Farewell Fair Essex..

Billericay Brawls and Family Fun.

Billericay- home of ‘Gavin and Stacey’- Gavlaaar, Pamlaaar and ‘Smiffy’; the heart of Essex. Southend- home of Peter Pan’s play park, Adventure Island (a rite of passage for any child of Essex origin) and boy racers cruising the boulevard with gadgets attached to their Ford escorts that are worth more than the vehicle itself.

Combine the two on a Saturday night, throw in a few gallons of alcohol, a couple of birthdays, a bunch of people that in the words of Shameless’s Frank Gallagher “know how to throw a paaaaartay,” and you have an evening destined to be filled with jaggerbombs, brawls, vomit, and most importantly- cheesy chips.

Having decided to leave Essex for a while, this combination seemed as good as any for a bit of a ‘goodbye-Essex-blowout.’ My ever itchy feet are leading me to Kent for a while, living with my cousin, living by the sea again. :) My inability to stay still somewhere for more than thirty seconds is becoming a bit of a running joke with my friends, but I love being in new places, new jobs and people, and my life and various wacky plans may change at 100 miles per hour, but until I find what I’m looking for, (your guess is as good as mine) I can’t imagine being able to learn how to stay still.

With a pre drinking session in Billericay, followed by clubbing in Southend, I got the feeling I’d leave Essex with a bang. Now I’ve got a little bit of history with this particular gang of party-goers that deserves a mention before we continue this tale of Essex shenanigans …

I was eighteen years old, working in a bar in Spain that was a swimming pool, bar and restaurant -a place of various colourful characters and goings on shall we say, a job that could take up a whole separate blog post. Eighteen and living alone in a foreign country- I was having a whale of a time. I don’t think I ever slept in those first few months; living in a beach town in the summer season, learning the language and ways of the world as I went along in my own usual backward way- a beer in one hand, an ice-cream in the other, I was as happy as Larry.

Spain has a liberal way of doing things, as do its inhabitants; the chef at work used to get so drunk during the day, you’d hear him start to crash pots and pans together singing loudly at the top of his voice, and by 6 o’clock we’d be thinking- shit, how we going to get through evening service? There were various punch ups; (between staff not customers) the manager once wandering through the restaurant with a kitchen knife in his hand, looking for the waiter who’d just punched him in the face, sending him flying into the rack of crisps and then fled. God knows what the holiday makers made of Walkers packets flying everywhere- I remember being quietly amused, thinking- oh, this is what the real world, this world of adults is like then.

Anyway, one night while I was working, I met a young couple on holiday together- the nicest couple you’ve ever met and was amazed to find out we lived within a couple of streets to each other back in England. I spent the rest of their holiday loading them up with toxic sangria; knocking any type of alcohol into a jug of chopped fruit, topping it up with red wine and watching the girlfriend drink her boyfriend under the table every night. When they went home, they told their various cousins due to arrive the following week, “when you get to Mil Palmeras, go to the swimming pool bar and look for a girl called Melody.”

Hence some slight confusion when a group of rowdy boys and girls turned up at my work one day: “Are you Melody?”
“Yeh, who the hell are you lot?”
Two weeks of fun followed this little introduction, involving stolen wheelbarrows, death-defying drinking competitions and eating cigarette butts (I'll explain later…) I was a beach bum through and through by this point in the season and joined in their various holiday antics looking as scruffy as hell, I didn’t have a makeup bag or a pair of straighteners out there and I used to wear the same pair of green shorts all the time to the point that when we all met up in England when I visited home for Christmas, one of them said they half expected to see me walking down Romford high street in them.

They’re a great family and over the last few years in Spain and England I’ve somehow managed to integrate myself and meet them all; various brothers, sisters, mums, dads, step parents, cousins, step brothers, step sisters and boyfriends are always appearing out of the woodwork- this family is never-ending and so a birthday booze-up in Billericay was not to be missed.

* * * * *

Pre-drinking is an important, or rather a vital part of today’s culture- being an event designed to save you money; drink before you go out = less need to spend money in the club. The byproduct of this however is that you seem to drink twice as much twice as fast, which in the case of this particular evening, meant twice as many people being sick. (Not me before you ask.)

