It was always my intention to regularly update this blog not with my the day-to-day experience of an Australian living in Manchester. I could never keep a diary. I fell asleep reading back what I wrote, which was often something like this:
Dear Diary,
Today I went to school and it was boring. Leonardo DiCaprio is so hot.
Date: 14 December 2009.
I once actually wrote in my diary that I smoked pot. I lied in my own diary. I couldn't even keep a sheets of lined paper interested in my life. So when I first started my blog Cinephile Paradiso, it was essentially a way for me to show off to, well, possibly no one (or everyone) how clever I am at film analysis. A noble pursuit, surely.
However, I still wanted to document my experience of living abroad in my own particular way. And, well, the part of me that just can't be arsed keeping a diary has for the most part beaten the part of me who just needs to vomit up the ridiculous swill that runs in my head daily.
A fellow exchange student remarked to me on Saturday, as we were traipsing through a vintage clothing fair at our student union, that the information she had been given was that the British wore neutral colours and didn't really dress extravagantly. When she got here, though, she soon realised that the people wearing the shiniest clothes were in fact the British.
Sequins are the thing to be seen in here. Sequinned everything. Headbands, blazers, cardigans, dresses, skirts, t-shirts, underpants, harem pants - for every plain one, there is a thousand covered in shiny little discs of pure disco sunshine. It was just starting to take off when I left, so perhaps we Aussies aren't nearly as backward as we think we are. I mean, we know what Topshop is, for fuck's sake.
As international students and therefore foreign, my flatmates and I were intially baffled by the British. Too much make-up, hair as big and possibly as tangled as a rat king, and to top it all - dressed as though they were completely numb to the elements. And I have to say, to be fair, girls dress like that in Australia. There are always those girls who think the bikini is an all-purpose ensemble, or that fake tan is like a warm jacket in a can. But when you're in ten layers and you're still cold, watching girls walk down the street in a one-shoulder minidress and heels without tights or a coat or even a look of intense pain on their face makes you feel like tackling them and smothering them with your coat.
I am actually a big fan of British fashion. I love the amazing coats, and the sequins, and tights as pants. I also love the hair adornment. I love it all, so much so that when I was in Paris I could spot the British girls from the French girls. I've found, to my delight, that my own style is not that different from British style. Not only that, but the fact that I'm bigger than most girls doesn't seem to matter here nearly as much as it seems to at home. Topshop, New Look, H&M, River Island, Urban Outfitters - all not only stock my size, but usually have plenty of items in my size in stock. I remarked to a British friend, whom I have grown to adore in the short space of time I've been here that a top was nice if you had the figure for it. To which she responded, 'what do you mean?' Bless her.
But perhaps I am digressing. Fashion? Love it. Heavy black eyeliner during the day? Love, love, love (and am improving my technique). Leopard-print coats? Oh, god yes. Good, done.
Today I went on a tour of the BBC here in Manchester, which is on Oxford Road, merely a walk away from my digs. And while it might seem rather embarrassing and even naff to go on a tour of a television centre when you're on your way to being part of the industry, being told in layman's terms what you've already learned in class like it's part of the magical world of television and you're being let in on a grand secret, jostling alongside elderly folk and children as you traipse through a maze of corridors, being shown cheesy videos about how to be a weather girl...but to me, it was like, checking out my future office. In just under two years, Manchester is going to be a huge media and communication capital, with the building of Media City in Salford Quays and ridiculous promotional video aside, it is the greatest thing for anyone interested in media production since someone told other people about the invention of this new way of preparing bread in pieces, or, 'slices.'
Say what you like - that the BBC's editorial policy means a severe limit on creative thinking, that they're a slave to conservative public opinion because the public pays for them to remain in production, but you can say that about so many jobs. The BBC has superior production values, they make a range of diverse programs, and everyone who ever dreams of being on telly, or making telly, dreams first of working for the Beeb. I'm Australian and it's my dream - that's how powerful it is an institution. And their radio studios have an alarm system in place for if a member of the Royal Family dies. It is the cutest thing I've ever heard or seen.
Another thing to cover. The Final Countdown. Not just a power ballad for me anymore. My time here is winding down. In fact, after submitting two assessment items tomorrow and a scary scary assesssment of my film with two tutors, I am finished. Both studying at Manchester Metropolitan University and indeed, studying at any University. As long as I pass and get credit for these studies back home, I will have another undergraduate degree under my belt. One which will hopefully lead to a career...ahem. This means that I will be leaving in less than one month's time. It also means that I'm losing flatmates and friends in the next week. The most painful one will be my flatmate who I've come to think of as one of my best friends in this incredibly short space of time. The rest will leave during this week, and after a spot of travelling I will be alone in my flat, just as I started. Only this time it won't be grand because I'll have the bathroom, kitchen and toilet to myself. It'll be awful, because I know I won't run into anyone in the corridor or kitchen and have a conversation. No more regular dinner parties, either. No more friends, in short. And there is the fear that I'll never see some of these people again. It's so awful I'm upsetting myself just thinking about it and writing this down.
And then of course there'll be the people I have to leave behind from my course. These are people who feel like they've been my classmates for years, not a couple of months. Some of them I feel are just more British versions of myself and my best friends at home, and would gladly pack them in my suitcase. Of course, that would be a problem when flying out, but I'm sure I'll figure it out.
And to be honest, I'm going to miss studying my course. I don't mean to sound disloyal, but apart from the better resources and slightly more efficient process of hiring equipment, this course is much better than my own. It's focus is entirely on filmmaking and improving your process. Nothing about learning communication theory or learning about creativity in a general, here's a bunch of confusing theories kind of way. I was thrown into a year that really tried to pull back on teaching us exactly how to do things, but a year in which you took all the techniques you'd learned the year before and experimented. If you didn't know how to do something, it didn't mean you shouldn't do it - it meant that absolutely you had to do it and you could learn through research but most of all through practice. And while as students we tend to fall into a mood believing that we should know how to do this stuff already, that's not the point of this year in the course at all. We're given incredibly challenging briefs for our films and not a lot of time to do it in. It sounds scary and on some level it is, but it's also fun. Some might think it's surprising that you produce anything at all, but it's exhilarating knowing you can write, shoot and cut together a film in four weeks and actually have it be not so bad.
Well, there you are. That's what's been sloshing around in my big brain recently.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Barbarism Begins at Liverpool
"It's Saturday night. It's raining. It's Liverpool. And it's perfect." These were the words of my idol and the man who kills me softly with every single song on every single album by the Smiths before launching into a concert that would go for approximately nine minutes. Oh, the irony!
For you see, the decision to come to Manchester on exchange was fuelled almost completely by one thought; maybe I would see Morrissey! And I had thought this hope had been dashed by the fact that Morrissey's tour took him in June. But behold; a classmate gave me hope - he was pretty sure Morrissey was playing in Liverpool in November. I could combine two loves in the one place; birthplace of the Beatles during the day, witnessing the power of Mr SP at night.
But this news held a grave warning: "he starts late, he leaves early and he doesn't do encores. Oh, and he doesn't use screens, so if you're in bad seats you won't see him." I registered this but didn't care. Neither did I care that he had walked offstage at a festival in Spain because he could smell meat cooking. Even when he collapsed at a concert in Swindon, I felt sure that all my dreams would come true in Liverpool.
I should have known better. The day started with such a girly disaster; I stabbed myself in the eye with my eyeliner pen and some of said liner may have broken off in my eye. To counteract the indescribable pain and inability to open my left eye all the way, I did what any normal person would do: I crammed it full of out-of-date eye drops that I bought from home.
Prefrin - used to dilate blood vessels in England. In my eyedrops? Used to dilate pupils. I looked like Mr Burns after his weekly treatments, but only in profile. The rest of the time I looked like David Bowie. Grace suggested that if I were a tall, thin, white guy such as Bowie perhaps Simon Amstell, love of my life, might like me. Oh, well.
Eventually, sometime during our turn about Albert Dock, my eye resumed its normal dilation. But it went on to cause me great pain all day. It streamed tears intermittently, and of course when I cry my forehead sweats and my nose runs. My eye became sensitive to light, especially the overcast grey light of the Liverpool afternoon, and the diffused lighting of Costa at night. I was wearing sunglasses around, even inside, to complete the trendy modern blind wanker look I've so wanted to do for so long now.
This put a pretty big downer on the day, the whole inability to see thing. I was not defeated, though. I went to the Beatles Story, the coolest museum ever, and the Cavern Club. I even tried to make out with a statue of John Lennon outside the club. I also paid a ridiculous amount for a long-sleeved John and Yoko t-shirt. Good times were still had.
The show at Liverpool's Echo Arena started pretty well. The support slot, Doll and the Kicks, were really good. And halfway during their set I wiped crusty bits out of my eye and I could suddenly see out of it! Hurrah!
After a cool video projection including an interview from 1974 in which Lou Reed settled some stupid Australian journos' hash, Morrissey arrived. Grey suit, blue shirt, impeccable quiff. Amazing. He started with This Charming Man, and indeed he was charming. Then he started a song I don't know called Black Cloud.
I don't think I ever will know that song, to be honest. One, bad memories. Two, he didn't finish it. One minute he was being all lovely and cool and Morrissey, then with a terse 'goodnight,' he was gone. What! What! Whaaaaattttttt!!!!!!
Grace, who is not a fan of Morrissey and only attended the show out of a friend duty, informed me that someone hit him with a bottle of water. And he had stormed off. Like a grumpy old man...well, like Morrissey.
Clearly nothing and no one could persuade him to return to the stage, because about fifteen minutes later a representative of the Arena informed us that "Morrissey has been hit in the head with a bottle of beer. The show won't be continuing." More was said, the lights came up and everyone started walking like zombies to the exits. Not George Romero zombies, mind you. 28 Days Later zombies, really.
