The Cha-Cha Slide Taught Me Nothing Part II: How to MOVE ON

So, well over a month ago, I wrote about "disappointment". What do we do when potential dream-shattering is on the horizon? Relax, I said, and if that sweet old disappointment hits you, learn and do better next time, basically. Great advice from me, congratulations, I've solved all of your problems, yes?

Oh.

I was lucky (or worked quite hard. Either way): on 5th November I escaped the fiery claws of gnawing disappointment. But post by writer and friend Megan: "The Cha-Cha Slide Taught Me Nothing Part I" reinforced that actually, in so many realms of life, you just don't. You can't just act like it's a Year 3 birthday party and "Reverse, reverse!" your way back through the crap. You can't scream "EVERYBODY CLAP YOUR HANDS!" and expect the world to be rectified. You'll get upset and properly well confused innit, and when it comes to the bit where you gotta "Charlie Brown", you'll be all over the shop.

Who actually knows how to Cha-Cha?

The disappointment or general upset inevitably comes, be it in work, school, university or your personal life (or conveniently out of the blue for no reason whatsoever but that stress packs a punch anyway), and you need to be prepared with 'the next step'. Sometimes, it just is not as easy as taking a deep breath and saying you will do better next time. Sometimes, it knocks you very, very hard.

Megan and I have turned our posts into a collaboration of two parts: hers about the moment when you go back to something because it's familiar, against all better advice or judgement. She also admits it's not healthy to do so, but it may well be a natural human trait that lets us cave so easily. We have teamed up to decide what comes next: whether a personal story like Megan's, a bad grade you didn't want, or just an utterly terrible day/week/month where I-don't-mean-to-exaggerate-or-anything-but it feels like the sun quite possibly won't rise the next day, I'm considering what you might be able to do in that situation.

If it's at this point, it has already gone too far.

A friend said recently that in a tough situation, you have to "power on through". I disagree: you do not always need the power. It may well help, at times, but as long as you are getting through in any way available, that may be the utmost you can do. Powering through with the force of a thousand vodka-fuelled Freshers at a pub crawl is just fabulous when you have the energy, the motivation, the wind in your hair and you haven't just skipped your sixth lecture of the week (and Christ, I don't even have six lectures in a week so that's quite a triumph). ...What about the other times? When you feel feeble and very, very "un-okay" - and whether you deal with this by flouncing about from room to room declaring it to everybody who has a pulse, or just repeating it to yourself very, very quietly without anybody else having the slightest clue - "power" is the last thing you may be able to conjure up when it comes to feeling better. You haven't got the power to, um, power through. Yet you could crawl or just sort of... fester with some vague direction, and at some point you will magically be at the other side.

And it gets better: this will always apply. I'm only a lowly arts student, but I do not need a science degree to tell you that time will always go on. Whatever there is to "get through" will eventually be the past, and as Megan suggested - maybe that's where it should stay.

Seriously

So just keep plodding on. Keep plugging away at everything, chipping away at any horrible-ness of this week or the week before, and don't be disheartened if today feels, hope-crushingly, just like yesterday did. Whether it's a 2:2 on an essay that wasn't even assessed, somebody you cannot bear to let go of, or anything more serious: do not be disheartened. If you won't believe me when I say it, take it from a whingey ginger kid instead:

Are u sure tho Annie bbe?

Because "moving on" only really requires one thing: moving. And nobody is telling you how quickly you should move.

Let the soothing, trashy pop of the 2000s help you along your way.

For more advice on how to cope with stress, specifically at university, see this article from #SpiceUKOnline. As mentioned in the article, please seek help if stress or negative feelings are persistently affecting your life.

OUCH! Yeah, that's disappointment.

It’s the last day before the Easter holidays. My eyes are watering. There’s glitter in them. It’s prickling and it’s in my mouth too, all over my lips and it’s itching my scalp. My fingers are a clammy mess, holding the hands of somebody else – two people, perhaps – and we are silently squeaking, jogging on the spot in ridiculous leotards, blinking rapidly. The signature school drum roll begins with the cocky Year 9s until everyone is furiously bashing their feet as we wait. We grip our hands tighter and I look up at the assembly hall ceiling and mouth “Come on. Say it’s us”.

…  It wasn’t. We didn’t win. Because that’s not how it works. You can’t win the House Fashion and Dance Show by crossing your fingers and praying to the assembly hall ceiling God.

Incidentally, I have, along the way, also found out that you can’t get into the Guildford pantomime in Year 8 by clasping your hands and whispering “please”, nor can you get an A in your Philosophy A Level by clenching your fist and fervently ‘hoping’ until you have a headache. I’ve learnt it over and over, hundreds of times, that success isn’t about hoping and praying in the moment that you’ve done enough – oddly, it’s about actually doing enough beforehand.

