The Central Line

This is my line and my claim to London. I am not from Essex, shut up. The Central Line is often the hottest and filled with the most pissed off people... I love it :)

Ilford Boys' natural habitat is from Mile End to Gants Hill. Despite their name this term can be applied to most cliches in East London. You can recognise an Ilford Boy by his trousers - which are worn to a level ensuring impressive exposure of his boxers. Think of them as the La Senza's vs. the M&S' his mother lovingly bought. Ilford Boys also tend to sport 'lines' on their face or cut into their hair (though my living in Leicester has meant I'm not completely sure how popular this trend is at the moment). Real Ilford Boys opt to wear mass-produced and overpriced labels which a very distant relative back in their homeland (almost always Asian) created - and then proceed to mock people who don't. Contrastingly, Ilford Girls (who pretty much equate to 'Harrow Girls') embrace too much liquid eyeliner and foundation for what was an already pretty face. You can often tell when it is about to rain because, in the distance, a wailing sound screaming 'my hair!' can be heard. This is because Ilford Girls have incredibly straight hair. Water is its kryptonite. Every girl brought up in the East has gone through this phase but some never make it out. Sadface.

Patrick hangs around the Stratford - Holborn area. He tends to perv quite openly at the attractive 20-something blondes whose Basic Instinct is to 'pull a Sharon Stone'. Mr Bateman considers himself a ladies man, if he does say so himself. The middle aged man who often tags along beside him never notices this carriage flirting and has become accustomed to Bateman's lack of eye contact when he talks at him about the annual turnover of a company his colleague feigned interest in to get the job. Sometimes there are Mrs. Batemans. When the two combine it leads to an overwhelming realisation that, yes, we are in the 21st century where women can have powerful jobs too. Yes, women can wear tailored suits and be taken seriously. Go girl power and feminism and hairyness! Then they begin cooing, and exchanging DNA through saliva, and make it very uncomfortable for other rush hour passengers who are already struggling to find something to look at after having exhausted their reading materials (the ads) in the morning. Everyone proceeds to mentally 'awkward turtle'.

From Holborn to White City you can find every Londoner’s favourite group: tourists! Technically each type of tourist should have its own group - from the unnecessarily untrusting Chinese to the unnecessarily trusting Americans (who we don't trust). Nevertheless there are several ways to spot a tourist besides the quintessential 'I <3 London' T-Shirts (which I have, suggesting it’s crap evidence anyway). For example: did you know an adult Tourist rarely ever sits down? This is likely to be because they are not trained in the art of ruthlessly shoving someone to get that seat. Tourists also seem to have an unnatural addiction to H&M, especially when they come from a country which already has H&M stores. The clue as to whether someone is a Tourist is the speed in which they travel. Using Speed Equals Distance Over Time establish whether the person in question is moving at less than half the rate you are. Obviously account for illness and disabilities, otherwise this is a fool-proof way of working out whether the dude in front of you is a Tourist or someone you can tut at.

White City-onwards is out of the way and should be kept that way. Face it.

The 30 Day Song Challenge (in 1 Day)

day 01 - your favourite song: Dancing in the Moonlight - Toploader

I don't know anyone who dislikes this song, and if they do, they're lame.

day 02 - your least favourite song: Rude Boy - Rihanna

How can people sing songs like this with their parents watching?!

day 03 - a song that makes you happy: Keep on Moving - Five

:) My first ever concert at Wembley Arena. I also ate my first ever Burger King burger that day.

day 04 - a song that makes you sad: Champagne Supernova - Oasis

This song used to make me happy but now it just reminds me of my brother's funeral as this was the song we played just before he got cremated (it was his favourite)

day 05 - a song that reminds you of someone: It's Too Late - Evermore

Jasmin: Have you heard of this band called 'Evermore'?
Me: ...WHAT!?

