Fifty Shades of Grey - A review.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet"

Fifty Shades of Grey. Erotic, huh?

 Oh Mr Shakespeare, that line from Rom and Jule always seemed so apposite, so poignant, in noting the relative insignificance of a something so superficial as a name. That is, until I discovered E L James' Fifty Shades of Grey. The title is a perfect insight to the book's content. I was perplexed when I first heard of the book; what is it, some sort of Dulux paint chart?! As we are currently decorating our house, and I've spent many a happy hour pouring over paint charts, I can tell you that I couldn't have been further from the mark. While one is a gripping page turner, fast-paced and eloquent with apt descriptions and an impeccable structure, the other is the mind-numbing disappointment that is E L James' Fifty Shades of Grey. After a gruelling, mentally exhausting, intellectually demeaning battle, I finally read to the end of page 514. I put the book slowly down beside me, and sat for several minutes in perfectly still, silent, confounded, incredulous contemplation.

WHAT THE FLYING FUCK HAVE I JUST READ?!

Now that's what I call gripping

I want to go back to school: I need to learn how to think again. One page into the book and academically I had regressed to Key Stage 1. Except even now, when reading Biff and Chip and Horrid Henry with the year 1s and 2s, I find these literary works more challenging, and less predictable than the maundering jumble of words that somehow make up FIVE HUNDRED PAGES of this bollocksy drivel.

*and breathe*

Ladies and Gentlemen, please fasten your safety harnesses, CaptainFunTimes' Rant Rollercoaster will shortly be departing on another whirlwind adventure. Behold! Here is my brief summary of Fifty Shags a Day...

Anastasia 'Call Me Ana' Steele goes to interview multi-trazillionaire Christian Grey for her University magazine, in place of her fit friend who has the 'flu. They share a bit of a mo'.  100 pages later and she's losing her V-Plates to him. 400 mind-numbingly boring pages after that, during which time they do a bit of kinky shit and ride in light aircrafts, the book finishes.

Obviously there's a bit more to it than that, for example the shocking revelation that he's a domineering, manipulative, violent arse who changes mood more frequently than Call Me Ana changes her underwear, because he has an abused, troubled past. NO FRICKING WAY! It doesn't take a degree in Psychology to work that one out, love.  

Deep flaws permeate the book from start to finish. In the entire tortuous, terrible tome, there was not one page that I found remotely credible...
- For a start, it was set in America, yet the only efforts E L James went to to make the narrative seem as though it was seen through the eyes of one of our cousins from across The Pond, was to drop the 'u's out of words like 'favourite'. Gosh, how clever. The narrative couldn't have sounded more English if it had occasionally deviated from the "plot" to have a jolly good, buck-toothed, tea-fuelled knees up around the Old Joanna - which, incidentally, Call Me Ana did when she was about to do the dirty with Crazy Chris on his piano. 
- Secondly, Call Me Ana starts out as an inexperienced virgin, who's never shown any interest in men, and has never touched herself 'down there'. It seems unlikely, therefore, that given Mr Grey is apparently hung like a viagra-filled donkey, her first time would be virtually painless, and 'astounding'. She can't even say vagina for Christ's sake! Given she's never seen a willy before, I'm not sure how qualified she can be to talk about the impressiveness of Mr Grey's trouser-snake. He could have a runner bean down his trousers and she'd probably still think, 'gosh, that's a large one matron.'
- Thirdly, one spends much of the book questioning whether or not E L James is actually a real woman with a real vajayjay, as 'she' apparently understands so little of the female anatomy. I was led to believe that the book was ram-packed full of totally shocking sex, yet I'm pretty sure even an abstinent virgin brought up in a nunnery would find it boring, unimaginative and repetitive. The sex scenes closely resemble the Hokey Cokey: In out, in out, you shake it all about...that's what it's all about. 

"I am fucking him. I am in charge. He's mine, and I'm his. The thought pushes me, weighted with concrete, over the edge, and I climax around him...shouting incoherently."

