Fifty Synonyms Short

I must confess I've slated popular books in the past without actually having ever read them, basing all my criticism on preconceived notions. Around the time Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code came out, I decided I ought to perhaps take a less blinkered approach and try to objectively read said literature in order to more fairly argue my point.

Although The Da Vinci Code explores subject-matter I'd rarely been drawn to, is no linguistic master piece and is rather predictable at times, Brown's breakthrough novel is certainly a page-turner. It's short cliff-hanger filled chapters make it easily digestible, clearly appealing to action film fans who need a quick hit without investing too much of their concentration or time.

Twilight was the next hugely successful series I decided to read before I'd already formed an opinion. Back in 2008 when I was travelling, I came across a copy of Meyer's first novel in a book exchange, documenting Edward and Bella beginnings. I'd somehow managed to miss the hype around the series and read this blindly. I almost immediately found Meyer's first person narrative irritating thanks to the infuriatingly whiny tone of her female protagonist. In a rare exception to the rule, for this reason, the Twilight films are actually more enjoyable than the books, although laughably bad at times.

Having been bombarded with what seems like years of “mummy porn” features, I finally recently completed Fifty Shades Of Grey. I'd been told to be amazed at the lead having any lips left at the end of the book so audibly laughed at repeated descriptions of Ana munching on said lips. I wanted to hate Fifty Shades but found myself transported to my more romantic teenage years and reminded of a trilogy I read written by one of the Sweet Valley High series' regulars, Caitlin: Love Trilogy by Francine Pascal.

Yes, Fifty Shades is badly written. There are times I dismayed at exactly what E.L. James' editors were up to allowing her to blatantly overuse certain words and write a lead with such irritating linguistic characteristics. Ana Steele unrealistically reacts to any vaguely surprising events described in the novel with a series of stock exclamations, including, “Holy cow”, “Holy shit”, “Jeez” “Double crap” and “Oh my”. I can't say I've ever met a 21 year-old who repeatedly churns out such mild interjections. Maybe that's because I'm not American where the "novel" is set?

And I'm not even going to delve too far into James' infuriating tendency to repeatedly describe Ana's vagina as her “sex” (Come on! Even D.H. Lawrence was more inventive in Lady Chatterley's Lover and he was writing at a time his content truly shocked.) or personify Ana's inner thoughts through references to an “inner goddess” or her sub-conscious (“My subconscious is frantically fanning herself, and my inner goddess is swaying and writhing to some primal carnal rhythm...” ).

In addition, I can't say I ever recall meeting anyone who bites their lip quite so much as Ana (I can't quantify this but there's an amusing Amazon review that manages to). Better still, though, are her hero's chiding reactions to the lip-biting. In response to Ana's supposedly sexy lip nibbling, Christian Grey is described on several occasions thinning or narrowing his lips ("pressed his lips into a hard thin line...") and somehow looking sexy. Testing out this rather puzzling facial expression, I attempted to look alluring while thinning my lips and the results were pretty hilarious.

Fifty Shades is predictable, repetitive and badly written at times but like Brown's Da Vinci Code knows the power of hook chapter endings. It certainly doesn't deserve to be on any “Essential Reading” lists but has at least given me a mood-lifting thought for any occasion. If you're ever feeling down, try to look sexy with thinned lips and look in the mirror. Or even better, get someone else to try...

Appearances Are Indeed Deceptive

Having lived in Leeds on and off now for almost fourteen years, I recently decided it was high time I finally brave the many city centre pubs deemed “scary”. There are 10 pubs that others and I had, perhaps a little unfairly, previously believed to be establishments to be entered with caution. I've always been one to initially judge a book by its cover and then by the blurb but without trying, it's impossible to ever really know...

Last weekend for the Grand National, a group of us ended up near The Templar Hotel on Templar Street and as it advertised sport being shown, decided to go in. I've always liked its tiled exterior and inside it had a worn charm. As the cider selection was exceedingly limited, it is not a place I'm likely to return to but is exactly the kind of pub you could effortlessly make both friends and enemies in.

