Category Archives: Direct Communication with God

Jan 18 2013

30 Before 30: #1 Register with the Anthony Nolan trust

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I thought I should give an update as to where I am with my 30 Before 30 list because I’ve actually ticked something off. And it’s an important one too. In fact, when I first wrote the list, I bumped this one up to the top and promised myself that whatever happened, I would complete this thing first.

For various reasons, I’ve been going to register with the Anthony Nolan trust for a long while. But it quickly became one of those things that I just never got around to doing. The Anthony Nolan trust is a charity supporting people with blood cancer who need stem cell or bone marrow transplants. Being on the register means that the folks at Anthony Nolan can match the donors on their register with people who need a transplant and y’know, save more lives. But they always need more people. More people, under the age of 30, to register as a donor.

There are lots of myths surrounding bone marrow transplant: that the process involves having a limb snapped off so that the bone marrow can be scooped out and it’s THE MOST PAINFUL THING EVER, and you might not ever recover from the procedure.

That might be a bit of an exaggeration – except for the “IT’S THE MOST PAINFUL THING EVER” bit on the end, because the second you mention bone marrow transplant, that’s usually the first thing people say after screwing their face up. Usually people who probably know nothing about it but heard somebody else say that once, and so they feel they should pass the information on.

If you’re a regular(ish) reader of this blog, or if you’re someone who knows me, you’ll be roughly aware that I’m not a very brave or confident person. Hearing that the charitable thing I wanted to do was possibly THE MOST PAINFUL THING EVER was, admittedly, a little off-putting.

Alongside my complete lack of confidence are feelings of guilt. So you can imagine how conflicted I was feeling having already half-decided that I was going to register and at the same time being terrified about it being the most painful thing ever. To illustrate my point, it all looks a little something like this:Inner Conflict

I went round and round in circles for a long while until eventually, I told myself to stop toying with the idea. I was either definitely going to register or I definitely wasn’t. So I went on to the Anthony Nolan site and did the research for myself (which included watching this little animation all about what’s involved in the donation process). After spending a good couple of hours clicking through the site, my mind was made up.

I realised I had to do it. And what’s more, I wanted to. Even though I don’t like hospitals, and I have a low pain threshold, and I don’t like blood or operations and I’m incredibly squeamish. I shrugged all that off and filled in the form, because the only thing worse than registering after everything I’d learned about the process would be to not register.

My stem cells could be used to help someone whose own immune system is failing. Those stem cells could potentially save someone’s life, and what I realised was that however painful or uncomfortable the donation process was – it could save the life of someone who had been through far, far worse.

So before Christmas, I registered. Last week I got my official donor card.

Huzzah!

If I only did one thing on my list before I turned 30, it would most definitely be this one.

Jan 3 2013

It’s Never Too Late to Surprise Yourself.

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In my previous post I talked about the ways in which I I might try to move forward with my life. I wrote a list of 30 things that I wanted to do before I turn 30, giving myself just over a year to complete all of those things. This was to inspire change: to do things I’ve been meaning to do but haven’t, and generally saying ‘yes’ to… well… doing more things outside of sitting around eating pizza.

A few days after I (finally) posted my list of 30 before 30 post, I came home with this:

ABC

An 8-week-old border collie puppy. A very cute 8-week-old border collie puppy… that needs toilet training, constant attention and an endless amount of expensive safe-for-puppy toys to chew on.

Did I mention that this decision came three-weeks before Christmas?

And that various family members would be staying with me over the festive season?

And that (with the exception of my SIL) no one in my family actually likes dogs?

Did I mention that I was very much a ‘cat person’?

Until recently, I didn’t like dogs. I wouldn’t say that I hated dogs, but at times I felt like I strongly disliked them.  I don’t like it when they bark for ages for no reason. It annoys me that every time you eat near a dog they beg or weep or pester you. I don’t like visiting people who have dogs that attack you the second you walk through the door, especially if its owner is all “DON’T WORRY HE’S JUST BEING FRIENDLY” and the dog is midway through chewing your hand off or something.

It’s probably the dog-owners I have a problem with – especially if their dogs are badly trained. I’ve always found dog-owners a little bit insane detached from reality smelly eccentric. The main offenders are the ones who treat their dogs like people. Or the ones who wear jumpers with pictures of dogs on them. Or the ones who have dog ornaments or pictures of dogs in every room of their house… Especially if every room in their house smells of dog… Especially, if they smell of dog and don’t realise… And ESPECIALLY , if you smell of dog after spending any time with that person.

