I am a chick flick junkie. I have to hold my hands up - I love them. There is no good reason for this, I’ll be the first to admit that they’re rubbish, but I love them anyway! Post essay treats, cold nights in, middle of the day boredom, something to watch over breakfast- I don’t really need an excuse, my only criteria is that they don’t make me think!

I think I should probably be ashamed for spending my Thursday afternoon watching Legally Blonde 3. Having loved the first two a bit too much, I thought the third would be a great way to spend an afternoon- DON’T DO IT! It’s horrific, as first of all Reese Witherspoon isn’t in it; there are some Andy Warhol style pictures of her on the walls but it’s no substitute. She has been replaced with identical British twins in high school. No sex appeal, no meat whatsoever (not that there was that much in the original) and all the men in it were about 13. I don’t think there is any need for me to say anymore, it sounds horrendous enough already. But the worst thing is I sat through the whole film.

This film could have ruined my mutually loving relationship with chick flicks, particularly those about intelligent blondes. The wound has been healed by my mother! She took me to see Legally Blonde the Musical. It’s pretty much the same as the first film but with cheesy songs and Duncan from Blue- could it get much better?

Do not go to this musical expecting something along the lines of Les Mis- you will be disappointed! But that’s the same as any chick flick; you don’t stick on John Tucker Must Die expecting the Oscar winning quality of Slumdog Millionaire. It had upbeat cheesy songs, scantily clad FIT men and it was rather reminiscent of the girl power craze that spread across the planet in the nineties.

Whilst for some the sequins, dancing and brainless story would probably have had them gauging their eyes out by the interval, it had me grinning from ear to ear and giggling the whole way through. The only time I questioned my presence there was when the audience cheered a dog jumping into a bag- it’s a dog, get over it!

Flicking through the programme I’m quite amazed at the cast. Considering this is what may be considered ‘low brow’ theatre it has some people who have done some rather incredible things. First we have Smithy’s sister Sheridan Smith as Elle Woods, and me being me, I was totally oblivious to the fact she’s been in a lot more than Gavin and Stacey. Then we have Duncan James, he was my imaginary boyfriend between the ages of twelve and fifteen which instantly makes him a superstar. Then we have Peter Davison, a much loved Dr. Who. Not to mention a cast who have appeared in pretty much all the hit musicals from Chicago to Wicked.

So if you’re the kind of person who likes to switch your brain off every once in a while, watch a romance unveil before your eyes, and bop along to some cheesy tunes, then this is definitely the musical for you.

The Great Christmas Debate

Did someone say snow?

Yesterday, everyone was saying snow but no one was actually seeing any. I suspected these rumours were based on a dozen lazy flakes that got lost on their way to Norway, or forgot the UK doesn’t get snow at Christmas. How excited everyone becomes if you even whisper the ‘S’ word after the 1st December.

What fun then to wake this morning to some almost proper snow; not quite drifts, but a sensible dusting. Although according to Galaxy FM it’s at least 6 inches (not a euphemism). There is always that moment on the cusp waking when everything sounds muffled outside and you just know it has snowed. Perfectly iced rooftops and a set of footprints down the middle of the road are a tantalising reminder that it really is winter and only one week until Christmas Day. I for one feel a little disappointed - what do I do with all my spray snow? (That’s a joke; I’m a total snob and wouldn’t even allow a can across my front doorstep).

Excitement aside, there seems to be a Southern Snow Syndrome that causes everything to come to a standstill after even the most pitiful of snowstorms. Schools closed, motorways blocked, and people unable to leave their houses because of major disruptions to the entire urban network. (The unpredictability of Global Warming isn’t going to help). People in the north don’t have this problem - it’s a question of attitude. How irritating it is when you dutifully turn up for a 3pm meeting with your lecturer, trudging through the dark and sludge and bitter wind, to find he has been ‘snowed in’ at home and can’t make it to work today. What’s more annoying is when you know for a fact he lives on the same road as your sister, who has managed to drive to work, and is probably slouched by a cosy fire having just eaten one too many mince pies. We need more snow just so we learn how to cope with it down here.

Having lived my whole life along the South Coast I still find it novel and childishly exciting when there is a proper, as in ‘I could make a snowman’, layer of snow. The day’s plans go out the window as everyone bundles outside for snowballs, snowmen and all the usual snow-related activities. The most fun being the one where you lure your 9 year old brother or 27 year old sister, whichever is the most gullible, under a tree and then shake all the snow over them. Works every time.

