Mud, Sweat and Beers. Reading 2012; A Survivor's Story.

Ever wondered what happens when you throw a tent, a borderline alcoholic midget, some vodka, guy ropes,  and a fuck load of friends into a blender? Reading 2012, essentially...

Day one: ‘Alan’

ALAN. ALAN. ALAN.....STEVE?

Alan?

BUTT SCRATCHER? BUTT SCRATCHER! ... MARGARET THATCHER! ... CHILD SNATCHER...

FENTON. FENTON. OH JESUS CHRIST! FENTON!!!!!

The familiar cries rung out across the campsite from the second I entered the field. Seriously, has anyone seen Alan? On arrival a large, clear bin-bag was thrusted at me, containing three cans of free lager. What a kind gesture! After a 2 hour coach journey followed by a strenuous trek with a rucksack at least twice my size and weight, the lovely, thoughtful people who run Reading have provided me with free alcoholic sustenance to kindly greet-...Oh. It’s 2.8% SKOL. How fucking generous. £200 and you give me this?! For two hundred sodding quid I expect a gold plated can filled with the blood of angels. Not Skol, Lord, save me the disappointment next year gents and just piss in a cup and hand it to me. Given the amount the reps seem to drink it would probably have a higher alcoholic content than the depressingly weak, pissy excuse for alcohol we’d been presented with anyway.

I momentarily cast my resentment aside and focus on the task at hand. Assembling our tent. How hard can it be, honestly? We assembled it every day for a month in Brazil last summer, and Laura and I resurrected it again at Reading 2011, surely we must know how to do it by now?

...After nearly an hour of innuendos flying as to where we’d insert the ‘large black pole’ our tent was assembled and looking...well, pretty much tent shaped. We’d found a spot suitably set back from the field’s perimeter that it wouldn’t be used as a urinal, and when the last peg had been lovingly rammed into the ground, we were feeling pretty damn proud.... Then more friends arrived.

“Um, I don’t suppose you’d mind moving your tent a couple of feet would you?”

“What.” [Rhetorical, please don’t answer or I’ll scream]

“Just so we have enough room to peg in our guy ropes.”

“AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH. [deep breaths] No, no that’s fine. Don’t worry Laura, I’ll move it.”

Out come the pegs, up goes the tent, and a new position is assumed. Sorted....

“Um, mate...where are our tent pegs?”

...

Eventually my blood pressure resumed its normal level, aided by more pissy lager. The obligatory Tesco shop was then made to collect the weekend’s essentials: Beer, cider, vodka, water, scotch eggs. The rest of the evening passed in an alcohol induced blur...

Day two: ‘Shenanigans’

Faceplant extraordinaire

SHITTING HELL, CALL SECURITY! WHY IS OUR TENT DOING SOMERSAULTS?! Oh wait, no it’s a hangover. What the fuck happened last night? A flashback of meeting the neighbours. Shouting at my friend for his unsatisfactory noodle cooking skills.  Crying. Why the hell was I crying? Festival cider...WITH vodka? Oh THAT’S why. Why is my face black? FACEPAINT... What’s this bizarre, purple and red orb in our tent? FACEPLANT. Ah, it’s my knee. The disjunct order of events came hobbling drunkenly back into my head.

“Laura?...Hannah?...Anyone?...What time is it?”

“Erm...6.30am”

“SIX THIRTY?!?!”

...

It was a long, long day. Don’t get me wrong, the music was incredible, but after being the victim of multiple rogue cups of air-borne piss, my spirits were anything but jovial. Then Hannah and I were forced to stand, shivering and in need of a toilet that wouldn't breach our human rights, at the back of the arena to watch The Cure. At first, the crinkly group of men who looked as though they’d got stoned and fallen into the Harry Potter costume rail provided us with mild amusement. After ¾ of an hour, when I couldn’t tell if they’d even changed song, they started to grate on us. Thankfully the beautiful Maccabees were there to save the day.

