Things that have annoyed me today

Because that's the sort of mood I'm in.

I've been trying and failing to finish writing anything for the past few days. I'm gearing up to doing a big edit on A Thing, which will see me not leaving my house or partaking in any kind of social interaction for the next fortnight (but then I am going to Japan!). I started writing a list of 'The men you meet when you are in hell', which amused me briefly but then was too depressing to finish.

I have a lot of feelings and ideas I want to communicate (as usual), but all I'm good for is a listicle. Here is one. I'm into being petty at the moment.

• The man in my office who asked me this morning WHEN'S INTERNATIONAL MEN'S DAY (answer: 19th November and also why are you so fragile that you're threatened by a day celebrating anybody other than you; see also: WHY IS THERE NO STRAIGHT PRIDE)
• The inappropriate brands trying to use IWD to sell me stuff. Apparently I'm pretty angry about International Women's Day all round, which is a shame
• The fact that I spent an hour this week carefully composing a polite reply to a sort-of ex who wanted to meet out of the blue for a drink - it was only after I sent it that it occurred to me I should have replied 'fuck off'
• The woman I barely know, who said 'you really don't like having your photo taken, do you?' to me in a patronising voice, as if that meant I must be really insecure, when actually I don't give a shit - it was only afterwards that it occurred to me to be angry about this. I still am. See above: fuck off
• I saw some great dungarees today but they were £150. I actually thought briefly about buying them (I'd wear them loads! I never buy new clothes! I am 37 and today I'm literally wearing a dress I bought when I was 29! From Peacocks!). Then I decided to spend the money on a microphone for a New Thing I am planning. I felt pleased about this decision. So it's not all rage.

In other news: I watched 'Train to Busan' last night and it's the best film I have seen in ages. It's definitely the best zombie film I've ever seen. I cried a lot, jumped out of my seat and felt like I had lived through a profound experience by the end. If you haven't watched it, do.

Also currently selling a lot of stuff on Depop. Watching Parks and Rec. Made some great vegan pancakes. Actually kind of excited about getting down to some serious work over the next little while.

Some disparate thoughts.

I just heard the most brilliantly illuminating phrase for the first time: STRAIGHT MEN UNDERSTAND CONSENT WHEN THEY GO TO A GAY BAR.

Fuck, man. That has just blown my mind, Seriously.

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, and I almost exclusively associated with gay men, I had a few shit boyfriends who had slightly problematic attitudes towards my social circle.

'I don't mind hanging out with them as long as nobody tries to touch me,' said my most basic bitch boyfriend, who I feel slightly ashamed to have gone out with in retrospect.

As if anybody would have tried. Did I mention he was fucking gross?

This all comes back to the theory that *some* men are automatically frightened of gay men, because they assume gay men will view them in the way that they themselves view women.

Something to think about.

In other news, Halloween is coming up. I am having a little early Halloween party tomorrow night, which I am very excited about. An excuse to dress up, listen to stupid music, eat ridiculous themed snacks, and celebrate how much life has moved on since last Halloween. Full disclosure: last Halloween I was tying myself into knots over a man who couldn't care less, I couldn't sleep at night due to my collapsing rotten kitchen floor, and I had no idea if I would be able to write another book again. So... Thanks, universe. Expect pictures of me and my ludicrously costumed friends on Instagram soon.

I've also just read WHY I'M NO LONGER TALKING TO WHITE PEOPLE ABOUT RACE by Reni Eddo-Lodge. Obviously I already like to think I'm on the woke side, but I was still surprised by how much there is to learn. I wholeheartedly recommend this book to all.

After that, I read Lily Allen's memoir, MY THOUGHTS EXACTLY. I've always liked her. I didn't think it was a perfect book, but it was compelling and I liked it and I still like her.

