scent and waited for the hoards of people with more money than sense to flock on in.

I nearly asphyxiated upon entry. Initially I was gagged by the choking scent of 'youth' - intriguingly not cigarettes, cider, 'So Kiss Me' body spray and the hamster smell of teenage boy, but something with far more patchouli - then matters were made worse by a flabbergasted reaction to the naked, hairless bodybuilder in the doorway, with whom I'm supposed to want a Polaroid photograph taken; the final nail in the coffin being my uncontrollable laughter at the sales assistants who are made to dance on a balcony, just, you know, 'cos it's so fly in there.

Once I'd regained the ability to respire, I was able to reflect on the most awkward dancing I've seen outside of school discos. Not that it was inexplicable - the music was the type that's only played in bad Majorcan cocktail bars, the 'dancers' were presumably sober, and wearing plaid. You can't dance to cheese in plaid. Especially not on a balcony, for no apparent reason, when you are, by contract, a sales assistant.

After being led around the labyrinthine set-up of rooms and corridors, all the while being constantly greeted by smugly attractive identikit teenagers, the dancing made a little sense. It was, after all, strongly reminiscent of a Berlin club, minus the graffiti, what with the constant shoving and pushing of shoppers eager to get their hands on overpriced jersey.

Upon discovering that every dingy room was essentially full of the same thing, failing to find a changing room and then establishing that a lot more could be done with fifty quid than buy a polo shirt, I was happy to leave the most stressful shopping experience I've ever encountered and take a big breath of polluted central London air. It tasted a damn sight more realistic.

Discovering British Humour's Secret Serbian Twin

Ah, c'est la vie. It's been yet another month and I've been a negligent blogger.

Reasons why include:

- the lazy procrastination of June has been replaced with holding down three jobs.

- I went to explore Eastern Europe for a little while.

Ok, so only two reasons, but fairly good ones, I think.

Myself and fellow vintage shop assistant and blogger, Kirsty Golightly, went to Serbia for EXIT, possibly the best, if most unheard-of-by-chavvy-British-punters, festival on the continent. We stayed away from the 18-30 hub that was the campsite - plus we're small old women inside and couldn't face trying to get our 5 hours a night in a tent next to the dance arena - and shacked up instead in the University Halls of Novi Sad.

The tiniest stove known to man. Like we used it.


Along with our smack-smoking temporary flatmate, highlights of the misleadingly titled 'Hostel Bajic' (where they got that name from I've no idea) included a Jesse Metcalfe poster, circa 2001, a tiny miniature stove, and a hole in my mattress that was horribly reminiscent of a Vice article about masturbation. Oh, and that shower which used a translucent curtain to separate your naked body from the boys next door. The more I think about it, actually, the more it sounds like they just holed us up in a really bad porn set for the week...

Speaking of porn, one of our favourite Serbians described his style as '80s porn'. Always a good note to start off on after claiming not to speak English. After blagging press passes for the festival, we wandered around 'interviewing' cool looking people to get them to explain why Brits should come to Serbia for another project I'm working on. In reality, we were always quite pissed on cheap Serbian beer and the transcription's been atrocious.



Nicole. He came all the way from Belgrade ("only slightly less

shit that Novi Sad") for the Arctic Monkeys. That was probably a pisstake.

Anyway, Nicole, "as in Nicole Kidman", was an actual godsend. However, his anti nationalist stance somewhat ruined his use for Serbian propaganda, which means he makes it on here. After describing EXIT as "the shittest thing ever, which was made for Serbian students" and which British kids are "idiots" for attending, we got into the nitty gritty. Nicole told me to "fuck off" when I asked if he combed his moustache, as apparently the glean and neatness of it is due solely to "pussy juice". Reading this back, he sounds like a pompous twat - but just look at that face. Rather, he was the kind of guy that inexplicably gets a lot of girls because he charms them through abuse. Good work, Nicole!

"Stop comparing everything to the O.C"

I can hear Phantom Planet already.

Second dossy weekend, second camping trip. However, unlike the alcohol-fuelled spontaneity of the Withnail adventure, our little jaunt to the Northumbrian coast was led by a true pro of seaside camping, and I subsequently lost my 'OC moment' virginity.
I've never really lived near the coast. Actually, I've never lived anywhere near the coast, so the seaside is still as massive novelty for me, especially that belonging to Blighty. Subsequently, British seaside activities such as beach cricket, tent-pitching and shivering all fill me with glee.
As the camping god was clearly looking down on us kindly, the predicted monsoon held off and there was beautiful sunshine all day, allowing a load of epic photos to be taken which anyone who has subsequently admitted to stalking my facebook has commented on.
From plunging to what I was convinced was a certain death or shin-splintering off the top of a sand dune, to rolling down one, lugging drift wood to make a megafire, cooking more meat than we could ever eat, having deep conversations and watching the sunset, I was filled with the glee of the first-time young person obligatory experience.
Yes, I know I kept comparing it to the O.C, but when you're toasting marshmallows on a campfire and listening to a combination of Imogen Heap and rolling waves, whilst discussing Bob Dylan, could it really be anything else?