This weekend a group of us embarked on a “scary pub crawl” and took out the remaining nine pubs we'd all previously eye-balled suspiciously. Beginning at The Prince Of Wales on Mill Hill, we were amazed by the near empty fridges behind the bar and lack of clientele. Half a pint down and it started to fill up with regulars chatting to bar staff, revealing it is soon to shut down. Hearing this explained the lack of drink selection and means a repeat visit is unlikely.

Across the road Spencer's was a pleasant surprise. Mildly disturbed by the bouncers standing outside (at 2pm!) and police vans parked out front (pre-empting post-match trouble), we entered with trepidation and were met by the sweet promise of Farmhouse Pyder on tap, making a return visit highly likely.

Lacking obvious signage outside, The Duncan on Duncan Street can easily be missed. This is the pub I'm most fearful of. A friend due to meet us has seen its exterior and texted me to say she's decided to join us later. Once inside, we're instantly heartened to discover it's a Sam Smith pub with Cider Reserve on tap and bottles of their organic variety, folk are friendly and it's atmospheric (there's a rowdy group celebratorily singing).

Number four is The Regent on Kirkgate. I've been in this pub once many years ago when a friend craved a post-Mega Bus pint and remember someone trying to sell us make-up from a carrier bag. On this return visit, there are no hard sells and I end up chatting to an amicable regular who's a fan of karaoke. Although the crowd is friendly, as Strongbow is the only cider on offer, I'm unlikely to frequently drink in The Regent.

  

Across the road on Vicar Lane, The General Eliott turns out to be yet another ridiculously cheap Sam Smith pub, selling Cider Reserve on tap. It is cosy and once again welcoming, making return visits a possibility.

Hoagys on Eastgate is our next stop and where we're banking on food. Opting for a selection of ten snacks to share, we're disturbed by the apple crunch but happy with the price and rapidly chow it all down. For cider drinkers, the selection is disappointing but it's atmospheric and somewhere to go if you fancy a dance without paying for club entrance.

A little further up the road on The Headrow, The Three Legs is another pub I've been into before, merely to use their toilets when waiting for a bus. It is again, entirely unscary and not the best place for cider fans but anyone into karaoke will like it here.

 

The final stop for the night, is The Horse And Trumpet further along The Headrow. It turns out to also serve food at cheap prices but have little on offer in terms of cider. This is a pub I may well return to for quick pre-cinema/theatre food.

Crawl done and we haven't witnessed a single fight, antagonised anyone or been offended. No-one has stared at us or tried to sell us anything and we haven't been in a single place that has gone quiet on our entrance like the pub near my parents' house. The night is still young and we're already craving another Pyder so return to Spencer's, now armed with a plethora of previously uncharted pubs we'd happily frequent.  

Ode To An Easter Missed

It's been a week since Easter's passed and we've returned from our Icelandic jaunt. On the way out going through security in Manchester airport we were held up in enormous queues of people fleeing the country, seeking solace from the UK's unsavoury and uncharacteristic Spring climate. Passing the time faithfully trawling through my copy of Metro I read the world's oldest Creme Egg has been discovered in Cadbury's vaults 50 years after it rolled off the production line but as a Creme Egg fan, I'm even more interested by a cocktail recipe that will eat up almost half my daily calorie intake: http://metro.co.uk/2013/03/26/ill-have-it-on-the-rocks-and-with-a-creme-egg-easter-cocktail-with-nearly-1000-calories-3561565/.

Like Christmas, Easter is a time of family get-togethers and this is only the second one I've ever missed in my 33 plus years of existence. While I travel around the Snafellsness Peninsula, my family will meet for lunch after various groups attend different church services. The most amazing roast you'll ever taste will be followed by the exchange of Easter eggs or gifts, an Easter egg hunt in my Nan's garden and either games of Tennis on the local courts or a walk around the grounds of one of the many local National Trust or English Heritage properties.

