Olympic Fever

Is it bad that I actually look forward to 5pm every evening? For it is when the Winter Olympic coverage (courtesy of BBC Sport) begins, and I can settle into an evening spent laughing at foreign names (Andreas Wank being one of my favourites) and craptastic commentary.

It is true that commentators seem to thrive on the misfortune and dashed hopes of the competing athletes. Excitement reached fever pitch the other day as Swede Anja Paerson suffered a truly ugly crash at the end of her treacherous Olympic downhill, and with good reason too. Crashes are almost eye-watering to watch, especially as the coverage seems to include replaying the same stricken fall over and over and over again, in order for the commentators to waste precious air time, analysing which part of the body the skier may have broken. More often than not, the competitor can get up and stumble off the course, in which case I am sure I seem to detect a hint of disappointment in the voices of the commentators: "Oh, he's up and walking off the course... but that was a severe crash, it looked like he had torn a ligament at the very least..!"

But for all the excitement of the fast-paced Super-G, downhill, luge, and the many other death-defying acts, one thing just not make sense: curling. I cannot help feeling that even if I sit down to watch even five minutes of this "sport", I feel like it is five minutes of my life I have wasted (I will not take my hours spent on Facebook into account on this occasion).

It makes me wonder if the teams actually have to train at all, for the most strenuous activity they seem to partake in is the act of sweeping the ice. Who knows; I am woefully and admittedly ignorant of the intricacies of curling. I am probably bypassing, in my former statement, whole months of dedicated training and team-work on the part of the Olympic teams. Infact I have just done a quick perusal of Google, and it would seem that the Canadian team have to follow a programme of intensive "Muscle Endurance" exercises, which I can only imagine would serve to strengthen the ability to release the stone - extreme lunges are obviously required.. Yet I would guess that more preparation goes into the mental strategies of the game then perhaps the physical side. Indeed, I could see curling as an excellent example of the adage "easy to learn, difficult to master".

It does not, however, stop the sport from being unbelievably dull to watch; I think it is one of the few activities (apart from darts, and possibly snooker) where it is possible to enter a state of zombie-like boredom. Indeed, it seems to provide a convenient time-filler when a skier crashes out of the latest freestyle-race, or a ski-jumper entirely misjudges their landing, to disastrous and delaying effect. And sadly (yet inevitably) now that Team GB are out of the running for the curling medals, the commentators make no secret of the fact they are 'let down', and all coverage and interest seems to diminish. But such is the nature of today's media in general, I suppose. It is fickle and precarious, a profitable nightmare for PR agents or respective celebrities. It gives pond-life like Katie Price the chance to make money on the back of her own name and behavoir (at the expense of her children) and seemingly wrecks havoc upon the private lives of the rich and famous - with too many examples to name.

This leads me onto another observation I made today, following my casual browsing of the morning's news. I saw splashed across the screen "Robert Pattinson FINALLY admits he's dating Kristen Stewart", which comes to me as no great surprise. But following his apparent comment at the BAFTAS that "We can't arrive at the same time because of the fans. It goes crazy. This was supposed to be a public appearance as a couple but it's impossible", it left me feeling rather sorry for the pair of them. The fact that Monsieur Pattinson apparently related this to the delightful tabloid, The Sun, makes the whole issue even more a product of the media's tricky representation of the people we are supposed to be so interested in. I, for one, resent the fact that my brain contains the piece of information that Katie Price puts fake eyelashes on her daughter, or even that Heidi Montag's face is basically a shrine to the achievements of plastic surgery. I really am not interested in the lives of people I will never meet; I prefer to extend my cares to the people around me in my own life. That is not to say that I do not appreciate the hard work of many talented individuals who truly deserve their fame.

Yet it is impossible not to be infected by the celebrity culture that has become an off-shoot of 21st century modern life, even in the Winter Olympics, when each new crash, or even Lindsay Vonn's use of make-up is raised on the same pedestal as the jaw-dropping achievements and atheletic finesse of the Olympic competitors themselves.

