The World According To Me

Ok. Anyone who visits my blog (God bless all six of you) will realise I am a fan of Jeremy CLarkson, simply from the title of my blog. But I am not some raving lunatic fan who is here to stress upon you all my love for him and insist you all feel the same way. No, no, no.
Basically, I have just been on Facebook and found a group. It's called "Jeremy Clarkson should be Prime Minister". Do you know how many members this group has?? 248,516. But that's brilliant! I mean, I realise that there are a whole lot more people than that in this country, but if everyone had Facebook - which they don't - and if everyone knew about this group - which they also don't - then I reckon it'd go up by thousands!
It is crazy but anyone who has read anything by Clarkson has to agree he'd make a fabulous Prime Minister. Anybody with me?
Goodness me I'm glad there's no hanging for treason anymore. Or does that only include the royal family?

Has it come to anyone else's attention that, when writing a blog to publish on this site, there is an interesting swear word staring you in the face? On the little blue toolbar above the text box you write in, the letters chosen for the "bold", "underline", "italic", and "strikethrough" symbols form a most interesting word. Phonetically, anyway. I'm not going to worry anyone by letting them think I can't spell!!
Perhaps I'm just immature.... but I wonder if it was a coincidence?

Thirteen miles isn’t such a long way, really. And yet, even despite me choosing to spend a considerable amount of time over the next three years in Huddersfield, I had still never spent any time there. Friends rave about the nightlife; I’ve heard countless stories over the years, both wonderful and shocking. And so, as a soon-to-become Huddersfield veteran, I thought it would be wise to experience this legendary nightlife.
As three girls who didn’t have a clue where to go, my friends and I resisted the embarrassment of asking anyone for recommendations, and instead descended upon the first place we thought looked a little different. Gone are the days where we look for places that are monotonously ordinary – after all, being eighteen and holding a valid identifcation card means we can go just about anywhere.
“Chocolate” was the first place we strolled through the door of. Despite it being small, dark and not exactly busy, I fell in love with a place that serves shots in tiny chocolate cups. The first shot chosen was “Cola Cube”. Why? Simply because it doesn’t taste of alcohol. In fact, I always think it tastes like that sickly sweet syrup that is left when your cola flavoured ice pop has melted.
The next place I was given the so-called “treat” of a shot was Tokyo. The place itself is brilliant but ridiculous – the queue is always jaw-droppingly large to get into a stuffy building where you will be pressed to the next person like a sardine.
“What is it?” I asked, even though I’d already raised it to my lips. Without waiting for an answer, I drank it. It was disgusting: too viscous, the colour of strawberry jelly, and the smell made me want to run. The minute it hit my throat, I felt the warm blush of cinammon.
“Aftershock,” the barman replied, and all I could do was nod weakly.
What is the obsession with shots that everyone seems to harbour? Not only do shots leave that unpleasant tangy aftertaste on my tongue for the whole rest of the night, but also I find myself beginning to develop another personality. I call her “the drunken me”, and she has an impressive language understandable to only herself, composed of slurring and swearing. Additionally, she loses all rhythm and ability to dance and instead sways and flicks her hair around in, what she hopes, is in time to the music. There is nothing worse than hearing, several days after an impressive night out: “Oh my god, you will never believe what you were doing on [insert day here]”. Just those words strike more fear into me than any parent, teacher or terrorist ever could.
However, I was actually impressed at the composure I managed to retain on this particular night out. Aside from a few hours of hair flicking and uncontrollable giggling (which, consequently, is normally followed by snorting) I was quite nondescript. Girls whooping and dancing on tables generally attracted a lot more attention than I did that night. Until, that is, my friend Laura took it all away from them.
I think the patio outside Tokyo is a really good idea. It is impressively hot and sweaty in there, so what better than a cool, calm paved area outside to sit and enjoy drinks with friends? Well, aside from the fact that the whole of Huddersfield queues up for Tokyo, and the fact that the queue runs the perimeter of this patio. Quite an audience, wouldn’t you agree?
Well, Laura certainly agreed. After too many aftershocks to count, along with VK, Sambuca, Peroni and only she knows what else, she took it upon herself to do the honourable action of reproducing her dinner. All over Tokyo’s patio. In front of the gigantic queue.
Most had the decency to turn their head away and pretend they hadn’t seen. But the odd few whose other personalities had already taken over pointed, giggled, shouted encouragement and generally would have made her feel like a fool if she had been able to hear them or indeed function.
Eventually we attracted the attention of one of the charming burly bouncers, who wobbled over to tell us we had to leave. Shame. So, with the help of two strapping young men, we carted our half conscious friend out of the doors, trying to regain our dignity by giving looks of death to those who were sniggering.
And, when we finally persuaded a reluctant taxi driver that our friend was indeed sobre enough to get in his cab and wasn’t indeed going to redecorate the interior, we headed home. Only for her to keep us both up the whole night being violently sick in the toilet and blaming it all on her ex boyfriend.
An interesting start, don’t you think?