Perhaps it was the fruity punch (which more accurately was a bowl of every brightly coloured liquid in the kitchen poured into a mixing bowl,) or the little cups of florescent vodka jelly being passed around generously, but whatever the ingredients, the outcome was that everyone was feeling pretty jolly by the time the taxis pulled up to take us onto Southend. I managed to shotgun a lift with a designated driver, although his girlfriend calling shotgun to the front seat made a good call- puking out the window the whole way to Southend, yelling at a signpost she mistook for a human being, (an easy mistake to make with that much vodka in your system.) But the show must go on, and indeed it did- cutting some rug, making some shapes, free bubbly and little cards offering free shots to the group. We managed to loose at least half of the original number during the course of the evening- people throwing up in the bathroom, being thrown out and bundled in to taxis- but a few survivors lasted until around 3am- when followed the obligatory ‘kebab-and-a-punch-up’ routine.

The ‘kebab-and-a-punch-up routine’ involves two main elements:
A. buying large quantities of regurgitated meat wrapped in pitta bread smothered in cheese and mayo.
B. Throwing it all on the floor before you’ve eaten it to passionately fight a worthy cause in the middle of the street whilst waiting for your taxi.

I’m going to say that the origin of this particular punch up is irrelevant, merely because all I remember everyone saying was ‘he was being a dickhead’ being presented as the main justification for why everybody turned on this bloke. (Who I was sure had started off as one of our party?) I think the best way to judge whether it’s worth getting involved, is to ask yourself whether you would bother if you were sober. If the answer is no, then perhaps it’s the jaggerbombs churning inside that want a brawl rather than the decision-making part of your brain.

“Hold my cheesy chips, I’m going in.”
I was solemnly handed a polystyrene box and off one of them marched into the battleground. All that was missing was the theme tune to ‘Rocky’ with slow motion effects. I had the feeling that the fellow underneath them all was beginning to seriously regret ‘being a dickhead.’ Before anyone panics- it’s wasn’t blood and guts, indeed kebabs went flying and voices were raised, but there were a lot of punches that hit nothing but air, a lot of swinging and stumbling, a few repetitions of ‘cumon then, cumon then!’ and a fair bit of prancing around like ballerinas on steroids.

But all is fair in love and war as they say, so I strolled around from one end of the street to the other watching this little parade, the box of cheesy chips in one hand, a banner in the other cheering them on (I'm joking, I swear.)

The bouncer standing outside the club we had left nearly an hour ago gave us some friendly advice as the punch-up-parade shimmied past him; “Here’s a tip for you guys- if ya want to have a punch up, don’t do it the middle of the high street were ya ugly mugs will be caught on camera at every angle.”

Ah.

Hence the speedy exit into a mini-van back to Billericay, the cabbie kindly letting 8 people in the 9 seater, a cosey journey where we were all given a blow by blow account of what we had just witnessed from the punch-up-parade’s participants. Cheesy chips dude was convinced he’d strained his shoulder as a result of his contribution (either that or it was an excuse to ask for a back rub) and their battlefield tactics were still being repeated at 6am by the more enthusiastic members of the punch-up-possy;
“Yer and then I swung for him, and then I ducked and then I was like pow…”
By the next day when the story was being retold at the pub to another uncle, (this family is everywhere) it turned into a tale resembling a Mission Impossible style sequence. I was tempted to ask who was going to play them in the movie.

The guy on the receiving end of all this drama was left in Southend. He’s probably still there now.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself as the night was far from over. Back at their house after we bundled out of them mini-van, I took the liberty of putting the kettle on, making cups of tea and was half way through pouring the milk when I realized shot glasses were being lined up. It was 5am, the logic behind it being; “we bought all this alcohol, we might as well drink it.” A few rounds of sambuca and jaggermisters later, a new game started- The all important ‘anything you can do, I can do better’ game. This game can appear under several familiar titles; the ‘I bet you can’t do this’ game, or the ’I bet you a tenner you won’t eat that’ game.