They're a bit like Jamie Oliver's cooking commentaries, all 'lovely, just bish bash bosh, and you're done. Pukka. Quality. Job done. Beeeautiful.' How very sensual and romantic.

Mr Grey ain't got nuffin' on my carrot.

- While the point of Crazy Chris having a troubled childhood and consequently being an emotional fuckwit is made laboriously throughout the novel, E L James does not even bring into question the fact that Call Me Ana clearly has some sort of split personality disorder, spending the entirety of the story having disagreements with her two chums, 'my subconscious' and 'my inner Goddess'.
- E L James has some serious vocabulary issues. For someone who seemingly turns into such a wanton sex Goddess, it beggars belief that Ana still refers to her downbelows as '...there' and her 'sex'. She uses the word 'crap' and variants of it 'crapola' (how eloquent) 101 times, which is a hell of a lot for such a crap word. And OH MY GOD, HOW MANY TIMES DO YOU NEED TO USE THE WORD 'DELICIOUS' AND 'EXQUISITE'?! For all that the sex scenes resonate with Jamie Oliver's television commentaries, you do NOT need to use the words multiple times in every single chapter. Come on now Ms James, you've earned your millions, can't you invest in a decent thesaurus? 
- The final, most damaging, flaw to the book is the brutal kicking that E L James gives to feminism. Don't worry if he makes you do things you're not comfortable with, girls, if you really like him, you should prioritise pleasing him above all else. And if that involves your arse having a jolly good belting, then so be it. If you endorse his misogynistic, violent, controlling behaviour for long enough, then maybe he'll change. Of course, it's not his fault, he had an abusive childhood. There were problems at home. He was trained as a submissive from the age of fifteen. So what would be a good idea to deter his wicked acts, Ana? Tying your hair in pigtails to make you look more girlish? For a man who seemingly has no problems with fifteen year olds being fucked by grown adults, I'm not sure that'd work actually, love. Maybe the fact that he traces your mobile phone and stalks you two and a half thousand miles across the continent is a sign of his affection, and isn't weird and terrifying after all. But then again, maybe PIGS CAN FUCKING FLY AND THE POPE ISN'T A DRESS-WEARING CATHOLIC.

You may have realised that I'm not a fan of this book. And that I've just made the shortlist for the World's Greatest Understatement contest. It's difficult to like a book when you hold a sincere disdain for both of the main characters. When there's no trace of a positive role-model in either of them. When the objectification of women as punchbags is made totally acceptable as long as it's pleasing some mind fucky mind fucker.
I hear they're making a film of Fifty Shades of Fucking Ridiculous. If it's even half as tiresome as the book, I wonder whether the spotty adolescent boy who usually hands out 3D specs at the cinema will instead hand out match-sticks to keep the audience's eyes open, thus preventing them from having an enjoyable snooze to shut out Call Me Ana from talking incessantly about her 'sex'. If, after reading this, you're still curious to read the book - perhaps you're giving up sex and are in need of some un-erotic literature as a massive turn-off - then Good Luck, and God Speed! BUT DON'T SAY CAPTAINFUNTIMES DIDN'T WARN YOU. Until next time kids, stay safe, and don't trust anyone who - like Crazy Christian Grey, some sort of knowledgeable, worldly, 'trust-worthy', Sex-God - thinks you can't get up the duff if you do it while you're on the blob. 

I will leave you with the wise words of Coach Carr, "Don't have sex, because you will get pregnant, and die. Don't have sex in the missionary position, don't have sex standing up. Just, don't do it, promise?"

The Flailing Fail Strikes Again.

Firstly, a hearty hello, and Happy New Year! Yes, I know it’s February. I've been busy, okay? I know that’s not an excuse. Don’t look at me in that reproachful manner. I can change. I WILL change. Look, it’s not you, it’s me. Oh Jeez, I’m reasoning with imaginary readers. If by some miracle anyone is reading this then fetch me a padded cell and a size 10 straight jacket. Extra short.