I went to see A Star Is Born. I was expecting to love it. I was expecting a jolly Sunday date afternoon. I was wrong. The less said about this the better, probably, as I know I'm in the minority. Sometimes I'm forced to wonder if the problem is me, quite frankly. Fortunately - and it was a small saving grace - my viewing companion felt the same. Statistically unlikely and all the more pleasing for it...

As a Halloween treat for all, I will also mention here that my cinema date has written a song to commemorate possibly the best death in horror movie history (side note: he should know as we have been watching the Friday the 13th series in its entirety - currently up to Part VII, which is quite the undertaking). It is marvellously funny.

The usual stuff.

I went to Krakow and I ate A LOT of pierogi. If you have not been, I highly recommend doing so. It’s very pretty, with a river and a Disney castle. Pleasingly, I saw a lot of nuns.

On my return, I attended the second meeting of the unofficial Preston Park Film Club. So far, we have watched Whiplash and Warrior. I’m not sure whether we should keep up this theme of selecting the most stressful films possible to watch.

Of course I also devoured To Be Read Unopened, the new Viv Albertine book, the moment it was released. She is one of my greatest inspirations. I cannot explain how glad I am she exists. She makes me feel better about life. I wanted to underline every single sentence.

I also read Purpose by Jessica Huie. Jessica and I are united by having a BFF in common, despite not actually knowing each other. This is not the sort of book I would usually read, but I have been pleased and surprised to find that important parts of it have very much stayed with me. An interesting lesson.

To complete a trilogy of fascinating reads, I was very lucky to be given an advance copy of the zeitgeisty Darling by Rachel Edwards. It’s billed as a ‘Brexit thriller’ about race and family and is as fascinating – and, at times, uncomfortable – as it sounds.

I’ve been listening almost exclusively to a playlist I madethat consists of songs whose only common denominator is I like to sing alongwith them. That and Camp Cope, who I remain passionately in love with.

Despite my aversion to podcasts in general (no shade, it’s just my brain can’t cope without something to look at!), the one exception is The Adam Buxton Podcast. Not only because I have a crush on Adam, honest. I realise this is not a particularly helpful recommendation, as pretty much everyone I know already listens to it. However, I have been doing so more than ever lately. His voice and general loveliness are very soothing to me, and we all need a bit of that. Particularly recommended old episodes I’ve been revisiting include Zadie Smith and literally anything involving Joe, Louis or Jon Ronson.

Other ephemera of current interest include, but are not limited to: buying plants from the pound shop and keeping my fingers crossed they might spring into life; being as gobsmacked as everyone else by Wild Wild Country; smashing my head against the kitchen table because I hate editing; feeling depressed but then cheering up literally only because it’s sunny and Hey Jude still exists; being a bit shit at painting pottery but having fun anyway; roof terraces in general; my new 70s mum style Iden jeans.

Time Again.

I keep writing things and deleting them.  Ooh, how deep and metaphorical?!

Anyway. Here are Some Current Things.

I went to see Bananarama and it was unexpectedly one of the best gigs I have ever been to.

I also went to see Aldous Harding and she was quite special.

My friend Neil gave me a T-shirt that says MORE ISSUES THAN VOGUE on it and I love it deeply.

At the weekend my mum came to stay, and we went to the Crab Claw on Brighton seafront and ate clam chowder chips - recommend, would 100% eat again every day for the rest of my life if I could, etc etc etc.

My random festival friend Jez is making a documentary about the album 'George Best' by the Wedding Present and you can find out all about it here.

I've been clearing out lots of stuff and have made many trips lately to Brighton tip - again, highly recommend. They also sell compost.

I became obsessed with the artist Babak Ganjei via Instagram (modern!) and I have been buying lots of stuff from his website. I literally could not love him more.

I am forever torn between thinking it's A Bit Common to put one's Christmas tree up too early, and - if I'm going to spend £30 on a tree - wanting to get my money's worth. So...I put mine up yesterday. Katherine and I walked down London Road intending to get small trees and carry them home. Of course we ended up getting thoroughly carried away and having to take our huge fatty trees home in a cab. Mine has three sets of fairy lights on it and thus looks uncannily like Winona's 'Stranger Things' series 1 breakdown.  Festive!

