The Amazing Adventures of a Rookie Roller Girl

Week 1: 4th August 2011

It’s the day of my first ever roller derby session! As with many things in my life I’ve blindly committed to doing this without really thinking through the realities of it or any possible consequences. What on earth am I thinking? I have a feeling I'm unaccustomed to. Nerves. But what am I nervous of? Being crap and failing? Yes, to some extent. But probably more so the notion of impending pain. I’d been told that two roller derby novices such as myself had suffered a broken wrist and a broken ankle respectively in recent NRG newbie sessions. Uh-HUH.

I have a stomach ache. West Denton’s an awfully long way away and I’m feeling a bit tired. It’s raining outside! Maybe I’ll just have a nice night in with a glass of wine and some TV? I’m sure that programme I really like is on tonight. You know, that one. With the… people.

Oh shut up you big girl.

I bucked my spirits and made my way to All Saints College in West Denton and found within what I can only compare to a slightly less bloody version of triage – there were what seemed like HUNDREDS of girls lining the corridor, strewn across the ground. Anxiety and excitement hung in the air. The startling popularity of the first newbie session of the new roller derby training course could be put down the portrayal of this relatively new sport by the excellent Hollywood movie ‘Whip It’, but as that was quite some time ago now, I’d be willing to bet it has far more to do with the work the Newcastle Roller Girls have been putting in to raise the profile of the team and the sport in the local area through tireless marketing efforts – they clearly haven’t gone unnoticed!

I picked my way through the melee and did a spot of waiver-signing before taking to the sports hall (you know: ‘if you die it’s not our fault’? That sort of thing). There were too many folk for the amount of gear available and I was beginning to wonder if I’d even get on a skate that night (let alone two!), but someone must have sensed my bristling enthusiasm as one of the team members totally hooked me up with some gear, including a pair of skates the size of two small yachts, but I wasn’t complaining. I was raring to go!! (I will say, I have larger than average feet. But they are not THAT big. These things had to be at least size 13!).

Bigfoot in the house. My teeny little feet (!) are in there somewhere!

We were given an intro by team captain Brie Larceny along with an inspirational motivational speech which must have had the desired effect as I’m sure I saw a few people salivating immediately afterwards, practically baying for blood they were. We participated in a short warm-up and I realised that my fitness would be literally the only trump card I could play in what I automatically assumed was going to be an every woman for herself, dog-eat-dog stampede in which only the strong would survive. I’ve seen this sport in action, remember. It’s FURIOUS!

Whilst being briefed on the basics I combined pathetic attempts at putting pieces of gear on the right body appendage with an odd sort of bottom locomotion not unlike a child on a tea tray in the snow, before I finally worked out how to stand up and took the first few tottering steps on my 8 wheels. I could stand!! Praise be to the skatey gods! I couldn’t turn, lift either leg, stand up straight or stop, but let’s not be getting ahead of ourselves. I was a woman in motion! I was unstoppable! Literally!

The important things came first: learning how to fall without doing the Laurel and Hardy arm-cycling arse-over-tit thing. That bit I enjoyed for the most part, as it took some of the stigma away from falling over which let’s face it, is everyone’s biggest fear when they have wheels strapped to their feet, am I right? It also gave me some confidence in my ample padding – include the self-made padding on my rear when I managed to take a Laurel and Hardy arse-over-tit-style tumble, falling over by accident whilst practising falling over. Surely it’s not possible? You would think so, wouldn’t you. Anyway, falling correctly I had almost mastered, apart from the fact that my overly mobile front leg kept splaying out resulting in me basically doing the splits, something I haven’t ever actually been able to do! Roller derby – helping you discover skills you never knew you had! Then we practised a fall known as the ‘porn star’ which basically consisted of throwing oneself face-first onto the floor with legs akimbo. I can see why it was given that name. It could have been sexy. If we weren’t a bunch of wobbling be-helmeted fools with heavily padded limbs. Unless you’re into that sort of thing. Weirdo.