It felt like I'd just seen Dad dressed as Santa putting presents under the tree. The enigmatic, rakish, endearing scorn of the man who made me cry by plaintively asking that he get what he wants, was torn away. I just felt like I had wasted my life looking up to this grumpy, childish git. I do believe I called him a cunt on the night, such was my wrath.
I've since calmed down enough to love Morrissey again, but it honestly felt like a break-up. There was some previously endearing behaviour now revealed as bad behaviour, a storming off, and shattered memories of what had once been wonderful, seen from the perspective of a person who couldn't really remember anything positive. I could barely listen to the Smiths, and I immediately deleted all of Morrissey's songs from my iPod. I shoved the tote bag I purchased at the back of my wardrobe.
Well, I was warned (thanks, Sam). And the old saying about never meeting your heroes is an old one for a reason - because they turn into human beings. Flawed human beings. And you realise that you really don't know them and see that if you did get to know them you probably wouldn't like them very much. I can relate to Morrissey's feelings of isolation and loneliness as a kid, and this utter bafflement at the opposite sex, but I feel that now I shouldn't think this means we'll get along famously. Not at all. Some basic commonality does not a friendship make. Trust me, I'm learning this being away from home. I should learn to cherish Morrissey's creative input and what it has meant in my life and give up on thinking he's also a friend I just haven't met yet. He could be, but right now he's just tired, grumpy, aging, and a bit of a brat, to be honest.
But the best travel stories always involve absurd situations, right? And I think my friend Cameron said it best when he commented on Facebook that at least now I can say I've been scorned by Morrissey. Though I'm sure a lot of meat-eating residents of Spain can say exactly the same thing.
For you see, the decision to come to Manchester on exchange was fuelled almost completely by one thought; maybe I would see Morrissey! And I had thought this hope had been dashed by the fact that Morrissey's tour took him in June. But behold; a classmate gave me hope - he was pretty sure Morrissey was playing in Liverpool in November. I could combine two loves in the one place; birthplace of the Beatles during the day, witnessing the power of Mr SP at night.
But this news held a grave warning: "he starts late, he leaves early and he doesn't do encores. Oh, and he doesn't use screens, so if you're in bad seats you won't see him." I registered this but didn't care. Neither did I care that he had walked offstage at a festival in Spain because he could smell meat cooking. Even when he collapsed at a concert in Swindon, I felt sure that all my dreams would come true in Liverpool.
I should have known better. The day started with such a girly disaster; I stabbed myself in the eye with my eyeliner pen and some of said liner may have broken off in my eye. To counteract the indescribable pain and inability to open my left eye all the way, I did what any normal person would do: I crammed it full of out-of-date eye drops that I bought from home.
Prefrin - used to dilate blood vessels in England. In my eyedrops? Used to dilate pupils. I looked like Mr Burns after his weekly treatments, but only in profile. The rest of the time I looked like David Bowie. Grace suggested that if I were a tall, thin, white guy such as Bowie perhaps Simon Amstell, love of my life, might like me. Oh, well.
Eventually, sometime during our turn about Albert Dock, my eye resumed its normal dilation. But it went on to cause me great pain all day. It streamed tears intermittently, and of course when I cry my forehead sweats and my nose runs. My eye became sensitive to light, especially the overcast grey light of the Liverpool afternoon, and the diffused lighting of Costa at night. I was wearing sunglasses around, even inside, to complete the trendy modern blind wanker look I've so wanted to do for so long now.
This put a pretty big downer on the day, the whole inability to see thing. I was not defeated, though. I went to the Beatles Story, the coolest museum ever, and the Cavern Club. I even tried to make out with a statue of John Lennon outside the club. I also paid a ridiculous amount for a long-sleeved John and Yoko t-shirt. Good times were still had.
The show at Liverpool's Echo Arena started pretty well. The support slot, Doll and the Kicks, were really good. And halfway during their set I wiped crusty bits out of my eye and I could suddenly see out of it! Hurrah!
After a cool video projection including an interview from 1974 in which Lou Reed settled some stupid Australian journos' hash, Morrissey arrived. Grey suit, blue shirt, impeccable quiff. Amazing. He started with This Charming Man, and indeed he was charming. Then he started a song I don't know called Black Cloud.
I don't think I ever will know that song, to be honest. One, bad memories. Two, he didn't finish it. One minute he was being all lovely and cool and Morrissey, then with a terse 'goodnight,' he was gone. What! What! Whaaaaattttttt!!!!!!
Grace, who is not a fan of Morrissey and only attended the show out of a friend duty, informed me that someone hit him with a bottle of water. And he had stormed off. Like a grumpy old man...well, like Morrissey.
Clearly nothing and no one could persuade him to return to the stage, because about fifteen minutes later a representative of the Arena informed us that "Morrissey has been hit in the head with a bottle of beer. The show won't be continuing." More was said, the lights came up and everyone started walking like zombies to the exits. Not George Romero zombies, mind you. 28 Days Later zombies, really.
It felt like I'd just seen Dad dressed as Santa putting presents under the tree. The enigmatic, rakish, endearing scorn of the man who made me cry by plaintively asking that he get what he wants, was torn away. I just felt like I had wasted my life looking up to this grumpy, childish git. I do believe I called him a cunt on the night, such was my wrath.
I've since calmed down enough to love Morrissey again, but it honestly felt like a break-up. There was some previously endearing behaviour now revealed as bad behaviour, a storming off, and shattered memories of what had once been wonderful, seen from the perspective of a person who couldn't really remember anything positive. I could barely listen to the Smiths, and I immediately deleted all of Morrissey's songs from my iPod. I shoved the tote bag I purchased at the back of my wardrobe.
Well, I was warned (thanks, Sam). And the old saying about never meeting your heroes is an old one for a reason - because they turn into human beings. Flawed human beings. And you realise that you really don't know them and see that if you did get to know them you probably wouldn't like them very much. I can relate to Morrissey's feelings of isolation and loneliness as a kid, and this utter bafflement at the opposite sex, but I feel that now I shouldn't think this means we'll get along famously. Not at all. Some basic commonality does not a friendship make. Trust me, I'm learning this being away from home. I should learn to cherish Morrissey's creative input and what it has meant in my life and give up on thinking he's also a friend I just haven't met yet. He could be, but right now he's just tired, grumpy, aging, and a bit of a brat, to be honest.
But the best travel stories always involve absurd situations, right? And I think my friend Cameron said it best when he commented on Facebook that at least now I can say I've been scorned by Morrissey. Though I'm sure a lot of meat-eating residents of Spain can say exactly the same thing.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
A Song is a City
Well, the Mancunian Candidate is a traitor. Don't get me wrong, I love Manchester. I love the history, I love living in a city, I love that it's a University town, and I love that it's Morrissey's home town.
At the moment, what I don't love about it is the scarcity of parks, my cat, family, and friends. And while I like that it's small, I feel like there's not much more to it than what I've already seen.
And I feel like this for possibly one reason; I've just been to London. London. Londinium. No, that's just shit.
You know how you just know you'd love a place without being there? I always thought my city was Melbourne. Terribly strange, but utterly true: I have never been to Melbourne. But I know from seeing pictures, and had it confirmed by friends who have been there that it is my town. Most of our television is produced there (employment), the weather seems nice (more comfortable for a ranga like myself), the fashion is amazing (wardrobe), there's a great music scene (possible romance), and many of my best friends want to move there (social life).
All thoughts of Melbourne instantly vanished the moment I got to London. The weather was nice (got colder than Manchester one day. Eeep), and there were parks and trees everywhere. The city is huge, so you basically have to catch a train to a lot of places, but the London underground is so efficient that I barely waited more than five mintues before a train arrived.
The hostel we stayed at was much nicer than I thought it would be, though not as nice as my student accommodation (which is how it should be!), and was really close to London Bridge. The Tate Modern and the Thames and all of these ridiculous lovely places were but a walk away. So were a lot of English pubs filled no doubt with Australian bartenders. I've really fallen in love with living in the city. I've always been jealous of friends who lived in Newcastle, because everything was in walking distance and if not, buses were everywhere and cabs would be cheap. Now I get to be that person, living in the city and walking everywhere. It's wonderful. I love it in Manchester, but I really love it in London. I felt comfortable in it straight away.
Now I know I'm saying this on the strength of having been there for about two days, but I didn't want to leave. I want to go back as soon as possible. There's something so surreal about being in another country. It's ridiculous how easy it is to adapt to the city. And how weird it is seeing these iconic places and thinking, oh, that's nice. It's ever so close to the Tube. London, naturally, had quite a few iconic sites; the London and Tower bridges, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, The Tate Modern, the Tate Britain, King's Cross Station, the Thames, and the list goes ever on. While I was impressed by them, I just felt that it was perfectly natural for me to walk past them on a casual stroll.
I'm beginning to realise that I simply can't be the stereotypical tourist. I tried it on Friday at Abbey Road and felt like a twat crossing the crossing. I was exhilarated that I was at the place, but at the same time it was simply a street in London that I was walking down. It looked so, so normal. Well, aside from the loads of people taking photos of themselves crossing the street. Truth be told, after doing this pilgrimmage, I'm worried about my trip to Salford Lads Club.
Saturday was the day to be touristy. We got on the Original Sightseeing Bus Tour and it was nice, but I really wanted to get off and look around. We got off at Buckingham Palace and that was a surreal experience. Part of me was screaming 'Dude! You are standing outside the Queen's House!!!' and the other was, 'oh, yeah, that's Buckingham Palace. But far away from the Gherkin Building.' But it was really lovely, having said that. I had my heart set on doing a music walking tour that started in Trafalgar Square but because of time and problems with the bus, it was not meant to be. I have still not seen the rooftop the Beatles played on for the last time, or the place where Lou Reed recorded Transformer. Next time. Harrods was an interesting experience. I just did not want to shop in there! We went to the arcade, which is where they sell ridiculously overpriced Harrods items. Of course I bought 'London' gifts there for everyone. And this amazingly beautiful mug/teacup that I'm certain is the Dorian Gray of mugs and teacups everywhere. Should be, it cost me 12 quid (that's 24 Australian clams for you lot playing at home).
