Not Tonight...Gary

What can I say? I have once again been rubbish at keeping this blog up to date. Shame, shame on me. I should lock myself in the cupboard under the stairs and be forced to watch 'Last Of The Summer Wine' on repeat with my eyes propped open with matchsticks 'Clockwork Orange' style. Actually, that seems extremely harsh. Surely no one deserves that sort of punishment? 


I have literally had no time to do anything besides work, eat, sleep and remember my name. The latter one proving all too much last Wednesday after FIFTEEN hours at work. I turned to my friend calling out 'Jo, Jo?' awaiting a response until she finally worked out that I was calling for her attention. I suddenly realised when I saw her raised eyebrow that she was not Jo. Did it then dawn on me that I, myself, was Jo? No, no it didn't. In my perplexed state I asked who Jo even was. Who was this strange person I was calling for instead my wonderfully grumpy colleague? That's when the penny dropped, this simple piece of information came rushing back to me, 'Oh Shit! I'm Jo.' It was 10pm and it was definitely time to go home. I guess that's what 12 shifts in 9 days will do to you. 


I have had the weekend off though and was able to attend The Mature One's engagement party (she's not at all mature I might add, she's as blissfully ridiculous as I am and we have been known to spend hours on end simply performing different accents to each other - don't judge until you've tried it - and when you add those accents to songs, I am almost uncontrollable. I once pulled a muscle from laughing with her for so long. The girl is a damn wit! The reason for the maturity label is that she was my rock, my savour, the only other mature student not to behave as if they were a hundred years young during my time at uni) and it was beyond glorious to see her this weekend. Her drunken speech thanking us all for our attendance to her wee celebration was a completely unexpected bonus. 


I didn't even mind that on my train journey home (having forgotten my iPod AND book - moron!) I had to suffer a conversation between two teaching colleagues (one a drama teacher, one a music teacher...which leads me to ask, why is it that ALL secondary school drama teachers must wear unflattering black leather jackets and have one ear pieced with a dull gold stud!? Are you not allowed to become a secondary school drama teacher unless you don this fashion faux pas? Because surely, SURELY, no one would if they had a choice?) which was made up of the exciting 'short cuts' they had both discovered on several train journeys they have taken over the years. This was before the actual exchanging of their latest train tickets. At least it made them happy, I only wish their happiness had a volume control button. I tried sleeping through the journey instead only to give myself a mild heart attack when I awoke in the station of 'Salfords'. The train was at a complete standstill and there were no announcements to be heard. I was sure my three glasses of wine had not rendered me too tipsy to board a train home to the SOUTH coast. I didn't remember Salford having an 'S' on the end, but then I didn't remember heading north to our friends in Lancashire. As it turns out the 'S' on the end makes all the difference and is the name of a wee town just outside Gatwick Airport. I hadn't boarded a train T'up North at all and was still en route to get home. Shame, as The Nice One had offered to be my hero and come and rescue me. 


With the smell of regurgitated Chinese food in my nostrils (only the very best trains were out on Saturday night you see), I tried once again to drown out the teachers talk with a trip down memory lane. Yes, I was all on my own, and Yes, when I giggled to myself at an old memory the rest of the train probably thought I was either drunk, mad or possibly both, but for me it made this long train journey far more enjoyable. One memory that came to mind was a time that The Mature One and I were driving through Richmond Park singing our hearts out to a little Take That. A Million Love Songs came on and I confessed to having thought the lyrics were 'A million love song and Take That' when I was a wee nipper (I sometimes still sings these lyrics just for the hell of it. Who said teacher weren't wild!? Knowingly singing the wrong lyrics. Crazy!). The Mature One laughed at the thought of my tone deaf voice getting the words so wrong and confessed that she had thought they were 'A million love songs are made of...' I began to laugh before I realised that that is in fact what I was now singing. What a fool. How could I still not know the words? The massive child fan inside me tutted so loud, I think even The Mature One heard her. The Mature One revealed that the words were 'A million love songs later'. I didn't believe a word of it. There was no way on God's green earth that these could possibly be the words. I know that our wondrous Gary is a northerner but there is no L sound pronounced in that chorus. Anywhere! (well, apart from in the word 'million'. Oh, and 'love'. Obvs). The Mature One turned the car stereo up an alarming amount and sure enough she was correct. I guess this probably does not seem all that amusing to you, but after over three hours of intense 'Design and Technology' and whichever machine toxins we had inadvertently inhaled that week, I genuinely remember tears falling down my cheek, as well as the snort that likes to invade my laugh from time to time. 


