Hell For Leather

About This Song: This song's early completion is utterly, unashamedly inspired by my first listen to Green Day's Lazy Bones. Keep that style in mind when you read (I've added the song to the end of this to listen if you wish). Unrelatedly, this song is about when reckless fun trips into obsession, as a young couple struggles to cope with mutual addiction. Enjoy!

Hell for Leather

Let's trip into amber ecstasy,
Poison hearts with liquid vanity,
We're young enough to misbehave,
And bottled sins are what we crave

Actions blind to sober thoughts,
Become figments of a night forgot,
"Oh, one more shot before it's light?"
Apologising doesn't make it right

[Chorus]
Chase me, away from life,
Take me, just for tonight,
Waste me, like wasted time,
Placed me, into this lie

If only time meant more than this,
We toss and turn right after bliss,
With nightmares puncturing our sleep,
Of promises we failed to keep

We try in vain with bloodshot eyes,
To make a point out of this fight,
"I need one more before I sleep",
I swear I'll leave but I'm too weak

[Chorus]
Chase me, away from life,
Take me, just for tonight,
Waste me, like wasted time,
Placed me, into this lie

[Bridge]
Oh, once again I'm on my knees, and I'm prayin' for a way,
To make it through the night, and to battle through the day,
Oh babe, I'm begging please, don't just give yourself away,
I need your trust; apart we're fucked, to fill the empty space

[Chorus]
Chase me, away from life,
Take me, just for tonight,
Waste me, like wasted time,
Placed me, into this lie

Chase me, out of this fight,
Take me, into the night,
Waste me, for one last time
Break me, out of this lie

An Education of Terror

I’m too tired to be bored; I’m too bored to be tired… 

I shiver against the simple, yet authoritative drumbeat of Green Day’s new number, Lazy Bones, as the eerie thought of an unwanted passenger in the backseat of my Fiat Panda creeps into my mind. After two days dedicated to Saw marathons, and blasts of bullet-dodging and zombie-crushing on Resident Evil 6, I’m utterly on edge. 

And this silence is so deafening, it’s like picking at a sore… 

Billie Joe Armstrong’s voice rings softly through my speakers, calming my anxiousness. Lazy Bones truly is a great song, despite the rather obvious musical similarities to earlier tracks such as American Idiot’s Give Me Novacaine, and the anti-establishment charity single, Favorite Son. It definitely managed to take my mind off the fact that there might have been a pig-faced psychopath sitting behind the driver’s seat, I know that much. 

I never liked horror films, as a child. My mantra for such dislike being: “why would you ever want to put yourself through something that’s going to scare you?” I couldn’t fathom the morbid fascination with death, gore, or the supernatural. You are not going to learn a life lesson after withstanding The Exorcist, nor are you about to develop any impressive skills kicking back to watch Nightmare on Elm Street. My point being: you’re not going to get anything out of overcoming this fear, so why do you do it? 

For the thrill, was the most common answer, and nowadays I completely understand. After leaving an entire film genre completely untapped for seventeen years I am now undergoing an education of terror – if you will – beginning with the cult classics, and then delving deep into the sub-genres. I’ve been at it for a couple of pillow-shielding years now. 

I suppose this means I’m growing up, doesn’t it? I muse; carefully avoiding the flooded banks of the country road I’ve learned like the back of my hand, after countless trips back and forth from my boyfriend’s house (where I spend around 90% of my time). I thought about my current situation. I was legally driving a car that belongs to me, remembering tidbits of Saw III, with a half-smoked cigarette in the pocket of my jacket signifying the remnants of a 21st birthday party, and a blonde head of hair I certainly wasn’t born with. Although I don’t really feel like it, the signs of adulthood have crept upon me much like the masked villains of Saw I so feared. 

So… What is the point of this post? In all honesty I’ve been wracking my brains for a way to introduce a general “life update” and thought I’d cracked it on the drive home. The idea was that I’d write about my day, and then try to form some kind of conclusion relating to my current situation. I’ve grown up a lot since my last few posts, mentally and physically (I’m blonde now, just like I wanted!). I’m out of the place that was turning me into someone I despised, and am on the track to achieving what I really want out of life, which is to write for an audience who really wants to read it. That is all I really wanted to say. Really.

Oh, and I also wanted to plug a few posts that are going to appear up here soon, since it has been far too long since I updated this with anything substantial… 

Lyric Posts:

Stereo Slut – an ode to the music video girls, dressed in nothing but underwear. 

Hell for Leather – when reckless fun turns into obsession, as a young couple struggles to cope with mutual addiction. 

Your Last – a simple, honest love song. 

Written Posts: 

A Baptism of Music – my experience seeing Lady Gaga live in concert, beginning with how I fell in love with her music, and ending with the magical experience that is the Born This Way Ball. 

Each post is already complete apart from ‘Baptism’, which is almost done and is already 2000+ words and packed with pictures. The Born This Way Ball meant so much to me that I wanted to give it the justice it deserves, so definitely look out for that one – it’ll be a monster. (You actually won’t be able to miss it due to the number of shameless plugs I’m planning.)

So, that's it I suppose. Lucky my thoughtful journey home ended safely, with no pig-headed murderers in my immediate vicinity (that I'm aware of). Thank you for reading and I promise I'll update this with something worth checking out before Monday!

Sex Cells

Brand NEW song! I was inspired to include this as a response to my last new entry, Quiet Wars (below). Although I’m happy with the song as a whole, I felt that a lot of the meaning was lost in translation through double meanings and metaphors which, when writing for pop, shouldn’t be so difficult to decipher. This song is the opposite: blunt, to the point and bares the naked truth. I’d really love for anyone to tell me their thoughts in the comments section!

About this Song: Sex turns heads, and everybody knows it. It’s not permanent. Sexuality may catch your eye, yet love, connection and a future is what keeps you hooked. But, what if the only way your partner could honestly express themselves was through sex? Can the foundations of connection and love be built on a such temporary physical act? Is it enough, or does your partner need to tell you how they feel in perfect poetry? My answer is this song.

Sex Cells

Lips, zipped, like a courtroom safe,
Show me what I'll miss if I win that case,
Tied, down, whisper one-two-three,
It’s the last I'll hear until you liberate me

Talk is cheap but I'd pay for it rough,
He says what he needs in the language of touch

[Chorus]
Oh lover, it's alright with me,
To show me how you feel,
When we're in-between,
The sheets, because I know,
Those words aren't as easy,
As what you can show

Oh!

Grip, tight, on the cards you've dealt,
Lay me like that ace right on the felt,
Burn, stick, and he stays refined,
One last twist until he blows my mind

Talk is cheap but I'd pay for it rough,
He says what I needs in the language of touch

[Chorus]
Oh lover, it's alright with me,
To show me how you feel,
When we're in-between,
The sheets, because I know,
Those words aren't as easy,
As what you can show

Oh…

[Bridge]
Baby, sex might sell a magazine,
But a feature can’t fulfil my needs,
And maybe I’m a saint with words,
But I need a man to rule my world

I’d rather have you hold me close,
Feel your breath while nose-to-nose,
With just your touch I feel unique,
This is romance; don’t ever speak

[Chorus]
Oh lover, it’s alright with me,
To show me how you feel,
When we’re in-between,
The sheets, because I know,
Those words aren’t as easy,
As what you can show!

Quiet Wars

Here are the new lyrics I've been working on! Enjoy. Comments and criticisms are greatly appreciated!

