A little bit portfolio, a little bit clever & mainly moronic

The day I finally realised the world is far larger than my Facebook feed

First of all, before I say anything else, I am really, really gutted about the result of the referendum in the UK. Drawing my rather clumsy (why is that when called on to make such an important choice my handwriting always resorts to that of a 10 year old?) cross in the box next to REMAIN felt powerful and crucial as well as important. As the great love of my life flashed his ballot paper at me before putting it in the box, with the same x in the same box, we smiled the triumphant smile of those who are absolutely sure they are doing the right thing.

european flag

6.30am the next day and the bottom seemed to fall out of everything. Vin woke me up with a stoney faced, ‘It’s leave.’ I assumed he was joking. He wasn’t. Then I checked my Facebook. 

And it really frightened me. From the vitriolic glee of a few Leave-ers trotting out the rather tired and ridiculous, ‘Let’s make Britain great again!!’ to the huge amount of hate from the Remain-ers. Now, these people are my friends. These people are the people I agree with about almost everything. They’re mainly Labourites, Corbynites, arty, creative, intelligent folk.

Because essentially we surround ourselves with people who are just like us, don’t we?

Oh and almost all of them live in or around London. The vast majority of them are very well educated, at least half to masters level or beyond and yes, privileged. Just like me.

Leading my privileged life in Istanbul, dontcha know?

I read some really vile stuff from some really lovely people.

From scare mongering urging people to immediately withdraw their cash from the banks (foolish and just wrong) to comments urging old people to die to suggestions that most people in this country are so stupid they don’t deserve to vote.

Oh and everyone who voted leave is racist. All of them.

I was really mad too. It makes me deeply deeply sad that some of the people who did vote to ‘Leave’ are probably racist.

It also made me realise how ridiculously privileged and elite I am.

The UK is a hell of a lot bigger than my facebook feed, bigger than London and most people don’t read the Guardian (Robert Oldham, 2016).

As my friends went about their day I read a lot of statuses to the tune of ‘I don’t know anyone who voted Leave, how could this have happened?’ ‘London is in a state of shock, no one wanted this’ ‘I expected so much more from the British public’, ‘I guess I’m stupid for thinking the public were better than they are’ ‘It’s a tragedy that the unemployed and uneducated were allowed to make this decision’.

These statements seemed worlds away from the left wing ideals that so many of the people posting hold. They seemed undemocratic, bitter and elitist.

Now, as anyone who knows me will know, I LOVE posting on Facebook. So obviously I waded in with my own opinions (helpfully shaped by the brilliant minds that are Robert Oldham and Piers Barber) and posted a status of my own to this effect. It gathered likes, comments and some dissent. Then one of my good friends deleted me on Facebook. I’m not kidding. It’s mainly quite awkward because I am highly likely to see her again socially very soon. I asked her why, and she told me because of what I’d posted on Facebook. 

Someone I know quite well and really like said they felt that the ‘Leave-rs were guilty of emotional laziness and hadn’t bothered to look beyond the obvious things they were told.’

Another example of the tripe people have been posting

In other words, the Brexiters fell for the horrible propaganda propagated by Nigel Farage and Boris Johnson. Now, I hate these men. I think they’re odious, slimey, elitist, outmoded…… I could go on. But, that £350million a week sticks in my head. More than any other figure. Before yesterday, I thought it was incredibly stupid of people to not realise that, even if we are no longer paying into the EU, that figure (which has also been heavily disputed anyway) was not going to go into the NHS or something equally wonderful like education.

Then I realised, how stupid is it really to believe politicians? How stupid is it to want to believe that things might get a bit fucking better?

My friends and I were asking people to look behind the obvious and see further into the future. But we weren’t looking beyond the obvious either.

We were ignoring the fact that those who were most likely to vote ‘Remain’ were University educated, those most likely to vote ‘Leave’ had GCSEs or less, those most likely to vote ‘Remain’ earned a median income of £30k whilst those most likely to vote ‘Leave’ earned a median income of only £18.5k. Londoners voted ‘Remain’, the rest of the country, by and large, did not (see here for more)

London is a glittering metropolis, full of promise, excitement and acceptance. The rest of the country is… well… not so like that. I refuse to believe, as many people seem to think, that those over 65s deliberately went to the ballot box with the intention of ‘fucking up’ life for young people, for their children or their grandchildren.