This was so not her kind of music.

day 06 - a song that reminds you of somewhere: Great Pretender - Freddie Mercury

Last summer I worked for Madame Tussauds London. There's a room the staff call 'World Stage' where MJ, Beyoncé and all those big stars' models are where a few music videos are played on loop. By the end of the 7 weeks you want to punch someone in the face everytime you hear them but, for some reason, I loved this one. I think it's because the video is so weird you can't stop staring at it.

day 07 - a song that reminds you of a certain event: Turn Me On - Kevin Lyttle

The Year 8 disco. Several pointless memories: Sarah and I pulled Mr Consiglio up to dance, Nick Hogan asked out Sezin, Miguel and I did that locking hands and spinning thing that cowboys do to a Steps song :)

day 08 - a song that you know all the words to: Teenage Dirtbag - Wheatus

day 09 - a song that you can dance to: Ignition - R. Kelly

I don't care if he Golden Showered an underage girl, the man makes me believe I can fly!

day 10 - a song that makes you fall asleep: To Be Alone With You – Sufjan Stevens

day 11 - a song from your favourite band: Motownphilly – Boyz II Men

ONE of my favourite bands anyway. They sang this TWICE when Jasmin and I saw this, I nearly wet myself

day 12 - a song from a band you hate: Shake It – Metro Station

I hope they lose their voices.

day 13 - a song that is a guilty pleasure: Mysterious Girl – Peter Andre

day 14 - a song that no one would expect you to love: AC-DC - You Shook Me All Night Long

I'm pretty sure Daniel S. sent this to me on MSN years ago. It makes me smile.

day 15 - a song that describes you: A Beautiful Mess - Jason Mraz ;)

I would love to be the kind of girl Jason sings about.

day 16 - a song that you used to love but now hate: Hurt – Johnny Cash

Nik's best friend told me he used to sing and play this on guitar. I never knew this before he died but now I hate listening to it.

day 17 - a song that you hear often on the radio: California Girls - Katy Perry

day 18 - a song that you wish you heard on the radio: Float On - Goldspot

People would stop being assholes if they listened to this shit

day 19 - a song from your favourite album: Butterfly - Jason Mraz

JASON

day 20 - a song that you listen to when you’re angry: Just Like a Pill - Pink

Jasmin Jethwa recommendation. Works.

day 21 - a song that you listen to when you’re happy: Porcelain - Moby

Shut your eyes and imagine you're lying on a beach

day 22 - a song that you listen to when you’re sad: Let Go – Frou Frou

day 23 - a song that you want to play at your wedding: Lady - Modjo

If I marry Daniel

day 24 - a song that you want to play at your funeral: Bittersweet Symphony – The Verve

day 25 - a song that makes you laugh: Eamon – Fuck It

Because 1) the lyrics are hilarious 2) his voice is hilarious 3) I associate it with when Geogia and Carissa came to Leicester which is when 1) I learnt what 'minesweeping' was 2) I learnt the repercussions of minesweeping after I vommed 3) We met Philip

day 26 - a song that you can play on an instrument: Seven Nation Army – The White Stripes

Very vaguely on guitar - an instrument too big for me to hold properly so I rest it on my lap

day 27 - a song that you wish you could play: Apologize – OneRepublic

Jizz.

day 28 - a song that makes you feel guilty: I don't even understand this one?!

day 29 - a song from your childhood: I Want To Hold Your Hand - The Beatles

My mother is a Beatles fan, and she taught me the words to this song, and my dad's more about Elvis. I like both.

day 30 - your favourite song at this time last year: Kids - MGMT

Flat 2 bitches.



Deep, non?

Nikul Shah

Dear Nik,

I never told you exactly how much I love you. You named me, you were my first word, you bought me my first album, looked after me the first time I got drunk and basically wrote my personal statement. It was you that I told first ‘I’m going to Leicester’. Every step of my life you have been there and now I have to make it without my big brother.

When we were growing up I was always so jealous of you: The Golden Boy. My Bs were just shadows of all your As and A*s but it was YOU who first said ‘well done’ to me. Don’t think you weren’t a know-it-all though...You still felt the need to butt in with a sarcastic comment (or 4) and then we’d argue like cat and dog. But still, you never held grudges against me – even after I puked in your face in Kenya or kept you awake the whole flight to India because I was singing the same song for about 9 hours.

Nik, you always knew what to say to make me angry but you’d always make me laugh twice as hard. I’ve forgotten the number of times I screamed the house down after you’d wait for ridiculous lengths of time in the dark just to scare me. Thank you for sending me post with stupid nicknames that only you used like ‘Teglet’ and signing me up to Christian and lesbian support groups, thinking you were funny. And the impressions or accents... you, Nish and I would spend so many hours on Goodness Gracious Me sketches and All Saints dance routines because of you.