About the Song: It's a stalemate of silence between two lovers as their relationship transitions into young adulthood. In short, they're afraid to argue to spoil the peace created when they were teenagers - bottling up their problems until at night when under the influence of alcohol they're struggling to speak at all. It's about finding the courage to break the Quiet War and realising their stupidity: that the most painful way to mature is to be immature about it.

Quiet Wars

We're soul mates in spring getting-off on the green,
Toying with the future bound by promise rings,
We're the summer of love twisted in sixty nines,
Unaware of the world, unaware of the time

Yet when daylight falls to 3:00am, ruled by eighties synth and bubbles,
To silence, we are condemned, suddenly voiceless of our troubles

[Chorus]
Where have all the hours gone, talking with our eyes bright?
Since when have you or I won our quiet wars at midnight?
We used to laugh, we used to cry, we could put the world to right,
I wonder why they've stuck so long, our quiet wars at midnight

We're a fairy tale romance with a bottle of sin,
Star crossed lovers pressed lips against skin,
We're a poem in Paris by an addict on the Seine,
Beautifying lies I've been brought up to believe

Yet when daylight falls to 3:00am, ruled by eighties synth and bubbles,
To silence, we are condemned, suddenly voiceless of our troubles

[Chorus]
Where have all the hours gone, talking with our eyes bright?
Since when have you or I won our quiet wars at midnight?
We used to laugh, we used to cry, we could put the world to right,
I wonder why they've stuck so long, our quiet wars at midnight

[Bridge]
Watch the blossom from the river wash away,
Trodden on, forgotten, waiting for another day,
Orion's in the sky why won't you point him out for me?
At eleven, for a second, distracted by astronomy

[Chorus]
Where have all the hours gone, talking with our eyes bright?
Since when have you or I won our quiet wars at midnight?
We used to laugh, we used to cry, we could put the world to right,
I wonder why they've stuck so long, our quiet wars at midnight

Where have all the hours gone, talking with our eyes bright?
Since when have you or I won our quiet wars at midnight?
Silent stalemates in the night, rather kiss than have a fight,
I wonder why they've stuck so long, our quiet wars at midnight

Standing In Line to See the Show Tonight

Two pints in the left one!

My heels are on fire. They’re pink, sore, and blistered. My eyes are bloodshot and drooping, my hair’s got a life of its own, I’m hungry and tired, I may have caught pneumonia, and my body feels like I’ve just endured Arnie Schwarzenegger’s Mr. Olympia training routine.

BUT, all of that was worth it.

I got home, and wrote that little paragraph on Monday about seeing the Red Hot Chili Peppers live. Despite being completely drenched by torrential rain on the walk in, sitting in soaked jeans and grinning through cold shivers for three hours, our moods were brighter than the spotlights. So what if I kicked a pint of Strongbow all over my bag, or nearly bludgeoned bystanders by dancing; we had an incredible day filled with laughter and excitement.

There were a few surprises in the setlist which deserve an honourable mention:

I Like Dirt – I’m not sure if this track is played live often, but for me it was a shock considering this was a big show, and the majority of the audience seemed to have gathered for the hits (boring people, I otherwise like to call them). We air-jammed and jumped around for the entire song… Much like the Chili’s themselves!

 

If You Have To Ask – Again, another old favourite! Blood Sugar Sex Magik helped introduce me to the band’s funk genius, and it kills me that a lot of the album tracks aren’t played live. The super fans in the crowd went crazy for it.

Soul To Squeeze – It’s hard to find decent live videos of this song online, let alone be lucky enough to actually experience it being played to you. This song holds so many memories for me that I STILL can’t believe the coincidence! It’s “our song”, and us being there together made it even more special.

Overall, the entire experience was magical. Kind of wish somebody had told me how difficult it was to get a Goddamn taxi in Sunderland beforehand but y’know, I was that tired, tipsy and high on adrenaline that I can’t even remember it properly. We got free drinks out of finding one in the end so that’s all that matters!

The Future Is Autumn

Five minutes, I mused, clicking the minute button in rapid succession to microwave my six-day-past-its-use-by-date Tesco Finest lasagne; concluding that if I added an extra three clicks then maybe this microwave would nuke all of the invisible, festering bacteria.

Behind me, equally as concentrated, my boyfriend furrowed his brow while struggling to find the perfect number of custard creams to accompany his fresh pint of steaming coffee. It was cute, I thought, that he’d emptied the biscuits onto a separate saucer instead of just snaffling them out of the packet with reckless abandon; our usual method of portion measure.

There were three of us in the kitchen at lunchtime. Half in, half out of the main cooking area stood my friend (who for privacy purposes I’ll call Ribs), tucking in to a plate of assorted chicken thighs and wings; 9% breadcrumbs, 91% liquefied lard. He looked about as unimpressed with his purchase as a fat kid with a salad, yet was gobbling it up anyway, occasionally pausing to shade my attempts at making my lasagne look slightly more edible.

“That looks… fucking disgusting,” he laughed as I poured the extra runny grease down the sink drain before serving. It was previously swimming around the plastic container and had somehow materialised during cooking. I grimaced, but continued.

“It smells alright,” I replied. “It’s Finest.”

“It smells horrible! I can smell it from over here!” My boyfriend exclaimed. Ribs laughed again.

“Shut up, no it doesn’t.”

I had no time to react before Ribs appeared by my side, furiously sniffing my lunch. It was at this point I was reminded of a leaflet I picked up from my future university campus on Friday (I start in September), titled “Eating Well on a Budget”, and aimed at students who are living in rented accommodation. Apparently, you can have a decent, energising diet by solely surviving on meals of beans on toast, jacket potatoes, and cereal. (The leaflet wasn’t stingy enough to disallow a heavy booze allowance, either.)

With that in mind, I think the three of us have been eating pretty well these past few weekends.

The months, weeks, and days I have left to check off my calendar until autumn are absolutely crawling by. Over the past few months, since late February to be exact, I’ve found myself warping into the exact kind of person I despise. The catalyst for this transformation being my job, but I’m not going to whine grotesquely about it for reasons you’ll have to read about in Self Loathing Modesty, below. This is only the internet, after all.

But, despite this change, I feel wrong in adding a new sentence to the end of that paragraph about how this period of my life has been incomparably shit, because that would be a lie. The reason I call my job a catalyst is because without it, I have no doubt that I’d be sitting here, pattering away on my keyboard happily, with my biggest worry being whether or not there’d be bacon in the fridge for breakfast. I owe so much thanks to my parents, my friends (Ribs and co), and my boyfriend, for ripping big, gaping chasms of light into what would’ve honestly been a scarily dark time in my life. So instead, what I am going to do is not dwell on it in words, but write about the future.

In autumn, I have a lot to look forward to. I’ve been accepted into university studying English Literature with Creative Writing, which I plan to tweak into specialising in “pop fiction” (a word I coined from pop culture and fiction writing). Finally, for the first time in my life, by choosing to stay up until dawn to write while the inspiration is hot, I’ll actually do better in the course – an idea which completely awes me. My boyfriend has been scouted to work as part of a band to support an up-and-coming artist in our area, and as I’m the resident taxi, hanging around during practices has led me to have a conversation with the artist, resulting in interest being shed on my lyrics and me being asked to write for not only the band, but the artist himself.

As I posted on Twitter, is there such a thing as alternative-pop-urban-R&B-funk-reggae? If not, we’re about to create it. Watch this space! (Did that sound corny?)

