A Burger A Day

I’m sure we’re all aware of the obesity issues in the UK, with good old Jamie on the rampage to save the chubby kiddies and “Doctor” Gillian McKeith still determined to convince us that her looking at our poo is purely in order to help the UK lose weight…(?) And we’ve all heard the over weight kids ringing Radio 1’s anti-bullying Surgery complaining that the other kids keep trying to shove an apple in their mouth and spit-roast them over an open fire. (Obviously I mean, “spit-roast,” in the literal sense, not the dirty one. That’s disgusting. Stop it.)

So, we’re in agreement that obesity is an issue here, yes? Which is why I would like to know why exactly the British media decided to broadcast it all over the news that, in fact, we’re all allowed an extra 400 calories a day?

Yes, it’s true! The national GDA for calories is rising by 400, which means women are now ‘allowed’ 2400 calories – almost as much as an adult male’s previous intake – and men can have 2900 – almost as much as an average ELEPHANT’S intake.

Now, apparently we’ve all been exercising more, burning more calories and, thus, can eat more. WHICH SECTION OF THE BRITISH PUBLIC HAVE THEY BEEN TESTING?! Certainly none of the Scarborian cider guzzlers or Jamie Oliver’s chunky children, that’s for sure.

So, here are some of the issues I have with the publicising of this information:

Firstly, these extra 400 calories have only ever been publicly equivalised to a Mac Donald’s cheeseburger and a muffin. Helpful. Not only are they telling people that they can eat an extra 20% of their daily intake, guilt-free, but they’re also basically telling us all to get down to Maccy D’s and scoff a cheeseburger every day. Could they not have said, “That’s an extra 8 apples a day,” or, “133 grapes,” or even, “4 grapefruits”? ‘Cause, while they’re acknowledging the calorie count, they’re ignoring the fact they just advised you to up your daily intake of saturated fat by 27%, salt by 30% and carbs and sugar by 10%; never mind the preservatives, and hormones pumped into the cows that make those burgers which can cause aggression, infertility, hyperactivity, breast cancer, growth stunts and mood swings. Why not just encourage us all to eat a hunk of lard everyday? I’ve no doubt it’d probably be better for you.

Another issue is that they haven’t taken into account the millions of different body types that they’re applying this blanket rule to. The fact that some exercise more than others aside, some people simply have a much faster or slower metabolism than the national average. So telling some one who struggles with their weight under the 2000 calories a day rule that they won’t gain any weight if they consume an extra 400 is ridiculous. They will. And they’re not being supplied with all the information that can help them make an informed decision. It’s unfair and irresponsible.

Now, I’m not saying that scientists should ignore the results of their research just because some people may not like what they say, but be conscientious about it. Publish your results in a dietary journal with all the facts, or pass the info on to dieticians who can use the figures to help people professionally, but don’t hand them on to journalists and news stations who then inform an obese country that it’s actually been on a diet since the ‘80s and now it’s time to binge! And the media: grow up and realise that you are accountable for a nation’s health and well being here.

I know that some of you will feel that the public deserve to know the facts and are responsible enough to look after their own bodies, and that selective advertisement/news broadcasting is the first step to dictatorship, but please allow me to tell you why you are wrong on this occasion: If you are responsible and well-informed enough to handle this information, then it won’t affect you one iota. You don’t need it. You will know that calorie counting doesn’t make you healthy and you will be aware of which foods and what amounts make your body feel good.

This information (and it’s poorly represented advertisement) only affects the dietary irresponsible portion of the public: those who aren’t aware of what they put in their body or really struggle to figure out how many calories they’ve had in a day; those who eat more than they should already and don’t understand why they gain weight doing it; those who would give anything to be told they’re allowed to eat MacDonald’s every day and not feel guilty for it.

The only people this information could help are under-eaters and anorexics, who are either gaining that help from dieticians with this (fully-informed) data, or will ignore this public announcement because their life is about control and routine, not those extra 400 calories, which won’t be going anywhere near their bodies.

So, congratulations to the British media for encouraging a country in which the number of fatalities due to obesity almost exceed those caused by smoking to eat more shit and then complains when the NHS is forced to pay out for diseases caused by obesity. And when you tell us the stories of the 40% of British children who are tortured by bullies for being fat, please feel free to include your contribution to their misery in your reports.

