Writing, not writing, job-hunting, Irishmen...

I am supposed to be writing a blog. But not this blog. The blog I should be writing is for my new gig and that's my number one new piece of news to tell you.

Firstly, I should state that I still don't have a proper job. Sorry, didn't mean to get you all excited there. Instead, I am the official theatre blogger for London Underbelly (you may, should you fancy, check out my first blog here ( http://www.londonunderbelly.com/ ) It's unpaid but, y'know, it's experience. And a good chance to make contacts etcetera. Except making contacts, networking and all that jazz is my least favourite thing to do. I just want to get pissed with cool people who don’t judge instead of worrying if they are useful/important/impressed by me.

But as my wise friend Simon pointed out last night (At least I think he did, I was a little drunk and the music in the bar was noisy) if I want to get into this sort of work then a-schmoozing I will have to get. Writing is, after all, all about contacts. People have to like you to publish you and have to know you to like you. But supposing they don't like you? Why wouldn't they? BECAUSE YOU SUCK!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry, minor nervous breakdown. Well Suzie, the very cool head of London Underbelly was complimentary about my first blog so that boosted my confidence for approx 5 mins before it once again plummeted, dropped out my ass onto the floor and slithered down the nearest drain. So I've spent the last 7 hours procrastinating about my second blog (even though it's only about 500 words). I thought if I wrote this one instead it might at least kick my writer's block (more like writer's paralysis) into gear.

Onto the next update: The job-hunt continues. I signed on for the first time last week. I'd expected a dismal queue in a cold grey room with bump-and-grinding men as depicted in the Full Monty and was somewhat sad to be allocated a comfy seat in an overheated room opposite a guy who looked a bit like your pervy uncle. I badgered him into sorting me an appointment at a recruitment consultancy and to be fair, I was in there for a good hour while Unc went above and beyond to sort it all out for me. And the next day off I went. My recruitment consultant's name was Baz. He had a Hoxton fin. To be fair to Baz, he has since sent me some useful links and an action plan but I did have the feeling that our meeting was more about how great he was at his job rather than finding one for me. At one point, he told me he was a very creative person and had, on his wall, an Andy Warhol quote on how “being good in business was the best kind of art”. A little bit of me died there and then. And when looking at charity/arts-based jobs for me he exclaimed 'I don't know how you work for these people. They don't pay very much, do they?' GRRRRRRRRRR. I fear we will never see eye to eye, but then maybe that's what I need to kick my ass.

Piece of news number three is that the drought is over! Whilst out dressed as a broken doll for Halloween I hooked me a guy. We were at a pub in Peckham Rye and he came over, slightly pissed and said ‘Can I just say, you have the best boobs on the Rye?’ Well, it was much more charming than the usual ‘UGGGGGHHH NICE TITS!’ I must confess, I didn’t get an instant fanny gallop when he approached but he did look like a good manly man... and then I realised- he was Irish! From Donegal! And you know how that works on me. So we had a nice chat, yeah yeah yeah, you can fill in the blanks there but all I’m saying is it was similar to that whole Rugby Sevens/Afro French man/Spicy Fingers incident...

So I arranged to meet yer man on Monday. We went out for cocktails and had an excellent drunken time. As the old joke goes- Irish first date? Get drunk and have sex. Ladylike decorum prevents me from telling you whether we did or not though (Oh, take a guess!)

The next day, as I staggered through M&S at London Bridge with debilitating hangover, I didn’t glimpse déjà vu so much as was whacked repeatedly over the head with it. After all, this was exactly how I spent my mid-twenties. Too much drinking? Celtic men? Bruises in sensitive places? Shouldn’t I be over this by now?! The worrying continued; will I still be doing this when I’m nearing 40? And then I thought- is that such a bad thing?!!

Yesterday was spent recovering, drinking again and then watching a great play at The Rose and that is what I am now supposed to be writing about. I still can’t take myself seriously as ‘A WRITER’ though. I just feel so embarrassed talking to people about WRITING and WRITING this blog like they’re going to look me up and down with disdain, hissing softly while I admit, actually, that I cannot write; that in fact, I’m a grand eejit with no talents and should spend the rest of my life in my room, under my duvet, slowly festering until I die because that is all I am good at.

Harsh. But writing matters to me so I paralyse myself with fear that I can’t do it. I think, along with my terror of networking, I may have to get over that.

What I like today: not having a hangover, green tea, The Apprentice, the word ‘eejit’.

What I don’t like today: not having a job, writer’s terror (which I do not get because I am not a writer

This is hell and I am in it

Hello all.

