How much do people genuinely appreciate honesty? I’ve been spending rather a large amount of time being honest with people recently, and the rest of the time lying. Is it best to lay your cards on the table or is it better to respect other people’s traditions and ideals and keep them happy? Intense pondering has led me to some my favourite straight forward opportunities where there is ample opportunity to just be plain honest - all depending on how much one values their sanity.
The compliment request: If someone is fishing for a compliment is it best to give them what they want? It’s tricky as these requests come from many different places – from ‘I totally am amazing’ through to ‘I’m paranoid about everything and I feel rubbish and I think I look rubbish and oh lord is the world about to end and please please grant me this one nice thing or the world will end’ – the latter may just need some vodka by means of response – but it's also the perfect place to chuck in some curve ball honesty, something straight forward like ‘you’re wonderful’.
When responding to compliment fishing people often shoot from the hip with such gems as ‘if you like them’ ‘they’re very in’ OR my personal favourite – through gritted teeth – ‘they’re very you’. I take great issue with the phrase, ‘they’re very you’ ‘it’s very you’ ‘you’re so you, Mim.’ Fuck off. Of course I’m me you idiot (is the willed, but silent response; out loud) Oh really? Yeah, it's cool indeed. Thus being me is tantamount to being really rather cool. But thoroughly, knife twistingly honest, as I’m pretty sure ‘they're very you’ actually means ‘they revolt me as do you’.
It’s personal: The most tangible kinds of honesty are the worst, staving off mental break downs, guarding friendships, supporting decision making. Honesty and instinct is often the most sensible and genuine way to go but it’s not always so easy. ‘No I completely think you’ve done the right thing,’ is a great opener, but only if it definitely isn’t going to end with ‘but you’re still crying loads and let’s be honest, this is all over a cheese and tuna melt from upper crust.’
New acquaintances and exit greetings: ‘It was lovely to meet you, you cantankerous old racist you, lovely, just lovely.’ Best not to be too candid.
Weddings: Ah ha, always a dangerous one as there’s all that free wine; honesty and fantasy come together so well after a nice bottle or two of Rioja. ‘You really got married? Well, it’s not for me, but congrats all the same,’ followed with the final, assertive, ‘and I mean that, I think you’re very brave.’
Interviews: 'Describe myself in three words? Wee. Bit. Drunk.'
All in all there are six million, four hundred and thirteen different awkward social traditions and situations in which there’s an honesty conundrum*. And if like me, you find it hard to keep your larynx from indulging in a spot of hilarious honesty tourettes, you can always worry about it for at least 3 days after, (with celebrities it can be months,) in turn killing some possible outburst time with hardcore brow furrowing and a general sense of guilt and regret.
*I’m off to start work on my first coffee table book, with illustrations. Look out for it November 2011 ‘Honesty Conundrums: Six Million, Four Hundred and Thirteen Different Awkward Social Traditions and Situations.’ Fully Abridged.
Sunday 21 November 2010
Tuesday 16 November 2010
Radio 4
I have just transferred butter from a paper packet into a butter dish. Usually there is only real butter (still in the packet) anywhere near my person if it is linked so some extraordinary scenario. Like an afternoon tea party, at night. And six million scones. The inflection of this blog may even be off kilter as I am currently listening to Radio 4. It’s so calm and well pronounced. There’s a woman talking about cats. Last night I had a bath (first of 2010) and listened to Just a Minute, watched some of a god awful documentary about Aphrodite in which the presenter (I never want to know his name) pronounced Aphrodite incorrectly the whole way through and got far, far, far too excited at the idea that she was created by an explosion of sperm in the Cypriot sea.
I think the defining factor of my situation is that I come here, to my parents house – like a disposed writer in Tamara Drew or a useless, lonely work colleague in Another Year – to relax and ponder. But relaxing and pondering - without wifi – is dull. And may I just point out that neither of my parents are Tamsin Greig or Jim Broadbent (above films’ best bits respectively,) as much as I love them. It’s not that it’s dull, I managed to get worked up about George Osborne and Strictly last night to the point where my head and hands combined forces and I pronounced “I’m not a habitually violent person – well, since my last temper tantrum in 2001 – but I would really like to” (mum completed sentence) “wipe the smug look from his face” in reference to Osborne and the self-satisfied idiosyncrasy that he wallows in – unawares. Isn’t it worse that he really doesn’t realise how smug he looks? And that other people can see how convinced at his own abilities he is. You know he gets in every night and proffers a glass of Bristol Cream at the family portrait and announces ‘I done well, Mummay’.
When I stay with my parents I’m not sure what they really think; I think they think ‘I done well’ but there’s always a but. And I’m not quite sure where the Bristol Cream is kept. But then again, relaxing and pondering aside I’d much rather come home and be poked and prodded, hummed and hawed at but be able to have a natter about shiz openly, (yes and defend Strictly), than have parents that gave me enough false confidence to convince me I’m good enough to chuck together a budget for the UK in the midst of its meanest economic crisis for donkeys with little more than an abacus’ worth of number skills.