I found myself gaining in confidence as the session went on. I was actually moving forwards in the right direction! I was doing the curly-swirly skatey thing I was supposed to be doing! Maybe I wasn’t so hopeless after all!! I was starting to feel quite pleased with myself until a crashing incident in which I was completely blameless resulted in a three-skater pile-on with me at the bottom and then things went a bit, erm, off course. Literally. I let my conviction get the better of me after that and going far too fast for my skill set (it had to be at LEAST 3 miles per hour!) I realised I still hadn’t learnt how to go around corners, especially at speed, attempted to use the surely foolproof ‘crash into the wall’ technique in order to bring myself to a halt, before realising that I’d totally overshot the wall and was actually heading out of the side door. Mortifying. Thankfully no-one really noticed and I re-entered the room and continued on my way (cue flurry of people telling me that not only did they notice but have been laughing at me ever since).

If you couldn’t tell, this was my first ever experience on roller skates. Quite how I reached the age of 30 without having a go on them at least once I do not know. I attempted to use my limited ice skating experience to help me but it’s just not the same at all. I couldn’t understand it! It wasn’t much like an ice rink in terms of the temperature, either. It was bloody boiling, actually. 80-odd women in padding on skates does not a chilled sports hall make. I suddenly realised the folly of not bringing a towel. I’ll tell you right now, just to lay it all out in the open. I sweat. A LOT. If you were there, you’ll have noticed. I was the one who looked like she’d stepped straight out of the shower (no, I wasn’t naked, before you ask). The sweating thing is totally genetic and not at all anything to do with my lack of fitness (honestly, it really is) and having a helmet on doesn’t help the situation. I vowed to be better prepared in the weeks ahead!

So to summarise: it went rather better than expected. I looked at my feet far too much (but in fairness when the items on your feet are that big it’s quite hard to look anywhere else). I uttered two expressions all night ‘ooh sorry’ and ‘oh f**k’. I got a tad moist due to the excessive heat conditions. Oh, and I had a jolly nice time.

You might wonder why I’m bothering to tell you all this. I hope it will serve to amuse fully-fledged roller girls and newbies alike, as everyone will be able to empathise with some aspect of my clumsy attempts to improve myself via the medium of skates. Plus, it turns out it wasn’t all that scary after all. The NRG girls were out in force and were on hand to give us helpful pointers throughout which was so necessary with that amount of us, and it was a really friendly atmosphere. I hope my blog will encourage girls and guys in the local area and everywhere else too to get involved with roller derby. In short, give it a go! What have you got to lose? Aside from a limb or two but hey, let's focus on the positives!

Thanks for reading, please feel free to comment and do join me next week for further amazing adventures with the Rookie Roller Girl! It will hurt me more than it hurts you, and that's a promise!

It’s Nothing to Do with Boots: My Thoughts on An Exercise Revolution

We’re closing in on a year to go until the London 2012 Olympics, and maybe it's just me, but I swear people are making more of an effort with their fitness these days. You can’t go 500 yards on a Saturday morning without passing hordes of runners pounding the pavements, and the amount of bicycle-related traffic that’s congesting the roads on the daily commute seems to have increased exponentially in recent months. What’s it all about? What happened to the good old-fashioned Saturday morning in bed nursing a burgeoning hangover whilst inhaling numerous bacon sandwiches? Or dragging your inert carcass from house to car and auto-piloting your way to work on a Monday morning? What’s all this EFFORT for?!

The general communal impetus towards a healthy lifestyle has been growing in recent years all across the country and it’s becoming increasingly evident that the people of Britain are no longer satisfied with a couch potato lifestyle. They are on a quest to live longer, feel healthier and look better, and they’re not afraid to get out into the streets and parks and show it! But there’s one type of fitness class that seems to rule all at the moment. The bootcamp invasion has begun. Perhaps you’ve noticed. If you haven’t, I urge you to look a little harder. They’re not difficult to spot. Organised groups of people of varying ages sporting a collection of mismatched training gear and participating unashamedly in strange exercise routines, in extremely public places.