I've just been drinking with my gay husband John in the local we have been frequenting since we were 17. They ID-ed me in there which I was very proud of (I've been being ID-ed fairy regularly since I've been back, it's my Asian haircut- SCORE!) Still, it's hard for me to raise a positive mood. I'm just out for dinner with my friend Claire in approx 10 mins so may have more alcohol to improve my mood, I never released just how drunk one had to be to cope with Welling. No wonder I didn't have to drink so much in HK.

Having said that though, on the way to the New Cross Turnpike to meet John I passed the Embassy Court building site and there was a workman there of such fitness my entire lower body contracted then released. What was that phrase Lola uses? Fanny gallop. PHWOAAAAAAR! Was he fit! Not that I'd know what to do anymore. Having been in HK for so long I think I can only communicate with gay men, women or children. Hot men who may or may not fancy me are beyond my experience.

PAH! I will write more coherantly when I sober up, I promise but for now, please try to imagine my life, sexual and general frustration. I NEED A JOB! I NEED SOME FUN! I'M RUNNING OUT OF MONEY AND ALL THE PUBS SMELL OF STALE BEER AND OLD MEN!

I am taking the green tea my mum profers then fucking off to Pizza Express with Claire. More ranting anon.

Horribly Ever After

I’ve just finished watching an episode of ‘Don’t Tell the Bride’ on BBC3. I clicked it on merely for some background noise while I was pissing about on the net, then I got sucked in by the potential for a bride vs. groom bust-up; he picked a plain dress and it turned out she wanted something more chavvy. However, by the end of it I had a little tear in my eye. Not because I had any particular affection for the over-tanned bottle blonde bride or her slightly effeminate-looking dented David Beckham-esque groom, no it’s merely because I’d been thinking about weddings a little recently, what with friends who are soon to marry, friends who’ve been married while I’ve been away and one friend who just celebrated her 9th wedding anniversary!

And though I can look at these friends and seen obviously, plainly that their marriages work, and that they work so well together, for me, it’s like watching life occurring on another planet. I KNOW they are happy and I KNOW they are all made for each other but despite this glaring evidence in favour of the institution of marriage my subconscious refuses to believe it works. It’s like when I try to explain to my mother that no one can see her through the toilet window unless A) they are on a ladder one floor up and peering in deliberately or B) what Mr. Stelling taught me in physics was completely wrong and light can in fact bend round corners.

But it makes no difference, she still pees with the light off and I still, when seeing people in happy relationships fail to register that this is reality. Over and over I can witness these relationships working but the message that speeds from my eyes seems to make no impact on the section of my brain marked ‘Love, Relationships and Happiness Therein’. That section is occupied by lots of skinny, black-clad chain smokers, who have desultory hate-sex with each other while ‘Closer’ plays on a continuous loop in the background. If a fluffy bunny hops in with good news from the outside world they bludgeon it.

And on those wedding programmes, they’re always crying at the appropriate moments, sappy music tinkling away in the background. And so comes the pressure to make real life the same, as though everyone lives in some frigging rom-com. Well movie moments don’t work for me. As I’ve learnt this year, the moments you should cry, you won’t cry. The moments you should feel, you won’t feel. And why feel anything if it’s just going to set you up for a fall? Because the second you start believing in that sort of shit is the second it starts creeping up behind you to bite you on the ass.

I know, I’m a cynic. A black-hearted, mean, dead-on-the-inside cynic. But you know what really, really pisses cynics off? When some arsehole, some total, unoriginal, dickweed bumwipe simpers “Oh, when you meet that right man, you’ll fall in love and then you’ll feel different”

NO! No, I will not Pollyanna! This is all my own mental fuck-up, thank you very much. I am the one who needs to sort myself out, via dating, or therapy or by smacking my head repeatedly in a car door. It’s not about meeting some Prince Charming who can suddenly blast away my cynicism and melt my cruel, cold heart. He’d need a nuclear fucking bomb, not a diamond ring.

I’m a free woman on a great adventure and therefore in control of my own destiny. So I’m the one who has to sort things out, and risk getting hurt and yadda yadda yadda. A usually unwise suitor of mine once said that, with relationships, it’s better to risk getting hurt than to never know. He may have had a point on that one. But damn, doesn’t that sound like it sucks?

1 Week Today...

I have been very naughty with this blogging. Obviously, Jakarta and my flying visit to HK (where my laptop had a sad nervous breakdown) were my excuse for not writing everyday but now I’m back in England and have sod all else to do there’s plenty of time for typing up my inane stream of consciousness. You may get two today in order to make up for lost time or, equally likely, I may not post and instead lose the will to live sometime round Diagnosis Murder this afternoon.

