John Sergeant: strictly done dancing

I've always loved Strictly Come Dancing.

But I didn't even like John Sergeant to begin with. I think it's because he looks like Jo Brand's twin and it scared me.

This all changed earlier this week when John hung up his dancing shoes.

"I am sorry to say I have decided to leave Strictly Come Dancing. It was always
my intention to have fun on the show and I was hoping to stay in as long as
possible. The trouble is that there is now a real danger that I might win
the competition. Even for me that would be a joke too far. I would like to
thank Kristina and all those viewers who have been rooting for me through
the series" he said.

I thought Strictly was about celebrities dancing and not about professional dancing.

What is the point of having a public vote and phone in if the person who the public are voting for feels he has to leave?

I for one would vote to see John do the jive. And so it is with great sadness that I watch Strictly tonight; not only with a fear for reality tv democracy but with regret that the country did not get to see John doing a jive.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP_DXrr4cWA

5 Things I Didn't Know Before

1. Italy and Greece have special 'name' days. How cool. Although, lucky for me and the rest of the 'Jenny' population, we don't have one in Britain: I never get along with anyone who shares my name. Does that say something about me?

2. Rhianna actually sings "Shut up and drive" not "Shut up and die", which I personally think would make for a much more interesting song....

3. You can, by law, choose any taxi you want from the taxi rank to take you home. It's probably best most people don't know this: granting weekend-night drunks choice can never work out harmoniously.

4. There are precisely 10 types of weissbier in the Chapter Arts Centre bar in Cardiff.

5. Rick Astley is considered by some people to be a music icon. It is not possible.

The dress envy

It seems that if you want to be an iconic female figure, you need a green dress. I reached this conclusion after the recent obsession with Keira Knightley’s green dress worn in ‘Atonement’: I too wanted the dress. But there was also something else to it.

Apparently, the colour green is seen as a positive colour and conveys a sense of doing good. The designer of Keira’s dress, Jacqueline Durran, related this to the ‘environmental movement’. She also commented that ‘it also relays honesty, authenticity and just being modern’. How absurd. Last time I checked, it was a certain jealous ‘green-eyed monster’ that sent Othello a little cuckoo and gets us all occasionally.

Most interestingly, the design of this dress does not tally with photos of upper-middle-class dress in the ‘30s, who look rather ‘scruffy, clumpy and lumpy’, according to ‘Atonement’ director Joe Wright. But ‘the film isn’t based on reality. It’s more of a dream, a remembered past, a child’s distant memory of a perfect day before everything went horribly wrong’. Poignantly, the green dress, that has fast become so iconic is formative of a perfect ideal, does not reflect - in any way, shape or form - reality. Yes, fashion personified.

This reminded me of a ‘Newsnight’ discussion of Tamara de Lempicka’s work, in particular, the portrait of a woman in a green dress. Will Self commented that the viewers of her work ‘see a reflection of their own superficial vanity and obsession.’ Kwame Kwei-Armah continued to say that ‘I found every woman to be very cold and I found it art without soul.’

Indeed, every woman in want of a certain Keira green dress will most certainly be without any sense of reality. But let a girl dream!

Maybe tomorrow!?

I've just read the story about the women who got stuck on her boyfriend's toilet for two years. Her doting boyfriend brought her food and water and asked her if she wanted to come out but the outside world clearly did not appeal; leaving her skin to grow around the toilet seat!

Wow.

Now, there are questions left unanswered. Firstly, how did she get stuck on the toilet seat in the first place? And when it occured, what went through her mind to make her prefer to sit it out on the toilet, say all night, trying to sleep?! That is some serious procrastination.

And what about the boyfriend? According to reports, she would say "Maybe tomorrow" when he asked her if she wanted to leave. At some point, perhaps ranging a couple of weeks, maybe after a month, you would probably pick up the phone and get some help. Or even get a saw and bust her out. But TWO YEARS!

I'm considering putting this forward to my boyfriend. Perhaps it can be a sort of 'What if' relationship endurance test. "If I get stuck on a toilet for two years, do you promise to feed me, tender to my every need and perhaps read me my favourite magazine out loud?"

Ultimately, it's stories like these that really hit home: the human race never fails to amaze me. And they must have some scary toilets in Kanas.


If you want to read the story:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2008/03/13/wtoilet113.xml

But I'm a lady!

Ok, so, how many men does it take to screw in a light bulb?

You’ve all heard the jokes zooming around office inboxes, circulating amongst groups of gossiping girls and bitter feminists. Recently, it’s occurred to me that women are not advancing the feminist cause. They’re promoting a new one: the anti-men campaign. There’s much eye-rolling, lack of confidence in men to carry out simple tasks and a lot of confusion about gender roles.

I was recently considering the ‘gender gap’ whilst on the bus the other day. As you do. I saw a woman screaming at her, perhaps, partner. She had him pinned against the wall. No one was calming her down. Most were smiling. This was literal male-bashing and the worst kind I’d ever seen. For too long men had reigned supreme; had denied women the vote, confined us to the domestic home, thought us intellectually inferior, even later, talked of their “bitches” and “whores” in rap culture, yet, women got their own way and are taking revenge for years of suppression? But that’s not right. When can we agree that “feminism” has gone too far? Apart from the literal male-bashing, male put-downs are a reflex amongst young women. It even seems common amongst my friends who boast of their ‘play’ of men. Whilst their partners are loyal, honest and mostly, sensitive, the girls are exercising their ‘independence’ and treating men like ‘bitches’.