As the oft shared FT paragraph put it, ‘young people no longer have the opportunity to work in 27 different countries.’


One has to think though, the young people that these over 65s, who in their swathes voted to leave, know would most likely never have had those opportunities anyway. Financial constraints, the language barrier as well as having the sheer cultural capital to make these things happen was off limits to them. To someone like me, with my (nearly) 2 degrees, my state (but excellent) education, my professional (and loving and wonderful) parents, my equally professional (and gorgeous) financé, my well stamped passport, working abroad seems like something quite cool but also quite likely. I have a lot of friends who have done it. To someone growing up in a deprived area in middle England, with minimal qualifications, with I’m sure as loving parents but perhaps not as well educated or with such professional level jobs, the idea is unimaginable.

We are asking so much from people who we have given so little to.

It speaks volumes to me that people have come out since the vote and said that they voted ‘Leave’ because they didn’t really think it would happen. It shows how long people have been ignored, so much so that they believe their vote counts so little. It shows just how London-centric our media, our culture and our politics are.

Which brings me on to the Remain campaign itself.

The Remain campaign was shit.

There I said it. I don’t remember a single slogan from the Remain campaign except the (so-what) Better In. Obviously being aligned with the city was problematic seeing as many people (me included) hate have reservations about the city. All the things I love and care about let me down. My beloved Guardian with its vague, intellectual but obtuse headlines which were nowhere near as compelling as some of my much hated Murdoch’s offerings. Jeremy Corbyn, the man I thought was going to save British politics, who I now think might be better off resigning, made vague and weak speeches about staying in. To the point where 20% of Labour supporters actually voted out. The Leave campaign sent a BARRAGE of very well designed leaflets through my door. I received one from Remain.

gross _89945872_guardian

Perhaps if someone had been brave enough to say the kind of things that (as much as I hate the man) Nigel Farage is so fond of saying the results would have been different. If someone had said, ‘Immigration will likely remain the same because in order to sell to Europe, we will have to have freedom of movement within Europe’, ‘Your mortgage repayments will be more expensive, as the pound will crash and we will have to raise the interest rates in order to get people to invest in the pound again’, ‘Your kids will suffer another recession, there may well be less jobs for them.’ If this had been said, we may have woken up to a better world yesterday. They didn’t though.

you are vile

Now I hate the hyperbole the hard left have been using to talk about their feelings about leaving Europe ‘I’ve lost my identity, this is no longer my country, nothing will ever be the same again’, but I cried this morning because I’m scared.

I’m scared I’ll lose my job seeing as the charity I work for receive European funding, I’m scared my best friend will lose his job because he works at European Parliament level and have to move back to Korea. Hell, I’m scared he’ll leave because he doesn’t feel welcome in this country. I’m scared a lot of my European friends will leave. I’m scared the language school I used to work for will suffer. I’m scared for my future. I’m scared for everyone I love. I’m scared my beautiful nieces will not know the luxuries I’ve known in the European Union. I’m scared the Spanish nurse who sat up with me in hospital as I cried with gallstones will go home, I’m scared the Fillipina health care assistant who rubbed my feet when I was cold in the hospital will go home, I’m scared the Polish radiographer who found my gallstones will go home, I’m scared the Italian surgeon who removed the gallstones will leave too.

But it’s time to listen to the people we’ve ignored.

It’s time we realised that life in the UK is not just jobs in media, advertising and marketing, with roof top bars and yoga classes (Piers Barber, 2016) and we started listening to the people we’ve ignored for so long.

With special thanks to the great minds that are Robert Oldham and Piers Barber.


I’m a loser, baby, but it won’t kill me

I am a loser and I am proud.

At school, I was a loser in every sense of the word. I wasn’t cool, I wasn’t confident, I wasn’t (and this is the saving grace of even the most chronically uncool) even very clever.

I have a slight disability in my hips which causes my feet to pivot inwards, meaning that as a young child, I tripped over my own feet. Which was cute for about 2 seconds. And then it was a constant struggle to push my feet out, walking along the pavement my Mum would say, ‘Foot’ and I would have to push my foot out, again and again. And it hurt. Because it didn’t want to go out. Ballet was a nightmare. My feet just wanted to point inwards. It meant I was (and still am) crap at running. Sports Day was the worst day of the year because I was so fucking slow. I was ALWAYS last. Always.