I am being a little harsh on myself. I have only been back not quite a week and I am impatient to get my London life started once more. I was the same when I made it to Hong Kong; by day 5 I was annoyed at myself for not being a social queen with thriving hobbies and a packed diary. Instead I was eating supernoodles in my jammies and watching bizarre imported programmes on ATV, including Thomas the Tank Engine and a documentary narrated by Alan Titchmarsh.

Here of course I’m a bit luckier. I already have friends made in the classrooms, lecture halls and burlesque venues of London and had a lovely ‘Welcome Home’ dinner with some on Saturday. Caz cooked an all British menu (yummy soup, veggie bangers, mash, mushy peas and baked beans and treacle pudding and custard... I ate like a beast) which we washed down with copious glasses of Pimms. One fantastic thing about England is my capacity for boozing seems to be slowly returning. No migraines yet- hurrah!

Trouble is, though I am dying to get out and socialise the main problem is MONEY. I have very little, only the remnants of my HK bank account and it’s already diminishing. And, perhaps unwisely, I’m applying for an unpaid internship (thanks for putting me onto that one Debbie) which is AWESOME but, y’know, unpaid. They do give you your expenses, obviously but if I did get it- oh, and I want it!- I wouldn’t be doing much partying over the next 3 months. Ideally I’d pick up a little something on a weekend to keep me in pocket money but we’ll see. Hmmm, maybe it is time to start up that dominatrix business I’ve always wanted. But I fear I am not ready. I’m still too nice sometimes and too evil at others so my clients would either end up huddled under a blanket with a cup of tea or huddled under a blanket dead.

I’m also going to be applying for a whole lot of other stuff too- all with an eye as to what looks good when I apply for my M.Phil within the next year or so. I need to get back in gear, get to the gym, start Alexander technique classes (to stop my chest fucking with my posture), oooh and I need decent bras, I want to start lindyhop, I need to catch up with everyone, must save some money... Dammit, I hate life being on pause!

As I final note I should just say that when I was coming to the end of my time in HK, and then in Jakarta, I couldn’t wait to get home for some relaxation time. Ah, nothing to do. But now, AAAAAAGH NOTHING TO DO!

Today I am: Loving the smell of toast- toast not cooked in a sieve over a hob!, waiting for the CV Centre to send me back my CV- come on bastards you’ve had it for 11 hours, drinking green tea, looking forward to dinner with Claire on Thursday as it’s the one social event I can afford this week.

I know what’s good for you; I know you’re dying to...

It was when I was in Singapore airport that I thought I’d finally cracked the point of boyfriends. As a resolutely single girl for almost all of my twenties I had things neatly divided. Fun, emotional support, someone to hang out with and relieve loneliness, depression or boredom, well this is what friends are for. Sex, now there’s where men can be useful. But any of the other stuff? Nah. As I always say, why go out on a date with some stranger when you can have dinner with people you actually know and like and then go have sex with some random eejit afterwards?

But... as you know a slow change in my attitudes has happened over the past few years. I think I just reached my own personal saturation point when it came to shagging eejits and now think it would be quite nice to have sex with someone I actually respect and like as a human being. Could be waiting for a while on that one though.

And of course, my twenties weren’t entirely emotion-free. There was a relationship at the beginning that was perfectly lovely, if doomed, and of course there have been my random deep, dark obsessions. These were ideal for me, full as they were of exquisite pain that made me feel I was in Wuthering Heights instead of just pissing my life away in the cheap dives of London, with their sticky floors and musty aromas of stale beer. Surely if there was all this agony and drama it must all be frightfully important? Life or death, true love or madness? But no. Like Titania, I was just falling for asses.

Which brings me back to Singapore. I had a 6 hour stop-off, it was 1am and I was bored and sleepy but couldn’t get comfortable on the stupid metal chairs, bolted far enough apart so that bits of my anatomy kept falling between the gaps. Then the drilling started. At night, they dismantle all of Singapore airport and rebuild it again just for fun and the hammering keeps frequency with the heartbeat pounding through the veins in your head. I tried pulling my blankie up over my ears (Yes, I am 29 and have a blankie, I’m not ashamed) but every gnaw of the drill made it through to stab me in the temple. And then I got it; a boyfriend would make this situation so much better! He could distract me by whispering dirty things in my ears and I wouldn’t even hear the drill! He’d be warmer than the blanket and I could concentrate on the sexy lips, messy hair, someone who made me laugh. Yeah, I get it.

Then I found the fish spa and forgot the boyfriend.

That could be one blog in itself but I’m not quite done yet, sorry. There’s a postscript.