Dog-owners whose lives revolve around their dogs can sometimes end up a little bit bonkers.

Because dog owners can be a bit bonkers, it goes without saying that their dogs are also slightly bonkers.

And bonkers dogs are unpredictable. If a bonkers dog is the apple of its owner’s eye, then it can do no wrong. So if you’re a small, unsuspecting child happily playing in the park and out of nowhere a dog bites your trouser leg and refuses to let go, chances are, its owner will take no responsibility  for the dog’s actions and, instead, blame you – a small, innocent child (called Jo) playing on the swings.

It is the attitude of so many unhinged dog owners that led to my extreme dislike of dogs.

And then a month ago, out of nowhere, I decided that I should really own a dog. I don’t know how this thought even entered my head – I can only assume that some kind of Derren Brown mind-trickery took place. Anyway, once the spontaneous thought had taken hold, it started to snowball… Rapidly.

The next day, I arranged to go see some puppies that were for sale.

By the end of that day, I had bought a puppy.

Four days later, I was living with a puppy.

And the weirdest part was, no part of me thought that what I was doing was weird. Even though it directly contradicted everything I thought I knew about myself.

Last July I wrote a list of things I wanted to do before I was 30. It took me nearly six months to commit to the idea and actually write about it. Yet committing to the responsibility that is owning, raising and taking care of a dog on a daily basis for the next twelve (ish) years (from someone who has spent their whole life disliking dogs) was totally not a problem.

Owning a dog wasn’t one of the things on the 30 before 30 list. In no way was owning a dog part of my life plans. I never, ever thought I would want (let alone actually get) a dog.

Despite all that, I’m quietly confident that this was most definitely a brilliant idea.

Don’t get me wrong, raising a puppy is hard work. It’s pretty much non-stop, never-ending, wall-to-wall responsibility. She’s cute, but she needs the toilet every 25 seconds, wants to chew everything, be best-friends with everyone and sniff ALL THE THINGS.

I’m beginning to look constantly dishevelled and harassed. My hair is even more of a disaster than it normally is, and I no longer bother wearing make-up or nice clothes because there really isn’t any point. I’m beginning to realise that being a dog-owner doesn’t necessarily mean you have to be eccentric. It’s just that living with a puppy makes you appear a little bit like you’ve totally lost your mind.

I suspect that by this time next year, I’ll be sporting knitwear with a dog’s face on it. And not in an ironic, hipster way.

While I’ll admit to being slightly more bedraggled and chaotic than I usually am,  I’m actually very happy in my new role as dog-owner. Strangely, it’s given me a sense of purpose.

So going from disliking dogs to owning one (within a couple of days) has been a pretty strange  turn of events. On reflection, it makes me wonder what other surprises life might have in store for me. Or, more to the point, I wonder in what other ways I might surprise myself.

Apr 13 2012

The Blog Post I Never Posted (and other stories)…

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Before you go wondering whether I’ve fallen off the edge of the planet (again), allow me to reel off some excuses explain why I’m a little late with this post.

Okay, I actually did write a blog post three weeks ago. It’s just that I never posted it. I couldn’t really bring myself to post it because it was… well… quite depressing. I redrafted it several times, each time trying desperately to make it sound a little more chipper. And each time I thought that it was finished I’d tell myself to sleep on it and review it again in the morning before I published it. The next morning I’d wake up and start the editing process all over again. This went on for days and eventually I realised that I just couldn’t bring myself to publish it.

The post was about the fact I was consistently worrying about my future. I was worrying about being a writer, why I wanted to be a writer and if I’d ever really be one. I also wrote about how much I was worried that people saw me as deluded – and how sometimes I felt like there was some sort of judgemental crowd regarding my writer-aspirations as ‘something I should get over’ and that I should grow-up and get a proper job.

In my post, I suggested that in order to combat such worries of being deluded, aspiring writers should join together in some sort of support group. It would be Alcoholics Anonymous meets The Book Group – but with more tea and biscuits. And we would wear badges like this:

hellomynameisjo

Anyway, not to completely launch into this whole debate all over again (and rewrite my original post for the 9 billionth time), but the reason I didn’t publish the post was because it was becoming a snowballing issue, and while it helped to write about it, I don’t think that the internet is the right place to broadcast feelings on an existential crisis (but it might make a very good book). I like to blog about my neurotic ways, and the embarrassing situations I get myself into on a fairly regular basis – but I couldn’t bring myself to confess all the anxieties I have about my future. That kind of chat is reserved for unsuspecting close friends after a few Mojitos.