But knowing this, of course, does not make the disappointment sting any less. It didn’t stop me crying for an evening when I didn’t get into the first Year 7 play. It didn’t stop me feeling winded and broken for days in Year 12 when I wasn’t employed for the Junior School “Late Stay” job (and all my friends were. A painful year). It in no way softened the blow when I wasn’t picked as a breakfast presenter last year on Student Radio, or when I didn’t get in to the National Youth Theatre.

Yet knowing this – knowing every single time I’ve been rejected that last minute praying didn’t affect an outcome – did (eventually) stop me crossing my fingers and mouthing “please” when I want something to go my way. Because frankly, I started wondering: what if this is a genie-in-a-bottle scenario, and I only get three “please” moments in my entire lifetime which actually come true? Would I want to waste them on my house winning a school fashion show? Would I use it to be an NYT member? Or would I rather work my arse off just a little bit harder to make those things come true by myself, and save the “please” for a moment when, God forbid, I actually need it?

And once again, I know that moment is not now: I was recently nominated for a Student Radio Award. I’m incredibly excited. It’s almost time for the awards ceremony, and I’m well aware that this time tomorrow evening the feeling of good ol’ disappointment may well be slapping me round the face like Justin Bieber walking into another glass door. It’s fairly probable, statistically – but although the result is unknown to me, it has already been decided, and I did my best at the time. Finger-crossing, last time I checked, ain’t going to whizz me back to June and tweak my application, nor is it going to change a judge’s mind set, or the standard of my competitors. All that’s left to do is take a deep breath and practice the Joey-Tribbiani-Gracious-Loser-Façade. I’ll smile and clap politely, saying, “No, really, you deserved it, and never would I steal your award and present it as my own for decades to come…” And shockingly, I will probably live. Maybe.

The point I am trying to make (to myself. I am trying to counsel myself here, let’s be honest) is that each moment of disappointment happens for a reason: either one completely out of my control (come on, Wellington house, we know that Music Contest judge was biased), in which case there’s nothing to be done anyway. Or alternatively, the effort wasn’t quite put in, and the work wasn’t of a high enough standard. So next time, you ramp it up.

Blatantly, all of this logical knowledge is never going to stop the ten year old inside of me feeling like I’m back in Year 5, being told that my sister got into our local theatre’s production of Jacqueline Wilson’s Double Act when I didn’t (proper killed me, that one) and feeling like a puppy that’s just been kicked with a lead-soled boot. That’s just human nature. It’s not going to stop my fingers twitching tomorrow evening as some part of me wants to cross them and look to my old pals, the assembly hall gods, and really intensely wish that it all goes as I hope. However, it does mean that I can breathe deeply and put off the fervent praying yet again, because there have been plenty of times I wasn’t disappointed. And at every single one of them? I didn't use no "please"! I’d worked really, bloody hard.

GIG ETIQUETTE: The Real Issue at Concerts?

I’m 15 and my family have gone to Russell Brand’s Give It Up For Comic Relief. Jessie J is playing and I adore her. We are in seats on the floor, and they are not raked – but my mother and I aren’t ones for sitting and letting a good pop tune pass without a dancing session. People are standing up all over the place so it’s unsurprising that within minutes, the Foxes too are up and grooving.

… Which lasted literally seconds. The balding man behind me (I might even go so far as to suggest he was not the ticket purchaser of the group, but perhaps had been dragged along) reached up to grab my shoulder, and yelled in my ear with explosive force, a much shorter, less sweet and entirely explicit version of “Would you mind sitting down please? I can’t see.” My cheeks burnt and I parked my booty down immediately because frankly I hate getting into trouble. Even my sweet, sweet Jessie wasn’t worth having my hearing destroyed by the huge fridge-like man behind me (huge, square, shiny and utterly cold).

Cut to the Kaiser Chiefs (somehow my mother and I again…) much more recently. It was at Sandown racecourse, so the crowd was a surreal mix of all ages, including tipsy sixty-somethings fresh from the races, muttering “The Kaiser who?” under their breaths. As the songs blasted on, neither of us could stand firm against the neighbouring drunk couple who insisted on consistently barging us along. Into other people, into each other, onto the floor – as long as they were spending every ounce of effort subtly shoving people around with an incredibly vicious use of elbows, they seemed happy.

… Wait, no, they didn’t. If the pushing had been some part of a Ricky-Wilson-fuelled frenzy (we’ve all been there), I would understand. The fangirl gets to us all, Good Sir and Lady, but at least pretend you’re loving the music, and I might appreciate your behaviour a little more. You are simply moody and insecure in a crowd of people enjoying life, and your elbows are the only way you can take that out on the surroundings. The bruise in my back lasted a fair while, thanks.