Musically, autumn will be immense. It’s no secret that my two all-time greatest idols are Lady Gaga and Green Day, but I’ve also been a huge fan of The Killers since the release of Hot Fuss when everybody thought they were indie and English. They’re releasing their new album, and so is Green Day, which is a humungous deal considering Green Day’s last gap between albums was a whopping four years. I’ve got tickets to see Lady Gaga at the Born This Way Ball at Manchester in September, which to say the least, I am FUCKING ECSTATIC about. My jacket I’m designing for the show is being studded, the patches ordered, and the design finalised. We couldn’t get standing tickets but I’ll be the one exception into the Monster Pit if it kills me – I’m either clawing my way there or being allowed a wristband the correct way, it doesn’t matter.

So, what was the point in this blog post? In all honestly, this was more of an exercise for me than anything worth brandishing on the internet. If you’ve made it up until this last paragraph I thank you, and also feel that you should count yourself lucky; there was a poem I got close to posting instead, but the fact that I may have needed to write a contract wavering all responsibility from myself if a reader was 20 feet or less away from either an Adele album or a chainsaw, slightly swayed my decision. My last posts here have been quite robotic, and separated from what I’ve really been feeling lately, so count this as an update, while I’ll count this as a reminder of what I have in store; that when these thick, black clouds finally roll away, I’ll have the most beautiful view in the world of the new island I can call home. 

Self Loathing Modesty

Where did this cultural trend of self-loathing modesty crawl out from? 

And more importantly, why is this never recognised as being vainer than self-confidence? 

What I’ve never understood about society is the constant need to wear our inner most insecurities on our sleeves. Oh, listen to me, I am terrified of commitment, my parents have never showed love for me, I’m addicted to prescription drugs and my lack of confidence is making me want to rip out my insides. Would you like me to go into explicit detail about how I’m emotionally scarred while you chew your lunch? 

Surely if we were that preoccupied with our insecurities, we wouldn’t be so ready to reveal them to other people. My head simply cannot compute why as a society, the fear of appearing arrogant is so much greater than expressing any amount of honest self-confidence. We’ve forced ourselves into an unneeded pit of misery which in fact, we’re digging deeper with every confession. 

My idols and my own experiences have taught me to believe that if you consistently lie positively about yourself, you trick your mind into actually turning it into the truth. Unfortunately, the same goes for constantly adding a hateful disclaimer to everything you do. I have no doubt that these surprisingly confident revelations of private matters are honest, but because they have been tricked into to being so through repetition, not because they were born attached to us. 

If anything, it is vainer to obsess so much about your “modest” appearance that you drive yourself into self-loathing, than it is to be happy about who you are. Isn’t it more arrogant to confess your inner and most personal fears to an acquaintance in order to attract the right kind of humble attention that it is to feel good about who you are, and not care what anybody else thinks of you? There are far too many people who I feel are suspiciously secure about their insecurities for me to believe that they didn’t want to seek anything other than an unpredictably deep conversation. 

I hate this depressing culture. Breathe some life into your personalities and start to speak highly of yourself. Who knows, even if it starts out as a lie it might just turn into the truth.

Moral Values

It’s a beautiful thing, a belief. It fascinates me how we can become entirely consumed by a thing which physically, doesn’t even exist. It’s not concrete, you can’t touch it, and yet it absolutely becomes us.

Take love, for example. It’s completely and undeniably the biggest force in the history of human nature; it transforms our entire psyche, blinds us to our bad decisions, and in other ways, is the inspiration behind some of the most beautiful natural creations in the entire world. Yet despite love’s power it will only ever exist as merely a thought. It’s funny. 

I’ve never been a religious person – well, that’s a lie. When I was a little girl I was taught as a Christian, which even today after coming to terms with religion through my own natural self-discovery I hold no grudges against. (A lot of that is because at the time I was happy, and happiness means far more to me than logic, but that’s a post for another day.) Now I suppose I identify myself as agnostic, being infinitely interested in the cultures of different religious beliefs in the same way as I’m interested in the culture of love and romance. As far as actually following a religion myself I have to say with respect that I don’t completely.

As a writer I find too many flaws in the plot. 

What I don’t find beautiful in a belief however, is the sense of pomposity certain believers seem to it take upon themselves to flash around like a 50 year-old man in an overcoat on a park bench. It’s this self-assurance factor a relationship with anything provides; you feel confident in the fact that you’re no longer alone and instead as though you’re part of a secret little organisation; safer, stimulating, and more comforting than the world outside. Turing certain individuals into arrogant cock-ends, as I otherwise like to put it. 

Two weeks ago at work, our organisation was hosting a session in a new venue. It was a church no less than 30 years-old, in the style I find particularly corny and overwhelming. An expensive stereo system whispered Christian soft rock into the already stuffy room (I mean, if you’re going to play it quietly, then why buy such an impressive stereo?), while we sat in creaky mustard coloured chairs and spoke to the clients. Afterwards, the man in charge of the venue took a colleague of mine to meet in private. She came back fifteen minutes later beaming as though she’d just set eyes upon her first baby, and clutching a modern-looking paperback bible in her hands proudly. 

During the car journey home, she gushed about her conversation with the vicar. Apparently a week previous to this session she mentioned that she was interested in a couple of the quotes printed on the various posters around the room, then got into a deep discussion with him about re-discovering the bible. Kindly, the vicar had taken her to one side after this session had finished and offered her a free bible which he’d marked with the pages he felt were the most relevant to their conversation and which she’d find the most enlightening. Sweet of him, I thought. 

I wondered which pages she wanted to read about as she talked more of her recent dive head-first into Christianity. The way she spoke so affectionately about her new discovery felt as though she was already absolutely committed (even after admitting that she’d never read a page of the bible in her life), so I was curious to find out why she’d experienced this sudden change of heart. She sounded so happy and proud of herself as she made a plan out-loud of which passage she’d start on first, and then turned the conversation to the session leader and I. 

“Are you religious, Cathy?” She asked, warmly. 

“Well, not particularly,” I admitted, treading carefully so not to upset her. “No.” 

“Oh,” my colleague replied, unusually flustered considering that my response was nothing short of polite, as I was genuinely interested in her revelations for the reason I’ve just explained. I like to learn about people’s beliefs, and wasn’t about to be rude about her recent discovery after she’d spoken so lovingly about it, was I? 

“Well you know,” she began, quickly changing her tone to one of almost… disgust. “I just think that these days at least some people should have a sense of good, solid, moral values.” 

Hang on. 

What was that supposed to mean? 

I sat back in my seat, in silence, trying to digest her comment. So, just because I don’t necessarily agree with a belief she’s been holding so close to her heart for a grand total of seven days this apparently means that I don’t have any sense of “good, solid, moral values”?

Call it women’s intuition, but there was something about the way she suddenly turned from a gushing fountain of love into a salty bitch queen which really felt as though it was through disapproval. Disapproval of what, my politeness? My genuine interest? No, she actually had the nerve to assume that because I said I wasn’t particularly religious, it meant that I didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything, basically. 

Maybe I don’t believe in God, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect others around me. I believe that in my heart I have good, solid, moral values, because I’ve experienced life, grown up (sort of), and care about myself and my loved ones. I actually even care about the people who I don’t know, to an extent I wish sometimes that I didn’t. My own personal, private, morals and beliefs are based on nothing but genuine love and respect for others, NOT because I feel that one day I must be judged by some kind of fictional higher being. 