Reminder that you can buy copies of the beautiful, lovingly homemade lo-fi fanzine I AM NOT ASHAMED - along with 'euphemism cocktail' postcards and a whole bag of incredible one-off swag - from our online shop. We now deliver worldwide! Would make a pretty cool Christmas present, let me tell you.

Bye for now!

ECW X

Cowboy Mouth

I was a big fan of Sam Shepard.  His writing, his acting, his face.  Mostly his writing.  Mostly his face.

He was a man made of dreams.  ‘He was just everything one could want,’ said Patti Smith of their first meeting.  A cowboy, a writer, a rock n roll energy, a classic face.  A crescent moon tattoo in the crook of a hand, of course.

He’s the sort of hero one would conjure up.  A cowboy and an American literary genius.  Is there any word sexier than the word ‘playwright’ (and even then they so seldom look like Sam Shepard)?  A man of letters and the outdoors.  He was Cowboy Mouth perfect.

Last night, I spent a lot of time flicking through his Seven Plays.  Just reading odd pages and lines, the rhythm of it all.  The set-up to La Turista, talk of whisky under the sofa…

“This isn't champagne anymore. We went through the champagne a long time ago. This is serious stuff. The days of champagne are long gone.”

Later in the evening, and all I wanted in the world was to watch Paris, Texas.  (Shepard wrote the screenplay.)  It’s a film I haven’t watched in a long time, but which haunts my memory like I suspect it does all those who have ever seen it.  The loneliest film I have ever seen.  Nastassja Kinski in her pink sweater.  I watched it as a teenager, around the same time I first saw Betty Blue, and I still conflate the two in my mind.  Photogenic desert ennui, doomed love.  Something to aspire to – they probably had too much of an effect on me at too young an age.

The day before, the worst sort of Sunday, I had woken up in a half-dream panic: I could not remember the number of the house where my ex-boyfriend and I fell in love.  It was over a decade now, and yet this struck me as all wrong.  It was a significant house, even though it didn’t look like one.  I looked the road up on a map and I discovered the very same house was currently for sale.  The breath was knocked out of me as I scrolled through photographs.  An ugly sofa where there used to be a drum kit.  A baby's room where we used to sit on the floor and watch subtitled films with the curtains drawn, for days on end.  I knew those rooms; I walked those floors.  I used to live alone before I knew you.

The same desert feeling of sadness.

I was convinced I owned a copy of Paris, Texas.  Maybe once I did.  Turns out now I don’t.  I couldn’t find it anywhere.  I thought it had to be on Netflix; it wasn’t.  The closest matches that came up were Paris is Burning (a favourite that I have watched and watched into the ground) and Last Tango in Paris.

I had never seen Last Tango in Paris all the way through.  I vividly remember seeing part of it.  Drunk-ish, late at night, in bed with a boy called Rich, who was not my boyfriend.  He was an old friend, though; he was a sweet soul.  I was 21, before all of it.  Marlon Brando on a tiny TV propped in the corner of the room before we passed out.

Last night, I watched the whole film.  I hated it.  It was the worst thing to watch.  I thought I’d like that early 70s mood, the Paris apartment, the coats.  I love a good coat.  I hated Last Tango in Paris.  Did I mention I hated it?

It’s like when I read The Story of O and expected it to be much like Anais Nin, who is my favourite.  Safe to say, it was not, and I still pretty much take that book as a personal insult.

I suppose it doesn’t help that I do not find Marlon Brando remotely attractive.  Not at any stage in his career.  I do not care for his face.  I would like it to be known that I do not find angry men attractive.  I do not.  Give me the good ones.  Give me the Cowboy Mouth playwrights, please.  Or just a man with a truck in the desert, who writes books no-one will ever read.

