The Casual Disappointment

Since the publication of the final Harry Potter book in 2007, I have eagerly awaited the release of a new book from the beloved JK, whatever it may be. And then, earlier this year, came the announcement that she had picked up the quill again: The Casual Vacancy, 27^th September 2012. Oh the excitement! The overwhelming joy that accompanied the knowledge that I could once again delve into the world of her writing – I didn’t care that it wasn’t Harry, wasn’t Hogwarts, wasn’t magic. She was back and it was a whole new universe to be swept away in.

Yeah. What an astronomical letdown.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that it was a disappointment because it wasn’t Potter – a lot of people think that that’s the reason I feel like this, and it’s a fair enough assumption (except of course, that it’s entirely wrong). No, the truth is that The Casual Vacancy is a racist, demeaning and judgemental piece of crap – and that’s just the half of it. For those that don’t know (and a warning – spoiler alerts coming!) the book follows the town of Pagford and the events that occur after the death of a prominent figure of the town council, Barry Fairbrother (Barry? Inventive there JK…) and the attempts to fill his seat.

Now as a bookseller at Waterstones, I was well aware of the promotional restrictions put around the book; it was in no way to be affiliated with the Harry Potter series, and was to be advertised with extreme emphasis on the fact it was an adult novel. However, what we weren’t warned about was the fact that JK Rowling seems to have a limited knowledge as to what makes an adult novel – and that her version consists of “adult writing” consists of sporadic, frequent and often unnecessary bad language and scenes that, whilst admittedly were – in accordance with most of the rest of the book – badly written, verged on pornographic. OK, so let’s not think I’m a snobbish prude – yes people use bad language and it is generally quite often. But is it really quite necessary for “c**t” to be used within the first ten pages and repeatedly therein? No, is the simple answer. And as for the sex scenes – ok, so it was no Fifty Shades of Grey, but they were thrown in amongst relatively normal passages in a way that was clearly a desperate attempt to up the ante and make it adult material. They were simply uncomfortable to read. Not that I’m suggesting I like to snuggle up with a cup of tea and my latest copy of Fifty Shades for a nice bit of contented and light reading. No. I’m simply saying that JK’s risqué material was less sleazy and more queasy.

And then there’s the writing itself – oh it was painful. Long and archaic terms that, realistically, nobody but an English teacher uses (and even they don’t understand them) and only served to make the piece clumsy and awkward. The story made critical and damning accusations of those on the welfare system and racial slurs with barely acceptable reason behind it reasoning – “bullying”. JK failed to form any likeable character to get behind (by the end I wanted to climb in and slap everyone of them) and I am ashamed to say that it took me about four weeks to finish it; had it not been for my extreme aversion to starting and not finishing a book, I would’ve been perfectly happy to put it down and walk away unconcerned not knowing what happened. As it is, I don’t think I have ever reached the end of a book with as much relief that it was over.

So Ms Rowling – what’s going on? I think it must be one of two options. Firstly, she has realised that Potter can go no further – now that’s hard for me, as a hardcore Potterhead, to even find the words to admit it, but after the painful demise of the over-hyped Pottermore (having spent two hours getting to the sorting and being put in Hufflepuff, I refuse to go back on, and having gathered from my more fortunate friends that really I’m not missing out, it seems that those that remain on the site are dwindling in numbers…) it can be said that Potter can go no more. In coming to terms to this, JK has decided she must break away as far as possible from this world and create a new name for herself: thus the foul language, foul content and foul writing.

The other option is, indeed, far more disturbing: that this is actually what Rowling writes and thinks like, and the entire Harry Potter franchise was a façade behind which she could simply get published. If this is the case, then I have lost a valued idol, who always seemed to promote the good and right in a troubled and often desperate society, and the little girl who can owe her childhood and love for literature to one woman can now only turn her head in shame.

I now return to the Harry Potter series with a desperate hope that this experiment will not impact future generations on their willingness to pick up this magical world, that for me, should’ve been the only one JK Rowling created. Let this be a plea to her to stay far from this new path, and remain with what she knows and is good at.

Twilight: A Bark Bigger Than Its Bite?

I recently went to see Eclipse, the latest film in the Twilight Saga. Having absolutely adored the book and then wound myself into a frenzy over the trailer, I anticipated a great success. Admittedly, the previous two hadn’t been great once I looked closer at them, but Eclipse was supposed to the best yet: it’s the most action packed; two extremely good looking characters (in the book) battling over the girl they both love and Bella’s heart-wrenching decision at the end. What could go wrong? Needless to say, it was crap.