I ran this thought through my head all the way home, while my colleague continued her conversation with the session leader who happened to be the one driving. She twittered on and on about which page she was to start on, and which stories she’d heard at her children’s school plays about Moses and turning water into wine. “Just don’t mention it,” I concluded, listening to her make mistakes in a recollection of The Good Samaritan, understanding that the moment had passed, and to make a point about it now would be plain obnoxious. “You wouldn’t want to offend her.”

Blondie

Finally, after four months of hard work I've managed to finish my new set of lyrics. So happy to be publishing them at last! I'm planning on updating this with a further explanation of the meaning behind "Blondie", but for now here they are. Views, links, comments and likes are all immensely appreciated, they make everything I write worthwhile.

These lyrics are about the intense exposure and brutality of an artist in pop-stardom limelight.

Blondie

Famous and dumb, at a promising age, 

Money to blow, on shoes and cocaine, 

Fishnets and wine, too drunk to drive, 

Champagne’s divine, to vomit outside 

Glitter and lights, blind her to death, 

Rayban’s to hide, a picture of health, 

Perfectly poised, high fashion in Vogue, 

Glint in her eye, the cameras don’t show 

It’s not impossible in pop to be sincere, 

She’ll sell you her soul for the price of your ear… 

[Chorus] 

“Worship the art, not the celebrity game, 

Give me your love; I don’t want your name, 

Spit on the critics, smash cameras and cry, 

It’s the beauty of fame, and j’adore the lie!” 

Peroxide blonde, with lipstick kisses, 

Signs autographs, and then dismisses, 

Drive-by smiles, in flash limousines, 

Whisky on ice; The American dream 

Lights her cigarette, with a fifty bill, 

Pens a new hit, after a bottle of pills, 

Upon mixing desks, she bleeds herself, 

For another knot, on the Grammy shelf 

She’ll eat your heart to prove you wrong, 

Yet cursed by the blind who see just number one… 

[Chorus] 

“Worship the art, not the celebrity game, 

Give me your love; I don’t want your name, 

Spit on the critics, smash cameras and cry, 

It’s the beauty of fame, and j’adore the lie!” 

Baby, take a chance on me, I’ll break the mould and set you free, 

Honey, you’re a solider too, we’re monsters born to be renewed, 

Sweetie, don’t be scared of life, take bravery from my sacrifice, 

So forget the money, fuck the charts, lend me your ear, 

And I’ll play you my heart

[Chorus] 

“Worship the art, not the celebrity game, 

Give me your love; I don’t want your name, 

Spit on the critics, smash cameras and cry, 

It’s the beauty of fame, and j’adore the lie!” 

Twix Tea

Okay so, I thought I'd share a Northern phenomenon with you. It's called "Twix Tea", and is a method of drinking good ol' fashioned English tea by using a Twix chocolate bar as a straw. (Now you can't say I've never tried to teach you how to be quaint, British, and cultured, can you?) Ahem, here we go.

(This isn't mine. I have more Twix bars.)

INGREDIENTS
1 cup of English tea (the rest are shit, I'm sorry.)
2 Twix biscuit fingers (AKA, your average shop-bought bar.)

METHOD
Firstly, wait until your tea isn't the temperature of molten lava, unless you're a badass and can drink it straight after the water's been boiled. I can't, because I'm a wimp.

Unwrap your Twix bar.

Take your first chocolate coated biscuit finger, then carefully bite one of the ends off. Don't bite too much off; the more you leave on the bar the longer your straw will last. Do the same to the other end.

Place your Twix straw into your cup, and suck the tea through it.

Revel in the warm, gooey, chocolatey, caramel infused delicousness as with the rush of hot tea, the biscuit finger will begin to slowly melt into your mouth. Proceed to groan with pleasure. Eat the biscuit before it becomes too soggy to hold as it will inevitably drop into the depths of your mug and take half an hour to fish out with a spoon. Do the same with your remaining biscuit finger, until all the Twix bars in the vicinity have been consumed!

Trust me on this, okay? It will be the greatest tea experience of your life.

Metal Remix

Last night I was introduced by a new friend to four videos of dirty, filthy, music sex. Advertised as remixes, these tracks are much rather four tasty heavy metal covers of Lady Gaga's Alejandro, Judas, Heavy Metal Lover and Scheiβe. Lending a hand to Miss Stefani's vulgar rock n' roll history, the power of the Born This Way and Fame Monster numbers marry perfectly with the crunching riffs and shredding talents of "sindremyskja"s one-man band.

Would you like to be surprised for once today? Click play.

Hard Work & Coffee

Ah, a nice cup of warm coffee; the bitter taste of hard work. I suppose this means I'm growing up, does it? Not  more than a year ago I would've announced to you that hard work was the gritty displeasure of Pro Plus tablets under my tongue, coupled with that wonderful feeling of my contact lenses shrivelling to dust on top of my irises. Oh, wasn't college a barrel of laughs. Getting older is definitely a bitch, but I must admit, I'd rather take the coffee.

Anyway, I've decided to call my new song "Blondie".

Blonde hair has been quite a major fascination in my life recently. There's just something about blonde girls which develops this funny kind of lust within my girlie self, which I have finally decided not to fight, but embrace. There's a pot of peroxide with my name on it next month, so goodbye brunette days!

After a long time thinking about it, I've come to the conclusion that there comes a point in every woman's life where she has to decide whether or not she wants to take the leading roll in the story of her future, or subside to be a sub-plot in some other bitch's autobiography. As much as I hate to admit it as a natural brunette, if hair was a metaphor for success, a blonde would be cast in the leading roll, wouldn't she?

I've always been inspired by the world of celebrity, and through this little fascination I've noticed that if you want to really succeed, and I mean not just get your name on the door succeed, but to become nothing short of a cultural icon, in order to buck the stereotype you need to firstly embrace it. It's easy; go blonde, wear pink, slip on a pair of heels more imposing than the dick you're trying to impress, and get cast in the leading roll. Once you've clawed your way in, shove a great pointy Loboutin in the door and start acting as brunette as you could possibly imagine.

I've written "Blondie" as my first piece of writing dedicated to Lady Gaga, actually. The way in which she embraced the blonde, shallow stereotype of a pop artist to force her way into success instead of compromising her talent and intelligence is inspirational. I'm writing at the early point of transition between blonde and brunette character, and how she was perceived by the world to be nothing more than a one-hit-wonder unless you really took the time to listen. In a way it's also a "fuck you" to a lot of the people I associate myself with, who point-blank refuse to believe she's talented, without even listening to a live performance, or a song besides Poker Face or Bad Romance.

I'll post it as soon as it's finished!

Disneyland

Money's tight, but fuck the change... In November we're saving up to go to Disneyland (Paris, we're not made of cash). After the past couple of months, I'm determined to make this year the best I possibly can. Going blonde to change my look, applying for university, booking concerts to see my favourite artists in the world, and now we're travelling for the hell of it. I'm trying my best to make 2012 the best year I possibly can instead of wallowing in a place I hate. "With money to burn on a minimum wage, well I don't give a shit about the modern age!" Anybody recommend any pleasure rides? I'm a wimp.

Concerts, Studs, and cups of Beer

Soon, it'll be June the 24th, and I'll be in a bar somewhere north, my excitement bubbling as enthusiastically as the amber fizz popping around in my drink. In a couple of hours I'll be seeing my second favourite band, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, grand masters of funk, in Sunderland's Stadium of Light.

Denim and asterix vest a-go-go.

