Schedenfreude: The Soundtracks of Our Emotions

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“Take your passion & make it happen”
Flashdance, Irene Cara
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Yes, Irene Cara off of the Flashdance song, having passion can drive you to success, well done you. But sometimes it takes slightly more to achieve your life ambition than just having self-belief doesn’t it, Irene Cara off of the Flashdance song? And soppy lyrics like yours sometimes gives us false hopes of being able to smash our goals with nothing more than a bit of confidence don’t they, Irene Cara off of the Flashdance song?

My apologies, Irene Cara off of the Flashdance song, I don’t mean to make an example of you. I actually really like you & your Flashdance song when I’m drunk. It’s nothing personal, Irene Cara off of the Flashdance song, it’s just ridiculous that so many poor souls have been lead to believe that having faith in themselves is all they need to succeed in life when, in truth, it takes way more.

Sure, it’s absolutely amazing when people do have the strength to make their dreams reality through their own self belief & a never-give-up attitude &, even as cynical as I am, I still feel a strange sense of pride when others do achieve. But what if someone’s aim in life was, say, to become a parent?

No amount of faith in yourself can get you pregnant or help you start a family. Obviously a positive attitude could maybe help you find the pieces need to start a family, such as finding a partner or taking yourself to see a fertility specialist, but the point I make is that more than just a positive attitude is needed to succeed in many cases.

Sometimes reaching our goals are beyond our control & regardless of how badly we want them, our success quite often relies wholly on other people. Be as Beyonce as we like with the Independent “you go grrrryfreeeeynd” Woman attitude that her songs fill us with but these things unfortunately depend on somebody else.

Even in a seemingly more achievable goal like working a specific job role takes more than the hope these uplifting songs fill us with.

Regardless of how confident we are, how hard we try, how much we prepare, how skilled we are in that area, if the fat cat sitting at the other side of the desk doesn’t like the cut of our jib when he interviews us, we aren’t getting that dream job.

We can take Aaliyah’s advice & fill our heads with that “if at first you don’t succeed, dust yourself off & try again” spirit but that won’t make the holder of the key to our dream like us any more than they already do(n't). If anything, they’ll probably just think we’re stupid for seeming to beg for the position they so blatently rejected us from.

But, on the flip side, we have our not-so-uplifting songs with negative narratives & angry choruses that just need to be sung along with. Badly. And loudly. With feeling.  

And, surprisingly, the feelings we belt out these songs with (off key, naturally!) are not negative ones but positive feelings of relief, understanding, gratitude, hope & – if nothing else – that uplifting feeling of screaming at the top of your lungs & getting “it” all off your chest.

Schadenfreude is a wonderful thing & simply knowing that the warblers singing these songs are struggling in the same way as we are instantly makes us feel better.
 

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“Gary: Right now you are down & out
And feeling really crappy.
And when I see how sad you are
It sort of makes me... Happy?
Sorry, Nicky, human nature
There’s nothing I can do.
It’s Schadenfreude
Making me feel glad that I’m not you.

Nicky: Well, that’s not very nice, Gary.

Gary: I didn’t say it was nice... But everybody does it!”
Schadenfreude, Avenue Q
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How many chick flicks (inc. spoofs, as this is the most cliched scenario ever in the entire world ever) have we seen a woman getting drunk alone, eating ice cream in her pjyamas & screaming All By Myself into a hair brush before then picking herself up by the end of the film?

Answer: fuckloads.

That depressing song of loneliness allowed Miss Cliched Loner to accept her sorry situation, get it all out of her system & allow her to move on to become Mrs Typically Swept Off Her Feet Before the End Credits.  It also, more importantly, has allowed us to do the same thing to that same song in that schadenfruede way by reminding us of the tragic spinster-turned-superwoman in the film; we might be feeling low but we’ll never feel that low, bitch.