Yeats

Surprise, surprise I've never held much patience for poetry. I'd rather say what I mean through plain prose rather than being restricted by rhythm, rhyme and meter. Yet my seminar tutor claimed that English is the only language that falls naturally into iambic pentameter. It is not possible to fit any other language in the world, whether it be French, Greek, Spanish, German , into the tight constraint of Shakespeare's favoured meter. But leaving all that in an imaginary corner, I found a poem I really like, by W.B Yeats of all people:

Broken Dreams

There is grey in your hair.
Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath
When you are passing;
But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
Because it was your prayer
Recovered him upon the bed of death.
For your sole sake - that all heart's ache have known,
And given to others all heart's ache,
From meagre girlhood's putting on
Burdensome beauty - for your sole sake
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
So great her portion in that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
Your beauty can but leave among us
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
A young man when the old men are done talking
Will say to an old man, "Tell me of that lady
The poet stubborn with his passion sang us
When age might well have chilled his blood.'
Vague memories, nothing but memories,
But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed.
The certainty that I shall see that lady
Leaning or standing or walking
In the first loveliness of womanhood,
And with the fervour of my youthful eyes,
Has set me muttering like a fool.
You are more beautiful than any one,
And yet your body had a flaw:
Your small hands were not beautiful,
And I am afraid that you will run
And paddle to the wrist
In that mysterious, always brimming lake
Where those What have obeyed the holy law
paddle and are perfect. Leave unchanged
The hands that I have kissed,
For old sake's sake.
The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have
ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:
Vague memories, nothing but memories.

I don't think I'll ruin it with over-analysis.. or rather my very poor analytical skills when it comes to poetry.

In other news, my love of the pub has grown over the past week. The Rusty Bike in Exeter is the only pub I've come across where it is entirely acceptable to play Cluedo and drink lemonade. As welcoming and warm Firehouse might be, it is refreshing to go somewhere where lethal £5 white wine is not a requirement of the night.

I have just observed Emmy's Pennsylvania Road attire: pyjama bottoms tucked into oversized socks, worn with flip-flops. As sad as it may sound, this is a very practical choice of clothing in the current environment; the height of student house couture, dare I say. She could do with another ten jumpers or so though. And possibly some long-johns. After all, the spirit of student housing is apparently to adopt so-called outdoor items for indoor use. I.e - flip flops are to be worn in the shower, not for the beach. Perfectly sane.

Lingo.

Honestly, what does set one apart as 'posh'? I could laugh in the face of anyone who said such about me; the sad thing is I am aware that people have. This has been made even more apparent by spending my first year in the confines of Holland Hall, the infamous dumping ground for ex public school-goers. The fact I was considered 'stuck up' by some is one of the most hilarious notions I have ever heard - one night in Holland Hall would be enough to expose that assumption as a complete mockery. Many people opposed to the 'posh' clan at Exeter have often described the female version of said clan (rah) as mindless bottle-blonde clones of one another, each sporting the latest in lacrosse wear and fighting a subconscious battle over who has the messiest hair/highest top-knot. Complete with the drawling sound: "Oh yaaaaaaaaah." I will never forget hearing one said girl appearing genuinely upset when she discovered she had only a wincy £400 to last her for the weekend.

Setting aside the ridiculous New Labour claim that Britain is and aims to be a 'classless society', I would say that I am the perfect example of Britain's middle-class, through and through. I'm the daughter of a dentist - one can't get any more bourgeois than that. I did ballet, horse riding, piano and clarinet. I attended Brownies and Guides, and was put through the rigours of an all-girls grammar school. I would say I've turned out pretty well as a result; the idea of having a child my age makes me physically shudder, and I seem to have inherited my mother's standard of cleanliness and order. Although I am aware I do not need to worry about money at this stage, I still know how to budget and am quickly becoming a lover of the cocktail bar rather than scrum-pit nightclubs.

This all occurred to me the other day when discussing accents. I would say that my accent is fairly neutral, despite being born and raised in the West Country, land of the farmers and inbred (stereotype, stereotype). Perhaps there is the odd twang about certain words. For instance, my mother is unable to say the words 'girl' or 'thirteen' without exposing just a little of her Plymouthian upbringing. Yet it is rather tragic that we all make assumptions based on peoples' accents. I know it sounds awful, but as soon as I hear a Scouse accent, it makes me cringe internally. Welsh accents I can now only attribute to various X-Factor nobodies, and London accents make country-bumpkins like me down in little old Devonshire feel positively Medieval in terms of lifestyle and fashion habits. Indeed, such assumptions need not be so relevant any more. My friends and I reguarly greet each other with the word 'Yo' and definately using terms such as 'crazy times' and 'so gay' far more than is necessary. But that's just youthful lingo, not excluding the obligatory hyperbolic statements of 'OH MY GOD' and 'Kill me now'.

