March 2010

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When Zombieland was released at the cinema, it seemed to come from nowhere. I saw a few glossy billboard posters and turned up my nose. I ADORE zombie movies, but I don’t really adore zombie movies that have glitzy Hollywood budgets and are part of a cyclical fad for the genre. I want my blood gunky and ketchupy, the tape flickery and scratched and the acting wooden. It all just looked a bit too trendy and so I retreated to behind my sofa to rewatch Plague of the Zombie for the thousandth time and grumble to myself!

Then the recommendations started. At first it was a few texts, then a few phonecalls and then it literally felt like I couldn’t wade through my day without someone demanding that I go see it immediately. I stubbornly (ok geekily, as I didnt want audience reaction to distract me from indulging in potentially brilliant proper zombie movie action) waited for it to come out on DVD and on Sunday I finally watched it with baited breath. And…………………………… I LIKED it. I actually really liked it.

My partner in film-watching crime announced 0.5 seconds in (before the opening credits had even rolled!)  ”this is totally shit isn’t it, and actually, aren’t zombie shit. They aren’t even funny! All they do is run at things”. Rather than batter him to death with my dissertation (“Are zombie movies a resource for social commentary?“) and tell him the million flaws in his statement (like duh, they totally stagger… even if it’s a quick stagger)  I gritted my teeth and he was promptly asleep before 20 minutes had passed (great help he’d be in an actual zombie invasion!)  This was a good thing though, because it meant I could wallow in geeky zombie glory with a dorky grin on my face AND do an air-punch Bill Murray cameo happened. If I hadn’t already decided I liked the movie, that definitely cineched it. I BM.

There are lots of things that aren’t great about the movie. It has some really cheesey text that appears on the screen all the time, nothing ever gets explained, nothing actually that massive really happen and the reason for the zombie invasion is the lamest I have ever, ever heard (mad cow disease turned into mad human disease?! ?!) BUT all these head-bashingly annoying things actually become charming and by the end I was completely engrossed and had that I never want this movie to end feeling.

The cinematography is beautiful, every shot feels like it could be a print or a postcard. Relative unknown lead Jesse Eisenberg plays the Adam-Brody-in-The-OC/Michael-Cena-in-Every-Role-Ever geek lead in a genuinelly funny and charming way.

So to repeat the sentiment of pretty much everyone I spoke to last October, SEE THIS MOVIE! It’s subtle (well as subtle as gore spluttering zombies can evr be) and it’s quietly brilliant and you are guarenteed to chuckle at least once and squeal in horror at least once. What more could you ask for, really?

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RIP The Mixtape.

I never thought I’d say this, but I think I need to face up to the facts that the mixtape is dead and even as someone still attempting to live the Sony walkman dream… I am fighting a losing battle. Nobody wants a mixtape these days. When handing over that glorious rectangle shaped present to people; I get a blank expression. Followed by a “what the hell am I meant to do with this” face. How can I upload it to my ipod? What am I meant to play it on, my laptop doesnt take cassette tape? Argos don’t sell walkmans anymore? And then I’m sure it just languishes unloved and unplayed on a coffee table like some sort of archaelogical artefact.

As I had a little weep to myself about this momentous realisation I dug out my collection of all the mixtapes I’ve received over the years and I guess they do look a little alien these days; with their fiddly little wheels and spindly brown tape and clunky cases. I know these days you can give somebody a Spotify list, a Lastfm link or a USB packed with tracks (even one of those oh so hilariously ironic USBs that look like a tape cassette) but how can that even BEGIN to compare to the LOVE someone must have for you to spend an entire day layed on their belly, surrounded by a mountain of albums and tape inlays – pressing play&record, and pause, and writing out the tracklisting in the teeny tiny gaps, and agonising over which order to put the tracks and then hyperventilating when the tape FINISHES in the middle of the best track on side A. Do you start it again on side B? Start it from where it’s left off? Not bother putting the rest, but risk the tape receiver thinking it’s a crappy song? I’m having trauma flashbacks just thinking about it! With all the newfangled technology, you lose the charm of the mixtape too. Remember the clunk of the pause button sometimes recorded onto the tape (hated that) or the telltale chatter of a radio DJ interupting the music would reveal that you were a cheapo who had recorded this track from longwave radio atlantic 252…