If nothing else, the very fact that somebody must’ve been “all by themself” to have even written All By Myself in the first place can instantly make her, me, us feel instantly better by simply knowing that we’re not the only person to have ever felt this alone. And singing along at the top of our voices makes us understand that & makes us feel better.

I told you that Schadenfreude is a wonderful thing, kids! So wonderful, in fact, that it even works in a selfless way that doesn’t make us feel like we’re gonna go to hell by taking pleasure in the misfortune of others, as it lets other sad cases feel better because they’re simply not us:
 

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“The world needs people like you & me
Who’ve been knocked around by fate
‘Cause when people see us,
They don’t wanna be us,
And that makes them feel great.
We provide a vital service to society, you & me.
Schadenfreude, making the world a better place to be”
Schadenfreude, Avenue Q
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So, next time you have one of those days & look for that song to listen to, ditch the typical reach-for-the-sky-and-fall-into-the-stars-if-you-don’t-make-it-because-stars-are-still-proper-ace song, because it will only make you feel worse when you discover that you probably can't achieve your goal so easily. 

Instead, go for the classic sulks of Alannis Morrisette’s Ironic.

Don’t trouble yourself with the gramatical “but, Alannis Morrisette off of the Ironic song, this is all just unfortunate, not ironic!” argument, just revel in the fact that she too is having a bad day & just sing along without giving a single fuck about anything else. We'll find our positivity in our own way without being patronised by cheesy lyrics.

Whoopass' Proper Nice Food Blog

As someone whose diet largely consists of takeaways, microwave meals & emergency packet snacks from inside my handbag, I feel somewhat of a fraud writing a food blog but my style of “cooking” is a recent talking point. Observe.

I get easily confused by small things like zest Vs rind & I never know which pan things should correctly be cooked in, yet somehow I still manage to dazzle my diners with my creative knack for whipping up strangely tasty concoctions from the dregs of my fridge.

Well, I say “diners”, I obviously mean myself, the lovely lardy ladies at Fat Club who listen to the menu behind this week’s weight loss/gain & the friends who read my Facebook moans (hi, Melanie off of the wrestlings!) as I never have any actual human people to dine with, but that doesn’t make my bodge job recipes any less edible.

This odd style of cooking I have is a combination of me being frugal enough to put my leftovers to good use, thrifty enough to use up the contents of my cupboards before re-stocking it, determined enough to cook “healthily” without having to live on rabbit food & greedy enough to eat any ol’ shite.

It mostly occurs on those weeks just before payday when my remaining pennies can’t even muster up a pint of milk or when I feel strong enough to stick to my Slimming World Food Optimising plan yet not strong enough to face grilled chicken & steamed brown rice for every meal.  So, they’re generally very cheap & cheerful meals that often make plenty more than a couple of servings so get put into Tupperware boxes & frozen to be defrosted as emergency supplies on those “can’t be arsed” days. Everyone’s a winner!

One of my better, more satisfying, less “I had to do this because I was too skint for anything else” recipes is a Slimming World friendly rehash of my favourite Frankie & Benny’s pasta dish, the Philly Steak Bake. The original is full of everything that makes the life of a dieter a living hell but it’s just too much of the noms no disregard from my diet for the rest of my life. Introducing my lower Syn (that’s Fat Club talk for naughty food), lower cost, bodge job version:

 

A Normal Woman's Normal Weight- Watch

I always thought that I was more creative & complex than to sum up my views with a line from an advertising campaign, but it would appear that I’m unfortunately not so original. As it turns out, I’m just a normal & slightly dull woman whose feelings can indeed be condensed into one tagline, which is purely this: “Lose weight for the last time”.

Ever since I was an angsty teenager with the fastest mood swings this side of the Pennines, I’ve constantly been on one fad diet or another that has promised to make me so firm that I actually become a stone statue; Atkins, Slim Fast, Weight Watchers, that sodding Special K cereal diet, & more successfully, the Slimming World Food Optimising plan.

