I blame Jennifer Aniston

Hollywood projects an unreasonable example of what we should expect from our partners and, as I found out this morning, creates thunderstorms where once there was sunshine.

I blame Jennifer Aniston. She had to go and have floaty hair and be all watchable didn’t she? So despite the fact I like festivals and being gobby and climbing trees, I also like Jennifer Aniston rom-coms.

The latest ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’ serves to knock the confidence any woman has in her man. He’s either going to refuse to marry you, or marry you then cheat on you, or cheat on you, or be a pizza scoffing, fat bellied pig, or cheat on you, or all of the above.

My boyfriend was none of the above until I saw this film, to which he came with me to see because he is none of the above. My girlfriend had seen it without me at the weekend so I had no one to watch it with. He stepped up, not even complaining. I think he wanted an excuse to eat ice cream.

I left the cinema feeling bewildered and like I’d been pummeled with the information that all men were jerks and if your heart wasn’t breaking now it certainly would one day. When he cheats on you.

So I woke up the next morning in a bit of a sulk and caused an argument. Then once the argument was in the air, I wanted to retract it, I wanted to rewind time, because I suddenly felt like a fruit loop, like a high maintenance girlfriend, the kind you see having a go at their poor fellas in Asda. My boyfriend was understandably confused by my outburst and said he felt a little lost as to what to do to solve matters.

It was clear only the moon on a stick was going to be good enough for this little madam.

Obviously, I’m not so ignorant to think that this is all Jennifer Aniston’s fault. I do think popular culture has a lot to answer for, but I'll hold my hand up and take at least 2% of the blame myself, for being led by idealistic movies. Films portray an unrealistic fairytale ending. One where the guy does whatever it takes, and the girl doesn’t come across as loopy. But that’s not real life.

Even love songs and poems help create the illusion in women’s minds that somewhere out there is some kind of fantastical love so immense and overpowering that if you haven’t got it there must be something pretty wrong with you. If you’re in a relationship where you find yourselves discussing the merits of the smell of Lenor and whether you want sausages for dinner, then you’ve somehow failed, because Jenifer Aniston doesn’t discuss Lenor. Or sausages.

But after a lot of soul searching today and after feeling like a bit of a fool for suggesting my quite romantic boyfriend doesn’t love me because he hasn’t done any grand sweeping gestures for a while, I’ve come to the realisation that actually this is my fairytale. I’d rather discuss Lenor, which, I’ll have you know, makes your clothes smell just lovely, than have some guy arrive on a horse with a rose between his teeth. I’d think he was a right knob.

I like reality. I like sausages and Lenor and I don’t want the milk tray man. So that’s it. No more bloody rom coms. They’re dangerous.

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Etiquette. What's to get?

Etiquette. The rules and conventions governing correct or polite behaviour in society in general or in a particular social or professional group or situation.

Sounds pretty simple to me.

Lack of etiquette really gets my goat. You either have it, or you don’t. You can’t make grand, sweeping gestures with your etiquette skills. Your etiquette skills are subtle, often go unnoticed, if you have them. If you don’t, then your lack of them can be so smack bang, shoutingly obvious to others, it’s hard to believe people don’t realise just how impolite they are. I suppose they would if they were trained in etiquette. People trained in etiquette are so aware of being perceived as even slightly rude, they go out of their way to be generous, courteous, thoughtful. I like people with etiquette.

You don’t have to go to finishing school to have basic etiquette skills. I think my mum’s best friend, my favourite fake aunt, went to finishing school, but aside from her, I don’t know of a soul who was sent to finishing school. Yet most of the people with whom I choose to spend my time have etiquette in abundance. And when I find myself in a situation with people who have none, I get really wound up. It’s an injustice.

Good etiquette skills – some examples:

My best mate and the future bride to my maid – the most thoughtful, generous woman I know, except me. Cesca, for that is her name, is a fellow letter writer. If invited to dinner, she arrives with wine. At dinner, she engages in conversation, asks about the host’s life, gives great banter. She eats enough to show she’s enjoyed herself, but not so much as to be seen as some kind of guzzling, get-it-cos-it’s-free hobo. After dinner, perhaps the next day, she writes to thank the host for the spread, thus giving the host a warm glow and a want to reinvite her soon. It’s not rocket science, but judging by some of the invitees I’ve had round for dinner, you’d think it was.
My dear friend Laurence. He never, ever, let’s your glass get empty. He would never dream of filling his own glass without filling yours too. As soon as guests arrive, he offers them a drink and then spends the rest of the night with a vigilant eye on their glass. He opens doors for women and serves other people before himself. He’s also rude, loud, obnoxious, opinionated and stubborn. My point being, you can be anyone, have any personality traits, and still have etiquette.

