Having decided a life sitting in a traffic jam on the A3 is no life at all, I quit my job in Ewell and have once again joined the realms of the journalistic unemployed. I am now tittering on the brink of working as a radio freelancer, and I can tell you, the prospect of it is playing havoc with my sleep.
If you've ever had a dream where you're back in school taking a GCSE exam, you haven't revised (in fact you've even lost the ability to read the exam paper) and you look down and for some inexplicable reason you're naked, you might understand where I'm coming from here.
Going 'on-air' and trying to read the news while thinking *oh-my-god-someone-might-actually-be-listening-what-if-I-accidentally-say-willy-or-lose-the-ability-to-talk* is a pretty vulnerable feeling, as you can imagine. It's bad enough in real life, but unfortunately my subconscious can make it an awful lot worse.
Suddenly, I'm not only trying to read the news, with a multitude of unpronounceable football players' names, I've also realised I haven't got a microphone, I've lost the ability to speak English and looking down, predictably, I'm naked. Worst of all, for some bizarre reason a selection of my old secondary school teachers are pointing and laughing at me from the other studio...
I know what you're thinking; wow – what a psycho. But hopefully with a whole week's worth of shifts next week, it'll all be old hat by next Friday and I can find something else to have bizarre dreams about.
Possibly an even scarier prospect related to freelance broadcast journalism is that I now have to do my own taxes. Asking around, I've received a dizzying array of advice about this including that I might even be able to claim haircuts back from the tax man... hmmmm.... Anyone know a friendly accountant?? The last thing I want is stressed out tax return dreams. I dread to think what they'd be like...
So the big news this week, of course, was the election being called on Tuesday. I started to wonder if there was a major swing seat I'd never heard of because all the newsreaders kept saying; 'So now Gordon Brown has finally called the election, campaigning can now begin in Ernest.'
Ernest? Is that in Cornwall?
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Friday, 19 February 2010
The Frankie and Benny's test
Well, I've got to say considering they have quite a pick of exciting and breathtaking sports to showcase on the BBC from the Winter Olympics, it's rather surprising that all they seem to be showing is the thrilling game of curling.
I mean they've got a lot of great spectator sports to choose from; bob-sled, ski-ing, snowboarding or figure skating. And yet, no, those sports are just dull. Instead 90% of airtime is going to a team of people throwing an oversized kettle down an ice rink and scrubbing with brooms in a chilly imitation of lawn bowls crossed with cleaning? Even the commentators don't seem interested in it. The Scottish woman commentating at the moment sounds like someone's drugged her tea and the most exciting thing that's happened all afternoon is the Danish team's war cries during frantic broom scrubbing. Well, at least they're enjoying it.
And no, I can't change the channel, I've become strangely gripped by it. Maybe that's what happened to the BBC editors.
For those of you who are waiting with baited breath to hear how my Frankie and Benny's interview went, it was a strange affair. I was sat down in the restaurant with a man named Stuart who immediately said: “Right I haven't got a lot of time, so it's going to be quick fire questions.”
There followed a fairly frantic interrogation, during which at one point I swear that Stuart winked at me. He could have had a lazy eye though.
Then followed the Frankie and Benny's interview test:
“Right, here's our menu, I'm going to go away for two minutes and then come back and ask you some questions about it.”
“Umm ok....”
Well, what followed was one of the most stressful two minutes of my life as I frantically tried to memorise about 100 dishes on an 8 page menu.
Stuart returned and sat down, looking rather smug. “Don't worry, we don't actually expect you to memorise it, you can keep it in front of you while I ask some questions.”
Umm, right so this was actually a test that I can read? Well thanks, I nearly passed out with the pressure.
Still, when asked about the Caribbean pizza I did manage to say it had chicken on it, even though it was down on the menu as the vegetarian option. So failed the reading test then, no wonder they haven't called...
I mean they've got a lot of great spectator sports to choose from; bob-sled, ski-ing, snowboarding or figure skating. And yet, no, those sports are just dull. Instead 90% of airtime is going to a team of people throwing an oversized kettle down an ice rink and scrubbing with brooms in a chilly imitation of lawn bowls crossed with cleaning? Even the commentators don't seem interested in it. The Scottish woman commentating at the moment sounds like someone's drugged her tea and the most exciting thing that's happened all afternoon is the Danish team's war cries during frantic broom scrubbing. Well, at least they're enjoying it.
