"The Game"

WARNING! Feminist Rant alert!

I was listening to the radio this morning and a bloke in his early twenties called in to tell the presenter about a book he'd been given by a strange loner in his local boozer. Alarm bells are already ringing. Never trust the weirdo that sits in the corner of the pub and has done every day of his adult life! The book he was referring to was "The Game" by Neil Strauss. I'd heard about this 'Bible' from some of the (how do I put this politely...?) more promiscuous guys who lived in halls with a course mate of mine at uni and I was less than unimpressed with the concept back then. Four years of life experience and a healthy dose of adulthood-induced-grumpiness later and I can safely say that my tolerance for such things has diminished into non-existence.

The premise of the book, so I gather, is a how-to guide for useless/desperate men to pick up women. Or as the author himself puts it: "penetrating the secret society of pickup artists".

Wow. I'm already pissed off.

Where do I start?!

Firstly, what decade is it?! I'm fairly certain that 'picking up' women in bars, (sorry, I can't bring myself to type it without the inverted commas, it's such a nauseating concept), should have died in the 1980's along with smoking cigars at the office and mild sexual harassment of the secretary being an acceptable part of the daily routine. Also - where does this idea of 'artistry' come into it? How is there anything commendable/admirable/creative about following some lecherous creep's advice. If you didn't have the brains to come up with it yourself it's not art! (That's the only compliment Neil Strauss will be getting from moi).

Don't get me wrong, of course I'm not naive enough to think that this sort of thing doesn't happen every weekend in bars, pubs and clubs across the world. It's more the connotation of the phrase 'picking up' that bothers me. It implies such ease and yet the irony is that a lot of these sleazy men, which myself and my female allies have more than likely encountered first hand, are so inadequate at getting female attention/appreciation/respect that they turn to self-help books like "The Game"!

My second reaction is shock at the idea that so many men would actually buy into this bullshit about game-playing and rules when it comes to dating. Isn't that all a little bit year nine? Call me old-fashioned, but I've never been one for waiting a certain amount of time before texting back or any of that other trickery!

I think another big problem is the fact that in creating this 'guide' to what women will (supposedly) like (or at the very least fall for) when first meeting a prospective partner, is that it creates a false sense of panic in the minds of probably half-decent men who perhaps aren't so lucky with the ladies and therefore it tricks them into believing that they simply need this book in order to be attractive to the opposite sex. Oh God - now I'm getting all Marxist on your asses! I can't honestly remember the last time I was bowled off my feet upon seeing some chump down the local wearing a Sombrero. (Yes 'peacocking', I.E. making yourself stand out from the crowd in some obvious way in order to differentiate yourself from the other men in the room was an actual and serious suggestion in this book!)

Problemo numero trois - whatever happened to being yourself? Ah yes - the big problem arises here and this is probably where Neil Strauss was clever and spotted a gap in the market. (OK so I complimented him again, but no more, I promise!) What if you actually are just a boring f*** with nothing to offer a lady? You'd have been screwed (and only metaphorically of course) when it came to women... until now! Neil saves the day! Again my inner-cynic has reared its outspoken head. Why bother becoming a more interesting/friendly/genuine/fun/confident person when you can just lie and blag your way into women's bedrooms?! Ah right... I now see exactly why the latter is a more attractive option, it's simply easier and much less effort to go out there and better yourself than to pretend to be someone/something you're not. What a sad state of affairs...

So my advice to all the hapless men out there looking for love (or lust as is more likely to be the case) is to be yourself. Yes I know, how very boring and cliched of me... But if it was the other way round, wouldn't you rather know that the nice girl you were chatting to at the bar last night actually quite fancied you and wasn't just having a laugh and using you as a pawn in a game that she and her mates would have a great laugh about the next day?

If you still can't seem to win the affections of the ladies that way, then my only other suggestion would be plastic surgery and a personality transplant.

Until next time...!

Phrases that get my goat - part 3

"Annual Leave" - Again, this is one of those pesky phrases that only seems to crop up in a work environment. Why do emploeyrs insist on giving such a simple concept such a longwinded name?! It sounds so stuffy and official that it almost connotes images of being given leave from military service! Wouldn't 'Holiday' cover it suffciently?! It just seems so unnatural! I'd be very surprised if you heard someone saying 'I'm off to Spain for my annual leave this year'. Presumably the scoundrel responsible for this irritating label was a David Brent-esque smart arse who wanted to make thier pathetic career seem more important than was.