No more than three months later, on September the 11th, I'm ecstatic to announce I'll be sitting precariously on a bar stool somewhere south, trying desperately not to either bounce myself off it in sheer anticipation, or rip holes in the leather with a bunch of violent-looking studs stapled to my skirt. This morning I purchased tickets to see my favourite woman in the world, Lady Gaga, in Manchester's MEN arena.

Custom jacket? I think so.

Aside from that, at certain points around September, November, and January, I'll be in my car, driving in a circle, blasting either Uno!, Dos!, or Tre! at full volume, wailing along to each track until I've got the lyrics down better than I know my own name. In those months, my all-time greatest idols whom I adore more than it's humanly possible to describe, Green Day, will have released three brand-new albums consecutively.

Call an ambulance, please. I've been officially slayed by music.

Love Bursts From Guns

I’ve named this post after one of my favourite pieces of work.

Coincidentally, along with being a prime example of my creative process which I’m about to write about, the title is the perfect metaphor for the way in which I generate my little works of art. By art I mean of course, the written extensions of myself I call my lyrics.

I don’t really want to go into it, but for the record, do not for one second brush this post off because you don’t understand the importance of lyrics, or even acknowledge them as a legitimate form of art. For one thing, their force of impact on contemporary society is equivalent to a one-hundred tonne sledgehammer compared to the likes of Wordsworth and co, especially if you want to make an artistic statement. They are fashions of modern-day poetry when written well.  For example, how many 20 year-olds do you know who can sing one line of Bohemian Rhapsody? Compare that to how many people you know who can recite more one line of Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and you will have your legitimate reason.

If there was one thing my Literature lessons taught me, it was that it doesn’t matter if you’re reading a poem over one-hundred years old, or an album booklet featuring lyrics written by Lady Gaga in the 21^st century – basic human nature will always be the same. Presentation and society are only temporary factors in the grand scheme of the raw, human emotion of the poetic verse.

But, that’s not what I’m going to write about tonight. You know in fact, I’ve prepared a completely different post on the topic, but utter metal fatigue has prevented me from being able to finish it.

That is what I’m going to write about tonight. It’s not “writers block”, because in order to write, or to be truly considered an artist in my little brain, the word “block” should definitely not be in your vocabulary. What should be instead is the word “inspiration”, and that stuffy, well-worn, casual phrase to be replaced with the lack thereof. There are no barriers to art, only obstacles available to cross if you have the right technique. So, instead, I am writing about the intense confusion of “techniques” which are happening in my brain.

There’s a perfect metaphor for this I could use, but instead I’m going to twist it to make it sound less as though I’ve done a copy and paste job, and probably, make it a little bit more representative of my creative mind set at the present time.

Imagine… You’re in jail.

Imagine you’re sat in really stereotypical jail cell, on the dusty floor covered in bits of straw and the bones of rats, and across the room, is a dirty fat guard asleep in front of the fire, with a set of keys hanging loosely from his belt. The situation is this; you’ve managed to reach through the bars, unhook the keys without him waking up, and now you’re stood there, with the lock inches away, holding the first key out of twenty, wondering how long it’ll take before you find the right one.

Typically, your first port of call is trial and error. Some look blatantly too big for the lock, so you push them aside, and others blatantly too small. Eventually there are ten keys left, any of which could reach blindly into the lock, click it open, and release you into the world of your dreams. One key and you’re free.

The only problem is that time is limited. You have to strike while the opportunity is as scalding hot as that candle flickering away there in the corner. The consequences if you don’t are fatal – you won’t unlock the cell, you won’t escape and you won’t be free.

Half the time I’m sure nobody understands what I’m talking about because ninety per cent of the time I find myself speaking in metaphors. If that made no sense then I’m about to confuse you even more… At the moment I’ve got around five or six sets of lyrics I’m “working” on, and I have no idea which key, direction, or technique will allow me to unlock each cell into the freedom of turning them into genuine pieces of art in their own right. One more metaphor; each song I’m writing makes me feel like I’m a spider, and every one of my eight legs wants to walk in a different direction, without any being stronger than the other. I’m ever so slowly being pulled apart.

Spiders are the spawn of the devil, I’m telling you. This is how much I hate this situation.

Eating Well

Right this second, as I’m typing this sentence, I’m munching on the first cookie of a family packet of chocolate biscuits. “Even MORE Choc Chips” it advertises garishly, promoting the fact that you can get away eating the rest of the extra biscuits because at least you intended to buy a regular sized packet. That’s not to say I’m going to actually get through the entire packet, but I at least plan on making a significant dent before 4 o’clock.

Why? Because it’s the weekend, that’s why. What an excuse that is for every bad decision I’ve put into my body for the past couple of days. Another one is that I’m young, and why not? My motto since Friday afternoon has been if I’ll be happy telling the story, then I’m happy enough to do it.

Yesterday while nursing a hangover, I had absolutely nothing to eat apart from a bag of salt and vinegar crisps until a parmo at 9pm. If you’ve never heard of a parmo, it’s a piece of breaded chicken covered in cheese and grease, and will cost you around 2,000 calories per serving – that’s a fact. Not exactly the best dinner to solve my stomach troubles and nausea, but it tasted nice.

I hate to say it, but because of my job, I’m starting to think twice about what I’m eating on a weekend. Maybe spending £20 on cookies and chocolate brownies yesterday was a bad idea, and maybe scoffing these biscuits will do nothing but give me a cheap sugary thrill before storing themselves away in my arteries. Next time I’ll pick a salad.

Tiny Surprises

A few nice things happened to me today, so I thought I’d share! 

1) Meeting nice strangers. I welcomed two women to sit with me in McDonalds (don’t judge me; it was a one-off) because it was busy, so we chatted over our burgers about work and where we’re from, and how nice it was to meet each other. It’s always great, I think, to welcome a stranger into your little bubble for a few minutes. 

2) Freebees. After a long day promoting healthy living on the “health bus”, I managed to grab two stress balls, a pen, one bottle of spring water, a t-shirt and an orange. I ate the orange before I left work, and plan on wearing the t-shirt tonight for bed. A good haul! 

3) I got to see the moon. For a while, I’ve been fascinated with space and astronomy, especially constellations and the moon. Tonight I drove to my boyfriend’s house, and as we walked to get a bottle of wine, the entire estate had a power cut. As we were plunged into darkness, millions upon millions of stars appeared in the sky. We bought the wine, rushed home, and set up his telescope. I saw the moon, the Orion nebula, the Seven Sisters and Beetlejuice. It was perfect.

Let Me Know You?

This is what happens when I post.

The gratitude I feel for every single viewer is more immense than the bond between Kel and orange soda. Stepping cautiously into stalker territory, a huge wish of mine is to be able to know, even speak to, every single person who has ever read any of my blog posts. That’s the truth.

To put it into perspective, if you look at that example from just yesterday, that is 38 people.

Give or take.

It’s not about feedback, or a… Actually, you know what? It is about feedback. Except, not in an egotistical kind of way, but a combination of complete disbelief and genuine interest. I’m surprised, more than anything, how more than 10 strangers have given me the time of day.

This isn’t a “thank you” post; this is an “I want to get to know you” post. I want to bridge that gap between enjoying something, and telling somebody about it. Why? Because it makes me happier than if I was the proud owner of a swimming pool filled with chocolate cake. Or money.

So, nameless viewers, let me get to know you. Let me ask you questions, and talk to you. It means the world to me to have strangers be even vaguely interested in my word vomit.