And no, I can't change the channel, I've become strangely gripped by it. Maybe that's what happened to the BBC editors.
For those of you who are waiting with baited breath to hear how my Frankie and Benny's interview went, it was a strange affair. I was sat down in the restaurant with a man named Stuart who immediately said: “Right I haven't got a lot of time, so it's going to be quick fire questions.”
There followed a fairly frantic interrogation, during which at one point I swear that Stuart winked at me. He could have had a lazy eye though.
Then followed the Frankie and Benny's interview test:
“Right, here's our menu, I'm going to go away for two minutes and then come back and ask you some questions about it.”
“Umm ok....”
Well, what followed was one of the most stressful two minutes of my life as I frantically tried to memorise about 100 dishes on an 8 page menu.
Stuart returned and sat down, looking rather smug. “Don't worry, we don't actually expect you to memorise it, you can keep it in front of you while I ask some questions.”
Umm, right so this was actually a test that I can read? Well thanks, I nearly passed out with the pressure.
Still, when asked about the Caribbean pizza I did manage to say it had chicken on it, even though it was down on the menu as the vegetarian option. So failed the reading test then, no wonder they haven't called...
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
A trainee journalist's first task
So here I am, I've made it, I'm a qualified trainee journalist (well, pending exam results). And I'm about to do the thing that most trainee journalists do these days as soon as they finish their course; sign on. I'm joining the ranks of the 2.5 million other unemployed in Britain to spend my days trawling job websites, making paper aeroplanes and compiling inventories of all the things I could sell in my flat on ebay (holey socks anyone?).
Me and Joe went on a mass CV drop yesterday in the hope of securing a bar or restaurant job to fill our days. It was quite a good double act actually – it sort of went;
Joe: “I'm looking for a part time job.”
Bethan: “So am I!”
Joe and Bethan together: “Can we hand in our CV's?” *winning smiles with optional jazz hands*
Well, we must have done something right because just an hour later we had a call from Paul at Frankie and Benny's asking us in for an interview. I supremely enjoyed telling my mum on the phone:
“Mum, guess what?”
“What?”
“Me and Joe have both got interviews!”
“That's fantastic!”
“I KNOW, guess where?”
“Where?!!”
“Frankie and Benny's”
“Oh...”
One of the great advantages I have already discovered about being unemployed is that I have the time to very thoroughly read the local newspaper. Yesterday, while idling through the personal announcements I discovered something very disturbing indeed. One baby, who was celebrating his first birthday, had no less than four birthday wishes in the paper from four different members of his family! I mean considering there were only 7 birthday announcements in the entire paper, that's pretty good going. I wonder if they all realise that babies rarely read newspapers...
Me and Joe went on a mass CV drop yesterday in the hope of securing a bar or restaurant job to fill our days. It was quite a good double act actually – it sort of went;
Joe: “I'm looking for a part time job.”
Bethan: “So am I!”
Joe and Bethan together: “Can we hand in our CV's?” *winning smiles with optional jazz hands*
Well, we must have done something right because just an hour later we had a call from Paul at Frankie and Benny's asking us in for an interview. I supremely enjoyed telling my mum on the phone:
“Mum, guess what?”
“What?”
“Me and Joe have both got interviews!”
“That's fantastic!”
“I KNOW, guess where?”
“Where?!!”
“Frankie and Benny's”
“Oh...”
One of the great advantages I have already discovered about being unemployed is that I have the time to very thoroughly read the local newspaper. Yesterday, while idling through the personal announcements I discovered something very disturbing indeed. One baby, who was celebrating his first birthday, had no less than four birthday wishes in the paper from four different members of his family! I mean considering there were only 7 birthday announcements in the entire paper, that's pretty good going. I wonder if they all realise that babies rarely read newspapers...
Monday, 18 January 2010
A rather scathing review...