Everyone in our family has experienced your culinary skills. Whether these were good or bad experiences is another question. Chilli paneer, good. Cheesecake, good. Thai curry, overly experimental. You could be putting milk on cereal and manage to destroy the kitchen and accumulate two sinkfuls worth of dishes - which Mum had to wash.

You always looked after our guinea pigs or went to the hospital to see Nani but the night after Jasmin died is when I realised how caring you really are. I’ll never stop being grateful for how you stayed awake all night with me, talking me out of shock and making me realise the pain of losing my oldest friend would stop hurting so much one day. You looked after me and framed my favourite photo of us. You were so good with unexpected gestures and never expected anything back – I still remember how surprised you were when I said ‘thank you’. That night you said ‘I know I haven’t always been the best brother but, I promise, I’m here for you now’ – and you were.

So much has changed for me in such a short space of time, I’m not sure how it’s going to work. Let’s make a deal Nik. Look after Bapuji, Jasmin and all the boys and I promise I’ll look after our family forever. Enjoy yourself, live as fast as you did with us, keep dancing badly and we’ll always say your name with a smile.

Laya Bha.

The idea, not the person

I leave you to handle my car, my coffee, my money, my children, my smile, my food, my dog, my future.

I have faith in the knowledge that you will not run away, you will not abandon me.

I trust you with my desires and purposes of the day.

The day makes the year and the year makes my life.

I trust you with my life.

Remember

For as long as I have my faculties about me,
You will have yours.

When I see ‘Chancery Lane’ my brain takes a train
To you

When blossoms blossom, and the wind wretches them away
They fall at your feet

When I hear that band, that song, that tune
We speak

Every spice scenting her perfume,
Every voice within this crowd,
Every colour in that rainbow,
Every flavour his tongue greets
Every embrace which warms my soul

Is you.

Well-behaved women never made history

When sitting in the backseat of my mother’s Micra listening to ‘I am a Passenger’ (lol, seriously) my eye came across the new Christian Bale and Mark Walberg boxing film poster. Being me I automatically started analysing how ‘Fight Club’ portrays our increasingly flaccid idea of ‘masculinity’. This then lead me to question ‘femininity’... Et voilà!

‘Gender’ and ‘sex’, I think, are generally considered synonymous. We assume a woman is feminine, and a man is masculine – and anyone defying these social norms is defying their inherent biological design. But that is exactly the point: on the one hand there are the social constructs designed to inform us what it means to be ‘feminine’, and on the other is our biology – which needs no explanation if your Year 6 teacher did their job properly.

This gives rise to the question: do we WANT to be feminine? Do we want to become another stereotype, another product of what is expected of us rather than what we want to be? Society holds women back enough. Being ambitious makes you masculine, being promiscuous makes you a slut and being opinionated makes you a ‘fucking feminist’.

Before people get confused and starting thinking I am a feminist, I’m not. Well I am to the extent where I think we should be given equal rights etc. but not one of those ‘male dominance is undercutting us’ types - like that woman in ‘Legally Blonde’ who was petitioning for the next term to be called ‘winter ovester’...WHAT IS THAT!? Nevertheless, even though I understand why Elle is Elle, I do cringe when I see her just constantly decked out in pink like a fluffy 8 year old.

A lot of people associate the colour pink with girls and femininity but this is only a very recent fabrication. Up until the 1940s pink was attributed to men because of the ‘masculinity’ of red, and the fact that pink was closer to it. On the other hand, blue (Virgin Mary’s colour) was for girls because it was considered more refined. The fact that Ross Geller would have not even needed to defend his 'salmon pink' shirt back when Queen Victoria was rocking, and the ability to completely overhaul symbolism, is just more evidence that the notion of femininity is man-made (in the larger, non-feminist sense).

The fundamental ideas of feminism's death though the increase in figurative and literal trouser-wearing, votes and political correctness has led to a decrease in birth-rates because 1) women are focusing on their careers, which they (OMG!) can now have 2) this ultimately means they have less time on their 'biological clock' and so 3) have fewer children than a woman of the same age in India, who got married when she was like 18. Considering the traditional notion of femininity is being ignored, it seems as though the modern age’s advancements has led to a gradual deconstruction of masculinity too – based on the growing number of self-proclaimed ‘metrosexuals’.

Suddenly it is okay to be a man who is aesthetically feminine. It’s okay to go on the sun beds and even get eyelash tints like some postman I saw the other day on ‘Take Me Out’ (though he didn’t actually get any dates). Femininity is definitely not about your sex, it’s about expectations.