Secondary school was no different. I hated my school. My Mum would despair because I never revised, would have to be more or less tied to a chair and I’d still find an excuse not to do my homework.

But I loved reading. Books had be my only friends growing up and had taken me away from this stupid world of maths lessons, hockey and inward pointing feet. I loved English but my English teachers didn’t like me. I was naughty. And I would not be the kind of person they wanted or think the kind of things they wanted us to think. I was told, ‘you’ll never be a (‘insert school name here’) girl’ and I remember saying, ‘I don’t want to be one! I want to be my own type of girl.’ If a 13 year old said that to me now, I would hug them. I would tell them that they were wiser than me, because, wanting to be yourself is just one step on the longest, hardest battle of your life which is being happy in yourself.

But obviously the small minded, inward looking creatures that my teachers were didn’t get that life is for living. They said I was wrong. I watched them break the spirits of those around me who did not want or just simply could not conform. I now realise that self harm age 12 is NOT normal. At my school, it kind of was.

If you strip people of all the things that make them them, you leave them with a husk.


College was better. University was better still. I could barely believe I was at University, for those long and horrendous 5 years at school I was so convinced I was stupid, even though I was B student easily. Behavioural problems had landed me in low sets. The only person who believed in me vaguely was a music teacher I had in year 8. I think she just liked me, because I have NO musical talent whatsoever. But, Miss. Barringer, if you’re reading this, you have a good heart.

Then things got a bit better – and worse – and better. 

Depression was and is and always will be a fairly large part of my life. For me, depression felt like being shot. A lot. And you’re losing too much blood to carry on. You’re trying, but you’re slowly going down. Your legs won’t work anymore. They’re folding under you. It’s all crumbling. That’s what depression was like.

gunshot Depression felt like losing a lot. When you’re at war with yourself, you lose a lot of battles. And I will have to go into battle to a greater or lesser extent every day of my life. And I lost a lot of battles. More than I liked to admit. Low points weren’t some cliched shit, it was just walking home from uni and wanted to lie down on the floor. In the middle of winter. It was choking on my own words – it was losing the ability to read a book.

But school taught me to lose. Having inward pointing hips taught me to lose. Then in my last year of University right near the end, when life was good, when I thought (stupidly) that I shaken off all that losing and that I was a winner now, I lost 3 things I desperately wanted. One of them mattered. One of them was my someone I loved and will always regret not trying to understand. The other two really did not matter. But I had placed so much importance of these other two things that I thought I wouldn’t be myself if I didn’t have them.

And when I lost to someone else, someone I didn’t really like, and someone, who I felt didn’t deserve it (they kind of did though), I behaved really badly. It was in a public forum and people were nice about it. But, it hurt. It really hurt. And I don’t really know why.

Looking back on all the times I have lost, and the ways in which they have gutted me. How they have taken the legs out from underneath me, I realise that winning is nice. Winning is fucking ace. But, it doesn’t teach you a thing.

I poke my wounds a lot. Not pick, poke. I test the places that hurt and see how much they hurt today. It’s my way of checking in with my mental health. The scars left behind are bumpy and jagged but they are a a story. They are a strength. They are a time when you were hurt, when you were beaten, and you did not let that be your story. You said, ‘It does not end like this.’

walking tightrope

I poked my wounds today as I do each day in the morning to try and measure how scrambled my mind will be today and I realised that losing that stupid thing at University was no longer even the tiniest prick. In fact, it was the best thing I learnt in 3 years at University. I learnt to lose. I learnt to do it gracefully. And by gracefully, I do not mean don’t let loss hurt you. Let that loss gut you. Let it empty you the fuck out. But I learnt that sitting in that room and clapping someone else’s win and squeezing every fucking muscle in my body to not squeeze out a tear will not kill me. I learnt that I can shake that persons hand and look them in the eye and say well done and maybe I’ll even fucking mean it next time. I learnt that saying goodbye to people you love, is pain beyond all measure, but that pain will lessen.

Losing taught me grace. It taught me to feel. It taught me to grow. It taught me to be stronger. Winning made me part of the stupid games we play, it bigged me up, it stroked my ego but it didn’t teach me anything. Losing at school stopped me being submissive, it made me wise, it made me question authority. And it made me think for myself.

Losing taught me how to win. It taught me not to crow, it taught me dignity.

Most of all, losing taught me to get back up.

Because, in depression, I lost a lot of battles, I took some fairly fatal hits and I will always be the walking wounded (both physically and mentally) but I won the fucking war.