As I'm sure you know, meeting and befriending strangers is a truly integral part of the Reading experience. Cold and slightly confused I found myself alone and searching for my friends, and happened to stumble across a group of students who were in an interesting state after a day filled with Acid and alcohol. They made good company. After attending a ‘rave’ with a couple of them, attempting to engage in conversation with a six foot French-Italian girl swigging on a lemonade bottle full of Absinthe, saving a guy from horrendous morning regrets by dissuading him from booty calling his ex, and inexplicably ending up wearing a stolen straw hat, I decided that I could safely tick off the ‘befriending strangers’ from my metaphorical Reading Bucket List.

Day three: ‘Welfare’

I know nothing.

Abandoning my semi-comatose friends I set out alone to collect Sophie from the boat that would take her to the festival. Grabbing my toothbrush and an obligatory two cans of Skol, I found myself a convenient park bench overlooking the river to await her arrival. For some reason, my fellow festival goers who were leaving the site gave the solitary, bruise covered, mud stained, lager and toothbrush wielding dwarf on a park bench disapproving looks as they passed me. Then, over the horizon, sailing majestically towards me, Sophie’s boat loomed. Gracefully, and in slow motion, I propelled myself off the bench, and made haste after this great ship as it overtook me. In reality, I saw Sophie waving questioningly at me, and ran as fast as my tiny, welly clad legs would carry me, shouting obscenities as I went. On reaching our tent, Chinese whispers informed us that Greenday had started a secret set in the arena. No time for formal introductions. Grab vodka and coke. Hide down shorts. RUN. After a slight run in with an angry security guard, who couldn’t understand that I wasn’t able to walk in a straight line, and wasn’t intentionally trying to break their human barrier, we reached Greenday. From what I remember, they were incredible. Unfortunately, that is all I remember. Several hours later I groggily awoke on a yoga mat, wrapped in a blanket, and very confused. Why am I here? Where actually am I? Why is there an unconscious man ten feet to my left?

I was in the Welfare tent, as it turns out, after being unable to recount my name or age to a security guard. I won’t go into the details as to why, or how I got there. I can’t actually remember, and going on what I’ve been told, I’m not at all proud. I am indebted massively to my wonderful cousin and friends for looking after me, and very, very sorry.

What I will tell you, is that an excellent way to dissuade random strangers from stealing your belongings is to allow them to steal your ground sheet, run away with it, wrap themselves in it like a shroud and wait until they are in this position to tell them that your friend has just chundered all over the sheet that is now adorning them. That’ll teach the kleptomaniacal bastards.

That evening, the heavens opened. Dancing in the rain to Florence and the Machine is truly an incredible way to regain sobriety. Some may say that abandoning Kasabian with a friend because you’re cold and wet is cowardice. I call it pneumonia-dodging.

Day four: ‘Sober’

Oompa Loompa doopity doo, if you take my camera,
I will break  you.

Friday, the one day at Reading I can remember from start to finish, with no tears, no bruises, no ALCOHOL and definitely no Welfare tent. Much as I hate to admit it, and believe me, I do, (there was nothing worse than when teachers sanctimoniously [and probably hypocritically] led PSHE lessons on the merits of having fun without alcohol) but I genuinely had the best day of Reading Festival whilst sober. There. I’ve said it. (NB – This is in no way an admission that I’m going to become a Tee-Total and promote having fun with a can of vimto and a Bible) By this point my hair had conglomerated into some sort of head scarf-clad dreadlock, but I made an effort to look presentable and headed off to watch Of Monsters and Men perform. Mindblowingly awesome, AND I got a shoulder ride, so that for the first time in the whole festival, I actually saw a band performing. Brownie points for good behaviour there!  We spent the day discovering new bands, eating disappointing halloumi sandwiches, and drinking...fruit juice. Yes damnit I drank a whole glass of juice without a drop of vodka. Yay me! After being (almost literally) knocked backwards by the AMAZING Kaiser Chiefs, who owned the stage, we went off for a spot of refreshment. En route we came across a group of men dressed in full costume as Oompa-Loompas. “My People” I thought! A photo opportunity was imperative. **WARNING** Never, ever, hand your camera to a seemingly trustworthy looking Oompa-Loompa. As soon as the photo was taken, he vanished. We looked around, nonplussed. ‘What the...’ In the distance, running towards a crowd of several thousand people, we saw the Oompa-Loompa sprinting away from us. Five minutes later, the thieving orange bastard graced us with his presence once more, and thankfully, my camera wasn’t forever lost in the chocolate river of Willy Wonker’s factory (especially as the nearest thing to this was the long drop toilet.) The Foo Fighters made an incredible Headlining act for the last night, aided by the inexplicable supply of glow sticks flying through the crowds. What was less enjoyable was witnessing a firework being launched off course into somebody’s tent. An hour of guarding the tents on a camping chair and nearly crapping myself every time someone so much as sneezed in case it was a firebomb heading for our beloved tent, does not make for a fun evening’s entertainment.

