The Nature of the Beast....

So Gary Speed has been the topic of many conversations, all ending with the same question- why?

There are photos of him hours before, smiling and happy talking about the World Cup- talking in future tense. This of course can mean nothing- anyone that understands the solitary nature of depression knows that the outside presentation of yourself is often the opposite of the person screaming for help inside. But depression is more physical and all-consuming than many are aware- the world becomes an inaccessible place, you almost don’t speak the same language as everybody else such is the solitude of that darkness that gnaws at you like a rat.

That didn’t look like a depressed man at the BBC. Either he’s a good actor, or…. And many said the same thing, discussing the day’s tabloids that were spread on the table… there’s something else. With rumours flying around, the one that keeps re surfacing is the format we are most used to- a paper had a story on him, and whatever the nature of that story, it was bad enough that Speed couldn’t face it. Tabloid-wise this narrows it down- stories they dig up and splash across front pages that could cause a man to hang himself come in catagories we have all seen before and perhaps it is unwise to make suggestions here as to not add to hearsay. It would also be wise to take into consideration that we don’t know this man – we know the media representation of him which is a very different thing.

 No doubt the truth will out as it has a habit of doing when tabloids are involved, but it should make you aware of the two avenues of debate—

                                      What was the secret?       /       Why do we want to know?

Is it our business to know the answer to this man’s last painful hours? Is this ‘news’? Why do you, the reader, need to know? Yes his job lead him to be in the public eye, but I have a feeling that our thirst for the answer doesn’t lie under the heading of compassion, but of curiosity.  We don’t ask why to heal our sorrow the way his family needs to ask why, so where does the line fall between public knowledge and private?

I think this is why the Leveson Enquiry is something we should all be taking note of, not in terms of seeing which downtrodden celebrity is moaning about being harassed or infringed upon- this is not new. What is new is the sudden self-awareness it has generated in the public about how it’s got this far, how deep it goes and what we’re willing to tolerate in order to satisfy our own demands of a media-lead society.

I think it’s a fair summary to say the nail in the coffin of the scandal was the hacking of  Milly Dolwer’s phone, and hearing her mother speak at the enquiry highlighted the significance- how she had thought as a consequence, that her daughter was still alive. It would be naive to think that this is a new practice in the underworld of ‘investigative’ journalism, so what’s changed? What did hacking the mobile phone of Milly Dowler show us that made us all so uncomfortable?

It’s the fact it has highlighted our responsibility, as readers, as members of the consumer public. It’s nice and comfortable to blame an Elderly Australian who actually, doesn’t look like he knows what day of the week it is, letalone heard of NOTW (1% of his empire) That’s too easy. Underneath is a darker truth that maybe we’re not ready to look at. We live in a world of supply and demand, so we should take collective responsibility for the media monster created, not scurry away and search for a scapegoat; individual slimy journalists and red haired women to pin to the wall. If there was no demand, there would be no need for the supply.

We buy those 90p magazines of such quality we shouldn’t even wipe our bottoms with them letalone take their content as bible truth, with articles stretched so far from the truth that one quote form a ‘source’ can span into a whole interpreted article of whats-their-names dramatic weight loss or failing marriage.

It is our generation’s interest in reality TV and a cheap 5 minute celebrity shelf-life and as all of this grows we endorse it; the perfurme, the books, the t-shirts, until  it is impossible to flick through 1000 Bky channels without a constant hum of our so called ‘reality’ seeping through; supply and demand supply and demand.. Turn on any TV channel and it is guaranteed you’ll find some concept of ‘reality show’ from Tool Academy, Judge Judy, to celebrity love island/jungle/rehab/farm, following people we can laugh at, love, hate, write about. We’ve been doing this for hundreds of years- people in the stocks, public hangings- but internet and television have twisted such concepts into a whole new species; look at TOWIE, Made in Chelsea, Geordie Shore, and the latest Desperate Scousewives (God help us.)

The line between entertainment and reality has bled into one another; I liked the Royal wedding but why has Pippa Middleton’s buttocks become national treasures? I don’t mind Sienna Millers movies but why do I have to know about every male she sleeps with? I like JK Rowlings books, but why were journalists harassing her children? And most importantly, why do the Kardashain clan exist??

Perhaps the most infamous case is the death of Princess Diana, hounded by photographers into a tunnel and a fatal car smash. Churn out those conspiracy theories all you like BUT paparazzi don’t go on the hunt for pictures to frame copies on their walls, they take them because they sell- and who is the highest bidder?? We are. A newspaper is the middle man.