It was number 26, by the way.  I don’t think I’ll ever forget it again.

It's a very good sign.

I have woken up with this song wedged in my head.  This is neither the original, nor remotely cool.  However, on a gloomy Friday, I say you should always go with the 10 Things I Hate About You version.  Always.

Today I am mostly wearing my sparkly Star Wars sweatshirt, visiting the crystal shop later (I have a hankering for black obsidian in my life right now)... and probably watching 10 Things I Hate About You.

Bon weekend.

Life lately

Has involved:

Going away to Qatar for a week.  It was hot (which felt like heaven to me at this time of year) and I love anywhere where there is a call to prayer.  I smoked shisha and ate a lot of hummus, sat on a lot of rooftop terraces.  I watched the Kardashians with Arabic subtitles and sat next to a glorious infinity pool, from which I texted obnoxious photos with captions like 'THIS IS A WORK TRIP WHY DO YOU KEEP CALLING IT A HOLIDAY' from my sun lounger.

Reading 'A Quiet Kind of Thunder' by Sara Barnard in pretty much one sitting, which I really fell swooningly in love with.  Gorgeous.

Also reading 'The Princess Diarist' by Carrie Fisher, which has been a slightly bittersweet experience for obvious reasons.  I still haven't quite processed how I feel about it, and it's made me question a lot of my strongly held beliefs about 'being a writer' (see: the sliver of ice through the heart). Possibly more to follow.

Working on 'Floored' and getting stupidly excited about it.

An evening of 90s goth films ('The Craft', 'The Crow') and absinthe (which apparently really does make the heart grow fonder), which was definitely my best occasion of the year so far.

Going clay pigeon shooting.  Long story.

Watching 'Jackie' followed by 'Manchester by the Sea' in a row on the plane, drinking red wine and weeping copiously.  Having to watch '(500) Days of Summer' to recover and then being forced to question how much I live my life like it's a film and Zooey Deschanel is playing me.

Rewatching 'Funny Girl' and rekindling my childhood crush on Omar Sharif and desperate desire to be Barbra Streisand when I grow up.

Listening to a lot of Marianne Faithfull, after fortuitously finding a cheap copy of 'Broken English' (one of the best albums of all time) on a market stall in Brighton.

I Am Divine

On this freezing cold, very Mondayish Monday... I would like to share a fact I learned over the weekend that has delighted me.

Did you know that Divine was once on Top of the Pops and that 'You Think You're A Man' was produced by (of all people) Stock/Aitken/Waterman?  I had literally no idea.  This has slightly blown my mind.

I watched the documentary 'I Am Divine' at the weekend.  I highly recommend it.  There's something about Divine that is so inspiring - I guess that can mostly be put down to his utter fearlessness.  Zero fucks, personified.  Be a bit more Divine.

I first discovered John Waters films in the post-Divine years, when my little sister and I became weirdly obsessed with Serial Mom as kids in the early 90s, and then worked our way backwards.  Probably a bit weird of us, but we found it hilarious at the time.

It's definitely time for a re-watch now.  A lot of those films, I haven't seen in years.  This may be a Christmas project.  Yesterday, while out pottering in Brighton, I happened to find a Female Trouble T-shirt, which I obviously had to buy and is bringing me much happiness.

In other news, I have been re-listening a lot to Lift to Experience lately (deep soul joy levels, plus desire to marry Josh T. Pearson strong); the 'Vulgar' fashion exhibition at the Barbican is worth a visit (it's on until February).  Writing is mostly happening in bed, with a woolly hat on and many, many cups of tea.

Order of the Unified Heart

It's been a while.  It's been a quiet November, or at least that's how it feels.  A funny old November, too.

I've been writing.  I've been making a lot of soup.  I've been going to dance classes.  I've been trying to keep up the chanting, with mixed success.  I've been keeping my head down, frankly.

But I've been lighting fires.

It's been a time of change and I'm still figuring out what that means - as so many of us are.  I want to think in a global sense, be the change I want to see.  I'm working on it.