So, basically what I’m saying is, by not publishing my post I saved you 5-10 minutes of your precious time. You’re welcome.

Realising the overly serious tone of my blog post of existential crisis (which I never actually published), I decided that (if I did publish it) I should maybe follow it up with something a little more light-hearted. So I considered writing a post detailing how much I cheated on my Primal diet – which involved scoffing a sausage and egg McMuffin, some sort of artisan luxury French chocolate gateaux and a pizza (or two). Sadly, I never got around to drafting it and since having the idea I’ve been on a jaunt to Spain and eaten my way through Easter. This means that previous diet cheats are comparatively insignificant. If you’re still curious as to how much I cheated on my Primal diet, then simply consult the following mathematical equation:

Lots

The day before I left for Spain, I was chatted up. Twice. In the same day. This was very strange for me, because I’ve never, ever been chatted up before. By anyone. Ever. This is because I have spent  my life, in equal parts, being every girl’s ‘unattractive best friend’ and a total social recluse.

What happened? Well, it was a sunny afternoon and I had decided to spend the afternoon in town reading. A folded piece of paper was slid across the bench in my direction. ‘For you’ said man’s voice. I quickly discarded my initial thoughts that God was addressing me, and looked up to see a man scurry (with impressive speed) from the bench in the opposite direction. I unfolded the note:

u r beautiful

Underneath was (presumably) his phone number.

I was about 9% flattered and 91% amused. The flattery stems from the fact that I’ve never been called beautiful before. Certainly not on paper. To put this in context, here’s a list of other things I have been called:

About an hour later, a boy (I don’t think he could have been older than 17) sat next to me and almost immediately struck up a conversation that went something like this:

Boy: What are you reading?

Me: Stuff.

Boy: Oh.

Pause.

Boy: Are you a student here?

Me: Not exactly.

Pause.

Boy: What do you do then?

Me: I want to be a writer.

Boy: Oh. Is that something you’re… passionate about?

Me: Er… Yeah.

Pause.

Boy: YOU’RE VERY PRETTY!

Pause.

Me: Er. Thanks.

Boy: [Laughs Nervously/Manically]

Long Pause.

Boy: I can leave you alone if you want?

Me: [shrug] It’s fine. – I didn’t have the heart to say ‘Yes, please go away…

Boy: Sooooooo…. Can I er, see you again?

Startled, I shook my head and in a slightly more frantic manner than intended blurted NO! Then modifying it to a more polite ‘No, thank you,’ before realising that didn’t really make any sense. Then the boy laughed nervously again. Then he scurried away in the same direction as the last one.

Then I decided to do the rest of my reading at home.

In other news, Smoking Guy has had a haircut and developed a cough. We have still not conversed. Also, someone recently found my blog by Googling “professional smoking job”. Seriously, is that a real thing?

Dec 21 2010

Jo is into sluttery…

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Today I was going to write a bitter, melancholy ‘year in review’ – about the absolute tyranny of crapulance that has been 2010, which culminated in the demise of my relationship with the Novelist, which I’ve kind of failed to mention because I don’t want to make the whole thing sound more dramatic than it actually is (especially as the decision was mutual and we’re still friends). Which reminds me, I know some of you are lovely and protective of my soul made entirely from marshmallows, but it’s worth asking you to please not attack the Novelist in the comment section – we’re still friends, and there really isn’t any need.

If anyone would like to attack me, however, then by all means, please do so (bring it, trolls). Alternatively, you can email me some rage at the usual address.

Anyway, just as I was about to embark on my misery fuelled post, I took a cursory glance at my stats:

Stats

And I decided that writing about the discovery of someone hitting my blog under slightly bizarre search-terms, presumably with the intent to weird me out, makes for a far more interesting post.

I wasn’t overly suspicious of the odd search terms at first; admittedly, there are usually a couple of entries in my stats which raise an eyebrow (or two) – the most recent one being ‘extreme pmt paranoia’ which some poor hormone ridden woman had searched for, hoping for answers for her insurmountable PMT anxiety and found my blog instead. After discovering the search-term ‘“Jo and the novelist” is a great blog but her friends are fucking with her stats’ I began thinking that maybe this wasn’t about people Googling odd things and accidentally visiting my blog, because it was actually about someone going to the effort of putting unique combinations of keywords into Google, and hitting my site to make it into my stats.