But whatever, I'll continue to use my neutral, unremarkable middle-class English accent, and continue my suitably middle-class pursuit of gaining my degree. But in the short term, bed time for me.

Night night, sleep tight. Don't let the bed-bugs bite.

Emo-ness

With recent events, year 2 at uni has hardly been easy. It's meant that I have spent more time in my dear Plymouth than I ever thought possible during term time. Yet it has raised in me a deep sense of appreciation for my home and family that I would not have been made aware of otherwise. Being diagnosed with depression was something that didn't exactly come as a shock - I did think it a little odd that I would burst into tears over my pen running out, for instance. I knew at once that was not me.. But the sense of realisation only came when I was sat in my tutor's office, being told it would go on my student record and be taken into consideration for the rest of my academic career at Exeter.

That aside, the most poisonous thing about the condition is how my faith in humankind has been drastically reduced. The side-effect of depression is the feeling of loneliness and isolation that often leads people who are unaware of my inner turmoil to suppose I am being deliberately aloof and anti-social. I am painfully aware that I sound like an absolute emo in saying something like that, but truth of the matter is that for once in my life I have to be selfish and stop feeling responsible for everyone and everything. This means keeping myself happy so that the rest of my life can follow suit in a reasonable fashion. In a sense, I can realise something positive - it has strengthened and deepened both friendships, my relationship, and my bonds with my family. I find the best way to deal with hardships is to make them funny, although often that humour is disconcertingly dark in content.

The above witterings have reminded me of something I saw the other day, the Vampire Diaries, fresh from America. Like most of our TV now. It is, honest to God, one of the worst and deeply comical TV shows I have EVER seen. Admittedly, I have not read any of the books the TV series is based on. As A result, I view the show as sacrilege in comparison to Twilight. Or perhaps that's my obsession with Robert Pattinson. Emmy and I were left rolling around with laughter at the predictability of the plot and the cheesiness of the lines. A lot of it was damn unrealistic, such as the young, handsome history teacher, seemingly the only member of staff at the school, shouting at Aunt Jenna for being a terrible parent figure, laying into her with such venom that it entirely destroys its credibility. I detect a faint whiff of fantasy somewhere here, on part of the writers. The girl (the Bella Swan equivalent) spends her time writing the same sort of sorrowful lines "today I will smile and it will all be OK" over and over again. One emphasis is enough, not repeating the same sentence every episode.

I am being cynical and overly-critical yet again, I suppose. I should just accept the Vampire Diaries for what it is: another off-shoot of the vampire craze currently sweeping the States. But I really do hope my blog is not as wet and unconvincing as the script writing of this show.

Zodiac bullshit.

Never have I sampled such a pile of sanctimonious drivel as there is to be found in these zodiac compatibility theories. Emmy and I are just the height of cool in ditching the delights of Arena the nightclub and alcohol abuse, and substituting it for an evening of Ferrero Rocher chocolate and Spotify (absolute genius of an invention that I refuse to pay £9.99 a month for - absolute daylight robbery - music should be free to all the world). But to be honest, in my present state of mind, staying in is all I seem to want to do. Gladly, I will extend my sociable abilities to the odd evening out in Firehouse (the best pub in Exeter) with a few close, well-chosen friends. Yet I cannot help feeing a sense of alienation that comes naturally, when you are at university. And a by-word for university now seems to be the necessity to be inebriated regularly. So the majority would probably find it a little odd that I'd rather not go out at all, and instead spend my time laughing at Michael Jackson videos on YouTube (private joke that really takes too much typing effort to explain).