Oddly though, there still remains the desire to APPEAR feminine. Women will pay too much for plastic surgery, haircuts, feet-crippling heels, Bambi eyelashes and/or ACT as the submissive, stupid and vulnerable '50-Cent-bitches' in relationships but NOT in the workplace. In the workplace they want to be taken seriously. Basically women are aspiring for a balance between Miss Trunchbull’s personality and Miss Honey’s looks. Or Hilary Clinton - though even she seems to be riding a little on the fact that her husband was once in office, riding Monica Lewinsky.

I’m bored of myself now so to conclude: I have no real purpose for this blog post. It is simply the result of a very long and boring car journey to Kingsbury.



Jasper, the metrosexual guinea pig.

The Mraz Challenge

I know I sound like a massive emo but I’m actually not.

I’d like to think apart from my characteristic Piscean mood-swings (yes, I’ve finally accepted I believe in that hippy, let's-hump-the-ground-to-convey-our-love-for-earth stuff) and occasional feeling of ‘oh fuck’, I’m a very happy person.

Jason Mraz (my favourite singer ever! I took the picture during his performance on 04/04/2009 in Hammersmith) put up a blog post listing, in 90 seconds, everything he is grateful for. He then encouraged everyone reading it to do the same.



I can't think that fast so erm, here are 5 minutes' worth of gratitude:

+ My family and friends (obviously including the pigs and my seamonkeys)
+ Jasmin
+ Literature
+ All the films, TV shows and songs that have ever made me cry
+ London
+ Theatre
+ Any famous person I pine over including but not limited to: John Travolta, Jason Mraz, Christian Bale, Leonardo Di Caprio
+ Salvador Dalí
+ Salty popcorn
+ Buildings and views that awe me into silence
+ Candles and playing with melted wax
+ Late night phone calls
+ Stamps on my passport
+ Snorting with laughter
+ Polar bears
+ Laughing at the jokes in my head
+ Making people awkward for my own amusement
+ Good hair days
+ Incense sticks
+ Gem stones
+ Sea shells
+ Hippies
+ The smell of old books. Sniff the QMUL library, you will jizz in your pants.
+ Coconut
+ Biblical metaphors
+ Eggs
+ Bright nail varnish
+ Vanilla lattes
+ My camera. Best 16th birthday present ever.
+ Greek mythology
+ Family holidays
+ Photos taken in photo booths
+ Christmas TV
+ Kit-Kat
+ Making pot-porri
+ Clashing colours
+ Laurence Llewelyn Bowen
+ Booze
+ Museums
+ Fossils
+ Sunflowers
+ White lillies
+ Lavender
+ Songs with retarded lyrics
+ Accents. Especially European ones.
+ Pyjamas (aka my wardrobe)
+ Funny racist people who make me feel intellectually superior
+ Bike riding
+ Mr Potter
+ The feeling in my stomach when I miss a step or go on a rollercoaster
+ Indian food
+ Night skies that make me feel all warm, fuzzy and insignificant. But in a good way.
+ Google. The closest we will ever get to omniscience.
+ Olives
+ Weird dance moves ('reverse driving', 'the cool down' and 'milking the cow' are particular favourites)
+ Crunchy peanut butter
+ Feeling like I’m in a music video and strutting when my iPod’s on
+ The '90s
+ Hand-written letters
+ Garlic
+ Wise, crazy people I meet on public transport
+ Old photos where you think ‘why did I think that looked good?’
+ Remembering lyrics to songs I forgot existed
+ The Great Spoon of Ilford!
+ Leicester
+ Spell-check
+ Blue Peter before it had that shitty green badge
+ Free samples, sales and any legal method of saving money
+ Cute kids. No paedo.
+ Cute animals. No beasty.
+ Pretty people
+ People who buy weird and imperfect fruit
+ Flash mobs - especially 'No Pants Day'
+ The seasons and fickle British weather
+ Drinking alcohol outside when it's sunny
+ Mum's tea
+ Texts or calls from people I lost contact with
+ Lucid dreaming
+ My teachers
+ Silver jewellery
+ Mix tapes made by my friends
+ People who recycle
+ Fruit
+ Roasted chestnuts

TIME'S UP.

99 Flakes are no longer 99p

Nothing is original except youth. You can be whatever the hell you want.