The end: ‘Goodbye my lover’

And the next morning, we packed our belongings. And that was it. The end of one of the weirdest weekends of my life. With a tear in our eyes, we solemnly waved goodbye to the sturdy tent that had accompanied us across the whole of southern Brazil, and resiliently through two Reading Festivals. As Hannah aptly pointed out...If those walls could talk, they’d be screaming.

So there we have it, Reading Festival 2012 in a Nutshell.

They can take our dignity, but they’ll never take our vomit covered ground sheet.

Naked Time!

Terrifyingly, it's been two years since I started sixth form - and I've finally finished school forever (I bloody hope!) Whilst searching through my laptop - yes, my life is truly that enthralling - I found the first piece of homework I was set in 6th form - for which I was given an A* (miracles can happen!)

IT'S NAKED TIME!!!!!

I thought I'd share it with y'all. Essentially, our task was an investigation into the way in which stories are told. As we were studying Tennyson's poem 'Godiva', we had to re-tell the story in our own words.

The general jist of the story is that Lady Godiva lives in the...[racks brain for inoffensive adjective]...er, in the city of Coventry. She's married to a man. He's not very nice. He over taxed the people of Cov. She pitied them. She asked him to lower the taxes. He said nay. She asked again. And again. And again. He got fed up of his bitch's nagging and relented. On the condition that she get stark bollock naked and ride on a horse through Coventry (bit of a sadistic prick - think Christian Grey but in the middle ages). Off she trots through Coventry under the understanding that everyone hides in their houses. Peeping Tom peeps and his eyes fall out. Mr NastyAssSadistTaxHusband has to lower the taxes. The end.

So I wrote a rap, placing the story in a modern context. In retrospect, I think I managed to keep my language fairly clean. I'm pretty sure in homework you're limited to little more than one bitch/ho/twat/arse/bugger/fuck...although I did re-read my AS Shakespeare coursework and discover I'd practically dropped the C-bomb. Anyway, stand aside Eminem - I got sum shit hot rappin 2 do blud, innit. (I'll never talk like that again, promise.)

Now this is the story ‘bout Lady G,

Who streaked at a home match in Coventry,

And all the crowd were like, OMG,

‘Cause no one was allowed to see....

An angry mob came to the house of Godiva,

Her husband wasn’t in, the nasty skiver,

So Lady G, a decent woman

Said she’d go to her husband and report the problem

Basics his shop prices were out of order,

People couldn’t afford food, clothes or water,

His extortionate costs got him a house and a Mazda,

The people said that they’d leave him for ASDA (!)

She said she’d move out if he didn’t sort the quandary,

So he said “But woman, who’d deal with my laundry?!”

She struck up a deal, which he thought was a hoot,

That she’d run through Cov’ in her birthday suit....

In return for this, he’d lower his costs,

And replenish the people with the money they’d lost,

With this deal he thought she wouldn’t comply,

So he said “go ahead,” with a glint in his eye.