Cut again, to Bestival, last weekend. My friends and I shared a fair few moments of rolled eyes and disgruntled shrugs as various latecomers strode through to the front with astonishing purpose, leaving behind their worries (and quite often, the weakling of the friendship group). From the forty year old with an empty wine bottle claiming to be “just looking for a mate” (is your mate Charlie XCX, perchance? Because now that you’ve pushed us all out of the way, you’ve certainly found her. She’s right in front of you) to a group of hyped up Squirrel-like teens at Ella Eyre almost knocking out my front teeth with their incessant jumping, we had our fair share of being unimpressed by the crowd.

Finally, we come to the group of lads and gals, suddenly swarming the barrier at Jungle after the set had started. They grew in number like rabbits, and every ten seconds there would be another call of “MATE! Oli I can see him – OI MATE, CHARLIE, MATE WE’RE HERE, COME THROUGH!” Everybody in the surrounding area silently implored Charlie to please, please refrain from ‘coming through’, but he does (along with every “lad” in the vicinity), and soon they’ve grown their empire to ten feet squared directly in front of the stage. We are highly unamused. That was our space. We cared enough to be here. How dare you stand there, Charlie, Oli, Jamie Jack Tarquin Hugo Bertie Rupert the lot of you, and enjoy the moment?

And it was this last scenario which made me wonder if, perhaps, the real issue with crowd etiquette is not that we are now standing five feet further to the left. After all, I could still see every molecule of human flesh on the stage. Sound technology is, shockingly, decent nowadays – the woman right at the back, thousands of people between her and the performers, can still hear every lyric. Why are we so deeply concerned by those in the crowd around us?

There seem to be two separate issues that may be explanatory.  Firstly, could it be that in some cases what we detest is not the centimetres we have been scooted across, but instead the idea that Charlie, Oli and their #crew are actually having more fun than us? With their inside jokes, ever-expanding numbers, Hugo and Jack’s synchronised knowledge of every lyric and drum beat, the moment when gal-pal Katie was up on Jamie’s shoulders. It’s a huge group, they never stop smiling and maybe it’s the fact they are oblivious to their neighbours’ cynicism that makes us twitch.

Secondly (maybe stemming from the jealousy?) is the human tick that we love to hate. The brutal truth is that we relish in ganging up, having someone to talk about, something to pick on.  We love the feeling that it’s us against them, without any real knowledge of “them” or what “they” actually entail. As long as we’re not any part of it.

For now, I do not strive to somehow directly link Jungle’s set at Bestival to immigration disputes, racism or war, but it is worth considering if the way we treat those in the crowd around us could be representative of so much more than the fact that we are two yards further from the stage, with slight bruises on our legs, and Rupert’s drunk laugh ringing in my ears.

… So where does all of this leave us, where gig etiquette is concerned? My brief dip into the fan-girling world means I know what it’s like to be utterly ruthless with those around you (because this could be my only chance for Liam Payne to notice my face and realise we are meant to be)… But teen hormones and 1D fanaticism aside, should some slack be cut for the person beside you, who also wants to enjoy the moment? Maybe the couple from the Kaiser Chiefs would have saved everyone time if they had steered clear in the first place, but for the sake of an hour or two, is it ever really worth finding a point to prove? A judgement to make?

The plain fact is: I don’t know the woman with blonde highlights, alone at Bestival, with the empty wine bottle. The moody couple at the Kaiser Chiefs. That bloody Balding Fridge behind me at Jessie J. I don’t know Oli or his mate Charlie, where they are from, what happened to them that day, why it could be so important or just so utterly explainable why they had to be at the barrier for Jungle’s set.

Another situation, and anybody might find themselves the hyped group pushing through the crowd with their inside jokes and adrenaline rush: in the cinema, in a club, at a festival, at a gig. You wouldn’t give that feeling up for the world when you are part of it, so why are we so intolerant, the one time it isn’t us? Are we jealous? Or, worse, are we just innately hateful towards “them”?

Perhaps it is time to make a pact with ourselves. Just like Squirrel-Teen #2 at Ella Eyre, if there’s a tense situation in the mob, dance with them, not against them – even if it means I may need immediate dental surgery.

Gig etiquette is a small scale issue, but it is one to consider, even briefly. Frankly, it’s no wonder our species is such a bloody mess if we cannot allow the complete strangers next to us in a crowd to enjoy the moment.

Claire Adams and the Immoral Crop Top

Telling somebody that their body type is in some way incorrect or unsuitable is body shaming. 

This is incredibly detrimental to mental and physical health. Body shaming must stop. 

"Claire Adams and the Immoral Crop Top"... Sounds like a children's story, doesn't it? The one J.K Rowling forgot, perhaps?

 Hundreds of times a year, I come across content online with which I disagree. Mostly, I grumble for a while, then move on. It's a case of differing opinions, and I'm adamant I won't be dragged into petty YouTube fights or Twitter clashes.