In true fashion, I thought I’d write about something which recently rattled my little cage. It is the Daily Mail vs. Hilary Mantel vs. Kate Middleton debacle. In case you've been living in a newspaper-less, WiFi-less cave for the past week, I will briefly fill you in on the whole sorry tale...

Congratulations, it's a size 8!

Once upon a time, a picture book for people with an IQ deficit shat on a big piece of paper and called it journalism. The picture book in question is known as the Daily hate-Mail, and this particularly spurious mess of journalistic excrement was about an author-lady called Hilary Mantel and The Duchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleclasston. Hilary Mantel mentioned Kate in her Royal Bodies lecture for the London Review of Books, depicting how Royals are objectified by the media. Ms Francesca Infante of the Daily Fail then got out her packet of crayons and scribbled an article misrepresenting Mantel’s line of argument and detailing her ‘venomous attack’ on Our Kate. Consequently many individuals, high off their hair peroxide and nail-varnish, ardently defended K8 Midz, attacking Mantel because, like Francesca Infantile, they didn’t have the presence of mind to listen to, or read Mantel’s original transcript due to the lack of bullet-points and pictures. Then Dave Cameron got involved. He was evidently too busy polishing his face to read the transcript either. A right royal hoo-hah ensued. The end.

What makes me angry about this messy situation is that Hilary Mantel was making perfectly valid points, albeit with a slightly blunt turn-of-phrase... '...I saw Kate becoming a jointed doll on which certain rags are hung. In those days she was a shop-window mannequin, with no personality of her own, entirely defined by what she wore. These days she is a mother-to-be, and draped in another set of threadbare attributions. Once she gets over being sick, the press will find that she is radiant. They will find that this young woman's life until now was nothing, her only point and purpose being to give birth.' Essentially what Mantel is saying, is that the Media's portrayal of Kate is as a woman who is defined solely by what she wears. They have no interest in her other than as a photographic filler between articles. Now she's pregnant, her image has transmuted from one whose defining feature is the clothes on her back, to one defined by the baby growing inside her. There is no interest in Kate as an actual person, merely as a photo for the paper. She has been entirely objectified. Let's face it, in the bluntest, most critical view Kate is a baby-machine. Her most important goal, as with every monarch or monarch's spouse in history, is to pop out a baby in order to continue the Royal blood-line, thus preventing Harry having to take over and put another Ginger on the throne. Mantel doesn't insinuate that there actually is nothing more to Kate than her facade, merely that we are never exposed to anything other than her as an object, a public point of interest. 

This was where the Daily Mail fell spectacularly at the first hurdle. The wittering gossip magazine was unable to internalize the astute points that Ms Mantel was making. Instead, they de-contextualized her argument and portrayed it as a 'venomous critique' of the Duchess. Mantel didn't write this critique, the Mail did. Mantel's lecture wasn't even about Kate; she was merely used as a contemporary piece of evidence of the portrayal of monarchs through the ages. The Fail's article was evidently created by cutting up the lecture's transcript and sorting it into two piles: 'opinion' and 'fact'. The facts and evidence that Mantel had used to justify her opinions were then burnt, and the reporter selected any opinions mentioning The Duchess of C which sounded critical, ate them, and then vommed them back up in no particular order onto a piece of paper. She then got out her Pritt Stick and stuck on a few fit pics of Kate. This only served to justify Mantel's point; in wittily (cough) captioning a photo of Kate at her portrait viewing as 'pretty as a picture', The Mail is saying 'The nasty lady says Kate serves no purpose other than 2 b looked at- oooh look at Kate evry1, ain't she gawjus?!' The article has no line of argument whatsoever. It doesn't even have a point to it, it's literally just a list of misappropriated quotes designed to anger the lobotomized chimps who were moronic enough to take it at face value, into hating on an innocent academic. They then post a highly necessary 'History of Hilary' (OMG Mail, you almost rhymed something, have a gold star.) To paraphrase, in true Daily Mail style, it inferred...