So here, although it may be one of the mushiest songs of all time, because it kept me sane on my joyous teacher dominated, foul smelling, dirty and cold journey home and because it will forever remind of my Mature One, I present my song of the week...


...A Million Love Song by Take That. 


P.S. Note to ALL record producers today; whatever happened to our love affair with the saxophone? Did Kenny G take it too far and ruin it for everyone else? There's always one. 

Put your head against my life, what do you hear?A million words just trying to make the love song of the year,Close your eyes but don't forget, what you have heard,A man that's trying to say three words, the words that make me scared,

A million love songs LATER,And here I am trying to tell you that I care,A million love songs later,And here I am,

Looking to the future now, this is what I see,A million chances that pass me by,A million chances to hold you,Take me back, take me back,To where I used to be,To hide away from all my truths,Through the light I see,

A million love songs LATER,And here I am trying to tell you that I care,A million love songs later,And here I am,Just for you girl, A million love songs later,And here I am,Here for you babe, here for you baby,A million love songs later,Here I, here I am,

*The mighty saxophone fade...*

 (Written by the (now) beautiful Gary Barlow. I do not own the video nor do I own the lyrics)

Wowsa, they just don't write heart felt mush like they used to. As much as I adore Take That, my cold hearted phobic ways want to run and hide in Mount Vesuvius at the mere thought of a man singing those lyrics to me. And I thought being wooed to 'Two Hearts' by Phil Collins was bad. 

(Obviously, I loved both songs. I sing along with all the force in the world. Just don't use them in any form of wooing. How many times do I have to say it; Nutella!) 

Not Tonight...Lykke

I was the model daughter slash Granddaughter today (by the by, is there any better word than 'slash'. Endlessly fun. Just me!?) and went to visit my Grandma today. This meant a four and half hour round trip driving my mothers revolting 4x4. That baby certainly doesn't corner like it's on rails. Once there my Grandmother took me on a trip to the local town which made my sleepy home town look like St. Tropez, so you can imagine the fun we had. We visited Poundland on three separate occasions. There simply aren't enough words. Although that being said, it was actually a mighty fine Poundland. But that's beside the point, no one needs to enter a shop three times in two hours and that's the end of it. 

Visiting ones Grandmother may not seem like such a mammoth task to you, but then you have never had the pleasure of meeting my Grandmother. If she takes a dislike to you, well, you had best stand clear. She's ruthless. I recently discovered that she told the other half of the family that I had special needs when I was a child. We have still not discovered whether this is because I was deaf until I was six, dyslexic, or my personal belief, because I was Italian. Yes, Sister is as Italian as I am but I had the audacity to look it. Have you ever heard of anything so inconsiderate in all your life? 

I have, however, become accustomed to the little snipes that my Grandmother enjoys handing my way, but today, today I did not receive one. The only thing that came remotely close to an insult was a disapproving slash (sorry, still loving the word 'slash' something rotten!) slightly embarrassed glance towards our fellows diners when the subject at my Italian heritage came up. The cafe we were dining in looked older than my Grandmother herself and had gone with that grubby, smokers heaven 1970's living room feel with matching maroon carpet. The faux chandeliers were the icing on top of the Angel Delight (I have it on very good authority that Angel Delight is terribly seventies. Unless, of course, you are calling Sue Perkins, Giles Coren and the team of Supersizers liars? Thought not). Her niceties even stretched as far as to say that I look 'lovely' in a certain photograph she has. This is such an alien form of communication between the two of us that I didn't really know how to respond. So instead I panicked, nervously laughed and then chocked on my own fake laughter. 

