musings on das kapital

And by that I mean London, not the infamous book by Karl (Marx, not Kennedy. And btw when playing the quizzer the other night I embarrassingly answered that Richard Marx wrote that. I saw "Marx" and acted hastily. Shouldn't be allowed to play)...

I have just returned from spending a couple of days in London Town. I have been many times of course and used to spend a lot of time in South London, but I still get very excited at the prospect of going. Well, usually. This time I could have done with a couple of days to relax, but it was all alright in the end.

When I used to spend my Summers in the City I used to marvel at how many people there must be in the world to fill such a grand, cramped place. I put that down to having grown up in a field. But now I am more accustomed to its incredible scale (even though the tube map is so disproportionate. When are they going to rectify that I wonder?) and I revel in feeling insignificant amongst it. However with each visit the more I discover myself turning into one of those people I used to despise, who would see the world through Londoncentric specs*, and everything else provincial had no worth. Upon returning to Leeds (although I'm hardly its biggest fan, granted) I thought it looked pretty pants. It only has about 4 streets of beautiful buildings. London has endless square miles of buildings that might make me consider studying architecture to be OK.

This particular visit did see some achievements in my London view of things:
(1) I did not visit Camden. I always visit Camden and it's always the same. There is just no need anymore. Plus it's too gothy nowadays anyway.
(2) I have finally built up the courage to still run for the tube even though I can hear the "door are a-closing" beeps. I've always been in awe of these people in the past. What bravery! After my first attempt (when my bag got caught in the door) I almost perfected the move and managed to look pretty damned cool a couple of times, if I do say so myself. If only the tubular sweats hadn't been so obvious. It's underground, for fuck's sake. Can't they get air con?

When meeting Tombola (of Tombolablog fame) I saw a pie stall that advertised how it did not accept Scottish notes. Now I have heard the "Bugger you they are legal tender" argument many times and wondered how Pie-peeps get away with this. Ah, yes, it's London.


*I recall being infuriated once when at uni, when one friend from London said to another, "I'm going home this weekend. Is there anything you want me to get for you?" Rah #2 replied, "yes, please. I need some incense". Incense? I think you can get that up North, you loser! However the seed of that attitude showed itself in me this weekend. London is an amazing place, and in my opinion there is nowhere else so vibrant. If anyone else knows of any similarly remarkable places, I would love to hear of them. Largely because I will never be able to afford life in the City.

Fresh Prince of Belle Vue...

Tis that time of year again. Freshers are back, pint-supping, freebie-grabbing, best clothes-adorning, in my way a-getting. There are more every year and they are looking increasingly fresh. I'm not sure how their teabag sized handbags contain their Union information, registration documents and lecture notes, not to mention the trees of leaflets that their hands are stuffed with when running the Parkingson/Psychology gauntlet.

Despite the welcoming atmosphere, fun, frolics and festivities of Fresher's week, I would not be able to face it again. If given a choice I would certainly not relive it. Granted, Durham intro week was mild in comparison, with formal dinners and matriculation in the cathedral performing the welcome duties. However it all seems very effortful and I would rather sit and observe from my armchair. And mute the freshers.

In 3 years' time they'll be getting fat anyway. In the shorter term (i.e. a term) they'll be househunting with the people on their corridors. And a week after they've signed they'll fall out.

Anyone know of any decent fresher-free haunts around the belle vue road region?

On the plus side there are some new postgrads about the place, and lovely they are too. Although it's odd to be reminded that you are moving on and should therefore be the next in line to submit your PhD, fresh blood is exciting. This strikes a happy balance between the enthusiam of the freshers and the armchair/laptop loving lifestyle that I currently adopt: the new postgrads might go down to the Fav sometimes. That will be nice. So long as it's not on one of their "urban chaos" nights or anything...

Moon.xxx

spider update and other such unrelated ramblings

Salutations,

I don't do anything anymore. People keep asking, "what's news?" or "what have you been up to lately?" and the answer is bugger all. I'm not sure when this happened. It isn't a sad state of affairs; I quite like it. Going out for a boogie would be exhausting nowadays (although might help to shed the pounds - see below*) anyway. But I fear that I am becoming a burden to my mother, who not only called me recently to express concern over my social life and how I don't get drunk anymore, she also thinks that my flat is haunted.