I've now applied for university to study, yes of course, English with creative writing. Overly excited as I am, I cannot help but be slightly confused by the goings on of yesterday. I entered a short story in a competition run by a newspaper that was basically asking for people ages 8 to 18 to enter. This particular piece was my A level exam piece that received full marks and I requested to have it back.
Several weeks later I received a letter saying that my piece was to be one of a hundred published in an anthology and I was to attend a ceremony which I did, gladly. Not only was it the most boring event I have ever had the displeasure of sitting through, it was hosted by some writer who I have never heard of and claims he is the next JK Rowling, and finally came the "winners". Ten pieces were chosen and given a special extra prize. I was not one of them, as I knew subconsciously already. But when I went through the anthology and read the ten pieces that were, I was dumbfounded. They were all written by children under ten; pleasant stories containing rainbows and unicorns and happy little pixies, and all attractively peppered with terrific spelling and grammar mistakes.
I hate to be a bitter person. I realise that if they gave the ten prizes to the oldest there it would obviously be unfair, as they have technically had more schooling and writing experience. But really... did they have to make it so completely fair that it ended up totally biased towards anyone with a half decent vocabulary???
Perhaps I should learn to be a better loser. But I am, as we say in my local dialect, GUTTED.

It has come to my attention over the past few weeks that I hardly ever post a blog on this blogging site. And, whilst thinking about why this is when I love to write so much, I've realised I have hardly any spare time. Then of course, from this I must progress into assessing the reasons for my having no spare time.
Possible reason number one would be, I suppose, that I spend too much time with the other half. Ridiculous though, as being only seventeen we see each other about twice a week (ruling out at college as this obviously doesn't count). Spending time with my friends is the second obvious reason, but I don't think it takes up that much time. The third thing I spend a lot of time doing is working... but I only work two weeknights and I don't start till six. The gym? I thought to myself. Again, impossible as I only go there twice a week for a few hours.
So, I have come to the conclusion that the thing I spend so much time doing is college work! At the moment I am sat here, writing a blog with one essay to do, a handout to highlight and take notes on for sociology and a piece of coursework to finish for IT. On top of this, exams are beginning in May so really a little revision wouldn't hurt.
So, you may be wondering why this essay is titled Shakespeare as all I have done so far is whine about my complete lack of time to do one of the things I love most. Well, the inspiration to write a blog came to me when I started writing an essay about King Lear for my English Language and Literature class. The essay title was "How to both texts deal with the themes of remorse and retribution? Refer to both texts closely and mention linguistic features wherever possible." The other text, by the way, was the modern comparison which is "A Thousand Acres" by Jane Smiley.
It occurred to me when writing this essay that one of the things Lear seems to feel remorse about is the way he mistreated Cordelia, his favourite daughter. One thing that has always struck me as slightly strange in King Lear is the overly descriptive and close relationships Lear seems to have with his daughters. One point that Jane Smiley has included in A Thousand Acres is that Larry (Lear's modern equivalent) actually abuses his daughters.
Having not studied much about the history of Shakespeare himself or even the era he lived and wrote in, I am not overly knowledgeable on how the issue of incest would be received by the audience at this time. I think Jane Smiley's introduction of incest in her novel is brilliant, as it enhanced the strange closeness of a father's relationship with his daughters. After all, what father would split his land between his daughters depending on how much they vocally declared their love for him?
In conclusion, as you're more than probably wondering where this is going, I would really like some opinions on this issue. Personally, I think the abuse would certainly explain the decline in mental state of the Lear/Larry character, and also the spiteful hate of the two daughters Goneril/Ginny and Regan/Rose. However, I am unaware as to whether or not incest would have been regarded as a shocking subject at the time, or simply as something to be overlooked. Any information on this particular theme in either King Lear or A Thousand Acres would be so helpful to my research.