This is my last attempt to say hooray for mixtapes and revive some interest. Mostly mixgtapes were the currency of my teenage relationships. You had to REALLY like someone to bother making them a mixtape and it felt like an incorrect track choice could most definitely end a blossoming romance. (True tragic mixtape story: On my 17th birthday a boy I had been dating for a week made me a mixtape. Whilst handing over the lovingly decorated masterpiece, he also told me he didn’t want to see me anymore. I guess somewhere between liking me enough to make it, and actually handing it over, he’d gone off me… but had invested so much time in it that thought he’d hand it over anyway. I pulled all the tape out in front of him & it decorated the floor like really bad, sad party streamers for the rest of the night.  The youth of today can never have these incredibly teen angst soaked moments with an mp3 can they?)

This is what we used to listen to in my day – AKA Old Fogey Music!] A present from my sister Meg (ten years older than me and therefore forever 10 years maximum cooler than me) when I was 15. Felt slightly vomity and woozey when I realised she made this for me when she was the age I am now, which makes me now a certified old fogey I guess. She shared pearls of musical wisdom with me such as The Cure, Blue Oyster Cult, The Pixies, Nirvana and Radiohead which would prove vital in impressing future friends and lets face it,older boys.

Your a star shining bright] (ah! I am old! because these days I would rather someone didn’t compliment me at all, than did it with incorrect grammar) From Tom, my first boyfriend at the age of 15. He had dreadlocks, he was in the year above me at a DIFFERENT school (so excotic!) and I think he made this for me about a week into our 6 weeks together. It was during a rare UK heatwave summer and I’d lie to my parents about where I was and go to his house to sit on the roof listenings to smashing pumpkins and learning how to play guitar. We split up because he found a note I’d written to a friend in my school planner about “luvving” someone called Jonny. To this day I have no idea who the heck Jonny was, and Tom still has my school planner. Un-nerving. Still, blinding mixtape – definitely the first place I ever heard Concrete Schoolyard

Bees Tape 1, 2, 3, 4 & 5] When I was 18 I went to university in Sheffield and for many reasons, was pretty miserable. One of my best friends Kerry went to university in Preston and for many reasons, was miserable also. So we set up in informal mixtape club and every week a lovingly crafted package would dutifully wizz off to each others halls of residence mail boxes. It didn’t matter that we quite often put on the same tracks as each other (Tori Amos, Jimmy Eat World and The Flaming Lips featured pretty regularly and heavily I recall) those tapes, at that time, rescued me and reminded me that there were people out there who loved me and were rooting for me to keep going. The familiar music provided a soundtrack to such an unfamiliar city and these mixtapes will always be so special.

So is the end nigh? Or could mixtapes be something that come back with a vengence when enough people pack their bags and head off on a Sunday nostalgia trip like me.

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About 3 months ago I got involved in a blind tea tasting challenge for the lovely folks over at Splash of Milk. Being a bolshy Bradfordian I will bore anyone to tears about the wonder of Yorkshire Tea and literally question friendships if I spy PG Tips (shudder) or Tetleys lurking in the cupboard. YT is the king of all brews, you can taste the cobbled streets and moors and eee by gums in every sip! Even the box is a beautiful thing.  I  YT. (I am probably the only loser who loves it so much we are on abbreviation-terms)

So, being a blind tea taster was a bit like being a really quaint spy. I had to sumbit my address to a person I’d never met before, await instructions, then receive a mystery brown paper package filled with anonymous looking lettered envelopes. There were 8 teas to sample in total and everything had to be taken very seriously indeed (eg, not dunking in chocolate digestives until you’d written a paragraph about each ones taste, smell and colour) because lots of other people have taken part and then the results will be compared and contrasted to find out which type is the ULTIMATE tea. Apart from a few burnt taste buds and a lot of tea stain rings popping up all over my flat, the test was lots of fun. I also learnt a plethora of fancy official tea tasting words like Muscatel, Rasping, Weedy and Pungent. Forget wine tasting, I think I might force tea tasting sessions upon all my friends now. A brew also goes alot better with jaffa cakes, than a glass of merlot.