I was a painter, then an astronaught and then a wrestler.

I would be Delia Smith and cook with dandelions, chopping them up with slate from the garden and then garnish my dish (also made from dandelion) with coriander. She put coriander in everything.

I would drink my Ribena wine and shout at my brother for saying 'yeah' instead of 'present' during registration and mock him, and the other children, with my reflection in the mirror. We had such a good rapport.

My mother only ever bought me two Barbies my whole life, a grudge I still hold today. One's hair turned pink when in contact with water, and the other who rollerskated (though really she just fell flat on her perfect face). This forced me to hang around with my brothers and think punching in the stomach is a perfectly acceptable form of play.

I had the wildest imagination and spoke with such conviction that others believed me when I told them my cardboard box was a portal into a world where bears walked around with their handbags and would make a broth-like dish for the nearby privileged white girl. I'm sure that's Goldilocks-inspired.


Now.

I burn toast,
I get pissed on rosé,
I look in the mirror to check I look okay,
I walk past all the toys bundled in carrier bags
And say 'bye' to my brothers without looking them in the eye.
Every statement is a question and
Every wandering thought is disturbed by a prevailing reality.

Everything is vanilla.

I thought you're meant to improve with age?

Retardation

People might think ‘how many fingers did she put into a plug socket?!’ when they see you but they still see ME. Curls, I love you.

I get called Simba and/or Mufasa but seriously, Hakuna Matata (it means 'no worries')! Curls, I love you.

I have to use, and have no, GHDs. 180 degrees of ceramic heat technology struggle to handle you - but 180 minutes would struggle to create the same level of frizzy, unmanageable perfection. Curls, I love you.

I lose rulers and packets of ketchup in your Amazonian mess. Thank you for an original storage device others lack. Curls, I love you.

Sometimes you confuse people on my ethnicity. This permits me with the opportunity to create an alter-ego. Curls, I love you.

Curls, you really wind (me) up.



(Yes, I took some liberties)

My brain talks to me. Seriously, it won’t shut up.

It may just be the most self-less brain in the world - It’s always concerned about me.

‘What the hell have you done with your life?’ it asks, genuinely concerned.

It creates panic and then changes its mind:

‘Don’t worry, it’ll work out in the end’

‘Brain’, I say, ‘stop talking’

I’m pretty sure it’s bi-polar, the number of mood swings it has.

My brain then randomly bursts into song at 3am with lyrics everyone else has forgotten about. I don’t need a radio for a rendition of The Lighthouse Family...

Shut up, brain. I’m trying to sleep!

On it goes singing. ‘What’s the next line?’ it asks, indifferent to my frustrations.

‘You will always keep me flying high in the sky of love’, I say – now bored of the fight and resorting to rolling my eyes and sighing restlessly.

‘Oh by the way, you need to buy some toothpaste tomorrow. Write it down before you forget!’

...Thanks Brain :)

14.02.1991 - 14.11.2010

The last time I ever saw Jasmin she came to my house at about 10pm and we just sat in her car wearing pyjamas. We chatted for several hours until she announced she was hungry so we went to the McDonald’s drive-thru to eat apple pie, the server eyeing our clothes.

Even before finding out she had died, I considered it one of the best times I had shared with her because it just exemplified everything about us: comfort. Jasmin was always the first person I called whenever something went wrong. When we were younger we would just sit for hours on one of those green boxes at the bottom of Vaughan Gardens crying or laughing. I went back there after hearing the news and saw it wasn’t there anymore.

Several months ago we both agreed that if we had met later in life there was no way we’d be friends because our tastes were SO different. I’m relieved I never had to test that theory because I am grateful for those years I got to share with Jasmin. She was my first, oldest and best friend. We saw each other grow up to be pretty much polar opposites and yet be ridiculously similar because we grew into each other.

We often joked about how we were never in sync – when one was strong and confident, the other was timid and nervous. Maybe this happened for a reason – we had to be there for each other. Jasmin always called me her ‘safety net’ and I always told her she underestimated herself; she could do a lot more than she ever thought. And she did. The past year she came out of her shell and threw herself in at the deep end – moving out for university to study for a profession she genuinely wanted, working, and partying.

When we were eating our apple pies in the McDonald’s car park she was talking so excitedly about the people she had met and the things she had done. I just stopped her, smiling, and said ‘you’ve changed...are you happy?’ she just tilted her head in that way she always did, grinned and said ‘yeah’. That moment is my only real comfort now. I know she was so happy with her life when she went - she died at a high point.