Lady G arrived at the Ricoh Arena,

And, Thank the Lord, no one yet had seen her,

The crowd had promised they’d turn away,

Her mates holding weapons kept them that way!

One little perv’ who was trying his luck,

Turned round to peek, but found himself stuck,

The police who’d arrived struck him down with a tazer

Then arrested Lady G for indecent exposure....

She had a good lawyer, so they soon let her off,

And her bloke reluctantly decreased his costs,

"YOLO."

He was still the same tosser underneath of course,

So she decided to file for a divorce.......

And lived happily ever after, The End.

© Charlotte Davey. Don't steal me work of literary genius, bitches.

I think I'll just accept that I'm never going to be a deep, meaningful poet. Or a children's author. Or particularly eloquent. Or loved by the people of Coventry. Or a rap artist.

My Body is a Temple

"My body is a temple"

Recently I've heard this metaphor thrown around quite a lot. My body may indeed be a temple, but it currently resembles this...

You are sacred, O mighty fat one.

(I have bigger tits and more hair though)

Seriously though, why do people say that their bodies are temples when they're being GOOD to themselves. If I were a Goddess having offerings made to my 'temple', I'd want them to be in the form of lager, crisps, chocolate, cocktails, lager, chip butties, cake and lager. Not a sodding wheatgerm smoothie and a stick of celery - Jeez!

With a sunny holiday in Gran Canaria looming in just a month's time, I fear it is finally time to try and create a 'new me'...predominantly to avoid either someone harpooning me, or Green Peace trying to roll me back into the Atlantic Ocean. But where does one start?! 

Dsoess thiss j3llyyy have vodkahh in it?!

In the middle of April I had an ingenious idea...I'd give up alcohol til the end of my A levels. I've never had the best will power and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to put it till the test! ... I lasted a week. Seven days of total alcoholic abstinence and bodily cleansing, broken by the tempting allure of beer, Pimms, mohito, whisky, strawberry flavoured...something and vodka jellies. In three and a half weeks I had broken my non-alcoholic vow just three times. Adding up the units in these three 'days off' I'd consumed the equivalent to a drink a day for every day that I'd given up.

So...that sort of failed on its arse. "Never fear" I thought to myself, our leavers' ball is the perfect incentive to create the 'new me', because I'm frankly buggered if I can't fit into my dress! Alcoholic-abstinence is apparently impossible, so what else could I try? I took to my trusty friend t'internet to do some research....

EXERCISE!

Why had I never thought of this before?! According to the BBC website, adults should aim to "a minimum of 30 minutes moderate-intensity physical activity, five days a week". 

“MINIMUM”?! “five days A WEEK”?! So THAT’S why I’d never thought of this before. For me, my strenuous early morning exercise regime consists of power walking the half-marathon from my bedroom to the bathroom at 7.40 daily. Occasionally I even go for a run...well, more of a naked sprint down the landing when I forget my towel. Flashbacks of performing self-surgery boob jobs by spending my P.E lessons hiding tennis balls up my jumper, and launching shuttlecocks at my teacher’s head remind me why Charlotte + Exercise = Disaster. (I was excellent at algebra)

Bottled water...Because you're worth it.

Re-think time! Perhaps I could create the facade of a healthy, new improved me? Time for a new beautifying regime and more research. One link I came across suggested washing your HAIR with bottled water. Christ the Lord, what next? ‘Oh yes darling, after the San Pellegrino became a permanent substitute for my shower, I threw away all my BarryM nail polishes in favour of the more earthy, neutral shades of Farrow and Ball wall paint. While I was at it I replaced my Andrex with silk handkerchiefs and colonic irrigation and switched my vodka and coke for an acai berry smoothie, brought to me by bicycle from the rain forests of Brazil to save on air miles. I’ve also opted for cucumber slices instead of eye make up now, all because my body is a temple, don’t you know?’ Apparently my daily facial routine should involve cleansing, toning, exfoliating and moisturising. Oh THAT’S where I’ve been going wrong...apparently stumbling blindly across the room in search of a face wipe just isn’t enough! Well that’s a shame because I always heard that lots of sleep was crucial and therefore placed lots of emphasis on it...(flying arse over tit out of bed when I realise it’s 7.35 and we need to leave the house at 7.50) 