My sister Tammi. Thoughtful to a fault. So thoughtful she, if you actually worked it out, probably finishes a night out of pocket, as her generosity knows no bounds. And most of her friends take full advantage of this, the pikey little scumbags.

My father – good etiquette skills. Opens doors for women, will live and die by the FHB rule. (that’s Family Hold Back, to the uninitiated. If you don't know about FHB, you probably don't have any etiquette skills).

The list goes on. But let's move on to the rude.

Perched on their probably stolen stools on the other side of the fence, some other friends of mine, who I suppose will have to remain anonymous, although quite why I’m being so kind as to keep them anonymous I’m not sure. Oh, it’s that bloody etiquette again isn’t it. Damn. If only I was as rude as them, they’d be named and shamed right here.

Gareth and I went for dinner with some friends the other day. Not once did either of them ask me an iota about my life. Every pause in conversation, I had to think of yet another thing to ask - about them. Banter. Banter goes to and fro, no? Obviously not to these self absorbed bastards. I've told Gareth I no longer wish to see them. I've written them off.

Last night, we had some other friends round for dinner. They brought a bottle of wine.

(I will interlude here. Bringing a bottle of wine to a dinner party is like a rite of passage into my life. If you don’t, it's bye bye bingo. The host is providing the meal, slaving away over it, the least you can do is bring a bloody bottle. When Laurence and I lived together, I would take pride in sending my rude and incompetent friends down the road to the off lcense if they were rude enough to arrive without a bottle. And then, after the evening was over, I would strike them off the list of people who were invitable. When I first started seeing Gareth, he was invited to a dinner at my then home, which I shared with my etiquette-in-abundance friends Cesca, Mike and Cordelia. He did not bring wine. Unfortunately I rather liked him so I had to hold off from striking him off my list. But I still told him he was walking a fine line and never to ever make that mistake again. Which he did. And he doesn’t pour me a drink when he’s pouring his own. But I’m working on him.)

So these friends came for dinner. Yes yes, they brought wine. Well bloody done. Clap clap. It was red. I don’t drink red. So they drank it. They drank the wine they brought me. Then they proceeded to drink ALL our wine – I worked it out the next morning when I was clearing up. Gareth and I drank rose, and there were two empty bottles. They drank red. Five empty bottles, plus all the spirits they moved on to once we had run out of red.

A bit rude, I feel. Now we have no wine reserves. In one fell swoop they rinsed us of our wine collection which, if I do some quick sums, would have cost us about £40. Plus the price of the meal. So I spent perhaps £100. They spent £5. And drank it.

I know hosting costs more than guesting. I’m not an idiot. I love hosting. I just love etiquette more.

Basic etiquette.

I suppose it’s about thoughtfulness. Thinking about how you come across is social situations and deciding whether you want to be generous and thoughtful or thoughtless, tight and insensitive. I’m pretty annoyed about the wine, in case I hadn’t made myself clear. The only way I can make that back is if I go to their house and get slaughtered, making sure I drink at least five bottles of their wine before moving on to spirits.

But I can’t. I couldn’t consume that much. I would vomit. So I’m out of pocket. And out of wine.

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Ode to Amstell

Floppy haired bumhead Noel Edmunds was on the news recently bragging about how he’d stopped paying his TV license in protest at being told people who didn’t pay their TV license were being watched and would be tracked down and forced to pay a fine.

Turns out, he was lying, he had paid his TV license, he was just trying to be the big man. Nice one Noel, you really are the big man. The big idiot man.

The reason I know this is because I was watching one of those ‘2008’s biggest plonkers’ type shows.

The commentator pointed out that he quite liked paying his TV license as it pays for such shows as the Blue Planet and Doctor Who. Well, I’ve never seen Doctor Who, although I do think there’s something rather scrumptious about that David Tenent fella and I know people who do watch it rave, but I am yet to have the pleasure. Blue Planet is an amazing feat and I am not for one second going to stand here and say it is not money well spent because it bloody is, but what makes me happy to pay my license fee is One Man and one man alone.