I'm sorry oddsocks. I strongly believe your hearts are in the right place but I just don't get your play. Scathing review follows:
When Juliet implores, 'Romeo Romeo, where for art thou Romeo?'; should the response ever be, 'He's behind you'?
Judging by Oddsocks Theatre Company's pantomime interpretation of Romeo and Juliet, the answer to that is an unequivocal no.
Their interpretation of the timeless Shakespeare play is set in the middle of modern day Italy with plenty of slapstick humour and the warring Montague and Capulet clans depicted as rival restaurant owners.
The audience was drilled right from the beginning by the cast to shout 'pizza' every time the word 'Montague' is spoken, while making a hand gesture at the other side, and at 'Capulet' the remaining half had to shout back 'pasta'.
By the end of a two and a half hour play, that joke was getting old. And so was the fact that in her chavvy portrayal of Juliet, Tanya Huq ended most of her speeches with 'innit'.
No one can deny that there is a lot of humour in Shakespeare's tragic love story but Oddsocks beat out this humour at the cost of every other emotion in the play.
Presumably their aim is to make Shakespeare's play accessible to a younger audience and appealing to families. Certainly, there was a group of primary school children at the theatre who enjoyed the performance immensely.
But should we be so desperate to get younger and younger children interested in Shakespeare's tragedies? After all, Romeo and Juliet is about love, sex, gang war and suicide. It's a bit like trying to make The Godfather suitable for eight year olds.
The passion and energy of Oddsocks theatre company cannot be denied, but numerous issues let the performance down. For example, four songs were inserted into the play and the fact that none of the cast members could really carry a tune made them quite painful.
The phoney Italian accents they adopted were also grating by the end, which was not helped by Neil Craig's Romeo sounding Welsh and Juliet's accent gaining a decidedly Russian twang through the evening.
All in all, Oddsocks' performance at the New Theatre Royal, Portsmouth on January 7 really missed the mark. Not only had the raw emotion and tension in the play totally disappeared, but it wasn't that funny either.
Oddsocks also played at the theatre on January 8 and are touring the UK with the production.
When Juliet implores, 'Romeo Romeo, where for art thou Romeo?'; should the response ever be, 'He's behind you'?
Judging by Oddsocks Theatre Company's pantomime interpretation of Romeo and Juliet, the answer to that is an unequivocal no.
Their interpretation of the timeless Shakespeare play is set in the middle of modern day Italy with plenty of slapstick humour and the warring Montague and Capulet clans depicted as rival restaurant owners.
The audience was drilled right from the beginning by the cast to shout 'pizza' every time the word 'Montague' is spoken, while making a hand gesture at the other side, and at 'Capulet' the remaining half had to shout back 'pasta'.
By the end of a two and a half hour play, that joke was getting old. And so was the fact that in her chavvy portrayal of Juliet, Tanya Huq ended most of her speeches with 'innit'.
No one can deny that there is a lot of humour in Shakespeare's tragic love story but Oddsocks beat out this humour at the cost of every other emotion in the play.
Presumably their aim is to make Shakespeare's play accessible to a younger audience and appealing to families. Certainly, there was a group of primary school children at the theatre who enjoyed the performance immensely.
But should we be so desperate to get younger and younger children interested in Shakespeare's tragedies? After all, Romeo and Juliet is about love, sex, gang war and suicide. It's a bit like trying to make The Godfather suitable for eight year olds.
The passion and energy of Oddsocks theatre company cannot be denied, but numerous issues let the performance down. For example, four songs were inserted into the play and the fact that none of the cast members could really carry a tune made them quite painful.
The phoney Italian accents they adopted were also grating by the end, which was not helped by Neil Craig's Romeo sounding Welsh and Juliet's accent gaining a decidedly Russian twang through the evening.
All in all, Oddsocks' performance at the New Theatre Royal, Portsmouth on January 7 really missed the mark. Not only had the raw emotion and tension in the play totally disappeared, but it wasn't that funny either.
Oddsocks also played at the theatre on January 8 and are touring the UK with the production.