Now, I am well aware that the entire female population of Britain, America and in fact the rest of the world will probably want to hunt me down, tear me apart and burn the pieces  after hearing what I have to say. But to me, Robert Pattinson and his troupe of talentless wannabes are as low down in my book as Justin Bieber, Jedward and that demented woman who put the cat in the bin. C’mon Hollywood. Is it really that hard to cast people that can actually act? Robert Pattinson is supposedly a God, and yet I find myself repulsed by the simple thought of his face, my lip curling at the sound of his hybrid accent in my head. It’s not difficult to cast an American in an American role, and even if they couldn’t achieve that, at least an Englishman who can put on a decent American accent. Where were Paul Wesley and Ian Somerhalder (aka Stefan Salvatore and Damon Salvatore from the ITV2 series Vampire Diaries) when Twilight was being cast?  Added to this catastrophe, they enrol Kristen Stewart as Bella: a flimsy excuse for an actor, who wouldn’t ever have one boy fighting for her, let alone two. Finally, you have Taylor Lautner - possibly the only peak in this vacuous boredom - with his enticing six-pack which, unfortunately, acts better than he does. The gorgeous Indian-American seems to have an interesting disability, limiting him to only one facial expression throughout the film.

So come on Hollywood. What’s going on? You’ve managed to turn a series of incredible books into a mess of bad acting and people constantly checking the time to see how much longer they have to sit and watch this contraption for. As it is, I now utterly detest the books: my vision of Edward Cullen is destroyed; Bella is no longer my strong feminist heroine and the word ‘vampire’ simply sets my teeth on edge rather than having the pulse racing, wide-eyed, dizzy effect it once did.

And yet somehow, I am alone in a craze of hormone ruled, overly obsessive, stalker mad fans. My traditionalist ideas are being trampled beneath the heavy feet of pathetic, moronic and narcissistic teenage girls, whilst we are watched by laughing producers who have just got the phone call to confirm that yes; they are now the equivalent to Bill Gates in the merchandise industry. Meanwhile, up and down the country, girls – in fact fully grown women who should know better enough to act their age – are flowing into shops to seize fistfuls of Volturi Make-up, Edward Cullen wristbands and T-Shirts emblazoned with TEAM EDWARD or TEAM JACOB and shoving them into the faces of shocked shop assistants. Well Ms. Meyer, I hope you are happy. Thousands may love the films for the moment – and trust me, that will fade by the time another equally trashy film makes the silver screen – but millions more hate the books for what they have become. A love and respect that could’ve lasted for centuries has been destroyed in an attempt to make a quick buck.

Surprisingly, the movie industry has not always been this corrupt. Only recently have film makers become more intent on making money that creating a most welcome adventure. Indeed, there used to be a time where one could read a book, then see an adaptation of it in the cinema and would immediately be transported back to that world. The book would not be disgraced, defiled ad destroyed by the film, but rather given a new lease of life by it. Lord of the Rings was phenomenal; it was exactly like the book and proved that magical imagination could be transcribed onto to screen with ease. The first few Harry Potter films were the same. But then they too turned their backs on the books in order to create elaborate and completely pointless story lines; JK Rowling is lucky that the fan base dedicated to her books is loyal enough to stick by them. Admittedly, Ms. Rowling was too in the early years, and yet the books have finally been deserted in favour of a large, flowing income. As much as I love the Harry Potter series, they missed out far too much of the important information in the most recent two in order to make them good.

Not all authors have betrayed their creations to the tune of twelve silver coins though. Meg Cabot’s Princess Diaries’ have been made into two highly inaccurate,  erroneous and obvious movies. However, Ms. Cabot cheerfully takes them to pieces through her character Mia Thermopolis, making for a welcome change.

I cannot amend what has already been made, no matter how much I may detest the inventions, yet I can at least hope to alter what may come. Hollywood needs to find a way to make better adaptations or else stop altogether before a fully fledged riot breaks out.

Ambrosia

For my science class, as part of a rather more-heated-than-anticipated discussion.

Dedicated to the people I work with who put up with me and it turn allow me to do all the work.

Battery farms. Alongside the fur trade and animal testing farming is the biggest source of outrage for animal rights activists. It seems that rearing animals solely for slaughter has suddenly been deemed cruel - provided they are kept in confined spaces. Yes, it is their habitat that makes it immoral. Are they really that bad?

Now you mustn't think I'm some psycho animal hater who runs about museums at night slapping Capuchan monkeys (really, I'm surprised there weren't hordes of protesters outside The Night at the Museum studios screaming for blood; human blood, of course) - I simply think there has been far too much outcry against these farms and not enough of the other side of the story. I guess that makes me the Voice of Reason. Realistically, intensive farming is the clever man's meat. Cost, time and space effective, it is sparing with the things that the current economy is crying out for. As beautiful and famous our British countrysides may be, we are long past the era where they are needed. When there are thousands of people who live stacked on top of one another in minuscule flats where there isn't enough room to swing a cat (which incidentally is a real violation of animal rights), it is ludicrous to suggest that acres of land are better put to use for eight pigs to run around in mud. Expand people! Yes they are beautiful, but people would much rather stare at the image of them on their TV or computer screens, and people rarely walk in the countryside anymore unless they are forced to be crazed DofE enthusiasts. I do not advocate the post-apocalyptic scene of burning fields and polluted (well, more-than-it-already-is-polluted-) air, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Still, I digress.

My main fault with "organic farming" is the cost. With the current economic downturn, it is absurd to pay so much for something which - when cooked right and not in a half-hearted attempt to avoid being bias - tastes no different to that farmed in cages. You may say that you can't put a price on morals, but I believe you just did - and it's extortionate. And may I ask what the big uproar about morals is? They may not be running amok in a large field, but the animals in battery farms aren't exactly beaten, put in shackles and made to perform shows. They are well fed and kept healthy, juxtaposing the common image that is circulated. And anyway, bacon is bacon - it doesn't taste or look happy just because it died that way. And whichever way you go about it, it still ends up on someone's plate.