But to return to the theme of horoscopes, being atheist, I really have a very hard time finding believing that celestial goings-on really affect our puny little human lives. Qualities attached to certain starsigns (eg Cancer is very sensitive, and takes after the crab the the protective 'shell' they draw around themselves) are in my opinion purely coincidental. Horoscopes don't seem to allow for people who fall inbetween. For instance, take the following sentence, the product of general Googling of my star sign Cancer: "Cancer hugs are world class and Cancer's snuggles are second to none"... I think this is something I am fairly competent all human beings are capable of, regardless of their birth date...infact this subject is so entirely ridiculous to me that I do not wish to even waste any further typing space. Kapeesh.

And now to return to the mundane existence of student house life: picking my way through the product of human laziness with well-honed tunnel vision. I find it almost comical that I willingly signed for a house that has a washing machine and dryer situated in what was once probably the outhouse. This involves battling my way across the "garden" (a patch of gravel, decorated with various beer boxes, interspersed with the odd weed) for the sole purpose of washing my clothes. Delightful. And primitive by today's standards of modern living. I could go on for hours..I'll reserve that for another day.

Vanilla latte.

Fantabulous, my own blog. What larks. I now join the ranks of millions all over the world in posting my musings out into the world of the wide-wide-web. This might yet prove to be a grand mistake, however it has been advised that I find some sort of creative outlet for the goings-on and happenings in my life. I couldn't help but think of this as a terribly self indulgent thing to do - absolutely nothing of note happens in my life, therefore this could be impossibly boring for any poor soul to stumble across this. I thought, however, it was time to move beyond the sundry bounds of Facebook 'notes'.

It would be quite a fair judgement to say that my student life in the grand city of Exeter now centres mostly around my next Starbucks-tall-skinny-vanilla-latte-no-cream. I am not quite sure whether it is a tragic or heartening fact that the man in the local Exeter High Street branch knows my order off by heart. This might have something to with the fact my darling friend and confidante Emmy spend hours and hours in said branch. Our addiction to the frothy steamed goodness is a mere contributing factor for this glorified wasting of time. Starbucks also happens to be warm, with an excellent background hum of conversation and also boasts several of Exeter's finest Strange People to act as unwitting subjects of my scrutiny. Oddly enough, it also allows my mind to focus on whatever mindless drivel I've been set to read for the week. I can honestly say that it will take a lot of lattes to get through the up-coming Ulysses. I almost started having palpitations when I saw it in all its 732-page glory.

This is hardly an inspiring statement from a 2nd year English student. But it is not without reason; my degree is slowly but surely sucking away my enthusiasm and enjoyment of reading. This is because I am subjected to (in my wizened opinion) god-awful books, and poetry for that matter. I have absolutely no patience, for instance, for the pages and pages of prose entirely lacking in punctuation. This is perfectly constituted within Gertrude Stein's An Autobiography of Alice B. Tolkas which only left me with an intense desire to go through the entire book again, adding appropriate commas, semi-colons and sentence-rearrangements. Kim by Rudyard Kipling might have won the Nobel Prize for Literature, yet it does not prevent it from being mind-numbingly boring, especially to the female reader. The entire novel concerns nothing but a big boy's game.

Amongst other works, I have had to force my eyes to read some truly devastatingly boring prose recently. Heralded as an apparent cultural classic, the prize of American Literature, Moby Dick caused physical brain pain for the majority of my English peers. It was torture for the eyes; despite being made aware of the incredible and unending riches to be found within Melville's masterpiece, it did not stop it from being just horrendously, mind-numbingly dull.

Do forgive my cynicism; there is a lot more of it to come. This first attempt at a post details the facts I am a 2nd year English student at Exeter University, and I hate most of what I have to read - how encouraging and thrilling. Do be assured, dear reader, that I do have something of an essence of the good in my life. I have the most wonderful friends who share my love for good food, quick humour, hard work and of course, love of the latte. I am also indebted to my boyfriend for keeping me sane, and the works of Graham Greene and Shakespeare to keep my faith in literature (believe it or not). And Emmy-Lou to stop me from kicking holes in the wall and wearing away the skin on my hands with fruitless cleaning efforts. And I am absolutely prepared for the fact that I will undoubtedly end up the female equivalent of Victor Meldrew by the age of 30.

Look at that, I wrote a blog post instead of reading Henry IV. Damn.