As the country's capital city Reykjavik was surprisingly deserted on Good Friday with many shops closed and on Easter Sunday the tiny settlements around the West Coast are eerily quiet. We've had the two Creme Eggs I packed to mark the occasion and are later given a complimentary chocolate egg after dining in a restaurant in Borganes. It is not as impressively ornate as the traditional candy-filled eggs we saw on sale in central Reykjavik's Bonus supermarket. Inside the egg is an indecipherable message in Icelandic I later discover is similarly mystical in tone to those found in Chinese fortune cookies.

I may have missed Easter this year but I've had an awesome holiday and know it'll be the season of the egg on my return to the UK; Creme Eggs will start to appear in abundance in Leeds Market at reduced cost, ready to stock our fridge for the coming months. Bring on their chocolatey goodness...

Fruitless Fiction

Although I've always been a keen reader, I appreciate not everyone is like me. As a kid my parents tried to encourage me to read the classics and repeatedly suggested I try Paul Gallico's novella, The Snow Goose – a book I've still never made it through (as someone who seriously dislikes snow, I'm blaming the inclusion of the word in the title for its lack of appeal).

There are so many books released every year and a huge back catalogue of literary greats, making it virtually impossible to read all the so-called “classics”, keep up with my favourite authors and check out any new talent. I generally punish myself by reading weighty books I “should” and then treat myself afterwards by tucking into a novel whose blurb genuinely excites me. More often than not, I end up enjoying the more hard-going scholarly fiction just as much as the more contemporary works but every now and again, I battle through a book that has little or no appeal. Casting my memory back over the 33 years I've been an avid reader, I can only name two books that have defeated me and remain unfinished - Dickens' Tale Of Two Cities and Benjamin Disraeli's Sybil. I'd like to think that as an A-level student, I was perhaps too young to understand either and stubbornly intend on reading both books in their entirety one day.

Since first starting teaching over a decade ago, I've come across many students who hate reading lessons and can't seem to engage with works of fiction. Even during independent reading sessions when pupils are allowed to bring in their own material or choose from school library stock, many struggle to find a book that doesn't “bore” them. Having regularly noted this rather depressing trend, I'm of the belief that any time spent reading should be encouraged, however non-literary the material (magazines, newspapers, websites...).

A spokeswoman for the website bookmarkyourlibrary.org.uk, seemed to echo my belief in a recent Metro “story” but I was pretty disgusted by the results of the survey summarised in the article. After trawling through literary forums and websites, researchers put together a list of 100 “essential” books from their findings. Some of the usual suspects make up the list (Tolkien's The Hobbit, Orwell's 1984, Dickens' Great Expectations, Stoker's Dracula, Alcott's Little Women...) and there are also some more contemporary entries that truly deserve their inclusion (Yann Martel's Life of Pi, Audrey Niffenegger's Time Traveller's Wife, Alice Sebold's Lovely Bones...). Alongside the worthy, are some frankly shocking titles, including Tulisa Contostavlos' Honest: My Story So Far, Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, Piers Morgan's The Inside and Sophie Kinsella's Confessions of a Shopaholic.

Undoubtedly pre-empting a backlash, a representative of bookmarkyourlibrary commented on the results; Elisabeth Robinson said: “No doubt literary aficionados will object to the likes of titles by Katie Price and Russell Brand appearing in the list. But our view is that as long as people are picking up books and reading that has to be a positive thing.” As previously stated, I of course agree with this sentiment but what angers me about the list is the way it has been marketed as “essential”. Definitions of “essential” include “absolutely necessary” and “extremely important” - certainly not words I'd ever use to describe Fifty Shades of Grey and Jamie's Fifteen Minute Meals!

In my absence over the next week and a half, I'll leave you with the link to this “essential” list to peruse:

http://metro.co.uk/2013/03/21/fifty-shades-of-grey-harry-potter-and-katie-price-in-100-essential-books-list-3554704/

Far From Being A Taboo

Whenever something has been hyped by friends or in the media, expectations are so high that I'm generally disappointed. Several months ago, I was pleased to see the return of a musical I watched almost ten years ago. I went along to the Grand in Leeds knowing nothing about the production and was absolutely blown away by it.