I have to say, I’m pretty impressed.

Um Thanks

The worrying part is, I’m completely unsure as to whether ‘Jo is into sluttery’ was part of this cleverly orchestrated plan to fuck with my stats, or if someone genuinely felt that Jo (me, or whoever else) was into sluttery and needed Google to confirm it.

Jo is totally into sluttery

I’m also a tad worried that ‘why I should not be a novelist’ is exempt from the fuck-with-my-stats plan too. I kind of want to be flattered that aspiring novelists, in a moment of insecurity, ask God Google why they shouldn’t be a novelist and a link to my blog holds the top spot, but I can’t help but feel like this doesn’t really qualify as any kind of real achievement. In fact, it pretty much proves that I am living proof of why anyone should not attempt to become a novelist. Should not date writers

Randomly, at number 2, God Google vomited up a link to something which strangely relates to the collapse of my relationship and doesn’t really have anything to do with not becoming a novelist.

I clicked the link, and as it happened the reasons why you shouldn’t date a writer if you’re a writer are pretty accurate. And so I would suggest you click here, and read the post yourself because it will save me the trouble and extreme awkwardness of having to write about my break up. However, if you are not a writer and you are planning on dating me, then may I suggest that you don’t click the link.

Did I just say dating? HA!

To conclude:

  • This year has been a big pile of poo, but not quite as big a pile of poo as 2007 – the year that wasn’t. For one thing, I can still laugh, cry and afford to buy toilet paper.
  • Come 2011, I might need to think of a new title for my blog. Suggestions welcome.
  • I’m totally into sluttery. Even Google confirmed it.
  • I don’t know why we should get sweaty in our 60s. FYI: I didn’t click that link – it’s part of the Daily Mail website.
  • If you’re fucking with my stats, thanks for giving me an idea for today’s post.

This will probably be my last post before Christmas. So before I sign off, I’d like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas. Even if you’re fucking with my stats…

Jun 29 2010

God knows where my money goes each month, and I wish he’d tell me. Or at least prompt me to check my bank balance every once in a while…

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I have a terrible time with money. As with every aspect of my life, it’s yet another thing I tend to fluctuate being consistent with. I’m either really strict with myself and save, save, save, or just plain hopeless and refuse to check my bank balance. By the time I graduated University, I was completely skint – overdrawn to the limit. That was the last time I was strict with my finances; I saved, saved, saved and made meticulous spreadsheets showing exactly how much money I had coming in and going out at any given moment. Pretty soon I paid off my overdraft and had saved enough money to move out of my parents’ house.

Nowadays, I tend to be more on the hopeless end of things. Those meticulous spreadsheets are long gone, and I struggle to even hazard a guess as to how much money I have (or don’t have, as the case may be) at any given point during the month. A lot of my 20-something friends who are in a ‘lack-of-money’ scenario might be down to being a shopaholic, being a social nut, or merely having a taste for the finer things in life, but I really can’t say the same for myself.

  1. I’m not a shopaholic. I get bored of shopping, very quickly. I don’t run around Harvey Nichols buying designer everything – I’ve never bought a designer anything. In fact, on the average day, I’m probably either wearing clothes I’ve had since my late teens, or an outfit from Primark, which cost about £1.50. This doesn’t say much for my sense of style.
  2. I don’t go out ‘clubbing’ (because it isn’t 1996, and I don’t live in Ibiza) I actually don’t go out at all because I never have any money. The generic argument of being 20-something and poor due to a rampant appetite for fun and socialising completely falls apart when it comes to folk like me. I’m not poor because I go out, I don’t go out because I’m poor. Even my friends are jaded by my financial circumstances – sick of extending invitations my way and hearing the inevitable excuse of ‘I can’t afford it’. Thanks to my anorexic finances, I’m now socially starved as well.
  3. It’s true, I do love the finer things in life; continental cuisine in expensive restaurants, a nice bottle of wine. But if I’m being honest, the opportunities for me to appreciate the finer things in life are very rare, and on any given day I’ll happily settle for a Big Mac and fries.