You can have a read of my full tea tasting adventure here…

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True, Blud!

I give blood every 4 months. I never preach about anything really; but this is the only topic I get vaguely on a high-horse and stroppy about and that is just because I cannot comprehend why anyone capable, would not give blood.  I know there are some strict guidelines (that I don’t agree with particularly) that can hinder lovely, blood filled eager people doing it. But if you are eligable to do it, and it’s really easy to check here, then why wouldn’t you? I just don’t think any excuse can stand up to the ‘but you might save someones’ life?’ arguement.

Anyway a very reliable survey of 5 (grumpy/distracted) work colleagues delivered the following extremely scientific results: I’m scared, I hate needles, I hate hospitals, I would probably faint, hit my head, and then need the blood transfusion myself.

So; since I went to give blood this week and it’s fresh in my brain (just the the big sticky pint of my O+ rushing around someone elses body right now!) I thought I’d just write down exactly what happens. Because if you’ve never given blood and are scared of the unknown, then a really honest play by play might help?

1. Book an appointment. You can just rock up to your nearest donation centre, but you have to queue behind appointmented people and therefore could have a long jittery wait. It’s very easy to book either online or by phoning – and wherever I’ve worked there has always been a donation centre within 10 minute walk.

2. Before you go, drink loads of water. It makes you more likely to be able to give a full donation quickly (weirdly so does hot weather) and also make sure you have a nice big munch on something like sugary pastries or krispy kremes (not official nhs advice, just.. mine). Don’t go if you have a cold, are sick or have taken paracetemol – because you don’t really want to share those nasties with someone already in a bad way. Also wear something with short sleeves so that it’s easy to reach your inner-elbow where the blood gets taken from. Don’t make my mistake of usually forgettitng and wearing an un-removable dress with a million and one fiddly buttons to negotiate around.

3. When you walk in, you’ll be greeted by a nice receptionist. He/She’ll give you a double sided form to fill out, but it’s all easy things and then lots of yes or no ticky-box questions mostly about who you’ve bumped uglies with of late and where you’ve traveled to.  They are quite hardcore questions, but asked in the most polite way and cleverly written in nice  happy colours.

4. Hand the form back in and sit back and read a magazine and scope out the other people who are there to donate. There is always a nice smug-noble atmosphere and lots of knowing, youre-a-good-person-too nods & smiles going on.

5. A nurse will come and call your name. They won’t be one of the taking-blood staff members, their job is just to double check you are in a good state to donate. They take you into a small office and go through all your answers to the forms and then take a small blood test – which is to check your iron levels are healthy. They use the tiniest needle in history to prick the side of your pointing-finger. I wouldn’t lie to you – you actually can’t even feel the needle go in, let alone any pain. They squeeze out a little drop of blood and put it into a tube of blue liquid and if it sinks, you’re good to go. If it floats you might be a bit anemic and not be able to donate that day. If you aren’t squeamish you should watch it happening because the blood forms a neat little ring as it floats down. Don’t panic about this, I eat so little fruit&veg that it’s a miracle I don’t have scurvy and also the only exercise I do is running for the tube – so I’m sure your iron levels will be tiptop too.

6. You are then shown through to a bay of beds. It does look all medical and hostpital like, which I know is un-nerving, but better than it looking like a casino or nightclub or something. There might be a few other people already at different stages of giving blood, but you will usually have your own nurse looking after you. You just lie down on the bed and get asked to confirm your name, address and DOB. Then the nurse will quickly prep your arm – all they do is rub it with a very-cold wet wipe that numbs it and cleans it all one go – ta da! Next the nurse may ask you to clench your fist to help your veins raise to the surface.