I hope it isn't.

I doubt it is. It is extremely cold, and I feel very unnerved in it, and things do tend to fall off walls without reason etc (today my little singing animals (yes the ones that you bought me, Prof) flew off my desk (and flew, they did) when I was nowhere near them. And they weren't exactly teetering on the edge of the desk, either). There are also mystery sounds, especially late at night, that I have not yet located. Nevertheless, I think my mother is jumping to conclusions.

There can only be one other explanation: the spiders are taking over. They're getting bigger and badder, I tell thee. And still waking me up. Bastards.

By the way has anyone seen the billboard ad with a spider wearing gloves on? I supposed it's for Fosters/Guiness or something. But spidey looks like a crab. Crustaceans and spiders are everywhere. Everywhere!

It's not all bad though as (1) my blog is maintaining its stroppy theme and (2) I ordered a new memory card for my camera today, as I have reason to believe that it's illness may be related to that. So, can soon start taking spidey pics again!



* At lunch today a friend of mine ordered cake. I had not considered wanting cake until this point, but I then could not live without satisfying the sweet tooth. Revels did the trick whilst waiting for tea to cook. This competitive edge is going too far, I think.

mullet corner

Mullet rice?? Alright, tenuous, granted.

I have spent the weekend around (although avoiding, where possible) weird artsy consciousness lovers. The days would commence with morning meditation for them, and a jive around my student box room (relatively nice though, in Oxford) for me. These delegates are weird for a lot of reasons. I shall not discuss them though as previous post shall take a day to read. Anyway there were a record number of mullets out and about. And mullets like I have never seen before. One man had a smart curly hair do, cropped on top and at sides, but had a real neck warmer at the back. Thick and luscious, too. Another guy had a full on pony tail mullet right down his back. He looked amazingly like this:




But the most amazing mullet of all belonged to a large chested 60-something woman. Very short lesbian hair (even for someone of her age) with a tiny grey plait stretching down to her arse. Truly a sight to behold. And worth attending to when the talks (invariably) were not.

I cannot find an accurate illustration on't web. Even on ratemymullet.com

Moon.xxx

train journey from hell

Not an original topic I'm afraid, but I shall tell the lengthy story all the same:

I went to Oxford this weekend, a place that I am most fond of. I knew that the conference would be shite, so I planned to shimmy round town in the evenings, eating and drinking well. I met up with a good friend on Fri night, and met some interesting individuals last night. So, despite falling out with some irritating know-it-all American therapist (who was WRONG) the weekend wasn't all bad. Perhaps I shall dedicate an alternative post to the hairstyles and fashions of the delegates. If my camera had not broken (irritation #1) I would have been able to post great evidence.

Anyway, I had a grand morning today, spending time with a film maker in the sun. Upon leaving the conference, bizarrely, the tale takes a sorry turn. Taxi was late. Actually it didn't turn up. This has happened to me twice before in Oxford. And I'm sure it will again. Then I'll wish that I had read my own ranty blog and learned my lesson. I eventually managed to hail a cab, which got me to the train station with 1 min to spare. Rushing over the platforms ruined my lungs, and I arrived (just in time - hurrah!) onto the busiest train ever (bar one*) hyperventilating.

I like to be organised and I usually arrive well early for my travels, mainly to ensure a decent seat is captured. So unsurprisingly on this occasion I was crammed into a carriage end with my belongings. Nearby there was a sign outlining complaints and comments procedures for Virgin. How ironic. Now you know the tale will turn sour. But luckily (for now) it had a train route map alongside, so I busied myself attending to that for 30mins or so. At this point, once my breathing had reached regularity, I was relatively content.