Recently, I broke this little vow to myself. In a fit of fever-induced anger, I replied to a comment on an Instagram post, and found myself in a short-lived dispute. I gave up and decided to let go, but the anger clung onto me, so I have turned to a platform with more typing space to lay out the situation as I see it. Opinions welcome.

I want this message to be understood by all. So, a children's story it is.

***

One day, a good and righteous Queen from the far-off realm of YouTube awoke and flicked through a magazine before beginning a long day of hard work. She came across an article that made her sad, so she made it into a banner and hung it up from her InstaTurret for all the kingdom to see. She shouted, "Oh People of the Land of Social Media, what do you think?"

The banner was let down from the turret...

The entire kingdom awoke, and began their journey as usual to shout out their opinions from the bottom of InstaTurret. To get there, it was a tiresome trek; they all had to cross the dangerous deserts of Simply Reviewing the Situation, face the ferocious forests of Forming Opinions, battle the perilous peaks of Mount Just-Don't-Get-Involved and finally, wade through the Moat of No-Return-I'm-Right-You're-Wrong. All simply to have their say, louder than anybody else, in the crowd at the foot of InstaTurret. 

A lot of citizens were happy. They came to cheer up the Queen. These townsfolk were from the city of Tyne & Wear-What-You-Want. They set up a dance festival and played instruments, singing "We can wear what we wish! And so can you! It would be silly not to!" They were all wearing different things. They all looked very different but it did not matter. They were all comfortable and confident. They were all happy.

Some of the citizens, from Body-Shamebridge, had come along and were angry. They had been taught that people can only be one certain way. They wore cloaks made entirely of fashion magazine pages and Starbucks cups. Body-Shamebridge agreed with the writing on the Queen's banner. They sneered at the dancers and, at intervals, threw chunks of lettuce at them. "You're ugly!" they shouted at anyone who was not wearing their uniform cloaks. They stood at the side, watching the dancers, frowns upon their faces.

One young dancer looked at the unhappy crowd, and saw that a woman at the side of the group had put away her throwing-lettuce and was instead reaching inside a sack of bricks. The dancer ran over, calling lightheartedly but with a nervous edge to her voice, "Woah now Woman, too far! It's not actually even okay to throw lettuce at us, but at least we can brush it off, even if it means we smell like salad for a while. Bricks are not okay at all. They will hurt us. They may even kill us. If the others see you throwing bricks simply because we are happy and confident, they too will want to throw bricks out of anger, fear and ignorance. I have engaged you in this conversation because I believe that I may change your mind, and that perhaps you can in turn change theirs, although maybe that is naive of me." The brick-throwing Woman did not return the Young Dancer's smile. Instead, she sneered and became further angered. 

"How dare you all dance before me and wear what you wish," seethed the Woman. "I am blind and therefore unable to see you or be affected by what you wear, but I can damn well assume that you are all wearing what you choose and doing so confidently, and I can guarantee that most of you are wearing clothes differently to how I would. That disgusts me. You should all wear what I wish! The standards in my mind of what is visually appealing are the ONLY standards. I should not have to tolerate this difference, and so if you do not change into our cloaks, I shall have to start throwing bricks." 

Then followed a further dispute between the confused Young Dancer and the unhappy Woman. The Young Dancer questioned why this rule had been made - their kingdom had many art galleries, where some of the paintings were thought vile and unappealing by a few people, yet nobody had closed the galleries. Or thrown bricks at them. Why was this any different? The Young Girl also asked how the Woman was really being affected at all by what others wore. The Brick Woman, angered by the simple logic of the young girl's argument, became enraged and unfortunately starting breathing fire.

"Well!" bellowed the woman, "Young, insolent Girl, you will be personally and emotionally punished in a public space for this attempted act of justice! Even though I, a blind woman, have never seen you, I shall assume that you too wear clothes differently to how I would, and I can guess that you are very unattractive by my narrow standards. This makes you disgusting and immoral." The Woman reached for her bricks and threw them at the Girl with great gusto for a random and seemingly nonathletic person, and threw them at the dancing crowd behind her too. The dance became more lively. Mostly because they were trying to dodge the fire-breath and bricks.

Luckily, the strong, happy, resilient spirits of the Tyne & Wear-What-You-Want townsfolk made their skin immune to damage, and they danced their way happily back through the realms of the kingdom without so much as a scratch or singe. On the way, they passed many more would-be dancers who had sat at home calmly the entire time, without ever even feeling the need to join the InstaTurret gathering in the first place, so happy were they in their own skin. 

Meanwhile, the Brick Woman and her followers stumbled back into the shadows surrounding the Moat, angry and bitter with confusion. They wrapped their cloaks tighter around themselves and made camp near the Turret instead of trundling back to Body-Shamebridge. They collected more bricks, so as to be ready to attack anybody else who dared do something as atrocious as wearing what they wanted. 