The lifts in Harrods were the nicest rooms I've ever been in. There were mini chandeliers in there, for fuck's sake. And there was a section for pets. Not only could you buy animals, you could also buy them everything they might possibly need. There was beer for dogs. There was furniture for dogs. There were not only clothes for dogs, but dressing rooms so you could see what little Bruiser or Baxter would look like in the miniature Rugby jersey. It was insane. But cool. We saw a woman walk into the lift with a small dog, no doubt headed for the pet section. Halloween is coming up after all, and little Chloe needs a ballet tutu. She can't go without a costume! You could bring a dog into the store but not drinks.
Just inside the main entrance were two of the oddest statues I've ever seen. One was a lifelike version of Harrods owner and lovable wackjob Mohammed Al-Fayed. The other was a statue between the escalators of Diana and Dodi Al-Fayed joined hands and dancing around a bird. The bottom of this monument had the words 'Innocent Victims' on it. Ok.
That was about the most obviously tourist behaviour we exhibited for the rest of the day. That's not to say we didn't see some interesting things. While we were lost in Knightsbridge we stumbled upon an Anti-Fur protest. Their target was the Versace store, which we all knew immediately. All of us concluded that it would do no good. Donatella would continue to smoke her cigarettes, tan herself, drink expensive champagne and direct her company to make more fur.
We were unable to find the sightseeing bus the rest of the day, which made us particularly angry because it was 25 pounds. We got more value out of our Tube tickets, because of trackwork. We had to go on three times as many trains to get anywhere. One of them resulted in two great finds: a shop called It's Only Rock and Roll (which Amy had pointed out to me and I'd forgotten to take the address of with me), and another Beatles shop with amazing memorabilia outside and great stuff inside (a John Lennon in New York doll among them). I bought my Bowie t-shirt from the former, and some Mods badges, of course.
The other walking tour we all had our heart set on was the Jack the Ripper tour (we wanted to do it at night, but the day one was free. If only we'd known). We didn't make that either, thanks to the Tube and the bus. Which made everyone unhappy. After everyone getting on my nerves for most of the day, I was finally happy. But the others weren't. Something wonderful would happen, though. This is further proof that I am not your typical tourist, although I try to be.
The Gherkin Building. It is 30 St Mary Axe in the financial district. It was built on the site of the Baltic Exchange building after damage from an IRA bomb in 1992 was deemed too severe for a restoration. None of this matters to me. What matters is that I see it in shows set or filmed in London, the most recent being the Simon Pegg film Run, Fatboy, Run (Hank Azaria's character works there). Ever since then, I've been fascinated by this egg-shaped building (I think it looks more like a huge glass Faberge egg than a gherkin, but who am I to argue?). From the moment we arrived in London, I could see it. Looming large over the landscape, close yet so far away. You could see it from nearly everywhere we went. Walking home from our disastrous attempt to be typical tourists, I realised it was so close I could almost taste it. Walking toward it felt like walking toward a mirage. I could feel my friends getting pissed off with my insistence on taking a photo outside it, and I was in turn getting pissed off with them for being such bastards. Even when I was at my crankiest with them I was still happy to be in London and happy to go wherever we were headed.
Every time I thought we were close, I lost sight of it. We were about to give up when I rounded a corner and my friend saw someone taking a photo. This was it. What else would they be taking a photo of in this decidedly business-oriented section of the city? My hopes and dreams were confirmed; there it was; my Gherkin building. I was so excited! It wasn't just a stupid building by then. It was a symbol that we had found something today. Not all of our hopes for the day had been ruined by public transport. It also allowed us to walk home via the London Bridge, where I was accosted by a French couple wanting me to take the photo I had wanted my friends and I to have taken. But anyway. It was amazing to realise how close all these amazing features of the city were, and yet how normal it seemed to me that they should be here.
My plans instantly changed when I got to London. The plan is now to work for money to save up for a year, but only part time in order to do work experience that will hopefully get me a job in production in London. Oh, and I'm taking my cat with me.
At the moment, what I don't love about it is the scarcity of parks, my cat, family, and friends. And while I like that it's small, I feel like there's not much more to it than what I've already seen.
And I feel like this for possibly one reason; I've just been to London. London. Londinium. No, that's just shit.
You know how you just know you'd love a place without being there? I always thought my city was Melbourne. Terribly strange, but utterly true: I have never been to Melbourne. But I know from seeing pictures, and had it confirmed by friends who have been there that it is my town. Most of our television is produced there (employment), the weather seems nice (more comfortable for a ranga like myself), the fashion is amazing (wardrobe), there's a great music scene (possible romance), and many of my best friends want to move there (social life).
All thoughts of Melbourne instantly vanished the moment I got to London. The weather was nice (got colder than Manchester one day. Eeep), and there were parks and trees everywhere. The city is huge, so you basically have to catch a train to a lot of places, but the London underground is so efficient that I barely waited more than five mintues before a train arrived.
The hostel we stayed at was much nicer than I thought it would be, though not as nice as my student accommodation (which is how it should be!), and was really close to London Bridge. The Tate Modern and the Thames and all of these ridiculous lovely places were but a walk away. So were a lot of English pubs filled no doubt with Australian bartenders. I've really fallen in love with living in the city. I've always been jealous of friends who lived in Newcastle, because everything was in walking distance and if not, buses were everywhere and cabs would be cheap. Now I get to be that person, living in the city and walking everywhere. It's wonderful. I love it in Manchester, but I really love it in London. I felt comfortable in it straight away.
Now I know I'm saying this on the strength of having been there for about two days, but I didn't want to leave. I want to go back as soon as possible. There's something so surreal about being in another country. It's ridiculous how easy it is to adapt to the city. And how weird it is seeing these iconic places and thinking, oh, that's nice. It's ever so close to the Tube. London, naturally, had quite a few iconic sites; the London and Tower bridges, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, The Tate Modern, the Tate Britain, King's Cross Station, the Thames, and the list goes ever on. While I was impressed by them, I just felt that it was perfectly natural for me to walk past them on a casual stroll.
I'm beginning to realise that I simply can't be the stereotypical tourist. I tried it on Friday at Abbey Road and felt like a twat crossing the crossing. I was exhilarated that I was at the place, but at the same time it was simply a street in London that I was walking down. It looked so, so normal. Well, aside from the loads of people taking photos of themselves crossing the street. Truth be told, after doing this pilgrimmage, I'm worried about my trip to Salford Lads Club.
Saturday was the day to be touristy. We got on the Original Sightseeing Bus Tour and it was nice, but I really wanted to get off and look around. We got off at Buckingham Palace and that was a surreal experience. Part of me was screaming 'Dude! You are standing outside the Queen's House!!!' and the other was, 'oh, yeah, that's Buckingham Palace. But far away from the Gherkin Building.' But it was really lovely, having said that. I had my heart set on doing a music walking tour that started in Trafalgar Square but because of time and problems with the bus, it was not meant to be. I have still not seen the rooftop the Beatles played on for the last time, or the place where Lou Reed recorded Transformer. Next time. Harrods was an interesting experience. I just did not want to shop in there! We went to the arcade, which is where they sell ridiculously overpriced Harrods items. Of course I bought 'London' gifts there for everyone. And this amazingly beautiful mug/teacup that I'm certain is the Dorian Gray of mugs and teacups everywhere. Should be, it cost me 12 quid (that's 24 Australian clams for you lot playing at home).
The lifts in Harrods were the nicest rooms I've ever been in. There were mini chandeliers in there, for fuck's sake. And there was a section for pets. Not only could you buy animals, you could also buy them everything they might possibly need. There was beer for dogs. There was furniture for dogs. There were not only clothes for dogs, but dressing rooms so you could see what little Bruiser or Baxter would look like in the miniature Rugby jersey. It was insane. But cool. We saw a woman walk into the lift with a small dog, no doubt headed for the pet section. Halloween is coming up after all, and little Chloe needs a ballet tutu. She can't go without a costume! You could bring a dog into the store but not drinks.
Just inside the main entrance were two of the oddest statues I've ever seen. One was a lifelike version of Harrods owner and lovable wackjob Mohammed Al-Fayed. The other was a statue between the escalators of Diana and Dodi Al-Fayed joined hands and dancing around a bird. The bottom of this monument had the words 'Innocent Victims' on it. Ok.
That was about the most obviously tourist behaviour we exhibited for the rest of the day. That's not to say we didn't see some interesting things. While we were lost in Knightsbridge we stumbled upon an Anti-Fur protest. Their target was the Versace store, which we all knew immediately. All of us concluded that it would do no good. Donatella would continue to smoke her cigarettes, tan herself, drink expensive champagne and direct her company to make more fur.
We were unable to find the sightseeing bus the rest of the day, which made us particularly angry because it was 25 pounds. We got more value out of our Tube tickets, because of trackwork. We had to go on three times as many trains to get anywhere. One of them resulted in two great finds: a shop called It's Only Rock and Roll (which Amy had pointed out to me and I'd forgotten to take the address of with me), and another Beatles shop with amazing memorabilia outside and great stuff inside (a John Lennon in New York doll among them). I bought my Bowie t-shirt from the former, and some Mods badges, of course.
The other walking tour we all had our heart set on was the Jack the Ripper tour (we wanted to do it at night, but the day one was free. If only we'd known). We didn't make that either, thanks to the Tube and the bus. Which made everyone unhappy. After everyone getting on my nerves for most of the day, I was finally happy. But the others weren't. Something wonderful would happen, though. This is further proof that I am not your typical tourist, although I try to be.