Since I was first alerted to the phenomenon through the astoundingly excellent Groupon website with their daily cut price offers, I feel as though I’ve witnessed – and become a part of – a fitness explosion unlike any other in my memory. And it's big business, this exercise class malarkey. There’s no denying the current popularity of such things as Zumba and kettle bell classes; street dance too has taken off of late thanks to the exposure afforded it by such TV shows as Britain’s Got Talent and So You Think You Can Dance. A couple of years ago there was that fad where girls wore moonboots to perform aerobic exercise. Spinning classes have grown in popularity in recent years and appear to be holding their own, whereas the traditional aerobics and step classes seem to be steadily being phased out.

So are bootcamps just another exercise fad? Or are they here to stay? And what’s the fuss all about, anyway? From the point of view of the companies running them you can understand the hype. Low costs, very little in the way of overheads, no need to hire a venue, and equipment is cheap, if it’s even necessary. And people are paying sums of money equivalent to what they would pay for good gym memberships for this service. There are NO drawbacks! But what about the discerning fitness consumer. It’s one thing taking up a massively discounted Groupon offer, but why would you pay full price for such a service when you could just as easily go to the gym. Exactly how, or why, does it work? What exactly is it about being ordered around a communal green space by a gobby lass from Watford (really!) for an hour after work twice a week that is so appealing, or indeed, so effective?

Well I’ll tell you. Apologies for slipping into annoying Consumer Review-show type reporting there.

If you check out the website of the bootcamp I attend (below), you will see grand claims from women who have attended the bootcamp sessions and have lost huge amounts of inches. It’s the kind of advertising you’d expect to see on the front of a Slimfast packet and yes, as a true Brit I initially regarded the claims with more than a grain of cynicism. Losing 38 inches is impressive, but that’s not all from round your middle. When you throw in boobs, hips, bums and four limbs that’s quite a lot of body parts to divide that magic number by. But I remained open-minded and went along to my first session ready to give 100%. It was a cold, dark and damp night at the end of February. And the fact that I’m still attending today, five months later, perhaps gives the game away just a wee bit as to what I thought of the whole thing. So I won’t keep you in suspense any longer… it’s brilliant.

The only photo of me exercising in existence. It's the Race for Life, though! Completed in 30 minutes, after 3 months attending bootcamp

When I say brilliant, I don’t necessarily mean it’s an all-singing, all-dancing barrel of laughs from start to glorious finish. But what I do mean is, it WORKS. It really, really works. It’s not just standing in a damp field doing squats and lunges whilst being yelled at by a scary army-style trainer. I mean it is, a bit. (Our instructor even referred to some passers-by as 'civilians' instead of 'pedestrians' the other day by accident. True story). But it’s more than that. The exercises are different in every session, so there’s an element of surprise – probably along the lines of the surprise you get when you bite into one of those puke-flavoured jelly beans – but it’s a surprise nonetheless! It keeps you on your toes. One session you could be running up hills and doing push-ups. But in the next you could be bounding around the park holding a car tyre above your head, practising upper cuts with proper boxing gloves on, or even attempting to restrain another female while she tries to run away from you, wearing a harness. I kid you not. The sessions are designed to burn calories, tone muscle and improve your overall fitness – there’s not a morning after a bootcamp before where something hasn’t been sore. And it’s usually a lot more than something. The old adage of ‘muscles you never knew you had’ really does apply in this case, as not only do they hurt, but some of the time you even know what they’re called, AND what they’re for!

And it IS fun, sort of. The different bootcamps all seem to have slightly different atmospheres, some more serious and strict, staying truer to the traditional army-inspired roots, but others, like the one I attend, are a little more free and easy. You’re not forced to do anything you don’t feel you can do, and the instructor seems to instinctively know when someone is working as hard as they can, or if they can be pushed harder. The girls are friendly and supportive of one another, and there is a loyal group who attend most if not all of the sessions available. It’s not competitive – you push yourself as hard as YOU want. As they say, you get out what you put in, and it’s absolutely true with bootcamp.

