Dressing Down

It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago. We had a Dead Celebrity Party.

It’s always kind of stressful labelling anything a party. It’s not like parties you see on television, with hundreds of people, disco lighting, red plastic cups everywhere and beautiful people dancing crazy all night.

That’s just not how it works in real life. Though it did end up a little like that, by the end...

But we had about 16 or so due, so with a couple of no-shows, we had a nice little crowd. Certainly enough to fill up the space, and you know what?  We had a FUCKING GOOD TIME.

And, as ever, Fancy Dress is a total win, and people made some amazing effort.

As is traditional now, my fancy dress involved wearing as little as possible, whilst simultaneously selecting an obscure but amusing celebrity who died in an undignified and amusing way.  That was sort of the point really. Anyone can dress as a dead guy- but finding someone whose death was particularly significant, unusual or untimely is the real skill.

I was Lolo Ferrari, of porn, modelling and Eurotrash fame- she died of a mix of drugs, suspected murder (for a time) and spinal collapse on account of her enormous rack.

There really is no better option for a Dead Celebrity for someone who enjoys getting it all out.

So that's what I did.

Gentlemen prefer slutty blondes...

 Our only miscalculation was that once dressed like that, we weren’t going out anywhere...

“I need to play some bad songs first...”

Er... no you don’t.”

So we went out dancing the other day. We go fairly often. We’ve been a couple of times since. But this was different because we went a little off piste, away from the gays, out with some friends to a local 80s night.

Our guests were adamant they wanted 80s. It’s their thing. They like 80s when they go out, which isn’t as often as us, so we like to oblige.

We foolishly tried somewhere oh so Brighton-esque and a bit trendy and alternative.  And it was awful. They did that thing where, rather than just playing some nice songs that everyone will enjoy, they set out to educate you.

‘You may not know this. You may not like this, but THIS is what you should be listening to...’

That sort of thing.

And there may well be a time and a place for this, but this was an 80s night. It was advertised as amazing 80s, back to the future, dance your tits off, delicious, mozerellicious cheese.

And they were playing such weird stuff. Loosely 80s, granted, but not a song ANYONE there knew.

“Why?” I wondered to myself. There is no-one dancing. Everyone is doing that shuffling thing where they WANT to dance, but it’s just not good enough. And I felt a bit embarrassed. Our friends had travelled some distance to see us, and specifically asked for certain music when we went out, and we’d tried to oblige.

In the end, one of them went up to the DJ and said “Can you play something everyone’s heard of?”

And you know what he said?  He said he had to warm up the crowd and play some bad music first.

Why?  Why?  Why would anybody do this?  There is not a shortage of good music. You won’t run out at 11.30. You don’t need to save all the good music for the end.  You could just play it now and continue to play it all night, and everyone would dance all night and enjoy it.

Why do you need to deny everyone?  It’s not like people REALLY appreciate the good music, and feel saved from the early bad bit, and therefore enjoy it more because of this build up; this warm up. They just say things like – ‘the music was bad early on, but got much better.’

People would be happier if they just liked all of it.

Which is where it’s gone wrong in so many places.  People don’t want to be educated by their DJ. That’s not why they go out.  They want to hear some songs they know, some songs they like, with the odd predictable old favourite that you always hear, and the odd surprise where you say ‘Awesome – I’ve not heard this in AGES!’ and get all excited.

But they don’t want to be educated. They’ve paid to have a nice time and really, Mr DJ, you’re paid to entertain them, not tell them they’re wrong, or uncool, or that they require re-education according to your stringent and restricted definition.

So entertain them.

Give the people what they want, not what they need.

Be the sort of DJ about whom people say: “He played amazing music ALL night!”

Let them have the good music.

Thank you for the music...

Obsessive Compulsive Order

Why would you call it DISorder?  The order is built right in.

I am a bit uptight. Not ridiculously so, but enough to make my friends roll their eyes. I’m uptight about my house. White sofa, white furniture, white curtains... who wouldn’t be. I’m a bit protective.

But I can laugh it off (mostly) when people spill, and tone it down and make a good show of not caring and not being too fussy. I wouldn’t want to look that crazed.

But at school?

At school I am SO fussy about my classroom.

  

People are in awe. I have a reputation as craziest insanely tidy teacher in the building. In BOTH buildings. Even my class are in insanely tidy habits now.  Everything has to be reset at the end of each lesson. Everything returns to default ready for whatever’s next.

Basically because:

A) It’s an autistic class, and we’re supposed to be plain, low-arousal, distraction-free and spartan.