I have come away from the day almost disappointed with my lack of insults. How did I get the day so wrong? What could I do better next time? There was no 'You're not much a 'West', are you?' nor a fit of 'You're a, ya know, white person with a tan' (it's pronounced Italian Grandma, but whatevs!) and I missed it. However, I visited my Grandmother and made both her and my darling dad happy all in one swoop. Score. It was genuinely nice to feel as if I had finally managed to put a smile of my Grandmothers face. 

The real bonus was that when driving to see my dear old Gran, because driving solo, I was able to play the radio as loud as I wanted. And boy did I. The Kings of Leon were my chosen partners in noise pollution (before I get arrested, it wasn't noise-pollution-loud, merely drown-out-my-singing-voice-loud) and this really was the highlight of my day. For this reason, I have decided to share with you, as I often do, the song I did the most damage to. And yes, I loved every bum note minute of it!

Knocked Up by Kings of Leon

I am going out on a limb here and not posting the original (shock face). This version is the 'Lykke Li Vs Rodeo Remix' and it's the Llama's Pyjamas in my humble opinion. Lykke Li's voice is incredibly haunting and brings a new dimension to this fabulous song. I simply adore it. So here are the lyrics, which don't belong to me, note that they belong to the Kings of Leon. Don't want to break any copy right laws and what not.

I don't care what nobody says, We're gonna have a baby,Taking off in a Coup de Ville,I'm buckled up on Navy,

I/she don't care what my/her momma says,No, I'm/she's gonna have his/my bay,Taking all I have to take,This taking's gonna shape me,

People call us renegades,'Cause we like living crazy,We like taking on the town,'Cause people getting lazy,

I don't care what nobody says, no,I'm gonna be his/her lover,Always mad and usually drunk, But I love him like no other,

And the doctor says he don't know,Where you gonna go?I'm a ghost and I don't think I quite know, Where we gonna go?(x8)

People call us renegades,'Cause we like living crazy,We like taking on the town,'Cause people getting lazy,

I don't care what nobody says, no,I'm gonna be his/her lover,Always mad and usually drunk, But I love him/her like no other,

And her daddy seems to say he don't know,Where you gonna go?I'm a ghost and I don't think I quite know, Where we gonna go?(x9)

And before you ask just how bad my singing along was, whilst driving to my Grandma's, a white van driving looked over, laughed out load and then felt it appropriate to wink at me. Note to self; ensure windows are fully closed before singing in car in future. Tsk!

Boobs or back...?

My back has given way, yet again, and I am pain. Not the agonising pain that shot through my entire body the first two times my back fell apart, but I'm in pain nonetheless.

My mother's back has more issues than a single episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show, so it was no surprise when we discovered that my back too, had weakness but with some mundane exercises the weakness didn't seem to pose much of a problem. That was until a delightful young (ahem) man decided that driving a coach full of special needs children, when less than a mile from our final destination I might add, was the perfect opportunity to display his formula 1 racing ability (none, as it turned out. Shocking, quite shocking). Though we were stuck in God awful traffic, our driver decided that revving the engine and slamming the breaks was an appropriate driving style. I was oblivious to all of this, as I was trying to prevent one of the children from having a panic attack, it was not until I found myself being flung forward faster than Usain Bolt only stopping when the oldest boy on the coach caught (rescued!!) me that I became aware of what was going on. I had been launched forward more than five seats and as a results, was left with bruises the size of South Jerusalem on each thigh and lower back. Oh, who am I kidding, it wasn't my lower back, it was my bottom. I had a ruddy great bruise on my bottom, and it was painful.  

My boss made me visit the doctor and was not surprised when he told me that I had whiplash. No one was surprised it seems, no one except me. Why had no one thought to tell me that I had whiplash? My doctor mentioned it as if it was common knowledge,'Oh, the pain is obviously due to the whiplash and will settle down in a couple of weeks or so'. No, not obviously, as it happens. Unobviously! Completely out of the bloody blue, actually. I didn't voice any of this at the time, naturally, I merely tittered, the sort you might do on a first date when the date in question attempts a lame joke but you still rather fancy him so you titter for good measure.   

