Less is not necessary best!

As I travel up through the endless mountains to Bangor from the big smoke I thought this would be a good as time as any to write my next blog! If any one has ever done the journey from London to Bangor or from Cardiff to Bangor you will know what I mean about the torturous journey through either the Welsh mountains or the English countryside. A journey that feels like it will never end. So any opportunity to waste some time is seized upon.

My blog this week has been inspired by the return of the good weather. The sun seems to bring out the best in most people. I say most because there are still some grumpy sods around. Man on tube, please do not tut and sigh at me again for wanting to keep my personal space and to avoid being squashed into another man's sweaty armpit. Next time I will push you into the stench of body odour and see how you like it.

Any way moving away from the thought of BO, as soon as the sun comes out we automatically get the shorts on and shades out. It doesn't have to be that warm but that is not the point. If the sun shines then it seems a matter of principle that we replace the ugg boots with a good old pair of flip flops and give the pasty white toes some freedom for another six months. Even if it is only the beginning of April!

What I have noticed over the last few days is people do dare to bare! Sometimes ladies and gents this is not the way forward and less is not necessary best!

Prime example, I was sitting on the tube and there was a rather large (ok I am being polite he was massive) gentleman pushing his way on to the tube. He looked like he hadn't seen the sun for over a decade because their were patches of him that were as white as me.*
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*Now I am pale. We're talking milk bottle white. People comfort me with the saying English rose (welsh rose more so)… but my family say I give casper the friendly ghost a run for his money in paleness. I am one of those people who go a lovely shade of lobster red and then back to my pasty self. Not a sprinkling of a golden tan. I have accepted that am never going to be a golden goddess (much to my disappointment) and I embrace the old school victorian pastiness!. ( and when I do get desperate, a good old bottle of St Tropez seems to do the trick! granted I get the streaks and the orange tan lines seem a bit excessive but some times it's better than the glare of whiteness that my legs radiate)

So as I was saying, the man got on, and was literally daring to bare. He had his belly hanging over his shorts with patches of burnt skin and his t-shirt in his hands. Now It's April, firstly it is not that hot and secondly please don't subject me to this. As much as I like this weather, I don't like to be grossed out. So different man on tube, keep your t-shirt on and spare us the explicit scenes so we can all enjoy the weather without voming up our first ice cream of the year.

Football sulkers

I am going to digress slightly with this blog as there is only so much I can write about clock watching on a daily basis and I'm hoping someone can explain to me about what I am about to say.

Right, don't get me wrong, I like football. I can appreciate the skill of Ronaldo, Beckham and Messi. (I appreciate the fit bodies more but I digress!) What I am trying to say is I have watched my fair share of football matches, I’ve cheered Wales on (without much success) at the Millennium Stadium, and I have even tried my hand at match reporting and I reckon I could blag my way through explaining the offside rule. I can understand the obsession men have with the game, oogling over sweaty men in tight shirts and shorts for 90 minutes is obviously quite appealing, who could blame them? But what I don’t understand is why grown men need to sulk over a game of football?

Alex Ferguson throws his toys out the pram when a decision doesn't go his way. Wayne Rooney swears into a camera or whacks someone in the face when he feels like it because he can't control his temper or cope with a bad result. England's World Cup performance was diabolical because they were all sulking about sleeping with each others wives and girlfriends and prostitutes in between.

They earn a shed load of money doing what they love (which in reality is kicking a ball round a field) and something most boys only dream about doing. Yet they still can't refrain themselves from sulking or having a face like a slapped arse.
But its not just these over paid numpties that sulk. I am not going to name and shame but over the last couple of weeks I have noticed more and more of my nearest and dearest sulking over football, and I'm pretty sure I am not the only one in the world who notices.

One of them blamed his wife saying every time she watched Arsenal they lost and she was the reason and Arsenal's curse. (This was watching it in the comfort of her own home. It's not as if she was at the Emirates flashing all the Arsenal strikers putting them off.)An avid Liverpool fan was sulking and scowling at the tv and was about to make a long journey back to London fairly hairy if it wasn’t for a couple of goals that miraculously changed his mood.My head has been bitten off after Bangor City has lost and if Ipswich are conceding goals then someone else I know gets arsey.

I play netball every week. Granted I have renamed it losing Tuesday's as we have lost every game bar one in the last three seasons. But I don't sulk after every defeat and this is me actually losing week in week out not just a team I support.

I just don't understand the need to sulk. Yes they lost, get over it. Learn to deal with defeat gracefully. You are after all grown men.

So men, care to explain the need for sulking or can you please just get over it?

It has been an age since I last blogged, not because I am lazy, (well maybe slightly) but mainly because I decided to put myself through 6 months of journalism training! And to find time to master 100 words per minute in shorthand, get my head around the ins and out of local government (trying not to fall asleep in the process) as well as try and avoid being sued for a defamatory statement in media law) meant I didn’t have time to eat let alone blog!

*Note to self- if my old boss did read the last set of blogs as I am pretty sure after I was treading on sticky ground with the whole defamation malarkey. but if im being totally honest I hope he did read as that would teach the little shit! J

So after failing to make it as the next Stephen Speilberg and confirming what I really already know, that I am a nosy bitch and love a bit of scandal, I thought I had finally found my calling in journalism. As I sack off my social life and head back to school for six months of intense (and sometimes hellish) hard work, I begin on the rocky road of being a journalist.

With journalism comes shorthand! Now in all honesty if someone would have told me that a few squiggles on a bit of paper could ever cause me as much grief, I would not believe them…but it did. It was quite frankly, the bane of my life for the 6months. After about 100 tantrums, tears and 3 failed attempts I managed to pass it. .Not once but twice.(Twice because some old incompetent idiot can’t manage to mark the exam in time so I have to put myself through it again just in case I failed it for a 4th time). But 5 attempts later I get there and and the same time swear I will never write another bloody squiggle again!

So back to reality...Seven months later, I am back with my journalism diploma in one hand and my100 wpm shorthand in the other and reality hits. No money and no job!

This brings me right back to square one… the wonderful world of TEMPING!

Nnnnnnooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

So as I count down the minutes of another tedious day, I start tralling through emails to find my next scoop!

* what’s that I hear you ask? Yes that’s me wayling into a mug of tea as the reality hits of being back on a piss poor wage as the office lackey!