B) I don’t have ANY clutter on any surfaces. Everything has a draw or cupboard so there is no need to leave anything out.

C) I like the kids to know that whatever happens- it doesn’t matter. If they freak out and chuck a table over, or throw a chair or whatever, when they return it will look exactly as it looked before, and it’s no big deal. And if they trash it not because they’re distressed, but because they’re being an arse, then their tantrum has no effect. Everything remains the same- their sulk is irrelevant and pointless and futile.

D) I’m very obsessive.

And you know what?  It makes for a really orderly, successful classroom. When the Head comes round, she’s always really pleased that at least someone is keeping her shiny new school tidy, and best of all- it drives everyone else nuts.

And that’s really what it’s all about... isn’t it?

My Evil Twin

To be fair, he probably isn’t evil.

I have a twin. He is my beach twin. I see him on the beach, all the time, and it’s STARTING TO GET WEIRD!

Today was a perfect example, and adequately illustrates how our relationship continues to develop.

Today, I arrived on the beach at about 11.30. I love going to the beach. I spend a lot of time there in the Summer Holidays. It was a lovely day. I had music, a good book, it was a gorgeous day; I was very content. About midday, HE APPEARS. He wanders down the beach, he has a swim. He sits about 20 yards away, nearer the water, he remains there for about an hour. Then off he goes.

Nothing weird about that.

EXCEPT I SEE HIM ALL THE TIME.

Later, after leaving the beach, wandering into town, etc, etc... I return to the beach. The seafront is essentially my walk home, so I tend to walk along the beach as it’s a pretty walk. I decide to sit down for a while, as it’s still so warm. I’m on a different bit of beach now, further up- so I sit down relax, look around me...

THERE HE IS AGAIN. He was there first, clearly. I just hadn’t noticed. A different bit of beach a few minutes away. But THERE HE IS.

Nothing weird about that though. A coincidence, that’s all.

But this happens ALL THE TIME. Different bits of beach, different times of day. In term time, I often nip to the beach late, sort of 4.30/5.00ish – he’s often there, irrespective of which bit of beach I’m on, and it does vary.

And now it’s the holidays, I’m camped out during the day- THERE HE IS AGAIN. Different bits of beach again.

How is this happening? It is too wild to be a coincidence. Superlativity has seen him too. It’s not just me being crazy. He’s my witness.

Anyway- so now it’s got to the point of being weird and frankly ridiculous, and I wonder ‘Does he recognise me when I clock him?’

Who knows... I sort of feel like I should talk to him now. I don’t know why precisely, it just seems like it would be the right thing to do in such an odd situation, where we continually run into eachother on such a random and regular basis.

AND SAY WHAT EXACTLY?

“HI!!!  WE BOTH LOVE THE BEACH!  BEACH BEACH BEACH!!

 MuRRRRRrrrRRRHHH!  MRRRHHuuUUuRRRHHH!”

“Fuck of you little freak.”

Exactly.

Perhaps... perhaps it IS just a coincidence, but none of it adds up. Sometimes I’m there first, sometimes he is. Sometimes it’s one bit of beach, sometimes a different bit, or a different bit again. Sometimes it’s 11 in the morning, sometimes it’s 5 in the afternoon.  Sometimes it’s 3 in the afternoon. 

It CAN’T be a coincidence.

Therefore he must be my evil beach twin.  He is kind of hot.  Sets of my gaydar just a tiny bit. Nice body, tasteful tattoo, bleached tips.

Great tan.

Maybe it’s the heat haze creating a mirror effect?

This is my BeachTwin. Not a normal twin. We don't look alike. We have a 

similar look, perhaps, but we are twins only on account of integrated beach use.

The day I stopped caring (about pants)

I like to make an effort. I have a couple of rules about going out and socialising. Well, not rules exactly – but a couple of habits that have endured for ages.

Number one: Never turn down an invitation unless you genuinely can’t make it.

Number two: Always wear something nice.

And this is the way it was for years.  Years and years. Number one was a symptom of growing up in a small town that was just a little bit far from almost all my friends- who lived in the next town. I was cut off by forest geography after about quarter past ten each night.  And I was always aware that, quite rightly, my friends met up without me because I just couldn’t always attend and I was that much further away.

But I was always a teensy bit jealous.

So I always went to everything. I never missed an opportunity to socialise and never made an excuse or avoided a situation. I lived for being sociable -  being slightly more cut off either drove this or made it more annoying. Who knows.