I won the war.


Losing made me strong, it taught me to put the shoes back on, to go back into the ring, to sing the chorus a bit fucking louder actually, and it taught me to believe.

It taught me to not judge those that check out early, because, you can only say you are LUCKY to not have been thrown to the wolves with nothing but the clothes on your back.

Losing taught me to know when to quit.

And it taught me that every time I lose, I grow.

If you’re reading this and you’re still in the middle of a gut wrenchingly awful loss, worse than anything I’ve spoken about, please hang in there. Please hang in there with me. Because, you don’t have to pay for the fireworks, no one can charge you to look at the sky. Because, your wounds will become scar tissue, they will always be there, but they will make you strong. They will give you humility. They will give you grace. Just put the shoes back on, put your favourite song on, and wear a coat, protect yourself a little. Tread carefully in your loss. But let it hurt. Let yourself feel it. Then wrap yourself up, care for yourself like my Mother cared for me and told me ‘Foot’, stick your foot out and carry on anyway.

Because this is what makes you human.


The images I used in this blogpost are from a video I love very much. Please watch it here.

I would also like you to read this beautiful article which inspired me to write about losing.

It’s not you, it’s me or why behaving like a tosser only makes things worse

I’m really bad at being dumped. Seriously. You know those people who have a little cry, eat some ice cream and watch bad TV, drink a little bit too much and kiss someone gross and then generally behave normally? Yeah, I’m not like that at all. 


I’m that person (and I’m not going to say girl because men are equally guilty of this) who calls the ex at 3 am (for weeks months) sobbing hysterically. I’m the person who lives shell like in the foetal positions for months, only to go out every Saturday night and get so drunk I can’t remember my ex’s name, my friends’ names or even my own name. I’m definitely the kind of person that gets called a ‘stalker’ or a ‘pyscho’.

Basically, I’m shit. Don’t go out with me and dump me unless you can handle my seven circles of hell. From hysteria to the kind of anger that means I cut all your clothes up (it’s happened). I try and physically fight you (it’s happened), I tell all your friends you have a small dick, even though you don’t (it’s happened), I tell you never fucking deserved me anyway (every time), I sleep with your best friend/someone you hate (I don’t even want to admit it, but… yeah).

I’ve spent years of my life thinking things like… ‘Why did he think it was OK to treat me so badly?”, ‘What was wrong with me anyway?’, ‘Why did he break up with me, things were going so well’ etc.


I always want my exes to see how much better I am doing without them (how much thinner I am, how much better at cooking I am, how intelligent I am, how successful my career has been etc). and I want them to know how wrong they were, how stupid they were to ever let my ass go.

ImageAn actual picture of me after a breakup that I put up (minus the text obviously) but this is what I was thinking…


This is why I think Bruno Mars sells so many records (to me, I love him ❤ <3), not only is he a sexy face but so many of his songs epitomise exactly what I’d like someone to feel about me. 

“Too young, too dumb to realise/ That I should have brought you flowers / and held your hand.”

That is basically all I have ever wanted my exes to feel about me. Except they really really don’t. Most of them are more like


My friend was telling me the other day about giving his ex boyfriend what for when he was drunk and basically shaming him about all the shitty things he did during their relationship, something which I totally understand & have done so many fucking times. I’m basically Miley Cyrus without a wrecking ball. And that’s when I realised.


No matter what photo I put on my fucking facebook, no matter how guilty I try and make them feel for treating me like roadkill, it won’t make anything feel any better. Even if I just try and work out WHY, or demand some sort of ‘closure’. It doesn’t help. And it doesn’t matter. We broke up. They did shitty things. I did shitty things. Because we are humans. Even if they answered all my questions, it would never be enough.

Because no answers can take away the heartbreak. I know the answer anyway, they just didn’t like me enough. When it got to it, they felt like there was something better for them out there. 

And no matter how wonderful my life is (or how wonderful I pretend my life is), it doesn’t matter.

They don’t care.

I know this sounds really depressing, but in a weird way, this revelation set me free. No need to pretend, to worry, to obsess anymore. No matter what I do/say/think/feel I’m never going to get answers, or make that person feel bad. And even if they feel bad, it won’t change the fact that I felt really really bad.

it happened, it was painful, they moved on, I moved on. If I’d spent as much time building my wonderful life as I spent pretending it was wonderful, I’d probably be half way to a pretty sweet life. 