7. Then the grizzly bit. It definitely can’t be described as fun, and obviously it is a tiny bit nerve wracking, but just look away and think of desert islands, Josh Hartnett & peanut butter, a happy place etc. The nurse will use that cheerful phrase that makes you want to punch them (just a short sharp scratch!) but I guarentee by by the time they’ve got through “short sharp scra…” the needle is in and you are away on your blood giving mission. Yes it hurts a tiny bit but by the time you are pouting and grizzling about it, it’s stopped hurting and you are instantly distracted by remembering how awesome you are for doing this.

8. I know it’s hard to believe but whilst you are donating, the needle doesn’t tug, hurt or sting. You could basically be sat on a sun lounger, it’s not painful. Sometimes you can feel a bit woozy or faint – usually if you’ve been nervous so you get a rush of adrenaline at the start when the needle goes in, it’s a totally normal reaction and if it happens the nurses will give you a pep talk and help you back to normality.

9. Donation time can be anything from 5 to 15 minutes depending on how big your veins are. I helpfully have the worlds smallest veins (ok not world record breaking small, but small enough for me to only be able to provide a full donation every other time I go) and if you do too, the vein might stop playing nicely half way through and there is a small chance the nurse will have to come and jiggle the needle around and help things along.  It might just be me though. The nurse will chat to you if you are nervous, and if you’re not she will never stray too far away which is really re-assuring. If you are brave, you can have a look and see the blood filling the plastic medical pouch. I’m always surprised by how un-cartoon-red it is. It’s the exact shade of my Number 17 Cocoa Cabana nail polish in fact.

10. It’s all over quicky, they remove the needle (a bit sore and throbby for a second) and then the prospect of a nice cup of tea and some biscuits will help you quickly get over it. You have to put a small dressing over your inner elbow which you leave on for six hours. It’s not because you will bleed or anything gruesome, more just to stop any infections or your coat rubbing. So now you leave the bay of beds, and go to a small tea room section where someone congratulates you on donating and then makes you a nice drink. They give you a few advice leaflets on bruising and then after checking you are feeling fine and unfaint, after ten minutes you can skip off the wherever you like. (If you’re me, straight to Starbucks for big creamy, chocolatey frappucino as big as my head, go on.. you deserve it and need to ‘build back your strength’) and after that? Sometimes it’s normal to feel slightly space cadet and light headed but nothing that would prevent you doing a normal day work or whatnot. If you drink alcohol that day, you might get pretty smashed pretty quickly and be able to blame any bad behaviour on being 470ml down on blood! So booze with caution. It takes just a few days for your body to restore your blood levels so it cannot be used as an excuse for long, sorry.

And that’s that. It really isn’t traumatic, or scary or even particularly exciting. Just a really good thing to do with your time. In total, you are probably in the centre for under an hour – even if you have a ten minute wait at the start. That’s all I have to report, well except that the last two times I have been to my local Soho branch; the nurse has told me they’d just had a break in. Which created the following reaction: First – dismay at why on earth anyone would want to steal from such a worthy, nhs centre? Second – ohmygod! actually, who would want to steal blood? There’s only one rational explanation. Vampires must really exist! True Blood, Being Human, Twilight… They all go it spot on and now I know the truth and they are robbing my blood bank and wow…. Third: On no wait, drug addicts need other things they have here. Syringes, needles etc etc, and it’s slightly more likey they exist on the mean streets of London.

Damn.

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Oh My Cod!

It’s been over 2 years since I left Yorkshire.  Clammy hand clutching a one-way single train ticket, racing a van crammed with my worldly possessions across the country.

So far the big smoke has treated me pretty well.  After a rocky few weeks of getting the tube the wrong direction to wherever I actually needed to go and learning that places with the most exciting/weird/quirky names WILL disappoint you (Mudchute, I’m looking at you)… I fell in love with London and we have a pretty beautiful relationship. It gives me easy access to Topshops giant accessory department; I give it all my hard earned money. I’ve got a varied repertoire of cockney rhyming slang and don’t even mind spending the first 30 minutes of consciousness every week day being trapped on the Central Line sauna like an awkward jigsaw piece, with my face in a mans armpit, anymore.

