You and me are great - everyone else is disgusting

This morning on my way to work, I was sitting opposite a man in a suit. He didn't have a newspaper. He didn't have a book. He looked bored. So after a few minutes, he followed the example of five-year-olds the world over, and cured his boredom by sticking a finger as far up his nose as possible. He really foraged around in there. He was immersed up to the first knuckle. And then he brought his finger out, and absentmindedly licked it, and then sucked it. At this point I gagged. And then he inserted it back into his nose for another helping.

The weirdest part was that he wasn't remotely surreptitious about it. He was looking around, making eye contact with his fellow passengers, reading the adverts on the wall of the tube... and all the while, digging about in his left nostril. It was as though picking your nose and eating it was the most natural and appropriate thing in the world to do in front of strangers.

Then on tonight's journey home, I was squashed tightly between Arsehole McElbows and Stinky von Halitosis. The former was hogging my armrest and jabbing me aggressively in the side, but I was forced to turn my head towards him just to get out of the air current coming from the girl on my left. I think she may have had some sort of gum scurvy. Something was definitely decomposing.

In summary, today was not a good day for me and public transport. That's all.

Flobber

I'm about to inflict my second ever meme on you. If you don't know what a meme is, you could read my last one, although to be honest I think I might have been delirious when I wrote it so maybe don't bother.

Anyway, my fellow blogger Brother Tobias tagged me to do this meme, and it's quite a fun/easy one so I'm going to do it. Here are the rules:

• Link to the person who tagged you (done)
• Post the rules on your blog (done)
• Write six random facts about yourself
• Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them (I'm not going to do this, but if anyone else wants to meme it up real sweet, I would be interested to read what you've got to say)
  

And thus we begin a little story I like to call: Six Random Facts About Hattie.

1. I can't ride a bike. I've mentioned this in passing before, but I've never really explained it, so here goes. My parents tried to persuade me to learn. Sadly, even at the age of four, or whenever it is that you start doing that kind of thing, I already had the fear of hurting myself that was later to become my trademark. I was quite happy pedalling up and down the street with my stabilisers on, but I didn't want to take them off and go through the horrible process where you teeter around and fall off and graze your legs. Then it got to the stage when my friends' younger siblings were taking off their stabilisers, and suddenly it just became too humiliating to learn alongside them. So I can't ride a bike. I did almost learn a couple of summers ago in France. I have video footage of that, which I thought about posting up here, but it's embarrassing for two reasons: (1) it's footage of a grown woman who can't ride a bike, and (2) I'm wearing a bikini and I look all pale and flobbery. Anyway it was very hot and I didn't want to put my health at risk by overexerting myself, so I ended up sunbathing instead of cycling. Thus I still can't do it.


2. I once met Chris Morris. Actually it was last weekend, and he was very nice and unaffected and interesting. (I know that name-dropping is frowned upon, but since he's a bit of a hero of mine and it is a fact that I have met him, I thought it might be acceptable.)


3. Several years ago, I had spectacular and sudden food poisoning, and vomited all over my bedroom floor. I was in such a bad state that I couldn't begin to clean it up, so my then boyfriend gallantly stepped in and washed the (revolting) carpet, while I lay sweating and shaking in another room (I was barely conscious, but the smell was too bad even for me). He then spent two days nursing me and sleeping next to me, even when I was vomiting all through the night into a bucket by the bed. I can't even think of the words to express how grateful I was in my sickly, helpless state. Anyway, I'll get to the point: a few weeks later, for unconnected reasons, we broke up. I still feel really guilty that he did such a nice thing for me in the dying days of our relationship. I should really invite him round and let him be sick in my room. It's only fair.


4. When I was a kid I watched the unbelievably '80s film Mannequin every Friday night. I did this while eating fish fingers and chips. Every Friday. For years. This was my favourite bit:




5. These facts aren't painting me in a very positive light, are they? I'll tell you a better one: I'm a bloody great speller. I only wish that I had been born in America, so that I could've taken part in spelling bees and had my remarkable talent recognised across the nation. I would probably be President by now. I would.
   


6. I'm a terrible, incorrigible flirt. I really enjoy it, but it doesn't half get me into trouble. Still, if I wasn't a flirt, I'd just be a non-bike-riding, pale, flobbery geek, so I think it's a valuable part of my repertoire. People aren't so interested in talking about spelling, but if I wink coquettishly and compliment them on their hair, they're all ears. If I didn't do that, I'd probably have to clean up my own sick.
   