Perhaps this is the place to expand on the cigarette butt story aforementioned. Back in Spain all those years ago when I was first introduced this rather entertaining group, I realized these boys in particular bore a competitive streak that knew no bounds- but possibly a line was crossed when one of them ate a cigarette butt for a 50 Euro bet. Impressed, we offered another 50, and he carried on, consuming the contents of the ashtray until he was violently sick in the flowerbed. It was the best 50 Euros I’ve ever spent.
Then there was the ‘I bet I can drink more than you’ version the following evening, a particular favourite, a bet with an outcome is still debated today. Myself and my competitor had 100 Euros each, the rules stipulating that whoever was sick first, lost. Now alcohol is relatively cheap out there and the measures rather generous in good old Espana so this got slightly out of hand, matching each other drink for drink as we went from bar to bar. One particular pint of long island iced tea that was more accurately a pint of petrol with a splash of coke, forever scars my memory. (And my stomach.)

This is where ‘shots of death’ first appeared in my life- Tequilla, sambucca and Tabasco sauce- which I realise I’ve previously mentioned in this blog (eight smelly boys and a small apartment) confessing to immediately chunddering it up, so actually I’m pretty screwed after four years of lying to my opponent saying I drank him under the table and laughing at him throwing up on the way home that night.. Damn. (Perhaps he won’t read this??)

So back at the house in Billericay, the suns coming up and these games start up again in the intelligent form of- ‘I bet if you punch me in the stomach, it doesn’t hurt-’ a game no doubt inspired by their Rambo-style performance on the streets of Southend. They took it turns- the part where they psyched themselves up, tensing stomach muscles being almost more entertaining than their faces as they pretended they could still breath after receiving a heavy blow; “That… d..didn’t hurt… my turn.”
I genuinely adore these boys, but I couldn’t quite work out the point- cigarette butt boy obviously ageeing as he disappeared into the living room to watch re-reuns on ‘One Tree Hill’ (!?) leaving the others to continue until one of them went flying, putting a plug socket through the wall.

They weren’t giving up; one began counting of the change in his pocket- “I bet you four pounds eighty he beats you in a race to the end of the street.” I had an urge to pat him on the head.

One thing to note when you’ve had a drink, is that your internal volume button increases without you even being aware, i.e. you’re shouting at the top of your voice when in your head, you think you’re being witty and polite. Eight people in a kitchen in the wee hours of the morning, despite all conscious efforts found it impossible to be respectably quiet to the sleeping parents upstairs. The alternative- yelling “Sssshhh! Ssshhh!” every thirty seconds surprisingly creates more noise than a bunch of football fans at an away game. The idea was that whoever was doing the most ‘ssshhhing’ would be seen as the one being good trying to calm everyone down- but, mother’s have a special instinct when it comes to their family; they know exactly which ones are the culprits, even through ceilings.

6.45am- watched a bit of breakfast news and after untangling myself from three excitable cocker-spaniels and three cats that were intent on sitting on me, looking at me with confused eyes as to why everyone was still awake at this ungodly hour, I crashed out on the sofa.

The next day involved typical Sunday hangover behaviour- a pub lunch where there’s always one that orders a pint of Stella, downs it bravely and disappears off the to the men’s to meet it again in the toilet bowl thirty seconds later, and one that wants to ‘get back on it,’ needing to be gently convinced otherwise. This was followed by a dose of X Factor back at the house, (they still hadn’t managed to get rid of all of us that had crashed on various blow-up beds and sofas by this point) a show that is far more fun when watching it in a group so you can all yell at the T.V collectively, giving expert opinions on judges and contestants. One of the boyfriends had said to me walking home from the pub,”it’s not just her I love, it’s the whole package- the family.” And curled up in their living room with them all in various states of dishevelment, cups of tea being passed around, I could see what he meant. It’s not a bad family to be a part of.

I made the rookie error of borrowing someone’s phone to call home as mine had run out of battery, only to call ‘home’ in this girls phone book. I was momentarily confused at the stranger’s voice, a stranger that definitely wasn’t my mum, so I hung up in a panic. I hung up on her mother. Everyone fell about laughing and after apologizing, I took my cue to leave (convincing my brother to come and pick me up as I was still wearing last night’s outfit.)