Hilary woz born in 1952, she writ a load of books wot did quite well, she got sum prizes, she woz blatez insecure about bein fat so woz bitchy bowt Kate, she got endometrosis (sic) [someone's brain clearly exploded at this point, after attempting to write endometriosis and running out of fingers to count syllables on] wot mad her fat and infertile.'

A recent excerpt from the Daily Mail

Ah, I SEE, you think that Mantel was moved to write the lecture out of spite because Kate is skeletal and bearing a child, while Mantel is apparently some sort of barren elephant? Your powers of deduction are truly insightful, now take this Play-Doh and go and sit quietly in a corner until the grown ups are ready to speak to you.

In future, let's read both sides of the argument and the supporting evidence before taking anything written in The Mail at face-value. Thank you for bearing with me while I got on my Rant Rollercoaster and took it for a joy ride. Tune in next time for more Captainfuntimes gets angry and stays up till 2am letting everyone know about it. Happy New-ish Year one and all.

'Tis the season to be jolly?

Twas the night before, the night before Christmas, when all through the house....

It's 5.30pm on Christmas Eve Eve. I'm sitting here in the snowflake pyjamas that haven't been removed since I drunkenly donned them at 3.30am, and my fingernails have turned inexplicably blue. Earlier I found a house brick recumbent in the fridge next to a tub of olives when all I really wanted was some bacon. I have one of those hangovers where you spasm sporadically and can't quite see properly... either due to alcohol-induced blindness or the fact I was awake for 22 hours yesterday. Quite possibly both. Just now I went to the considerable effort of elevating my posterior from my chair in order to burn a calorie walking to fetch my pizza. En route I stood bare-foot in a cold, inconsiderately situated puddle which I suspect to be dog piss. You know those days where you wonder why you bothered getting out of bed? This is one of those. Kindly refrain from making too much noise, and in return I shall refrain from throwing the nearest blunt object to hand at your face. Needless to say, I'm not feeling festive.

Who ate all the pies? Not me....Well, yes me.

I'm still trying to work out what Christmas means to me. I'm not from a religious family, yet year on year we still celebrate Christmas. Retaining tradition I suppose. I put considerable thought into Christmas presents this year, not buying things for the sake of it, but getting personalised gifts that I think will be useful and appreciated. Christmas, for me, is my Dad and me going to choose the tree every year. From the age of 11-17, it was singing four services between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, SOBER. It's eating until you feel sick, then moving on to Christmas pudding before watching the Christmas specials on telly. It's guests constantly sitting where you want to sit or hypocritically complaining about your pets getting in the way. It's the obligatory satsuma in my stocking that Father Christmas has subtly obtained from the fruit bowl. It's Dad blaspheming creatively at the turkey. It's the complete lack of snow, while it instead drizzles depressingly outside. It's the way most of the population forget about Baby Jesus because shit's going down on the Eastenders Chrimbo Speshal.

Merry? Ain't nobody got time for that.

Why on earth do we wish one another a Merry Christmas? Christmas, in my experience, is not  particularly merry. Why not, We Wish You a Stressful Christmas, or an Argumentative one? We Wish You a Demanding Pensioner-filled Christmas. What would really make my Christmas would be if everyone started their Christmas food shopping in October. And if slow, grumpy, trolley-wielding old people could sit inside their trollies and be propelled along by jet-packs or reindeer so that I'm not tempted to barge them out of the middle of the supermarket bread aisle with a Waitrose Grand-Mange baguette. 