Simon Amstell.

He’s so hilarious, I watch Nevermind the Buzzcocks at least twice a week. And now it’s gone from my TV for the foreseeable future and that makes me sad. I’m not the type to write to the BBC and praise them on their choices, so he doesn’t even know what a big fan I am, but I am and I miss him already.

Unlike his predecessor Mark Lamarr, who I always thought was a bit of a twat, Simon manages to be both cutting and endearing. Lamarr was never endearing. Simon’s brand of comedy has lifted Buzzcocks out of the doldrums. Ok, so celebrities get a pummeling, but that’s the challenge – take a pummeling from Amstell well and you’ll forever be remembered by fans of Buzzcocks as an alright bloke, even if you are from a shit band or a crap TV show. But woe betide any fool who takes unkindly to his jokes and jibes, a certain cretin named Preston springs to mind, who’ll forever be the knobber who walked out. It’ll be on his tombstone. ‘Here lies Preston, couldn’t take a joke, walked out of Buzzcocks’

And what about the inept fool of a man, if I can even call him a man, Donny Torette, who spent the entire show acting like an arrogant arse, (he was going for ‘anarchist’, he achieved ‘village idiot’ unaware that every twatish move just fuelled Simon’s fire.

I sort of met Simon once, since you ask, I don’t mind telling you. He was a comedian at my sister’s nightclub and naturally, as her sister, she gave me the front row (thus avoiding a hissy fit from me as I knew he was performing and I had a massive crush on him and was looking forward to laughing lots at his hilarious jokes in the hopes he’d notice me and fall in love with me.)

His first line?

So, I’m a gay jew.

My hopes dashed, he proceeded to spend the entire evening flirting with my male housemate. I’m still a bit heartbroken. But I don’t hold it against you Simon, you’re still the funniest man on TV whether or not my wily charms were lost on you.

I hope the new series starts soon. I don’t really like TV on the whole, it makes me sleep, but if the BBC would just play Nevermind the Buzzcocks on continuous loop from now until when I die, then I would not only pay my license fee every year without fail, I would pay it long before the warning letter arrives, maybe even straight away. Maybe, crikey, here’s a thought, maybe I’d even pay it by direct debit so they can be assured of my payments without even bothering me. Then they can just concentrate on filming more Buzzcocks for me.

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Table Tennis and Turkey

How quickly things change. A year ago, I spent Christmas in a borrowed house in the Isle Of Wight with every member of my immediate family – even the usually absent Dad. He made a surprise guest appearance, arriving on Christmas Day in a wig, presumably so we wouldn’t know straight away who the 6ft4in man standing at our borrowed door with our Dad’s Honda behind him was. We did know, and Christmas was all the better for his attendance.

Every year we plead with him to come forth from his hideaway in Malaysia and spend Christmas with his family. And every year, for reason’s unclear to me, he declines. ‘Maybe next year,’ he mumbles. And every year, without fail, as he calls us on the day, he sounds lonely and sorry for himself. Promises next year will be different. It never is.

But every cloud has a silver lining. My lovely old Grandma passed away just a few weeks ago, bringing father back to these Albion shores. I was devastated to see her go, but that’s a story for another time. It’s Christmas and this is a blog of happiness. Dad found himself in England, but hastily booked his ticket back for the 23rd December. Bloody Scrooge. So I stamped my feet and huffed and puffed, and soon, his travel agent was making the necessary arrangements, for the decision had been made, he would be staying in the UK for the second Christmas in a row!

With my siblings in their long term relationships, they have for many years been alternating Christmas’s with that of their spouses. So this year, my mum, one sister and I had to decide where to be. Well where better than the newly acquired chapel? Nowhere. Nowhere is better than the newly acquired chapel, and that’s a sweeping statement covering a magnitude of questions, not just where to spend Christmas.

Gareth, envying my excellent idea, decided he too wanted Christmas in the chapel, and it wasn’t long before the Jones and Willis’s were preparing for a joint Christmas. Holy Camoly.

When I knew Dad would also be joining the party, I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Would it all work out? Would Gareth’s parents find him odd? Would he behave? Would he remember their names? Would he be nice to Gareth?