The Gherkin Building. It is 30 St Mary Axe in the financial district. It was built on the site of the Baltic Exchange building after damage from an IRA bomb in 1992 was deemed too severe for a restoration. None of this matters to me. What matters is that I see it in shows set or filmed in London, the most recent being the Simon Pegg film Run, Fatboy, Run (Hank Azaria's character works there). Ever since then, I've been fascinated by this egg-shaped building (I think it looks more like a huge glass Faberge egg than a gherkin, but who am I to argue?). From the moment we arrived in London, I could see it. Looming large over the landscape, close yet so far away. You could see it from nearly everywhere we went. Walking home from our disastrous attempt to be typical tourists, I realised it was so close I could almost taste it. Walking toward it felt like walking toward a mirage. I could feel my friends getting pissed off with my insistence on taking a photo outside it, and I was in turn getting pissed off with them for being such bastards. Even when I was at my crankiest with them I was still happy to be in London and happy to go wherever we were headed.
Every time I thought we were close, I lost sight of it. We were about to give up when I rounded a corner and my friend saw someone taking a photo. This was it. What else would they be taking a photo of in this decidedly business-oriented section of the city? My hopes and dreams were confirmed; there it was; my Gherkin building. I was so excited! It wasn't just a stupid building by then. It was a symbol that we had found something today. Not all of our hopes for the day had been ruined by public transport. It also allowed us to walk home via the London Bridge, where I was accosted by a French couple wanting me to take the photo I had wanted my friends and I to have taken. But anyway. It was amazing to realise how close all these amazing features of the city were, and yet how normal it seemed to me that they should be here.
My plans instantly changed when I got to London. The plan is now to work for money to save up for a year, but only part time in order to do work experience that will hopefully get me a job in production in London. Oh, and I'm taking my cat with me.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Hopes did rise in the Grasmere
As an Australian and a massive consumer of British culture I feel uncomfortable with labelling myself as an International Student. The term conjures images of students unfamiliar with the language wearing the University sweatshirt, a camera permanently around their neck. In my line of work, International students instantly make me panic - the way in which the student administration works for them is just too much of a mystery to me to feel like any great help.But, fuck it; I am an exchange student from another country and therefore am an international student. And if you are an international student there are perks to be had. Such as going to places the locals either vaguely recall spending their summers at or could never be bothered making the trip. Like the Lakes District.
According to my best friend Wikipedia, "The Lake District, also known as The Lakes or Lakeland, is a rural area in North West England. A popular holiday destination, it is famous for its lakes and its mountains (or fells), and its associations with the early 19th century poetry and writings of William Wordsworth and the Lake Poets."We went to two villages in the Lakes District; Grasmere and Keswick. And they were quite simply beautiful. I'm a town mouse at heart, but the city of Manchester often looks it has its colour palate set to Grayscale. And while I love it, it was so nice to get out of the city and go somewhere where the houses are older than my entire country. I also saw more sun today than I have the entire time I've been here. Oh, and dogs! They're everywhere. I wonder what the term is when you're clucky for a new pet? I digress.
First up was Grasmere, home to William Wordsworth. I have actually never read any Wordsworth. Only one of the girls with me had even heard of him. We went to his first proper home, Dove Cottage, where he lived with his sister Dorothy for a little over eight years. During that time it sounded like the most creative place to live if you were a poet in the late 1700s. Sir Walter Scott gave them a dog (Pepper, very cute, they had a portrait of him, which is cool, I suppose...), Thomas De Quincey stayed there so much he moved in after they left, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge was often found having an Opium-induced nightmare at the place. Sounds like ye olde Andy Warhol's factory. I think it would have been an amazing place to stay, with so much creative energy (and sexual tension - the married Coleridge was madly in love with Wordsworth's sister-in-law Sarah) about the place.
It was so cute, but the low ceilings and dark walls of the parlour, Dorothy's room and the kitchen were slightly claustrophobic. The second storey of the house was quite lovely, though, and the garden was spectacular. The Wordsworths never moved out of Grasmere, and they are buried at the St Oswald's church.But even better than that, Grasmere has the best motherfucking gingerbread in the entire motherfucking world. You think you've had good gingerbread. You ain't. Unless you've had this stuff. It's amazing. It's all crumbly, with real bits of ginger. It's amazing. I will be incredibly sorry when I polish it off (which will probably be tonight. Oh well, there's another trip there later with the International Society...). The only thing you can really buy in quaint little villages is a fuckload of baked goods, chocolate and chocolate fudge. And did I ever.
Next up was Keswick (the locals pronounced it kezzick, but the organisers called it kez wick. I'm going with the locals on this one), which seems to be famous for its abundance of outdoor sports clothing and supply stores. They were everywhere. There was this supermarket called Booths, but I secretly wished it was a Somerfield like in Hot Fuzz (even though that's in Gloucestershire, nowhere nearby). I'm easily amused in this country.We were starving, so we had lunch in this pub called the Golden Lion (lovely bartender). I had chicken and chips with gravy for the first time since arriving and I was in heaven. It were amazing. Ahmazing, even. The pub was so cool - with low ceilings and dark walls, like Dove Cottage (which was a pub before Wordsworth moved in), but not stifling. The footy was on the telly, it was nice and warm inside and the food was good.The best part of the village, for us tourists, were the gardens and the lake. The best part of the day was actually a boat ride that I was not in favour of going in. But it was so beautiful that I can't believe I didn't want to go. I took a lot of photos, which I'm not normally prone to doing, but there was this moment when my battery was giving out and my memory card was full that I stopped looking at everything through a lens and just appreciated where I was. I was on top of this beautiful green hill, among sheep, staring out at this amazing view of old cottages and hotels, and mountains in the distance. And up in the sky, hang gliders were flying over the mountains. It was such a crazy feeling.
I sometimes forget I'm in another country, because in the city you sort of just settle in and get your bearings, but today I realised that I am in another country that despite its perceived similarities to home, is really nothing like it. That's why I wanted to come here in the first place. And for the first time I stopped feeling sick for home and thought to myself - I like it here.
According to my best friend Wikipedia, "The Lake District, also known as The Lakes or Lakeland, is a rural area in North West England. A popular holiday destination, it is famous for its lakes and its mountains (or fells), and its associations with the early 19th century poetry and writings of William Wordsworth and the Lake Poets."We went to two villages in the Lakes District; Grasmere and Keswick. And they were quite simply beautiful. I'm a town mouse at heart, but the city of Manchester often looks it has its colour palate set to Grayscale. And while I love it, it was so nice to get out of the city and go somewhere where the houses are older than my entire country. I also saw more sun today than I have the entire time I've been here. Oh, and dogs! They're everywhere. I wonder what the term is when you're clucky for a new pet? I digress.
First up was Grasmere, home to William Wordsworth. I have actually never read any Wordsworth. Only one of the girls with me had even heard of him. We went to his first proper home, Dove Cottage, where he lived with his sister Dorothy for a little over eight years. During that time it sounded like the most creative place to live if you were a poet in the late 1700s. Sir Walter Scott gave them a dog (Pepper, very cute, they had a portrait of him, which is cool, I suppose...), Thomas De Quincey stayed there so much he moved in after they left, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge was often found having an Opium-induced nightmare at the place. Sounds like ye olde Andy Warhol's factory. I think it would have been an amazing place to stay, with so much creative energy (and sexual tension - the married Coleridge was madly in love with Wordsworth's sister-in-law Sarah) about the place.
It was so cute, but the low ceilings and dark walls of the parlour, Dorothy's room and the kitchen were slightly claustrophobic. The second storey of the house was quite lovely, though, and the garden was spectacular. The Wordsworths never moved out of Grasmere, and they are buried at the St Oswald's church.But even better than that, Grasmere has the best motherfucking gingerbread in the entire motherfucking world. You think you've had good gingerbread. You ain't. Unless you've had this stuff. It's amazing. It's all crumbly, with real bits of ginger. It's amazing. I will be incredibly sorry when I polish it off (which will probably be tonight. Oh well, there's another trip there later with the International Society...). The only thing you can really buy in quaint little villages is a fuckload of baked goods, chocolate and chocolate fudge. And did I ever.
Next up was Keswick (the locals pronounced it kezzick, but the organisers called it kez wick. I'm going with the locals on this one), which seems to be famous for its abundance of outdoor sports clothing and supply stores. They were everywhere. There was this supermarket called Booths, but I secretly wished it was a Somerfield like in Hot Fuzz (even though that's in Gloucestershire, nowhere nearby). I'm easily amused in this country.We were starving, so we had lunch in this pub called the Golden Lion (lovely bartender). I had chicken and chips with gravy for the first time since arriving and I was in heaven. It were amazing. Ahmazing, even. The pub was so cool - with low ceilings and dark walls, like Dove Cottage (which was a pub before Wordsworth moved in), but not stifling. The footy was on the telly, it was nice and warm inside and the food was good.The best part of the village, for us tourists, were the gardens and the lake. The best part of the day was actually a boat ride that I was not in favour of going in. But it was so beautiful that I can't believe I didn't want to go. I took a lot of photos, which I'm not normally prone to doing, but there was this moment when my battery was giving out and my memory card was full that I stopped looking at everything through a lens and just appreciated where I was. I was on top of this beautiful green hill, among sheep, staring out at this amazing view of old cottages and hotels, and mountains in the distance. And up in the sky, hang gliders were flying over the mountains. It was such a crazy feeling.
I sometimes forget I'm in another country, because in the city you sort of just settle in and get your bearings, but today I realised that I am in another country that despite its perceived similarities to home, is really nothing like it. That's why I wanted to come here in the first place. And for the first time I stopped feeling sick for home and thought to myself - I like it here.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Droylsden Dolls
So it's about 1 in the morning, on a Tuesday (well, it's technically a Wednesday, but who cares?) outing, and I'm in a local bar...singing Wonderwall by Oasis with another Australian and three Spanish girls. And I'm sober.