You only have to review every year of GCSE and A-level results in schools to see the ‘gender gap’ at work: boys do not do as well as girls. This trend cannot merely show that girls are better. Our society has incorporated women as equals to men, yet, in the process has made it acceptable for men to fall behind, lose confidence and be susceptible to women’s male-bashing as a result: the gender gap is increasing in favour of women. Women want to dress like men, drink like men, have high-flying careers, be a successful mother and still demand men to hold doors open for them and act in a chivalrous gentlemanly way. Ladies, it’s clear that we can’t have it all. I’m not saying this as an anti-feminist either. I am a feminist and fully believe in equal opportunities and rights for women. However, I also believe that men and women are equal but different and men also need a little R.E.S.P.E.C.T (thank you, Aretha).

It’s time to stop reinforcing stereotypes, tearing men down to boost women. Otherwise the future won’t be bright for us girls: it’ll be heralding divorcees clubs and ITV’s ‘Loose Women’. No thanks.

You just can’t rebel right anymore

I’ve been pre-empting a mid-life crisis for a while now. And I’m only twenty.

I feel I may have failed to fulfil the rebellious potential of my young life. Frankly, I just can’t keep up with the kids. Those kids, who are the same age as me, but like to wear skimpy clothing out even when it’s cold outside, stay awake past half past ten and actually think that being sick after drinking too much is part and parcel of a ‘good night out’. Something must be wrong?

Before I can say ‘cool’, I’m tucked in bed with a hot chocolate and a book at 9 o’clock. And somehow I feel that I’ve let myself down. It struck me most, recently, on a trip up to Leeds to celebrate my friend’s 21st birthday. It started when we arrived and I mentioned that I was feeling tired. That received concerned glances. After all, we were going to some dance-fest club, ‘Gatecrasher’ to see a ‘Basement Jaxx DJ set’, which all entailed staying up until the early hours of the morning and not even leaving the house until midnight.

“Midnight! Isn’t that when we’re supposed to go home?”

That didn’t go down well, and so, my friends spent the majority of the afternoon encouraging me to take short naps in preparation. As it turned out, I managed quite well; I survived the broken glass under my feet and even having my face in someone’s sweating armpit for a while on the dance floor. In fact, I did so well, I was still dancing when two of my friends caved in to high-heel syndrome and couldn’t stand any longer. It was a triumph. A miraculous triumph, but that itself worried me: staying up late dancing shouldn’t be a conquest for a 20-year old.

For years, younger generations have been rebelling against their parents; smoking, drinking, taking drugs, being generally liberal minded and hippy-like. But my parents were those rebels too. So what have I to rebel against? All that’s left for us youngsters to do to shock is perhaps follow current affairs, work hard at our academic studies, say a sensible “no” to drugs and definitely go to bed early. Rubbish. How could my parents do this to me?

My only hope is in a mid-life crisis. Maybe, perhaps, hopefully, I’ll get to thirty and every rebellious dream will come true. But there’s a problem, there’s not much left to shock and there isn’t much I want to revolt about. G.K. Chesterton once said “the modern man in revolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt. By rebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel against anything”. And so, today’s younger generation has lost the right to rebel. My parents have done all the rebelling for me and left me with nothing. Damn, the kids are alright!

Live and let eco-die

Ok, so I try my best. But there are many obstacles. To be a good citizen is so hard these days. Not only is it a sin to be seen scoffing a Mars bar in public in case you get fat and burst into a thousands fat pieces, you have to organise your rubbish into categories of varying levels.

First you have the material division: plastics, cans, cardboard etc. But it’s not that simple, I cannot just put my tin into the bin. I have to check if it’s the right kind of tin, clean, no labels and to do so I have to read the bin-bag, which is difficult at the best of times when various milk-bottles, pizza-boxes and beer cans are rattling in the bottom.

Secondly, the days of rubbish collection are also confusing. Recently a keen-green lady stopped me in the street whilst I was eating a Mars bar. She wanted to give me recycling bags and then asked me if I knew which day was my rubbish collection day. It was the way she said it, tilting her head slightly and smiling like a sin-free, heaven bound, cherub of the eco-world. I did know; it is Wednesday. But I have to put the bins out on Tuesday night and got confused under the pressure; and I had a large mouthful of gooey-Mars bar mess in my mouth, sticking my words together: "Yes, it's Tuesday."

She shook her head: “No it isn’t. Someone doesn’t know their bin-day”. In the middle of the street, opposite the Co-op, I was getting a dressing down from a self-righteous, all-knowing bin-days lady, “it’s Wednesday, for normal rubbish, once fortnightly for recycling green bags alternating with compost white bags and food waste collection is….”, it was similar to when I ask for directions. I always start well; I want, and need, to hear the information. But somewhere in the middle of needing to know and panicking because I’m not concentrating, I never receive any meaningful information. All the colours and days turned into lefts and rights and before I knew it, I was a recycling mess.

Laden with leaflets, different coloured bags and eco-lady’s words rattling in my head, I went home to decipher the rubbish collection system. An hour later and I had learnt that I really needed a pen and paper to make notes. By the time I had completed my masterpiece rota, I didn't care what colour bag went with each rubbish type and so resorted to eating my Mars bar and putting the wrapper in whichever colour bag I pleased.

Live and let eco-die and I can feel guilt free. And if I go to eco-hell, well, at least it will be well organised.