Ariane and the Atheist Bus Campaign

I planned to write a little post to promote my friend Ariane Sherine's Atheist Bus Campaign. The idea was that if enough people blogged about it, donations might reach Ariane's target of £5,500, which is what she needed to run 30 buses across London for four weeks, each bearing this advert (sorry it's so teeny):


Anyway, as it happens, the target was reached at 10.06am, only ten hours after the campaign launched, and well before I got round to blogging. At this precise moment, the total donated stands at £18,432.81, and it's rising incredibly quickly. On top of that, Richard Dawkins has pledged to donate £5,500 to Ariane's campaign, which will continue to spread a positive atheist message with the extra funds. If you like the idea and would like to actively support atheism, you can still donate here.

I'm an atheist, not because I'm against religion but because I've never been able to think of a good reason to believe. When I saw this article in New York Magazine in April, I thought, "Yeah, why shouldn't we club together and support each other in the way that religious people do?" And then I swiftly forgot about it.

I wouldn't want to get rid of religion. I think there are positive aspects to it, and I also believe that it's nobody's business but your own what you believe. Having said that, I don't expect anyone to foist religion on me, and I do object to the misleading and emotionally manipulative adverts for the Alpha Course, for example, which had a very negative impact on a friend of mine. Ariane's campaign carries a funny, reassuring message for a modern, secular Britain, and isn't rude, offensive or aggressive. I'm really impressed by Ariane: she had an idea that captured people's imaginations, and she's made a huge success of it. And when even Richard Dawkins is saying nice things about you, you must be doing something right.

Smilo

I've been trying to write something for the blog, but I'm running low on inspiration today. I just wrote a post all about depression, which was a hoot as you can imagine, so I've saved that for another time when you really need cheering up.

I'm listening to In Rainbows, which is always guaranteed to do two things: (1) make me want to write; (2) make me depressed. Unless I want to turn the blog into a copy of one of my adolescent diaries, I think it's best if I switch this off and try some Simon and Garfunkel or something. OK, done.

I'm going to see my nephew Milo this afternoon - the person who can cheer me up like no one else. I haven't written about him for a while, but he's even more lovely at seven months old than he was as a newborn. He talks (not English); he laughs; he plays; when I bath him he splashes his fists repeatedly into the water until the carpet, my clothes and my hair are all soaked. This would be irritating with anyone over the age of four, but is somehow adorable with a baby. He's just wonderful, really. For some reason it makes me feel good to spend time with someone who finds my painted nails, my jewellery and my hair all so fascinating that he goes wide-eyed, shrieks with excitement, and then tries to cram them into his mouth.

(By the way, it turns out Simon and Garfunkel wasn't what I was after. What my psyche really wanted was Cars by Gary Numan.)

From Badger to Barack

Good God, my crush on Obama is raging out of control. He's eloquent, he's clever, he's moral, he's charismatic: he seems to be the daydream we've been nurturing to distract ourselves while that Republican moron has been in the White House.

Considering the USA seems to control the western world these days, it's frustrating not to be able to vote outside America, or to be able to help in any way with the campaign. To make myself feel a bit better about being stuck here and totally useless, I've added a Barack Obama badge to the blog - below right. I'm pretty sure all my readers are either voting Obama already, or not American, so this badge is going to make no difference whatsoever. It cheers me up to look at it, though.

Badger

As far as I know, most people had one special teddy bear that they treasured throughout their childhoods. I know this because I've discovered beloved, threadbare soft toys in the bedrooms of some of my most macho ex-boyfriends (when I say 'most macho', bear in mind that I've mostly gone out with troubled artists and that kind of thing. I'm not comparing a wrestler and a bouncer here).

Anyway, my special bear was more of a badger. His name was Badger. (My sister has a treasured toy too: he's a blue teddy. His name is Blue Ted. Maybe my parents didn't read us enough stories.)

He came into my life when I was four years old. I had measles and a high temperature, and my parents were worried. I remember my mum leaning close to the bed and asking if there was anything that would make me feel better. "Get me a toy..." I croaked weakly, "...that I can dress and undress." I had a God complex even then.