Although this morning’s snow has now almost melted in Southampton, revision for the day has been ruined as I spent the morning making snowballs for my housemate who has never seen snow before. I feel privileged to be the first person to throw some in his face. Here’s hoping for some more!

Happy Christmas,

Polly x

Magazine Obcession

In order to express my deep sadness about the closing of Borders shop this weekend, it seems necessary to divulge the facts of my secret life as a magazine collector. Only those close to me know the depths of my obsession, I’m a sucker for glossies, they are my heroin, I love buying them more than I love clothes, shoes, probably more than I love my family. My collection runs the length of my bedroom at a knee-high level and when I lived alone in Paris this summer, magazines from the 3000 strong collection at Agora Presse et Catera (think rundown Borders, but shabby Paris style) was my salvation. Above all, I literally cannot resist the shiny, new, alluring covers of the niche style publications I know I can only get in limited stores. Border’s was like my dream library.

I own hundreds of publications, a mixture of men’s and women’s titles, vintage and brand new, magazines on fashion, arts, lifestyle, film, textiles, home furnishings; I even have a magazine solely consisting of pictures of lightshades. Similarly to collectors of items that may perhaps be considered more valuable, I have slightly ritualistic practises to organise my passion. I sort them ruthlessly every few months, only keeping special issues. I regularly rearrange them to remind myself what I own and of course, I buy them frequently and fanatically.

This is where Borders came in. Alongside 8 hour coursework sessions, donating about thirty quid a time to Starbucks and buying out nearly the entire World Cinema section in one January sale; it was the magazines that kept my custom so strong for the past four years.

I have very specific favourites; usually determined by a consistency in features articles and photography that manages to engage me, I am dyspraxic with a very short concentration span. I always buy Vogue, but only Paris and Deutsch; I only buy British Vogue at Christmas. I always buy an.Other Man in preference to the original female version. I like German magazine 032c with English text and Interview and Wallpaper, from America. I think these particular preferences in specific city versions, or choosing magazines aimed at men when I am female is to do with the ideologies the magazines represent to me; I have always been fascinated, even as a child, by what the covers promise to offer me. More than an hour of relaxation with a cup of tea; they are to me, a cultural text. I learn about people and their lives through them, experience an editor’s artistic licence, and discover historical timelines and sociocultural happenings.

My favourite ever issue of a magazine is Lula: Girl of My Dreams, Issue 7. Since I discovered it, I rush to Borders every six months to grab one of a hundred copies they stock. They always sell out because they are the only place that stocks Lula in Southampton. Perhaps it is now apparent why I might look so disheartened when my friends remind me there is always WH Smith.

I feel mysteriously treacherous writing a blog entry (sorry Carla!) perhaps because of the ongoing discussion on fashion’s digital age. Fashion bloggers are saturating the internet with unsolicited opinions on the industry and sit next to editors and designers who have worked their entire lives to create names for themselves. Anna Wintour, who made her own mark as the fashion world’s figurehead by moving with the times and being the first editor to heavily endorse celebrity culture in Vogue, is infamous for refusing to include bloggers in the magazine, yet even she has given in and is set to feature a select few, particularly reputable Street Style blog photographers in a future issue.

Although I am not naive enough to attribute the downfall of shops like Borders to the decline in magazine sales; I dearly hope that people do not stop buying magazines for want of finding similar information for free on the internet. Magazines are an informative and visual media that cannot simply be replicated temporarily through a webpage. For me, at least, having a real, physical version of something you love that is yours forever vastly outweighs the postmodern circus of internet blogging sites.

Scandal Tee-off for Tiger Woods

I would not want to be Tiger Woods right now.

As each day passes, another claim is made. Woman after woman, each declaring a “secret” love affair with the famed golfer. Tiger Woods extensive and incredible career has now been overshadowed by this scandal that continues to unfold. Woods’ career is far more than just enviable, dubbed as one of the most successful golfers of all time and the current World No. 1 golfer, he was also the highest-paid professional athlete in 2008, having earned an estimated $110 million from winnings and endorsements.

Fast track to his current saga, which includes a reckless driving citation from the Florida Highway Patrol, a jaw-dropping amount of 14 women being romantically linked to him and endorsement deals running in the other direction from Woods, and one could say it’s not been his week.

The scandalous infidelity rumors generated with an early morning car accident outside his house in Orlando, Florida. Reports state that at 2:30am Woods drove over a curb, then in attempt to get back on the street hit a neighbor’s hedge, but failed and jumped another curb, which ended with him smashing into a fire hydrant.

When the news broke about Tiger’s little ‘crash’, the rumor mill got spinning and sparked rumors of a fight with his wife, Elin Nordegren, who found him. Inevitably, the fight occurred because of Tiger’s cheating allegations which Elin confronted him about.