"No photos today darling, I haven't toned and moisturised"

It would seem, alas,, that my body will never be a temple. Ever. I have only myself and my atrocious will power to blame. All I can do now is ensure I wear sun cream when I'm off galavanting in the Canary Islands, so that Green Peace assume I'm just a slightly peaky Common or Garden Whale and not a new breed "Red-us Flaky-us" (legit. Latin right there) Whale who requires urgent assistance and Green Peace helicopter back up to roll me back to the sea. I'd hate to draw attention to myself. Now fetch beer, food, a comfy chair, and some more food to last me through the month. If I'm going to look like a whale, I might as well do it properly.

Spoiler Alert...

They say you shouldn't regret what you do, only what you don't do. Wise words, I guess. I've been sitting back and having a little think (dangerous, I know) about the past seven years of my life; and decided I wish I could write a letter to my 11-year-old self, sharing the pearls of wisdom my 18-year-old self has gained. I think it'd go something a bit like this...

Heyhey Lottie, how's it going? (I just called you Lottie, weird huh? People have only just started calling you that...it sort of catches on, but people at school are going to start calling you Dave. Don't panic, you're not trans-sexual...but the nickname never wears off once they've discovered it...gets a bit weird when the teachers adopt it too...) Another weird thing, I'm writing in full sentences, with punctuation and words spelled fully. You're not going to get a phone with a contract till you're 16, so I can understand that typing 'Hi how r u lol' is more cost effective when you pay 12p every time you write texts with more than about 5 words in them, but seriously, stop saying lol and learn to spell. You'll thank me for this advice. LOL is not cool.

Soon you will be the only representative of the Lollipop Guild

You're in year 7 at the mo, how old does that feel?! (You won't understand it just yet, but everyone hates year 7s.) Look around your classroom, you'll notice you aren't the shortest person there. Take LOTS of mental photos, because you'll grow a whopping 1cm over the next 7 years, so enjoy the time you can spend looking like a member of the lollipop guild with your fellow shorties, instead of being the disproportionately short 13,14,15,16+ year old who just about reaches tit-height in photos (*Spoiler Alert* Give Imi a couple of years and she'll be taller than you. Unless you cut off her legs from the knee down right now, there's nothing you can do. SAVE YOURSELF.)
See that girl called Claudia? Someone's going to be a total bitch to her in a couple of weeks and not give her a slice of their birthday cake. You two will bond over your mutual dislike for the aforementioned person, so go over and chat to her. (Also, you're gunna get in a massive fight with one of your 'friends' and Claudia's going to "accidentally" trip one of them up because she's got your back. How cool is that?? Your own personal hit man! So be sure to make friends with her, you guys are going to have a ball.)
Year 7 is a massive learning curve for everyone, so I won't give you too many spoilers, just a few words of advice...
The cat's going to drop mouse intestines on your Geography exercise book, and try as you might, blood stains don't come out. My advice is to print off a picture of something geographical, possibly a globe, and glue it over the top.

Do you really want to do this to yourself?!