One young boy, whose parents were Brick-Woman-followers asked the woman, "If the dancers had not hurt us, why did we try to hurt them? We are happy in our cloaks, and they did not tell us to take our cloaks off. Why did we tell them to change what they wore?" 

"Yes," piped up Another Random Small Child. "They were confident in what they wore. I personally found it very unappealing to look at, but this is only because you taught us it was unappealing, oh Brick Woman. I did not want to stop them, but instead only wanted mildly to avert my eyes, before realising that visuals are very little to do with a person anyway." 

"Why did you say it was immoral?" asked another. Soon a dozen more young children were harassing the Woman and questioning her methods and entire way of life. 

"Oh I don't know, I need a cig," muttered the confused Woman, and she shuffled off. The crowd was in turmoil. The children, and even some adults, ran after the Happy Dancers towards Tyne & Wear-What-You-Want and along the way, some shed their cloaks and made their own clothes out of grass, feathers and malted unicorn hair. There was no denying that it was quite alternative clothing but no one cared because the people wearing it felt confident and comfortable. 

The Brick Woman lived in her cloak elsewhere forever more and could never quite shake the feeling that she'd missed something important (that's a lie, sadly: she remained unaware of her limitations because her thought system was too ingrained). 
The Young Dancer felt exhausted and regretted trying to change the woman's mind, but felt mildly proud for giving it a go anyway. Her skin was still resilient and brick-resistant. 
The happy townsfolk continued to mix things up and continuously wore whatever they wished, regardless of body image. This made for a contented kingdom. 
The Queen never stopped hanging banners out of the InstaTurret and causing healthy discussion in the Kingdom of YouTube and other Social Media, because such is modern life.

The end.

***

A Little Epilogue

- Read whatever parallels you wish between the story and the screenshots. I can neither confirm nor deny speculation.

- I hope you enjoyed the story, and find some wisdom within it.

- Finally, a little word on crop tops being "just wrong". Without entering into an ethical language debate, I am going to take "wrong" to mean immoral (it cannot here mean logically incorrect - this is how logic, arguments and inference work, the above does not fit into this system). It seems to me that the only way a person, deemed "overweight" by our society, and wearing a crop top, could be immoral is if it harmed other people. You are not harmed by somebody going against your visual preference. As aforementioned, art galleries are not closed because one person does not enjoy one painting.

Do not throw the bricks. Do not even pick up the salad.

Telling somebody that their body type is in some way incorrect or unsuitable is body shaming. This is incredibly detrimental to mental and physical health. Body shaming must stop. 

"The Snood, the Mad, and the Fugly": 1st Year of Uni

I hate nostalgia. It just eats up time when it creeps up on you and makes you question the nature of how time passes and your very existence and so on.

Huge thanks, First Year of Uni, you have been such a pain - because now I have a whole 'nother year of memories to ponder, while getting mildly upset that I will never be a university fresher again and wondering if failing exams purposefully to redo the experience is a sane thing to do.

So much - so much - has happened this year. "Learning curve" does not even cover it. Too much has happened to write a full-length post on each of them, but frankly, some are too amusing/shocking/great to ignore completely. Today, I give you: The Snood, the Mad and the Fugly. I've been considering the highlights and utter lowlights of my life in Leeds so far. To spice things up, and to avoid inducing comas of boredom, I'm enforcing a ten word limit for each event. Being concise: possibly my biggest struggle to date.

- Sewer Flat: First night. Flood. Sewage in corridor. Everywhere. Scarring. Move: penthouse!

Floor 19

The words every fresher longs to hear.

- Freshers Week Partying: New people everywhere. Too much partying. So far? Leeds > Guildford.

- First Otley Run: Pub crawl, with radio lot. Noah's Ark. Dressed as fox.

- First Radio Show: "The Beat". 5pm, Fridays. I'm overexcited but not great.

Friday Beat: Semester 1

- Penthouse Oscars: Award show with friends. We think we're funny.

"And the award for the most alcohol consumed goes to..."

- My Actual Degree: I remember about it. It's fun. Love phonetics! Genuine surprise.

- German Christmas Market: ... Comes to town. Mulled wine. Baileys. Lights. Cheery. Cold.

- Christmas Ball: Dress on sale. Winning. Fun. Thumbs down for the food.

- Holiday: At home. Cooked for. Amazing.

- The Foxy Pair: Co-hosting. Show proposal. Beth and I = on air together.

- January Exams: Sneak up. Pass. Phonetics goes well.

- Lucy Bellerby Discovery: Blogger. Feminist. So great. I get an interview (listen here).

- Housing: House-hunting. Contract-signing. Beckett students steal our fave. Drama.

The facial expressions in the back say it all.