“Around one in every 11 deaths in the UK is now linked to carrying excess fat.”
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-171497/Britains-obesity-death-rate.html#ixzz0YGudOAKC

The Magic of Edinburgh Festival: The 3rd, 4th & 5th Signs

The third sign: we were not being paid for our services in Edinburgh, however, we were being provided with food and accommodation. Thus far, the accommodation had been found somewhat wanting, but how wrong can you go with food?

Pretty wrong, actually.

That evening we were served cheese ravioli drowning in green pesto. I later found the 10kg bag of Aldi’s ‘Frozen Ravioli’ in our freezer. The rest of our meals for the entire month contained a consistently high quantity of chillies, despite my continuous warnings that I am, in fact, allergic to chillies.

The fourth sign: the five of us set up camp in the four-bed flat and I managed to nab me the biggest room, all to myself. However, when I awoke, I found that I was accompanied by two Irishmen.

Throughout the duration of our stay, the numbers and names of flatmates was in a constant state of flux, but we finally settled on a nice, round eight – four of whom resided in my bedroom; two of whom resided in my bed.

The fifth sign was the accumulation of the 20-hour days of hard manual labour with no risk-assessments or training, 83 crying fits, 5 exhaustion collapses, 4 deserters, 3 failed fire inspections, 2 serious hospitalisations, 1 visit to a chiropractor, and several ‘spiritual healings’ provided by the management in preference to a first aid box.

At the realisation of these signs, I should have left, but we all knew that each person who deserted provided a big dollop of work for the others who stayed. And, so, we continued for the sake of our friends.

Sounds heroic, doesn’t it? It wasn’t – it was the sleep deprivation making us crazy.

And yet, it wasn’t the stunning apartment that made my month, nor was it the maximum 3 hours of sleep per night, the back-breaking physical work, the occasional meals that I couldn’t eat, the 30 minute hilly walk in Scottish weather to work every morning, the lack of free time to experience the Festival (we were each allocated a maximum of 3 days off out of the 45 we were there), it wasn’t the inferior technology and slap-dash ‘box offices’ we were supplied with (I say supplied, we had to build them ourselves from scratch), no – it was the customers.

I have often thought that the quality of any business or job can be dramatically improved upon by the removal of customers, but, as a Theatre graduate, I was shocked to find myself believing that theatre would be better off without audiences. In fact, the demolition of all theatres and even the removal of the concept of ‘theatre’ I feel would be preferable to having to work with audience members like that ever again.

Every day I was yelled at because the managers of the company had moved a venue without informing customers; I was sworn at because we didn’t show a particular play one gentleman wanted to see; I had flyers thrown at me because one lady didn’t enjoy a play; I was ridiculed by a pair of men because I looked so tired and then told to “Smile, I’m the customer, you have to smile at me!” I was spat at for asking a drunk man to leave; I was snidely told I was incompetent because a show had sold out; I was accused of theft because a couple’s booking wasn’t on the system; I was threatened with legal action because I didn’t have to authority to refund tickets; I was threatened with physical action because a woman was so late to a show that it had finished two hours earlier and, therefore, I couldn’t grant her admittance; but the final straw was when a middle-aged man came and yelled at me because there were queue-jumpers.

I had not asked any one to form a queue: this was the first I had heard of any queue and the queue-jumpers in question were a small group of OAPs who had come inside to shelter from the freezing rain and stone-dust clouds created by some sculptors and their chainsaws, working right next to said queue. The ‘gentleman’ stood across the room from me and pointedly scowled at me for almost 40 minutes, refusing to leave until the queue-jumpers had returned to the line, before demanding I make the OAPs leave by force. They all refused to re-join the line and told me I was rude for asking. The Arse then slammed his fist on the counter and shouted at me that my attitude was unacceptable. At that point, another show opened its doors and its audience filtered in. The man then yelled at me yet again because people from his queue went in. When I pointed out that it was a different show, he demanded I go and get them out, as they were obviously trying to find new ways to queue-jump.

In my head, I picked up my computer screen and smashed it into his smarmy, red face; in reality I started crying and ran away.

When I returned half an hour later, he was still there, arms folded, glaring.

I’d like to say that from this experience, I have learnt how to rough it, how to be more resourceful, how to stand up for myself and handle compromising situations; but, in truth, all I have learnt is that I don’t like sharing a room with boys, kitchens need to be cleaned, I am definitely allergic to chillies, you can only manage on 3 hours of sleep for so long, I should probably do more exercise, the customer is almost never right, and most importantly, that customer relations should only be undertaken by the deaf, blind and dumb, the insane, or skinheads who are able to throw computers and tell people, in no uncertain terms, to GET OVER IT!