GET RID OF YOUR CENTRAL PARTING. I know you're not really into hair and makeup just yet, but seriously, it looks awful, really, really awful.
Ask Mum to buy you some more nice shoes too, because you don't seem to have a problem with going into school on non-uniform day in your Clarks velcro school shoes...I'll fetch you a straight jacket and book you in for some hypnosis therapy because you NEED TO LEARN that they look awful.
Okay, turquoise corduroy trousers aren't your best look either, but nothing can top the outfits you concoct involving a pink and orange tie-dye skirt. You look like a Sunday School teacher on crack; not cool. Do you actually even know what crack is yet? Google it. Or ask Jacob, he knows more than you give him credit for...
Braces aren't fun. I won't even try and lie to you. But they are SO worth it. Until you lose your retainers and your teeth sorta move again...
Year 8 and 9 are fun, but you're a bit of a dick. I know you think it's funny to take the piss out of your teachers...and admittedly, sometimes it is, but cut them some slack!
You're never, ever going to be good at P.E. and even after 8 or so years, you still won't have grasped the rules of netball, so I give you my full permission to muck around as much as you want in those lessons...Although the 'order marks' you pick up will mean you're not allowed to go on the Alton Towers trip with your friends, which I'm not gunna lie, is shit.
More advice, take better care of your phones ya freak, they don't enjoy arse-screen contact, so DON'T SIT ON THEM.
Now, on to the subject of alcohol. 'Alcohol?!' I hear you cry. Yup, that stuff. One day you're going to have an epiphany, and decide that beer is literally the food of Gods. Wise choice dude. Weirdly, you don't really get into booze till you're about 15. Jacob's going to get you very, very drunk on Rum, Pimms and Fruit Juice one evening, so get your bin ready by your bed, you won't make it to the bathroom...No matter how hard you try, spirits just don't like you. (One day you're going to be faced with a glass full of sambuca...don't do it Lottie, I beg of you don't.) For that matter, take care around some booze you bring back from Brazil (YOU GO TO BRAZIL! Damn, I meant to say 'spoiler alert') It costs you the equivalent of about 80 pence...I'm pretty sure in hindsight that it was paint stripper. That's another night of your life you'll never get back...and remember; never trust gingers. Unless it's Hannah or Gracie. Always trust them, they're like your family.
All girls education has a knack of turning people (you) into social retards. There are these things in the world called men, you may have heard of them? Ahh, yeah you're not likely to forget them in a hurry... THAT sex ed video  in year 8 stays with you for a long, long time, although you totally already knew all that stuff, Mum bought you a book when you were 7 years old, remember? *Shudder*

Take care of Jelly, even if she does drop intestines on your school book

People are going to mess you around. They're going to be rude to you. They're going to make you feel like total and utter crap about yourself. It's harsh, but true. And you've just got to learn to laugh it off. That's one of the most important lessons, don't let people get to you. Keep your sense of humour, you're going to need it.
Take care of Rubydog and Angelica the cat. They won't be around forever, I won't tell you when they go because you've got to learn to cherish every moment you have with them. Once you lose someone, they won't come back, so make lots of happy memories for yourself, one day, they'll be all you have.

I'll give you a quick summary because you'll probably have forgotten everything I've said already; too busy worrying that your Maths colouring in homework won't be in on time for tomorrow's lesson. Put down your 'trendy' pink flip up phone and just think before you say LOL in future. Don't let the cat drop guts on your school books. Do something about your horrendous central parting. BURN your school shoes. Don't buy the tie-dyed skirt just because it's on sale in GAP. Learn what crack is and impress your friends with your new vocabulary (although some people don't like swearing, would you believe that?!) Don't be such a cocky little shit to your teachers, at the end of the day they're only trying to help you, and some day you're going to need them on your side. Don't break your phones. Don't mix Rum, Pimms and Tropical Juice together in a cup, regardless of what Jacob says. Don't drink a glass full of sambuca. BEHAVE at Reading Festival, watch out for Brazilian alcohol. Love your pets like there's no tomorrow, because you can't ever get them back once they're gone. Above all Lottie, don't let the bastards get you down. You won't listen to the last bit of advice, no one does. But please, for my sake, try.
That's all for now kiddo, good luck with everything.
Love, the older and wiser, Lottie.
P.S. In your year seven end of year Latin test, make sure you notice before the exam is half over that all the vocabulary you haven't covered in class is written at the bottom of the exam paper. Oh, and learn how to do half equations, you'll kick yourself when you get into the GCSE Chemistry exam and can't remember how to do them.
P.P.S. Your friends and family are always going to be there for you, so take advantage of that, they give pretty amazing advice.