The next stop (Banbury) filled the train, for some reason. Disproportionately so - it's not a big town. Nice, though. I have to say that as it is my sister's new home town and she may read this. I tried to squeeze myself to a seat. To no avail. I had to crouch painfully in a doorway, which made my hip lock when someone rammed a bag into my head, luring back an old dance injury. I now could not sit due to space restrictions, nor crouch due to injury. At Birmingham International (3 stops, and an hour ish later) I manage to get into the carriage and find a seat, albeit alongside a sleeping fattie taking up too much space. I carefully plan where I will move to at the next stop, as my seat was reserved from New Street onwards. This all goes to plan, although there were many arguments between angry passengers wedged between luggage. So, hurrah, I have a seat next to a man with large elbows. I do some reading. Until Tamworth. For those less familiar with train routes than myself, this is the next stop on this Virgin Bournemouth to Newcastle route. At Tamworth someone asks for my seat. Only because Big Elbows refuses to move. So I oblige. Back to standing. For 2 hours.

This was painful, and I was unhappy. I tried to do some work, as I have much to do, although there was not enough room to find my pen from my bag. This had to be violating some health and safety standard. Lowley would have his work cut out for him in such a company. Incidentally the usually 3 hour journey was scheduled to take 4 and a half, today, due to maintenance. Alright, they gave us prior warning. But when we hear that "the train is travelling at a cautionary speed due to children playing on the track" I lose patience. Run the fuckers down. Darwin would have allowed it. Stupid kids shouldn't be allowed to live and breed more stupid kids. Get rid.

Around this point some wanker thought it would be hilarious to stink out the vestibule. I would have found it amusing, had it not been full of 11 people plus luggage. I have to reveal (purely to get Lordie on my side) that the same bloke had a conversation with his mate that went like this:
"Barnsley's a shit shop."
"Yeah, Barnsley's a shit shop."
"Yeah, shit shop."
"Yeah."

At Sheffield I get a seat, hurrah, methinks. But, alas, who do I sit next to? Aging rocker with his Ozzy CD on full blast. Aging rocker smacks his hands on his thighs to the music. But not in time. If you have ever tried clapping/dancing off-rhythm, you will know that this is a near impossible task to master. This guy was amazing at it, however. Yet this guy was a peach compared to the waffy tramp on my other side. Thankfully there was a luggage filled aisle separating us, but this did not prevent him staring at me (until he was thrown off, about 50 mins later) or talking to himself, in my direction. He was mumbling what can only be described as satantic verses, and he smelt of sheep. I could not move. Trapped. In a nightmare. I felt physically sick from the stench. The guy moved behind me at one point and talked over my headrest at me. I ignored, of course, for fear of shouting abuse at him be taken as encouragement of some kind. The woman next to him left immediately, telling the carriage that she was disgusted at his "stink". Sheep.

I eventually arrive home, 5 1/2 hours later, and the lock to my front door had broken. It takes forever to get in.

There is an upside, though:
(1) My bug ridden flat was more welcoming than ever. We have bonded, since.
(2) I justified scrapping the diet and eating some cake, as the day had been so traumatic.
(3) I have a theme for my blog (see amended title)! All posts are ranty. Hurrah!

Moon.xxx


* This particular occasion was hilarious. I was leaving Sheffield after seeing friends for a weekend and found my train. It was so full that people were saying goodbye to their loved ones who were literally pushing them on the train. I saw one person bounce right back off the full train onto the platform. Aforementioned loved ones were pushing them back on, hoping that when the doors closed they would not be squished. They were, the doors jammed and they could not travel. Hilarious.

Re: FW: FW: FW: Stevo

As so many of you have paid tribute to the fabulous Bogen himself, I feel that I should also mention the fabulous Sir Irwin. I am loving the forwards. They were inevitable, but I am grateful.

Apparently memory researchers are very busy in Australia at the moment, commencing studies into flashbulbs memories of finding out about Irwin's death. Can you shed a little light on this for me, Akira?

Moon.xxx

"And now, with her interesting presentation on dreams..."

I went to (yet another) conference this week: BPS Cognitive in Lancaster. Firstly, Lancaster is an odd place. Where is it? (Yes I do know, really. Remember my morbid fascination with maps and train times? I'm considering progressing to motorways, soon.) You travel for hours through hills and end up in an odd little town that is all campus and river. On the first night a few friends recommended going to a "really lovely pub". It was an It's A Scream, that let us take in a takeaway pizza to scoff in front of the footie. Really lovely?! Anyway a few cognitive psychologists were kicking about so a fun time was had by all. Hmm.