A couple of hours later she returned with Badger, who was wearing blue and white stripey pyjama bottoms, some pretty snazzy tartan slippers, and a red velvet dressing gown with a pocket. Thrillingly, the clothes weren't actually sewn on to his body. Revived by the gift, I took them all off. Then I lost them. Badger was to spend the next 21 years in the nude.

Other toys came and went, but Badger was there through my whole childhood. I used his head as a pillow. His snout, which had once pointed at a slight diagonal, as though he was gazing wistfully into the mid-distance, soon became squashed at a right angle to his body. He was forever looking off to the side. He didn't mind.

My mum and I devised a whole personality for Badger. He was intellectual. He wasn't interested in kids' games. He was always doing evening classes in things like philosophy and politics at Newcastle University. He enjoyed fine wines and the occasional cigar.

Last week I went home to pack my room up, and as usual, found Badger chilling out in bed, naked as the day he was born. When I cleared out my bedside table, I found his long-lost (and very dusty) clothes. I thought about packing Badger - who was also a bit dusty - and his things in a box, but I knew he'd be really pissed off by the time he reached London in the removal van, so I brought him on the train with me.

All this explains why now, hanging on the dryer in my living room, next to two t-shirts, a cardigan and a dress, are a very small dressing gown and some tiny pyjamas ("It looks like we've got the fanciest baby ever," noted Sandeep). In my bedroom, propped on the radiator, are a little pair of slippers and a slightly bedraggled and resentful-looking (but clean) Badger. I think he's going to like London - the theatres, the restaurants, the women - but God knows how he's going to take the news that he can't sleep in my bed any more.

Dead Set

On Sunday I was invited to Bafta, where I attended a screening of Dead Set, the forthcoming E4 horror series written by Charlie Brooker.

I should point out that I am not the kind of person who is often invited to Bafta. I spent most of the afternoon (after the screening) sitting quietly in the bar while more important people chatted over my head. Nevertheless, I'm glad I went - Dead Set is clever, it's scary, and I wholeheartedly recommend you watch it: Monday 27th October on E4. Trailer below...

26. Start flossing

I have a week off work. I have a to-do list with 25 tasks on it. I've done the seven easiest ones. I'm currently listening to the Ladyhawke album at an antisocial volume, and gazing despondently at my tax return, which I really, really, really don't want to deal with.

Yesterday I decided to bite the bullet and register with a London dentist. I called a local practice, who said they had no space for new NHS patients and referred me somewhere else. I called the second, slightly less local dentist, and had this conversation:

Me: Oh hello, I'd like to register as an NHS patient please.
Them: OK. What's your name and phone number?
[I painstakingly spell out my name, to avoid another 'Happy Christel' incident]
Them: Right, we're not taking new NHS patients at the moment, but I'll put you on our waiting list. We'll give you a call in three to six months.
Me: Three to six months?
Them: Thank you, goodbye. [click]

Urgh. What if my teeth all fall out next week? I could be Gappy Christel for half a year, for all they care.

Urgh again. Must stop procrastinating and get on with the to-dos. The tax return can fuck off, though.

The real insult is...

My clever friend Sarah recommended the website Dear Old Love on her blog - and I love it.

This one is my surprise favourite (so far), because when I read it, my train of thought went like this:

1. That's so funny.
   
2. What a weird thing to be offended by, though.
3. What a geek.
4. I don't use hotmail as my primary email.
5. I really hate hotmail, actually. It just doesn't work properly.
6. Gmail pisses all over hotmail.
7. Come to think of it, I always feel disappointed in a person when they give me a hotmail address.
8. ...
9. Oh dear.
10. I am that geek.

The Fan and the Flower

On 24th June 2005, a couple of days after I arrived in New York, I went to the Rooftop Film Festival at the Automotive High School in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. It was a weekly event through the summer, but that night the theme was love, and we watched ten short films on that topic. One that really stuck with me was The Fan and the Flower, an animation directed by Bill Plympton, written by Dan O'Shannon and voiced by Sideways' Paul Giamatti - it chronicled the unconsummated love affair between a ceiling fan and a potted plant.

I've never been able to remember what it was called though, which has been a source of irritation for the last three years. Anyway, today I found the programme from that very night, and I tracked down the film online. It's seven minutes 23 seconds long and it's silly, sweet and utterly charming - I would recommend giving it a watch*.