"Bugbear" - Another ironic one... Seriously what is the etymology of this one?! Was an innocent bear being irritated by an insect just as a budding linguist happened to pass by and observe the unusual situation, when in a flash of brilliance he decided to coin the phrase? I can't think of a more logical explanation.

Phrases that get my goat - part 2

1. "Smart casual" - I have just received an email confirmation for an interview for a new job. The dress code that it has been specified that I should wear is the infamous "smart casual". I'm sorry, I must have missed something along the way... Is that not an oxymoronic specification?! How can one possibly be smart and yet casual simultaneously? It's equivalent to asking someone to dress "slutty modest" or "snow beachwear". Maybe I'll just wear a tophat and dungarees and hope that ticks the boxes! I'm sure that would guaruntee me the job!

2. "I'm not being funny" - No, quite clearly you are not. I am not laughing, you have not told and amusing anecdote, so why would you prefix an exclamation with this phrase when inherently it's quite clear that what you're about to say is not funny in any way, shape or form.

3. "Many thanks, kind regards" - I blame the invention of email for this one! Does anyone in their right mind who doesn't originate from a 1960's etiquette class/is a robotic Stepford wife actually verbally utter this phrase?!

Life Lessons – Number 1: Follow Your Gut

This is familiar. It’s 10:44am on a Friday and I’m already bored, sat at my laptop, still wearing my pyjamas and wondering where it all went wrong. Again. Yep, it’s that old familiar friend we like to call ‘unemployment’. Except this time I can’t complain too much, as the predicament I find myself in is self-inflicted.
Six weeks ago I thought I’d hit the jackpot big-time. Having landed my ‘Dream Job’ at a top-ten creative Ad Agency in London my vision of moving to the Big Smoke and becoming an uber-successful, respected media-type was finally coming to fruition, 2 ½ years after graduating.
Sadly things did not go the way I had hoped.
I will not go too far into the gory details, but let’s just say sometimes the idea of something is a far cry from the reality of it. Ever seen ‘The Devil wears Prada’?!
From day one the niggling doubts had already surfaced and began to gnaw away inside my head. Why was I still at the office at 7pm without having taken a lunch break on my first day? Was this ‘normal’?! By day three there were the first tears and an HR intervention. By the weekend the paranoid nightmares had begun (“Did I send the client that urgent document?”, “OhMyGod, you didn’t organise that meeting with the MD...or did you...?”, “Shit, tomorrow is the international conference call and I have no idea what to say!” etc...)
Exhaustion had set in by day five and there were more tears as I gradually realised that everything I thought I had wanted in a job was wrong. But then things seemed to get better... but not for long.
As with most things, it is always advisable to follow your gut instinct. I knew from the start that things weren’t right and yet I was so stubborn and determined to make it work out that I drove myself into the ground, until denial was simply not enough to cover the cracks anymore.
By the fourth week I had a panic attack on the tube on the way in to work – purely through stress and anxiety at the mere prospect of even having to go in. That night I cried and cried until I fell asleep – again purely through the worry of what to do – I couldn’t possibly throw this opportunity away and yet I couldn’t possibly stay. The next day after some firm words from my mum, boyfriend and friends I plucked up the courage to voice my feelings – this just was not working out the way I had hoped and through the pressure I was putting on myself my anxiety had increased tenfold.
The next day I handed my notice in – but with the promise of having a discussion with the Client Partner (my most senior manager) upon his return from holiday on the Monday about changing the role in an attempt to make me stay. Of course this was hugely flattering and yet it made my decision even harder for me. How could I possibly leave now?
The rest of the week was tearful and I had become a total recluse, instead of holding my head high as I walked to the station I dragged my feet, eyes facing the ground. I stopped wearing mascara because I knew that there would inevitably be tears. I didn’t want to eat or talk to any of my friends – just wanted to curl into a ball and ignore the rest of the world. All this over a job!