Those of you who know me probably would not think this is something I would ever do. But I did it. And in a weird way, really enjoyed it.
See, the thing I'm learning while living in another country is that just the simple act of being there is something you've never done before, so why waste the experience sitting in your room (I do that a lot, but that's the constant tug of warmth, homesickness and Facebook)? And what kind of stories will I have to compete with my Irish workmate's stories if I never do anything crazy? And more importantly, I'll probably never see any of these people in the bar again. I can't see myself living in Manchester permanently, as cool as it is. Especially as Morrissey lives in LA now.
My night started fairly normal. A lecture on art cinema that was interesting in that it made me, firstly; angry because art cinema assumes that the spectator is passive in the experience of viewing narrative cinema. Wrong on so many levels, but who has the time to argue that here? Secondly; the urge to laugh, because almost all of it reminded me of Spaced ("abstract expressionism is so mid to late 80s"), Ghostworld ("Nearer, Father, Nearer") and The Mighty Boosh (Jurgen Habermaster) and thirdly; it made me think that I want to make fun of art cinema, not make it. But still I find it fascinating.
I assumed I was going with my new Australian friends for a drink after this. Um, no. One of the girls' cousins was in a play on Canal Street, which is a fashionably gay street in the city (it's pretty cool. And canal-adjacent. Yep). Somehow, the cousin had told her this club was in Canal Street, Droylsden. Droylsden.
Droylsden has many interesting features. One, it's past the Manchester City stadium (good to know - massive, by the way). Two, it's deep in suburbia. Three, it looks to me a little like Cardiff or Blackbutt or New Lambton. Four, I couldn't get the Coronation Street theme out of my head the whole time I was there.
After a seemingly very long bus ride, and one that was confusing because none of us have any idea where we're going (being Australian, German and Spanish. A mean townie's dream - they could have told us anything), we ask a local grocer. They tell us we have to keep walking. We see no cafe anywhere. We see no Canal Street. We walk around and pass a canal, and ask a group of kids (out pretty late, I must say) where it is. Canal Street isn't even a full street. At some point, a Podiatry Clinic divides the rest of the street into Craven Road.
It soon dawns on us that we should have listened to the three people who told us Canal Street was back in the city and get the bus back. Not only have we missed the play, but we realise we could have walked there in no time.
Feeling defeated, we make plans to go back out to the bar down the road. Of course it's karaoke night. I will not sing. I will watch others sing. This is what I tell myself. The place is packed. There are huge screens projecting the words so the whole bar is essentially participating in karaoke. Someone sings Plug-In Baby and we sing our hearts out. Another sings a song from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Another sings...Hallelujah. Some guy singing Billy Joel. Oh! And a guy who sings I'm Not Crying, by Flight of the Conchords. He is my new hero.
At some point, one of the girls decide that we're going to sing. All of us. I relent. Well, I surrender the way people subjected to Chinese Water Torture finally relent. We sign up and it takes ages. We're all sober by this point, and tired. But then it's our turn. Five of us are singing, there are two microphones between us, and my countryman feels the music to the point where he's in his own private Australian Idol audition, leaving the rest of us to share one microphone. Which I find hilarious.
It is always a good idea to sing a song in a bar in Manchester that people can sing along to. Which is why we chose Wonderwall. It's Noel and Liam fookin Gallagher, int it? I think it's pretty safe to assume that no one could hear us, busy as they were singing their hearts out as well.
The whole experience was so much fun. Even being lost in Droylsden was fun because as I said, these are the kinds of things you'll remember when you go home. Droylsden at night is pretty exciting. Well, I say exciting...
I've officially been here two weeks and so far the urge to come home is still really strong. But at the same time I'm getting to know my flatmates, who are all really nice and more than likely experiencing the same feelings, and I'm meeting people I never would if I'd stayed at home. And I get to make films in a new place, in a course that, just quietly, already seems way better than at home.
As Lemony Snicket says, "One's home is like a delicious piece of pie you order in a restaurant on a country road one cozy evening - the best piece of pie you have ever eaten in your life - and can never find again." I could really go for some pie right now, but I'll still eat chips.
Those of you who know me probably would not think this is something I would ever do. But I did it. And in a weird way, really enjoyed it.
See, the thing I'm learning while living in another country is that just the simple act of being there is something you've never done before, so why waste the experience sitting in your room (I do that a lot, but that's the constant tug of warmth, homesickness and Facebook)? And what kind of stories will I have to compete with my Irish workmate's stories if I never do anything crazy? And more importantly, I'll probably never see any of these people in the bar again. I can't see myself living in Manchester permanently, as cool as it is. Especially as Morrissey lives in LA now.
My night started fairly normal. A lecture on art cinema that was interesting in that it made me, firstly; angry because art cinema assumes that the spectator is passive in the experience of viewing narrative cinema. Wrong on so many levels, but who has the time to argue that here? Secondly; the urge to laugh, because almost all of it reminded me of Spaced ("abstract expressionism is so mid to late 80s"), Ghostworld ("Nearer, Father, Nearer") and The Mighty Boosh (Jurgen Habermaster) and thirdly; it made me think that I want to make fun of art cinema, not make it. But still I find it fascinating.
I assumed I was going with my new Australian friends for a drink after this. Um, no. One of the girls' cousins was in a play on Canal Street, which is a fashionably gay street in the city (it's pretty cool. And canal-adjacent. Yep). Somehow, the cousin had told her this club was in Canal Street, Droylsden. Droylsden.
Droylsden has many interesting features. One, it's past the Manchester City stadium (good to know - massive, by the way). Two, it's deep in suburbia. Three, it looks to me a little like Cardiff or Blackbutt or New Lambton. Four, I couldn't get the Coronation Street theme out of my head the whole time I was there.
After a seemingly very long bus ride, and one that was confusing because none of us have any idea where we're going (being Australian, German and Spanish. A mean townie's dream - they could have told us anything), we ask a local grocer. They tell us we have to keep walking. We see no cafe anywhere. We see no Canal Street. We walk around and pass a canal, and ask a group of kids (out pretty late, I must say) where it is. Canal Street isn't even a full street. At some point, a Podiatry Clinic divides the rest of the street into Craven Road.
It soon dawns on us that we should have listened to the three people who told us Canal Street was back in the city and get the bus back. Not only have we missed the play, but we realise we could have walked there in no time.
Feeling defeated, we make plans to go back out to the bar down the road. Of course it's karaoke night. I will not sing. I will watch others sing. This is what I tell myself. The place is packed. There are huge screens projecting the words so the whole bar is essentially participating in karaoke. Someone sings Plug-In Baby and we sing our hearts out. Another sings a song from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Another sings...Hallelujah. Some guy singing Billy Joel. Oh! And a guy who sings I'm Not Crying, by Flight of the Conchords. He is my new hero.
At some point, one of the girls decide that we're going to sing. All of us. I relent. Well, I surrender the way people subjected to Chinese Water Torture finally relent. We sign up and it takes ages. We're all sober by this point, and tired. But then it's our turn. Five of us are singing, there are two microphones between us, and my countryman feels the music to the point where he's in his own private Australian Idol audition, leaving the rest of us to share one microphone. Which I find hilarious.
It is always a good idea to sing a song in a bar in Manchester that people can sing along to. Which is why we chose Wonderwall. It's Noel and Liam fookin Gallagher, int it? I think it's pretty safe to assume that no one could hear us, busy as they were singing their hearts out as well.
The whole experience was so much fun. Even being lost in Droylsden was fun because as I said, these are the kinds of things you'll remember when you go home. Droylsden at night is pretty exciting. Well, I say exciting...
I've officially been here two weeks and so far the urge to come home is still really strong. But at the same time I'm getting to know my flatmates, who are all really nice and more than likely experiencing the same feelings, and I'm meeting people I never would if I'd stayed at home. And I get to make films in a new place, in a course that, just quietly, already seems way better than at home.
As Lemony Snicket says, "One's home is like a delicious piece of pie you order in a restaurant on a country road one cozy evening - the best piece of pie you have ever eaten in your life - and can never find again." I could really go for some pie right now, but I'll still eat chips.
Monday, September 28, 2009
London
No, not the city, although I can't wait to visit and see a crack fox or two in Shoreditch or Camden, but the song by the Smiths. I hope I don't get in trouble, but here are the lyrics:
Smoke
Lingers 'round your fingers
Train
Heave on to Euston
Do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
Oh ...
You left
Your tired family grieving
And you think they're sad because you're leaving
But did you see Jealousy in the eyes
Of the ones who had to stay behind ?
And do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
You leftYour girlfriend on the platform
With this really ragged notion that you'll return
But she knows
That when he goes
He really goes
And do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
Thank you again Morrissey, for writing my life twenty-three years before I live it. I was actually reading this amazing Smiths resource called The Smiths: Songs That Saved Your Life, by Simon Goddard, which has information about all of the songs the Smiths ever recorded and their story. I've always liked London and for some reason I kept getting it mixed up with Half A Person (beautiful song, by the way).
It's little surprise then to learn that I may have been getting them mixed up for a reason. They share similar thematic concerns (moving south and feeling alienated) and they were both B-Sides to the Shoplifters of the World single.
I was reading up on Half A Person beause it was all I could think of when I was given the task of making a personal film. It evolved from a romance between two Smiths fans, to a person seeing someone wearing a Smiths badge and stalking them across Manchester, to be lead to the Salford Lads Club. I wanted this to be a music video, set to 'Exit' by Fictions (dependent upon permission, of course. Ahem.). Unfortunately, it seems music videos are a no-no. What's with the music video snobbery? They can be really demanding! You have to edit to a very precise rhythm, and you have to tell a story primarily through images. Even harder, you have to make a spectator see the music. Very hard task. I didn't want there to be any dialogue, or if there were, to have voice-over from Smiths lyrics, but of course that would be a copyright nightmare.