For me I think the reason it’s so successful in comparison with a trip to the gym is that it provides motivation on tap. You can switch off and just work, in the knowledge that someone else is taking care of which bits of your body are being worked, and how hard, and for how long. The group atmosphere and the encouraging nature of the regime may not be for everyone, but it sure as hell beats pounding the treadmill or sitting on an exercise bike in a sweaty gym filled with posers. It’s tailor-made to help you improve your fitness, strength and appearance, at your own pace. The problem with the gym is you go there week in, week out, and go through the motions, without any notion of where you were, or where you are going. With bootcamp, you can really feel, and see, the gradual improvements, all over your body – inside AND out.

And the proof, if required, is in the full fat chocolate-based pudding. I really haven’t changed a whole lot with regard to my eating habits. I eat healthily but am not overly strict and regularly splash out on takeaways or other treats at weekends. And I’m not exactly a paragon of virtue in the alcohol consumption stakes as anyone who knows me will attest to. And yet the change in my body is visible. I’ve dropped a dress size, for the first time in my adult life. I’ve lost 12lb since Christmas, and the all-important inches have been shed - 11 in total. Not a massive amount when spread out but enough to mean that many of my clothes no longer fit, and thankfully, I did fit into the size-too-small wedding dress I bought myself back in October of last year. And yes, since the wedding I may have put a couple of those lost pounds back on – but now I’m back attending bootcamp regularly, I am safe in the knowledge they won’t hang around for long.

Give it a go – you won’t be disappointed!

http://www.nolippybootcamp.co.uk/index.php

*I'd just like to point out that I'm not normally this blasé about being so overly positive about something - it's just not in my nature. British, you see. But that's not to say I'm being paid by any bootcamp, including the one I attend, to write such glowing stuff about the services they provide. They don't even know about it, yet! It's just really that good. Disclaimer, over!

Confessions of a Roller Derby Novice

Firstly, an apology to my regular readers. Without a weekly hockey match to force me to keep to some sort of schedule my time-keeping is all over the place, and this report comes well over a week late, so yes, sorry about that, bad blogger. I shall administer repeated slaps to my own face in repentance. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

But anyway. Did you know, it’s been a whole seven months since I’ve reviewed a new sport! How very lax of me. It was all because I found out there WAS no professional tiddlywinks league in North Shields and I was disillusioned for a while, but fear not: I intend to remedy the situation by telling you all about last weekend’s trip to a roller derby bout in Walker. Who knew I would ever speak those words?

For those of you not familiar with the Tyne and Wear area, let me describe Walker for you. You know that feeling when you’re in the middle of describing your drunken weekend exploits to your office colleages, complete with actions and relevant colourful language, and your boss walks in? That cold, deathly feeling as all the air leaves the room, like the life has been sucked out of it? Welcome to Walker. It’s a happiness vacuum. And it’s one of those places where regardless of the exterior temperature, you close your car windows and lock down the doors, and pray you don’t run over a well-placed rock in the road before reaching your final destination.

Yes, it’s a joy to behold, as is the not-very-aptly-named Lightfoot Centre that has landed within the Walker area like a prop UFO from a 70’s sci-fi B movie, its corrugated tin domed exterior as much a highlight of the local area as it would be a blot on the landscape of any more average residential neighbourhood. We entered the building with more than a little trepidation and discussed the distinct possibility that roller derby could be a front for the Scientologist rally it seemed more likely would be taking place in such a peculiar architectural wonder.

More impressive then our surroundings once seated in the auditorium; the domed ceiling concealed a wooden roof within it reminiscent of old-fashioned American sports hall and it was surprisingly packed to the rafters with numerous fans of women on roller skates (well, who wouldn’t be one?). The event was inventively but somewhat mystifyingly for us novices named ‘Sweet Home Alajammer’. We took our seats in the balcony area just in time for the B team bout, which featured the second string skaters from the competing sides, Newcastle Roller Girls and Leicester’s Dolly Rockit Rollers. Prior to the competition there was a cute skit in which the girls faced off, Wild West style, before the action began. Helpfully, the announcer kindly explained the rules of roller derby before the bout kicked off, which was useful as I hadn’t a clue what to expect other than a vague memory of the goings-on in that film ‘Whip It’ with that girl what was really good in Juno and Drew Barrymore being quite scary. As I later discovered there was also a handy section in the front of the programme explaining things more clearly. As an aside I’d like to complement the girls on the quality of the programme itself, which contained collections of photos of all the participants and was also free – a nice touch.

