PERSPECTIVO

This is how tragic my life has become: I have promised myself that if I write one FerryEgg post- i.e. this very one right here, right now- then I am permitted to watch tonight’s episode of X Factor. 

Somehow this saddening equation has neither disturbed my sense of perspective nor made much of an indentation on my social conscience. How is that ok?! Technically, I am bribing myself with watching a cheesy, potentially soul destroying show on the condition that I write approximately 450 words of verbal and mental diarrhea.

I definitely need to go and work in a soup kitchen for at least month to make this alright.

I guess we all need to get a bit of perspective from time to time; for example- and I know this has been complaint number one on all Facebook status’ (stati?) and that I’m jumping on the largest bandwagon in all this y’ere town…  But, seriously. The MASSIVE and sardine-esque queues for the new I-phone 5. 

IT IS A TELEPHONE PEOPLE. CHILL YOUR BEANS!

It will do exactly the same as every other blinking I-phone… Get its screen smashed and probably get stolen.

What I want to know is A) Does it have the text app? B) Does it have the call app? C) Does it have the time app? Because my Nokia 3310 has all of them. And snake. SO THERE.

Thus, in order to regain a moral equilibrium and to redress the imbalance in the force, (THAT’S RIGHT I AM QUOTING STARWARS AND I AM OK WITH THAT) I have decided to be extra specially good and nice (two really crap words to use in an English essay) to the people that I meet this week to make up for my pathetic mental bribery.

1.  I am going to GRIN at people on the tube.
2. I am not going to rush and knock into people.
3. I am going to hug people. (Not inappropriately. I know there is a time and a place… Sort of…)
4.  I am going to laugh at jokes I don’t find funny. 
5.  I am going to give food not money to homeless people.

WARNING: If you see me coming towards you slowly, arms open, teeth bared, cackling and possibly wielding a Pret baguette, please bear in mind that I am trying to do a good deed and let me on my way.

It is for the best. Believe me.

DON'T DO IT

How am I hungover on a Wednesday. A WEDNESDAY. For crying out loud. I’ll tell you for why. Because red wine is the elixir of the devil. 

Last night I went for a delightful catch up with me scouse pal Jodie McNee, (we met at the RSC- DAAAAAHLING) and we thought yeah, we’ll just have a little classy glass of red wine and a mildly amusing chinwag. It turns out apparently a mildly amusing chinwag turns ever so slightly riotous when mixed with vin rouge. Anecdotes turn into jokes, jokes turn into demonstrations and demonstrations turn into prank calling your mates and leaving phony voice mails. Yeah we thought we were funny too.

So this morning I woke up with carpet mouth and the feeling that instead of shrinking the kids, Honey had just shrunken my brain.  And with it my personality, intelligence and soul.

I may be being slightly over dramatic. And no there is no real purpose/narrative/point to this particular blog entry other than to warn the entirety of human kind against the beguiling power of red wine. House wine in particular. From Wetherspoons... I really should have known better. But you never do, do you?

Each time one has a hangover one says one is never drinking again. And one is lying. To oneself. And to the WORLD.

So for those of you about to take that first delectable sip of red wine this evening after a hard day at the office… think again. You could end up like me. 

PETER PAN SYNDROME

Good afternoon FerryEggers! I am currently sat in an office, drinking Earl Grey tea, wearing flats and a turtleneck, pretending to be a grown-up. 

Those of you who know me intimately, some more than others… awkward… know that when I am not acting I earn my tuppence a bag by typing up meetings for important people in suits. I’m hoping it won’t result in my having arthritic hands like Bill Nighy, although actually he’s pretty damn cool and pretty damn hot… (WEIRD)… so I would take that.

So yes, I am in a ‘proper’ job… temporarily. Steven (Spielberg) called my agent the other day to tell her to tell me that his phone’s died and that’s why he hasn’t been in touch… 

ANYWAY, stop digressing Dazza with ironic jokes about why Steven Spielberg hasn’t called you. He’ll phone you aaaaaaaaany minuuuuuuuuuuuuuute……….. NOW. RING. ME. NOW.

Enough of this nonsense. Now I am not saying that acting is not a proper job (GOD FORBID!), as all my drama friends would immediately unleash the hounds of hell on me for such blasphemy. However, when I say ‘proper’ in these terms, what I really mean is grown-up. And no one can accuse acting of being grown-up.

For example, I filmed my first ever commercial type thing this week for MySupermarket.com and I was acting opposite a punnet of eggs. That’s right. Eggs. Me and Eggs. Eggs and I. Reeeeeeeeal grown-up.