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Dodgy haircut and English embarrassment avoidance tactics
Is there anything more frightening than a hairdresser that can't speak English? I mean, I'm quite used to hairdressers being chatty and this puts me at my ease. After all, I'm entrusting them with quite a big responsibility; there's nothing worse than getting a haircut akin to Rod Stewart... But having to explain what haircut you want using the international language of hand gestures is quite a nerve-racking experience.
This is exactly what happened to me this week (well I'm not looking too Rod Stewartesque but I do look a little lopsided).What made it worse was she was also a student hairdresser. A student hairdresser that can't speak English = any girl's nightmare.
All I wanted was a trim and I was trying to stay calm, but she kept saying “You keep changing your mind!” I honestly wasn't, it was just that my voice was getting higher and more hysterical every time she asked me what to do, until I could only let out a frightened squeak when she approached me with the scissors. I think we might have been making each other a little nervous....
Am I foolhardy to use the college hairdressers? It's hard to say, but can a strapped-for-cash journo really resist a haircut for 6 quid? Even if it did take 2 hours and cause me to break out in a stress rash....
In non-dodgy haircut news, I had a college trip to London on Friday, which was very fun. We went with the purpose of seeing the new Supreme Court, but that was pretty boring so it quickly turned into a shopping trip.
On the packed train on the way back, half our class (including me) were forced to sit on the-much-coveted fold-out chairs where your nose is pretty much pressed against the toilet door.
I don't know if you've seen them, but it was one of the the train toilets that's sort of circular shaped and has an automatic door that open and closes with the touch of a button.
Well we were innocently observing the train toilet-traffic and trying to breathe through out mouths when one man went into the toilet and forgot to do one very important thing; lock the door.
After a short time had passed, a woman came to use the toilet and before any of us had really realised what was happening, she had pressed the automatic door open button and the door was sliding back to reveal the man, desperately trying to shut the door again with one hand and covering his *ahem* 'shame' with the other... And I've got to say, once those toilet doors have decided to open, it's not so easy to get them to close again.
Cue carriage's incredibly English reaction to situation:
- Anyone not right in front of the door pretended that they hadn't realised anything was happening and either buried their heads in a broadsheet or looked determinedly out the window.
- Those directly in front of the toilet door (including me), Said 'oh dear' and 'oh my goodness', sat their stupefied for a second before trying to help caught-out man shut the door without making any eye contact whatsoever with anyone.
- Woman who had pressed the open button frantically jabbed at the close button, then realising this wasn't going to work, took a step away, disassociating herself by looking at the ceiling.
- When the man came out again we all chose a variety of poses: incredibly interested in watch, incredibly interested in floor, incredibly interested in next man's paper and incredibly interested in phone.
Luckily, no eye contact between anyone in the carriage occurred at any point during the incident and therefore, due to excellent employment of English embarrassment avoidance tactics, we can all pretend it didn't happen. Good work everyone.
This is exactly what happened to me this week (well I'm not looking too Rod Stewartesque but I do look a little lopsided).What made it worse was she was also a student hairdresser. A student hairdresser that can't speak English = any girl's nightmare.
All I wanted was a trim and I was trying to stay calm, but she kept saying “You keep changing your mind!” I honestly wasn't, it was just that my voice was getting higher and more hysterical every time she asked me what to do, until I could only let out a frightened squeak when she approached me with the scissors. I think we might have been making each other a little nervous....
Am I foolhardy to use the college hairdressers? It's hard to say, but can a strapped-for-cash journo really resist a haircut for 6 quid? Even if it did take 2 hours and cause me to break out in a stress rash....
In non-dodgy haircut news, I had a college trip to London on Friday, which was very fun. We went with the purpose of seeing the new Supreme Court, but that was pretty boring so it quickly turned into a shopping trip.
On the packed train on the way back, half our class (including me) were forced to sit on the-much-coveted fold-out chairs where your nose is pretty much pressed against the toilet door.
I don't know if you've seen them, but it was one of the the train toilets that's sort of circular shaped and has an automatic door that open and closes with the touch of a button.
Well we were innocently observing the train toilet-traffic and trying to breathe through out mouths when one man went into the toilet and forgot to do one very important thing; lock the door.