My handfuls of squish have got smaller, my handfuls of squish have got bigger, but now – after a few half-arsed months of being back at Fat Club & only managing to shift a measly 6.5lbs since July (I hear every one of your “I shit a pound!” comments. I know, I know) – I have put my foot down & have decided to “lose weight for the last time” just like the skinny tarts in the clichéd Weight Watchers ads told me to...

Only this time I’m going to do it the normal way.

Now, I know that “normal” could mean a million & one different things & to a million & one different people – especially when it comes to weight issues – so I’d like us all to agree that normal simply means standard, usual, average, typical, & more to the point, real.

Unlike many bigfatfatties as I affectionately call the lardy ladies I am one of,  I’ve never had an illness that had caused me to gain weight, I’ve never had a demanding career that had meant having unhealthy eating patterns, I’ve never had any family traumas that had caused me to comfort eat more than the regular sulker (hi there!) does, & I’ve never had children that had left me with the acceptable excuse of “baby weight”. Basically, I’ve never had a reason to justify my curves; I just got squishy the normal way by being human & having bad habits. My bum grew because I ate too much & exercised too little like any normal bum would under these conditions, & this very same bum is going to shrink back down the normal way too.

Similarly, my weight gain/loss/re-gain/re-loss/re-gain & body confidence issues are quite normal too. I don't have the weight the equivalent of an entire person to lose like those Jerry Springer cases we’ve all seen, so, although I do have a good few stone to shift to reach a “healthy” BMI, my weight loss goals are pretty normal. And as I'm not so shy that I do the whole hiding my flesh beneath unflatteringly baggy black clothing thing, the body hang-ups I have are also very normal.

My current aim is to simply drop a dress size to get myself out of the “plus size” bracket, & my ultimate aim is for my enormous wrestler-like arms to become slim & feminine once again so as I don’t have to hide them under shapeless shrugs while I’m wearing my otherwise rather flattering shapewear – both fairly normal targets to reach.

As it stands, I don’t know whether it’ll take me 7lbs or 7 stone to achieve these goals but I know that if I want to hit them realistically without making myself & those around me miserable with my cravings for grease & excuses of “I can’t, I’m on a diet”, I’ve got to be honest with myself. Something that many dieters – myself included – usually prefer not to do. (No, love. The scales are not wrong).

When I’ve started diets in the past I’ve tried to become a perfect weight-watching Super(wo)man who has no reason for being other than to exercise & who certainly doesn’t have any Sunday Morning McBreakfasts habits to kick. Needless to say, after a week or so, I’ve almost always thrown in the towel because my life had become nothing more than a set of restrictive rules that had left me feeling thoroughly rotten... And hungry! But now that I’m an official Slimming World (*cough* for the second time after re-gaining the two stone I originally lost there the first time *cough*) weight-watcher with a relatively realistic diet to follow, I plan to do it properly: I plan to do it normally.

No longer will I kid myself that I’ll exercise every day, because sometimes I just can’t be arsed to. Never again will I claim to throw away the take-away menus, because that craving for beautifully calorific pizza will still remain. Not once more will I turn down a perfectly good pudding for fruit just because “I’m on a diet”, because fruit never has been & never will be an adequate dessert replacement, a fact that I am willing to fight to the death about.

This time I will embrace my faults & accept that I’m only human, then maybe this time I’ll truly be happy & healthy in my (hopefully permanent?) weight loss with a normal attitude towards my diet & my body. Sure, I’ll have Superhero days that see me actually eating my 5-a-day of fruit & veg rather than five custard creams with every mug of tea I glug, but when I don’t at least I’ll be able to tell myself that this is normal, for I am normal & this is just a Normal Woman’s Normal Weight-Watch.

...Now can someone play me some heroic sounding music & turn on a wind machine to glamorously swish my hair while I make my dramatic exit to go & cockdrop some lard right in it’s cock? Thanks.

A (Cyber) Friend In Need is a (Cyber) Friend Indeed

Once upon a time, not so long ago we lived in a technophobic land of strong mistrust that seems almost mythical in today’s social networking life of, well, social networks.