So roller derby then. Let’s cover the basics. It’s played by women. On roller skates. Wearing hotpants and tights and named a variety of menacing and/or amusing tongue-in-cheek things such as Penelope Hitstop, Whippi Longstocking and Bettie Basher. Oh, and there’s an awful lot of jam.

Girls on skates. Preparing to use one another as missiles. Sweet.

Photo reproduced courtesy of Idene Roozbayani

The rules then? In short, there are five team members in play at any one time. Four of them are essentially there to block, and one is the points-scorer or ‘jammer’ (see I told you there was a lot of jam), who tries to get round the track and pass as many of the opposing team members as possible ahead of the opposing teams’ jammer, ably assisted by the pack and hindered as much as possible by the opposing team’s pack. Are you with me? It sounds simple enough – bordering on basic even – but throw in some frenetic hand signals, some hilarious hip-checking and shoulder barges, plenty of American-style line changes and the distraction of the various outfits on display and you realise there’s a lot more to roller derby than just a selection of slightly terrifying women with wheels strapped to their feet.

The B team brawl seemed a bit all over the place but in reality I think it was a combination of new team members finding their feet in the sport and new spectators with less than a speck of a clue to rub together about what was going on that probably caused the confusion. OK, maybe a slight hangover and the pounding dance music in my ears may also have had something to do with it. It’s a lively atmosphere, that’s for sure. All in all, it gave me a sort of warm, fuzzy feeling in my stomach, once again not knowing what the hell was going on at a sport to which I was a spectator. Ah, happy memories.

Sadly for the home team, Leicester’s Free Birds won the B team bout. The main event followed shortly afterwards. In the break we admired the Newcastle Roller Girls' A team, the Canny Belters, dressed to the nines in smart black uniforms with various adornments and war paint, running a rather impressive looking warm-up before taking to the track for a warm-up skate. There was a similarly well-staged Wild West-themed pre-game skit and then the stand-off commenced. The difference in quality was plain and some of the skaters had real finesse and quite a turn of pace. We started to grasp the rules and it became more exciting as the contest unfolded. The first period went in favour of the visitors, their jammer, Gob Stop’her, one of the fastest skaters of the day, racking up lots of points and leaving the Canny Belters trailing at half time. The whole thing was quite well-orchestrated and we started to grasp the tactical plays which were more subtle than you might imagine from a group of women trying to barge each other off their feet with their hips. The blockers (is that the right word, I’ve already forgotten?!) work as a team, moving collectively to obstruct the opposing jammer and then seamlessly dropping away to let their own jammer pass. I even witnessed girls using each other as weapons, launching one another into opposing players to clear them from the track to make way for their jammer. Nice!

This girl means business. So does the other one. You'd better watch out!

Photo reproduced courtesy of Idene Roozbayani

The guys get involved too, taking roles as referees, coaches and announcers, and it seems that soon there will even be an opportunity for them to get their skates on and take part in an all-male version of the sport, rather disturbingly named ‘merby’. I’ll be intrigued to see how that one turns out.

In terms of interestingly named sections of gameplay, I was thankful to find that a ‘powerjam’, rather than being a particularly concentrated variety of fruit preserve designed to give extra kick to your breakfast croissant, was actually something I could latch onto rules-wise, reminiscent as it is of the ice hockey powerplay, in which the opposition lose their jammer to a penalty allowing the other jammer to have free reign and rack up as many points as possible. In the second period we (ooh, get me getting all possessive of another Newcastle team!) made the most of the powerjam opportunities when they arose, and we closed the gap on the Dolly Rockit Rollers and eventually took the lead. Impressive jamming displays from amongst others Marie Bayonet and Hot Whips, and Von Sleaze with an unrivalled 21 point jam put the Canny Belters in the driving seat and we showed up our opponents’ lack of strength in depth. They relied heavily on their one – admittedly excellent – jammer, but she tired towards the end and lost her legs, unable to pick up many additional points and the Newcastle Roller Girls went on to claim a 107-83 victory.