I’m proud to call her my friend. Jasmin always laughed so loudly and with such ease (once we sat in the living room with my mother and she was in hysterics, basically ruining a story, trying to explain how her Ba said ‘chicken flu’ instead of ‘bird flu’... It really wasn’t that funny), she was cheeky (phoning my mum with the genius lie of telling her she had arranged a surprise party so I could stay out even later than planned) and defensive (basically beating up another girl she disliked for laughing at her joke, which also made Jasmin the school hero for a long time). She was so fun to be around and made me do things that I would never otherwise (notably go on the Space Mountain rollercoaster in Paris, where she cried more than I did, screaming ‘TEJ I LOVE YOU!’). I knew Jasmin would be an amazing mum as she’d shout ‘put on a jacket!’ when we went out. Then again, she was also a massive party animal and I will always be impressed by her ability to pretend she was completely sober - immediately after singing something ridiculously off-key.

Few people realised exactly how sentimental Jasmin was. One time we went to the park and were running around hitting the trees to make blossom fall down. A lady walked past and Jasmin looked at her straight in the eye and smiled (she always did that with strangers) and then held out one of the blossoms. Jasmin carried on watching the woman as she walked off, and beamed with surprise saying ‘she put it in her pocket!’ That memory is so vivid because it was one of a whole week we had spent together, immediately after an argument which we grew up to laugh about, when my mum asked us ‘aren’t you bored of each other yet?’ and in unison we said ‘no’.

I have no regrets in terms of saying things I should have, Jasmin knew exactly what she meant to me. Ever since the day she got me 3 bracelets and I gave her one back, I haven’t taken them off. I still wear the friendship necklace I got when we were 8 and Jasmin was meant to move to Mauritius. We would randomly text the other one with lyrics or just saying ‘I love you!’ I only regret not seeing her the night before she passed away, like we had planned earlier, and not taking more photos with her or recording her crazy laugh. I have so many stories about Jasmin and could talk about her forever because she’s been at every step.

I’ll never, ever get over or forget Jasmin. I will always love and aspire to be like her as she was the closest I’ve had to a sister. Every time I bumped into a teacher from nursery, primary or high school I’d be asked ‘how are you? ... How’s Jasmin?’ I am so grateful for those years I shared with her. Jasmin’s death has made me appreciate life just that little bit more and I intend on living every aspect of it with more energy and positivity – constantly thinking of her. We will never be alone.



Sometimes drills make wholes
You just have to turn on the power

Idealology

Follow This.

Follow God Follow Mum Follow Dad Follow Brother Follow Sister Follow Teacher Follow Boss Follow Friend Follow Girlfriend Follow Boyfriend Follow Law Follow TV Follow Radio Follow Billboard Follow GPS Follow Magazine Follow Arrows Follow Guides Follow Fashion Follow Them

Now follow your fucking Brain.



Things to (do to make customer) buy:

1) Bulk-order a low costing, raw commodity and ‘add value’
2) Hire an ‘innovative’ (i.e. ‘ruthless’) businessman who designs a figure to parallel ‘Tony the Tiger’
3) Prise your way into the family home and kidnap children’s minds
4) Encourage them to influence peers
5) Abuse parent’s love for the kids and guilt them into spending money
6) Let everyone believe we are who we say we are

I walk unsuspectingly into an ocean of promises which are portrayed so attractively in their perfect packaging so beautifully crafted to craft my will-be-beautiful thoughts. So many offers to help me save money (so many ways to sell my soul).

Buy 1 get 1 free on happy families when you buy this box of ‘Kellogg’s Corn Flakes’.

Spend £3 on bifidus digestivum for a digestive problem you never noticed until the advert and get a free, completely unrelated product

50% off a deodorant that makes you ‘The Sex’

...Empty wallet. Open your eyes.

Thank you for shopping at the 'Dreams Supermarket'. The place where you’re told you need pointless crap to become happy.