I think the defining factor of my situation is that I come here, to my parents house – like a disposed writer in Tamara Drew or a useless, lonely work colleague in Another Year – to relax and ponder. But relaxing and pondering - without wifi – is dull. And may I just point out that neither of my parents are Tamsin Greig or Jim Broadbent (above films’ best bits respectively,) as much as I love them. It’s not that it’s dull, I managed to get worked up about George Osborne and Strictly last night to the point where my head and hands combined forces and I pronounced “I’m not a habitually violent person – well, since my last temper tantrum in 2001 – but I would really like to” (mum completed sentence) “wipe the smug look from his face” in reference to Osborne and the self-satisfied idiosyncrasy that he wallows in – unawares. Isn’t it worse that he really doesn’t realise how smug he looks? And that other people can see how convinced at his own abilities he is. You know he gets in every night and proffers a glass of Bristol Cream at the family portrait and announces ‘I done well, Mummay’.
When I stay with my parents I’m not sure what they really think; I think they think ‘I done well’ but there’s always a but. And I’m not quite sure where the Bristol Cream is kept. But then again, relaxing and pondering aside I’d much rather come home and be poked and prodded, hummed and hawed at but be able to have a natter about shiz openly, (yes and defend Strictly), than have parents that gave me enough false confidence to convince me I’m good enough to chuck together a budget for the UK in the midst of its meanest economic crisis for donkeys with little more than an abacus’ worth of number skills.
Saturday 13 November 2010
100% Pure Pop
This was going to be about how frustrating I’m finding POP at the moment. Katy Perry and her Fire-not-at-all-a-metaphor-for-shiz-with-the-lothario-husband-Work, Cheryl and her I’m-not-talking-about-my-private-life album all about broken trust and relationship failure. The Saturdays. It’s exhausting. Don’t even get me started on Will.I.AINT. Just doing research is rather draining. All the bright noises and loud colours, music TV is terrifying. Willow Smith is whipping her hair back and forth and I’m wondering if she’s even old enough to go out and purchase a cone from an ice cream van on her own?
But this will not be about that. Instead, I’m going to talk about Robyn. The Swedish wonder woman known for such tracks as With Every Heartbeat, and With Every Heartbeat, this lady is actual bosching out super POP at a super rate. So as not to dilute – like a soda stream glass of tizer – I’m going to go for my top six Robynisms - a resolute favourite of music TV. Lists with numbers that is, not tizer.
First Up: She’s a lady pop star so we have to talk about appearance. Robyn has amazing hair. Her videos often feature her wearing t-shirt based outfits, rather than having been dipped in orange tango and sheen and having got caught in a tornado at River Island; she is consummately normal.
Secondly: Her most recent album was SO bleedin’ good she made three. Body Talk was released in June this year, then September and the third installment is due soon.
Thirdly: Dancing on My Own (Body Talk Pt. 1.) was inspired by “inherently sad, gay disco anthems” … like Donna Summer. Genius.
Fourthly: Most of her songs deal with the issues of being not quite good enough for the world and boys (and girls) not being quite good enough for Robyn. Her new favourite thing to do is wasting time with a bum. Lovely.
Fifthly: Crash And Burn Girl (Robyn 2005.) Illustrates watching a girl ‘crashing and burning’ in a social situation, and actually describes how she doesn’t realize she’s messed up until her face smashes into the ground. Metaphorical innit. That bit is good – all the people watchers come life experiencers know exactly what she’s wanging on about, but Robyn, not content with this does a talkie bit about how she’s not being a cow – she’s just pointing out a real life thing that happens and it’s more that she’s been there before than she’s wishing to enjoy someone else’s’ pain. Thus, bringing it back to Robyn being messed up and truly wonderful and human.
Sixthly: The 15th track on Robyn is a crap recording of Jack You Off. In which Robyn details different places she would happily Jack You Off. Sing a bit of Jack You Off in public and your friends will tell you to Keep It Down. I wonder if that’s a song on Body Talk Pt. 3?
But this will not be about that. Instead, I’m going to talk about Robyn. The Swedish wonder woman known for such tracks as With Every Heartbeat, and With Every Heartbeat, this lady is actual bosching out super POP at a super rate. So as not to dilute – like a soda stream glass of tizer – I’m going to go for my top six Robynisms - a resolute favourite of music TV. Lists with numbers that is, not tizer.
First Up: She’s a lady pop star so we have to talk about appearance. Robyn has amazing hair. Her videos often feature her wearing t-shirt based outfits, rather than having been dipped in orange tango and sheen and having got caught in a tornado at River Island; she is consummately normal.
Secondly: Her most recent album was SO bleedin’ good she made three. Body Talk was released in June this year, then September and the third installment is due soon.
Thirdly: Dancing on My Own (Body Talk Pt. 1.) was inspired by “inherently sad, gay disco anthems” … like Donna Summer. Genius.
Fourthly: Most of her songs deal with the issues of being not quite good enough for the world and boys (and girls) not being quite good enough for Robyn. Her new favourite thing to do is wasting time with a bum. Lovely.