I have a new Leonard Cohen tattoo, my second one (sixth in total).  To commemorate my lifelong membership to the Order of the Unified Heart.  I can now honestly say that having my palm handpoked for over two hours was the most painful experience of my life - but a good one.  Maybe that's what it's all about, lately.

Inspired by the LC song, last night I watched the 1928 silent film The Passion of Joan of Arc.  It's still with me today.  It was utterly riveting and overwhelming - and, oh, that face.  I cannot recommend it highly enough.

I saw her wince, I saw her cry,
I saw the glory in her eye.
Myself I long for love and light,
But must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?

For us to dream.

A good week for culture.

Not least because Bob Dylan has won the Nobel Prize for Literature.  For some reason, this is something that speaks directly to me and I feel a weird sense of slight ownership over - no idea why, but judging from The Social Media, a lot of my friends feel the same.  He means a lot to a lot of us, basically.  Good reason to give him the prize.  His words are special.

So, on Monday night I went to the Royal Festival Hall and got to be in the same room as the ACTUAL Louis Theroux.  As predicted he is tall, well dressed and very erudite.  Bonus Adam Buxton, too.

Tuesday night I went to the Barbican to see the Michael Clark Company.  This was a genuine revelation.  I was only vaguely familiar with Michael Clark's work, and it was one of those great events that I never would have gone to if not for my friend buying the tickets and inviting me along.  Sometimes the best kind of nights.  The dancers were incredible (what the human body can do blows my mind), but it was also surprisingly moving - music by Erik Satie, Patti Smith and then a tribute to David Bowie.  Really incredible.

I got home on Wednesday to the most bonkers, generous and wonderful present from my friend Neil. A huge, flat cardboard box that turned out to be A PLACE FOR US TO DREAM.  Vinyl, limited edition, signed - a 4-volume box set of 20 years' worth of Placebo, with a photo book so beautiful it made me cry.  Twenty years of my life and friendship, right there.  Unbelievable.

I have rarely felt so lucky to have the friends I have, lately.  I don't want to go into some 'hashtag blessed', my-friends-are-the-best-yes-better-than-your-friends smug outpouring.  I'm sure we all feel the same way about our own friends - I hope so, anyway.  But lately I have been feeling the value of great friends old and new, that's all.

In between times, lately I have been listening to The Cure a lot, rereading my beloved Patti Smith, living quietly, eating healthily, feeling inspired.  These are the things that are good in life.

Double Word Score

But - after my last post - we all also need some good news in the world right now.  I'm taking it wherever I can find it, frankly.

You know, just like that totally fake Winston Churchill quote about 'if we don't have art, then what are we fighting for?'.  It might have been made up, but was definitely correct in its sentiment.

My very clever friend Becky made a brilliant film called 'Double Word Score' - it's got romance, a very cool indie sensibility and SCRABBLE.  It's great.

Here she is, talking very inspiringly about the film and her career.  Let's all do great stuff like this.

ECW hearts...

Is it normal to get stupid celebrity crushes when one is a 34-year-old adult?  Just asking for a friend.

Most of my crushes these days tend to be on inspiring women.  And dead artists.  Oh, and I *do* spend an unholy amount of time fantasising about what it would be like to be best friends with Nigella - we sit around her kitchen table, I chat to her while she cooks, and the conversation gets increasingly filthy the more wine we drink, then we probably end up having a kitchen disco and eating Nutella with our hands at, like, 5 in the morning...  Anyway.

Still, I have been spending a lot of late-night post-writing time recently watching Brooklyn 99 on Netflix.  I have liked Andy Samberg ever since Celeste and Jesse Forever (which, IMHO, is a really great film*) but this was overshadowed by the gigantic girl crush I have on Rashida Jones.  Seriously, I love her.