'The people who truly deface our neighbourhoods are the companies that scrawl their giant slogans across buildings and buses trying to make us feel inadequate unless we buy their stuff...Well, they started this fight and the wall is the weapon of choice to hit them back.' - Banksy

Oh, Hollywood

Dear Hollywood,

I'm writing this to tell you how confusing you have made my and, I'm sure, others' life. There are so many questions you’ve put in our heads:

1) Is life meant to be poignant like in 'American Beauty' or is it all basically a load of shits and giggles? I stared at a crisp packet for a long time. When I realised it was a cheese and onion one I thought 'this is definitely being filmed' but then people started whispering and I heard 'fetish' more than once. Ricky Fitts is not the only misunderstood, artistic soul.

2) Where are these men that I fall in love with every time I go to the cinema - and why do they fall in love with annoying women like Rose DeWitt Bukater? Do they not ever hang out in East London? I own granny pants just like Bridget Jones and have yet to find someone who finds that attractive. Hugh Grant, please, let's rendezvous.

3) Are there any evening classes I can take to learn how to speak that poetically? Also, perhaps I'm a prude but is it really necessary for Kat to cry in front of a class in '10 Things I Hate About You'? What happened to pride? I thought modern Hollywood is obsessed with aesthetics and looking good. She looks terrible.

4) Should I consider an explosion normal, and never bother turning around or say 'FUCK!' when I feel a slight burning sensation on the back of my head? Maybe in comparison to your protagonists I've lived a sheltered life.

5) I know stereotypes exist because they have truth in them but I have never met a magical black person before. Magical people in Hollywood are always black like that guy in 'The Green Mile' or the Oracle in 'The Matrix' (obviously bar Harry Potter because the wizarding community is not so elitist). Where do I find these magi?

I could do with some help resurrecting the mouse that burnt to death in the explosion which distracted me from the good looking chap who I could have wooed with the vast Shakespeare quotes my English degree has forced me to absorb, across the road.

Nel mio tempo libero mi piace scrivere

I don’t know where I came from
Those words were long lost
Now, instead of ‘kemcho’ I say ‘hello’ to my boss
The lines of communication
Were severed when I was young
My grandma shakes her head in disappointment
If only it was in Gujarati I had sung
The further I move
Away from my origins
The further I move
From an Indian kitchen
No shaak and rotli,
Just pasta and pie
No bhaat or puri
But pizza from the delivery guy
I don’t know where I came from
But I know where I am going
Studio l’inglese e l’italiano
Ma, Gujarati, non parlo

Success

Evidently my earlier plans in maintaining a blog failed so I'm in no doubt they will fail again. Nevertheless it's nice to lie now and then..it makes you feel dangerous. Therefore:

I'm gonna blog.

Below is some crap that I wrote...probably whilst feeling hideous



Yourself:

Take off your makeup with wet wipes you paid £4 for. They were on sale.

It’s stained with life-changing waterproof mascara (£20), man-alluring eye shadow (£15), mineral face-smothering foundation (£20) and all the nonsense you’re another insecure sucker for. Total for a new face: £55

...And that’s excluding the makeup utensils you utilised in making a man want to utilise you.

You get loyalty points though - This changes everything. This makes it okay.

Strip off from the body-shaping garms and rip away the names a kid sewed on for the thousandth time - which you pay to advertise

Cut the acrylic talons and stare at your misshapen cuticles

Has the world ended?

De-jangle those bangles

Go blind but let us see the natural colour of your eyes!

Wash out the plastic from your hair and shades that don’t belong to you but the woman on the box

Hide from the sun (unless it’s to play the games you’ve long forgotten...Hopscotch!) and tell skin cancer to find some other fool

You’ve adopted an image. It’s so engrained you can’t even trace where from, when...why?

What made you hate this perfect body that is testament to all that has been (your parents, their parents, their parent’s parents) and all that may be (when you’re a parent)?

Embrace the fat, there’s more to hug.

Embrace the frizz and scars because character is rare these days.

It’s all very well for Christina Aguilera to tell us we’re beautiful when she looks like that. Shut up, what do you know?

Not me though. Each and every one of you is more beautiful when your beauty belongs to you and not a twisty-top bottle.

Look in the mirror, wearing only what came free.

When was the last time you saw yourself in yourself look so cheap, and yet so rich?

You’re priceless.

My gift to you is yourself back.

I have just

lost my blogspot virginity. Wow... I feel like a new woman.

I created this because a while ago I used to blog and people loved them but then I developed a social life and discovered the woes of GCSEs, hence the decline in posts. Now, when I really should be concentrating on life-deciding A-Levels, I have decided to blog. Ironic really.