Mark Davies Markham's Taboo would undoubtedly appear in my top 5 theatre experiences if anyone challenged me to choose. Having seen it all those years ago I have often wondered why, after its initial tour, it seemed to disappear, rather than become a regular fixture in a West End Theatre – perhaps all the more surprising considering its Olivier Award win.

Co-written by the man himself, Taboo loosely follows Boy George's rise to fame. Markham's lively songs are both witty and moving, successfully reflecting the social upheaval of the time and shocking homophobia experienced by George and other New Romantic contemporaries. The script is cleverly packed with amusing innuendos and flamboyant characters while colourful costumes and sets reflect daring 80s' fashions.

I first saw Taboo being performed on a conventional proscenium stage that allows audiences to see the whole picture from as near or as far as seat prices and availability permit. The cast were faultless and the show had the added attraction of having Mark Little (Joe Mangel in Neighbours) playing Leigh Bowery. Normally seeing the good and bad in everything, I wouldn't call myself a hypercritical person but after Taboo couldn't think of a single criticism. I remember being inspired by the power of theatre and feeling energised.

Last weekend, I arrived at The Brixton Clubhouse feeling nervous. Having showered the show with praise for the last few months, I was anxious not to disappoint my companion. The cat-walk style stage only added to my nerves, making me fearful of audience participation. Sitting beside the edge of the stage, we both grew increasingly apprehensive as vibrantly dressed cast members walked around the bar area, pausing in menacing stances.

Although the experience was a completely different one, I'm relieved to say the revived production was just as worthy of the high praise its predecessor received. As Taboo is named after Leigh Bowery's legendary 80s' nightclub, its current performance space (a club venue above The Prince Albert pub) seems particularly apt. Lamp-lit tables and rows of chairs are dotted around a snaking cat-walk with the cast making use of the stage, table tops, bar surface and surrounding space. This set-up leaves little room for error and makes for a much more unique experience, ensuring every member of the audience sees the action from a different perspective.

Watching Paul Baker make a return to his role as Philip Sallon was an intensely personal experience as he paused inches away from my seat, facing my direction to sing one of the most emotionally raw numbers and caught my eye in the process. Final scenes following Leigh Bowery's life involved Samuel Buttery almost completely stripping off in a prolonged statuesque pose for the duration of a song; Those sitting nearest the club entrance would have had a direct view of his arse crack – I'm glad I wasn't sitting there!

The Verdict?

Even though vocals occasionally needed amplifying, Taboo's 2013 cast had no weak links with faultless performances from all. The Brixton Clubhouse venue provided a unique setting and approach to the musical, resulting in a memorable and exhilarating evening without disappointment.

http://www.brixtonclubhouse.com/taboo

Better The Devil You know

Source: http://blog.vmforsp.com/2012/07/vmware-cisco-nicira-the-devil-you-know/

Time has flown and it has now (rather amazingly) been over three years since I completed my NCTJ in Harlow and I still haven't found permanent writing work in or around Leeds. Although I've done a fair bit of freelance writing over the last few years, money from English supply teaching has predominantly kept me afloat. 

This week, as a large chunk of the population continue their struggle to find employment, I found myself having to choose between two temporary jobs. I've never been so in demand but felt miserable. A school I recently left, wanted me to return after the Easter holidays to cover a part-time contract. Having calculated the difference in earnings between full-time and part-time work, I had to decline their offer, despite desperately wanting to return.

A day later, in response to my decision the school proposed a slight increase on the part-time rate but I'd already been offered full-time work elsewhere for the same duration. Two hours after verbally accepting the new offer, I received a text message from the first school saying they could indeed match their offer. You might think I'd feel victorious - I didn't.