So I’ off to Kent folks! And with a psychic cousin, a beach and a whole new town of people who haven’t met me yet- Lord knows what’s in store. Whatever I find, my pen is at the ready…

To Work in this Land we call Essex

So I had a job, a very Essex job. And I quit it- today after the 3 month mark of being back in England. Now I’m not a quitter by any means- but I remember me and my best friend from school came up with a philosophy when we were about sixteen that “if it doesn’t make you happy, walk away from it.” (Funny enough we devised this little mantra after walking in the opposite direction to our school one Monday, bunking off for the day and sitting in the Costa coffee shop she worked in at weekends, drinking free coffee.)

Now I’m not saying this is mantra to live by, not by any means- sometimes in life there are things we have to do whether we like it or not; pay taxes, go to school (although me and my little friend didn’t think so at the time) but I miss that straightforward way of thinking – that in life there is happiness and unhappiness, and it won’t take much more than a day off school and a stolen Costa coffee carrot cake to levitate between the two- and this came to mind as I trudged off to work the other day.

I came back from Spain in September, handed in a C.V the morning after and started the next day. Now this is the most ‘Essex’ of venues, referring to the atmosphere, dress code and skin colour (I’m not talking ethnically, although the growing orange glow of the Essex population- male and female- could be categorized as an ethnic group at this rate.)

At first it was fun- it seemed to be the new ‘place to be’ and it really is a stunning venue. It was a brand new place, and there was a hopeful feel to it- it wasn’t a franchise or gimmick but a massive investment of time and money by a small group of people that really wanted this to work. But slowly I turned into one of those people that moan about their jobs- that make a face when they talk about their colleges and superiors, that scrape their feet and sulk on the way to work- and I swore I’d never be one of those people. Because at the end of the day- they’re just plain boring.

Anyway, there’s no need to bitch or moan about this place- firstly because I genuinely like most of the people there and secondly, I don’t really want to get in any kind of trouble. So the best way to describe it is, it was like being in a weird mash-up of The Only Way is Essex and a Martina Cole novel. When I got the job, the gravelly voice on the other end of the phone said “Babe, welcome to the firm” and I realised immediately that this was no TGI Fridays, a realisation brought to life with rumours of members of our ‘firm’ fired for stealing being beaten up in the car park, not to mention the being more cameras and locks around that a Swiss bank. Of course then there were all sort of interesting conversations to be over-heard by thick-looking (in reference to their necks as well as their IQs) blokes in trench coats and sports gear that were regulars, having “meetings” at the bar, (there aren’t inverted commas big enough to stress the irony in the word ‘meeting,’) conversations that made me feel naive and oblivious to the world and what really goes on beneath the surface.

The best bit was the commission of a picture- they had da Vinci’s The Last Supper painted and edited to include oysters, lobsters and bottles of Crystal champagne and pink Lauren Perrier bubbly at the table of Disciples that was to be hung above the oyster bar- a vision that truly horrified the Catholic in me. When we moved the huge piece from the store, standing back to take a look at the finished masterpiece sitting in its extravagant frame, it was commented that Jesus looked like a walrus, the others were in disagreement- they reckoned he looked like Boy George. I couldn’t help but look dismayed and slightly worried waiting for the thunderbolt to strike us all down dead, to which everyone took as step back from me, fearing that being religious was infectious. “Oh so you’re like, all Caflic then?” I didn’t take offense, because it’s not malice but ignorance that feeds prejudice. We fear what we don’t understand.

Shakespeare said “Ignorance is a curse from god; Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.” In a society where religion has become something to be suspicious of, we close our minds to possibilities and loose the tool in life that can truly get us to where we want in the world – knowledge is the tool, the wing, the key- every metaphor you can think of for opening doors and taking off . Not pieces of paper saying what we have or haven’t achieve in terms of A*-D, but the desire of wanting to learn for the pure joy of it- of opening your mind and expanding your horizons- I really believe that this is the way to self-fulfillment. We were all looking at the same painting in that store room but seeing a very different picture.

I wondered how the commissioned artist felt taking on copying and editing da Vinci’s master piece. Was it my Catholic ties that made me feel uncomfortable, or the fact that they didn’t even recognise the original painting they wanted to ‘Essex-up’? The only knowledge they had of the name da Vinci, was Darren Brown’s The da Vinci code. The general consensus was that Jesus looked pretty well-fed so it was probably a good thing that it was his last supper. I left the room.