"A coward you are, Withnail. An expert on bulls you are not"

I'm a country gal. Having been raised in a small rural village in the 'Shire, I'm not adverse to the smell of manure; I'll happily walk through a field of cattle, without having previously fallen through the grate; and I can recognise the calls of a good few birds.
However, when I joined ten of my friends on an impromptu camping trip in the Lakes, the only thing that differentiated me from Withnail was my appreciation of the fresh mountain air to cure my hangover.
Like Withnail and Danny, of the 1987 film, me and my compatriots couldn't have been more noticeable in the quiet tourist trap of Keswick. After being refused from the desired campsite - despite lying, pretending the cars weren't together and making fake couples up within the group, it was still painfully obvious that we were together. We didn't get further than the gate.
Thus, returning up the mountain to a more remote, even more family-focussed site, we put on our best polite voices, chose the most respectable-looking of our crew and promised not to sit outside the tent drinking and being rowdy. Whoops.
Escaping to the town of Keswick itself was where the fun really happened. Much like when Withnail and Danny went to the local, we stormed the only 'club', The Loft, in Keswick, in DMs and cagoules, abused the staff over the £5 entry fee and proceeded to become the only women in the place. All was going well until one of us sick and we had to flee from the bouncers, as the cinematic pair did from the poacher.
The next day, feeling literally like "a pig has s*** in my head", we ran into Booths, the Lake District equivalent of Waitrose, and shakily munched a hangover lunch (breakfast had stopped being served at 11.30)amongst the civilised grandmother population.
The town centre itself wasn't so far removed. Our scruffy excuses for outdoor wear were shunned amidst a mass of Peter Storm clad grown-ups, leaving us to return, soggily, to the tent to disembark.
I personally was too ashamed to stay another night, but some did, claiming they couldn't resist the lure of The Loft. Should I ever return, in later life, in a Peter Storm jacket, to Keswick, hopefully a similar antithapy to 'young people' will remain.

'There's nothing more cringeworthy than seeing white girls try and dance to drum and bass'

Unfortunately, very, very true. And yet, something quite integral to my life.

Having spent the majority of last weekend 'trying' to dance to drum and bass (I thought I'd actually got it nailed until told by a much cooler black man that I was just another middle-class white girl trying to escape my rural, naive upbringing and only making it all the more evident)in a crowd of other trying middle class white kids I had an epiphany that no-one is ever very cool. Ever.

The student population of Newcastle believes it brings cool to the north through a love of unpronounceable DJ's and artists, toting around the latest day-glo headband and talking about drugs a lot. I'm not in denial of it, but merely a sad state of realisation that we're all just pretending.

Even as I gazed over at a public school alumnus, making gun shots in the air with her hands, saucer-pupils not really hidden by her wayfarers, and thought 'I bet her father would have a heart attack if he saw that', my own heart was palpitating at a similar rate out of fear that I probably looked the same.

Something happened last night which really put a level of perspective on the whole white-kid drum-and-bass thing. Sitting on an Ikea fold-down chair, brought out for visitors when the red chenille sofas were occupied, in an immaculately clean student living room, playing a drinking game with my g&t, and surrounded by people singing along to Pendulum, it became very apparent that the answer to the question, 'it's drum and bass! What you gunna do?' was very much enclosing me.

You can take the girl out of the 'Shire, but you can't take the 'Shire out of the girl.

boredom blog.

My my, if a good three weeks haven't passed in a blur of tedious exams and I've not updated this little puppy...

Aside from the other little assessment-shaped things getting in the way, my life in the library has also been far too bleak a one to comment on to any great extent. However, spending such prolonged periods of time in one place does alert one to the oddities of library ettiquette.

Firstly, there's the German-cliche-esque reservation of desks. People choose their least valuable item of revision equipment to mark their ground at some frightful hour of the morning before heading off to Starbucks, only to return later in the day. Outrageous, I know, but as it is impossible to beat this ever-increasing trend, I too became a desk-hogger. Didn't have enough balls to leave it for too long though. After a seriously paranoid 45 minute run to co-op and back on a Mullerrice mission I swore never to leave my annotated vintage editions of Virginia Woolf texts ever again.

Secondly, there is the total disregard of the silent rules in the silent zone (yeah yeah, the whole library's meant to be silent, it totally isn't). People arrive in packs to sit together there, where the desks are physically walled off to prevent any kind of social contact. It makes no sense, but again, library cowardice caved when I considered telling them to shut up. The age-old dirty look came out instead, which had no impact other than aging me about thirty years. Good times.

Other observations include the transformation of the toilets into tiny boxes where everyone is on their mobiles, frantically shouting over the flushing and hand-dryer noises, the attempts by those who observe the silent rules to eat crisps quietly, and the not-so-sneaky watching of BBC i-player on laptops.

Yeah, looking back, the library really is the dullest place on earth.