So to re-cap: women. On skates. In hotpants. With awesome names. Using each other as weapons. Hmm. I most definitely approve. On reflection, who wouldn’t want to attend a sport that actually has first aiders on hand at all times? It certainly gave me the bug and come July, I will be swapping my ice skating blades for skates of the four-wheeled variety to see what the fuss is all about. I can’t deny the thought of facing up against some of the more amply-thighed ladies fills me with a slight sense of dread, but hey, I’ve got a canny pair of hips on me myself so hopefully I’ll give as good as I get. Oh and I won the raffle! I never win anything!

So if you fancy any and/or all of the above get yourselves down to the depths of Walker in the near future. It's dark, it's dangerous, and it rocks a fine collection of short shorts. And clearly I don't just mean the questionable local area! See the Newcastle Roller Girls website for further information on upcoming bouts and getting involved! Do it NOW!

http://newcastlerollergirls.co.uk/

Now I'm off to crawl back under the rock I came from and lie dormant for another few weeks until the inaugural Whitley Bay Hamster Wheel Demolition Derby. See you there!

Exploring the Mundane: KATY P and the Alphabetti Spaghetti

So I came to the conclusion a couple of weeks back that I should probably flex my cranial muscles in the direction of something other than ice hockey just to see if they were still working, or if they’d like, crusted over, like some nasty vat of canteen custard, the beautiful fresh thoughts growing stale and cold beneath the congealed top layer of hockey-induced single-mindedness. So here was a project: write about something else for a while. I wondered what other so-called bloggers wrote about when they just felt the urge to write but didn’t have any pressing issues of the day to philosophise over. I think the ultimate nature of blogging, unless it’s topical or with some sort of purpose (ie reviews, reports, political-based conjecture etc) is the art of exploding the minutiae of daily life into glorious word-based technicolor. It’s the art of venting a spurious 500-word diatribe at a computer screen about the self-checkouts in Marks and Spencers, or why when you run for a bus, it’s invariably delayed, whereas if you’re more than a second behind schedule said bus (plus two of its buddies) will merrily fly past and proceed to quite happily ignore you as you pelt towards the bus stop at infarction-inducing pace. It’s the seemingly insignificant or meaningless things in life that some bloggers seem to cherish, expounding upon mundane follies in such detail you would imagine that simply selecting between a sweet or savoury pretzel could have some bearing on the future of the world as we know it.

So I thought, perhaps it’s time for me to try this. I was idly wondering about what such random whimsy I could spend far too many words over-analysing, and I hadn’t gotten around to wracking my poor neglected brain for more than a few minutes when it came to me, quite organically, upon debating my choice of dinner menu just the other day. I had rejected the more appealing option of an Indian takeaway, despite having craved it for a number of days, on the grounds of both money and detriment to health, but in absence of my urge to cook any elaborate dish (and by elaborate I was even including cooking some pasta and microwaving some frozen Bolognese to pour over it), combined with a lack of key ingredients, I resorted to the basics that were available to me: bread. And tinned pasta in tomato sauce, shaped like letters of the alphabet. I had in the past been an admirer in passing of the ‘O’ shaped variety of such tinned Italian snack, but this was a first. Damn Tesco and their special offers.

And so there it was on my plate. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I had alphabetti spaghetti on toast for my dinner. But it doesn’t end there. I was overly fascinated with the product on my plate and of course, I began to spell out various things with the individual shapes (never has an item of produce been so overtly contradictory to the old parental adage ‘don’t play with your food’). Well, you have to, don’t you? I spelt my name, of course. I indicated my preference of television programme (Dr Who). I marvelled at how readily available all the letters seemed to be. I had expected some letters to be completely missing, perhaps the more complicated ones for example like, I don’t know, say ‘G’ whilst expecting a surplus of ‘I’s, ‘X’s and ‘O’s (they’ve had a lot of practice at the latter, after all). However the spread of letters was fairly uniform. With one very obvious exception. There were loads, and loads, of ‘B’s.