This is by no means a deterrent to customers- the place is jammed packed every weekend, the restaurant fully booked, VIP areas in constant demand- I’m writing with a ‘upstairs downstairs’ vibe. I genuinely like the staff and owners (I may even have a slight crush on one of them- a man in a suit with great hair never ceases to catch my eye) but when someone that owns a restaurant asks you whether there is milk in an espresso, it’s time to move on.
(Just thought I’d drop that in there to save my neck from any red faced owners that try and murder me in the night…)

On the other hand by my reckoning, I thought being over 25s clientele, nice place, expensive prices would mean I’d meet a nice guy. The perks of the job of a bartender must be the people you meet right? Not quite. The problem with trying to see someone that you meet in a customer/ bartender ratio is:
A- He’s always dressed up in his nice clothes because he’s out, and you always look shit because you’re in your work uniform running around like a nutter, sweating and working.
B- Working in the bar trade, getting a weekend night off isn’t really going to happen, so when you free in the week, every other person- including the guy you’re trying to see in something other than your frumpy work uniform is going to be at work.
C- When they get drunk and slink off home with an equally drunk and slurring blonde, it’s at your place of work- so every other member of staff will take great pleasure in informing you of their antics that you missed. Nice.

So anyway apart from disappointing Essex men and the odd nutty gangster taking me out, (oh if I could only expand on that story here...) male talent was crossed off the list of perks of the job.
So what’s left- tips? Apparently not. Essex people for all their bling and Lauren Perrier guzzling, are not so hot on tipping it seems. It’s all teeth but no smile, and the owner’s statement of ‘I don’t believe in tips’ was slightly disconcerting…

I find I really pick up on a place’s and people’s energy- not as in super hero powers before you all get excited- but if I’m in an environment that is distinctly negative, it begins to leak into me, I take it in and feel with an intensity to the point my mum has cautioned me a few times to ‘stop feeling other people’s feelings.’ That uneasy feeling that hangs around my ankles began to ignite again, not quite touching me, but letting me know it’s there, not quite gone. It’s like a little creature- let’s call it my little goblin, that likes to let me know it’s still there whenever I wobble, like an annoying snotty child holding onto your leg, unwilling to be shaken off. I’d wander around the restaurant trying to breathe and stay calm polishing cutlery on perfectly laid tables and I’d feel it coming out from the depths of the dark and grabbing onto my ankles making my heavy with fear, the familiar blackness in my chest that makes everything feel far away. Far away and impossible. Only ten minutes of it, tops, only a couple of times. But I’d sit in the bathroom and give myself 10 minutes to decide whether to run out the door or tackle another 10 minutes. The ten minute rule is a gem to anybody on this earth- whenever you feel bad- ill, in a bad situation, deal with it in 10 minute manageable blocks, tangible time is easy to hold onto and control.
Of course it passed as it always does- but rather than be cross or disappointed that this snotty little goblin refuses to disappear- I looked around and saw this was exactly the environment my metaphorical creature would thrive in. And I was letting it happen. There’s nothing here that’s stimulating or motivating enough for me, and the reason why I wanted to work in a restaurant was because it’s fun and sociable, acting as a sidekick to my writing- not a drain on my energy. This place has not delivered so I thought, sod that- and I quit. I temporarily, forgot I was a writer- that’s my job so I better get on with it.

***

So I’m momentarily unemployed, in search of something more as I like to say; the search for the post-uni answer, for life’s answers in my own backward and chirpy way. I’m the kid that skips along barefoot and I’m skipping down the road towards whatever comes at me. I’ve signed up to volunteer instead, ranging from the Salvation Army to the local youth offenders support team. Slight unbalance in income there I know- I can hear my student overdraft letting out a grown and a sigh (and even a tut.)

This gesture of flinging myself to the wind might not be quite as admirable as Elizabeth Gilbert’s ‘Eat Pray Love’ which is really is my bible at the moment, (for a start, Gilbert got paid to write as she travelled around on her quest of self-discovery- I’ll be working weekends in a Frankie and Benny’s by next week most likely, my writing, volunteering and generally post-uni search for life’s meaning limited to week days only) but itchy feet are itchy feet and if something doesn’t make you happy and you can do something to change it, then do. Why not? There’s only one person that can stop you moaning and that’s yourself. So my lips are sealed (My pen, as usual, is not.)