That last worry had plenty of legs to stand on, Dad’s history with my boyfriends is not a smoothly sailed ship. He has hated every one of them and made no secret of it. On the rare occasion that I would let his path cross that of my boyfriends, he would rise up to every one his 6ft and 4 inches, and he would let them know just who was in charge. And god did they know it. They all cowered. They all understood. They weren’t good enough and that was that.

Men should fear their girlfriend's fathers. Keeps them in check. It was hard at the time, but I always had Mum to warmly welcome said boyfriend into the family home and let them know not all the Willis's were as stoic and cold shouldered as Dad. Dad kept the fear alive, Mum was kind and charming, until the day it was all over, and then she'd take my side, wipe my tears, and await the next rollercoaster ride.

But with Gareth, Dad was different. Almost too different. I did not need to have worried about him accepting the Jones’s. I should have worried that they weren’t prepared for the Willis’s. For Dad arrived with open arms and practically had his wedding speech printed and framed.

At one point Dad turned to Nigel, Gareth’s Dad, and brazened the question: ‘we think the world of your son. What do you think of our daughter?’ a question Nigel tactfully avoided answering.

Dad’s very keen on Gareth, he thinks he is a ‘great chap,’ which is a compliment of the highest order, considering some of the things he has said about some other people in my life, past and present.

Christmas went off without a hitch, we ate plenty, drank some and played lots of games. The latest attribute to the chapel arrived the day before Christmas in the shape of a table tennis table and it provided plenty of friendly competition. Where better than my blog to tell the world that in the first ever Wesleyan Chapel Table Tennis Competition, I came first. Ok, so we have no sitting room left, but we don’t need it anymore. We have table tennis, to love and to cherish, through sickness and health, until death do us part.

Or, more likely, until Gareth leaves me, taking his table with him, frustrated by the fact that I am the queen of the table tennis table, (mostly) undefeated, despite having no forehand and an inability to topspin. How very infuriating for my usually more skilled opponents.

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Dill and Moron

I was so excited when, two months ago, I booked the best seats available at the Colston Hall (Bristol’s answer to the Apollo) to see Ireland’s finest, Dylan Moran play his new gig ‘What It Is’.

It was to be an early birthday present for Gareth and I was very excited by the prospect of an excuse for dinner at the nearby Thai restaurant which we’ve frequented many times and at which I have never strayed far from the Thai green curry. Occasionally I push the boat out and ask for pineapple in my Thai green curry, but I’m not about to go wasting the opportunity to have Thai green curry on some sort of silly noodle dish.

Dinner was great. We quickly necked a bottle of wine, like the truly romantic couple that we are, and then raced over to the hall. Oh how exciting, the balcony, I gushed, looking at our tickets. Last time we came here, with my mum and sister, we were in the pits for Lee Evans, (my fault, I thought he was still funny) and I fell asleep. At least in the balcony we might have a better view.

How wrong I was.

The porter man guided us up to our seats. ‘Over there. Back row.’ Back row? BACK ROW? The wine had kicked in. Gareth waited patiently at the side while I tried to wager better seats at a sold out gig. But seriously, back row? I booked ‘best seats available’ bloody ages ago, how can the back row of the balcony EVER be the best seats? We could not have been further away from Dylan.

I eventually gave up on the porter and we took our seats. What are the odds of Gareth spotting someone on the same row who he knew…or thought he knew.

Hey, Tom! He shouts.

Tom shouts back.

How’s Sarah? How’s the baby? Gareth calls as he mimes a big baby bump.

‘Tom’ mimes the baby bump back, a frown upon his brow.

Baby? he asks.

Nevermind! smiles Gareth, slumping back in his seat.

Who was that? I ask.

I don’t know.

An amazing stroke of luck, although he’d got the wrong person, both of the people, the wrong person and the person he actually was, were called Tom, so he got away with that much. It was just the baby bit that scuppered his chances of walking away looking cool.

Dylan was about the size of a pencil from where we were sitting and too far away to see any of his mannerisms or gestures.

I had no choice but to fall asleep.

And on Gareth’s other side, a dreadlocked nutjob who was also a little sleepy. Except he’d clearly consumed some hallucinogenic drugs before coming, as he, according to Gareth, I was asleep at the time, kept trying to catch things in his sleep and awoke with a look of complete surprise and confusion on his face.