I won’t lie to you, I noticed it when I first poured the can into the microwaveable Tupperware bowl, and all I could see were ‘B’s. I tried to ignore it, imagining that it was just coincidence. But as I moved the letters around the plate the ‘B’s kept catching my eye. Why were there so many of them? What could it all mean?! Because of course, everything means something, as we well know. Nothing at all in life can possibly just be a random event. It started to preoccupy me. B’s, B’s…. What is this tinned Heinz product trying to tell me?! Someone beginning with B could be significant in my life? I shouldn’t hate on Gareth Barry so much? I should support the Boston Bruins in the Stanley Cup play-offs (I had already chosen them over Montreal based mainly on alluring alliteration)? Perhaps Heinz are overly fond of the soulful stylings of the legendary BB King, and are undertaking a stealth advertising campaign on his behalf, trying to subconsciously influence the minds of impressionable young people and encourage them to buy his records. It’s a conspiracy! Of course. Why didn’t I think of it before? Actually maybe they’re just trying to remind us that baked beans would have been a better choice of tomato-based non-perishable to put on our toast.

But what does it all MEAN?!!

So there it was. The mystery persists with no discernable solution and I’m left wondering (a) whether my first attempt at this nonsense-blogging has been successful or not and (b) – ooooh, B!! – quite why the obviously vital importance of the letter ‘B’ in my life has not yet been revealed to me. I fear I shall have to indulge in a repeat performance of the alphabetti spaghetti-based drama in order to confirm whether or not my suspicions are correct.

Watch this space, my friends.

A mini-drama

This story is based on true events. That happened on Saturday. Any character that bears any resemblance to any person living or dead exists because it's about me. And I'm like totally a real person.

Katy got home and found an envelope on the bookcase. Just a little envelope. Plain and white and sitting there, minding its own business. It looked like your run-of-the-mill faceless printed nonsense belonging in the category of uninspiring credit card-related junkmail; perhaps at best some beseeching charity-related sales material. It took her a moment to focus her eyes on the tiny yet familiar logo on the single sheet of paper she found inside.

Look carefully, my keen-eyed cherubs. Can you tell what it is yet?

'Dude.' She cried. 'It's freaking WIMBLEDON tickets.'

Katy had assumed she would have no chance in the ticket ballot amongst the maelstrom of baying tennis hounds around the UK and indeed the world and had put it to the back of her mind but the sheet in front of her told no lies. The reality of the situation sank in.

'I'VE SCORED FREAKING WIMBLEDON TICKETS!!!!!!'

Katy cannot believe her luck. The OPENING DAY as well, that will be quite something. Think of the atmosphere! The frisson of excitement running through the veins of the thronging, strawberry-eating, Pimms-quaffing SW19 contingent; it's too mouth-watering to even contemplate! And Number 3 court! It may not be centre but it renders the chances of Katy seeing her favourite players HIGH, bearing in mind none of them rank higher than 10.

But suddenly, reality dawns. Monday 20th June. Oh god.

'That's Exam Board week!! Only the busiest and most important week of the year in my godforsaken job! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! There's no WAY work will let me take that day off.'

Quickly she rationalises... 'But - but - it's freakin' WIMBLEDON dude! I'll fake an exotic disease! I'll threaten to sue them for wrongful, er, wrongful not-letting-me-have-the-day-off-al! It's so UNFAIR!!

So. Not. Impressed. But there must be some way... The optimist within her fights and battles and...

All of a sudden her eyes zero in on a date printed towards the bottom of the letter. 07/04/11. 'When's that then?' She wonders in passing. 'That's like, next year or whatever, dude. And what does it mean, anyway? Could it be important in some way?'

The words before it read 'PAYMENT MUST BE MADE BY'.

Then it hits her.

Oh. Holy. Arsepotatoes.

That date was... Thursday. Just. Gone.

'I've missed. The cocking. Cut-off date.'

