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!

Help?

After being in limbo about which professional direction to take as a writer, I've had an epiphany.

Like most sudden realisations, the idea had been staring - no, slapping - me in the face since as long as I could remember. Metaphorically, it was as though one day I'd passed a mirror and stopped to make sense of all the stinging hand prints and big, purple, bruises. Oh, that one was for when I bought my first songbook, I'd say to myself, rubbing a mark on my cheek, and this red patch must have been winning that competition... and that whopper on the end of my nose must have been from that comment from the girl from Prague, which went something like "You are such an inspirational person. There are no words to describe these lyrics... You seem like one of the extraordinary people."


In actual fact, my cheeks are unharmed, and my epiphany happened halfway through a conversation. I've been complaining about the lyrics in chart music for years - how "yeah, yeah, yeah, let's go out tonight", is a pitiful excuse for a chorus, and where in God's name was the depth, or the story? - claiming also, that I could do a much better job, but never had I ever really considered how it would feel if I actually did a better job. How I'd feel hearing my lyrics being blasted through the radio waves instead of the garbage which is out there at the minute.

My actual words were: "Imagine hearing my lyrics on the radio... that would be just... I can't even express it."

Why don't I just do it? I can't put lyrics online without receiving anything but positivity, I've been a front-runner in competitions - the most recent resulting in my winning of the title of "Best Writer" out of a website with 46,951 total members - I've got people telling me I'm talented who live on the other side of the world... Why am I not doing anything with this?

So, returning to the point of this post, I've decided that I'm going to be a lyricist. Notice that doesn't say "hope to be" or any desperate, starry eyed, bullshit, I'm actually going to properly send books of my work off to record labels and make an honest go of this until I make it. Dreams of super-stardom aside, I'd feel so entirely soul satisfied to be completely unknown, and have a pop artist, or boy band, or girl group sing the words I've written instead of bleating on about the same old nights out, and the same old breakups. Let's bring the 80's storytelling lyrics back to pop.

Returning even further to the point of this post... I've titled this "Help?" because as far as physically sending my work off to producers and etc, I'm in need of advice. Especially with the covering letter, and do lyrics need to be in the same format as books when they're being sent away? How far do my lines need to be spaced for notes? Do I need to go through an agency before sending them to labels? I'd appreciate any help I could get, because I've heard so many conflicting opinions from sources which don't have much experience in the area either, and I really want to shed some light on the situation as soon as possible. Thank you to anybody in advance who even as so much as tries to help!!

Please email me on catherine.chapman.cc@gmail.com, or just post a comment if you want to contact me. Thank you!

Braking & Eggs

Inspired like every true Monster of the "Little" kind, by the mind-blowing Marry The Night epic, I've actually got another blog post in the pipeline about a story from my past I've neglected to share with anyone. So, because that's about halfway through and therefore not ready to be put online yet, I felt like writing a little update on my life since so much has happened.

December 1st is officially my lucky day. Not only did I pass my driving test, but I got offered a job. A job! That's right! I'm finally busy going somewhere, at least. Ironically it's a health apprenticeship in a stop smoking service, and that dirty little habit has been something I've picked up recently. I feel like Rebecca Bloomwood - working for the Financial Times and being thousands of pounds in debt at the same time. (The Shopaholic series by Sophie Kinsella is my favourite series of books ever!)

Honestly, I'm so happy. No, speaking to nicotine addicts over the phone and getting paid less than minimum wage for it isn't exactly how I envisioned my first job to be, but it suits me, I think. I like people and I'm sure I'll hear some stories.

So... my last couple of weeks of being a slob are going to be absorbed by car shopping and Christmas. Oh, and not forgetting the occasional sesh like the one we had last night. Buying that drinking game roulette table was a brilliant idea. (On the flip-side, blasting Heavy Metal Lover at 4am, chain smoking and doing shots like a badass, only to throw up as soon as the song finished was not. My tummy hurts.)

When we sesh... We SESH.

Two words. Jesus Christ.

I felt it necessary after this weekend to make a post dedicated to the ancient art of seshing. A "sesh" is slang in my area for a group of friends getting together to drink gallons of booze and to smoke various oddities (including bread sticks... yep, tried it) until we collapse in bed completely obliterated at 6:00am. Seshes aren't something which can happen often... it's only every now and again you feel like drinking and smoking yourself into a senseless stupor, but on some occasions it's absolutely necessary. And, if there was any occasion more perfect than my boyfriend's 20th birthday - one of the greatest seshers who has ever lived, might I add - then feel free to slap me around the chops with that greasy hotdog we found on the cooker yesterday morning. (It was disgusting.)

I don't mean to brag, but if there's a sesh happening, I'm in it right until the end. If I'm not the last blubbering drunk on the kitchen floor in the early hours of the morning, then it hasn't been a true sesh. I think I speak for everybody when I say that when you're in it until the early hours, you form a wonderful kind of connection with the people your drinking with which won't ever be forgotten - no matter how many shots you try to wash it down with at the time. Nobody likes a sleeper, is what I'm trying to say.

On Friday I had my first "every stage of drunk" cycle. Usually all I do when I've had a few drinks is dance like a woman possessed, attempt to sing, and stagger around telling everybody how I believe in them, as though I'm some kind of philosophical master. But, for some reason on Friday, for the first time I went through the textbook stages like a swot in a science lesson. At first I started to get loose, and then came the dancing... all of a sudden I was smoking two at a time, and the confusion reared it's stupid head. I couldn't understand why my boyfriend was getting people to thump him on the back of the head to wake him up... and as a result, I slapped him around the head myself. Stage 5: Violence.

After a little depression session on my own next to the amp - iPod in hand and The Sex Pistols blasting - I was carried upstairs to bed like a sleeping baby in heels. When I realised that the sesh wasn't actually over and I'd just been taken to bed because I'd been depressed for the last fifteen minutes, I stumbled downstairs hardly dressed and ended it how only a true sesher would - one of the last three remaining musketeers, drinking the last glasses of everybody's leftover booze, sitting cross-legged on the floor and dressed proudly in just tiny shorts and a vest - not giving a flying fuck about the fact that it must have been below freezing outside.

I've managed to piece that night together through pictures and stories, but there's a middle part I can't remember for the life of me. Who knows... I might have got even more embarrassingly "violent" and then uncharacteristically quiet and sad. The videos mostly tell a different story (one featuring both a sailor suit and "New York City Boys" blasting, then another partyboying to "I Just Had Sex"), and I'm glad - if I'd of spent the entire night as I'd done for that strange and completely out-of-character fifteen minutes, then I wouldn't be able to say it was the best sesh I've ever been to. It absolutely was!

A true sesh is all about perseverance. As it turned out for me, a little bit of quiet time sorted me out and avoided any arguments which may have ensued if I'd of remained boozed-up and flailing my fists around... Honestly, if someone filmed me, I'd have the video on this post. I'm so ashamed but at the same time find it absolutely hilarious because I'm the least violent person you'll ever meet.

Finally, after pacing yourself and lasting until you're in the final crew at the end of the night, you have to deal with the aftermath the next day. Any tips for sesh hangovers? Well... sleep. Just sleep the fucker off. Oh, and it is a fucker to sleep off. I didn't get out of bed until 5pm on Saturday, but apart from my tummy feeling a bit fragile I was okay. Sleeping naked with a good-looking man for an entire day is the best hangover cure I could possibly recommend.

... Y'know what? That's the best cure for everything, let alone hangovers!