When I was at uni - the University of Exeter (OHHHH EXETER… join in if you know it!) - I was constantly defending my drama degree to my various friends doing things like business (“BUSINESS”) or economics ("ECONOMICS"), who delighted in saying I wouldn’t get a ‘proper’ degree. Admittedly, they did catch me and my class outside the drama department enigmatically pretending to be trees. But the less said about that the better. I made a great silver birch by the way, just for future reference. Great.

ANYHOO; back to my job. I always wonder when I watch adults at work, if they are serious about it in their heads in a sort of, ‘Got to get this data form off to Susan straight away’, sort of way. Or, if like me, they are thinking of ways to avoid Susan and her perpetual data forms with ingenious ideas such as spending slightly too long drying their hands in the toilet or rearranging their stationary to look like a… (DON’T SAY PENIS)… smiley face.

Penis. I arranged my stationary to look like a penis. OK!?!

So, I took the man above’s advice. I woke up this morning, donned my turtle neck and decided to try and be a grown-up. It’s about bloody time I hear you cry! I bought a Pret coffee on the way in, just to add to the adult-aesthetic: coffee in hand whilst walking in London = Grown Up. Slung my ruck-sack over my right shoulder, my lap top over my left and joined the commute. 

I was mid goose-step when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Pausing my journey, I turned round to be faced with an octogenarian of small stature and kindly appearance. She promptly looked me up and down and said with a grunt, ‘LOVE, your skirt's tucked into your rucksack.’ 

The End. 

ps. It was definitely more this... 

Than this...

DARE TO BARE

Hello World. This is the story of the Ugly Duckling. Once upon a time there lived a Duckling who, that’s right, you guessed it, was U-G-L-Y. Well, not terribly ugly but just made some bad decisions… mainly to do with haircuts, make-up and body piercings (probably because she was strongly under the influence… of All Saints).

Gradually throughout her life and with the help of her long-suffering friends she learnt the error of her ways, grew her hair, wore less make-up and took out her belly ring. As the years rolled by and many moons waxed and waned, she stretched her wings, lengthened her neck and turned into a beautiful goose. Well, who wants to be a swan?! Geese are much more fun. HONK.

You may be wondering why I am destroying this most beloved Fairy Tale with my whimsical parenthesis; I myself am wondering the same thing. Nevertheless, there is a reason… however convoluted it may be.

I recently met up with an old school friend, we used to catch the bus together and before you ask, no, he is not ‘Nick Carter’ from tampon-gate. (For those of you who are not up to speed with tampon-gate please refer to my first blog ‘The Aftermath’… it is a treat…)

ANYWAY, as we were getting down to our Sunday treat of Nachos from ‘Spoons –can’t go wrong with Nachos from ‘Spoons- he looked up and said something along the lines of ‘Man, you wear a lot less make-up than you used to!’

And he was right. During my formative years I trowelled on LAYERS of mascara of the black and blue variety, possibly accompanied with the odd bit of white eyeliner and pink eye-shadow. More mascara than should ever be used on one human being at a time. Don’t get me wrong, I thought I looked the BOMB at the time; however, looking back at photos it was more spider-eyes than sparkly-eyes.

A prime example of Spider-Eye.

Some may call it vanity. Others may say that it was because I thought I looked like an ugly teenage boy without make up. With pigeon tits and a mushroom haircut. Again, there is a reason for this.

When I was about 13, my parents’ divorce was coming through and Dad was having us on the weekends. Being an avid ‘Friends’ fan I asked him to escort me to the hairdressers so I could get the infamous ‘Rachel Cut’. Dad happily agreed and soon enough I found myself sat in the chair at Tony’s. That’s right, Tony’s. Not Tony and Guy. Tony, singular. Dad had brought me to the barbers.

Innocently, unwittingly, naively and every other synonym that describes not having an effing clue, I casually asked for the ‘Rachel Cut’ and Tony agreed. And got to work. Cutting me a mullet.

That’s right, I had a mullet. A MULLET. At 13 years of age. Gone were the dreams of Jennifer Aniston’s locks. Staring back at me in the mirror, with trembling lip and prickling eye, was Rod Stewart. ROD FLIPPING STEWART. I cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried. (Repeat to fade).

Needless to say, I survived, grew up and decided to tell you lot about it on here. A sort of follicle therapy, if you will.

To conclude, the moral of this blog is that if you see a teenage girl wandering past who may have made a few haphazard choices in her aesthetic exterior, think twice before thinking ‘WHAT A MESS’. She, like me, may have encountered Tony.