Fifthly: Crash And Burn Girl (Robyn 2005.) Illustrates watching a girl ‘crashing and burning’ in a social situation, and actually describes how she doesn’t realize she’s messed up until her face smashes into the ground. Metaphorical innit. That bit is good – all the people watchers come life experiencers know exactly what she’s wanging on about, but Robyn, not content with this does a talkie bit about how she’s not being a cow – she’s just pointing out a real life thing that happens and it’s more that she’s been there before than she’s wishing to enjoy someone else’s’ pain. Thus, bringing it back to Robyn being messed up and truly wonderful and human.
Sixthly: The 15th track on Robyn is a crap recording of Jack You Off. In which Robyn details different places she would happily Jack You Off. Sing a bit of Jack You Off in public and your friends will tell you to Keep It Down. I wonder if that’s a song on Body Talk Pt. 3?
Wednesday 10 November 2010
About The Boy
It’s been a fairly bonkers few months. I’ve found it’s always best to define things by happenings in the real world – rather than one’s own self indulgent musings. I could natter about anything all the way from the odd indignity of One Dimension’s charges flashing their boxers on national tele through to the coalition’s pathetic disinterest in doing anything useful. But, much more wonderful are some of the films I’ve been watching. Yes, I’m just going to go for some of my own self indulgent musings.
There are two films recently that I have truly and wonderfully wallowed in every minute of, firstly, Taika Waititi’s Waihau Bay NZ set Boy. Boy, alongside his ever trusted Michael Jackson has a series of encounters with the world and how some parts are inclined to work and how some parts will just come down to luck and how some bits will just be plain rubbish. Mary and Max – another Antipodean offering (no not related to my imminent relocation) which handles loneliness, singularity and that all involving trust you find with some people where however much you push it you know there can be a way to pull it back – like the naive beauty of sending perishables round the world in the post; that Lamington was never going to make it Mary. These films are similar in few and in many ways –wonderful story telling and ingenuity with imagery are enough to pin them together, and the personal facets of both pieces. One is 1984 Kiwis - one is clay-animation narrated by Barry Humphries, on paper, you're already onto a winner.
The most moving moment in a film I’ve ever seen is in Boy – and it’s simply a small child in a parker (hood up) on roller boots silently proffering a sparkler gliding across a garage floor in the dark. A film maker who can put that together so perfectly is surely a visionary. Mary and Max has skills in human fault and error, every character's flawed traits are their most prominent – it’s the complete opposite of a Saturday's music video – where perfection is prominent, as is the dubbing. Mary and Max makes one proud to be imperfect – and scared of the world. Why shouldn’t we be frightened? It’s big and dark out there kids.
I adore the idea that reading this may inspire you to look each or any of these films up. Mary and Max is currently kicking about in a projection room near you, but I’m concerned the looking up may not be likely with the lack of any synopsis or general ‘review’ of these films. Please don’t let that stop you. When you’re in a world of obscure thoughts and ponders; where every tiny little act of misadventure is mulled over and appreciated – genuinely thought filled stories seem to have an even greater impact. These are two of those. ‘Nuff said.
http://www.maryandmax.com/
http://www.boythemovie.co.nz/
There are two films recently that I have truly and wonderfully wallowed in every minute of, firstly, Taika Waititi’s Waihau Bay NZ set Boy. Boy, alongside his ever trusted Michael Jackson has a series of encounters with the world and how some parts are inclined to work and how some parts will just come down to luck and how some bits will just be plain rubbish. Mary and Max – another Antipodean offering (no not related to my imminent relocation) which handles loneliness, singularity and that all involving trust you find with some people where however much you push it you know there can be a way to pull it back – like the naive beauty of sending perishables round the world in the post; that Lamington was never going to make it Mary. These films are similar in few and in many ways –wonderful story telling and ingenuity with imagery are enough to pin them together, and the personal facets of both pieces. One is 1984 Kiwis - one is clay-animation narrated by Barry Humphries, on paper, you're already onto a winner.
The most moving moment in a film I’ve ever seen is in Boy – and it’s simply a small child in a parker (hood up) on roller boots silently proffering a sparkler gliding across a garage floor in the dark. A film maker who can put that together so perfectly is surely a visionary. Mary and Max has skills in human fault and error, every character's flawed traits are their most prominent – it’s the complete opposite of a Saturday's music video – where perfection is prominent, as is the dubbing. Mary and Max makes one proud to be imperfect – and scared of the world. Why shouldn’t we be frightened? It’s big and dark out there kids.
I adore the idea that reading this may inspire you to look each or any of these films up. Mary and Max is currently kicking about in a projection room near you, but I’m concerned the looking up may not be likely with the lack of any synopsis or general ‘review’ of these films. Please don’t let that stop you. When you’re in a world of obscure thoughts and ponders; where every tiny little act of misadventure is mulled over and appreciated – genuinely thought filled stories seem to have an even greater impact. These are two of those. ‘Nuff said.
http://www.maryandmax.com/
http://www.boythemovie.co.nz/
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