M is for Maturity (In Other Words)

There is no surer sign that I’m significantly older and more grizzled than I was two years ago than attempting to elbow my way across a campus full of innocently sweet and optimistic freshers (the poor fools, they have absolutely no idea what’s in store for them. I could almost laugh) and scarily enthusiastic volunteers brandishing informative leaflets. Running (or more accurately, weaving) said gauntlet without being obliged to accept a sheaf of newsletters or a fistful of freebies used to be something of a tragedy, one of dramatically Greek proportions. Now it’s very much an achievement.

So this is what it means to be that little bit more grown up. Though, a little side note at this point, I should make it very clear indeed that I am in no way laying claim to maturity in its entirety – I’m not sure I’ll ever get quite that far. True, I’ve recently spent time sorting out bills and television licenses and the like but come on, I’m a student, it’s all about avoiding the real world, staying neatly wrapped in our unreal bubble. But anyway, this example of encroaching age relates to not being bothered about stuff that used to be important to you.

On the other hand, is maturity really just about getting older? I know plenty of people with plenty of years under their belts who couldn’t possibly have a mental age over five or so (alright, perhaps I might be exaggerating a very little bit. They might well have reached the teenage years, the early ones anyway). It’s certainly true to say that you can be born old, grumpy and prickly, a stickler for the rules and regulations. Of course, we need such people in our world, they are excellent at filling in forms (and are wonderful when you poke underneath their austere exterior and really get to know them. Probably). So maturity can be accumulated and can also evaporate in a moment of tiredness or excitement. Fantabulous.


L is for Lesbian

I took a gamble. Whilst flicking through random pages on the internet, idly browsing for a little inspiration, I boldly (because I couldn’t really come up with something to write about and I just needed to do something, anything) took the decision to base the day’s blog post on the very next word I noticed beginning with the letter l. And then there it was, cheekily sidling into view, waving jauntily and daring me to write about it, lesbian. Now I’m a largely rational human being, I have nothing against lesbians. I’ve even met some, they seem perfectly normal and everything. I’m just not sure I’ve got anything much to say about them. Oh dear.

So it’s rather unfortunate that at this point in time I have in fact run out of anything to say about lesbians. This is all the fault of one George Bush (the older one, not the replicant who came along a bit later and stole his job – you know the one I mean), he just had to show up as a witness at the wedding of a lovely lady couple in Maine. If he had never done such a thing, the article wouldn’t have popped up in my browser and I now wouldn’t be obliged to write about a subject I have no material on (I am not stalling), it is quite literally the most inconsiderate thing he and anyone else in his family has ever done.

Well then, lesbians. I’ve heard some wonderful things about them. This is mainly because I listen to quite a lot of Radio 4 (it couldn’t be any cooler, it commissions more comedy than any other channel in the country. According to a radio comedy writer who gave a talk I went to) and the likes of Sandi Toksvig, Susan Calman and Sue Perkins. Hmm lesbians are suddenly looking pretty good, there are some things I clearly need to investigate. Maybe I should do a Google search…

K is for Kittens

Why do things have to grow up? One day, kittens are delightful little bundles of frolicking fluffiness and joy and then they’re not. Now if you’re lucky then said feline will mature into a sweet and affectionate kitty cat who’s never in the mood to pass up a decent belly rub, one who will bring you presents (albeit in the form of small animals it has slaughtered in an effort to make sure you don’t starve because it thinks you’re an absolutely abysmal hunter – I’ve been reading some theories on Buzzfeed. Interesting huh?) and will try exceedingly hard not to poo on your rug.

This is unfortunately only a description of a very small subset of cats. There are unhappily a great many who transition from being wonderfully friendly and joyful young ones to being deeply grumpy and cantankerous wielders of fearsome claws who would dearly love to take an impassioned swipe at you were you not the bearer of the tin opener without which the poor pussycats would be denied access to the heady feast that is held within be it fishy and flaky or meaty and chunky (it’s been a while since I’ve seen a cat food advert, I’m not entirely sure what it is they’re supposed to eat).

I’m not saying that these cats hate you. Not necessarily anyway. They just couldn’t care less whether you live or die (provided they continue being fed) and hold you in a state of effortless disdain. It’s true that they respond to the odd stroke or tickle (that sounds a bit odd now doesn’t it. I don’t have a cat, I don’t do this to any of them. Unless they’re really asking for it. You know, after they’ve wandered over to me in the street and made it clear that they want me to pet them) but they could get the same satisfaction from any inanimate object they rub against at the correct angle. You’re just convenient.

J is for Justification

I don’t want Benedict Cumberbatch to succeed in life. Before you go and get all enraged and everything, hear me out. You may or may not be aware that I am a relatively avid fan of the radio sitcom Cabin Pressure penned by the sublime Mr John Finnemore (I’ve only mentioned this a few hundred times or so, it’s perfectly understandable if you didn’t already know). There are currently twenty five episodes of said series in existence. I would very much like for there to be a great deal more (I’m working on the noble art of understatement, what I mean by the previous sentiment that if new episodes don’t crop up sooner or later I will be forced to do something drastic. True, I have absolutely no idea what that might be but once I do, you’ll really understand where I’m coming from on this).