This probably sounds ridiculous to some of you – and I realise that in the great scale of things this was a minor glitch on an otherwise relatively clean sheet. And yet this work drama became all-consuming – I was at the office for 10 hours a day, commuting an hour and quarter either side of that, going straight to bed and having nightmares only to get up and do it all again the next day.
I finally summoned the courage to email my boss and say ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ on another tearful Saturday where it had simply gone too far and I knew that something had to be done. I immediately felt rejuvenated and relived. Simply by having taken control of the situation my whole outlook had changed – other jobs would come along and the bottom line was about happiness, not slaving away and struggling for years doing something detestable.
My decision was validated as I handed over to my replacement – as she clutched her face between her hands with that oh-so-familiar look of utter terror and imminent freaking out. For the first time in almost 5 ½ weeks I felt happy and my normal self as I walked out of the doors and didn’t look back.
So... back to the unemployed part... It’s not so bad – I already have an interview for a temporary role which should tide me over while I decide exactly what I want in a job and where I want to be. Recent events have shown me that it’s not about the name of the company you work for, nor the salary, nor the location that makes a job great. It’s about being comfortable, enjoying the work and actually wanting to be there.
The moral of the story? Follow your instincts and count your blessings – there is always someone who is far worse off than you. Life’s a bitch and whether it’s in your job, your relationships or your family life there are always going to be tough times so make the best of the hand you’re dealt with and always, always go with what feels right for you.
(I’d give Jerry Springer a run for his money!)
Over and out.

We never Learn, Part Deux

It happened again. And, yes we should have known better. But apparently the Pavlovian dog response doesn’t apply to right-thinking humans. If I were to refer you to the post “We Never Learn” you’ll begin to see where I’m going with this.

So, picture the scene. It’s a cold evening in late January and in order to celebrate payday as well as the end of this dismal month, my friends and I decided (and I quote) “to go somewhere different for once”. How foolish of us. A few other local towns were cautiously tossed into the hat as potential destinations for our evening of silliness, Sambucca and dancing. But a decision on the location had not been reached even as I drove to our host’s house to get my ‘glam’ on for the night ahead. Inevitably, after a delicious Korma dinner, laziness (undeniably my biggest vice) got the better of us and we decided to take it back to the old school, (yep you guessed it), Guildford again.

Upon arriving at Wetherspoons, (which has actually been a ‘Lloyds’ now for at least three years, but I refuse to acknowledge this change) we were slightly mortified to find ourselves in the (how do I put this euphemistically?) bracket of the minority, “mature demographic”. In other words, the rest of the clientele resembled nursery children who’d found their mother’s make collections and gone wild! Some of the people were so infant-like, that to say that we felt like we were babysitting wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Nevertheless, we purchased our pitchers of luminous-coloured cocktails (healthy) and plonked ourselves down on a battered old sofa in a quiet(ish) corner.

A mere ten minutes later a boy (to describe him as a ‘man’ would be an outright lie) with a face so youthful I almost congratulated him for discovering the elixir of eternal life, invited himself to sit with us. “Here we go”, I thought. Emma was his victim of choice. Unimpressed within milliseconds, Emma visibly geared herself up to tell him where to go, when he whipped out a pack of cards. We all sighed simultaneously and attempted to get on with the conversation we were having before being rudely interrupted. However, Babyface was apparently having none of this. “Do you believe in Magic?” he probed in Em’s direction. “UUUUGH! That has got to be the worst ‘line’ I have EVER heard” she retorted.

Eventually, after a few pitiful attempts at impressing us the penny dropped and he gave up. As he rose to locate his next unsuspecting victim he uttered: “It was nice talking to you, even though you were incredibly rude!” Of course! How rude of us to cut to the chase (saving him the effort of continuing to waste his breath) and inform him that we weren’t in the slightest bit interested in his “trick”. How terribly inconsiderate of us, to want to continue our private conversation without the irritation of having a pre-pubescent dullard giving us earache. My mistake.

Shortly after this episode we collectively decided it was probably for the best to let the kiddies play together with their own kind, and we departed.

As we clattered up the piss-strewn high street in our tottering heels, an icy wind bit at our ankles whilst we collectively shivered/winced. “Why are we here?” I imagined was the thought running through all of our minds. Nevertheless, onwards and upwards. As we approached our next destination a flurry of gleaming yellow jackets materialised in front of us and the noise of a crowd grew louder. Now normally, an intelligent bunch of 22 year old girls would have alarm bells that should begin to ring when faced with ten police officers and bouncers outside the establishment that you intend on entering at 10.30 at night. Nope, not us. So in we went.

One thing I did manage to remember from the last time we entered this dungeon of doom was to avoid the dreaded VK at all costs, or pay the price of forever losing your tastebuds. Instead of purchasing overpriced bottled-sugar sweat we headed for the loos (an ancient female ritual whose sanctity must not be taken lightly.)