After a short time had passed, a woman came to use the toilet and before any of us had really realised what was happening, she had pressed the automatic door open button and the door was sliding back to reveal the man, desperately trying to shut the door again with one hand and covering his *ahem* 'shame' with the other... And I've got to say, once those toilet doors have decided to open, it's not so easy to get them to close again.
Cue carriage's incredibly English reaction to situation:
- Anyone not right in front of the door pretended that they hadn't realised anything was happening and either buried their heads in a broadsheet or looked determinedly out the window.
- Those directly in front of the toilet door (including me), Said 'oh dear' and 'oh my goodness', sat their stupefied for a second before trying to help caught-out man shut the door without making any eye contact whatsoever with anyone.
- Woman who had pressed the open button frantically jabbed at the close button, then realising this wasn't going to work, took a step away, disassociating herself by looking at the ceiling.
- When the man came out again we all chose a variety of poses: incredibly interested in watch, incredibly interested in floor, incredibly interested in next man's paper and incredibly interested in phone.
Luckily, no eye contact between anyone in the carriage occurred at any point during the incident and therefore, due to excellent employment of English embarrassment avoidance tactics, we can all pretend it didn't happen. Good work everyone.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Skip balancing and cold feet
I hear Cameron's having a moan about health and safety legislation. Well I have some ideas of my own to tackle a few of the world's problems and health and safety just happens to be one of them.
I had my brain wave whilst driving into college last week. I had the delight of being stuck in a traffic jam behind a lorry carrying a particularly dirty and smelly skip.
As we got closer, I realised there was a helpful warning sign on it showing a stick man with a skip on his head. It was quite clearly warning people not to balance skips on their heads.
Hopefully, it's fairly obvious to most people that no human neck could withstand having a skip placed upon it, no matter how often you wear hats made of lead. Do we really need a sign?
The most worrying thing about this sign is that I was under the impression that most warnings exist because at some point someone has suffered horrible injuries trying to do what it's warning against. Does this mean at some point in the past someone has died balancing a skip on their head?
Anyway, this brings me to my main point. I think most companies could protect themselves from being sued through health and safety laws if they just put one simple sign on their products:
Don't be a complete idiot.
My other bright idea combats the age old problem of cold feet in bed. I was trying to convince Joe about the merits of this idea last night, but he just seemed to think I was crazy.
If you're lying in bed on a cold night, invariably your top half is quite warm but your feet are absolutely freezing.
My suggestion is simple; after being in bed for a while, unable to sleep due to icy toes, simply switch ends so your feet are at the bit your body has warmed up and you're at the other end. NB: it is usually necessary to decamp fully with pillows to avoid neck discomfort.
Then after a while, switch back so you're at the right end again (because there's nothing more disorientating than waking up in the wrong end of bed). You will now notice the bottom half of the bed is warm and your cold feet problem is solved. It's a tried and tested method I have been using since I was a child.
Now don't be giving me none of this 'why not use a hot water bottle?' Or 'why not wear a pair of socks?'
That would be far too easy.
I had my brain wave whilst driving into college last week. I had the delight of being stuck in a traffic jam behind a lorry carrying a particularly dirty and smelly skip.
As we got closer, I realised there was a helpful warning sign on it showing a stick man with a skip on his head. It was quite clearly warning people not to balance skips on their heads.
Hopefully, it's fairly obvious to most people that no human neck could withstand having a skip placed upon it, no matter how often you wear hats made of lead. Do we really need a sign?
The most worrying thing about this sign is that I was under the impression that most warnings exist because at some point someone has suffered horrible injuries trying to do what it's warning against. Does this mean at some point in the past someone has died balancing a skip on their head?
Anyway, this brings me to my main point. I think most companies could protect themselves from being sued through health and safety laws if they just put one simple sign on their products:
Don't be a complete idiot.
My other bright idea combats the age old problem of cold feet in bed. I was trying to convince Joe about the merits of this idea last night, but he just seemed to think I was crazy.
If you're lying in bed on a cold night, invariably your top half is quite warm but your feet are absolutely freezing.
My suggestion is simple; after being in bed for a while, unable to sleep due to icy toes, simply switch ends so your feet are at the bit your body has warmed up and you're at the other end. NB: it is usually necessary to decamp fully with pillows to avoid neck discomfort.