So really, it all comes down to the fact that when it comes to break ups, it’s not them, it’s you.



OK so that’s just a gratuitous picture of Ryan Gosling but whatever he’s nice…

My Most Successful Love Affair is with a lot of Buildings

Disclaimer: Everyone who writes about London sounds like a wanker. 

According to the font of all knowledge, otherwise known as Wikipedia, “London is a leading global city,with strengths in the arts, commerce, education, entertainment, fashion, finance, healthcare, media, professional services, research and development, tourism and transport all contributing to its prominence” 

So basically strengths in everything cool. 


For me, London has always been a turbulent (I don’t want to say abusive) relationship. As my favourite literary person once said, “London has chewed me up and spit me out.” (Emma, One Day, David Nicholls,  2009.) I couldn’t agree more, every day I stumble out of Whitechapel station my skin greyer than the ash on the end of a cigarette, hair wet, fumbling for my oyster card, which may as well be linked directly to my bank account as it eats up ALL my fucking money. 


But then, sometimes small happens. Someone thanks me for giving up my seat on the bus, a poster makes me giggle with a badly spelt word, the girl I see in Sainsbury’s every day says she likes my jacket. And I realise that in London, you can be whoever you want.

Of course, there’s horrendous people who beat other people up on buses because they don’t like what they’re wearing. But, you can be whoever you like. No one will talk to you on the tube no matter what you’re wearing. You can join an evening class and learn how to taxidermy for fuck’s sake. You can learn anything, join a cult, wear basically anything (unless you’re wearing those butt shorts, then you need to GTFO). 


People who grumble about London drive me crazy. “The tube is busy”, “the streets are dirty”, “it’s dangerous”, “I can’t afford to breathe the air, let alone to buy a flat” (OK that’s a legitimate concern).

The streets are dirty because you need to take more pride in your fucking crazy ass city, pick up your litter. The tube is busy because it’s freaking awesome and can take you across London quicker than any other mode of transport (save teleportation, but I’m working on that). It’s dangerous because it’s a big old place, but I heard the world’s pretty large too… Take a self defence class, don’t carry a knife and don’t talk to strangers. And the flat one, yeah OK, you might have to rent/ live somewhere a bit pants. 

BUT… you get free culture, every weekend, guaranteed. From the British Museum to Whitechapel Gallery to a walk in Crystal Palace Park to oh, fuck it, just go on Time Out. We’ve even got farms here. If you think the tubes too expensive, walk. You’ve got legs, use them.

You get to meet amazing people who tell you stories that break your heart, make you smile or make you want to run in the other direction. 

You can eat any type of food you like… I mean, just walk down Brixton high street for any type of cuisine you could possibly want (and a few you probably don’t want). 

And you get to be part of this churning, burning, crazy, beautiful, mixed up, confused, sometimes a little broken… city. 

I get tired of London, I want to live somewhere it’s dark at night. Where it’s quiet. Where I would work less than 12 hours a day and not earn just about enough to scrap by. Where my rent would not cost over 60% of my pay check. 


But then, I go to Oxford Circus at 8.00am when it’s all quiet and sleepy or walk along the Southbank at 8pm with the sun setting, and couples kissing and people happy and light and loosening their ties. Or I walk through Brockwell Park to my favourite walled Garden. I have a really fucking excellent lunch in my favourite cafe in Hackney. And then I realise, all the haters, all the nay sayers… are missing out. Because this is where the party’s out. We do loud, we do crazy, we do all night, but we also do romantic, we do love at first sight. We do it all and we do it best.


If you’re not careful, London will chew you up and spit you out. But that’s OK. It does it to me on a daily basis. If you can’t hack it, go somewhere else. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I sometimes pretend I might go somewhere else. In the same way I sometimes pretend that I’ll go to the gym. Or that I totally won’t buy a Mac again when this one packs up. Like, “Yeah I’d totally be happy living in Cardiff”. But then I remember, I’m in love with this city.

And true love lasts a lifetime. 

Image Image


Brockwell Park Rose Garden ❤

All That I Learnt…

I’ve finished my degree and sent off very last Stag. So it seems only fair to round up everything I’ve learnt in the past 3 years (hint: very little of it came from my course at all). 