There’s one main reason why I’m so poor, which separates me from my friends. And that reason is that I work part-time. Most people my age don’t. I reduced my hours because I was offered a freelance writing job and because I desperately wanted some extra time to finish my novel. One year on and the freelance job has amounted to nothing and my novel is entangled in a continuity nightmare… With spelling errors.

When I first decided to work part-time and follow my (ahem) dreams (ahem) I did actually calculate that I would earn enough money to cover all my rent and bills for the month, without having to suffer too much.  Sadly, I hadn’t accounted for other things I would need to pay for such as; birthdays, Christmas, insurance, holidays, weddings, travelling to see family and friends, socialising… the list goes on. Where as everybody has a financial surprise once a month, my limited wage doesn’t leave much room for error. When my friends are feeling a bit out of pocket, they can still be naughty and just go out for a cheap drink. 9 times out of 10 I can’t accommodate it.

There’s a couple of other contributing factors to my dwindling finances. One of them being that I was so pleased with myself for taking such a big risk and putting my job and financial security in jeopardy by going part time, that I decided I wanted to do more impulsive things. Like learn to drive – which I had been putting off for the past 9 years. Most people understand that learning to drive is an expensive thing to do – yet in the throes of being impulsive that didn’t seem to matter. ‘Who cares about having money if you can drive?!’ I told myself. Answer: I do. After I passing my test last week, I worked out that with all the lessons, and theory, and tests the whole driving thing set me back a hefty £2000. And no, before you ask I can’t afford to buy a car.

Then there’s the matter of doing the one thing I had always promised myself I wouldn’t do. I got a credit card.

In fairness, this was all for good reason. I needed a new PC. No, I really did need a new PC. And if I was going to buy a new PC, it may as well be an all singing, all dancing, computational monster. Most of my friends don’t care about computers the way I do. In fact, most of them share a computer with their partner or housemate. But I’m not good with sharing, and I’m especially not good at sharing computers. So I went ahead and bought an expensive computer. The trouble with credit cards is that once you’ve experienced the initial euphoria of “I bought something expensive and I still have all of my pay check left – yay!” you want to experience it again, and soon there are other items of expenditure you ‘can’t really afford this month’  like holidays, train tickets, Christmas presents, birthday presents, wedding gifts etc that all go on the credit card too.

It’s this kind of spending that is psychologically dangerous; I’m constantly reassuring myself that I’m not flitting my money away on stuff I want – I’m spending it on stuff you need. It’s all just a trick. Spending is spending, whichever way you look at it – but at least my well socialised, stylish friends have some fun in the process and end up with lots of stuff they actually *wanted* in the first place. This whole necessity tactic I have going on is much more problematic than just being naughty and indulging in expensive ‘stuff’ every now and again. Because once all the credit card bills and bank statements flood through the letterbox at the end of the month, I stare in disbelief that I’m spent up and have nothing to show for it.

But it can’t just be me. I mean, I overspend but I’m not totally reckless or anything, am I? There are people my age who are far worse than I am with their money. Right?

Financially Irresponsible (me)Ouch.

This was the survey I took via 20sb for the blogging carnival. I think this survey was polite by telling me I’m “not quite there” when what it means to say is “SEVERELY IRRESPONSIBLE”. 19 points. Out of 100. That’s the same kind of score I used to get on my maths tests at school… Hmm, figures.

So, why don’t I got back to my meticulous spreadsheet making and count every penny in and out of my account? It’s a good idea and if I wasn’t so inherently lazy busy all the time, I would… Okay, okay, what actually puts me off about the penny counting, is the budget being broken by the thing you haven’t accounted for and there is always something. I get fed up of trying to account for everything, and then something breaks, or something needs replacing, or some mad friend from my past has a birthday and I need to buy them a present. And after all the calculations and spreadsheet making I discover I’m still broke.  I guess these days my stance on my finances is that I already know I’m poor, that I don’t have enough money to even try and set a realistic budget – so I’ll just muddle though and buy what I can.

Or, more realistically it’s more along the lines of ‘I’ll worry about money when I’m 30-something’.

Jun 12 2010

Twitter’s Mean Girls and my 15 year crush on Charlie Brooker…

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The internet itself nearly broke down earlier this week when news erupted that Captain Charlie Brooker is engaged to ex Blue Peter presenter Konnie Huq. Nerdy girls everywhere (but predominantly in the UK) began weeping uncontrollably into their laptops – so weak with disappointment that they could barely lift a finger to hammer out a bitter and twisted comment on Twitter.