- Radio Keeno: Student Exec Results coverage. Podcasting. I live in the office.

- Modern Languages Ball: More fun. Lots of wine. Name mis-spelt yet again: #Lousia.

- Sister Arrives: We party. We shop. It's fun. She's cool.

- Holiday: Skiing... Eat. Snow. Sleep. ...Repeat?

- SRAcon: Radio geeks. Everywhere. >GREG JAMES!< Mingling. ...Lost my snood.

Deep breaths. 

The pretty fabulous LSR SRACon Crew

- General Election: I vote. Exciting. Present some of LSR's coverage.

The 12:00 - 2:00 slot

- Revision Season: COMES ROUND TOO QUICKLY. Panic panic revise panic.

- Summer Starts: Pimms. Sun. Lovely. Snood is returned to me!

- Radio AGM: Voted Head of the Beat. Officially Committee member. Freak out.

Overexcitement

- LSR Awards: Nominated "Best Interview" and "Best Newsreader". Enough to be chuffed.

- Exams End: Ecstatic. Think I passed. Celebration. Lots of.

- Other Events I Should Mention: Halloween - Eurovision party - Leeds Ball - #Selected - too many meals out, dancing on tables, LSR and French socials, hidden bars, drinks in the sun, impromptu takeaways and film nights to count. Not ten words, but had to be said.

Beach themed Otley Run

My penchant for fake facial hair returns

"Finding Nemo" Otley Run

It's all been mad. Some of it was tastefully fugly. Plot twist, there even really even was a snood. All in all, an undeniably unforgettable year. I cannot wait for the next.



[P.S. Credit to Rachael for the witty title efforts.]

"I Would Never Glitter You Without Your Consent."

... Not the sentence with which I thought my night would end, but life comes with some pretty brilliant twists and 21st May was just one of those days. I feel so proud. Leeds Uni has done it again and I am so happy to have been a part of it.

By "it", I mean birthed an incredible, unique idea. Today, along with hundreds of other women, I was a part of "Hype the Park, #BoogieNotBlame", a dance-march in the effort to "RECLAIM our streets, CHALLENGE the narrative that women are responsible for sexual assault, and EMPOWER ourselves through COLLECTIVE DISCOOOOO" (taken from the Facebook event - view here). The event came together in a startling two weeks, with the idea only taking form recently, after a number of sexual assaults having taken place around the area of Hyde Park, Leeds. It was created by Rosie Collingwood, and supported/collectively organised by ten others - all students or former students of the University of Leeds.


The march itself was "women and non-binary (trans*-inclusive) -only" - a fact which has, during the formation and development of the event, caused debates. Numerous people questioned the decision to exclude from the march those who identity as male, and while I can appreciate the reason for concern about this decision, I fully understand why it had to be women and non-binary (a person who does not fully identity with one or another gender) only. I do feel vulnerable walking alone late at night and that is, sadly, quite simply a feeling reserved solely for females; as the event goes on to say, "the discourse, ideas and beliefs surrounding sexual assault and staying safe are undoubtedly gendered". As I told the ITV camera man (yes, I made it onto local ITV news, no, I didn't know it was an ITV employee and so wasn't very eloquent), we needed to be proactive and this was the perfect, accessible, upbeat way in which to do it.

One of definite highlights was the "pre-party" held outside the union as marchers congregated: empowering and generally uplifting party music was blasted from the radio broadcasting balcony as the crowd gathered. I don't have much experience in anti-rape-culture marches, but I'd say some Beyoncé is a pretty good way to start one.


Frankly, I was shocked - and delighted to be so - as the numbers kept growing. I felt so proud that something so huge was an event at my own university, and that so many people - men and women alike - felt passionate enough to turn up. It was at this point that a tiny bit of adrenaline got to me (where have we heard that before?) and I started to sprinkle adequate amounts of gold glitter over myself - I never re-found the girl who gave it to me, so thank you, anonymous Glitter-Girl. 

The music kept blaring, and soon we were prepping to embark on a (slightly chilly, damp) march around Hyde Park, complete with a plethora of handmade signs and posters: from "Boogie not blame!", to "Together we are STRONG" and "We are family!". I was kindly given the latter as a momento. It's still randomly hanging around my flat, just so I don't forget that, you know, we are family.

The march commenced and we made a good (all-inclusive, steady!) pace around the park's perimeter. We attracted a lot of attention, most of it good. There were a few mocking (my imagination?) car horns though, all from male drivers, and it seemed a little ironic, but you cannot expect something to be perfectly received. 
...Just like the drunken pub-dweller in the banana costume: not well-received ("Actually, it's women only, so if you could just leave-" "BUT I'M A BANANA!"). As the march continued in its surround-sound disco glory, I was still holding the pot of glitter. It was getting tiresome. There was a lot left. So I tipped it ALL over my head. Regret to follow.