If I wasn’t being warned at school that the 12 year old boyband fangirl I was talking to on MSN messenger was really a 50 year old man trying to groom me, I was hearing horror stories from my mum of how I would be cyber mugged by the fraudy internet monsters if I ever bought anything from eBay. The message given to myself & every other born-in-the-late-80s-but-grew-up-in-the-90s child was that the internet was the root of all evil & nobody on the entire World Wide Web should ever be trusted. Ever.

But now, in 2013, that whole notion has been forgotten. And rightly so because being in a constant state of paranoia every time you log on is an unhealthy way for anyone to live but when – like me – you spend so much time alone, having that online “company” is an absolute god send... Even if everyone you chat to is a fraudulent paedophile, as warned.

I’m one of the lucky ones; everyone I have spoken to online has always been genuine. People from my early chat room use, through my Street Teaming fan forum days, right up to my current Twitter addiction have always been who they said they were. And not only have they been true to their A/S/Ls, but some have grown to be amongst the best friends I have ever had, whose paths I would never have crossed if it hadn’t been for the wonder of the internet.

There is very little I can bring to the table when it comes to meeting new “real life” people as I’ve always been somewhat of a loner who never has any interesting answers to the ice breaking “what are you into?/What have you been up to?”, but I’ve always had keen interests in things that quite handily come complete with their own little online community of like-minded, let’s say, “enthusiasts”.

My first love was boybands & when I was old enough to have my own computer, I threw myself into making internet fan groups for others to gather in & share with me their love of boybands & boybanders. This turned into me being recruited as the Junior Assistant Leader of Busted’s official, record company lead Street Team, which saw me being head hunted (yes, I was still a 15 year old internet loner at this point) by the management of another boyband I followed to create & maintain a Street Team for them.

I spent every spare minute sitting on an arse-numbingly uncomfortable computer chair with these projects & through them I became a surprising social whirlwind! Granted, I spoke to computer screens via my hands as opposed to verbally speaking audible words to actual human people, but I chatted to so many new people from so many different walks of life & even made friends with many of them, all through a shared love of the borderline stalking of cheesy boybands.

 

Busted-lovin', Spice Girl posin' adventures
over the years with Frankie

Some of the friends I’d made online were such good friends that they – shock horror! – became real people beyond their usernames & became part of my personal, offline life. Online socialising became real life socialising & these online geeks became genuine friends who I loved the bones of, who shared amazing experiences with me, who were there for me, who I would never have had the pleasure of ever getting to know had it not been for the big bad world of the evil internet.

I’m proud to say that a small handful of these shameless boyband lovers who I made friends with when I was 14 years old are still two of my closest friends today in my adult life. So what if I only see them once in a blue moon? They’ve still been two of the best friends who have been there for me through first boyfriends, going to university, moving into my first house, cancelling my wedding (that’s another story for another time...!), getting ridiculously drunk & even sharing hotel rooms with me while I have noisy one night stands. Yes, true friendships!

 

From boybands to wrestlings to out-of-hours
hotelling with Lise

 

 

And as I’ve grown up & fallen in love with other hobbies such as burlesque & wrestling, this whole online-acquaintence-met-via-shared-interest-becoming-genuine-real-life-friend thing has grown too with even more true friendships blossoming from even more obscure walks of life.

 

Burly girlies from all of the everywheres, as seen on t'internets.

 

In my “real” life I would never associate with an arrogant, promiscuous, semi-professional boxer who has manicures even more regularly than I do, yet I find this very person being a great friend with whom I’ve had some hilarious experiences thanks to a shared interest as discovered via the internet.

I would never have encountered a bi-polar, mother-of-one who is a metalhead of a handcrafter if it hadn’t been for social media & I would never have been lucky enough to meet her in person to form such a treasured friendship with if it hadn’t been for live shows... That had been promoted to us via social media!