But when it comes down to it, it's really simple: if you don't like it, don't eat it. It's not exactly the attitude I'm normally comfortable with, and although I don't like people choking others with their views, I do think that if you see something wrong you should try to change it: even if that change is just raising awareness. Lazing around and watching things unfold is a cowardly way of life. But in this particular instance, I do break my rule. The removal of all battery farms is a wrong and, frankly, an inconsiderate move. If all that is left is organically reared meat, what happens to those who - through no fault of their own - cannot afford it? Are they condemned to a life of greenery so that a few chickens can flap about aimlessly for the duration of their short lives in an exceedingly large field? Our species may only be a pointless blip in the expanse of time, but for now we are reigning superior and we should reap the benefits that come with it, rather than ponder our dinner's feelings.

Organic farming is just the consolation for the failed vegetarian. You take the custard and I'll have the sausages, wherever they were made: now that's true Ambrosia.

My Bloody Valentine

Another year, another annoying and grating February holiday. St. Valentine’s Day. If I had to live in a world where Valentines was hyped up an inch more than it already is, I would exile myself to a Castaway-like island and shun myself from this sad and obsessed land.

Oh how I despise it. It’s just another excuse for Clinton cards, Moonpig- and FunkyPigeon.com to make a fortune out of poor, conned fools. A piece of folded paper with some insincere and mass-produced words printed in a supposedly sophisticated slanty writing. Ooh, I’m feeling the love. Every programme on seems to spin their advert into some form of Valentines entertainment. I think the one that astounded me the most was the beginning of the Championship League, saying that you should watch it this February 14^th. Seriously? If any guy tried that with me, they would be out the door faster than they could say football. And as for Tesco’s advert – chocolate, Häagen Dazs and alcohol sound like the perfect recipe for fattening a woman up to cook for Sunday dinner, not a romantic evening in. And they’re all at it – “eat my food, sweet couples, feel fat, bloated and fall asleep early in front of the TV. Happy Valentine’s suckers...” They seem to be calling more to the singles watching the television instead of the coupled. Ice-cream and chocolates lead only to an all you can eat buffet of self-pity, and a soppy chick flick marathon ending with Titanic, before curling up in the foetus position with a bottle of whatever is closest to hand wailing away to Jamie O’Neal’s All By Myself. Smother yourself with chocolate my friends: it will love you and treasure you like no human ever can! Amongst all these false and annoying moments through the day, I await the genius that should surely come from at least one chocolate brand that speaks directly to the single people - they would make enough money to rival Bill Gates.

Then there’s the rest of the merchandise – how dare they sell teddy bears in the name of Valentine! No! It is an outrage! Teddy bears are the sole comfort for the lonely at night, someone to cuddle in the recesses of a dark night: it is not fair that they would take this and give it to those in a relationship. And as for the “luxury lingerie” that men give their partners – who are they really for? I mean really. That’s just a present for yourself now isn’t it? And 99% of Valentines jewellery are bought last minute from the local pound shop. These presents are given under false pretences and an increasing amount of pressure from society to conform to such insincerity.

I would like to point out at this point that this is not a rant spawned of bitter twistedness as many would assume; I am not stewing in a lonely pit of depression, surrounded by eighteen cats and bunnies in boiling pots – and although there are more chocolate wrappers around me than around a sane person, this is down to my addiction to Milka. Who knew Heaven could come from a cow? In truth, my hatred of this holiday is the same as that of Christmas. It is over-hyped, over-priced and has lost any valuable and earnest meaning. The holiday has become more about the flash of cash and material value than the actual show of love and caring. Plus the fact I have always thought that it is stupid that one day is singled out to tell someone how much you love them. Surely you should be made to feel special every day of the year – to make someone feel more loved once a year is nice, I’ll admit, but sucks to be around on February 15^th when everything returns to normal. Seems more damaging than anything else – showing you how good things could get then returning to normal within 24 hours.

Still I can’t complain – at least it is over faster than Christmas. Though you are still burdened with the people around you. I find there are two type of couples around at this time of year – those that treat Valentines like another day and don’t go all out; and those that get together on the 13^th and break up on the 15^th and spend the rest of the month cramming their jewellery-from-a-cracker under your nose in a suffocatingly smug manner until you want to punch the smirk off their face. Honestly, shove it in my face one more time and it really will be a bloody Valentine.

Still, I wanted to impart only one message with this blog – that in truth there is only one Tuesday that matters this February. So keep calm, and wait for Pancake Day. 

The Nightmare Months Before Christmas

Bah Humbug. I blame genetics for the fact that I am a giant green Grinch, but Christmas does not help itself. Or rather, every store across the country does not help Christmas.