The Magic of Edinburgh Festival: The 2nd Sign

The second sign should surely have been the 25 minute trudge with all my luggage; arriving, blistered, at what I still believe to be an imported Soviet ‘apartment’; risking life and limb heaving my luggage up three flights of spiral concrete stairs and then hearing the company van pulling up outside. “Oh, I could have given you all a lift.” Really? Super.

I threw myself onto what can loosely be described as a sofa and quickly jumped back up when I saw the bird shit dripping down the sides of it.

Now, I don’t feel I’ve stressed quite enough the miserable state of our flat. The floors were crispy, the windows didn’t close, the kitchen was only half-built, there was no lounge, the bathroom had a bath, sink and toilet but no standing room (we measured, and the linen closet was honestly larger) and the only thing keeping that sink stuck to the wall was condensation.

I came back one evening to find the front door wide open, which started a small row over who had forgotten to close it. However, the row soon dissipated when we realised that the sentence, “Some one could have come in and stolen our…” could only be completed with, “…general air of depression.”

One Monday morning when leaving the flat, we noticed that the concrete stairs were covered with water. There was obviously a stair-cleaner at work here, but why, first thing on a monday morning, when residents are still half asleep and not paying attention, and the Scottish weather could turn blood to ice, would you pour gallons of icy water down spiral concrete stairs?? It was suggested that this was simply Scottish Natural Selection.

I concur.

Luckily, we were naturally selected and made it to the bottom. However, on arriving at the foot of the stairs, we bumped into a man, flanked by two youngsters, who proceeded to climb the icy death trap and let themselves into our flat.

Please, allow me to pause for effect.

It transpired that this was the landlord and he had been showing prospective tenants around the flat when we were out.

Without telling us.

When all our belongings were in there.

...!

However, again, it occurred to us that the wall of depression would hit them as soon as they stepped across the threshold and, therefore, probably wouldn't have the morale to steal my hairdryer.

So on we trudged.

To be continued...

The Magic of Edinburgh Festival: The 1st Sign

I was working for a venue company at Edinburgh Fringe Festival this Summer and it was my first year up there, so before I arrived I was as excited as a Catholic school boy on his first day of choir practice. And, obviously, just as naïve.

I think I should have guessed early on that Edinburgh might not be as magical as I’d hoped. The first sign should have been as apparent as soon as I arrived: I tottered into the company’s headquarters, teetering on my heels and dragging my numerous bag of luggage behind me. Hair perfectly quaffed, politely smiling, asking where our apartment was, I was told to leave my bags where they were and, “Follow Nancy.” I was told that she was going to give me a tour of the building. Lovely. We descended some old, creaky, wooden stairs and as the walls began to get darker and danker, I started to get confused. This didn’t look like the interiors of the beautiful Victorian building I had witnessed outside. At that moment, we emerged into what can only be described as a dungeon. In here were five other, exhausted, pasty ‘employees’ attempting to paint the dirty brick arches white and managing, at best, a murky grey/yellow. It was honestly like a scene from a horror film – the undead trapped in a kind of purgatory, forever painting and never making any progress. I half expected to turn around and see Nancy’s cackling face cracked and bloody before she locked us in there for eternity.

I was half right.

She ignored my look of horror and said sweetly, “Well if you just want to grab a paint brush and get stuck in,” before she left.

Six hours later I was told that the reason my wall was constantly a slimy yellow was because people outside, on street level, would pee down onto the basement walls and windows when drunk, and urine was a constant feature of this wall’s brickwork now.

No amount of hand-scouring will ever remove that memory.

At 11:30pm we were told we could leave.

To be continued...

I Don't Like Doctors. Which is a Shame, as I'd Quite Like to Marry One.

I don’t often get ill and there are very few occasions on which I would drag my medium-sized bum off the sofa and to the doctors. In fact, I can only recount three memorable instances when I had to visit the doctor, and I believe these may explain why I avoid them.

The first reason I would visit the Doctors, which turns out to be a regular occurrence, is to get a repeat prescription for my inhaler and the contraceptive pill – because when you use an inhaler, you have to put out on the first date to get a second. Now, nothing unspeakably horrible has ever happened to me whilst picking up a prescription, but the bombardment of questions such as, ‘“Do you do much exercise?” – no. “When was the last time you had sex?” – a year ago. “Have you got a boyfriend?” – no. “Are you aware that being on the pill can cause you to have a stroke or become infertile?” – what?!’ are, frankly, a little demoralising and the sorts of things that I’d rather repress, in order to discover the horrifying truths of my life at a later date when I’m at home with family and not right now, in a room that smells like gloves and has a hairy old man talking about my sex life in it.