However I have one massive bone to pick with London, and that is the fact that I haven’t found a single good fish & chip shop. The cravings I get for scraps, a potato fritter, a pickled egg… are constantly un-fulfillable. It’s got so desperate that now whenever I scuttle home to Bradford, Francis picks me up in his car and the first thing we do is drive to the chippy. It’s an unspoken fact that the priority upon arrival is for me to shovel ink-stained vinegar soaked chips into my face than see my family or friends. It’s not even uncommon for me to have fish & chips for breakfast, brunch and lunch in one day to try and stem the cravings once I’m back down south. Tragic.

London fish & chips joints seem to be either one of two extremes.  This first is POSH. So many times my colleagues have despaired at my complaining and recommended ‘simply amazing’  f&c locations. I dutifully schlop along in my jeans and am instantly handed a glass of champagne. What? Accompanying battered fish is probably the ONLY time in life I don’t want bubbles. I want a cup of tea, with limescale croutons and a chip in the cup. And then there are the tables. Crisp white tablecloths, metal cutlary (and loud scoffs at my request for a wooden fork) and china plates. They might occasionally have a reference to newspaper packaging; a framed front page on the wall or hilarious ‘mock’ newspaper menu- but only in a post-ironic-oh-what-heathens-would-actually-still-eat-out-of-this-stuff way. The biggest let-down of all is always the food itself though. I don’t want ‘crunchy goose-fat fried potatoes with ground rock salt’, or £10 chargrilled mullet, or a naive oysters to start, or sweet pickle chutney on the side and I certainly do not want to see “tempura soft shell crab” on the same menu. Basically, I do not want my fish and chips to look like this…

After being burnt by the ‘posh’ trend (and  err.. the price) by the likes of Geales and The Fish Club, I followed my nose to places that from the exterior looked much more like my kinda usual plaice (!). Usually called something like “Pizza Point” or “Curry Corner” but with a rickety old neon sign claiming to serve fish and chips. However upon walking inside you learn they also serve pizza, chinese, an array of currys, doner kebab, shish kebab, potato wedges, potato skins, cheese stuffed jalapenos… and then you walk out because you realise you need to be pumped with tequila before any of this seems at all edible.

Basically, London is a city where the streets are paved with gold, but my stomach is not paved in battery goodness and this makes me sad. Sad and homesick.

Criteria for a great fish & chip shop

1. A good pun! Unless there is instant comedy in the name, it’s just lazy.  I’m talking Tracey’s Plaice, The Codfather, The Frying Scotsman, Battersea Cod’s Home and my personal favourite  A Salt N Battered.

2. I want to be served by a woman who’s only career choice in life was clearly this. I want hair nets, and batter stains on the bust and a monosyllabic service that only covers the important matters such as “scraps wi that luv?”

3. I want to be able to lean against the big metal counter that has hot bits in the middle that you know you shouldn’t touch but just… can’t…. resist

4. Tartar sauce is for idiots! I want to add my own vinegar, and add so much that it soaks through the bottom and drips on the floor. I want to add my own salt mountains. I want mushy peas in polystyrene pots, and pickled eggs, and potato fritters and no lemon slices in sight.

5. I don’t want the ability to eat inside. The best fish and chips need to be eaten somewhere as uncomfortable as possible. eg. bus stop, crumbly old wall, pebbly beach, park bench or at least inside a car where you won’t be able to shift the deep-fry smell for weeks.

I don’t think I’m asking for much right?

Right.

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Hello my name is Bee

I like twee things like floral patterns and tea cups and pretty little dresses. I also like very untwee things like tequila slammers and zombie b movies and initiating human pyramids and not washing my hair for days on end.

I write a zine called Telling Tales, but colour photocopies have got expensive and time spent cutting, pasting and scribbling Vs a 9-5 job (ok, 9-8, Dolly Parton totally lied) mean it’s a yearly event. So here we go blog land.


Be gentle.

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