I am a November child, and don’t appreciate my birthday being overshadowed by loud loathsome music, glaring garish lights and overly cheerful adverts. But this is not where it starts. Christmas now begins months before the occasion, to the point where I am bored of the 25^th December at the beginning of September. It starts with the little baubles in the corners on the TV, or snow throughout an advertisement and then BAM full blown annoying kids in stupid costumes singing irritating songs about how their mother can miraculously buy every single thing in a catalogue whether relevant or not – yes Littlewoods, I’m talking to you. These children do not induce sympathy or make me want to buy from this store, but run. Run as far as possible as I can away from this store, for fear that if I do go there the children will follow me and torture me until my ears bleed from pain. Every single advert on TV is about Christmas. Stores bragging about the ridiculous amount of money you can spend on items that will end up in the trash after Boxing Day. I’m sorry but the only commercial allowed to signal the beginning of Christmas is the Coca Cola advert, which in being so honoured retains its glory until due time. But the misery does not end there, oh no.  It’s every channel displaying their Christmas specials: or basically, exactly the same shows just with all the characters wearing Christmas hats. Except in Friends, where Ross stars as the Holiday Armadillo instead. Another thing - I don’t get why The Wizard of Oz and Sound of Music are heralded as the great Christmas movies – what exactly do they have to do with the season at all? Nothing says happy Christmas like a collection of Nazis and people dressed in green. As of now, the only films that are acceptable at this time of year are The Nightmare Before Christmas, A Muppets’ Christmas Carol and Love Actually. End of story. Except of course you can watch “Christmas 24” – one channel dedicated entirely to Christmas movies and other unnecessarily chirpy trash. It’s enough to make me want to grab a stocking and stick it over my head until the holiday is over.

Yet the travesty extends further than the simple four walls of a TV screen. Each year Christmas grows, but only in the necessity for the need to buy presents. It's a poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every December the 25^th, but I seem to be the only one who knows. Everyone spends an absurd amount of money on gifts that either have had no thought put into them or are absurdly hideous. I’m not going to be a hypocrite – I get as excited about opening presents as the next person (providing the next person is a six year old child), and most of the time my presents are perfect. But when the number of Impulse, So…? and Charlie fragrances I have outstrips the number of weeks in a year, I begin to think that the season of giving has gotten out of control. And let it be said for the final time – the horrendous Christmas jumpers are not wanted, welcome or winning. I try and restrict the number of people who I give presents to, but every year it seems to spiral out of control, costing me more than I ever wanted to spend on people who I probably won’t know in a few years except on Facebook. Logical.

And then comes the music. The endless drones of pointless sentiments that clearly haven’t been thought through – nobody wishes it would be Christmas every day, unless we couldn’t remember the day before, otherwise we’d either be bankrupt faster than St. Nick can travel or opening the same presents for the next millennium yet never having time to enjoy them. Then there’s the whole dilemma as to whether people age if there is only one day each year – see? This whole can of worms that was clearly not considered when the song was written. And don’t even get me started on Jingle Bells. The only song I can stand is Fairytale of New York for the epic moment after an assembly in primary school when the song started playing and my Headteacher informed me that this was her favourite song and started to sing along, at the exact moment where Kirsty McColl sings “You scumbag, you maggot, You cheap lousy faggot, Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it's our last” – well, some moments stick with you forever.

Nevertheless, my favourite part of Christmas is the flowing amounts of food. A magnificent opportunity to eat till you’re sick, put on a ton of weight and then break that easily formed new year’s resolution to lose the mass when you find the leftovers of your stocking. A true yuletide miracle!

Still I think it’s safe to say that there are many pre-Christmas Spirit Scrooges that would love for the Noel celebrations to be toned down a bit, so we’re no longer affronted by tinsel everywhere we look. This year, the anti-Christmas begins. Game on. 

Just Can't Dance

Just Dance. The promise that with a small white remote in your hand and a miniature neon person on the screen in front of you, you can become an elite dancer. Yes, this sounds legit. Add to this already threatening mix a video camera, competitors who have already learnt the moves and the inability to realise which player you are and you have a dangerous recipe for humiliation. Namely mine.

The delicacies that are involved in the game are so much more complicated than those suggested by the name “Just Dance”. You do not “Just Dance”. You make wild movements that are not even remotely close to human moves and invariably end up punching someone in the face. Twice. I would even go as far as to suggest that all these games have been sold under false advertising. In no universe created does anyone step up to the Wii for the first time and perform perfectly these extra-terrestrial moves like the dancers on the TV adverts. Nor are we smiling. Unless we are mocking someone else’s failed attempts. To summarise, I am never smiling, but those who are watching me are. And of course, my friends’ inability to refrain from putting videos of my dancing onto Facebook means everyone can share in my degradation. Oh the joys of camera phones. And yet it doesn’t end there! If you have an Android or iPhone, you can install the "Autodance” app, film your friends doing ordinary actions and remix them to Duck Sauce’s Barbara Streisand, until they look like a high speed chicken on drugs, to be shared once again with Facebook but also YouTube. It is a rather false hope that this game will enable us to learn new dance moves which we can crack out at the next shindig to impress stacks of people with our newly discovered talents. No – do not be enticed by this gross exaggeration! This game does not create talent nor fun but pain, ridicule and a vague resemblance to a duck in the presence of a drunken fox, who – being drunk – tries to pet the duck before eating it and said duck - being unsure whether to run or stay still - as a consequential compromise tries to do both. When you can picture this happening, you know what most people look like partaking in “Just Dance”. Such blatant lies. I have been told that if I stopped singing and concentrated on the moves I would do better – but if anyone can listen to Outcast’s Hey Ya and not sing along, they are clearly not human.