This all came as a bit of a shock to me, because I thought I was one of the few girls who swooned over Brooker with infinite amounts of admiration. But when the news hit me on Wednesday whilst I was idly checking Twitter during a dull moment, I hadn’t anticipated that I wasn’t quite alone in my feelings.

What the Huq? Tweeted writer and editor Jane Bradley. Panic-stricken, and desperately hoping that this was merely a rumour I hurriedly tapped out a response with juddering fingers, as my heart began to shatter. Jo BrookerI stared at the screen, my heart beating so quickly it nearly pounded right out of my chest and onto the desk in front of me, as the painful seconds ticked by while I waited for a response.LIES!And that’s when I got the second shock of the day – there were more women out there who were in love with Charlie Brooker. God damn my centre-of-the-universe complex. Anxious and heartbroken, I prowled Twitter in search of these other delusional hussies women. It didn’t take too long to find them. A quick search on Twitter threw up hundreds of girl authored angry mis-spelled Konnie Huq hate messages as they writhed in their bitterness. The Mean Girls were everywhere.

What was happening? How did so many women suddenly fall for Charlie Brooker? And where was I when it was all happening? Then I discovered another Tweep, Blogger and Domestic Slut Alex Sheppard who also appeared to be experiencing some similar feelings to me:Alex1

and by similar I mean putting on a brave face and denying that Brooker has been snapped out of our romantic dreams.Alex3

Then things got really weird and the Brooker-Huq engagement was all anyone was talking about. My brother emailed to tell me about it, the news was scrawled all over Facebook, details were being furiously sought on Google, even my parents were blaring the news down the telephone. What the hell was going on? It felt like my whole world was falling apart. Even one of my best friends suddenly announced from nowhere her secret desires for CB, updating her Facebook status to “Brooker – we could have been something”

How dare she? How DARE she?! We lived together for two years and not once during that time, when I would haplessly devour hours (total exaggeration) of conversation time by talking about Charlie Brooker did she mention that she too was hankering after him.

My crush on Charlie Brooker dates way back to the age of 11 – and therefore, is more hardcore and more closely akin to being an obsessive stalker love than everybody else’s. I used to pinch my brother’s PC Zone magazines and read on CB’s reviews, and then when I was a little older I’d thumb my way to the ‘Sick Notes’ column at the back of the magazine, which Brooker wrote back in 1998. Of course, I was too stupid young to really understand any of it, and most of the time I had to ask my older brother to explain why it was funny. And thus the swooning started.

During the despicable non-year of 2007, I fell head-over-heels all over again. My actual romantic-life in shredded poo-covered tatters, I pinned all of my hopes to some day becoming Charlie Brooker’s beloved girlfriend, and needless to point out, that romantic fantasy has remained in some form to the day.

Anyway, back to Wednesday, my working day was completely disrupted. At one point someone came to my desk with some work and I shooed them away telling them not to bother me as I just found out my future husband is marrying someone else.

The day dragged on, with more exclamation filled emails and text messages popping up all over the place with various people revelling in shock at the news. Feeling somewhat destroyed, heartbroken and seeking refuge from the madness, I sent The Novelist an email entitled “It’s over” with the link to the online story. He didn’t reply for a few hours and pretty soon, I too was starting to completely lose it.

Things continued to spiral into madness and I couldn’t work out what I was reeling from the most; the fact Charlie Brooker was marrying Konnie Huq and not me or that thousands of other girls also had whopping great, mildly obsessive crushes on him. Then Alex tweeted the only logical solution for this heartbreaking insanity:

Support Group

I was about to ask her to send me the number of said support group, should she hear of one actually being set up, when The Novelist finally emailed me back.

“Whilst I am sorry for your loss I am not sorry because for a second I half thought you were dumping me by email.”

Then, I guess I realised that this whole situation was, in fact, completely bonkers. And right there and then I realised that in the form of a Microsoft Outlook window, God The Novelist reality was staring me right in the face and I decided that I should probably lay my 15 year crush on Charlie Brooker to rest.

And that I probably shouldn’t use Twitter.

May 31 2010

Crippling shyness will always avert your attention to shoes.