There are plenty of reasons why a show like this might be put on hold. It could be the writer’s fault, they’re too busy or they lack incentive or whatever. However, I don’t think that’s quite what’s going on here. No, I’m fairly sure it’s because Benedict, who plays an integral character, is far too busy being a big shot Hollywood A lister. Of course this is wonderful for him, well deserved success for a talented actor and all that.

But I really want the cliffhanger resolved, we were rather left in the lurch at the end of the last series. Is it so very unrealistic for me to expect, nay demand, the world to revolve around my hopes and dreams? How am I supposed to get through the rest of time without knowing for sure whether or not Martin took the job and MJN subsequently folded? That is most certainly not a rhetorical question (I need help. There really ought to be more things of consequence in my life. Probably. This is still a matter of the utmost importance though).

I is for Itch

Dear Itch, you might not have realised quite exactly what’s going on between us so I’m dropping you this quick note. It’s a courtesy (though I’d hate for my veneer of politeness to confuse you when it comes to my feelings towards you, don’t worry though, they may well become rather apparent as this goes on), nothing more. I am ignoring you, actively and consistently.

Once this communication is over, I’ll never directly address you again if I can possibly help it. You know what? I’ve been terribly good, I’ve managed to resist you to a certain degree (alright, I may have periodically given in but come on, I’m only human. At least I think I am anyway). And yet you persist in pestering me, you are a quite literal pain in the bum (I’m oversharing again aren’t I? Oh dear). I hope you’re very happy with yourself indeed because I have no idea how you live with yourself. Now there is a compelling argument that you’re not really an entity with any sense of consciousness or willpower but I can’t see how that’s possible. You’re definitely far too sneaky and insidious and perverse for that to be the case.

So let me make something crystal clear for your consideration. You are entirely and utterly unwelcome. I don’t want you, how could I possibly want you? You make my life a misery. That might be a very slight overstatement but at the very least I’m sure that even you can understand that you’re ensuring that things are pretty uncomfortable for me. I have absolutely no idea what you plan to achieve by bothering me in this fashion, what a bleak and depressing existence. I actually somewhat pity you, you wretched plague on nice, hardworking folk (like myself). Now brace yourself because I am going to return to my previous state of pretending very hard indeed that you don’t exist.

H is for Hurricane of Hippos

Well if Sharknado (Sharknado, noun: 1. A tornado containing within it an avalanche worth of sharks 2. A deeply ridiculous made for television film that came out earlier this year which I’m happy to admit that I haven’t actually seen even though according to Wikipedia it got relatively good reviews) can be a real thing then I don’t really see why I can’t have a go at this sort of invention. Of course it is in its infancy, this idea of mine, so I’m not entirely sure which portmanteau name I’m going to bless it with.

I’m simply not sure which is potentially scarier; the vicious hippocane or the incredibly deadly hurripotamus (though that might already be claimed as the descriptive term for a hippopotamus running late for an urgent dental appointment). However, these are minor details, I’m certain that you’ll have no choice but to agree with me when I say that the real meat of this concept is undoubtedly the plot. Or it would be if I’d actually put any work towards devising any semblance of a plot.

Then again, perhaps the plot isn’t quite as important as we originally considered it to be (believe me, I’m as embarrassed as you are to have to admit that we were in fact wrong). After all, have people chosen to see Sharknado for the grand saga it lays out with many an unexpected twist and turn? No, something tells me that the pull of such a film depends rather heavily on the special effects, the grandeur of witnessing distinctly aggressive sharks whizzing through the air towards vulnerable and fleshy humans who you might just have seen in something else (have I invented the fact that Tara Reid’s in it?). So whatever the minutiae of plot might turn out to be, you can depend on the fact that Hippocane will be a swashbuckling, rip-roaring ride containing many an airborne hippo hurtling towards an unsuspecting soon to be human pancake.

G is for Galaxy

I miss the way that Galaxy used to look. I know that it’s incredibly pretty, pining for what used to be and that not everything in this world should be down to aesthetics, what’s on the outside and that. Perhaps I’m just yearning for a simpler time, way back when there weren’t such things as daily internet blogs and I didn’t have to feel quite so guilty for spending so much time with chocolate (because I was too young to be able to get my head properly round the concept of calories).

Some of you might well be scratching your heads at this point (just a gentle suggestion, not trying to nag but simply because I care about you and your wellbeing very deeply but it could well be a not completely terrible idea for you to maybe have a go at attempting to get that lice situation under control. Merely putting it out there, I understand if you don’t want to go for it, it’s a pride thing or whatever. You might be feeling good about the fact that you’re providing for a whole family, nay an entire community, albeit one of a completely different genus. It’s a starting point anyway).

Many of you will not be like me, you might be too young to remember that there even was any difference in the appearance of Galaxy packaging, maybe you remember various incarnations of packaging even before the one I’m thinking of (well done to you for that) or maybe you don’t pay quite the same amount of attention to chocolate as I do (what can you possibly have going on in your lives that’s more important?). To clarify matters you could try googling to see ghost of chocolate’s past but I doubt that would help that much because I just tried it and it didn’t turn up anything that promising. Oh well, I miss what used to be, c’est la vie unfortunately.