Two Girls. Two Cities. Two Million Dating Disasters....

Love melodystravellingpen? Try

http://www.thebadandtheugly.webs.com/

"The Bad and the Ugly"

Two Girls. Two Cities. Two Million Dating Disasters...




We're two (mostly) normal girls. We're fun, young and, if we say it ourselves, complete stunners. So why are we so hopeless when it comes to matters of the heart?



Essex Girl is totally ATD (that's Addicted To Drama for those of you not down with the acronyms); completely in love with bad boys, completely addicted to trouble, completely and utterly destined to make you go "oh my god, you're insane!" whenever she tells you about her latest conquest. Her stories are guaranteed to make your toes curl and your tongue hang out. Or, at the very least, make you grab her arm and shake it wildly, hoping that you'll knock some sense into her. But at least she's getting some serious action.



London Girl, on the other hand, is big on the unrequited love thing. Sure, she goes on dates, but she always ends up dating the sort of people that you edge away from nervously when you see them on the bus. The kind of men who want to marry you after one terrible date. The kind of men who think that buying you a Nandos is a surefire way into your knickers. The kind of men, to put it frankly, that would never get the lead in a RomCom. And, to make matters worse, she's hopelessly in love with her oh-so-handsome, oh-so-funny, oh-so-perfect and oh-so-taken BFF. Love stinks, right?



We've joined forces to reveal all the stuff that we'd sworn never to tell anyone. The kind of stories you won't find anywhere else. Think you've heard it all? Think again.

http://thebadandtheugly.webs.com/

To Essex and Beyond... Don't be Jell.

Essex. The word used to conjure up images of white stilettos, dancing around handbags and jumped-up Ford Escorts along Southend Boulevard. Our generation however, have morphed the ‘Essex-lander’ into a different creature entirely… Think orange, think enhanced- we’re talking boobs, lips, nails eyelashes, skin, even bikini lines. And it’s not just the girls, it’s the boys too- think gelled side partings and cardigans, sunbeds and pink shirts with the buttons done up to the top. The ‘Essex look’ can be spotted a mile off and appears to be a growing phenomenon thanks to the notoriety of a particular ITV2 show…

Where I work seems to be a little hubub of this world of Essex- the owners were approached to film the “The Only Way is Essex” here but refused the offer, thinking it would loose them credibility and harm the image of sophistication they were trying to achieve. (?)Since the place’s clientele seems to be the contents of the show’s extras list, I’m not sure what they’re being so sniffy about. I was indignant at my denial of fame.

From what I’ve seen of the fashion parade in this venue every weekend, (not quite as good as Essex fashion week mind,) I might go as far as to say that the guys are more extreme than the girls. They feel untouchable in a way, not in a Brad Pitt/ George Clooney sense, but in a ‘look-but-don’t-touch-me-or-it-will-all-rub-off’ sense, with their fake tan and gelled hair and those really low cut v-neck t-shirts with a waxed and literally oiled chest casually protruding. It made me realise how guys must feel around a girl with four inches of cake on her face, with hair back combed and hair-sprayed to the points it’s a fire hazard in the smoking area. You can’t get near remnants of the person underneath the circus act.

What happened to the sexiest of men- those that pull on a t shirt and jeans and just look irresistible with zero effort- bit of stumble; the rough edgy look? That- is hot. Those of you that know me well enough will know the coffee-making Italian I’m referring to here… (I just hope he can’t read enough English or is unaware of my existence enough to read that.)

So there was a lot of excitement at a series that promised an insight to this strange land, and I have to say- it’s certainly delivered in terms of laughs. A real portrayal of life in Essex? That is up for debate. In the first episode one of the orange men who talks in such a fashion that it looks like from his jaw action he’s on cocaine, informs the viewer that a lot of people think Essex is like L.A. We’re told this as he makes a big show and dance of buying a Rolex watch and a designer jacket that are mysteriously never seen or mentioned again on the series... Now, I’ve never been to L.A- but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that this cardigan-wearing-sunbed man is incorrect. Either that or we are from very different parts of Essex.