Nonetheless, I hope you all somehow have some merriness at Christmas - even if this is induced by a glass of wine. And by glass, I mean a pint. And by wine, I mean sherry. I hope that the ever younger disbelieving children remember the important guy without whom Christmas wouldn't be the same. That's right Father Christmas, I'm talkin' to you. Try not to get breathalised. I'm off to change my name by deedpoll to Ebenezer Scrooge McGrinchpants, and hopefully I'll be visited by three ghosts in the night. Ho bloody Ho.

Dear God.

Essentially this post details my views on religion. It's National Poetry Day today, so heck, I thought I'd write a little rhyme. It's a controversial matter, I know, but it had to come up some day. I'd appreciate it if you read it with an open mind. And please don't throw any Bibles at me.

Dear God.

Why do I refer to you as ‘you’,

As though you’re a sapient being too?

To me you’re a concept, like love, envy, hate,

But you know what makes me fucking irate?

The aforementioned abstracts can be proven by chemistry, science,

But ‘you’ can’t, you just represent defiance.

Defiance of evidence, of truth, morality,

Rejection of fact, for ‘spirituality’.

One thing I’ll never understand;

(Which is the reason religion will never end),

That we fear human ignorance; things we can’t comprehend.

So in compensation for our blindness, we created this friend,

But this friend has no answers, can teach us nothing new,

‘He’ just re-phrases what we already knew.

Shall I tell you why ‘He’ tells us what we want to hear?

Why ‘He’s’ always there to avert our fears?

‘Immanuel’ – God is with us, but what I think they mean to say,

Is that God IS us, at the end of the day.

God is a figment of our imagination,

God wasn’t there at the ‘start of creation’,

Technically ‘science’ wasn’t there either,

Yet I trust in ‘science’ as a non-believer,

‘Science’ is the knowledge we’ve systematically gained,

The observation of facts which remain unfeigned.

I’ll take truth and proven fact as Gospel,

Not evangelical ravings from a biased Disciple.

People turn to praying as a desperate, last attempt

To redeem the irredeemable, or to try and repent.

This makes me angry, why not be proactive,

Try and make amends when we can’t live and let live.

If we can’t cope with uncertainty, let’s face what is certain,

If the sickness is terminal, don’t wait till the curtain

Is closed and pray for their soul after death,

Make their living time happy and offer relief.

Why do God-fearing Christians fear their demise?

Surely life-eternal, up above is a fair compromise?

Is it because there’s a glimmer of doubt,

The worry that no matter how loud you shout,

No one is listening, and nobody cares?

That life’s a precious, one way ticket, with no return fare?

When I die, that’s the end, there’s no chance to contest,

I’ll decompose in the ground, along with even the best

Of us. I’ve led a God-Damn blasphemous life, but I don’t fear Hell,

I have no time for Gods, Devils or Angels.

Sometimes I wish there was an ‘eternal life’ option,

Not for my sake, but for that of my loved ones.

Jesus Christ, sometimes I fear the end,

Knowing there’s only one place that I’m destined.

We Homo Sapiens are Selfish creatures,

The need to survive is an intrinsic feature.

We’re here to reproduce, and then to die,

The Garden of Eden was simply a lie

To explain how we got here, for we didn’t understand

Until Darwin’s theory gave us a hand.

As far as I can see, we weren’t put here for a reason,

There’s no pre-destined purpose, or unique, personal mission,

Just seemingly inexplicable coincidence, that’s all there is to it,

You won’t get very far, asking ‘God’ to go through it.

I apologise now, if my views insult you.

But they are my thoughts, so I won’t consult you,

In the same way that I don’t expect your beliefs to alter

On my behalf, as you kneel at the altar.

I’ll contest your religion, but I don’t expect your conversion,

To manipulate your thoughts would be unfair perversion.

But you can’t debate with me on blatant actuality,

Whereas I can with you, on belief and traditionality,

For with opinion there can be no wrong or right,

It’s up to you if you’ve seen the light.

But to me, I believe it’s utter...

Rubbish. So,

Dear God, Thank you, but Goodnight.

Charlotte Davey 4.10.12 ©

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.