I was having a sort through of some of my old stuff today. I found some old diaries and sat down to read. Mostly they were stupid, and I could laugh at myself as we always can at our past incarnations who were obviously much more clueless than our oh-so-smart present selves. I was reliving all the deep, dark obsessions, the confusion, bewilderment, the crying, the wondering why. Even though it hurt so much can I really leave that behaviour behind for, what? Someone who loves and respects me and wants to stay in with wine and DVDs. Where’s the edge? No bittersweetness. No scratch of brick against my back. If it’s not hurting it’s not working.

Shit, I always get like this when there’s nothing going on in my life. Get me a job, a purpose and something to do quick, or avert my eyes from the asses.

Filming, Phlegm, Food Obsessions, Imminent Flights!

Ah, Jakarta. Less than a week to go and still you continue to play your amusing tricks. A USB drive that sighs and gives up functioning, a microphone that has a strange rattle, miscommunication about stuff we need to film, a traffic jam so horrific it doubles the cost of the taxi... you mischievous urban sprawl, you!

The love/hate relationship with this cheeky city continues. This week, while doing the washing up after breakfast, listening to some indie guitar-y, violin-y music, both the front door and the back door of the house open and a cool breeze blowing through, I couldn’t quite remember why I wanted to leave. But I know this can’t last. I’ve learnt not to trust tricksy ol’ Jakarta. Today or tomorrow there’s bound to be a technical failure, or a behemoth of a traffic jam, or a small bout of food poisoning. So I shall enjoy this nugget of peace and happiness while I can.

Experience wise, I cannot fault what we’re actually doing one bit. On Tuesday we went to the Indonesian House of Representatives to meet an MP in her offices. The MP, Eva Sundani, works in women’s rights and migrant workers’ rights and has just got an award from the UN for ethical conduct. She’s the kind of woman I want to be when I grow up. My favourite part of the interview was when we had to pause because of noise her assistants were making in the outer office and she got up and said ‘I’ll just go and tell the boys to be quiet’! The boys! Ha ha ha! They shut up pretty sharpish too!

This week we’ve also interviewed a mother whose son disappeared twelve years ago. We got to the very basic house where she lives to discover it was his birthday. As you can imagine, that made for a pretty emotional interview. All the parents still have hope that their sons are alive, even though it was so long ago that they went missing. But they’re are getting old and frail and no one’s giving them any answers. The current president has the power to find out, and served on the Council of Military Ethics that heard the details of the case back in the late 90s. He could make the details public, but a lot of his support comes from the powerful members of the military who are implicated in the case so everything is stuck. The government is finally working out financial compensation for the victims but they don’t want financial compensation, they want to know if they’re sons are alive, held by the military somewhere or buried in some mass unmarked grave.

We have a security guy here, he’s an old guy and he does the night shift, from about 7pm till 7am. We were told he’s a little bonkers and yeah, he is a few anchovies short of a pizza. He’s very helpful though, and always wants to chat even though we only speak English and he only speaks Bahasa. Sometimes he’ll be a little creepy too; apparently he comes in and stares at me when Dani and I are working, although weirdly he never does it when I’m in the room on my own. Sometimes he’ll come in and do odd little dances and gestures; Dani and I used to get a bit annoyed as we were trying to work but he’s harmless enough I suppose.

Dani was editing a few nights ago, some footage of an activist called Mugi who was kidnapped with the other victims 12 years ago but was returned. His interview was in English and mentioned a man who was held with him named Gwun Li. Old security guy was in the room with us at the time and started going mental, rushing over to the computer repeating “Gwun Li! Gwun Li! Mugi” and started frantically pointing at the screen then himself. Turns out that crazy old guy IS Gwun Li. He was held in prison for 6 months, during which time he smuggled messages between Mugi and the other prisoners. He wants his picture in the documentary, captioned with “Gwun Li is another victim of the Suharto regime”. How could we refuse? Mugi was beaten, tortured with electric shocks and repeatedly told he would be killed while he was held. Is it any wonder the old guy’s a little crazy if he’s been through similar? Oh, and he’s never been married, apparently due to his craziness. Instead he comes and does a 12 hour shift here every night except for the weekends, when he does… who knows? Makes you sad to think.

Enough of the serious stuff, I will fill you in more on the fun stuff another time. For now, Dani and I are about to head out with a Hong Kong friend, David for dinner. Indonesian food… Oh God, I’m such a bulé; all I want is pizza!

Today I like; Red Bull, lots and lots of Red Bull, my new scarf from Borneo courtesy of our friend Reza, that I managed to spell phlegm correctly without Word flagging it up as misspelt, that I will soon be back in Hong Kong!