Now, splashed across every newspaper, magazine and television screen Tiger Woods is being associated with a lot more than his golf career. Hostesses, waitresses, porn stars and models are grabbing there 15 minutes of fame through their allegations of an affair with Tiger. Thus leaving him with no other option than an apology that reeks of a good publicist:

“I am deeply aware of the disappointment and hurt that my infidelity has caused to so many people, most of all my wife and children. I want to say again to everyone that I am profoundly sorry and that I ask forgiveness. It may not be possible to repair the damage I've done, but I want to do my best to try.
I would like to ask everyone, including my fans, the good people at my foundation, business partners, the PGA Tour, and my fellow competitors, for their understanding. What's most important now is that my family has the time, privacy, and safe haven we will need for personal healing.
After much soul searching, I have decided to take an indefinite break from professional golf. I need to focus my attention on being a better husband, father, and person.
Again, I ask for privacy for my family and I am especially grateful for all those who have offered compassion and concern during this difficult period.”

…A difficult period all brought about by a classic case of infidelity. It has become overtly clichéd for a celebrity (…in fact anyone really!?) to have an affair, deny it, let the truth come out and then act like it’s a big surprise to everyone including yourself. Celebrities plaster their faces all over the place in an attempt for publicity, however it becomes crucial to respect their “privacy” when faced with scandal. Tiger’s face was in commercials and on billboards around the globe. He asked for the public’s attention and got it. He should harbor no expectation of privacy. Although this may seem harsh or unfortunate, this is simply how the cookie crumbles.

Now on the heels of Tag Heuer, Gatorade and Gilette's announcements, global consulting firm Accenture said they are no longer associating themselves with Tiger Woods. The only company to stand by his cheating is Nike, and Tiger should be incredibly thankful for that. The backlash has begun and his career - and bank account - will suffer the consequences.

All in time for the holidays… Merry Christmas!

Ode to Jeremy Kyle

I’ve been back home for Christmas for all of three days now and I’ve already been seduced by the ever satisfying elements of daytime television. We are taught that there is something terribly self indulgent about lazing on the sofa, pigging out on food loaded with e-numbers, watching television all afternoon and wasting the day . This I believe is a concept that should be altered. We as a people can learn much from daytime television. For example, who better to learn the basic principles of morality from than Trisha Goddard and who will teach you how to make a Christmas pudding better than Phil Vickery. No one. And before you wonder, no I am not 35. I’m 21. A 21 year old who when she gets a chance, likes to take a break from watching MTV and Film Four and relax to the soulful sounds of Loose Women, discussing the benefits of long johns. The subsequent schedule is easy to follow (and recommended if you have neither a lecture nor a job or if you happen to be locked out of your bedroom and have no choice but to watch day time television). As the sun rises awake with GMTV. Then slowly tune in to This Morning, a treat especially for all you girls a fan of silver fox Philip Schofield. As the day continues, flip over to The Trisha Goddard Show and back again to Loose Women. But hold on, you may be thinking. You have missed something out. Oh but I haven’t. For I have left the best till last. Jeremy Paxman can jog on. It’s all about Jeremy Kyle.

In the same way Dominic is obsessed with Tyra Banks, I am too with Jeremy Kyle. Now of course Banks is far more aesthetically and aurally pleasing than Kyle. She may be the Queen of the modelling world, but Kyle is the Adonis of daytime television. His machismo defined by his downright self righteousness and patronising tone is arousing to say the least. That wayward jaw line, those cold blue eyes, his lack of emotion and his incessant arguing with his guests is far more entertaining than any of Paxman’s attempts to pull politicians apart. His catchphrases, ‘This is my show so sit back and relax!’ and ‘I don’t give a damn!’ unashamedly rival Spenser’s sonnets. Oh to hear Kyle’s words is like to hear the claws of a cat scratching on a chalkboard. Loud, abrasive and demanding of attention, his rhetoric is intrusive in its demeanour. My favourite show taglines include ‘Your baby is too white to be mine!’ and ‘Did my new husband seduce my daughter?!’ These things do happen. Call me naive. Call me stupid. Call me a moron even. But I am convinced that someone out there, whilst watching this show is thinking ‘yeah my baby is far too light skinned to be mine’ or ‘yeah I know my sister’s best friend’s cousin slept with my man!’ Remember if someone can think of it, it can happen. Either that or I am so delusional I shouldn’t be allowed to write, let alone contribute to this blog.