The second instance was when I went to ask the doctor for a boob job on the NHS. Now, I have never liked my breasts. It took me three years of having regular sex before I would agree to let my long-term boyfriend take off my bra. I remember one day when I was about 15 and my mother walked into my room when I was getting dressed; she saw my breasts and started laughing. Needless to say, I am uncomfortable with them and decided that they were causing me enough psychological damage that the NHS would surely agree to fix them for me. Now, it is important to note at this point that the size of them wasn’t really a factor, or anything I had ever thought much about, it was simply that they didn’t look like a porn-stars perfect pair. So, I arrived at the doctors, hyperventilating over the fact that some one was going to see my breasts, and gingerly agreed to remove my bra and hop up on the examination table. The doctor bent over and peered at them for long enough that I nearly started crying, before exclaiming, “Yes, one is a lot bigger than the other, isn’t it?”

IS IT?!!!

She promised to do some research and get back in contact with me when she had some answers, which she never did, consequently leaving me with odd-shaped, odd-sized breasts and a rather nervous disposition.

My third encounter was a pleasant and highly amusing one until a small woman tried to insert her fist into my vagina.

I was, on that occasion, visiting the local STI clinic, in order to be a responsible young member of the community and an inspiration to the disease-riddled sector of the population. So there I was, minding my own business, when a mother and her young son walk in and sit across from me in the waiting room. The mother is continually yelling at her son not to put his fingers in his mouth after having touched anything in that waiting room and, whilst I’m usually opposed to hyper-obsessive mothers determined to keep their children 100% germ free, all I could think as his little fingers reached for his tongue was, “Syphilis, syphilis, syphilis, syphilis, syphilis.” The toddler, fed up of his mother’s chastising, climbs down from his seat and rounds the corner to the children’s play area – an area which can be clearly viewed from my vantage point, but from his mother’s is invisible – and plonks himself down in front of one of those infamous tables with the wire loops that you push beads along. The ones that surgery waiting rooms are so fond of.

The child has seen me watching him and is clearly aware that I know he’s not to put his fingers in his mouth, but he fancies himself a little game. So, as if to challenge me, he slowly places both hands on either end of the wire, never taking his eyes off mine – it’s like a scene from a western, everything but our eyes should be in shadow and they should be twitching and scowling, challenging one another to draw. Then, very slowly, and with utmost precision, he raises his head, sticks out his little pink, germ-free tongue, and slowly drags it along the length of the wire, loops and all.

When he’s done, he sighs like an old man with a cold beer and smacks his lips. I look away, ashamed at losing and, frankly, a little disgusted.

Just then a nurse calls me into the examination room and the little boy sadly watches me leave, as if I will never return.

After that delightful examination, I vow I never will.

Are Women Funny?

Since I’ve started doing stand-up I’ve begun to realise more and more that there are so few female comedians on the circuit. And it’s not for my lack of looking – they just don’t exist! So, I was wondering: is it that women don’t want to be comedians or is it that they just aren’t funny? Is there a social club or an AA meeting for Incompetent Female Comedians? IFCA?

Probably not.

However! During my quest to discover the mystery of the shitty titty comedian, I came across, “The Observer,” and held within its crispy sheets was the little known, “Observer Woman Magazine,” which held all the answers to my questions.

Now, “The Observer,” is the oldest Sunday newspaper in the world, taking a left-liberal, social democratic line on most issues, so you’d assume its, “Woman Magazine,” would be a fair, un-sexist, intelligent publication. One to trust and believe is run by strong, smart women. And it is from this that I draw my conclusion that no, women aren’t funny.

I realise that I may have just shot myself in the foot there, but please allow me to elaborate; for on the front cover of this eloquently named, “Woman Magazine,” – written by interesting women for interesting women – aligned next to a photo of said attractive, interesting woman are the titles of the headlining articles. Now, please allow me to inform you of these intellectually stimulating, moving, thought provoking, comical, deep-rooted, stirring titles:

“My Cheating Husband.”

“Breast Reduction.”

“Failed Relationships.”

“Shopping Addiction.”

“Unrequited Love.”

“Designer Lifestyle.”

“Eating Disorder.”

“Youth Obsession.”

“Sexless Marriage.”

And, “Self-Imposed Exile.”

Bloody hell! This woman on the cover has some serious problems! I’m genuinely surprised they don’t give away a box of razors and a coupon for cheap gin with each issue.