And to all the teenage girls out there reading this: DARE TO BE BARE… faced. “You are beautiful.” (Aguilera, Christina, 2002)

IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS...

Good Morn tout le monde! And a Merry Monday to you all! I stepped out of my house this marvellous morning to discover that some genius (I wish it had been me) had rolled out a red carpet, not in front of a cinema or a theatre as one might presume, but by my bus stop. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, the resting place of the 102 bus was suddenly and unexpectedly adorned with the velvety rouge usually saved for the rich and famous. WHAT A BRILLIANT START TO THE DAY!

This little gem of philanthropic virtuoso got me thinking about all the little things that make one happy. Not happiness in the sort of unattainable, peace of mind -LOOK HOW FULFILLED I AM- kind of way, but the tiny pleasures in life that bubble your insides and flutter your mind.

One thing in particular that I like to do, is on the odd occasion when I venture into banker wanker territory, (mainly for waitressing jobs or typing up minutes for meetings of which I have no interest and in which I have no place) is to stroll past a spectacularly grumpy and serious looking business man in the greyest suit I can find and at the point of no return, look him in the eye and stick out my tongue. Not in a coy coquettish manner. But like a child. Pretending to be a monster. And carry on walking.

I never look back to see what their reaction is, but leave it to my imagination to fashion the look of horror, surprise and possible awe at my facial frivolity.

Another thing that I like to do is congratulate myself in my head after little feats like this with a “THAT’S RIGHT!” or “DAMN STRAIGHT!” and a possible mild air punch. (I just said ‘That’s Right!’ in my head as I reread that paragraph. Somebody stop me. Now.)

Other little things that make me happy include SClub7, watching an old man reading his tube map with a magnifying glass, mixing ketchup and mayonnaise, getting the sleep dust out of my eyes, LAUGHING OUT LOUD, farting on the tube when listening to my IPod (if you can’t hear it they can’t hear it, that’s the rule, right?? RIGHT?!), the occasional rap to myself, dunking biscuits, smiling at strangers, jumping the last step of the escalator, whistling, reading in the bath and finally, having a good poo.

Life's too short not to enjoy a good poo. And on that note, ‘til next week folks!

THE 'BURGH and I don't mean Chris de...

So Edinburgh... I was in you. And it was good. I'm slightly unsure as to how it was for you - maybe a tinge sloppy and slightly unsatisfactory, but for me it was great. So... *Shrugs shoulders... Shuffles away*

Well that was awkward and I'm glad we've got it out the way. BUT YES. I went to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2012. For the very first time in my little old 26 years of age life. I was a Fringe Virgin and now like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes my fringe hymen is broken. In pieces. Scattered all over Edinburgh from the Royal Mile to the Pleasance Dome.

Good Old Edders (I can call it that now) hit me like a  theatrical stampede of jazz handing wildebeest. However, unlike Mufasa, I did not leave my son (OBVIOUS HAMLET METAPHOR) to reek my revenge with the help of a meercat and a warthog and become king; instead, I grabbed the wildebeest by their spangly horns and rode them off into the Scottish sunset.

I saw a cornucopia of theatre and comedy ranging from stand up (BIG UP TOM DEACON) to sketch groups (BIG UP JAMES MCNICHOLAS AND 'BEASTS'), from movement (BIG UP CAPTAIN KO AND THE PLANET OF THE RICE) to drama (BIG UP ADAM LENSON). I was turgid with theatre. And it was perfect.

However, the piece that blew my brains out and tore my socks off was Translunar Paradise. Two actors, two masks and an accordion. It was simple, beautiful and breathtaking. The piece charted the relationship of a grandma and a grandpa from their first meeting, through marriage, miscarriage, life and death via the sole mediums of movement and music.
I. Balled. My. Eyes. Out.

I will hold my hands up and say that I am very susceptible to emotional manipulation but this was none of that. It was the simple truth about growing old with someone you love. And it was beautiful.

http://www.theatreadinfinitum.co.uk/productions/translunar-paradise-2011/

I also saw a comedian having a nervous breakdown, 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' where one of the actors was shitfaced and midget put a sword down her throat. So all in all I think I had the COMPLETE works of Edinburgh.

Needless to say I was instantly inspired and wrote a 10 minute stand up comedy routine on the train home. WATCH. THIS. SPACE.

*please don't watch this space please don't watch this space please don't watch this space"

Ps. Does Seth Rogen enjoy Rogan Josh? Just a thought.