But I digress. I have a blog for my film gripes, after all (Cinephile Paradiso: http://cinephileparadiso.blogspot.com/ ). But I was reading about London and I realised that it's a little bit of how I feel here. The song has parallels with Billy Liar and is also inspired by Elizabeth Smart's By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. Essentially it's about a person moving south but having regrets at the last minute.
I'm sorry to say that I'm feeling like this right now. Not all the time, and I know that this feeling will pass, because I'm making some lovely friends, both in my class and also my flatmates here on-campus. But this morning I was feeling terrible. And people at home were saying, 'oh, I'm so jealous you're going away,' and things like that, but right now I'm jealous of everyone at home.
I'm jealous of everyone who can hug a loved one. I'm jealous of everyone who can call their friends whenever they like. I'm jealous of everyone who can go home, make a cup of tea and watch the telly. I'm jealous of all my friends who can go out together. Yep, you all suck balls right now.
Because I miss the familiar. I miss my easy life (not that easy, but it seems glorious when I'm away from it) and I miss my home. I miss my cat, Margot, and I miss my sister. I miss home so much I missed my dad's birthday. My response was to cry all morning in my room and moan to my one friend who was awake on MSN and text my sister telling her how much I hate it here and how I can't wait for January.
I feel better now after meeting some friends and sharing times with my flatmates, but if I'm really honest with myself, I battle the urge to change my flight and go home right now. I think it's a natural thing. And I have to keep reminding myself that classes haven't started yet and I haven't even been here two weeks. This too shall pass, so the quote goes. Well, right now I wish the student exchange should hurry up and pass quickly.
I wasn't going to use this blog to pour my heart and soul out, but it's quite easy to do once you get started. I guess this is why radio seems such a safe place to spill your guts - it's the unseen audience. Everybody could be listening, or no one could be listening, and not knowing is liberating. Not knowing whether anybody reads this thing is refreshing, because I can just go a little crazy and get over it. Hey, if a prostitute can blog about her occupation, I can blog about my feelings.
There are definite positives. I'm in another country, I'm making new friends both from the UK and other places, and I'm in the home of the Smiths, Joy Division and..er, the Ting Tings. And TopShop is but a walk away. I'll get there, I know I will. Right now it's just hard to tell.
But I have Morrissey. Literally. Well, in November anyway.
Smoke
Lingers 'round your fingers
Train
Heave on to Euston
Do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
Oh ...
You left
Your tired family grieving
And you think they're sad because you're leaving
But did you see Jealousy in the eyes
Of the ones who had to stay behind ?
And do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
You leftYour girlfriend on the platform
With this really ragged notion that you'll return
But she knows
That when he goes
He really goes
And do you think you've made
The right decision this time ?
Thank you again Morrissey, for writing my life twenty-three years before I live it. I was actually reading this amazing Smiths resource called The Smiths: Songs That Saved Your Life, by Simon Goddard, which has information about all of the songs the Smiths ever recorded and their story. I've always liked London and for some reason I kept getting it mixed up with Half A Person (beautiful song, by the way).
It's little surprise then to learn that I may have been getting them mixed up for a reason. They share similar thematic concerns (moving south and feeling alienated) and they were both B-Sides to the Shoplifters of the World single.
I was reading up on Half A Person beause it was all I could think of when I was given the task of making a personal film. It evolved from a romance between two Smiths fans, to a person seeing someone wearing a Smiths badge and stalking them across Manchester, to be lead to the Salford Lads Club. I wanted this to be a music video, set to 'Exit' by Fictions (dependent upon permission, of course. Ahem.). Unfortunately, it seems music videos are a no-no. What's with the music video snobbery? They can be really demanding! You have to edit to a very precise rhythm, and you have to tell a story primarily through images. Even harder, you have to make a spectator see the music. Very hard task. I didn't want there to be any dialogue, or if there were, to have voice-over from Smiths lyrics, but of course that would be a copyright nightmare.
But I digress. I have a blog for my film gripes, after all (Cinephile Paradiso: http://cinephileparadiso.blogspot.com/ ). But I was reading about London and I realised that it's a little bit of how I feel here. The song has parallels with Billy Liar and is also inspired by Elizabeth Smart's By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. Essentially it's about a person moving south but having regrets at the last minute.
I'm sorry to say that I'm feeling like this right now. Not all the time, and I know that this feeling will pass, because I'm making some lovely friends, both in my class and also my flatmates here on-campus. But this morning I was feeling terrible. And people at home were saying, 'oh, I'm so jealous you're going away,' and things like that, but right now I'm jealous of everyone at home.
I'm jealous of everyone who can hug a loved one. I'm jealous of everyone who can call their friends whenever they like. I'm jealous of everyone who can go home, make a cup of tea and watch the telly. I'm jealous of all my friends who can go out together. Yep, you all suck balls right now.
Because I miss the familiar. I miss my easy life (not that easy, but it seems glorious when I'm away from it) and I miss my home. I miss my cat, Margot, and I miss my sister. I miss home so much I missed my dad's birthday. My response was to cry all morning in my room and moan to my one friend who was awake on MSN and text my sister telling her how much I hate it here and how I can't wait for January.
I feel better now after meeting some friends and sharing times with my flatmates, but if I'm really honest with myself, I battle the urge to change my flight and go home right now. I think it's a natural thing. And I have to keep reminding myself that classes haven't started yet and I haven't even been here two weeks. This too shall pass, so the quote goes. Well, right now I wish the student exchange should hurry up and pass quickly.
I wasn't going to use this blog to pour my heart and soul out, but it's quite easy to do once you get started. I guess this is why radio seems such a safe place to spill your guts - it's the unseen audience. Everybody could be listening, or no one could be listening, and not knowing is liberating. Not knowing whether anybody reads this thing is refreshing, because I can just go a little crazy and get over it. Hey, if a prostitute can blog about her occupation, I can blog about my feelings.
There are definite positives. I'm in another country, I'm making new friends both from the UK and other places, and I'm in the home of the Smiths, Joy Division and..er, the Ting Tings. And TopShop is but a walk away. I'll get there, I know I will. Right now it's just hard to tell.
But I have Morrissey. Literally. Well, in November anyway.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Glamorous Glue
The shopping here is fantastic. I am in heaven and hell because while I want to go absolutely nuts I simply cannot afford it - especially if I want to travel further than Salford and Macclesfield.
Walking into TopShop was like walking into the Vatican. I was just sooooo excited to be there. I have fallen in love with a shirt that they have there: it's sort of shorter, button-up, with small sleeves. It's white, with black buttons, and a print of the Eiffel Tower on it. But it is 35 pounds, or roughly 70 clams for you Aussies. I'm trying out not eating very much so it won't be such a massive blow to my weekly budget. There's always spicy wedges for a pound at Dixy Chicken.
The best part is probably the vintage clothing stores on Oldham Road, because while telling people in Australia you got your clothes from TopShop in Manchester is slightly cool, telling them you got your clothes from a vintage store in Manchester is even cooler. It says, 'you will never be able to copy this look' like nothing else can. After all, my TopShop love affair is probably available online, and if you're willing to pay the shipping as well as the pounds, it's yours back home. But not if I bought it from Pop or Affleck's Palace.
The odd thing is that vintage clothing is relatively expensive here. I saw this awesome jumper and when I looked at the price it was 15 pounds. Which in my head is 30 dollars. I will not pay that for vintage stuff! That's the only drawback, I guess. Perhaps some other places are cheaper. I'm looking forward to markets and such. I should investigate if the city has some and if they are coming up.
The best place by far, for me, has been Primark. I got the most comfortable pair of jeans I've had for months there for 8 pounds. Like, I spent 43 pounds there and got the following:
1 black military-style jacket
1 cropped navy jacket
2 pairs ballet flats
1 pair skinny jeans
86 dollars for not one but two jackets would be amazing. Barring a shirt (I have brought plenty of these with me), I have gotten hundreds of outfits out of these items. And it was dirt cheap. Needless to say, you all need Primark. The only problem we have encountered with Primark, however, are their skirts and tops. They don't seem to fit right. So perhaps elsewhere for those items? The city has H&M, Urban Outfitters and River Island as well, which are expensive (H&M is probably the cheapest of this bunch) but very nice. Avoid Internacionale and Peacocks unless you shop exclusively at Supre back home.
For a JB Hi-Fi equivalent, look no further than Fopp. They're like, if JB and Borders met and had a dirty weekend and then a few months later JB realised it was pregnant and Borders was supportive, but not ready to be a father.
The price of DVDs is cheap even when you do the conversion in your head. For example, the complete series of Spaced is 12 pounds and the box set of the IT Crowd (series 1-3) is 15 pounds. Super cheap, right? And they had the DVD I have been searching for back home for ages; Garth Marenghi's Darkplace. Which is what I'm going to watch right now.
Laters.
Walking into TopShop was like walking into the Vatican. I was just sooooo excited to be there. I have fallen in love with a shirt that they have there: it's sort of shorter, button-up, with small sleeves. It's white, with black buttons, and a print of the Eiffel Tower on it. But it is 35 pounds, or roughly 70 clams for you Aussies. I'm trying out not eating very much so it won't be such a massive blow to my weekly budget. There's always spicy wedges for a pound at Dixy Chicken.
The best part is probably the vintage clothing stores on Oldham Road, because while telling people in Australia you got your clothes from TopShop in Manchester is slightly cool, telling them you got your clothes from a vintage store in Manchester is even cooler. It says, 'you will never be able to copy this look' like nothing else can. After all, my TopShop love affair is probably available online, and if you're willing to pay the shipping as well as the pounds, it's yours back home. But not if I bought it from Pop or Affleck's Palace.
The odd thing is that vintage clothing is relatively expensive here. I saw this awesome jumper and when I looked at the price it was 15 pounds. Which in my head is 30 dollars. I will not pay that for vintage stuff! That's the only drawback, I guess. Perhaps some other places are cheaper. I'm looking forward to markets and such. I should investigate if the city has some and if they are coming up.