Then again, it is better than some of the games out there. Though many say that computer games will improve communication skills and reaction times, I say that this is a simple disguise behind which hide unnecessarily enhanced violence and mild resemblance to the speech and social capabilities of and unevolved caveman. My English class is not filled with intelligent and deep conversations about the moral messages of Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird - it is filled with the crude comparison of how many kills they got last night: “Yeah I got this guy last night and now I’m on level 48, is well cool”. Yes, your grasp of the English language definitely grants you a spot in the top set. What gets me is that they get home from spending a whole day in the company of these people and then think that it’s a great idea to spend eight hours online with these same people. Do you hate your own company? Do you loathe yourself so much that the idea of just an hour alone is terrifying? This isn’t about having a social life, this is about having such a low self-esteem that it becomes a real life version of Don’t Let Me Get Me. And yet such a high price is put on these drainers of life! I guess I understand when the game costs £40 but spans 3 discs, like murder mystery game La Noire; but when you pay the same price for three hours of merciless killing it becomes senseless. “The most realistic war games to date” – yes because when you are killed you can always just restart at your last checkpoint. Seems like every guy – and a lot of girls – have one or even many of these games, encouraging bad language and the inability to compromise and discuss as opposed to shooting. I know I’ve said it before, but it’s ridiculous that grown men should be being beaten online by ten year olds; news flash - you pre-pubescents aren’t allowed near these discs for another eight years. When you stop sounding like your sister you can try again. 

Little Benefits

Hakuna Matata. What a wonderful phrase! Hakuna Matata – it ain’t no passin’ craze. It means no worries, for your DofE days… So for some insane reason, having completed Bronze, I decided to continue with Duke of Edinburgh and enrol in Silver. Utter madness.

For those of you who follow my ramblings, you’ll know that on my Bronze training day, I lost my phone.  Well, unfortunately it seems to be a regular occurrence. On the way to Exmoor – where our three days of torture was to be hosted – we stopped at Fleet Service Station and, to cut a rather long and worrying story short, my phone and iPod were recovered by me and my dad Saturday night after a cleaner had found them in the toilets and handed them in to lost property. Excellent job well done, I think. I wrote on my previous DofE blog that the moral of my phone troubles is not to “put your phone in the front pocket of your hoodie, especially if you are walking through large fields”. I think the moral of this more recent episode is not to trust Fred with anything valuable whilst on an expedition. And that the idea of learning from your mistakes is really a lot easier in theory than in practice. Still, a month without your phone and Facebook proves that communication is underrated. And that half term can induce lunacy and an (increased) obsession with One Tree Hill.

Needless to say, it kind of marred the rest of the experience, though that was kind of done anyway by the three days of hill climbing and two nights of sleeping in a cold tent. I really shouldn’t be complaining as I did volunteer for this – an oversight explainable for Bronze, but not so much for Silver. Then again, what else is a blog for, except complaints and warnings? But to whichever genius told me and my team that Exmoor is “really flat” – let me ask, do you think Mount Everest is just a little hill? Either that or we got exceptionally lost and ended up near Snowdonia. Flat, yeah right. Let’s hope that New Forest is better.

A lot of your mood is based on sleep, food and weather. We were incredibly lucky to have enough sunshine to be dry but not too much to be uncomfortable. Well as unnecessarily uncomfortable as you can be when you are carrying around your own weight on your back and walking 13 miles uphill each day. At least it wasn’t the torrential downpour of my Bronze assessment. Food checked out, though I don’t think I’ll eat pasta two evenings in a row again, being a rather tedious meal, and I’ve definitely learnt to put my custard creams and Jaffa cakes in boxes rather than bags to ensure they remain separate and don’t merge to become Jaffa Creams. Oh, and if I find that in Tesco next week, I am claiming plagiarism. But snacky food is always good fun. In the words of a great team member “We’re so British, sitting on a hill side eating digestive biscuit”; I suppose you have to find a light in everything, even if that thing is being stranded in the middle of nowhere. Sleep, however, was an entirely different matter. On our first night, we were placed on a hill and ended up all rolling into each other. On top of that, I had issues sleeping and spend most of the night trekking between my cold tent and the warm, rather decadent-for-a-campsite toilets. At least I could see the stars, which literally lit my path. Cliché, I know.