I've never been someone to back down on an agreement, often to the detriment of my health and extreme annoyance of less reliables. I knew in my heart I wanted to return to school number one but that morally and professional this was the wrong decision. Experiences at school number one reignited my passion for teaching and after two terms, working there felt right but school number two had its own strengths and the additional lure of future job prospects. So what did I do?

Having discussed my predicament with a few other teachers soon to leave school number two, the idiom “better the devil you know” seemed to best summarise my situation. My first instinct was to ring the teaching supply agency who were clearly angry with school number one's unprofessional conduct and suggested it would be inadvisable to back-out of the new job offer. We agreed I'd sleep on it and let them know my decision the next morning.

My next phone call to my old Head Of Department revealed tears had been shed and a letter of complaint written to the school's governors as a result of the poor management of the situation. Like me, my dad seemed to pendulum between the two offers, initially telling me to go back to school number one who had clearly fought with “the powers that be” to secure my return and to follow my heart before advising me to make the most professional decision and perhaps go with school number two.

Returning home, I explained the situation in full to The Boy who then briefly experienced the hideous torrent of thoughts spinning around my head. Having listed the pros and cons of each job, I was still unable to resolve my dilemma. The solution unexpectedly came to me during my nightly pilates session.

This morning, I managed to nab my current Head Of Department in school number two and very transparently explained the headache-inducing internal conflict I was experiencing. She spoke to me both personally and professionally, thanking me for my honesty and perceptively saying I'd clearly already made a decision that was completely understandable.

After her blessing, my conscience cleared and I was finally able to go with my gut instinct - only wishing I'd followed it earlier when I'd first contemplating stalling my answer to the second school's job offer. I'm sure many people out there would be able to make this decision in seconds, viewing it as a no-brainer but, to me, going back on your word is a definite no-no. This whole experience seems to only reaffirm my enduring belief honesty is always the best policy - let's just hope, unlike my brain, my gut has my best interests in mind (or stomach?).  

The Thin End of The Wedge

 

Teaching certain English set texts often involves discussing and touching upon subjects that wouldn't be out of place in PSHE lessons. In the last term I've had a series of memorable lessons, involving sexual content. When lessons have taken an unexpected turn, students have asked if I'm embarrassed and as I'm pretty desensitised these days and used to be the only girl in an otherwise all-male house, the answer is always “No”.

The first unforgettable discussion during a lesson came about after I asked students what Curley wearing a glove full of Vaseline on one hand might reveal about his character (Steinbeck's Of Mice And Men). I'd expected answers involving Curley having rough hands from manual labour or that he cares about his wife but instead was met with the response: “His wife has a dry vagina.” After that lesson, I dreaded marking the books to find student had all added this piece of information to their notes – thankfully, they hadn't!

Several weeks later, I was reading Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go with a top set year nine class. I own the book and had never got round to reading it but knew what to expect from seeing the film. Unfortunately I managed to overlook the fact things may well get a bit racy and read a chapter to the group that described certain characters masturbating and getting “wet”. During my reading, I could hear a lot of embarrassed giggles and after I'd finished the section, a certain male student raised his hand. Looking genuinely quite confused, he asked me how that was possible, referring in particular to the female protagonist.

Now teaching in a different school, I am doing Shakespeare's Twelfth Night with an all male group and suffering from a lack of play texts. As students have to share copies of the book, I was planning on letting them read through certain scenes together to afterwards deduce word meanings from the glossary at the back. Testing the usefulness of the glossary, I came across a rather shocking explanation quoted below:

“Cut’: (a) a docked horse; (b) a gelding; c) cunt (vulgar slang for the vulva)"

(Taken from Act 2, Scene 4 of the 2001 edition)

While the C-word doesn't offend me, I am honestly pretty shocked Wordsworth Classics deem its inclusion acceptable and were unable to find a less offensive suitable alternative. Their most inconsiderate choice of explanatory vocabulary means I am now going to have to include a mini-lesson about the etymology of this controversial word:

www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=cunt