Parents & teachers always like to think they’re always right in everything they have ever said & done but they couldn’t have been any more wrong in their warnings about the dangers of the internet to me, because without the wonder of the internet I wouldn’t have as many cherished & sincere friends (with whom I actually have so little in common with!) as I do today. Some of them can be absolute twats & sometimes I wish I’d never even typed that first “hello” to after the heartache they cause through meaningless text, but I love them dearly. I’m honoured to call the people behind the display photos my friends & wouldn’t be without any of them. Ever.

 

Booby snuggles with Anna

 

NB: Yes. Yes I know there are still cases of online fraud & grooming & they are truly awful but, gimme a break! This is a gushy blog about the beauties I’ve befriended via the internet, not a controversial discussion about politics & society. Pfffft!

No Dogs Allowed

Let’s be honest, an animal death scene in a film is always more upsetting to watch than a human death scene. We watch hundreds of men fighting for their country in a war film but are more saddened to see the horse get shot. We worry more about the dog surviving to the end of the slasher film than we do about the hero who takes down the serial killer. It’s just something we do, right? Right!

Whether we’re a raging animal rights campaigner who spends our life loving all animals or are just someone who once laughed at a You’ve Been Framed clip of a cat falling into a bin, we all just feel naturally drawn to the animals inside our tellybox.

So, why do we have such a problem with the animals we come into contact with in our real life? Why do we feel unnecessarily uneasy when we see a dog wandering the streets without an owner? Especially when the dog is probably a carefree, nomad of a stray that has even less interest in harming us than we have about where it’s gonna get its next meal. Especially when we feel fine about walking past the human equivalent of this animal, even though this human could potentially do more damage to us than the dog could dream of.

I suppose it’s only natural to feel this way about an animal with all of its unpredictable ways, untold secrets & bloody scary looking teeth, but what isn’t natural is discriminating against animals. Or, as this rant is about to evolve into, discriminating against the owners of animals.

The entire world & their dog (I know, I couldn’t resist. I’m just that hilarious!) know that I am the proud Mummy of a beautiful two-and-a-half  year old puggle named Betsy Van Dam Risebury Todd. She is my everything & I wouldn’t be without her.

Betsypugglebum.

 

The entire world also knows that Betsy & I currently share our home with her Dad, my ex-fiancé who I was due to marry until I cancelled our wedding with only three months to spare. Obviously, this is wonderful for Betsy as she has the choice of two types of leftovers to polish off & two separate beds to sleep in but – despite not being as cringingly awkward a living arrangement as it actually sounds – this isn’t ideal for me or my ex.

...And so the hunt for the new home begins! At least it would if 99% of the landlords in my area weren’t so hateful towards pets living in the precious properties that have previously homed actual human people who weren’t even half as well trained (because “training” their kids is what parents do, isn’t it? I thought to) as my Betsypugglebum is.

Naturally, just like any parent would defend their miniature humans, I am bound to boast the many amazing qualities of my perfectly behaved angel of a dog to any future landlord of mine but Betsy genuinely is a very house friendly li’l lady.

 

So house friendly she even shares Mummy's bed.
Say, why am I single...?

 

Of course she was a fucking fucker when she was a pup; she’d use table legs as teething toys, she’d manicure her claws by pulling up carpets that she’d merrily pissed all over & she’d snack on the cables of any expensive household appliance she could sink her greedy puppy teeth into. But these things are to be expected & are things than can & have been overcome with time, patience, care & training. All of these things I’m proud to say I have devoted to my pooch to make her the well behaved, intelligent, socially aware & indescribably loving lump of loveliness that she is today.

Maybe “discrimination” is a bit of a strong term to use in this case, but for landlords to simply say “no pets allowed” without considering any pet owner ‘s personal situation or individual pet’s temperament first is just wrong. In fact, no, I take that back; this is discrimination! I am being discriminated against by property owners who are judging my capability as a tenant on the simple fact that I own a dog & Betsy is being discriminated against simply for being canine.