However, it certainly taught me (again) how a little team work can go a long way, and lacking it can pull you to pieces. On a high, we roamed the hills singing a combination of Busted, “The Power of Love” and – our theme tune – Hakuna Matata. We made as many ginger jokes as possible when in the company of our red-headed teacher (especially when he got us lost in a field and we thought we were going to be shot by a farmer) and ridiculed a particular person who thought that Free Willy was a dolphin. On a low, there were tantrums and yelling and foot stamping. Not to embarrass anyone, of course. I think DofE is one of those rare moments in your life when you get to see someone as their raw selves. When you have no make-up to hide behind, are sleep deprived and hungry, your real self unwillingly slides through, sometimes surprising even yourself. You have heart-to-hearts with the people who normally wind you up; you re-connect with the best friend that you haven’t spoken to in far too long and you bond with the people who you thought you’d never know.  Yet it works the other way too – you don’t speak to someone for three days and despite the fact that you’re physically closer than you normally are, you’ve never been further part. Most of the time it’s the pressure of the situation that causes irrelevant fissures to appear; but sometimes this strain can simply reveal the underlying issues, and you can realise that people aren’t who you thought they were. Not negatively, just different. Especially when they haven’t seen either mascara or eyeliner in three days and look like a zombie. I guess that just shows the reliance we place on little Benefits.

Taste of Texas

Anyone who has been to America (and even those who haven’t) knows that the USA is famous for its restaurants and therefore, food. So, instead of trying to cram a full and proper summary of everything consumed in the states into my Kids In America, I decided instead to create a blog as a food critic. A Taste Of Texas, if you will.

Applebee’s
***

I think that Applebee's is one of those great icons of American food, alongside McDonalds and Subway.  It was also the first time that I learnt the difference between English and American “Lemonade”: ask for it in England and you’ll get Sprite or its equivalent; ask in America and you’ll get what we Brits call still, cloudy Lemonade. However, when it comes to drinks you've got to hand it to them – free refills on soft drinks really make you love going out, though when one glass is the size of a bucket, you don’t really need more than one.

What to eat: Fiesta Lime Chicken

Baskin Robbins
****

So I know how Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream ultimately rules the frozen confections, but when faced with a countertop of 31 different flavours, you have to admit that Baskin Robbins forms a close second – not to mention the variety of ways it can be served to you. Being a pig, and momentarily forgetting the American size definitions, I ordered two different scoops of ice-cream. I won’t make that mistake again.

What to eat: Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough

Billy Bob’s Texas
***

The World’s Largest Honky Tonk! Although we weren’t able to hang around for the rodeo held inside the enormous room, we did stop to shop and eat. We thought that we would attempt three starters for our lunch, not realising that a Honky Tonk starter was a very large English main.  Three very large English mains. For lunch.

What to eat: Chuck Wagon Nachos

Chilis Grill and Bar Restaurant (Detroit Airport)
**

Well, as we were leaving our holiday, this was never gonna be a “happy” meal. Yet even under the circumstances, this was probably the worst meal of the holiday. Although the food itself was good, in comparison to other delicacies I had eaten over the previous ten days, it was like dry toast compared to caviar. If you like fish eggs, of course. But it was the service that really put a downer on it all - everywhere we had eaten, we had been waited on like demi-gods, but here we were basically ignored. Go figure.

What to eat: Big Mouth Bites

IHOP (International House Of Pancakes)
****

 So it’s probably quite wrong that at the International House of Pancakes I didn't have well, pancakes, but there are certain things you just get a craving for. What I didn't know was that my breakfast came with eggs, hash browns and sausages. I was acceptably full afterwards, to put it simply.

What to eat: Biscuits and Gravy Combos

In-N-Out Burger
***

Quite jet lagged and gasping for anything to eat, we stopped at a drive-through for dinner on the first night. I would say that the burger was outstanding, but I was really quite tired. And realistically, it was a burger. What else is there to say?

What to eat: Cheeseburger

La Hacienda Ranch
***

A Mexican restaurant built on its origin’s borders, La Hacienda is the real deal. As tasty as it was, this for me was not what I had anticipated. When it comes to Mexican, it means Old Es Paso’s box sets which, frankly, are just Tex-Mex and the urge to yell “No Burrito for you!” a la Ugly Betty.  So when I was served two rather odd looking wraps, I was wondering where my Enchiladas were. Not saying it wasn’t good, just… unexpected.

What to eat: Chicken Enchiladas

Le Peep
***

You would’ve thought that after ten days in the states that I would’ve gotten used to the portion size (and you’re probably sick of me mentioning it), but when I ordered two pancakes I didn’t expect two inch-thick, dinner-plate sized cakes. That together with their extraordinary sickliness tied to make too much for one meal. My dad joked that no-one took a doggy bag for breakfast. I said that I had two mornings worth of pancakes. Win-win.

What to eat: Blueberry Pancakes

Papa John’s
**

I don’t think there’s a lot to say – it was order in pizza, and to be perfectly honest, I prefer Domino's and Pizza Hut. Plus on my last night, I was kind of fooded out, so I didn’t eat a lot. Trust me, it’s very rare.