  1. 9 times out of 10, whatever that person said, was not meant to offend. Being offended often says more about you than it does about the person that said it.
  2. It’s easy to be idealistic if you’re rich.
  3. All the good things should be internalised forever. The rest is debris.
  4. Dominos should never be consumed more than once in a week. Your bank balance will not thank you.
  5. Everyone will let you down. Even the people you thought never could. 
  6. Either hold a grudge, and never speak to that person again, or let it go. 
  7. If you say you forgive someone, you have to mean it. You have to forget what they did.
  8. Some people do not deserve your forgiveness.
  9. I will never, ever be a size 10 and it only matters if I think it does.
  10. Praise isn’t given enough. Know your own worth.
  11. There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.
  12. The last person in the room clapping for you every time, the person who always has your back…they’re the one. The rest don’t matter.
  13. 5 friends (or 4, or 3, or 2 or 1) that you can call at 5am and sob to are worth more than 500 who you can’t.
  14. The ones to let into your heart are the ones who’ve seen your worst and love you anyway.
  15. You will always think more on the things you have said/done than anyone one else will do.
  16. The longer you leave something you’re frightened of, the worse it will be.
  17. The smartest people I know never got good grades. Intelligence isn’t a fucking number.
  18. Pick yourself up and pick your friends up. 
  19. When someone impresses you, tell them. 
  20. So what if you behave badly sometimes? No one gets it right 100% of the time.
  21. Surround yourself with good people.
  22. Having a good, kind heart is worth more than any other thing in this world and anyone who tells you differently is wrong. 

With my last Stag. Thank you Surrey.

I am not beautiful and I don’t care.

I am not beautiful. I don’t look like Kate Moss, I don’t look like Venus, I don’t look like anyone remotely attractive. I’m no one’s aphrodite. I am smart though. I am special. I am good at something. Really good at it actually. I am funny. I do have amazing friends.


I do not look like Botticelli’s Venus.


The beauty thing really isn’t that big a deal. I think we need to reassess how much currency we award to beauty. Being beautiful doesn’t make you anything except lucky to have good genes. It doesn’t make you cleverer, it doesn’t make you kinder, and if one is to look at most celebrities, it doesn’t seem to make you much happier. 


She may be gorgeous, but she don’t look happy



He may be one of the most attractive male film stars, but is no stranger to heartbreak, and looks pretty bloody sad here.


However, it perversely makes you more successful. It’s hard to determine how much more successful, but beauty= call backs and call backs = jobs. Look at the kind of shit we saturate our lives in. In films and TV programmes those in positions of power are generally the most good looking. Even in ‘real life’, I wouldn’t kick Mr. Obama out of bed, or Tony Blair for that matter. But Gordon Brown (one of our most unpopular prime minsters) would definitely rank pretty low in the shag pile. Even dastardly David Cameron has a certain physical appeal to him. And no one can deny his piece Mrs. Samantha Cameron is unbelievably attractive and certainly doesn’t look all her 42 years. 


42? Really?!


This post isn’t about which politicians I want to fuck (although Zac Goldsmith, every time), it’s about how I don’t really care that I’m the wrong side of a size 12, with gappy teeth and a very bad case of ‘thighs-that-meet-each-other-at-the-top-and-half-way-down-the-leg’. I like the way I dress. I like my glasses, and I love my piercings. I like my jewellery. 


I like all these things. But I love my sense of humour. I love my ability to lead a group of people. I love my passion. I love the way I write.


I really hate the mentality that ‘we are all beautiful.’ We are simply not all beautiful. Some of us are down right ugly. But it shouldn’t really matter. Do you really want to be praised for something you were born with (for a combination of the right strands of DNA) or for something you cultivated? Something you have worked hard to achieve. 


Beauty is only skin deep and what’s underneath the skin has always interested me more.


A good heart. That’s all I want. That’s all I need.



And here I am. Happy.

The Dailies (ish): One Night Only or how to avoid the mud this summer

The Dailies was an idea I came up after I finished my dissertation. This week, I was very busy (sitting on my arse watching TV), but I promise I’ll try harder next week!

If one is to read such trashy (wonderful) things such as the beautifully designed Company magazine, you will already be aware that the only thing English summer is good for is FESTIVALS. If I have to read another fucking article about ‘festival glam’ I’ll shoot someone. Like, whose idea was it that you’re meant to look good at a festival? It’s about music, not fashion.

I blame this photo for spawning a hundred copy cat photos of pretty girls with messy hair and a lot of leg.