Amongst the clientele dans le WC were the obligatory gaggle of round-bellied, ample bosomed, Ann-Summers-outfit-clad hen do party. One of them was crying. Already. Another sat in a pile on the floor. I glanced down to mind where I was stepping, haphazardly avoiding the girl whom had chosen to land in a heap right in my path, and as I entered a cubicle I came across a pile of what could only be described as green ectoplasm. Unfortunately, I hasten to add that I doubted highly that anyone within a fifty mile radius of this dive would have the intellectual capacity to conjure up any form of chemical or biological substance, unless it came from within their bowel. Which this putrid little blob evidently had done. I decided my bladder could wait, so we made our way to the dancefloor.

After a good twenty minutes of shoving, elbowing and eventually finding a suitable pervert-free spot to dance we settled into our groove and started letting our hair down. After about bout half an hour of vigorous boogie-ing I went to get some water from the bar. As I returned to the group, I found them giggling hysterically and pointing. It turns out, while I’d been gone a gangly, pock-faced youth had started grinding on innocent little Charlotte, who obviously had not taken great delight in this act. When she turned to shoo him away apparently he had taken the rejection badly and spat the word “virgins!” at the girls before stomping off in a hissy fit. Possibly the best and simultaneously worst insult I have EVER heard!

By this point it was definitely time to call it a night. To make the evening even more joyus, on the way down to the taxi rank we encountered two balding squadies who yelled “girls!” in our direction, to which Row responded with “No shit, Sherlock.” They didn’t like that one bit and within milliseconds we’d gone from sexually desirable objects to (and I quote) “F***ing dogs.” Delightful.

By the time we finally got in a cab, the bulbus-nosed driver who was decidedly bigoted and slightly racist (“You can tell he’s Asian because look at the way he’s got his wheels in my lane. You can bet any money he’s gonna cut me up”) actually came as a relief and perhaps even came across as comparatively a good catch.

I think next time I’ll just stay in. Or drink a hell of a lot more!