She now has competition, as I now also love Andy Samberg a ridiculous amount.  He is funny and has a lovely face (literally my only requirements - the bar is pretty low these days).  Also, the fact that he is real-life married to Joanna Newsom absolutely delights me.  I remember reading an article once about how teenagers like their pin-ups to be single so that they can project themselves into the blank space of the girlfriend role (this is why boyband members aren't supposed to get girlfriends); but after A Certain Age, this reverses and we like men who look like good husbands (which is why older ladies all love Paul Newman and why I went right off Johnny Depp when he broke up with Vanessa Paradis).

If the goddess that is Joanna Newsom thinks Andy Samberg is good enough to marry, then he must be pretty great.  So, while I admire his face, I kind of like to imagine the two of them at home - you know, eating eggs, listening to the radio, brushing their teeth.  Not weird at all, right?  Totally normal.


*I remember reading a terrible review of this film when it came out, saying 'people don't talk like this in real life' - which is ironic, because I swear I have almost LIVED that movie and it was so close to my experience of real life that I found it genuinely uncomfortable to watch.  Maybe I'm not a real-life person.  Who knows?

Stuff.

It's been a good cultural week.

I had a lovely night out with my BFF to watch Hangmen (like everyone else in the world, OF COURSE I have a huge crush on Martin McDonagh).  It was even more amazing than I expected. Dark and funny and clever, and properly brilliant.

Yesterday, I went to see A Woman's War, the Lee Miller exhibition at the Imperial War Museum.  Again, it was incredible and highly recommended.  What a brilliant and fascinating woman.  I am slightly obsessed.

In other news, I would also recommend reading Station Eleven, So You've Been Publicly Shamed, and my friend Sara Barnard's wonderful Beautiful Broken Things, which very excitingly comes out this week.

In Netflix recommendations, Force Majeure made me feel very bleak but in a clever and fascinating way, and then We Are The Best! cheered me right up.  It is truly lovely.

Hardly wait.

Today I was listening to this song (the proper PJ Harvey version from 4-Track Demos) and the image of Juliette Lewis singing it in Strange Days came into my head.  I remember watching that film as a teenager and thinking she was SO COOL.  Of course I had to find it and watch it again, and I still think she's pretty cool.

Maybe I'm in a 90s film sort of a mood.  Since going to see The Hateful Eight I have been staging my own little Tarantino retrospective, in order.  I hadn't seen Reservoir Dogs or Pulp Fiction in years and years (and Jackie Brown not since I went to see it underage at the cinema!).  I had forgotten how absolutely brilliant those films are.  I love them.

And right now this has obviously reminded me that I really want to re-watch Natural Born Killers to take the Juliette Lewis coolness full circle.  Mallory Knox was a teenage idol of mine (aesthetically speaking, not in a murdery way) - I once went to a fancy dress party as her, complete with long blonde wig, leather trousers and bikini top combination and a huge fake scorpion tattoo.  My friend Russell made a very convincing Mickey.  I still think it's a great look, I must admit.

January - not only a Jacqueline Susann heroine

Hello, January.  You've been around a while now, but I am still coming to terms with you.  I am kind of torn between being glad that Christmas/New Year is all over, versus a very begrudging 'bloody January again' mentality.  Getting up in the dark is not fun; roll on the spring.

That said, it was a lovely New Year's Eve.  One of the nicest I can remember ever having, in fact.  It was simple and fun, involving a very favourite friend (aka The Wife), record shopping, fizz, cocktails, pizza and a kitten.  And some interpretative dancing to Joanna Newsom, always a must.

And, yes, now it's January again.  No big resolutions from me - minus perhaps some vague attempts to be less 'cool girl' plus a bit healthier.  I've started 2016 off the booze, but also off the running, as my sinuses appear to have been hijacked by a slimy monster - interesting stuff, I know.  I'm doing a 10K at the end of January, so I need to get back on the running, at least.

However, in further evidence that middle age surely beckons, I find myself more excited about the country walk I am planning for Saturday than I am about most nights out.