Don’t make me ask you again, especially if you fell for this link because of the word "naked". You're not the first person to be conned by a marketing scam. Besides, if you've stayed this long, then let me hear about it, too!

Martyrs of Rock

It has been a simple weekend, but not one absent of life’s simple pleasures. 

As I sat yesterday, lounging back in my chair, with a fistful of cheap, greasy cards I could do fuck all with to win the game; something occurred to me. 

There we were, the three musketeers – two guys and me, the girl – hunched around a poker table scattered with beer stains and chips from the night before, messy and stinking of cigarettes, with a tipsy glow about us as at that point, it was 5pm and we’d been drinking since noon. Smoke billowed like hazy circles in the air while in the corner; the casual atmosphere was cut by the dirty bends of Angus Young, mid-solo and half-way through AC/DC’s legendary Back in Black. 

I bopped my head to the track as the solo catapulted into the chorus, and smiled a little to myself. Despite the smoke stinging my eyes and the crappy hand I was about to lose with, the music made me feel like I was in a filthy bar far away, with the muffled gurgling of Harley engines outside… no responsibilities apart from who would be paying for the next round. 

I felt sexy. 

You know, I might be crossing the line between self-loathing and vanity by saying this, but nowadays, somebody has to. The three of us musketeers aren’t exactly a sight for sore eyes. The guys are 20 years old and top rock n’ rollers, kit out in black and matching bad attitudes, and I’m 19, wearing denim and tight trousers… and, well, that’s enough said, isn’t it? 

Yesterday morning sitting in bed, I read a post written by a favourite blogger of mine, Lüc Carl on drunkdiet.com (PLUG), about how rock n’ roll just ain’t sexy anymore. It’s sadly true; the riffs which were conceived to make people want to fuck have been resigned to suburban offices, where your average mid-life crisis can attempt them on their Gibson ES to re-live the years they spent fighting the system. Y’know, before their wives call them down for dinner. 

Rock n’ roll is the sexiest genre of music ever created. It’s a shame that culture doesn’t exist for us young ones anymore, which I suppose is why we stick around in packs like the three of us – united by the appreciation of rock, and bonded by the resulting narcissism. 

It dawned on me yesterday, watching my boys joke about the card game, that it’s almost our responsibility, to resurrect the power of rock in modern society. Between the three of us, we’ve got a sly, lucky bastard with long hair and a suit jacket, a six foot tall body-building fanatic (who I’m proud to call my boyfriend), never seen for more than ten minutes without a beer, and me, the token girl who spends 3 hours getting ready for a night in, and probably has too many opinions for her own good. 

We’re not reliable, and nor are we probably worth much more than the couple of chips scattered across the table, but there’s hope yet. I’m just as proud as a 19 year old girl to listen to Back in Black as my 50 year old neighbour, and something as pathetic as the trends in popular society won’t ever stop me. 

Rock n’ Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution!

The Reality of Optimism

Optimism should be a clinical disorder. 

Oh you optimists, with your glass half full and your eager smile, pissing everybody off with your unadulterated enthusiasm. Well dear society, just because we’re not crying into our box of cream doughnuts about how we’re never going to lose weight, or moaning on and expecting the worst out of every pathetic situation, it doesn’t mean we’re physically unable experience disappointment. You may stop belittling us now. 

As an optimist, second only to blind naivety, disappointment is just about all you feel. 

If anything, we’re in a worse place in society than the pessimists. At least they’re open to sympathy, and don’t have to cover up their “downs” as desperately as us, like we’re residents of Wisteria Lane and a body has been discovered in the freezer. In life, we’ve set the bar so high, that instead of relief or joy, we’re doomed to an eternity of let-downs. With each and every disappointment, comes the birth of new hope, condemned to the same fate as the last. 

Usually, nothing can ever break our stride. It literally takes our optimism to be clawed onto the pavement and kicked in the teeth before we bother to sit down and think. Our perfectly plastered walls come tumbling in, that pretty, flowery wallpaper disguising all the cracks and holes rips to shreds, and we sit there, helpless, until the dust vaporises into glitter and we can click our fingers to redecorate. 

… I’m waiting for the glitter. The wallpaper is ready. 

Wherever I go, and whoever I meet, I’m constantly finding myself on the wrong end of the sympathy stick because of my outside optimism. It’s as though I can’t possibly have any worries because okay, eating those cream doughnuts won’t exactly make me balloon ten stone, or just because most of the time I shut my eyes and believe there’s light, when others only choose to see darkness. It doesn’t mean I’m incapable of faults, or that there aren’t any there at all. 

Sometimes people put up a wallpaper of optimism, because the truth is too ugly to explain. Pessimists, take note, please, because that’s the reality.

Tale of a Bucket... Or is it?

Dedicated to my Dad.

There was a bucket,
On a hill,
It's not there now,
It must have gone.

Born This Way Ball Jacket

As most Monsters do, I'm getting dressed up to see my favourite artist Lady Gaga when she goes on tour this year. Rumour has it that she'll be in England this summer, but I've been planning, designing, and making my outfit since the end of last year. Why so early? Because it's going to take forever to complete.

The star of my outfit will be my Born This Way jacket. From watching videos of the Monster Ball and footage of Gaga's performances, it's easy to notice her fans mimicking couture favourites and past video looks. I thought for my first concert, I'd combine both my favourite aspects of the Lady's fashion with my own sense of "style", you know, to make it original and fitting with the Born This Way message.

To start, I took inspiration from Gaga's amaazing studded leather jackets. These are two of my all-time favourites:

Left: 2011, MTV Music Aid in Japan. Right: "Telephone" video, 2010.

Excuse me while I wipe the saliva from my keyboard... Ahem, so, anyway, I adore her studded leather jackets and to be honest, all the other leather jackets in her wardrobe. The jacket I'm making however is denim, after also being inspired by the recent Marry The Night video and my favourite quote:

"You may say I lost everything... But I still had my Bedazzler."

In August last year on a whim I picked up a tight denim waistcoat from H&M in France. I wasn't too fussy about the quality for the first time in my life, so ended up spending less than £10 just for something cowboy-ish to wear while it was hot in a desperate attempt to tan my milky arms. Since coming home it's hung uselessly in my wardrobe as I transitioned to fully sleeved denim for English weather, until the idea to stud it for the Born This Way Ball magically struck.

My plan was to combine the studs from her leather and the denim from Marry The Night, to create my interpretation of a "Heavy Metal Lover" look. The shoulders are almost finished being covered in big, shiny, metal studs, and I'm covering the rest in patches inspired by Gaga songs and if I have room, the bands I love too. On the back, in big, bold, black lettering, is going to read BORN THIS WAY, ironed over the top of splashes of silver fabric paint. As a proud English monster, the first patch I've bought is a Union Jack to stitch right on the front. On the opposite side, I'm buying bronze studs and pressing an upside-down Judas-esque cross.

Here's a semi recent picture I took of my jacket so far. After planning and searching for the patches, measuring the jacket and getting ideas, I'm on my way in studding the shoulders and have purchased the first patch. More pictures of my progress to come! Wish me luck!

Tastes Like Mommy's Kisses!

If ANYONE gets that reference I'll reward them personally with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a reality TV house party.