What to eat: All The Meats

Rafain Brazilian Steakhouse
*****

This is the single most value-for-money occasion I have ever experienced. All you can eat of 16 different kinds of meat, all served on a service of waiters who pounce competitively every time you switch a small card on your table from red to green to signal that you want the food to flow. From Garlic Picanha to Chicken Breast wrapped in Bacon, I ate the most out of everyone I was with, by quite a bit. Then again, I wasn’t about to let food (literally) walk by when there was no extra cost involved in me eating it. Bizarrely, the best dish was the roasted pineapple. Doused in cinnamon, spit roasted, then served still warm - it was ambrosia. Even after I had “finished” eating, I would still scan the room for the pineapple and flip my card over whenever it appeared. After rounds of beef and lamb, the waiter came over and asked if he could get us anything and I requested some chicken. The same waiter then saw me mid-pineapple-hunt and said “Can I get you anything? Some pineapple? Or some chicken perhaps?” I was sufficiently embarrassed, but not enough to say no.

What to eat: Roasted Pineapple

Red Lobster
*****

For me, Red Lobster only means Happy Gilmore. It’s one of those bizarre cases in which you think that something is made up only for TV or Film and you think you’re hallucinating when you see it for real. For fish, it was great value for money (but then everything in America is) as well as absolutely delicious. Just glad I didn’t have to pick out a lobster from a tank.

What to eat: Seaside Shrimp Trio

Taco Bell
****

Ah the definition of Tex Mex! The best burrito I have tasted, I think I could’ve eaten ten more. So it’s probably a good thing I didn’t, unless I wanted to role onto the plane. Still – this is definitely the one American chain we need in Britain.

What to eat: Grilled Chicken Burrito

Texas Land and Cattle Steak House
****

Land and Cattle was the first restaurant we ate out at on our arrival in the US, and my first experience of their enormous portions. The food was delicious, and being a lover of fish I ordered the tacos and was then treated to the complaints of the waiter who said that I was in a steak house and should therefore be eating meat. Still, peer pressure has never stopped me eating what I  wanted before. Or stopped me eating at all in fact.

What to eat: Mahi Fish Tacos

The Cheesecake Factory
***

Admittedly, I’m not a massive fan of Cheesecake – dairy products are a massive no-no for me and although most people will plague me to say that there isn’t really cheese in cheesecake, there’s something really not right about it. Nevertheless, I’d thought I’d try some from the biggest house of cheesecakes in America, and I was pleasantly surprised. However, I think they gave me the whole cake, as it was enormous slice and even for me it was quite sickly. And insanely filling.

What to eat: Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Cheesecake

Kids In America

America – the land of the free, the home of the brave and a great big tourist attraction all rolled up in one. Aside from price of tickets, immigration and the excruciatingly long plane journeys – made bearable only by the free food, drink and inflight movies – travelling there is virtually pain free. Especially when the only alternative to flying is still tarnished with the idea of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet floating around on a piece of wood.

With simple roads the size of an English motorway and no roundabouts in sight, driving on the opposite side of the road was the least bizarre thing about American traffic. As we drove towards Dallas, we passed under a freeway – for those of you who don’t know what a freeway is, think of the moment in Transformers with Optimus Prime, the unsurprised child and the mother with a serious delayed reaction; a giant web of bridges, criss-crossing over one another, like something out of a futuristic sci-fi movie. 

Needless to say though, the most confusing thing about America is going from air-conditioned indoors to gorgeously warm outdoors. In England, you trade stifling hot indoors for icy cold outdoors – even in summer. However, when you visit a country for its warm weather and therefore pack for it, it is a little disconcerting to be sitting at dinner wishing you had brought a jacket for the cold indoors. You may think I’m mad for wishing for the heat – it was after all averaging around 42° every day. But in America, it is not the sticky, stifling, suffocating that the Brits see briefly in that day we call “summer”. It is a comfortable warmth, that still manages to give you the stupidest tan lines, making you look like Neapolitan ice cream whenever you try and amend them. It was quite funny – when we got home, I had several people telling me that it was the warmest day in ages. It was 15° and I sat wrapped up in bed in a woolly jumper, freezing cold.

However, there is never a more satisfying sight than an American Outlet Store on sale. It’s a triple discount. I’m not exactly a fan of the brands, simply because of the outrageous prices the sell their clothing at – but when it’s half the price, there really is nothing harder to resist. The funny thing is walking straight out of Hollister into Abercrombie&Fitch and seeing the exact same clothing throughout the store with just a different logo on. I envy whoever produces the plain versions of it all – they must make an absolute fortune. Alike with stores, it is fun driving around and seeing all the American commonplace items that are well known to everyone simply because of their feature on American TV shows and films. Walmart, 7 Eleven, Red Lobster – despite the amount of them that there are in England, I actually smiled when I saw the first American McDonalds.

However, the accent is something else. I still don’t understand how people with the same origins can sound so completely different – the same goes for Australia. Still, it was relatively fascinating to have our accent loved and thought of as part of the cast of Eastenders. And they were polite as anything – it was all ma’ams and sirs. Not exactly the slating and swearing you hear in England. If there could be only one thing I miss about the States, it has to be the manners. You know you’re back in Britain, when you get shoved out of the way in a hallway and thrown filthy looks for every necessary question you ask of someone who’s “Happy To Help”. I guess the weather’s just pathetic fallacy.

The USA is a big and beautiful land – and that’s from the miniscule portion that I saw.  Hopefully England will see how successful its neighbour is and get its act together, preferably in my lifetime.