Today I don’t like: The fact I seem to have permanent low-level illness, currently wisdom tooth issues and nasty phlegm, that being back in HK soon means I will be back in London soon without any idea of what I’m doing with my life- GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!

Whenever, Wherever... Shakira Provides Indonesia’s National Anthem

Jakarta has got a little better. At first, I HATED IT. “Jakarta is something to be endured, not enjoyed” I would snarl into my regular breakfast of rice and noodles as the mosquitoes had their own feast on any of part my uncovered flesh. Nothing seemed to run right. Taxi drivers were out to rip us, driving round and round as we screamed “We know it doesn’t cost 48,000 rupiah to get from Tebet to Menteng!” Then they would get out to ‘ask directions’ for the 3rd time. Rice for breakfast everyday at our hotel (and then again at work for lunch) was a minor annoyance. Far more frustrating was the lack of urgency when things went wrong, which led to something I will only describe as ‘the leggings incident’ and one of the most spectacular applications of the ‘slam and flounce’ move I have ever been privileged to witness.

In addition to the leisurely pace, more than a few people in Jakarta seem to be on the take. If money is going begging, it would seem the best plan is to try and get as much of it as you can. Who knows when it may come around again? People are paid to attend meetings here, and I’m not talking about recreational meetings, I mean meetings they actually need to attend for work. But why show up if my transport isn’t covered? And when claiming for transport, why not triple it and add the first number you think of? Then I’ll show up alright.

I think after 21 days (14 to go!) I’m getting the hang of it a bit more. Our friend Reza explained the concept of ‘rubber time’ to me, which is the force that rules Jakarta, causing people to turn up for the event you scheduled at 4pm at maybe at 5pm or 5.30pm. Or 6pm. Here, the traffic, the weather and our vulnerability to the whims of the fates have created a very relaxed attitude about timekeeping. And if you are trying to make a film, or run a workshop, or host a film screening, or indeed, find the leggings that your hotel laundered, well, there’s no rush. It’s not my specific responsibility, someone will sort it out. Maybe. Whenever.

Yesterday gave us an excellent example of a useful application of ‘rubber time’. Me, Dani and our friends Yu Yuen and Markus got trapped in Kemang when the road flooded after hours of pissing rain. It was all the way across the road, up to the knee. Dirty and brown and none of us much fancied crossing it. The guy in Starbucks (where we sought shelter) calmly explained that this happens every time there’s heavy rain. Just one of those things, nothing we can do. Everyone was standing at their respective edges of the floods, shrugging. One man decided to make the most of it by taking his dog for a walk through the water, waving around his sodden flip-flop for the dog to chase as another filmed it on his phone, laughing. Brave (or stupid) young men were ferrying their girlfriends across on their mopeds, stopping once they’d crossed the flood to blow the water out of their exhausts. The general mood was merry. No one seemed to be fretting about the delays to their schedule. Probably because they didn’t have a schedule. After all, anyone they may have arranged to meet knows it would be foolish to expect them at the actual time they said. No rush or worries about getting anywhere, we can just meet up... whenever.

And during the floods, the motto ‘on the take’ took a more enterprising slant. Rain brought a chance to make a little cash; one old man carrying a well-heeled lady across the water in his rubbish cart, others donning their rain macs and frenziedly blowing whistles to direct traffic to safe parking places. A hooker was helping 2 stranded bulé (gweilo) guys by steering their BMW while they pushed it to higher ground. She then held her hand out for some cash, and when she’d got it they negotiated another deal and all went off together. Happy endings all round.
So rule of Jakarta seems to be; when God throws you lemons, don’t just make lemonade, water it down and sell it as liqueur to the stupidest looking bulé you can find. Or just wait around for someone else to make it. It may seem to the casual observer that everything moves slow and everyone’s trying to screw you. But that is part of Jakarta’s playful nature. When your taxi driver looks at you slyly and tries to keep all your change, just smile as slyly back and shake your head. Keep a pleasant demeanour about this good-natured scamming and it won’t get you down. And for fuck’s sake, throw out your schedule and develop the patience of a saint.

Things I like today: Scrambled eggs, toast and baked beans, orange flavoured hot chocolate (I’m scratching myself to death from mozzie bites anyway so I may as well eat yummy stuff I’m allergic to!), flooding, hazelnut hot chocolate, cheesy pasta... notice how much more important food is becoming now what I like to eat is scarce?!!!

Things I don’t like: Finding that even the oddest of people can have someone hot fall for them. And who fancies me...?!!!! I give up!!!!!