God, you must be thinking, what a sad, sad girl, but my defiant response is BOTHERED. It is harder to have such a treat back at university as during the time JK is on (9.25-10.30) I am usually sat in a lecture wondering who the J-Man is up against today. So when I am back at the parents house I relish it. Daytime television is fundamentally vacuous and mind numbingly boring. This I do not deny. But there is also something fascinating about the way in which British society is portrayed on the stages of talk shows and discussion panels. Question Time and Newsnight may be deemed far more intellectual than anything JK could say, but I must argue that the Jeremy Kyle Show in itself has taught me a lot. The main point being that there are those who will exploit and those who will be exploited. I suppose some might say that watching the show is akin to driving up to a car crash and slowing down to get a better look. However what if sometimes, those involved in the car crash are willing participants, waving at you inviting you to look in on the carnage. Of course many of the guests on the show are exploited and made vulnerable, though I do believe just as many are scooped up by the reality TV mentality of our generation and are enticed by the thought of making an appearance on national television. As a tax paying citizen I have every right to watch this.

So for all you JK snobs out there, give him a chance. I am sure you all have something constructive to do with your lives instead, but sometimes you just need to sit there and be. Take note of the social experiment happening before you of which the guests, the audience and Kyle participate in a baiting ring of jeers, boos, tears and laughter. It is much more interesting than you think it will be.

Wendy x

Oh and if you really don’t like daytime television or JK, then give these tunes a try

My top 5 songs on constant repeat at the moment:
Foreign Beggars ft. Skinnyman- Hold On
Michael Jackson-I wanna be where you are
A Tribe called Quest- Electric Relaxation
Layo & Bushwacker- Love Story
Devlin- Community Outcast

Peter Panned

Last night, following the excesses of two successive nights in Jesters, I stayed in with my housemates to watch a film. Someone (not me) decided to put a Disney film on. I’m not entirely sure why but it was probably something to do with that strange nostalgia for your childhood that seems to hit at 21 like a quarter life crisis. I would usually have argued and tried to nod the group in the direction of something grown up. But it was late, I was hungover and secretly, I was pretty keen for a bit of Disney. So I slumped back on the sofa, ate some crisps and prepared to be enchanted by those 2D Technicolor cartoons that brightened up many a rainy weekend in my childhood.

Only this time around, I was far from enchanted.

The film we picked was Peter Pan. Here are a few observations I made, viewing it as a cynical, 21 year old politics editor not a bright eyed, naïve child.

Firstly it is loaded with stereotypes drawn along racial and gender based lines.

Wendy is a girl who longs to be a mother. Naturally caring and doting, she is a young domestic goddess and evidently, in the eyes of the producers, everything a girl should be. Tinkerbell on the other hand is jealous and bitchy. The other side of the female character through the eyes of a 1950s director. She is malicious, hot headed and commits attempted murder and betrayal. But we shouldn’t blame her. After all, she’s not really capable of thinking like a man.

The lost boys are all controlled by their primal hunter gather instincts, and most of the time just grunt and hit each other. Why? Because they don’t have mothers of course.

Hook’s dastardly crew are, to a man, foreigners. I counted Irish, Scottish and generic Arabic. Because obviously, a noble Englishman would never join a Pirate ship. Well, at least, if he did, he’d probably be Captain.

But worst of all are the “red Indians” (or native neverlanders as they should probably be called). Alternately backward, violent, uncivilised and lecherous, they are referred to as savages, hunted for fun by the lost boys and sing a song called “what made the red man red” which explains how their funny skin colour can be explained by the fact that they are always lusting after women.

So far, so 1950s you may think. What’s the harm? Some of you have probably stopped reading this by now and gone off somewhere to moan about how political correctness has ruined the country. But consider my second observation. The scenes from the film struck me, incredibly strongly, as familiar, not just from childhood memories, but as the setting for recurring dreams I have to this day. The only explanation? Walt Disney buried himself in my sub-conscious all those years ago and is still hiding there somewhere today.

So if skull rock and flying out of the upstairs window of an Edwardian London mansion made it into my mind, what else got lodged in there? A view of the role of women perhaps? The reason why I have to remind myself, even today, that women aren’t born wanting to be stay at home mothers and that saying something like “girls can be such bitches sometimes” is definitely sexist? The reason why it took me such a long time to accept that Native American culture was different but not necessarily any worse than the European’s, and that going over there in the name of civilising them was no justification for genocide? All possibilities.