‘Nanny Pat’ is surely the star of the show- Orange Jaw Man seems to wander into his bachelor pad to find his beloved Nanna ironing his shirts and cooking sausage plaits intermittently. If she’s not already there she’s at the door with a casserole telling an equally orange granddaughter how proud of her she is as the girl recalls writing in her diary and begging to God every night “Please God, please let me be a popstar.”

The reply from the Omnipotent Almighty was most likely something along the lines of-
“My child, tis not a question of letting you be a popstar- you have free-will, re- pray that one to me: How about ‘Please God, let me able to sing in tune and dance at the same time.’ Let us begin with that one my dear tangoed child.”

I thought I’d ask around- what do Essex-landers think of their county compared to the outsider’s view? When I was at university it was a big deal to be from Essex; Essex-landers seem to stick together and it was always extremely exciting to find a fellow student from this magical region. I didn’t hear the same affect for “Omg! You’re from Surrey!”

The general consensus from inside our border is that Essex people ‘make the effort;’ as in boys and girls spend a lot of time getting ready, both sexes piling on layers of makeup and peeling off layers of clothes. I myself noticed last time I went to London for the evening that actually, the men all looked a bit scruffy in comparison to the pristine and well-kept look of the Essex male. Outside of Essex however, whether this ‘making the effort’ looks good or ridiculous is the varying factor, but mostly it’s the IQ level that seems to be the issue with the reputation.

Everyone was laughing at me on fireworks night when I made the comment; “Just think, this time all those years ago Guy Fawkes was crawling under parliament trying to blow the place up.” ‘Sugar Lips’ from the show didn’t even get that far. Her dad held his head in shame as she asked him whether Guy Fawkes was American- this is the girl who thought the capital of India was Pakistan. It’s Jade Goody and the mysterious origin of ‘East Anglia’ all over again- innocent ignorance that the public lap up; Sugar lips is indeed one of the most popular cast members.

Would it really be that bad to have a brain like that? Ignorance is bliss they say- a life where you flitter from hair appointment to manicure to your Friday night out- a small brain equals small problems surely? I don’t see any of them stressing about the meaning of life, torturing themselves about where they’re going and what they want to do.


***

Being from Essex is a novelty that doesn’t wear off anytime soon when you leave the borders of this baffling county- in fact, notoriety seems to grow. I was in Surrey a couple of weeks ago at a house party of twenty people or so, and at least sixteen of them where talking about the show. All at once.
“Oh my God you’re from Essex!” The amazement magnified when I told them yes, I have actually been to the Sugar Hut and the King William- even having dinner in there one night with a friend when low and behold Orange Jaw man and his tangerine colour lady-friend were filmed sipping bubbly at the table next to us. (I pretended not to be excited, but I don’t play calm and casually cool very well…) The scene filmed saw two equally orange girls join the table for some stimulating conversation before they trotted off to leave the love birds to their pink Moet.

Can I just take a minute to explain when I say these girls are orange, that word doesn’t do it justice. It’s like a radioactive glow, somewhere between mud and tangerine, captivating in a way that makes spectators jaws-drop, although whether it’s the fake boobs spilling over a tight top or the alarming skin colour that’s making tongues hang out is the real question.

My reaction is “Jesus Christ please tell me I’ve never been that colour.” (Cue a quick flick through facebook photos to check… Conclusion- not too bad on the Essex-scale of tango.)

I drove past ‘Dueces’ last week and the burnt-out mess was a very sorry sight indeed. Firebombed after its opening night, I wonder if Orange Jaw Man is wondering how this represents his popularity, either that or the popularity of the bar’s co investor- Jack Tweed. (Jade Goodey’s grieving widow.)

