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!