Then after a while, switch back so you're at the right end again (because there's nothing more disorientating than waking up in the wrong end of bed). You will now notice the bottom half of the bed is warm and your cold feet problem is solved. It's a tried and tested method I have been using since I was a child.
Now don't be giving me none of this 'why not use a hot water bottle?' Or 'why not wear a pair of socks?'
That would be far too easy.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
A council meeting hangover
Well yesterday I got my first taste of a full city council meeting. Democracy in action, it was thrilling.
The day started badly (like a lot of my days seem to, and I always thought I was a morning person). Some idiot had parked outside our garage blocking our car in, forcing us to take our bikes to college despite rain and near gale-force winds.
By the time I got to college, I had an attractive wet and muddy streak between my bum cheeks, due to my bike's sad lack of a mud-guard. I like to call it the cyclists' skid mark; a proud badge of honour.
After the obligatory early morning slog through short hand, we were off to council, held in the middle of the city. It's a cycle ride that normally takes 20 minutes but due to before mentioned gale force winds, took nearly 45 minutes.
I arrived at the council chambers wobbly-legged and wind swept but enthusiastic nonetheless.
The main item on the agenda: Portsmouth's world cup bid. Debate began at about 1.30 and raged
with only one short break until 7 o'clock.
Good lord councillors like their own voices. The most annoying thing was that most councillors started their little speeches with “I know what most I'm about to say has been said before...”
WELL WHY ARE YOU SAYING IT THEN? No one here wants to hear you parrot what has already been said a dozen times. We all want to go to the pub!
After a lot a lot a lot of debate, and a lot of time spent squabbling over how they should actually conduct the vote, they eventually voted to 'boot out the bid', much to the consternation of some of my football fanatic classmates.
By that time, I just wanted to get out of there (I was hungry). Of course, just like real journalists, we had to write up our story over night.
I have the unfortunate problem of my brain completely shutting down past about 9 o'clock. And plus I had about 50 pages of short hand notes to decipher.
Needless to say, the evening was a bit of a slog.
It was pretty hard getting out of bed this morning. Perhaps my 'council meeting hangover' is best illustrated by the fact that as I stood slack-jawed in the shower, I forgot to shut my mouth when rubbing a nice soapy lather on my face. Uck, I could still taste soap at lunchtime...
The day started badly (like a lot of my days seem to, and I always thought I was a morning person). Some idiot had parked outside our garage blocking our car in, forcing us to take our bikes to college despite rain and near gale-force winds.
By the time I got to college, I had an attractive wet and muddy streak between my bum cheeks, due to my bike's sad lack of a mud-guard. I like to call it the cyclists' skid mark; a proud badge of honour.
After the obligatory early morning slog through short hand, we were off to council, held in the middle of the city. It's a cycle ride that normally takes 20 minutes but due to before mentioned gale force winds, took nearly 45 minutes.
I arrived at the council chambers wobbly-legged and wind swept but enthusiastic nonetheless.
The main item on the agenda: Portsmouth's world cup bid. Debate began at about 1.30 and raged
with only one short break until 7 o'clock.
Good lord councillors like their own voices. The most annoying thing was that most councillors started their little speeches with “I know what most I'm about to say has been said before...”
WELL WHY ARE YOU SAYING IT THEN? No one here wants to hear you parrot what has already been said a dozen times. We all want to go to the pub!
After a lot a lot a lot of debate, and a lot of time spent squabbling over how they should actually conduct the vote, they eventually voted to 'boot out the bid', much to the consternation of some of my football fanatic classmates.
By that time, I just wanted to get out of there (I was hungry). Of course, just like real journalists, we had to write up our story over night.
I have the unfortunate problem of my brain completely shutting down past about 9 o'clock. And plus I had about 50 pages of short hand notes to decipher.
Needless to say, the evening was a bit of a slog.
It was pretty hard getting out of bed this morning. Perhaps my 'council meeting hangover' is best illustrated by the fact that as I stood slack-jawed in the shower, I forgot to shut my mouth when rubbing a nice soapy lather on my face. Uck, I could still taste soap at lunchtime...
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