So the highlight of our evening was not the part we paid £50 for. And Dylan Moran has gone down in my estimations for being too far away. Not exactly his fault, but I realised I don’t like big comedy venues. I miss Ginglik, the cosiness, the intimacy. I miss being on the front row. I miss Simon Amstel grilling me about my career, Jimmy Carr taking the piss out of my friends, I miss the comedians being so close I could, and often did, touch them.

I was irate when my mum told me she was recently at Ginglik for the Lenny Henry night and who should pop along to warm the audience up but Robin Williams.

I’m almost certain I wouldn’t sleep through that. Almost.

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Simply The Best

Dad neglected to tell me it was still the rainy season here, perhaps because he feared I wouldn’t come if I knew.

It was never more apparent than today, when we decided to hop skip over to Thailand for some snorkeling. No sooner had we anchored the boat in a beautiful bay did the sky turn black and the rain descend. We sat in our waterproofs, although I’m not sure why as there was no place to hide, and watched as out boat was tossed and turned in the ocean like a cork. Great fun. Almost, somehow, more fun than snorkeling.

Battling the weather conditions, we headed in land for supper. The skies cleared and it all became rather pleasant. May I recommend Ko Li Pe island to anyone who’s a stranger – it was beautiful.

As we trudged through the mud, past the half-squished dying catapillar being eaten alive by ants, left at the end of the mosquito ridden path (wait while father investigates the generator system – there's four generators, one in use, just FYI) past the ant hill while giant flying ants erupting out of it only to meet their end by the army of gleefully patient birds awaiting their flying ant dinner, left again at the horribly misplaced mobile phone tower slap bang in the middle of a centuries old village, housing fishermen and naked, chocolate brown skinned children playing in the dust, and you will arrive at Pooh’s Bar.

A bar not so dissimilar from the one my sister and her partner would run if they gave up London life and escaped to warmer climes. Easy reggae greets us, there’s dim lighting and low seating. Even Dad enjoyed himself as we ‘chilled out’ (he had to check it was th right terminology) sipped cocktails and watched the afternoon turn to evening.

Real life seemed a million and one miles away as we ordered our thai green curries (well, when in Rome) and got stuck in.

Maybe something about the ambiance, the mosquito poison running though my veins or the sunstroke playing with my mind, but I think of the 945,672 thai green curries I have tried, it was simply the best.

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Weapons of Mass Destruction

So here I am in the epicenter of massage connoisseurs – the far East - Lang Kawi, Malaysia to be exact. You can ask for no better place to have a bad back or stiff limb.

Dad had found a masseuse so brilliant, he told me, that he now has her come direct to his flat. And so, slightly stiff from the flight and in need of a good rub down, we arranged for her to come. I expected the best.

I don’t like massages anymore. They are far too stressful.

She started with my feet. Ticklish. I could feel my whole body tense up as I tried to resist wriggling away.

She moved on to my calves, knees and thighs. Knees? Whoever decided the back of your knees needed massaging? Okay, so as my boyfriend regularly points out, I have very knobbly knees. Award winning, in fact. (Wootton County Primary end of term Knobbly Knee Competition – winner.) But there were times I thought she’d dislocate the poor buggers. I remained taut, my teeth clenched, my body rigid.

Finally, she moved onto my back – for about a minute. No point wasting time on my back when my ear lobes are clearly calling to her. Ear lobes? Really?

Then she started prodding my eyebrows and forehead, over and over again, prod prod prod went her stubbly little fingers. I’m thankful for my strong skull as there were times I thought she was trying to poke through my temples and unite her fingers inside my head.

Still tense.

She moves on to my arms. Write, to elbow, to armpit. All ticklish.

Finally it’s over and I’m more tense than before it began, only now I’m covered in oil and my temples hurt.

Still, it didn’t stop me going to another one when we got to Thailand.

This time it was a man doing me. Strong hands, no tickles. Much better. And he didn’t even touch my knees.

But then we made the almighty mistake of enjoying it so much we ordered another half an hour. Well, I don’t think he knew what to do with himself.

So he went for my temples. And my earlobes. And all his soothing, relaxing moves of the last hour were undone, prod by unnecessary prod.

A word to all masseuses out there – WHY? Why I ask you? Please refrain from touching the knee caps, temples and ear lobes ever again. It’s as necessary as mosquitoes and leaves me just as irate.

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