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I’m shy. I know it doesn’t seem that way sometimes if you’re a regular reader of this blog – but believe me when I say that my online self is dreadfully misleading. Blogging means that I can hide behind my PC and say whatever I want. In reality, I occasionally mutter things under my breath or make stupid jokes and hope that interaction with other people will come to an immediate end. My virtual self and my actual self are poles apart. Basically what I’m saying to you is that I’m a liar really good writer.

Online I’m like an uninvited (and drunk) guest at dinner party; bellowing my opinions all over the place, interrupting other people so that I can talk about myself, making terrible jokes (that’s the only aspect that remains consistent), frequently asking ‘Is there any more wine?’ and revelling in own stupidity.  In reality, I’d be mumbling my way through mouthfuls of food hoping no one will talk to me while I’m chewing, I’d be passive during discussions, and I’d probably make an excuse to leave early.

When it comes to real life situations where I need to be assertive and confident – nine times out of ten I will curl up like a hedgehog in the path of an articulated lorry. It’s as though I can sense impending doom. That one time (out of ten) where I will feel a surge of confidence, a certain impulsiveness to “just go for it” whatever it may be, I can guarantee that it will go catastrophically wrong. I will then replay the incident over and over and over in my head and I will think about it the next time life presents me with another opportunity to be ballsy – and I will inevitably opt out.

This ‘fight or flight’ nightmare came about recently, when my friend invited me to a showing of Four Lions at the Cornerhouse cinema in Manchester – involving a Q&A session at the end with writer and director Chris Morris. I’m the kind of person who will get overly excited and nervous merely at the prospect of being in the same room as someone I admire. So when my friend suggested we wait outside to try and get an autograph at the end of the show, I nearly exploded (quite literally) at the thought of speaking words, aloud, to said person of admiration (namely writer/director Chris Morris) even if those words were only ‘Hello, please may I have your autograph?’. I was bound to screw up.

Anyway, we waited at the doors of the cinema with some complete lunatic girl who had been standing outside clutching a marker pen for about an hour, having not realised that there was a Q&A after the film. I wouldn’t have minded her so much had she not repeatedly bellowed “I WAS HERE FIRST” and laughing nervously/manically any time I moved. At this point I was telling myself not to ask for an autograph after her, because Chris Morris will totally think that we’re together and that I am also a lunatic. After all, we were both wearing back packs. So I shuffled away from marker pen girl and responded to everything she said by staring into a drain in the road and let my friend converse with her because she looks more normal, and the association that she was with the lunatic girl was less likely.

When Chris Morris emerged from the cinema, the lunatic lunged toward him brandishing the marker pen and pleaded with him to sign her arm. Then my friend tapped him on the shoulder and asked her to sign her cinema ticket, and I felt like it was safe for me to proceed, and not to be associated with the lunatic girl (who was now leaping up and down in the street like the lunatic she is). As Chris Morris took the ticket from my friend, his publicist looked at me right in the eye and said “THIS IS THE LAST ONE NOW – CHRIS HAS TO CATCH HIS TAXI” and I recoiled back into my anxiety-ridden shell as if the publicist was actually channelling a request from God specifically for me not to ask Chris Morris for his autograph, in case doing so caused a situation so awkward an embarrassing that the universe would actually implode.

You’re welcome, humanity.

And so there I stood, crippled by shyness, rooted to the pavement under the watchful eye of God, admiring Chris Morris’s excessively clean and well laced trainers and luscious curly hair.

Now that I think about it, I was really doing humanity God Chris Morris a favour. Because, if I recall this correctly, the Cornerhouse representative specifically asked us not to harass Chris Morris as he left the cinema because his taxi was waiting outside to pick him up. But it took Chris Morris a good twenty minutes to leave that cinema, and I know that a great deal of people completely ignored this instruction, and selfishly presented themselves in front of Chris Morris, asking for autographs, to read their screenplays, to take their numbers and all that not caring that he had to get in his taxi. His taxi probably drove away and then the Cornerhouse probably had to book him another one, which probably really pissed off the cab company. And Chris Morris.

When it comes down to it, I didn’t ask Chris Morris for his autograph out of courtesy and not because I’m shy and socially awkward, or because God told me not to. I know that Chris Morris has better things to do than autograph various limbs presented to him by the mentally unstable. And if it wasn’t for people like me, people like Chris Morris would never catch their taxi’s home. You’re welcome, Chris Morris.

 

 For those of you unfamiliar with Chris Morris (no judgement) – here’s a clip from some of his earlier work.

‘Decline’ from the brilliant Brass Eye