Have you ever wondered if there was more to life, other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking?

10/10 women agree that I'm beautiful, if not a Goddess.

I've just finished reading Samantha Brick's article; "Why women hate me for being pretty" (see link). I can totally empathise with her, it's just so hard being really, really good looking. 
She details how men frequently order her bottles of Champagne or wine, *yawn* how cliche - aren't we all? Hop off your high-horse Samantha, I was once lucky enough when out clubbing with my frankly mediocre-looking counterparts, to be given half a plastic cup of Vodka and Redbull - jealous? I thought so. Big Whoop, someone once presented you with a 'beautiful bunch of flowers' in London's Portobello Road Market! I get accosted on a weekly basis by men practically imploring me to buy their Big Issues, blatantly because of my irresistible appearance in my provocative Primark jumper and flattering, slightly-too-long sixth form trousers. So, okay, I'm no Megan Fox, but that's because I'm frankly far more attractive. The only reason I haven't been approached by modelling companies is because I'd prove so devastatingly sexy that I'd distract potential customers from any products I'd be advertising.

I find whenever I'm in group photos or singing at concerts I'm often begged to stand right at the front. I'm told it's because I'm "too short" to be seen, but I know that really, it's because no one wants my astounding looks to be wasted, but are too polite to admit that to all my ugly or at best, mildly hideous, friends. Teachers at school regularly victimise me for wearing 'inappropriate' length skirts to school, under the pretense that they 'don't conform to school regulations' - bollocks. It's purely because they are old, ugly, and jealous of my disproportionately fat arse and short legs. Well, that, and because they know that the coded doors at school simply aren't enough to prevent men breaking in and falling at my feet, desperate to tell me how incredible I am.

It took a lot to work up such a radiant pink complexion .

Night clubs are often dark and full of dry ice when I go out - probably because bouncers give the managers a tip off when I come in, to make visibility difficult so that their doggish female clientele don't feel threatened by my presence. On nights out, I find people throwing themselves out of my way as I stagger my way on to the dance floor. They are literally blown over by my bloodshot eyes, smudged mascara and toned-down, devil-may-care attitude to eloquence and coherence.

Beer is the secret to my beauty

People should not be shunning me for my looks, but lauding me for my motivation and dedication in preserving my excellent appearance. It takes one heck of a lot of will power to sit at home on Facebook, resisting the tempting allure of a 10 mile power-walk in the pouring rain. I rarely allow myself to overcome my natural urge to eat a low-fat salad of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber AND a glass of mineral water if instead I can have a curry, naan bread, rice, poppadoms and a beer. My love-handles don't feed themselves you know!

So come on guys, enough of the hate, we rare to find, super-hot Goddesses should be celebrated, nay, worshiped for our modesty and charm. All together now, 'I'm sexy and I know it!'
....
(By 'I'm sexy' - you obviously mean; 'Charlotte's sexy')

Your lipstick totally brings out the colour of your L'Oreal 'Black Cherry' stained scalp!

I wouldn't be smiling if my hair looked like that, either.