As January is a month for hibernation, I have also resurrected my on/off romance with Netflix, which I think may currently be my most meaningful relationship.  I have recently watched The Babadook, Coherence and Frank (all very excellent and recommended), as well as a lot of vintage episodes of 3rd Rock From The Sun (still funny).

In other news, I am still obsessed (OBSESSED) with Star Wars, and looking forward to seeing The Hateful Eight.

This morning on the train, I finished Chrissie Hynde's memoir.  She is very, very cool.  In fact, my only criticism of the book would be that she is perhaps a little too cool.  Still worth a read, though.

Here she is being cool.  And with an apt title for current back-to-school feelings.  Oh, and excellent fringe - although I shall perhaps explain at a later date my ongoing personal issues when it comes to Chrissie Hynde and her fringe).

Stuff this year.

Well...  It's been a bit of a year, hasn't it?

Some very un-favourite things have happened, but some good ones too.  Here are some of my favourite cultural things of the whole year.

BOOK: The First Bad Man by Miranda July.

I have long loved pretty much everything that Miranda July has ever done - well, since I went by myself to the Curzon in Soho to see 'Me and You and Everyone We Know' and then worked backwards.  I loved her book of short stories, and had high hopes of her first novel.  Well, reader, this surpassed all of them.  I read it with not much idea of the story/premise, which was probably ideal.  I have never read anything quite like it.  Literally life-altering.

FILM: Another game-changer, I have to say 'Diary of a Teenage Girl'.  I saw it by myself (bit of a theme emerging here?) on a weekday afternoon.  Question: is there anything more decadent than going to the cinema alone on a weekday afternoon?  This film, and all of its performances, are so incredible - I walked home in a daze, my head spinning.  Bonus points for the lovely 70s San Francisco aesthetic.

MUSIC: Of course, of course it has to be 'Divers' by Joanna Newsom.  Is that too cliche?  I know some people who would think so - apparently my taste in music can be way too 'middle-class white girl who has a fringe and tattoos and lives in Brighton'.  I don't care.  I love her love her love her.  This is still going to be on my record player throughout 2016.

TELLY: I rarely watch stuff on 'actual' telly, and then I feel all superior about it.  For years I really enjoyed saying 'actually I don't have a TV' but now everyone watches everything on computer, that doesn't really have the same cachet any more.  But lately not so much no-telly superiority on my part.  A big reason for this was 'Catastrophe'.  The premise doesn't sound that great: couple get pregnant after casual fling and decide to make a go of things (sounds pretty standard, right?).  But the writing, acting and general charm plus LOL-ness really elevate it.

Oh shit, and I nearly forgot 'This Is England 90'.  And probably loads of other stuff.

This Is England

The original film This is England came out in 2006.  I was 25; it was not long after I had moved to Brighton.  I saw it as soon as it came out, being a Shane Meadows fan after watching A Room For Romeo Brass (brilliant) and Dead Man’s Shoes (terrifying).

I loved it, but I’m sure I had no idea how attached to these characters I would become.  When the TV spin-off started a few years later – that’s when I fell truly in love.

By this point, like so many of us do, I feel as though those characters are my friends.  Nearly 10 years have passed.  They have grown up as I have.  We’ve all been through a lot (admittedly, I have not been through anything quite as traumatic as some of the characters have – thank gxx).

It sounds frivolous, but it’s funny how we can measure our own lives compared to those of fictional characters.  I remember so clearly what was going on in my life and who I was with when every new instalment of the series came out.

This Sunday night is the last ever instalment, apparently.  I hope it isn’t.  I want it to go on forever.

Last week, seeing Lol and Woody together after so much has happened, I cried and cried and cried.  ‘Christ, I love you; it’s ridiculous,’ he said.  After everything.  They look older, different.  I think of the ways I do, too.

I can’t wait for Sunday night.  I also kind of want it never to come.  I want them all to be OK; I don’t know if they will be.