That night in Surrey, me and my friend who is also from Essex, managed to convince one of the boys from the party that yes, it’s true- all Essex girl have a vajazzle. Essex translation- a vajazzle is a decoration of little crystals in that are stuck on in the bikini area. In fact my friend went one step further and said her vajazzle was in the shape of a Labrador. (I really don’t know where that came from.) He was gobsmacked, gleefully gobsmacked that he had managed to meet two real Essex girls with actual vajazzles. It made his night. (This particular fellow ended up in A and E at the end of the evening due to his consumption of alcohol, so I hope the tale of the vajazzled Labrador wasn’t erased from his memory…

The award for the best word of the series must be ‘Jell’- Essex for jealous- a trait displayed constantly between untrusting partners on the show- one particularly ‘Jell’ character kindly explaining that “being jealous shows you care.” Bunch of flowers would have sufficed Mr. Jell Miester.

Jell-meister’s new woman after dumping Sugar Lips had a face that was a strange mixture of Queen Cleopatra and a horse- an effect caused no doubt by the buckets of Botox she’s had injected. I felt sorry for Sugar Lips being spurned- but she consoled herself with a psychic’s prediction (or physic as her Barbie-looking friend misread) that she will soon meet a West Ham football player. From a ‘Jell’ night club owner (well actually the son of a nightclub owner) to the prospect of a promiscuous male who runs around in a pair of shorts starting sentences with “at the end of the day” for a living. Lucky girl.

I do have my Essex moments- the most repeated among my friends probably me saying on an airplane to Amsterdam for my 21stbirthday, as we broke the clouds at a few hundred thousand feet;
“See, everyday’s a sunny day, it’s just the clouds that get in the way…”

That sentence, although uttered in complete sincerity at the time, for me sums up Essex mentality (not my mentality) - dumb but sweet natured. There’s no malice in the characters on screen. Even the original tangerine girlfriend of Orange Jaw man who is probably the most unlikable- with eyebrows constantly raised so high when she speaks, (or rather bitches) I worry they’ll get lost in her hairline- even this young lady uttering obscenities at her ex and his new girlfriend in between telling anyone and everyone they were together for nine years- you can just see it’s all a defence. She’s being horrible because she’s hurt. I would be too if I wasted nine years of my life with someone who spent that much time in front of a mirror.


Thinking about the plotlines of the show, (whether they’re scripted or unscripted being a bit of a debate here) they all revovle around the ever-changing dynamics of this group's relationships. Elizabeth Gilbert’s novel ‘Eat Pray Love’ came to mind- the part when she admitted having got all the way to Bali on her journey of self discovery and enlightenment, and all she wanted to ask the wise old medicine man about was about her relationship. One of my oldest friends and I went to dinner yesterday- I arrived back realising that from 6.30 until 10pm we didn’t stop talking for more than five minutes, and 80% of that time- yep you’ve guessed it, we were talking about boys.

So when you strip away all the vajazzle and the spray tan washes down the plughole, they’re just like you and me. It doesn’t matter whether your orange, radioactive, ‘Jell’ or have eyebrows that defy the rest of your face, underneath all that it’s all about relationships. We love to torture eachother, fall in and out of love, sit staring at the phone that doesn’t ring, break up, make up, first dates and best mates. And best of all- dissect every sentence and text afterwards with a glass of pinot to hand. There’s humanity underneath all the fake bake- and I think that’s why we watch it. (Not just to take the piss then..?) So take it with a pinch of salt, a splash of lip gloss and hay, don’t be too Jell if you’re not from Essex…


***


So as the season comes to an end, I’m strangely sad that my vajazzled home county is leaving my screen, although I’m quite excited at the prospect of seeing Orange Jaw Man and the Jell Meister battle it out in a boxing ring. Not to mention the audience- Who will win the pouting punch up between Sugar Lips and the Jell Miester’s new Botoxed horse/ lady? Who will triumph in the tango-tantrum between Orange Jaw Man’s equally orange lovers?

Who to cheer for? I’m putting my money on the underdog of the series- Arg. From a silent soppy sidekick with lines so scripted we could write them ourselves, to a Ratpack singing sweetheart that won his girl back- getting the opportunity to laugh at his tormenter who ended up with a burnt down club, being sacked by his own sister and acquiring an even more radioactive girlfriend than the last. Karma’s a bitch. I can see Arg jumping in at the last minute and knocking out the pair of them with his microphone (or his stiff posture as his sings)

Whatever the outcome, you can bet your bottom dollar there’s a fair few people waiting for series 2...