As a rule, landlords are willing to rent properties to any person who has a steady enough income to cover their rent. As long as they’re getting that money every month from somebody who can keep their house in reasonable nick, they’re fine. What they’re brushing over is what might be going on between the four walls of the house they own. Whether it’s a simple lovers’ quarrel that results in a woman accidentally smashing a rolling pin through a kitchen door because it got in the way of her hitting her man with it (hi, Mum! Yep, this happened in the rented house I grew up in) or a drug fuelled afterparty that hosted a different couple fucking in every room of the house to unsociably loud music (yep, I was at this party too in someone else’s rented home), people can do way worse in their homes than any pet ever could.

My point is that people’s personal circumstances aren’t vetted (unintentional pun that time, sorry) before a landlord decides whether or not they’re worthy of living in their property despite the fact they could cause all sorts of damage to it, unintentionally or otherwise. This is because it would be prejudice to base a business decision on a single personal factor. So why is it allowed for them to have strict no dogs or cats rules? Surely that’s as prejudice as saying no single parents? Which is something that would never happen in this “it’s political correctness gone mad” world in which we live.

It’s understandable that a landlord – particularly the landlord of a flat, which is ideally what I’m looking for – might not want a disruptively noisy dog in their property, howling when it’s left alone or barking when a lorry drives past etc, but who’s to say a person won’t pollute the neighbourhood just as much when they sing in the bath or scream down the phone at cold callers? And regardless of how loud a dog may or may not bark, they never have the option of inviting their friends round for a few bottles of Lambrini & noisy, drunken karaoke parties like humans do.

She enjoys a drink but nothing stronger than Diet Pepsi.
And even then she takes it to the recycling bin.

 

As it happens, I’m a very boring creature who never even has a friend stay over, let alone have any overnight gentleman callers or any drug fuelled sex parties that could cause damage to a house I might rent, but how is a landlord to know this? I could be the feminine embodiment of destruction itself for all they knew &, providing I paid my rent on time every month, they would be happy to let me make my home in their property. But because I have a dog? Jog on, woman!

My dog is my pride & joy & it’s wonderful to hear as many stressed out Mums on the school run telling their overexcited kids they should be as well behaved as “that dog”, who just sits patiently at the curbside while cars pass before she crosses the road to the park. But because she’s an animal, she’s obviously going to obliterate any building she’s left alone in because that’s obviously what all animals do. Obviously.

"Share" is a dirty word, but a Mummy do anything for her pugglebum.

 

It’s easy for outsiders to suggest I “get rid” or Betsy or leave her to live with her Dad but neither of these are an option & if you think they are, I wish for you to go choke on your own cock. Firstly, don’t think it’s that easy to just  “get rid” of what is essentially your child just because you want to move home &, secondly, him & me have both discussed “custody” & unanimously decided it’s for the best for her to stay with me. He still wants “access” & can come see her or take her out whenever he likes because that’s what she’d like too, but he knows that Betsy is ultimately my baby & would prefer to be with her Mummy as it’s me who she chooses to spend most of her time with at present. So, please, shush!

So far on my hunt for a new home – a one bed flat in Goole, if anyone knows of any, by the way! – I have found it damn near impossible to find something that is both affordable and pet friendly. If it’s affordable, they don’t allow dogs. If they allow dogs, they demand a massive bond upfront (as in, a normal bond plus a £100 per animal “pet bond” plus a month’s rent!). At this rate, I’ll be homeless once Betsy’s Dad has found his own new home to move into but I’d sooner be without a home than without my puggle.

Landlords of the East Riding, please stop being cunts & lift your discriminating rules on bringing pets into your properties in case they cause damage; assess every pet & pet owner individually before putting your blanket ban on ever letting any of them set up home in your house.

Or, if you insist on being a narrow-minded set of animal hating pricks, at least be man enough to let your human prejudices shine through in your money making property renting ventures too; no gays, no fatties, nobody with a tribal tattoo, nobody who claims they’re a “cupcake maker” because they once baked a friend a birthday cake, no Man Utd fans.