As a society we are each individually to blame for phone hacking- we should accept that it’s us that has turned Sunday night television into something that features ‘celebs’ eating animal anus’s  and enduring cockroaches up their noses. Supply and demand supply and demand. It’s an interesting little circle that we have actively chosen to be a part of, like a hamster in a running wheel.

Maybe Gary Speed’s secret will come to light, or maybe there’s no secret at all- but if that headline does arise, read that paper knowing that story cost that man his life. The debate shouldn’t be what did he do, but what did WE do. We are holding the reins; the people, the public, the consumer- imagine the media like an animal that we hold the leash to- we feed it, goad it, poke it with a stick, and then wonder why it turns round and bites a small child. The Leveson enquiry shouldn’t result with a tap on the nose and ‘bad dog!’ to journalists and media giants, but make the owners look at the animal it created. When I say owners, don’t think the Murchochs- they don’t own the media- WE do. We keep the Murcdochs pockets lined- so let’s decide what we line it with.

Don’t endorse bullshit.   And bullshit shall not be produced.

#DontEndorseBS

101 Ways To Keep A Man (And Loose Your Self Respect)

Feminists drive me nuts- when you use the term it usually conjures up images of a ballsy man-hater (and they’re usually single) but I thought something ought to be said about The Sun Page 23, (17/11/11)



101 Ways To Keep A Man by Emiliana Silvestri
“How to stop your man from having an affair” shouts the headline- with a ‘cut out and keep your man’ page with helpful hints and tips from Emiliana’s new book, such as ‘Learn to cook and be a nearly naked chef’- illustrated by the author herself by wearing a low-cut top and learning over an oven in tight red satin lingerie, breasts spilling out into her baking tray holding a pie. The picture of this rather leathery looking woman does not exactly inspire confidence I must say.



Now you could argue that The Sun isn’t exactly a woman’s paper, Page Three being a popular debate. But having met a few of the page three girls while working at Nuts, I don’t think it’s topless modelling that is derogatory for women (firstly because who says women as a gender are represented by Page Three?) but being told ‘Make yourself more interesting’ I DO find slightly offensive.



Any article detailing how to keep your man from straying should strike us all as odd. The word ‘keep’ implies two things;
1. That you’re accepting men straying is a fact.
2. It’s the woman’s responsibility to do the ‘keeping’ and prevent the straying.



Never-ending tales of over-paid sports men being unfaithful to their wives who consequently rarely seem to leave, constantly reinforce the belief that men go out and spread their seed and its the wife’s duty to forgive them- the wives of John Terry and Ryan Gigs being jaw-dropping examples of the fine line between footballer’s wife and prostitute.

It’s important to note that these relationships, although in the harsh glare of the public eye, are still real relationships- we don’t know Mrs Terry or Mrs Gigs or the ins and outs of their decisions to stay. But Emiliana’s advice seems to imply that these women acted correctly in line with current common belief, and even further- implies they are to blame for their husband’s roving eyes. (N.B most women don’t have a footballer’s bank balance to act as compensation…)




This isn’t written under the ‘feminist’ tag here but more under the theme of common sense. I might hold an old fashion vision of a tall strong man, a breadwinner looking after me and my future family- but I’ve got to admit, I don’t have much intention of getting on my knees for it. And I certainly don’t intend to be baking apple pies half-naked to sustain it.

"I am simply being honest.” Emiliana says. “Men have three basic instincts — food, shelter and sex. If you nail that as a woman, there's no need for him to look elsewhere."


I don’t think there is a sentence more depressing.

‘As a woman’- are these our highest aims- to water, feed and shelter? What am I dating? A man or a plant??
Emiliana’s ‘honesty’ generates an image of a gorilla in a suit, lumbering through the door, sniffing out his woman and his food. If he doesn’t find it, he follows the smell to the next house with the next heavy-bossomed woman he can find holding a baking tray.
Should we give the male species perhaps a little bit more credit here?



“Men don't cheat because they can — they cheat because they are not fulfilled at home”

Ouch!
Did you hear that Cheryl Cole- its YOUR fault.



It just seems a bit too easy to think that this is the simple formula- feed them, keep the house clean, have sex with them. Are our men really that basic?? Even if you decided to bite your tongue and follow Emiliana’s rules, the most likely outcome is that your just going to feel even more of a twat naked in your apron if you find out he still couldn’t keep it in his pants, you ringing various girlfriends sobbing in your kitchen; ‘but what’s wrong with my pie??’