The now iconic image of Kate at Glastonbury (??) donning Hunters and shorts smaller than my knickers.

The thing is, this is Kate Moss. Kate Moss, whose JOB it is to look beautiful.

When I go to a festival, I’m all about taking clothes I don’t care about, because you can’t lock a tent and you can’t predict what the weather will do.

Wellingtons, knee socks, old dresses or shorts, minging jumpers & rain macs. These are what you need at a festival. Not fucking ‘boho chic’.

In fact here I am at Latitude 2011:


Just for clarifications, I am the one on the right. The one on the left is Tristan. He should have left those shorts in the ’90s, but by wearing them is adhering to my style regulations for festivals. Whattababe.

This year I’ve decided there’s way more to summer than mud, bad weather and minging jumpers. The new vibe is the ‘Day’ festival. These fun events are a quarter of the price of a real festival, smaller, in easier to get to locations (that is, if your whole world revolves around London) & don’t involve tents. My kind of bag. I trawled the internet (did a small amount of research) about the BEST day festivals coming up this summer:

1) Field Day, Victoria Park, 25th June.

Despite the fact that Victoria Park has some weird laws about music decibels (or something), I’m having minor heart palpitations about how sexy the line up for this one day extrazanga of (ever so slightly hipster) fabulous music is. To name but a few bands: Dark Dark Dark, Everything Everything, Animal Collective, Bat for Lashes, CHVRCHES…. I could go on.


Last year’s Victoria Park decked out for Field Day.

2) We Are FSTVL, Upminster, 25th May.

Trendy, new dance festival in Essex. Terrible website which should come with an epilepsy warning, but impressive line up including: Rudimental, Jaguar Skills, Modestep and others. Tickets are going fast.

3) The Sound of Change, Twickenham, 1st June.

I am seriously reppin’ this one day event for a plethora of reasons. Firstly, Twickenham is my hometown. Secondly, this is a concert for charity (Twickenham Stadium previously held the Help for Heroes concert). Thirdly, the charity is a WOMEN’S charity, to promote education & equality for all girls and women globally. UHHH YESS. Finally, the line up is seriously sick. Beyonce, Florence & the Machine, Iggy Azealea (hotly tipped new rapper, doncha knowww, well I didn’t), Haim, John Legend, Rita Ora and Timbaland. Twickenham done good. I’ve never been so proud of my TW1 up bringing.


The irony of Beyonce headlining a festival promoting Feminist ideas has not escaped me.

4) South West Four, Clapham Common, 24th/25th August.

I reckon this counts because it’s only two days and they have no camping on site. Another dance festival with an equally crowded website. The full line up is yet to be announced, but is already formidable with dance heavy weight Armin Van Buuren on the bill and chart sensation Example headlining.

5) Night + Day, Isleworth, 23rd June.

Another one dayer with a TW postcode! I’ve already booked my tickets for this exciting musical show in the beautiful Osterley House (National Trust building). The xx are headlining (and are the brains behind this one), alongside Mount Kimbie, Polica and Kindness. More acts and DJs are going to be announced.


Osterley Park.

The Dailies: A Trip to the Career Service Turned into an Existential Crisis & other white, middle class problems

Recently, I went to the visit the Careers Service at my University to ask them to help me sort out my cluttered, and quite frankly, confused CV. My trip to Careers for quite baffling, but not unpleasant.

I was led into a windowless room and I sat opposite someone whose name I can’t remember (sorry), so I will call her Anne. For some reason, she had a large bee in her bonnet about the fact I hadn’t included my dissertation topic as part of the ‘Education’ section of my CV. 

Is it normal to put your dissertation on your CV? It does not seem normal to me.

“You really should include your dissertation topic in your CV. It’s very interesting to employers. What are you doing your dissertation on?” She said.

“Err, it’s Creative Writing.” 

“What’s the title?”

“It’s called Populate.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s, err, post-apocalyptic lesbian fiction. It’s kind of like a gay Hunger Games.”

Anne looked confused and said no more about my dissertation topic.

I felt like I had already failed whatever prospective job interview I might be given in her eyes.

She then said, “One of the key things your CV is missing is your hobbies.”

Oh, Anne I didn’t know you were a humorist!

I laughed. Anne was looking at me expectantly. 

Anne wasn’t a humorist, she was being serious. 