At the end, there was a lot of cheering, high spirits and lovely speeches of thanks for the event's creators - we even had a speaker from Leeds' Rape Crisis Centre (view here) SARSVL. An incredible culmination of brilliant causes to end the event, and the crowd finally started to disperse (to yet more Beyoncé). I sprinkled the last magical millimeter of gold glitter on the union's steps, Hansel and Gretel style, making our mark... Albeit a tiny one. 

The march was a great idea - but what made it so brilliant was the sheer number of people who noticed how great it was, and got behind it. Yet another thing to add to my memorable set of First Year experiences - ones which I never would have seen coming.

Read The Gryphon's full article here, and see #BoogieNotBlame's Twitter page, for more pictures and praises of the event here.

The coat I was wearing at the time still sheds glitter every time I wear it, but for anyone worried by my glittery ways? As I told a fellow marcher asking for a glitter-sprinkle too... I would never glitter you without your consent.

Adrenaline Can Scare Your Peers (in a Good Way. Sometimes.)

"You were like that moment when your phone suddenly lights up REALLY BRIGHTLY in a dark room and everyone was like - BAM! WOAH!"

 - I'll try to take that as a resounding compliment. Other comments I collected yesterday included "The passion was real", "It was almost like a rally", and "When you started I thought you'd lost the plot, until I realised it was on purpose."

... Only the very last bit is debatable. Because yesterday I found out the true meaning of an adrenaline rush.

I have, in the past, occasionally been known to get a little over-excited. I'm not massively inclined to cliff-dive or swim with sharks, but I still know how to live, don't I, so speeches, performances, radio, that moment when I realise we've managed to slide onto the Hifi £4 guestlist - I tend to get pumped up pretty quickly. In the past, this has resulted in the classic nervous-red-ears, slightly jittery disposition and a tendency to squeak a bit, but then ultimately going on to do whatever was planned.

Unfortunately (or, perhaps, in the end, massively fortunately), yesterday's plans did not adhere to these previous experiences. I was running for Head of the Beat (the drive-time show on LSR), a committee position for the coming year, and so was required to make a two minute speech detailing why I should get the society members' votes. I had written my speech. I had practiced it an unbelievable number of times. It seemed a fairly short order.

The factors on the day, though, got to me. My incredibly worthy competitor was being talked up a storm beforehand, and I had just heard uproarious laughter from the spectators as I stood outside during his speech. I knew that my speech was about six seconds too long, and of course I was standing up in front of about sixty society members, including a lot of friends, to say it. I think a combination of these things contributed to the slight panic, and so by the time I was up at the front of the room I had a slight tinge of starry oh-no-I-cannot-see fog around the corners of my eyes and I could only prey that the right things were going to come out of my mouth.

thx babe

Frankly, it started on point. I was aware that it was a little louder than planned but I introduced myself and said that I deserved everyone's votes. Cool.

... At which point, everything in the world suddenly seemed irrelevant apart from the fact that I wanted this position a lot (maybe more than I should have done), and that I would do anything to convince these people that they should vote for me. So my energy ramped up, and I started getting a lot more passionate than any of the times I'd said it in rehearsal.

As mentioned before, I had a lot to say. I was rattling off points with incredible speed. Then came the hand gestures, like a lollipop lady after her seventeenth espresso, but I didn't stop - I saw some friends in the corner giving me a wide-eyed smile and thumbs up and it just spurred me on. The volume was picking up even more and I was, although I cannot say for certain, probably grinning in an incredibly disconcerting way as well.


The little push of enthusiasm from my pals must have tipped me over the edge, because it all kicked off and I actually ended up jumping off the ground a little, crying, "AND THAT PURE CHARISMA IS WHY I WOULD MAKE - THE - IDEAL - CANDIDATE." I even ended with a little impromptu war-like exclamation of "VOTE FOX." It was mad. I fancied myself quite the sensation.

So... What was I thinking?

The answer is, of course, that I wasn't thinking at all. It was a good ten minutes afterwards that I recalled some of what had happened and started asking people, "Did I just spend two minutes jumping up and down and pointing at people?" Wide-eyed nods all round. I ended up spending the rest of the day saying to still-shocked peers "God, what I can I say, the adrenaline got to me..."

I can only liken it to a story once told by my dance teacher, when one of her students, pumped up with so much adrenaline at the end of a performance, broke out of the perfectly rehearsed formation and flung himself into the splits at the front of the stage, to a gobsmacked audience. Had my gymnastic abilities been of a similar level, I can only assume I would have done the same.

And in the end (after a lot of cold water* (*Pimms) and some deep breathing), I got the position. If nothing else, a majority of some sort must have seen that I wanted the job more than anyone else. Granted, I probably could have been less frightening but such are the mysterious ways of sudden adrenaline rushes.