We are, I believe, socialised into our gender and racial roles. The colour of skin and the type of your chromosomes has no effect on you as a person. But society labels you as something because of them, and then gives you certain roles that you have to fulfil as a member of that group. When people flaunt those rules, even today in our post-modern world, we find it strange. But where are they learnt? From parents? Peers? Or maybe, just maybe, from those rainy Sundays when Walt Disney’s cartoons would beam across your living room?

Peter Pan was made fifty six years ago. But how much has really changed? Look at the media with a cynical eye and ask yourself what is that telling me, or my children, about the role of women. Or black people. Or Muslims.

Perhaps all the time its rich, white men who own the media certain views will be propagated by it. And in fifty six years some things don’t change. Rich white men still own the media.

If we don’t get children to question the things the TV tells them they won’t. And years later they may look back and realise that while they were enjoying their favourite film, someone was very subtly, very carefully dictating their dreams for years to come.

The strapline for the original Peter Pan was ‘it will live in your hearts forever’. Let us just hope it won’t.

Three Years

America's Next Top Model captivates me. I wish it was otherwise, I wish that when Tyra Banks struts into view I didn't get palpitations of joy; but I do. I can answer any question you might have for me to do with the show. I've watched each season at the very least four times. My obsession is so out of control now I regularly make sure I'm up to date with all of the “NTMs”, my personal favourite outside America being the Australian version (AUSNTM). Whenever I'm stressed, I watch it. Whenever there's nothing on TV I watch it. But I'd be lying if I said it was meaningful. It's entertainment, and it's not anything other than that.

Meaningful entertainment is my course. I love English; books, reading, talking about ideas all set me alight. I've been sent into something of a tailspin recently though. I suddenly realised that it's all about to be over. Three years of studying a subject which fuelled my passion to go to university and to make an effort with learning are about to be over and it saddens me beyond belief.

Let me set the scene. It's a murky Friday, and I've trekked to Highfield campus for a 9am, imagining all the places I'd rather be at that moment in time (mostly beds, I'm just imagining lots of different kinds of beds) and I'm going to see a lecturer speaking, who is an authority on their subject, having studied it for more years than America's next top model has even existed. It's this amazing privilege and I'm having the audacity to be wondering how many togs I would like the duvet to have on my idyllic bed. It's far too easy to be caught up in the rigmarole of schedule and requirements that universities face you with, and to forget that what we're experiencing is a massive privilege. After that I have a dissertation meeting, so I head to the library, which just happens to be a massive catalogue featuring material ranging from the philosophy of Kant, to engineering journals from over 50 years ago. It's an incredible resource yet I'm thinking to myself “Oh god, I have to go up ALL THESE STAIRS to the 5^th floor!”. I wander over to Avenue campus after collecting my books, and I just sit down and read to prepare for my dissertation meeting, and suddenly I'm engrossed. Half an hour passes in a flash and I'm left agape; I'm having a serious textual seduction moment here. I go up to my dissertation tutor and we just chat about what I've been reading. Suddenly I'm having fun, I'm doing work and it's fun, I'm talking about what I love with somebody else who loves it too, and they're helping to inform me and I'm informing them and it's this crazy kind of intimate moment, and we haven't even learnt anything about each other!

This is when I had the realisation. Forced to leave by a seminar, I make my apologies and step away. I shut the door and suddenly, this massive wave of sadness overwhelms me. I'm in my third year and only now have I realised, not only that this is all going to be over soon, but that I've completely taken my fantastic university experience for granted. Doing a course like English, most of the time you just take your transferable skills and leave, never needing to use all the knowledge you amassed for three years ever again. It'll slowly fade away and suddenly you're just another person in a suit working in an office, forgetting, replacing, abandoning these distant memories of when you actually cared about what you were doing. You're not moaning because you've got to read a book every week, you're talking to Ann, from accounts, if she could produce those numbers for you on Friday (that report's not going to write itself, and those numbers could make all the difference between getting that new cubicle you've been after); you're debating whether or not the company logo should be full of whimsy or caprice; you're pissed off because somebody didn't wash your mug after using it. The fact is, even if you work your arse off, and get the best mark you can get, it's entirely possible that it's all utterly pointless in the end because you're never going to need to discuss the finer points of Austen, or Nabokov, or Byron, or any artisan you dedicated three years of your life to ever again.

I know this is subjective. It's deliberately so (plus, I take my inspiration from Tyra Banks, and everybody knows the show is about her, not the girls...) but nothing matches the sudden realisation that when you leave University, it's over. And no amount of trashy TV featuring skinny girls and a crazy egocentric ringmaster can fix that hurt.

Dominic

P.S Donations to my MA fund greatly appreciated...can you tell I can't leave academia yet?