There’s nothing wrong- you just need to give somebody else the fork and go bake yourself some self respect instead.




“It is so easy to make small changes and to keep a man enthralled. Men love family and security and a happy home.”



What about what we love? There’s not a single mention of all this effort being a two-way street which was slightly disappointing- if I’m farting about cooking delicious treats and dieting to have a body and libido to satisfy, then what exactly am I getting in return for all my hard work?

I think the fact this Nancy Dell’olio look-alike is making, is that him coming home to you at all is the reward- we should be damn grateful if this man has decided his marital bed is worthy of him this evening, so grin and wipe his mouth as his eats his lamb chops.



"They would rather have a family get together at home than a torrid one-night stand in a hotel. But women have to make an effort."



Ok so let me see if I’ve got this right- men don’t even like cheating, but do it anyway in response to our failure to keep them ENTHRALLED?? Who is she getting her facts from- Ryan Gigs??



I think it must come down to this; why would you want ‘keep’ someone? I don’t want to keep anybody against their will. If they want to go out and cheat, it doesn’t really matter how much cooking in my bra I do, do I really want to eat my dinner with somebody I had to lure to the dinner table?



If this is what a marriage entails then I can feel myself backing firmly away from the alter- from Emiliana’s point of view, I can’t quite see what I’m going to be getting out of all this prancing around, besides, anyone that knows me knows I’m a terrible cook…





                                                                   * * *





The best thing about articles being printed on-line as well as in the paper is the comments box- I think this one says it all..



“Doesn't work.... I dated her..... and cheated on her. She looks rough, moans all the time, can't cook and is terrible in bed- when she didn't have a headache!! Couldn't wait to get shot of her!!!”



Stick that in your apple pie Emiliana.


http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/woman/3940787/How-to-stop-your-man-having-affairs.html




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The Trainline: Passengers, Bulgarians and Bonny Wee Scotland...

Of all the tales that have been recorded here, the two stories that seem to have brought forth the most laughs are the infamous tale of me, the missing dog and an 800 euro reward: http://melodystravellingpen.blogspot.com/2010/08/mystery-of-missing-dog-and-800-euro.html

And the episode with the train toilet, namely me with my pants round my ankles and the door sliding open to a packed train.
http://melodystravellingpen.blogspot.com/2011/09/essex-girls-guide-to-city-life.html


Since I have avoided small dogs and promises of large rewards ever since, I thankfully have no similar stories to share from that perspective. But trains are another matter. Although I have indeed learnt my lesson and now LOCK the door in public places, trains are funny old things where etiquette seems to go out the window…



London trains I have decided, are like the ancient gods of Greece and Rome, omniscient with the power to make or break your day, (or your life) your best interests not being their primary concern-

As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,

They kill us for their sport

Will the train get to Liverpool Street? Will there be signal failure at Hackney downs again? Only the Gods can know. What you can be sure of as a passenger on National Rail, is that if the temperature fluctuates above or below average by 5 degrees or more, chaos shall ensue. I have seen ‘hot’ weather make train lines apparently melt, snow bringing trains to a standstill within 30 seconds of the first fallen snow flake as only British snow can do, and even, ladies and gentleman rain. Yes, rain- this might be England, and yes its rains a lot- but National Rail are not prepared for rain. Getting to and from work is a game for the gods, hit and miss. You stand on the platform and leave your fate in the hands of the train Lords.



Romford- Liverpool St.

I have the pleasure of getting the early train where you’ll find the distinct difference being that before 7am it’s full of builders, and after 8am its full of suits.

Whatever time it is, the morning train is rather unsociable, more so than tube where the rule of thumb is that you can be jammed in someone’s armpit but you must still pretend that you are a solitary traveler, no eye contact and definitely no talking to eachother, otherwise fellow commuters will stare at you like you’re on day release. The morning train is pretty much a snooze cabin, with fellow passengers dribbling, snoring, and earphones playing Ndubs far too loudly. The guy sitting opposite me one particular morning had his hood up on a paint stained jumper, eyes rolled in the back of his head in a manner that made me unsure whether he was dead rather than sleeping, his legs flapping open. There was a large hole in his crotch. And he was wearing a very flimsy pair of pants. Lovely. I felt my golden grahams debating whether to stay in my stomach.