As a consequence of all this my back is now, for want of a better phrase, fucked. About a year and a half after my gymnastic display on that horrendous coach, my upper back began to twinge. This began at about 11am one morning and by the time the children, at the special needs school I worked at, had eaten their lunch I could barely move my left arm. My boss demanded I go home and by night fall I couldn't walk unaided. My beyond wonderful chiropractor signed me off work for a week and I was left in the worst pain I have ever felt (until my chiropractor knocked me about as if I were an old ragdoll. The pain relief was so exquisite that it has always amazed me that I didn't jump him right there and beg that we marry at the local church that very second). The only time I have felt more physical pain was a month later when my back decided to go on holiday once again and I was left with minimal movement for over two weeks. Again, my chiropractor saved my life. How he has not been knighted is sheer madness. The pain was put down to the whiplash and nobody said too much about it. Well, it's not the most interesting of subjects to be honest. However, recently more and more people have decided to share their opinion on my failing back and seeing as I have not mastered a polite way of saying 'Fuck off, I don't really care', I have had to listen to them.  

The problem is that the majority of these people seem to think my large breasts are the route to all my issues. My mother, the woman with only three quarters of her back still in tacked and the woman whom I have inherited my large assists from, has jumped on this annoying band wagon. If one more person tells me to consider a breast reduction, I may cry. And sulk. And I really despise sulking. It's not that I'm irrevocably in love with having ginormous boobs, far from it. The number of dresses I have had to put back on the shelve because I cannot even squeeze one breast into their allotted 'boobie' space is astronomical. I have even suffered many an insult which I mentioned in 'My Boobies and me...' . I don't wear Jordan-esk outfits to thrust my breasts upon the world, as I have frequently stated, 'I have cleavage in a polo neck', so why would I want to spend my entire evening on 'boob watch' ensuring my large breasts are not popping out of my top to say hello? I find covering up to be far sexier than having all on show anyway. So if I don't display them for all to see, why am I so opposed to a breast reduction? 

I, of course, don't really believe that my boobs are my problem, otherwise perhaps I would consider this drastic operation. Or would I? Have I let myself become defined by my breasts? Are my breasts bigger than me, so to speak? Do I really value my boobs more highly than my back? It's hard to be sure. 

I find it difficult to explain. My aunt, whose parents hail from Nigeria, although married to my uncle has kept her maiden name. Why? Because, she says, that she has been through such a lot with it that she doesn't want to be without it. It's quite a tongue twister to say when you first hear it and she often recalls how she has spent the majority of her life trying to teach people how to pronounce it properly. As well as all the torment she has had to face from being 'different'. Her name by no way defines her but she wouldn't be the person she is now without it. This reflects my views exactly. My breasts are, in no way who I am as a person, but I wouldn't be who I am without them. I have been 'big breasted' for sixteen years of my life and I'm not sure I would know how to be me if they weren't there. They are so much a part of who I am that my best friends at Secondary School changed my name from 'Josephine' to 'Jugsaphine'. This was shortened to 'Jugsy' and Jugsy I was for many years. I am still in The Jolly One's phone as Jugsaphine and she tells me it makes her smile every time she sees it. The Jolly One aside though, Thank the Lord above the name has died out, however, I still look back and smile. No one used the nickname in malice and perhaps my innocence at that age rendered the name even funnier, who knows. 

Having large breasts can be fun, it can be aggravating, it can be scary (when the wrong man takes an interest) and it is most definitely expensive (you look through the Bravissimo catalogue and tell me my bras cost the same as a wee A cup bra from M&S. As well as the fact that my bras last on average 6 months to a year, where as a friend recently showed me her 'lucky' bra that she's had since she was 18. I hate her), however, my breasts are part of me and until I'm told conclusively that my breasts are damaging my back, I will not put myself through unnecessary surgery and my boobs are staying exactly the way they are. If they are the reason my back sometimes plays dead then I will face up to the fact that they are to be no more, but until that day comes I will continue to defend the comments that come flying my way with witty rebuttals and sarcastic reply's and I will enjoy every minute of it. It's who I am and that is that.