Oh my actual and literal GOD, I just love the 'vintage' scarf which you tied imaginatively around your head and those sepia photographs of your guitar, you're so totally Indie...
I realised that after my last blog I sounded hideously cynical and bitter, so I thought this week I'd ... retain that positive attitude - nothing like a nice bit of continuity after all! Today's rant is one which I felt so strongly about that I presented it to the school in a speech for my Head Girl application. The topic?
'Indie' kids.
Don't be fooled by the name y'all, this rapidly growing generation of people is easy to spot. Counter-intuitively to what one might expect of these 'independent' 'individuals', being 'Indie' seems to involve conforming to a massive stereotype. Before I go any further, I'd just like to clarify that I don't have a problem with people who embrace their genuine individuality. My main issue is with the countless teenage girls who spend hours backcombing their maroon dip-dyed hair before grabbing their guitars, donning some really individual main brand, high-street clothing or T-shirts supporting bands they've never really listened to and heading into a field to take pictures of themselves on polaroid cameras. It's not even the fact that they do this which annoys me, it's the fact they do it because they think they're being DIFFERENT and actually classify themselves as being 'Indie'. Surely, in making a conscious effort to follow a common image *Cue big glasses and several more cans of hairspray* you are defeating the object of being your own person; instead of going against the mainstream, you are joining it?!
So ladies, don your shiny new brogues, grab your sepia photographs of your latest eyeliner tattoo with a soft focus background of an ethereal forest (the tree in your back garden), dye your hair imaginative shades of maroon, burgundy or purple, button your shirts all the way up till you're verging on Edwardian spinster, tie your buns so high that your centre of gravity shifts, pull up your expensive topshop ankle socks (which you definitely could have bought from Tesco) and grab your sharpies to deface your bedroom walls with painfully meaningful lyrics. BUT DON'T PRETEND YOU'RE BEING DIFFERENT. Just put down the 'vintage' M&S jumper that your grandfather died in, and have a little think...

• OMG I love the sexy 'I'm constricting my breathing but I don't care' look you've achieved with your high-necked shirt.
• OMG your white ankle socks really complement your knees.
• OMG those oversized glasses which don't actually contain prescription lenses really bring out your astigmatism.
• OMG I'm totally digging your central parting. 

Really, you're just emulating the unfortunate calculator-bashing, Tolstoy-reading, daylight-deprived virgin which every school contains. Sexy, huh?

Don't you hate it when all your Valentine's cards get lost in the post?

Ah, Valentine's day. The day for receiving anonymous cards, sitting alone listening to Celine Dion, receiving large bunches of roses, crying over pictures of Colin Firth, receiving seasonal boxes of Thornton's chocolates, going out and impulse buying 16 cats, having a quiet evening in with your loved one, admitting to yourself that the card signed '? xxx' is from your mother, setting fire to bunches of flowers, eating the box of Thornton's which was indeed 'seasonal' but left over from Christmas, mentally mutilating the 'happy' couples in magazines, then sitting back in the wedding dress you've never removed and embracing spinsterhood with open arms. Or maybe it's just my life that's worthy of a Carol Ann Duffy poem?... I'm joking of course, my life isn't really like that - for a start I've never been given roses.
Shocking as this may be, I'm spending my Valentine's evening alone in bed with my cat and a glass of Prosecco. Although depressingly, even my cat has had more action than I have today...unfortunately her's came in the form of a rectal thermometer at the vet...but that's another story. I'm keeping her company :)

"Come and get it, boys" - Charles Dickens

I was going to present you lucky people with a brief history of Valentine's day, but I got bored researching it after five minutes. Essentially there were a couple of Christian men whom it is believed this gut-wrenching, over commercialised, 'Clinton Card' flavoured rose-scented-vomit inducing day is dedicated to, they were all killed and lived unhappily ever after. Pre-dating the Christian celebration is the Pagan festival of 'Lupercalia' which was originally celebrated on the 13th, 14th and 15th February. It frankly sounds a whole lot more...interesting, involving young gents getting stark-bollock naked and whipping young women's arses with hand-crafted animal skin whips to 'improve their fertility'. Each to their own, as they say. One can only hope the torture inflicted on the eponymous Christians who helped bring us this vile day involved animal-skin whips and Celine Dion playing on a loop. 
I thought I might try and find some positive things that came out of Valentine's Day, so I looked up notable people's birthdays - nothing of interest. Perhaps the interesting birthdays came 9 months later in November...


Reading back over this blog post, I've realised how psychotic and bitter I sound. I'm not, I promise you, in fact, I'm genuinely pleased and whole-heartedly supportive of all you happy, loved-up, romantic, smug, 'ooh look at my lovely new heart pendant', couples. Genuinely I am. Now, where's my pickaxe? I have some wedding cakes to deface...