She wildly flails around for a target to slam with the full force of her blame and recrimination.

Is it because the letter arrived late, and therefore it's all Wimbledon's fault? Noooooo.

Is it because the postman somehow failed to deliver the letter, hence rendering the whole of the Royal Mail responsible, the blundering, incompetent fools? Noooooo.

Or could it be, perchance, because Katy left the envelope sitting on the bookshelf for a week because she thought it was just another tree-raping piece of pointless, needless, worthless, fetid, pollip-in-the-armpit-of-the-world junkmail?

Yes. Yes it could well be.

This tragedy was brought to you in the third person because the protagonist can't bear to inhale the filthy stench of her own putrid incompetence. Quite why she used her own name in the story she doesn't know. She really must be some kind of prize idiot.

I feel no further exposition is necessary, other than to state the clear moral of the story. I BLOODY LOVE TENNIS, ME!

Oh wait, that's not it. That's just an unfortunate fact I happen to be pretending is untrue at this present moment in order to salve the cheese-grating torment of my own gargantuan failure.

The moral of the story is in fact: OPEN YOUR ARSING MAIL, YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER IMBECILIC HALF-WIT!

This is me now:

Sorry about all the image stealery and adaptery. But thanks. That's totally correct referencing behaviour and shiz, right? Yeah, I thought so too.

Film Review: Season of the Witch

When less than two minutes into a film, your inner film critic starts composing sentences about how bad said picture is, it’s never a good sign.

The trailer for Season of the Witch suggested that it was basically going to be Nicolas Cage, being Nicolas Cage, but in medieval times. Score. Throw in the colossal visage of Ron Perlman and you are surely talking about the most kick-ass team of dudes in all of Christendom? Which is strangely appropriate, as we join the pair romping their way through the Crusades in the 1300s killing Jews and various other heathens left, right and centre. But they leave the army after suddenly growing a conscience about killing civilians (yes, because I bet they didn’t kill a single one in the previous seven years) and are eventually captured and imprisoned for desertion. Here begins our story: it’s just a shame that the prior build-up was so cringe-worthy that I’m already left cold and slumped, frowning over my popcorn.

Now don’t get me wrong. I didn’t go along expecting to see a full-scale epic quest movie, and I did expect it to be somewhat tongue-in-cheek. But there’s comedy and then there’s just terrible. The inconsistency of the comedic elements didn’t help. The entire beginning section could have been viewed as pure farce if there had been any suggestion that it would be heading in that direction, but the middle section falls flat on its face in comedy terms, masquerading instead as a tense supernatural thriller. I don’t think it helped that the motley crew of misfits undertaking the journey which constituted the bulk of the plot displayed very little in the way of depth and inspired very little in the way of empathy. The so-called witch herself prowled cat-like in her cage flashing beseeching wide eyes presumably in an attempt to prompt an 'is she or isn't she' reaction in the audience. Sadly their isn't enough of a hook and the plot bumps along the bottom of the film experience like a square wheel.

The script itself was unbelievable dross; flat, uninspired and at times wildly anachronous, it lurched painfully from faux middle English to modern day schtick. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear Cage call Perlman ‘brah’ at any time. I’ll leave specific examples out of it so as not to hamper the small amount of amusement you’ll actually get if you choose to watch the film, but suffice to say, it was way off the mark and completely off-putting.

Plus points to be drawn from this bizarre piece of film-making go to the cinematographer, who brilliantly presented the backdrop of the Austro-Hungarian wilderness in all its bleak and jaw-dropping splendour. Lots of prizes go to the make-up and costume department for their work on the pus-filled boils and the spectacular helmets, respectively. I also rather liked Nic Cage’s long curly hair. Um, what else? Well, the ending is truly hilarious. The movie finally remembers what it should have been about in the first place and having seen Ron Perlman headbutt Satan himself, I left the cinema relieved that I had been able to claw a modicum of enjoyment from the thing at all.

Rating – 1/10 if they were serious. 4/10 if they weren’t.

Newcastle to Surbiton:An Odyssey (CoverItLive Test Broadcast)