The best place by far, for me, has been Primark. I got the most comfortable pair of jeans I've had for months there for 8 pounds. Like, I spent 43 pounds there and got the following:
1 black military-style jacket
1 cropped navy jacket
2 pairs ballet flats
1 pair skinny jeans
86 dollars for not one but two jackets would be amazing. Barring a shirt (I have brought plenty of these with me), I have gotten hundreds of outfits out of these items. And it was dirt cheap. Needless to say, you all need Primark. The only problem we have encountered with Primark, however, are their skirts and tops. They don't seem to fit right. So perhaps elsewhere for those items? The city has H&M, Urban Outfitters and River Island as well, which are expensive (H&M is probably the cheapest of this bunch) but very nice. Avoid Internacionale and Peacocks unless you shop exclusively at Supre back home.
For a JB Hi-Fi equivalent, look no further than Fopp. They're like, if JB and Borders met and had a dirty weekend and then a few months later JB realised it was pregnant and Borders was supportive, but not ready to be a father.
The price of DVDs is cheap even when you do the conversion in your head. For example, the complete series of Spaced is 12 pounds and the box set of the IT Crowd (series 1-3) is 15 pounds. Super cheap, right? And they had the DVD I have been searching for back home for ages; Garth Marenghi's Darkplace. Which is what I'm going to watch right now.
Laters.
The National Front Disco
As promised, the next exciting instalment.
One thing I should note that even with the exchange rate, some things are really cheap. Like, cheap as. Apart from coke, depending on the supermarket you go to, food is really cheap. Bread, butter, milk, etc - less than a dollar.
I went to Tesco my first day and I must say, not impressed. They don't pack your groceries, which is ok I guess, but they're not even nice to you. Barely a hiya, or an alright? Marks & Spencer (or Marks and Sparks for the people in on the lingo) offer you bags. And are nice. But their food is expensive. Sainsburys will pack your bags. And you get a hiya and maybe an alright? It seems Sainsburys is winner. I must quell the urge to call it Shamansburys.
So before jetlag set in I was happy. The city seemed lovely and exciting, I'm pretty much on-trend fashion-wise and my room on-campus is actually comfortable! I was looking forward to dinner at my friend's house and a night out.
Dinner was lovely (ranchos huevos!) but by around 8pm I was feeling tired. Like, so bone tired that the gutter looks like a comfy place for a lie-down. We went to this free comedy night at a club in the Northern Quarter (trendy?), and I was nodding off while I was there. And the comedy was not what you would call comedy (especially if you define comedy as something humorous). Eventually, after the night was over, my friends put me in a black cab (I was so tired I couldn't appreciate that I was in a black cab), and I was feeling vulnerable and emotional. I had no idea where the cabbie was going for ages, and when I thankfully made it to my room I locked the door and went to bed.
And so much for feeling secure in my room, I thought! A cleaner unlocked my door the next morning and scared the shit out of me. But luckily this hasn't happened since.
One thing I should note that even with the exchange rate, some things are really cheap. Like, cheap as. Apart from coke, depending on the supermarket you go to, food is really cheap. Bread, butter, milk, etc - less than a dollar.
I went to Tesco my first day and I must say, not impressed. They don't pack your groceries, which is ok I guess, but they're not even nice to you. Barely a hiya, or an alright? Marks & Spencer (or Marks and Sparks for the people in on the lingo) offer you bags. And are nice. But their food is expensive. Sainsburys will pack your bags. And you get a hiya and maybe an alright? It seems Sainsburys is winner. I must quell the urge to call it Shamansburys.
So before jetlag set in I was happy. The city seemed lovely and exciting, I'm pretty much on-trend fashion-wise and my room on-campus is actually comfortable! I was looking forward to dinner at my friend's house and a night out.
Dinner was lovely (ranchos huevos!) but by around 8pm I was feeling tired. Like, so bone tired that the gutter looks like a comfy place for a lie-down. We went to this free comedy night at a club in the Northern Quarter (trendy?), and I was nodding off while I was there. And the comedy was not what you would call comedy (especially if you define comedy as something humorous). Eventually, after the night was over, my friends put me in a black cab (I was so tired I couldn't appreciate that I was in a black cab), and I was feeling vulnerable and emotional. I had no idea where the cabbie was going for ages, and when I thankfully made it to my room I locked the door and went to bed.
And so much for feeling secure in my room, I thought! A cleaner unlocked my door the next morning and scared the shit out of me. But luckily this hasn't happened since.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Call me morbid, call me pale.
So, greetings from Manchester!
I flew in on Wednesday, which means I have been here four days (five if you include the fact that officially it is Sunday morning). And so far I feel, well, I don't know how I feel! It's simply odd how quickly you forget that you're in another country.
Before the flight I was, quite frankly, shitting myself. Not literally, fortunately. Being socially awkward and hating feeling silly, I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do at the airport, where to do it, or when. Several friends tried to allay my fears, but a lot of them just told me I'd be fine and didn't elaborate. One friend actually began to go into a step-by-step tutorial, but she was distracted by the wonders of duty-free shopping. Still handy.
So come the day I was due to fly out (having gotten roughly four hours sleep the night before -- don't EVER think it's a good idea to pack at 10pm if you're leaving at 8am the following day. And your ipod charger is always somewhere in your room), I was a mess. Once I knew where to check in, I was ok, but then the thought of checking in was terrifying. It was not a terrifying process at all. It was actually really useful!
Leaving my family was weird; when I started to cry they calmed me down and told me it was only four months. Well, sure, but you don't have to go through customs and security by yourself, do you! Everything was fine until I got to security. I forgot that the vegemite in my carry-on was more than 100g (goodbye present from bestie. Sniff.), and also forgot to take it out of my carry-on. Two fails for two bags. But they didn't abuse me or anything. My shaking leaf impression probably made them see I was a first-time international flyer. And not a drug dealer.
On the plane I sat next to a German girl who couldn't believe I had never flown before, and we sort of became instant friends without having to talk to each other much. Though it was a 14 hour flight (to my stopover), it all seems like a blur of movies (State of Play - not as good as the BBC miniseries, like watching a catch-up episode of a season, He's Just Not That Into You - rubbish message to women everywhere, The Boat That Rocked - the kid who plays Carl is a fox, Watchmen - amazing superhero movie I knew would be good because I'd seen it before), television (only individual eps! What a gyp) and food (weird small portions, but a million things). And sleep!
Yes, friends and neighbours, I am that person you all hate. The one who can sleep on a plane. And deeply, according to my German friend. I slept for most of the flight after the stopover. I barely made it through the safety demonstration and thought I didn't get my headphones.
And then, the thing I'd been freaking out about the most; Immigration. Convinced they would interrogate me and decide not to let me in, I was trying not to panic. But they asked me why I was here, which university I was studying at, and my offer letter. Then I was through. Spent the whole time at baggage claim convinced they'd lost my luggage because everything had been too easy up to now, then walked through the 'nothing to declare' part of customs, unworthy of mr Sniffy the sniffer dog's attention, to meet my friend in Arrivals.
Let me tell you something fabulous; diet coke is about 1 pound. Though it's 500ml and not 600ml, it's only $2. I have enjoyed more now than I care to mention (the water's fine here, too. Water pressure for showers are AMAZING).
Stay tuned for adventures of jet lag, clubs, international student gatherings and TopShop. Too tired now.
I flew in on Wednesday, which means I have been here four days (five if you include the fact that officially it is Sunday morning). And so far I feel, well, I don't know how I feel! It's simply odd how quickly you forget that you're in another country.
Before the flight I was, quite frankly, shitting myself. Not literally, fortunately. Being socially awkward and hating feeling silly, I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do at the airport, where to do it, or when. Several friends tried to allay my fears, but a lot of them just told me I'd be fine and didn't elaborate. One friend actually began to go into a step-by-step tutorial, but she was distracted by the wonders of duty-free shopping. Still handy.
So come the day I was due to fly out (having gotten roughly four hours sleep the night before -- don't EVER think it's a good idea to pack at 10pm if you're leaving at 8am the following day. And your ipod charger is always somewhere in your room), I was a mess. Once I knew where to check in, I was ok, but then the thought of checking in was terrifying. It was not a terrifying process at all. It was actually really useful!
Leaving my family was weird; when I started to cry they calmed me down and told me it was only four months. Well, sure, but you don't have to go through customs and security by yourself, do you! Everything was fine until I got to security. I forgot that the vegemite in my carry-on was more than 100g (goodbye present from bestie. Sniff.), and also forgot to take it out of my carry-on. Two fails for two bags. But they didn't abuse me or anything. My shaking leaf impression probably made them see I was a first-time international flyer. And not a drug dealer.
On the plane I sat next to a German girl who couldn't believe I had never flown before, and we sort of became instant friends without having to talk to each other much. Though it was a 14 hour flight (to my stopover), it all seems like a blur of movies (State of Play - not as good as the BBC miniseries, like watching a catch-up episode of a season, He's Just Not That Into You - rubbish message to women everywhere, The Boat That Rocked - the kid who plays Carl is a fox, Watchmen - amazing superhero movie I knew would be good because I'd seen it before), television (only individual eps! What a gyp) and food (weird small portions, but a million things). And sleep!
Yes, friends and neighbours, I am that person you all hate. The one who can sleep on a plane. And deeply, according to my German friend. I slept for most of the flight after the stopover. I barely made it through the safety demonstration and thought I didn't get my headphones.
And then, the thing I'd been freaking out about the most; Immigration. Convinced they would interrogate me and decide not to let me in, I was trying not to panic. But they asked me why I was here, which university I was studying at, and my offer letter. Then I was through. Spent the whole time at baggage claim convinced they'd lost my luggage because everything had been too easy up to now, then walked through the 'nothing to declare' part of customs, unworthy of mr Sniffy the sniffer dog's attention, to meet my friend in Arrivals.