As of about a week ago, my household has been subjected to the wrath of WeightWatchers. Slowly, but oh so surely, the counters have become covered in brightly coloured books depicting how to eat absolutely huge amounts of food but seemingly not put on any weight, and the cupboards have been filled with their expensive "own versions" of foods which, quite blatantly, taste like crap.
Last night, in celebration of the one and only Valentines Day, my mother decided to cook for my dad, my aunt and my uncle. She made Weightwatchers goats cheese and tomato tartlets, WeightWatchers something or other braised steak stew, WeightWatchers Raspberry custard pots and, to finish, about four bottles of wine and several Gin and Tonics?
Call me crazy, but isn't that ever so slightly defeating the object? And I'm serious when I ask, does that even work? Personally, I think its quite stupid to consult a diet where you're allowed to drink wine and eat chocolate. By having them in the house in the first place, you're tempted to just gorge on them more than you would normally allow yourself through the Points system. (For those of you who are unaware of the scheme of WeightWatchers, all food is given points depending on fat and you're allowed so many a day. Exercise burns points which you can then "spend" on food).
So, back to my question, is it not a complete temptation to allow any quantities of wine and chocolate in the fridge in the first place? Personally, I can't limit myself to chocolate; I eat until I don't want anymore. I can't simply say: I'll have six squares and wrap the rest up for later. But if the poor soul did find themselves eating the whole bar, they would have used too many points and therefore would have to starve for several days.
If anyone has ever done WeightWatchers or does it still, I would appreciate you helping me out on this. If I am right, does anyone know of any diets that are more helpful for my poor mother?

For those of you who are bored enough to read this blog... welcome.
And thanks, I suppose.
Why do a blog? I think to myself. Well... the first reason, I would have to say, is a love for writing. The second, a desperate boredom associated with nights when I have no college work, no one has any money, the other half is working and I'm waiting for something. Most probably the OC, but tonight I'm actually waiting until I have to go to work.
The third... I sometimes get the feeling that I want to express myself. Even if no one reads it, there's an unusual therapeutic quality that comes with writing about yourself. Selfish, it may seem, but so true, as many of my fellow bloggers will agree. And from my small village in Middle England, what better way than the good old WWW.
Quite possibly, it depends on the methods of learning we studied at college. Off the top of my head, I can't remember for the life in me what they are, but I interpret them to mean that in order to analyse things I have to write them down. It makes so much more sense, that instead of trying to retain facts in your head, trying to maintain the order of priority of each one and the chronology of them... isn't it so much easier just to write them down and look at them right in front of you.
That, I presume, is why I was never too cracking at mental maths.
So, I sit here and think about how many others are sat at home, blogging or blogsurfing, on Valentines Day. For those lucky ones who may be waiting for their date, I am happy. For those who do not have a date and equally do not give a shit, I am also happy. For those who like me, have an other half but have to work and even if they didn't they wouldn't be doing anything on the account that their other half is desperately afraid of all things that echo any form of commitment or seriousness, I sympathise and emphathise.
But at the end of the day, what is Valentine's Day, really? In essence, all it does is waste the money of those attached on pointless crude souvenirs which are then thrown away, and for those who are not it simply depresses them. I say, sod Valentines Day. Those who work in the restaurant industry will probably hate it as much as I do: a night of couple upon couple cramming themselves in to eat food with cheesy temporary titles and stare at each other over cheap candles in a sickly fashion. Now that I think about it, who would actually want to go out for a meal on Valentines Day? There's no intimacy about it at all! The restaurants go haywire and bring down the emergency tables and chairs (yes, quoting the great Mr Peter Kay, I know, but how right he was) and cram everyone in so the couple furthest away from you in the restaurant can still hear your every word!
My personal opinion? If you're lucky enough to have someone, stay in and celebrate having them. If you're lucky enough not to, grab as many single friends as you can get your hands on and get bladdered beyond creation. After all, why not?