Or, y’know, just let pet owners give you money every month to set up home in & look after your currently empty properties that are currently not making you any money but are instead currently nothing more than squatter’s potential dens of iniquity. That would be the logical thing to do, really.

Looking into the future, contemplating our impending homelessness...

Bollocks to the Other 49 Shades of Grey

In my negative li’l life, I am forever being told off for being such a pessimist. I always choose not to look on the bright side of life so I won’t be disappointed if the worst case scenario is to arise. But it’s the secret optimist within me who chooses to live like this because if the worst does happen, I’m allowed myself a happily smug “I told you so” moment. I live for that grey area of Optimistic Pessimism ("hey, isn't that the name of your blog, Whoopass?". Why yes, yes it is).

My one true talent is being able to make a negative out of a positive. If somebody tells me I’m funny, I immediately think funny strange, not funny humorous. However, I have always been able to turn this skill upside down & find a positive in every negative. That drunk in the corner of the pub who pisses himself might be such a tragedy that he does this to himself every day, but even with that stench he is still the heart & soul of the pub & everybody knows him. He too is that grey area of Optimistic Pessimism.

Not everything is always as black & white as being negative or positive & I take great pleasure in paddling around in the grey. It’s for this reason that I personally am not entirely offended by comments such as “your intelligence is very sexy” (yes, I’ve had this!), & neither should you be.

To many, this type of back-handed compliment could be offensive. Ignoring every aspect of a person’s appearance to focus on a quirk of their personality could seem a bit... Well, we’ve all been told that if we can’t say anything nice, we shouldn’t say anything at all, right? Right! And completely bypassing somebody’s looks may well feel to them that this is exactly what you’re doing.

To some, however, these remarks couldn’t be further from insulting. Sure, it’s always nice to be complimented on your eyes/smile/face/boobs/bum/legs/figure/physique/part of body or face that every other human being has, but comments made on your personality – i.e. something one-of-a-kind that only you have – mean so much more as they’re more personal & instantly seem more genuine.

During my school years (& before I became The One with the Piercings or The One Who Gets Her Norks Out), I was The One with the Sense of Humour. I was always friends with the boys but never had a boyfriend. I was outspoken, hard to embarrass, had a mouth like a hairy arsed docker & was far too often “one of the lads”, which was lots of fun but when you’re 15 & feel like you’re going to die a virgin because no boy will ever look at you like that, it’s pretty miserable. I mean, you can’t shag witty quips however euphemistic the term “witty quips” might sound!

All I wanted to be was The One with The Killer Figure or The One Everyone Wants to Bang. I saw the way I wanted to be as the white & the way I actually was as the black. Black & white. Wrong & right.

It’s taken me many years to accept this – and I wish I could’ve done this back then to have been a “happy” teenager (!?) – but, really, this worked out for the best. Granted, it might have given me *ahem* slight body image issues but I am only human, after all. The important part is that these things have taught me how to be realistic & not beat myself up about negative comments or become arrogant because of positive ones, but just to accept the grey.

That killer figure I wanted? That would’ve just disappeared when I became a student anyway & lived on ready meals & cheap bottles of plonk. And being the school bike? That was sure to have ended in Chlamydia. But that gob I was known for? That has & will always be mine; it will never be anyone else’s. It might not always be the best or worst but it’s my own & it’s what others know/like/recognise me for.

Sometimes it’s easier said than done to think in this way & the “if only I’d have known this then” hindsight gubbins is a fucking fucker, but wouldn’t it be nice if we were all able to think like this more often? To not instantly sulk over the darkness of these back-handed compliments or even celebrate the swollen heads they may bring on, but to just accept that proud shade of grey that is simply us.

Back-handed compliments are more often than not just observations that are meant neither positively nor negatively, so just accept them. Grey is the new the new black & it’d be wonderful if the whole world could wear it as fabulously as I do, dahlink.