I stared at him (his face not his crotch) and wondered- did he not see this slight mishap when he got dressed?? Yes it’s the 6.48am train, yes its dark, its cold- we’re on the same train so I know this- but I have managed to dress myself in a way that doesn’t have me confused with a homeless person. I don’t have a hole in my pants.

Perhaps not. I did however go to work the following morning with my skirt on inside out.

I had dressed and stumbled down towards the coffee machine at around 6.15 waking up my brother’s girlfriend, who due to the size and logistics of our house, was asleep in the conservatory with my brother. (My mother keeps waiting for one of us to move out, but it’s not quite going to plan.)

“Babe you’ve got your skirt on inside out.” She tells me helpfully, never grumpy despite the fact I always seem to crash around and wake her up each morning. I was so tired I took it off there and then in the middle of the kitchen turned it outside in and put it back on.

It wasn’t until I was halfway to work did a kind-looking lady whisper in my ear at Holborn, “Darling, I think you skirt is inside out- I can see the label.”

Oh. In my sleepy stupor I had taken my skirt off, turned it through twice, and then got all the way to London before somebody told me. Not bad considering it was only 7.38am.



Liverpool Street- Southend


Two guys sit next in the seats next to me. Its Thursday evening, I’m on my way out of London after a gig. This pair are donned up in suits with one of them holding a bag of Burger King, both smelling of beer and jack Daniels; this being the general Thursday night Liverpool Street-look.

“What the fuck are on your feet mate?”
The boy with the burger points to his friend’s feet, feet that are sporting a rather impressive pair of blue, clean, suede loafers.
“Oi, these cost a fucking monkey I’ll have you know.”
I don’t know how much this is, but I’m going to guess at his indignant tone that a monkey is a fair amount for a pair of suede loafers.
“I don’t care if they were a fucking donkey mate, they’re ponce shoes.”
I wonder what profile he got this gem of information from.
“What you talking about? These are the bollocks these are.”
They’re definitely peeled of something’s bollocks judging by the texture, and before burger boy clocks this witty connection, blue shoes remembers his hunger and clasps his stomach.
“I will give you FIVE pounds for that burger, right here right now.”
Considering inflation levels, the shit economy and the fact a large rubbery burger from Burger King is about a fiver anyway, this isn’t a good deal.
“No” says the other, holding the burger in both hands, but not taking a bite, obviously interested to see where this bargaining will go. Mayo and lettuce are starting to drip out.

“A fucking fiver- come on mate, I’m Hank Marvin.”
The burger boy smiles and says slowly- “I’ll swap the burger.”
“For what?”
“I’ll swap you the burger for the shoes.”
We all look down at the blue suede shoes. This just got interesting.


“No mate no, I can’t do that.” blue shoes boy is shaking his head, his eyes not leaving the burger which to be honest, seems to be falling apart anyway, loosing value by the second in my opinion, but beer hunger has been known to make us all eat stranger things than a cold burger..

The deliberation is still going on by the time the train reaches Romford, and I’m half tempted to stay on for a few more stops as blue shoes is genuinely getting closer to giving in, offering a staggering 20 pounds sterling for the burger, burger boy still holding out for the loafers. I leave them bartering, the burger no doubt stone cold anyway, walking home wishing I had bought the meal myself to make tidy profit.




London Victoria- Edinburgh


Luka boy as he was fondly named at uni due to the fact there was a Luka girl and a Luka boy in our halls of residence, is a truly original human being that cannot be described, but only shown to you. Everybody in the entire university knew Luka boy, and although no doubt popular, I do remember being hesitant on my first evening in halls thinking it was a possibility that his strange Bulgarian might be a little unhinged. He can be slightly disarming the first time you meet him- we always say that you have to ‘get’ Luka, otherwise you just think he’s from another planet.



He already had a degree in drama when I met him, and had among other acting credits, played a rapist in a BBC Crime Watch re-enactment, before studying for a degree in European studies when I met him at Royal Holloway, then onto a Masters in Islamic studies in Edinburgh. His mother was a brain surgeon working for the Red Cross in all sorts of dangerous countries that Luka seemed to get dragged to every summer holidays, his father owning a factory that made optical lenses for –among other things- sniper guns. (An interesting marriage combo.) His love for women was old fashioned in his genuine awe for the female form, but it was mixed with outrageous lines and language which likened him to Borat rather than Cassanova. Luka boy is the only guy I know that can say the following and somehow get away with it being charming; “Melody, your boobs are like stars from the Star Wars galaxy.”