Now, initially I thought, well that’s answered my question: this verbal masturbation of a publication shows that some women really can’t find the silver lining. I mean, who wants to stand on stage telling funnies when your overly large breasts have caused the sex to leave your marriage, forcing your husband into the arms of another woman and leaving you with nothing but an eating disorder and shopping addiction, wishing you were twenty years younger so the beautiful shop assistant at Louis Vouitton would love you back and you could stop living in your self-imposed exile?!

Turns out it’s really hard to be a woman. Perhaps there just isn’t that much to laugh about?

And then I thought, actually, that would make a really funny sketch show.

Legging. JEANS.

As I mentioned earlier, I’ve been living in London for the past three years - I used to live in Surrey, thank you - and then my family decided to move to Scarborough because, obviously, in Red Hill they just don’t have enough flat-cap-wearing-farmers to fulfil my parent’s needs. So, I was back down there for three years, more in the heart of things, and I noticed that really the biggest difference is the fashion. And, surprisingly no, not the flat caps – it turns out that you guys wear them quite seriously, except, you know, with a cravat and skinny jeans; the occasional man-bag (a concept that is beaten out of the minds of young children in North Yorkshire after the first time they’re caught dressing up in their sister’s wardrobe).

Joking aside, I don’t have a problem with man-bags. What I do have a problem with is legging jeans. Legging. Jeans. Legging jeans. Legging jeans. Legging jeans leggingjeans legging jeeeeeans.
It doesn’t sound right, does it? That, sir, is because they’re not.

Now, if you’re not familiar with the legging jean, you have obviously never been to Wood Green Shopping ‘City’. It is a full-length pair of leggings with a denim pattern printed on it. It is essentially the pantaloon version of brick-wall wallpaper: fake, tacky and heartbreakingly disappointing when you get up close and stroke it.

Now, the humble legging is a fine thing and I know it was a terrible shock to horse riders and house wives all over the world when popular culture banned it in the late 1990s, but I do believe that when we gave it its second chance in fashionable society, we stipulated that it must be plain black and mid-calf length, because that way we could at least pretend it was a ‘50s rebirth. It was clearly stated that the legging, under no circumstances, was to be in any way compromised through the adding of gloss, fluorescent colouring or patterns, and if this was done we would take those bad boys back faster that Madonna in an orphanage.
And now, the modest legging has been so manhandled that we have been left with the legging jean.

It was bad enough when we were being presented the original, classic black legging as a substitute for trousers and all and sundry had to deal with the mind-altering consequences of the camel-toe & cottage cheese bum. But it has now been deemed necessary to print an unconvincing denim façade on them to try and trick us innocents into believing you are wearing actual trousers. We’re not that thick and we can still see your camel-toe!

So girls, I really must ask: is it because you’re poor? – Can you simply not afford an actual pair of jeans? I mean, these girls obviously can’t afford to eat. Can I recommend that if you wish to preserve your funds you stop wasting your money on tack and big earrings? As Vivienne Westwood said, save up your money and spend a lot on one brilliant wardrobe item, don’t just spend lots of little chunks of money on a hunk of crap. She obviously didn’t put it as eloquently as me.

So! I hate the legging jean. But, still, I guess it’s nice that Elizabeth Duke has decided to pick up trade in these difficult economic times by branching out into leg-wear. I guess she’s just gutted she missed the flat-cap train.

Hello, welcome, take a seat.

I live in Scarborough. Out of choice. Well, no, not out of choice, that’s a complete lie. Out of necessity. My parents live in Scarborough out of choice and, thus, I have to because University ate all of my money up and I can’t afford to carry on living in London. So, I have returned to earn some funds and in an effort to keep myself busy while I die inside (and outside a little bit, too – it’s quite cold up here) I have decided to start writing. Everything. My only way to cope here is to make fun of things. So please forgive my sarcasm (or don’t, I think you’ll quite enjoy it) and feel free to comment.

I have to point out that I've changed some names and obviously exaggerated some facts, but only because the truth is boring - did I mention I'm living in Scarborough??

Hopefully as this project progresses, I will be moving out of Scarborough and on to better, warmer, things. But fear not, I will undoubtedly remain just as cynical and biased as I am now, as I always appear to be the odd one out: the one who makes 'inappropriate' jokes at dinner; the one with their face pressed up against the outside of your window because I don't know how to get in; the one who thinks I'm the only one who's not crazy; the one who wears high heels on cobbled streets and muddy fields.

Enjoy.