“Employers want to know you’re not just some work-a-holic loser.”

“But I am..” I replied.

Anne smiled awkwardly, then leant closer to me and pressed on counsellor-style, 

“You must have some hobbies. What are they?”

“I do the Student Newspaper…” I replied, awkwardly.

“Yes, I know about that. But what do you do to unwind?”


“Err, see my friends?”

“That’s great, so we’ll put socialising in!” She began to write down socialising on my CV. In HB Pencil.

“What else? Do you like going to the cinema?”

I wanted to put my head in a blender.

“What about going to the gym?”

And turn the blender on.


I did escape from Anne alive. But it got me thinking. I don’t really have any hobbies. I used to go horse riding as a child. Aside from that, my hobbies have only ever been reading and writing. So essentially my degree.

Do other people have hobbies? What are they? Can one develop a hobby or is one born with it? Do employers really care about hobbies? Is Anne right?

Are we all fucked?

Answers on a postcard.


The Dailies: Greatest Fears

1) Birds. I don’t know why. I haven’t even seen Hitchcock’s seminal (and allegedly terrifying) The Birds. They just freak me out. The beating of their wings makes me nervous.


A scene from The Birds.

2) Snowballs. I have an over active imagination and even the most innocent and poorly packed of balls (pun unintentional) could be holding a stone. That stone could hit me on the temple and kill me. It’s all possible. 

3) Hamsters and all other small furry creatures. I HATE THEM ALL.


Not welcome here.

4) Monkeys. They’re loud, rabid and playful. Need I say more?


He will kill you. Trust me.

5) Going blind. Colour is beautiful; I would hate to lose it.

And this is the big one

6) Losing the people I love. If that’s not your biggest fear, you need to re-think your priorities.

I will be taking a break from The Dailies this weekend, but I’ll be back next week. Til then, take care x


The Dailies: Hidden Guildford

OK so I’ve lived in Guildford, Surrey for three years and coming from the exciting metropolis that is London, I’ve often found Guildford to be a little lacking. However, Guildford has some real hidden gems. And here they are (if there’s anywhere I should include, let me know!)

University of Surrey:

Youngs Kitchen, The Living Room: Made somewhat infamous by the hilarious music video starring Em Bollon, ‘Youngs gonna give you that’, but in all seriousness, Youngs is the best eatery on Campus. Amazing food at reasonable prices.

4th Floor East Wing, Library: Best toilet for doing an undisturbed shit.

GU2 Radio: Really well produced Radio shows from Surrey students, playlist is good and up to date and the presenters are really talented. The ones to watch (or, indeed, listen to) are Adam Read, Clocking Off, Feet Up! With Knowles and Ward, Olivia Crittenden, Aaron Rush, The Ladies, Fauxlo (when she’s back on air), Liam Conroy and Emma Fleming.


StagTV The Arrest: Very impressive two part mini documentary from StagTV, starring much loved Mike Frazer. Mike is arrested and put in an actual jail cell.

Episode One:

Episode Two:


Guildford Town:

Frisky Monday’s: Once a month in the Player’s Lounge of Casino playing the best Urban and Afrobeats. Casino is gross, Frisky’s is not. The toilets are clean, the music is good, the bar is well stocked and the company is top notch. Well worth a visit.


Getting frisky with my girl, Bakita

The Mount: Essentially a very steep hill on the edge of town (ideal if you have a car though as you can park at the top) which gives you views of the whole of Guildford Town.


My housemates on top of the Mount in Frosty Weather.

The Canal: Again, on the edge of Town (behind Debenhams) this beautiful stretch of water is great for a summer picnic. You can rent rowing boats, there’s a lovely walled garden and The Britannia pub or The Boatman is a great pit stop for a pint.

Further afield:

The Silent Pool: A slightly terrifying place, which is rumoured to be haunted. Essentially it’s a big scary pond. If you drive there at night, take a torch and scare yourself silly. I nearly wet myself the first time I went.


The Silent Pool

The Fairy Bridge: If you keep walking along the Canal, on the same side of the Britannia, you come across a strange Fairy Bench/Bridge, which is often populated with Druids. If you follow the path that leads right from the bridge, you can climb a steep hill which takes you to possible the most awesome place in Guildford. This hill has a train track that runs underneath, beautiful views of Guildford and a possibly some sort of ancient monastery.

Surrey Hills: An area of outstanding national beauty.


Surrey Hills