He has diplomatic immunity, is a qualified masseuse, speaks three languages and is half Italian, this being a fact he only realized in our second year of uni to his utmost horror. He accused us of blasphemy when we explained that with his mother being Italian, he was consequently half Italian, regardless of where he was born and grew up.

“I am Bulgarian he cried.” beating his chest indignantly. Bulgarians have strange and wonderful customs and throw the best parties. Going to the Bulgarian student’s birthday gatherings saw banquets of fresh fruit laden on the tables, unlimited liquor and candles in every room. The only thing you need to watch out for is the Rakia. Some sort of alcohol made from grapes, it strips paint and rots liver, Luka turning up with several home-made bottles one night that his father made which left me with alcoholic poising so severe that after a Friday session I was still being violently sick on Monday morning, along with strange side effects such as my pierced ears closed up and my hair stopped growing. I couldn’t even smell alcohol for two and a half months after that and I have never experienced memory loss like it since…



That’s not even the half of it. Luka with cross mountains for you, swim oceans for you, shower you with complements, all you have to do is tie him down to a map coordinate. You never quite know where this guy could be at any given moment, trekking through the mountains of Scotland gathering research on his latest PHD thesis titled ‘Muslim women in Scotland,’ or popping down to London in a rented car for one night before visiting pals in Oxford, although you’ll never get an answer out of him as to what he’s doing or where he’s staying and you’re not even sure that he has a driving license.



So me and my amiga Kelly jumped on a train one Friday afternoon for a long weekend to Edinburgh to visit the Legend that is Luka boy. I had never been to Scotland before, I’m not sure I’d ever been north of London when it comes to traveling around England in all honesty- my geography is that if you’re not a Londoner, you’re a northerner. And then there’s Scotland.

These trains definitely beat the tin carriages that crawl into Liverpool Street through the dregs of east London and Stratford. There were tables and seat numbers and cushions. We piled on with our holdals, beer, wine and chocolate, not taking notice of seat numbers per se- and proceeded to gossip and giggle and generally annoy all other passengers until a thought struck us. We immediately called Luka.



“Luka, do they use Euros in Scotland?? We didn’t change up any money!”
There is a sigh on the other end of the line as he informs exasperatedly that no, we don’t need Euros. We call him back 45 seconds later.
“Luka- is it going to cost us more to use our phones in Scotland??
Oh my God, girls, iz the same gaad damn caaantry!” (Think compare the merkat.com but two octaves lower for the full effect.)



We take Lukas screeching in jest, as it’s a miracle to get him on the phone, especially twice in a row. It was always going to be a risk visiting Luka boy as since you never quite know where he is, it was just as likely we could have got on a train only to find out that he was nowhere near Scotland when we arrived, going off to Lithuania for work experience as was indeed the case last summer. (God knows what type of work experience they offer in Lithuania..)



On the train on our little adventure we stop at York, where an overweight Scottish woman with a large pram clambers on with her very loud mother and aunt. The woman and the toddler smeared in chocolate are the only ones with tickets- the mother an aunt fussing like clucking hens are being supposedly helpful although they take up more room than the luggage. It would seem I was sitting in this woman’s seat from the daggers being stared in my direction, (why do people get more aggressive the further north you go?) but decided not to worry as the seat opposite me was empty.



I suddenly notice that the train has begun to move away from the station. The women start squawking “but we’ve got to get off! The cars on a meter!” -the next stop is Newcastle. Me and Kelly think this is hilarious, but as the larger of the two women bundle down the isle towards the driver, she stops at my chair and says in a tone identical to the Scottish caretaker in the Simpsons, her ‘R’s rolling and hissing-

“Yourrrr sitting in the wrrrrrong seat!”

The weekend doesn’t not disappoint, involving little sleep, champagne, cocktail bars and Luka boys unbeatable generosity and hospitality, managing to make it through the weekend without upsetting too many more Scots, only upsetting Luka’s Nigerian house mate. The accent throws me considering its Nigerian with a firm twang of Scottish- calling everybody ‘pal,’ ‘ey pal’ with a voice deep like a Braveheart warrior.

“Your English is very good.” I tell him, “Where did you learn it?”
“Is she kidding me?” He says, eyebrows raised looking at Luka, then at me- He’s very tall and so bends down so we’re at eye level. “We speak English in Nigera!”
I give up.