...And before we start thinking that I, Akannah Whoopass: Moany Queen of the “The Diet Starts Tomorrow” Rant, have seen the light & accepted my physical flaws into that grey area, we can think again.

I might be happy in my own head but I’m still not happy in my own skin. But isn’t this just normal? We all have demons to sleigh in that department, even if they’re invisible to others. And if we don’t? Well, if you’re one of those fortunate (fictional?) people who are perfect (arrogant?) enough to be completely happy in your appearance, you probably have that weird bigger-than-your-big-toe toe thing going on in the privacy of your shoes. Or you have Daddy issues. Or you’re just a birrova twat.

 

 

 

"Do You Have a Nectar Card?"

Anyone who knows me will know that I am one of life’s moaners. I live to love but I love to whinge & not a day goes by when I don’t have a rant about something trivial that mostly leaves those around me shaking their heads in that all too familiar “here she goes again” way.

Today, that trivial thing that caused me to throw my toys out of the otherwise not-too-sulky pram that is my workplace is the loyalty card. Yes. The loyalty card. See, I can see you shaking your head & rolling your eyes at me already!

A loyalty card is a pretty piece of brightly coloured plastic that lives inside your wallet to offer you freebies, vouchers, discounts & bargains in return for your loyalty to a particular shop, all while making the working lives of innocent sales assistants absolute hell.

I work in a BP garage that offers Nectar loyalty points with every transaction, meaning that – as part of my job – I must ask every customer if they have a Nectar card. It’s a simple enough concept that you would assume could only end in one of two ways; 1) a customer hands over their card, collects the points they have earned then leaves the forecourt, or 2) a customer doesn’t collect Nectar points, declines the sales assistant in a civil & polite manner then leaves the forecourt. Well, you would assume wrong.

On a good day, the answers to my very simple “do you have a Nectar card?” range from the rantings of an old dear about how the country is on its arse because of people relying on these cards, to a southern lorry driver laughing at the way my Yorkshire accent elongates the vowel sound in “caaaard”.

On a bad day, I get blamed for hounding customers with my “forceful” sales technique (y'know, asking a question!) & getting accused of being “as bad as them” because Nectar cards are apparently used to allow “them” to keep tabs on everyone in this Big Brother society.

Whatever the reaction, I simply have to wear my false smile, bite my tongue & bid them farewell because that is my job. My job! I don’t choose to say “thank you, have a nice day” over “fuck the fuck out of my fucking shop, you fucking fucker” (which I would clearly much prefer to say!), nor do I choose to bring up the whole Nectar card saga to them in the first place. These things are just a part of the job that I get paid to do.

Similarly, when the till decides to get its generous head on, I don’t choose who is given a double points voucher. If computer says yes, computer says yes & it’s merely my job to agree with it & pass on to the customer the positivity that it has randomly selected to spit out at. In the same way that I don’t deserve the verbal abuse, I don’t deserve thanking for these things either. All I deserve is my pay packet at the end of the month because that is the only reason I do my job.

Many of you are now sighing loudly at the pointlessness of this moan but, trust me, your dramatic sighs have been drowned out by the agreement of sales assistants everywhere who have to deal with this nonsense on a daily basis while all they’re trying to do is earn a living.

Whether we work at Tesco & offer Clubcard points, Boots offering Advantage points or a humble coffee shop offering loyalty stamps for a free cuppa, we are only doing it because we are told to. We don’t pick on the individual for personal reasons, we just offer them to everyone as that is what is asked of us from the all important wage payers in the office. And, if it’s any comfort to you, we hate having to repeat the same question hundreds of times each shift even more than you hate being asked it once every few days.

Next time you’re in a shop & the sales assistant behind the counter politely asks if you have a loyalty card, please remember that they haven’t chosen you specifically & either give them your card or tell them you don’t have one. They are only doing their job. And they probably think you’re a twat who doesn’t deserve loyalty points anyway, because most of you rarely say “please” or “thank you”.