Standing In A Big Crowd, Everybody Scream Their Hearts Out

For me, summer means three things: a spatter of sunshine, a wave of wasps and a torrent of festivals.  Having only seen highlights of performances on TV before, I was thrilled to be able to go to this year’s V Festival in Chelmsford with one of my best friends. With headliners such as Eminem, Rihanna and the Artic Monkeys, V Festival is undeniably one of the biggest galas around. Add to this the onslaught of stalls, food bars, comedy tents and a Just Dance bus and you have the makings of an unforgettable weekend.

Olly Murs set

It has to be said that the headliners had amazing performances – if they were anything less their prominence would be questionable. However, for me it was the smaller performances that demanded greater credit. Olly Murs was for me one of the best there, especially for entertainment value. The X Factor runner-up presented a mixture of his own chart-topping singles and a hilarious dance routine to some of Madness’ better known songs. His cheeky-chappy-smile is infectious even from a distance, and having seen him live I genuinely cannot understand how Joe McElderry beat him to claim the shows top prize. And naturally, my friend and I spent hours entertaining ourselves with impressions of the X Factor announcer calling out his name. Oh, and quoting Hot Fuzz with the accompanying accents. It’s bizarre the kind of things that just get funnier the more times you say them.

Ricky Wilson, Kaiser Chiefs

One thing that festivals are well known for are their ability to turn from serene one minute to bone-crushing and deadly the next. Although it was rumoured around camp that moshing had been banned for safety reasons, naturally there were still cases of drunken morons thinking that jumping and landing on relatively small people (such as myself) was an excellent idea. Then again, when you make the effort to make it to the barrier for acts like the Kaiser Chiefs, Lost Prophets and Razorlight, you really can’t expect to be left in piece. Ricky Wilson, lead singer of Kaiser Chiefs was particularly entertaining. Running along the border of the public mass, and at points jumping in amongst them, he really put on a show. Although it must be said he did look high. Still, when they played ‘I Predict A Riot’, they certainly started one where we were standing.

Lostprophets set

Another danger of being so close to the artists is not actually being one of their biggest fans. It may sound strange that we would have fought our way to the front when we weren’t actually so ‘hard-core’, but festivals are a display of artists you like, love and want to get to know. But the proper fans don’t seem to appreciate that blossoming interest and are decided instead to crush it under the intensity of their disapproving glares. I’m just beginning to get into Lostprophets, and so decided to go along to their performance; but I was surrounded by their true followers and I could feel their irritated glowers burning into the back of my head as they registered my lack of knowledge in the band’s music. Despite my effort to disperse this image with my enthusiastic dancing, they weren’t convinced. I felt like I was being watched by several angry teachers whilst I had a private rave in their office. Worse was not knowing the lyrics; and then managing to get the ones I thought I knew horrendously wrong. As I write this, my iPod is playing Lostprophet’s ‘Last Summer’, proving my point perfectly: learn their words before you see them live in order to avoid extreme discomfort and embarrassment.

You Me At Six set

The highlight of any festival is being able to see your favourite artist, and I was fortunate enough to see my favourite band You Me At Six. Of course I’m bias because of my love for their music, but they were undoubtedly the best act there. Right on the barrier, and caught sparingly on screen by the great overhead camera that swept across the crowd, I don’t think I have ever enjoyed music so much. What’s funny is the fact that bands like You Me At Six and Lostprophets even played at V Festival. They wouldn’t be classed as ‘Pop’ bands and V Fest isn’t exactly Reading & Leeds. Like Josh Franceschi said as they played: “If you guys could see what I can see… the amount of people who have turned up to see a rock band at a pop festival”. Why he seemed surprised though I’ve no idea: the power and intensity behind their songs is enough to bring a tidal wave of adoring listeners towards their shows. My only complaint is their miniscule 30 minute set – they deserve so much more.

You can always tell when an artist is a genuine performer. It’s not about the lights or the costumes or the set – they’ll interact with the crowd. Rihanna’s music is beautiful, but her set was cold; she sang, she danced, she left. But bands like The Script and Scouting For Girls, they talked to us and they sang with us, until we felt like another member of the band. And it’s that kind of atmosphere that makes live performances. It also showed the difference between those who had worked their way up from playing small clubs and earned a record and those that had gotten a record and been given a live slot.

KT Tunstall

Naturally, the weather greatly impacts the mood of everyone. We were incredibly lucky to have glorious sunshine for nearly two whole days. I say nearly – the heavens opened midway through our first day and drenched everyone during KT Tunstall’s set (best known for ‘Suddenly I See’, which will only ever mean the Pilot episode of Ugly Betty to me). We were immediately surrounded by complainers, covered in plastic anoraks. Having judged that the rain couldn’t do any more damage than it had already, we continued to enjoy the performance without cover, deciding to allow the rain to enhance the show rather than drown it. The rain certainly had one positive effect though – it managed to persuade half-naked men to put their clothes back on, to the relief of many who did not appreciate the sight of those that really need to be wearing a bra.

Anyone who has seen any music live will know that its recorded equivalent bears no comparison, and I think everyone who truly loves music should be able to attend a festival – at least once. So bring the love, love the wellies and sing it out loud to the rain.