I gave my first 30 min presentation, which went reasonably well, despite the fact the chair had started late (because she was talking shit to someone) and ended it on time, thus leaving virtually no time for questions. However I was offended at being placed in the comedy session near the end of the conference in the shittest room in the university. I had an audience of about 9 and was followed by a bizarre man that had everyone in stitches for all the wrong reasons. I presented on dreams. He presented on magic. Sans tricks. It was a shambles. Thanks, BPS, for taking the piss of my research.

At least I know I'll go down better next weekend at the BPS Consciousness and Experiential Section Conference, where everyone presents through the medium of dance. I'm a scientist to them!

To reiterate a recent previous post: why is it we do this, again?

Ah yes, conference dinners.

Moon.xxx

I'm still Jenny from the blog...

After publishing a couple of mediocre posts, I pondered the purpose of the blog. Some use it as a fun mode of communication with friends, other comment on popular culture, others use the blog in a more purposeful way, by raising relevant cultural issues or pouring out their heart. I'm not sure I succeed in any of these domains. Heart-pouring is not my forte, but when I get close I end up slagging off colleagues and offending them (own fault of course). And commenting upon Leeds' culture must be an impossible task.

I feel that it should be used as some kind of means of self expression, either through publishing opinions or gossip. (Incidentially "publishing" sounds a little sophisticated a word in this case. Rather like our good friend's articles that are "in press"...) So, I'll rant about what's hot in the life of moon.

I have no space left on my laptop. At all. So it's a bit buggered. And well slow.
I have been enjoying listening to a lot of Regina Spektor lately, she's alright.
After listening to "she don't use jelly" by Ben Folds Five quite a bit, I have re-started playing on my Playstation (the beginning sounds just like the music in Crash Bandicoot).
I have a disproportionate interest in artists beginning with B.

It's been a busy week!

Moon.xxx

Dr. Who?

After a typical discussion with a friend earlier about the trials and tribulations of postgraduate life, I wondered whether the stress that we put ourselves under is totally worth it. The PhD is indeed a rollercoaster; on a bad day tasks seem insurmountable and you wonder what on earth this is being accomplished for. On a good day, or after a good meeting, you can feel as if you can cope with anything that life throws your way. I guess we all wonder whether it would be easier to sign up for some well paying graduate scheme as opposed to going through all of this, but I imagine the stability of the 9-5 would be dull. I have convinced myself that the highs are worth it, and you need the shit days to put it all in perspective, but then I wonder if this PhD is bringing on neurotic behaviour.

All I want is to fill in a form and strike out "Ms" and tick "other: Dr". How I long for that day... Hope it will be worth this rollercoaster!

Moon.xxx

larder than life

Greetings pilgrim,

I know that I am not the first person to discuss this, but I was truly shocked into posting on this issue. Yesterday I went to see Robbie Williams at Roundhay Park (I know, I know, not the most credible of outings, but 90,000 people in a park is usually fun, in my experience. And Bassment Jaxx were mighty grand). I could discuss Leeds' difficulty in hosting a pop event (local schools had to be closed on Friday - something to do with traffic congestion concerns) however I shall instead concentrate upon the vast array of food treats that were available over the day. Chip baguettes, "chicken 'n' chips", noodle stands (£7 for a tiny tray, incidentally), ice creams, there was even a quorn stand! It was a biffa's dream. Which may well explain the density (yes) of them about the place. I was honestly astonished at the proportion of fatties in the country, yesterday. I suppose you become desensitised to the sight of an especially rotund midriff after a while, but seeing them all together put it all into perspective. In all seriousness well over 100,000 people could have attended the event if it was full of normal sized people. Now I like my snacks as much as the next person, more than most, some may well argue, but there is a limit. I'm not sure what is to blame for this health hazard (don't worry, I won't suggest genes or "big bones"): the abundance of tempting stalls offering carbs with fat and sugar on top, or laziness, or greed... However I am sure that I am losing my sympathy for many a fatty. I'm no stick, but I know that eating less/well and attending the gym deal with the issue. And nothing else.

On a brighter note, let's marvel at how I snapped this pic of the first lot of sparks flying up at the beginning of the gig:



I am very sorry that I didn't make it to a festival this Summer. Bugger the schools, I'm all for more big live events in local parks over the next year or so.

Moon.
xxx