Over the past couple of weeks I've found myself consistently on the verge of writing a post inspired by the shade thrown at Valentines Day through the internet. Why nowadays, is it the norm to ruin nice things? First it was Christmas, and now this. We don't need to be reminded about the commercial birth of the "holiday", and if you don't feel like buying any of the tacky crap, then don't, but please, don't ruin it for everyone else. We aren't all born with hearts of stone. "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

My Valentines Day was different... but at the same time perfect. I spent most of the night awake, listening for my boyfriend to make sure he was comfortable and most importantly that he didn't choke in his sleep. He had two operations on Monday you see, so I've been his nurse for the past couple of days. During Valentines, I overcame my squeamishness by helping him clean his septum with a nasal douche and replaced his bloody bandages countless times. We went out, but only to the chemist to buy bandages, and then the supermarket for painkillers and grapes.

I think about how much I love him every day, but the fact that it was Valentines Day gave me an excuse to remind myself even more. No, we weren't enticed by tacky gifts or spent 24 hours dwelling on the fact that it was a... *gasp* commercial holiday, we instead spent time together, thought about each other, and enjoyed simply being around one another because we're in love. I don't understand why anyone would want to put a downer on a day to celebrate romance, even if it is just an extra excuse to say "I love you" aloud at times you would have just felt it inside.

The specialness of Valentines Day has been ruined by pessimistic people complaining about shallow gifts and stereotyping the style others celebrate the day. Please, make love, not war! Don't bring others into your pit of despair when they have chance to have a happy day.

Next Friday if he's feeling any better (and if I'm feeling any better too, since coming home I think I've gotten a head cold) we're going to go to a restaurant, and I get to give him the card I've had ready for a week or so. But... even if we do, it'll be on top of Tuesday, not instead of it. Staying in and being close to him on Valentines Day, feeling adored, is better than a meal anywhere in the world, even made by a Michelin star chef!

The Grammy's 2012

So, last night I stayed up alone until just about 2am watching various live streams of the 2012 Adele Awards. Excuse me? What was that? Oh, those were the Grammy’s?!

Flying the flag for England, our Adele managed to win a grand total of six Grammys out of six nominations. Now, she’s a talented women I’ll give her that; she’s brought soul to the masses in the same way that the late Amy Winehouse brought beehives and jazz.  As a lyricist I’ve got a ton of respect for the way she’s written so sensitively about the break-up of her relationship, and the way in which through that she’s pulled the heartstrings of so many millions of people across the world.

BUT:

I’ve got a bone to pick about Album of the Year. As always, nominated for the coveted award were musical A-Listers, such as The Foo Fighters and Lady Gaga, plus a couple of odd choices like that funny little Bruno Mars and then Rihanna (yeah, I don’t know either). The winner of said award was Adele, for her album 21.

Listen to me right, she’s got some brilliant singles, but after those 3 songs, the rest of the album is a bit of a bore. Every track is about the same break-up she’s singing about in Someone Like You, and if you manage to get through the whole thing all you feel like doing afterwards is eating 5 pints of Ben & Jerry’s and jumping off a bridge. This is where Adele irks me as a songwriter – she couldn’t simply write a beautiful song and be done with it, she had to tarnish her talent by repeating the same method for the rest of the songs on 21. It doesn’t show the skill an Album of the Year should.

It was sad that the awards ceremony was overshadowed by the hype the USA had piled on Adele’s shoulders. Even she looked overwhelmed and nervous during her acceptance speeches.  On the red carpet the only performer the guests were talking about was Adele, and also she’d been tipped to win all her nominations by every magazine online or off. Considering her humble beginnings, I was shocked to say the least about how for that night, she’d turned from national treasure to America’s darling. Where were they after she’d first released 19?

Compare 21 to the album I was routing for, which was Born This Way by Lady Gaga. In a year, from one album, Gaga has released 5 singles, 5 videos, had a Thanksgiving special, headlined in New York City on New Year’s eve, been around the entire world promoting at least twice, opened her own charity foundation inspiring youth bravery, while at the same time wearing heels higher than the Empire State building and keeping her flawless image intact.

If that wasn’t enough, the themes in Born This Way range from self-acceptance to relationships, and throughout the album Gaga preaches a positive message of love and unity. Like 21, there are unhappy themes, coming from dark caverns of Gaga/Stefani’s psyche, but instead of dwelling on her mistakes she moves on, triumphant, into the future. Sonically, Born This Way could be described perfectly as “Avant-guard techno rock”, however there are even country influences, electro pop, plus vintage 80’s references unusually suited yet mixed into the tracks too. This album feels more than an acoustic set and a melodramatic attitude, and instead is a fist-pumping, heart throbbing anthem for modern youth society. It’s a defining moment for pop culture, tied into 17 tracks of pure musical genius.

As a fan and a Little Monster, I can’t help but to feel cheated by America’s obsession with Adele and the farce which was the 2012 Grammy ceremony. I didn’t think for such a prestigious award the judges could have been so blinded by hype and popularity, yet I was wrong.

Worries

I’m a nervous wreck. 

A pacing, jittery, intensely worried young lady. These two men are responsible: 

1)     My puppy, Sonny. He’s gone and got himself pneumonia in the cold winter weather, and is so awfully ill that he’s been on a drip at the vets and has been touch-and-go for the past few days. He’s only 3 years old, the poor thing. I feel so helpless and upset that he’s ill and I can’t do anything about it but feed him medication and keep him warm. 

2)     My boyfriend. He’s going for an operation tomorrow and although it’s an in-and-out procedure, he’s still undergoing full anaesthetic and will be recovering for weeks. I can’t bring myself to think that it’s a good thing knowing he’ll be hurting afterwards and covered in big, purple, bruises. Just the thought of him feeling awful afterwards is bad enough, never mind what I'll be like as the operation is in progress.

I’m going to worry myself sick if I’m not careful.

In Casino I Trust...

To claw my cash into the greedy depths of the roulette table’s money shoot, whether life’s going my way or if I’m feeling about as lucky as a black cat sitting under a ladder.

What exactly is it that lures us drunkards into a casino like a moth to a flame? I’m going to brush off the biology bull about how alcohol increases our 123 hormone which makes our minds feel more lucky or whatever, and get straight to the point – why do we find it so bloody amusing to fling our money at shiny objects? 

From a sober point of view, the casino is nasty. It is about as nasty as a politician with a greedy agenda. It’s a full blown, nasty, horrible, place. 

For one thing, the drinks are about £3 a pop for a teaspoon’s worth of spirit. Wine is through the roof, and I’m a woman so would rather die than be caught with a pint in my hand (it probably would cause me to die to try to even lift one), so as most casual gamblers enter the casino at night, this is their first big sneaky money-maker. 

Granted, there aren’t many women there in the first place. This isn’t Vegas we’re talking about, but the tiniest sample of it, located in England’s scummy north east, where the poor and the dirty can dress up and have a night’s worth of glamour like they’re a thousand miles away. 

This brings me to my next point – the aesthetics. 

Up here in the north east, we all love a good piss up. What better way to forget about the recession than to remove the boots, slip on the heels and spend a night as though money is no object (or at least if it was an object, as though we actually possessed any). The glorious, sparkling casino suits this atmosphere perfectly; by enticing us with big shiny “adult” games (remove your mind from the gutter, please), a well-stocked bar, and a forum for us to pretend to be big shots until our little shallow hearts are content. 

Playing on the big shot idea is big money for casinos, and as soon as you take off the rose-tinted glasses – to give to the dealer after your numbers didn’t come up again – you can witness just how much they play on it. When the clock gets close to midnight and the mood steadily shifts from loud to rowdy, the signs are switched, and the buy-ins are suddenly £10 more expensive than they were when you first walked in. 