Recently I’ve become a tiny bit more picky. I will say no to the occasional invite, though it’s still pretty rare. Sometimes I get that feeling whereby, despite a longstanding plan with friends that you’ve been looking forward to for ages, and despite enthusiasm at the time of planning, it gets to the night itself and I think:

OH HORRORS, DO I HAVE TO? THE SOFA IS SO COMFORTABLE.

But this passes pretty quick. I have a third rule- never cancel on people at short notice.  People do it to me ALL THE TIME and, whilst I never mind, on one particular birthday I learned never to do it to others because it can be a fuck when it happens to you, all at once on the same night, one cancellation after the next.

And you make yourself go, have a drink, put on some Britney- get yourself enthused, and then you go and have a FUCKING GOOD TIME.

I just fancied a quiet night out.

Of course it’s fun! It was always going to be fun.  We just experience that lazy bit before hand.

We’re older now.

But now?  A new development. A new development pertaining to Number 2: Nice clothes.

 I’m a bit fussy about clothes. I like clothes. I like outfits and looking nice and making the effort. People generally conclude that I’m quite well dressed. I like that.

And the other day, I was getting ready to go out. I had some nice new jeans on. You know when they’re all new and tight. I had my amazing winged trainers on. Nice t-shirt. Nice belt. Nice outfit.

Then I noticed I was wearing horrible pants. 

Not horrible.  Boring maybe. Not a nice waistband. Not nice enough to be poking out from beneath my jeans a bit, and more importantly NOT MATCHING ANYTHING ELSE I WAS WEARING.

But my winged trainers take forever to do up. They’re really tall lace-up hi-tops. And my new jeans were so new and skinny and tight they were a battle to get on and off.

So I did nothing.

I left it, and went out in horrible pants.  And within a few minutes I didn’t even remember.

I’m sure no-one else would notice/care/give a fuck anyway.  But *I* do.

Until that day.

That was the day that I stopped caring.

That was the day I stopped caring about pants.

Pride in Pictures

Less ramble.  More photos.

 

11.00 Morning booze and Parade through Brighton

     13.00 Chair-O-Planes and boy bands

     14.00 Naked fitties all around

     

17.00 Freemasons dance-off and skanky street booze preparation

     

00.00 Street Party and finally allowed to eat again

And that was (some of) Brighton Pride 2013...

NO PIZZA FOR YOU!

Today I got paid for eating Domino’s Pizza and watching The Amazing Spider-man.

Jimmy came in in a foul mood and refused to do any work all morning (and it’s end of term, so for ‘work’, read maths games/colouring in/gentle, undemanding, semi-educational activities punctuated by treats and end of term reward events. Like DVDs. Or pizza).

To try and help him recover his day and get out of his foul mood, I tried to persuade him to come and choose his pizza toppings.

“Don’t want stupid pizza. It’s boring!”  (He’s been talking about nothing else for days)

“You’ll be sad if you miss having pizza.”  (He will)

“I hate pizza. It’s boring.”  (It’s not. It’s his favourite thing in the world)

“Well, you need to make a good choice now if you want pizza.” (He does)

“Don’t care. Don’t care. Don’t care. DON'T CARE. DON'T CARE!”  (He blatantly does)

“Okay then. I’ll have to order you a school dinner...”  (I do)

Time Passes.

Our pizzas arrive. Staff and students. It’s a pizza party and the mood is euphoric. Every pizza is labelled with the appropriate pupil’s name. They locate and collect their pizza and take it to their seat.

“Where’s my pizza?”

“You didn’t want one, remember? You said pizza is boring and you hate pizza, then you started shouting at me.”

“I was only joking. Can I have my pizza now?”

“There is no pizza for you.  I didn’t order one for you because you didn’t make good choices.”

“But I want it now.”

“It’s too late now. You need to be good when I say, otherwise you don’t get nice things.”

Jimmy sulks and refuses to eat his school dinner, which- to be fair- looks questionable, though he’ll literally eat anything. I saw him try to eat a shoe once. If I’m honest, he could stand to skip a meal or two, so I let him sulk and refuse to eat.

Perhaps meanly, I also make a point of saying to everyone as we eat our pizzas:
“Is everyone enjoying their pizza? Good!  Well done- you all made GOOD CHOICES so we get to have a pizza party. Mmm- delicious pizza!  Mmmmm!”

But we have to do that to make sure he connects the dots.

He totally does.

After about 20 minutes, once his school dinner is nice and cold and the baked beans are all disgusting and congealed, he sits down and starts sheepishly eating it.

It doesn't look very nice.

Maybe next time he won’t be such a little bitch about it...