Let me tell you something fabulous; diet coke is about 1 pound. Though it's 500ml and not 600ml, it's only $2. I have enjoyed more now than I care to mention (the water's fine here, too. Water pressure for showers are AMAZING).
Stay tuned for adventures of jet lag, clubs, international student gatherings and TopShop. Too tired now.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Shit Just Got Real
This time next month I will be in a completely different country. So what, you ask? Well, I've never been in a different country before. The closest I've been to a different world is Queensland (feel free to insert interstate jokes here). A friend's dad told me last year that I was long overdue for one of those 'Sitting on a park bench in Nice is where I found myself' European trip. Well, I don't know if this is what will happen, but I hope that this new experience is the thing I need to step out of my comfort zone, because this trip involves a lot of firsts.
The Story so Far
I'm in the last year of my Bachelor of Communication and I'm majoring in Media Production. And for the whole degree, I've fallen into the same trap as I've always done: put study before work. This means that now I'm surrounded by peers who already have extensive work experience and I have no idea how to get it. But I decided that my New Year's Resolution from 2007 (That I would travel overseas) could be combined with my passion for learning and possibly give me some sort of start with media production and work experience.
The answer was a student exchange. It was my friend's idea but I thought, why not?
So I'm going to Manchester Metropolitan University and I start on September 21. Which is coming scarily closer.
The Small Stuff
That's definitely what I'm sweating at the moment, because while I think I'm extroverted and friendly and can easily adapt to new situations, I feel very socially awkward. And because I'm doing so much of it on my own I feel lost because I'm so used to having someone else sort out the details for me. So these are my main freakout starters:
How will I know to get on the plane?
How will I know to get back on at Abu Dhabi?
Will I know how to go through customs and Immigration and all that jazz?
Because I'm travelling without a Visa, will I get asked a million questions and get really flustered and refused entry?
And when I get to student accommodation, how will I cope sharing with strangers?
To all these questions, everyone I talk to says 'you'll be fine!' But I'm a massive worrywart. I will be freaking out about this stuff this whole month.
List Making
This trip has allowed me to indulge in a passion of mine, however, which is making lists. My to-do list is extensive but hopefully achievable in a month. The hardest one so far has been clothes. Check out the clothes list:
Coats
Pink and black tuxedo coat
Jackets
MIA animal print jacket
Grey fleece jacket
Black blazer
Black fleece motorcycle jacket
Cardigans
Black cardigan
Grey and black cardigan
Red 'ugly' cardigan
Knitwear
AIH Fang Club hoodie
Red 'ugly' jumper
Bonds grey sloppy joe
Grey sloppy joe
T-Shirts
White tee
Black tee
Grey tee
striped tee
Smiths t-shirt
Barbara Hulanicki t-shirt
Kylie and Jason t-shirt
Debbie Gibson tee
Old grey tee
advertising helps me decide
french canadien
kylie x tour
Breakfast at kathy's
Shirts
Black scooped neck long-sleeved
White scooped neck long-sleeved
Blue and white striped shirt
Black and white striped shirt
Black long-sleeved shirt
Millers long-sleeved shirt black
Tights
Glassons tights
Glassons shiny tights
Cotton on tights
Skirts
Black high-waisted skirt
Black ruffle skirt
Jeans/Pants
Black knit pants
Grey boyfriend-cut
Black skinny jeans
Pyjamas
Red flannel
Pink spotted pants
Green and purple striped
Pink zebra print
Grey cotton
burgundy trackpants.
Socks
White socks x 2
Black socks x 2
Sockettes for flats
Sockettes for jazz pumps
Underwear
Enough to make up seven days worth.
Dresses
Black sweater dress
Black button dress
Insight coloured dress
Black shirt-dress
Shoes
Black ballet flats
Black and white ballet flats
Black loafers
Black jazz pumps
Black and white booties
Black oxford heels
Brown oxfords
Doc martens
Bags
Hot pink
Brown
Black incredibly bad 2.55 knock off
Massive work bag
Accessories
Snake ring
Blue and gold ring
owl ring
silver beaded cuff
black and gold belt bracelet
gold fabric earrings
gold button earrings
copper button earrings
mickey ears studs
pearl earrings (tbp)
like a prayer necklace
Black bow hairclip/brooch
Raybans wayfarers
Raybans clubmasters
Black round sunglasses
Tortoise shell round sunglasses
Books
The Beautiful and Damned
The Great Gatsby
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Paint a Vulgar Picture: Fiction Inspired By the Smiths
Philosophy Goes to the Movies
This list will probably undergo many changes. And I think I need to get thermals and towels! How many towels?
I'm too used to using a washing machine and dryer whenever I need it. 'Coin-operated laundry' strikes fear into my heart.
Why Manchester?
The Story so Far
I'm in the last year of my Bachelor of Communication and I'm majoring in Media Production. And for the whole degree, I've fallen into the same trap as I've always done: put study before work. This means that now I'm surrounded by peers who already have extensive work experience and I have no idea how to get it. But I decided that my New Year's Resolution from 2007 (That I would travel overseas) could be combined with my passion for learning and possibly give me some sort of start with media production and work experience.
The answer was a student exchange. It was my friend's idea but I thought, why not?
So I'm going to Manchester Metropolitan University and I start on September 21. Which is coming scarily closer.
The Small Stuff
That's definitely what I'm sweating at the moment, because while I think I'm extroverted and friendly and can easily adapt to new situations, I feel very socially awkward. And because I'm doing so much of it on my own I feel lost because I'm so used to having someone else sort out the details for me. So these are my main freakout starters:
How will I know to get on the plane?
How will I know to get back on at Abu Dhabi?
Will I know how to go through customs and Immigration and all that jazz?
Because I'm travelling without a Visa, will I get asked a million questions and get really flustered and refused entry?
And when I get to student accommodation, how will I cope sharing with strangers?
To all these questions, everyone I talk to says 'you'll be fine!' But I'm a massive worrywart. I will be freaking out about this stuff this whole month.
List Making
This trip has allowed me to indulge in a passion of mine, however, which is making lists. My to-do list is extensive but hopefully achievable in a month. The hardest one so far has been clothes. Check out the clothes list:
Coats
Pink and black tuxedo coat
Jackets
MIA animal print jacket
Grey fleece jacket
Black blazer
Black fleece motorcycle jacket
Cardigans
Black cardigan
Grey and black cardigan
Red 'ugly' cardigan
Knitwear
AIH Fang Club hoodie
Red 'ugly' jumper
Bonds grey sloppy joe
Grey sloppy joe
T-Shirts
White tee
Black tee
Grey tee
striped tee
Smiths t-shirt
Barbara Hulanicki t-shirt
Kylie and Jason t-shirt
Debbie Gibson tee
Old grey tee
advertising helps me decide
french canadien
kylie x tour
Breakfast at kathy's
Shirts
Black scooped neck long-sleeved
White scooped neck long-sleeved
Blue and white striped shirt
Black and white striped shirt
Black long-sleeved shirt
Millers long-sleeved shirt black
Tights
Glassons tights
Glassons shiny tights
Cotton on tights
Skirts
Black high-waisted skirt
Black ruffle skirt
Jeans/Pants
Black knit pants
Grey boyfriend-cut
Black skinny jeans
Pyjamas
Red flannel
Pink spotted pants
Green and purple striped
Pink zebra print
Grey cotton
burgundy trackpants.
Socks
White socks x 2
Black socks x 2
Sockettes for flats
Sockettes for jazz pumps
Underwear
Enough to make up seven days worth.
Dresses
Black sweater dress
Black button dress
Insight coloured dress
Black shirt-dress
Shoes
Black ballet flats
Black and white ballet flats
Black loafers
Black jazz pumps
Black and white booties
Black oxford heels
Brown oxfords
Doc martens
Bags
Hot pink
Brown
Black incredibly bad 2.55 knock off
Massive work bag
Accessories
Snake ring
Blue and gold ring
owl ring
silver beaded cuff
black and gold belt bracelet
gold fabric earrings
gold button earrings
copper button earrings
mickey ears studs
pearl earrings (tbp)
like a prayer necklace
Black bow hairclip/brooch
Raybans wayfarers
Raybans clubmasters
Black round sunglasses
Tortoise shell round sunglasses
Books
The Beautiful and Damned
The Great Gatsby
The Picture of Dorian Gray
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Paint a Vulgar Picture: Fiction Inspired By the Smiths
Philosophy Goes to the Movies
This list will probably undergo many changes. And I think I need to get thermals and towels! How many towels?
I'm too used to using a washing machine and dryer whenever I need it. 'Coin-operated laundry' strikes fear into my heart.
Why Manchester?
Well, apart from London not being on the list for the partner institutions, Manchester was the next logical choice. Other than London and Wales, Manchester is a mecca for BBC programming. BBC currently has an initiative for filmmakers in Manchester. Life On Mars was one of the first programs made as part of the initiative and that show was amazing.
That's the official reason for my choice. The real reason is simply that it's Morrissey's home town. Going to the birthplace of someone you admire is so exciting, because you can see the location that affected them and subsequently their creative work. And Manchester was very clearly an influence on the music of the Smiths.
The thought of this gives me chills. But in a good way! And it was also Ian Curtis's home, too, which is amazing.
But the chance to make films in a different country is also really exciting, because for the first I know exactly what roles I want to take on and I know my strengths finally and doing this with completely new people is as exciting as it will be potentially challenging. As always, it's a matter of finding the right people to work with and not being afraid to communicate your ideas. I have some ideas for the courses I'll hopefully be taking, and I just hope that I get to work with people who really like these ideas and have interesting perspectives on how to shape them and turn them into a project we can all be proud of.
God, I sound like a wanker.
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