Sponge

I recently made the executive decision to stop driving to work. Despite having put significant time and effort into writing a dissertation about Climate Change a mere few months ago (hypocrisy is apparently my middle name) , I usual love the ten-minute cruise into town in Roxy, my trusty, cherry-red Saxo. Well I don’t quite ‘love’ it, in the way that one ‘loves’ chocolate, or Disney musicals, or cats. But I do quite enjoy blasting out some mega-tunes on the commute, to gear me up for the day ahead.
My love for this daily ritual began deteriorating steadily after having to part with NINE POUNDS (count ‘em) a day for the privilege of parking upon arrival at my destination. If I’m going to be pumping coinage to the equivalent weight of a bar of gold into a battered machine that will probably reject half of them or deny their insertion, then I expect a darn sight more than... well whatever it is I am getting from this seemingly pointless activity! It’s not even as if I’m guaranteed security against pesky hoodies or nifty-fingered loiterers, as emphasised by the delightfully-reassuring ‘vehicles left at owners’ own risk’ signage. Yes, paying for parking is quite a bugbear of mine.
As if having to fork out for the parking in the first-place wasn’t enough to dampen my eight thirty AM spirits, I can’t say that I revelled in the daily walk past the building site, (which by the way seems to have been under construction for the last millennia without threatening any sign of completion, let alone bearing any resemblance to a ‘building’). They’ve probably just decided ‘You know what lads? Let’s just take it easy for a while. I mean, it’s not as if anyone has the money to buy property at the moment anyway!’
So, as a result of my general dislike towards early morning bankruptcy and sexual harassment, I have begun taking the bus to work. Ah yes, the fondly dubbed ‘peasant wagon’ as my friends like to call it. A little harsh if I might say so, but I see their point.
In many ways the bus is just as (if not more) unpleasant than the car-park fiasco. The fact that I have to be outside of my house at the bus stop forty-five minutes before I have to be at work regardless of the fact that the journey takes ten minutes is one reason. Or how about the indescribably irritating habit that numerous youths have of blasting their music from their phones’ tinny speakers for the entire world to hear? And not forgetting the vile inhabitants, such as one particularly nasty piece of work I encountered last week. His taunting of an innocent bystander was too much for my pre-caffeine sedated state and as a result of his ignorance he ended up on the receiving end of a full-on verbal attack courtesy of moi. Yes, the general smell, texture of the scratchy faux-velvet seats and unclean-feel of the mode of transport are amongst other reasons not to bus-it.
However there is one overwhelming advantage to taking the bus, and that is the opportunity to become a sponge.
When I am on the bus I literally zone-out from my worry-riddled, thought-filled head and absorb my surroundings. I find myself attentively people watching, eavesdropping on conversations and making social observations. (This, I now realise, is probably the reason I launched into my tirade aimed at know-it-all-smart-arse boy last week!)
Everyday the same school children get on. Inevitably one of them will start to play music from their phone. But I can forgive them. Perhaps it is because it seems so recent that I myself was catching the bus to school on a daily basis. I remember the rituals, like whose seat ‘belonged’ to whom and the consequences of this unwritten rule being compromised. I, after about a two year period of initiation, starting from the very front of the bus and gradually working back as your age, confidence and resultant status in the playground grew, sat on the back row of seats most days. It is fascinating and heartbreaking to observe this common and apparently ever-popular teenage ritual occurring before your very eyes.
Another observation I made at the bus stop was the hilarious manner in which older people struggle to use a mobile phone. One particular man produced a fairly outdated model from his jacket pocket and looked at it with such confusion that a passer-by would be forgiven for mistaking him as having just discovered a cheque for a few million quid just casually screwed up in his coat. The moment was classic and one I assume too familiar to numerous teens whose parents still struggle to operate even the simplest of devices.
As I sat at the stop listening to my IPod on shuffle (is it just me that can never decide what to listen to?!) observing the world and its people go by I realised how insignificant I was. It reminded me of a time a few weeks earlier where I’d become inspired to write on my blog, but had never gotten round to it. I was taken ‘out into the field’ at my new job, to see what the Sales Execs that contact me in the office actually get up to. It involved making some calls in local shops and our first stop was in a place you wouldn’t know existed unless someone told you it was there. It was one of those estates that time and the rest of the world had forgotten. And it got me thinking about how much of a bubble I live in. Ignorance can be bliss, but sometimes, like in moments like this I needed that wake up call to make me realise and appreciate the things I do have. This estate was obviously in quite a deprived area (one that I didn’t even know was there, despite it being practically on my doorstep). I remember feeling sudden pangs of guilt that, due to my up-until now ‘unemployed’ status, I had cancelled my monthly donation to the Red Cross. This may seem extreme, but I do have a big conscience and sometimes even the smallest of jolts can knock it. I felt selfish and superficial and above all embarrassed by my ignorance.
I guess the point I’m trying to make is that we all need to open our eyes a bit more and start behaving with more courtesy and compassion for the people around us and people less fortunate than ourselves. It’s all too easy to turn a blind eye. But sooner or later your bubble might burst and when it does you’ll be thankful for that sponge who decided to take the bus today.

A few phrases that get my goat!

1. “That gets my goat”
Excuse me?! Does a clothes-munching farm animal escape its petting-zoo-confines, rapidly bound towards you, like a trusty canine companion from a 1950’s family movie the minute something winds you up? I simply can’t understand how comparing something that annoys you with a glorified sheep makes any sense!
2. “No offense, but...”
It’s the “but” that really bothers me. Demonstration: “No offense, BUT (actually whatever I’m about to say is more than likely to cause you offence, thus the prefix ‘no offence’, so I’m going to say it anyway and couldn’t care less if it offended you).
3. “Do you know what I mean?” (At the end of a sentence that requires no retort)
Um, yes. I do know what you mean. I do speak English, thus the conversation we were partaking in so far going so swimmingly. It’s as if the culprit suddenly worried that they may have been speaking in Japanese in an absurd Freudian-slip and just wanted to check that stupid little you had understood. I know the phrase is uttered rhetorically, but if the question requires no answer then why waste your breath?! Oops... guilty!
4. “World class”
I realised the stupidity of this phrases whilst watching an utterly boring documentary about floods (yawn). An engineer described the Thames Barrier as a “world class flood defence system”. Let’s clear a few things up here. The Thames Barrier is in the world, oui? Therefore, surely, by default it is of a class calibre enough to automatically be classified as “world”. Just me?
5. “Figure of speech”

Is a figure of speech. And a very cocky, know-it-all one too!

Stay tuned for the next episode of “phrases that piss me off!” Until then...