Now, if you were a professional gambler, and were playing for money I could only dream of, then a measly raise wouldn’t bother you an inch. However, how many professional gamblers do you see strutting around the casino at 12am, battering the poker tournaments and fanning themselves with wads of cash? None. What you do see are fat bald men with ruddy faces making eyes at women 20 years younger than them, with more ego than sense not to flush all their coins down the money shoot without question. 

What’s more, the cash machines provided which are conveniently stacked in a row next to the cashing out desk; require a £2.50 fee per use, and the minimum you can draw out is £20. 

That’s just being cruel, in my opinion. What they’re doing here is prying on the poor and needy, who personally, don’t seem like a fair demographic to target. And yes, before the question pops up in your mind, I did lose all my money at the casino at the weekend, and yes, I’m damn well bitter about it. 

A Real Rock Star

You see, if I was a guy, and I was sitting here with a cigarette in my hand, grabbing my crotch and talking about how I make music because I love fast cars and fucking girls… you’d call me a rock star. But, when I do it in my music and in my videos, because I’m a female, and I make pop music, you are judgemental and you say that it is… uh, distracting. I’m just a rock star.

Are you also a feminist?

I’m not a feminist, I hail men! I love men; I celebrate American male culture, and beer and bars and muscle cars... but that’s not what you asked me. You asked me if my music is distracted by my sexuality, and it’s not.

One of my idols, after being asked the question "Are you worried that the sexual references in your videos will undermine your music?"

Let me just... marinate in this little piece of interview for a second.

Young women of our generation need more females like this to look up to. A Lady who celebrates feminine sexuality, without oppressing men, or other women, or... anyone for that matter.

Indie Kids

This post is long overdue. I fucking hate indie kids.

(Before I lose all my credibility as a remotely interesting person, no, this isn't the Marry the Night inspired post about a part of my past I've yet to reveal to anybody.) Last night, I went to a spur-of-the-moment gig featuring a funk band we kind of follow around like stalkers... and I was disturbed to find that the entire venue was filled with indie kids.

I was literally the only girl in the room wearing heels, it was that bad. Even forgetting the completely stupid and ugly ensembles they attempt to pull off (a ratty woolly hat with a suit... what?), and I'm biting my tongue not to go into a rant about how they perceive themselves to be edgy, however all wear exactly the same thing... they're really shitty crowd members.

Considering they'd all paid to get in, you'd think they'd make a bit more of an effort to move around and look as though they're enjoying themselves, wouldn't you? Poor Danny was outdoing himself on that sax, while they just sat there as morose as they would look while watching an omnibus of Antiques Roadshow. I, being the token drunk girl, danced, of course. I didn't get all dressed up for no reason. The indie kids however, either lounged all over each other in the seats looking like their dog had just died, or stood awkwardly in rows with their arms folded, as though they were half-listening at a school assembly. It's not on... how would the band feel? I was embarrassed for them.

I've noticed that indie kids are very different here compared to across the Atlantic, and the ones who have bridged that gap are supremely more annoying. Up late one night last week, I was watching Abbey Road after midnight, and one of the artists (I use the term loosely...) was the most irritating, conceited, snobby dickhead I've ever witnessed on television. Not only was he embarrassed about putting his own music out, but he slated his last album and professed that returning to the roots of an acoustic guitar and similar, boring, folk melodies was infinitely more soul-satisfying than making interesting music which more people previously enjoyed. I think they call them "hipsters" over there.

I think that's the main thing I despise about the indie social movement, that especially in music, they make it for themselves, and not for anybody else. If I write, I'm rarely selfish enough to write something purely for my own mind, and instead seek to entertain as many people as I possibly can with it. Take this blog, for example. Okay, I realise it's about as important in the grande scheme of life as your average baked bean, and it probably gets less views, but at least I'm trying be selfless, by showcasing something I've spent time on, instead of tearing it to shreds and being snobby enough not to let anybody else take pleasure from it. (If of course, it just so happened that anybody did. I hope so.)

Finally, I'm going to address probably the saddest aspect of the indie kid lifestyle... Social networking vs "real life". It's quite easy for me to understand why often people are more confident hidden behind the written word instead of the spoken one (I'm a writer), but what I can't comprehend, is why indie kids feel the need to live these strange double lives online and offline, where their online personalities completely out-do the way they act in person.

Take this indie/hipster I know, right? I've got him on Facebook, and he has loads of friends, hundreds of photos of himself in top indie fashion, and often brags about his skills on guitar. In reality? All his pictures are taken on his laptop webcam, I find it hard to believe he knows even half of the people in real life due to possessing less of a personality than a wet towel, and is disgraceful on the guitar. No, I'll even rephrase that with a quote from an actual musician, he's "God damn disrespectful on that instrument!"

I'm a firm believer of talking yourself up, but at least make an effort to make it less of a lie the longer you live it. I've known my example for two years now, and he's not changed a bit.

The thing my three main points have got in common is that indie kids/hipsters care too much about what other people think, whilst professing entirely the opposite. It's an absolute cult of hypocrites in polo shirts. If you truly didn't give a damn about what others thought of you, you'd be following your own path, not one made of muddy grass and trodden with the footprints of a thousand Toms.

And while we're on the subject... Get some proper shoes! You can donate the money to charity yourselves in a decent pair of footwear, you arrogant tools!

Concrete Wasteland

As my first post of 2012, I thought it only fitting to post about my first bit of good news of the month. I entered a writing competition with a new set of lyrics, and won! So, here they are.

These lyrics are about falling in love in the underground, drinking, dancing, and trashy glamour. 

Concrete Wasteland

Too bitter babe, throw me the bottle?
Pour your mind, you're my Aristotle,
Trust me alright; I can take one drag,
Keep it to us, or my Dad'll get mad

You slap that bass; I'm born to dance,
Cheap white wine, fuels our romance,
So darling light up, and pass around,
We'll smoke our morals, to the ground

No job, exit zone, broken glass like tumbleweed,
Hot mob, leather coat, put it on and run this scene...

[Chorus]
Oh, it's no secret baby; I'm flat-out in love,
You taste just like SoCo, and I can't get enough,
Fuck the concrete wasteland, my hope bleeds in the stars,
So let's smash a shot together, and make love right on the bar!

Stacks of chips, let the roulette spin,
It's glamorous, but we don't win,
Hollow wallets, no bragging rights,
Smokes and booze, make it a night

I know it's tight, but fuck the change,
Buy records and, roar songs all day,
Gets too loud? We'll pay the fines,
In the holiday's unemployment line

No job, exit zone, broken glass like tumbleweed,
Hot mob, leather coat, put it on and run this scene...

[Chorus]
Oh, it's no secret baby; I'm flat-out in love,
You taste just like SoCo, and I can't get enough,
Fuck the concrete wasteland, my hope bleeds in the stars,
So let's smash a shot together, and make love right on the bar!

On the floor in underwear, drunken punk, perfect hair,
Kiss my neck like no-one cares, in the moment, anywhere,
Winter tries to tie us down, crystal tiles, lace the town,
Whisper hardly make a sound, courtly king, in a dirty crown

No job, exit zone, broken glass like tumbleweed,

Hot mob, leather coat, put it on and run this scene...

[Chorus]
Oh, it's no secret baby; I'm flat-out in love,
You taste just like SoCo, and I can't get enough,
Fuck the concrete wasteland, my hope bleeds in the stars,
So let's smash a shot together, and make love right on the bar!