The other film that really stood out that night was I'd Rather Be Dead Than Live In This World - a 17 minute film by Andrew Semans about a couple who become so smitten with each other that they stop going out altogether and form a sort of cocoon in his flat. At one point I think they're driven to eat some kind of sauce or jam out of a jar just to survive, because they've eaten all the rest of the food and they can't bear to go out. It's weird, it's funny, it's surprisingly sexy and you can find more information about it (and a great trailer) here.

*This used to link to the film on Youtube, but it's now been withdrawn. Clearly the film maker doesn't want his work being screened for free all over the web, which is fair enough, if a little bit disappointing. To watch a clip from The Fan and the Flower, click here.

P.S. I updated this post in a hurry and have just discovered that for the last 15 hours or so, rather than directing readers to a film clip, I've been sending them to look at some shoes I bought online yesterday. Oops, sorry about that. The correct link is now in place. Nice shoes though, aren't they?

*Insert double entendre about self-raising flour here

I just received a spam email entitled 'Upsize your hotdog into a french loaf'. I didn't open it, but I'm fairly certain it wasn't offering baking advice.

I really appreciate it when a Viagra salesman takes the time to come up with smutty metaphors. That guy really went the extra mile. If I had a hotdog of my own, he might have just won himself a customer. Or not.

Packing off again

I'm going back to Newcastle to help my parents with their big house move - again. Last time I was clearing out school work, photos and notes; this time it will be old clothes (which I will mostly chuck out, in the hope that no one will ever see them again) and books (which I will mostly keep, because I'm weird about books).

I'll also be getting rid of a lot of shoes, and I've made it my mini mission to find a way to recycle them. Last week I discovered that at the end of my street is a shoe recycling bin, put there by these kind people (with a slightly weird website. Check out the 'Sites' section - I sort of thought it might have a list of locations, rather than a series of photos of bins?). They take your old shoes, however crappy, and transport them to Africa, where they are refurbished and given to people who need them. I'm really impressed by that idea, and by the thought that there are nice, altruistic people out there coming up with good things they can do for other people, and actually going to the trouble of implementing those ideas. I'm trying to remember the last time I did something charitable - other than just using the shoe recycling bin, which, let's face it, is a pretty paltry effort.

So anyway, I'm hoping I can find a way to recycle my old shoes in Newcastle. Failing that, it's going to be very difficult to just chuck them in the bin - and no one really wants to see me wearing my old flowery baseball boots around the streets of London, do they? Oh do they? Oh OK, I'll bring them down.

What a load of old goop

Claire has just drawn my attention to the brilliant Hadley Freeman's article in the Guardian, about Gwyneth Paltrow's new spiritual guidance website: Goop.com.

Who would like to join me in making 'goop' the new slang word for poo?

The results are in...

Well, it's been a record-breaking week on the blog. A mind-boggling two dozen votes were placed on my documentary dilemma. Yes, you did read that impressive figure correctly. Mum, you really put the hours in, and I appreciate that.

Anyway, it's time for me to reveal the result. The atmosphere is tenser than at one of those Eurovision song contests when Terry Wogan starts complaining that it's all political and that Norway and Sweden always give England nil points, or something. So, 62 per cent of you voted for me to take part in the potentially fun matchmaking documentary. But sorry, giddily optimistic voters: I went with the 37 per cent of you who thought it would be a terrible and humiliating mistake. (The other 1 per cent must have chosen secret option no. 3.)

That's right, I'm not doing it. It turns out that my journalist friend wants a sweeter girl - the kind of girl who will wholeheartedly enter the process looking for love. She doesn't want somebody who will make sarcastic comments all through the interview, then spend the whole date text messaging while repeatedly mumbling, "This is so embarrassing." So she's decided to dump me. I've been dumped, and I didn't even go on the date in the first place.

I feel good about the situation, though. I like my love-seeking to be a bit more spontaneous. And anyway, Ariane had some kind words: "I wouldn’t do it. When you go on to be wildly famous and successful, they’ll wheel out 'When Hattie Went On A Date' on every talk show."

That's right: when I am wildly famous and successful. And I'm going to get started on building my fame and success just as soon as I've finished eating this toast and reading Heat magazine.

P.S. The poll was fun though, wasn't it? Must do that again.