As another friend said afterwards, "Well... You were quite something." Which is always a nice thing to be, isn't it?

General Election, Lieutenant Live-Broadcast & Major Sleep-Deprivation

Politics has never been "my thing". Should it ever come up in conversation, I always rush to say "you can't underestimate how little I know!" before I embarrass myself yet again ("Like, how are you supposed to remember what the 'right' and 'left' even mean?"). 

But when election day came up even I was excited. There were two reasons for this: firstly, I am now allowed by law to vote, and it's fun to know you have a say in, you know, the ol' democracy situation. Secondly, our student radio station LSR had planned all-night coverage of the #GE2015, from the closing of polling stations at 10pm, until midday on the 8th. Somehow, I managed to convince my radio superiors that I now knew enough about presenting to cover the gaping holes in my political intelligence, and landed myself the job of sharing a two hour slot, starting at midnight. I could not wait.

14:10, 8th May 2015

The past 35 hours - because that is now how long I have officially been awake - feel like too interesting an experience not to share. It's been pretty hilarious, even if the majority of university now seems to be sitting under a Tory-hate-filled cloud, and if nothing else, how incredibly lucky am I that  my first vote in the General Election falls neatly into my first year of university?

With all its ups, downs, naps and some pretty impressive radio moments, I present to you: a taster of the past 24 hours - the UK General Election 2015.

General Election, Lieutenant Live-Broadcast & Major Sleep-Deprivation

19:25, 7th May - My friend and I hit Asda to stock up on treats for the night. We're like children, grabbing chocolate... and then we're less like children, grabbing some alcohol. We figure that we'll need a reward once our respective presenting and producing jobs are complete.

21:00 - I eat cereal and consider napping. In the end I don't. I will end up near weeping with regret at this choice, much later on.

22:00 - The radio office has definitely seen emptier days and it is already significantly above comfortable temperatures, but the atmosphere reminds me of a dressing room pre-show, so I am beyond hyped up nonetheless. My ears start burning red - the trademark sign that something exciting is happening. The colour of my ears continues to indicate my stress levels throughout the night... Put simply, they stay really, really red. At 10, the first show kicks off.

At some point after that - The madness descends early on as I volunteer to help record a bit of a spoof Party Political Broadcast that's being made for a show in the early hours of tomorrow. It involves unicorns, rhino-unicorn equality, and me pretending to be a unicorn... It's pretty surreal and makes me feel like I'm not fully conscious.

23:24 - I make another few attempts at getting as clued up as possible before our show starts. I now know what SNP stands for. JUST KIDDING ha, ha, ha, I already knew that one but I do have a serious revision session. Then comes the creation of a game which will later be a lighthearted intermission on our show: "True or False? Ridiculous 2010 UKIP Policies".

23:36 - Some surreal photoshoots (see above) take place which involve some unintentionally sinister politician masks and groans of "Oh do I have to be Nige again?"

23:58 - We head into the studio and get set up and ready for the next two hours. The exact schedule is up in the air because of the fact that we're reporting a live event - this combined with general nerves means 1) my ears are ON FIRE and 2) I start picturing all the potential blunders I could make. Like nerve-sneezing on air or accidentally referring to Farage as "bae" or something. I'm dithering.

00:45 - All is going well. We cross over briefly to a correspondent at a General Election party and I end up talking about pork pies more than I would have envisioned.

01:00 - Quite a few seats are announced and we seem to have quite a good set up as far as finding cutting edge gossip is concerned; I find a friend who is counting votes at Leeds Central and she tells me there has been a forged ballot - I'm far more excited than I should be about this rumour. "OOOhHHhh my god guys there's been a forged ballot apparently in Leeds!" Our political expert on the show gently informs me that it's not actually as big a deal as I had hoped. But they seem to think it's info worthy of social media and tweet the rumour anyway. I feel proud at my mini contribution. I turn my energy to Google searching "biggest ever politician mistakes on social media".

01:22 - I'm learning a lot. I'm asking the political expert a lot of questions. I try to make it sound like it's because I'm being an inquisitive journalist type, and not because I genuinely do not know the answer. (I don't ask him about the difference between right and left.)

01:25 - Our producer says I'm doing a good job! I almost cry.

01:57 - The show draws to a close and I realise that I am now free of responsibility. I'm quite sad that it's over so quickly. The only challenge now is to stay awake, and in a largely Labour-centred student environment, morale is low because of the exit polls. Adrenaline is keeping me up. We crack open the #BEVS. In a responsible manner.

02:43 - We hear there are tears in the Union bar as well as a Labour v Lib Dem physical fight. And they said students didn't care.

03:00 - The next show is well underway and my body seems nicely convinced that it's only around midnight so I feel hopeful about staying up. A friend makes a pact with me that we will stay until the very end, so I can't back out. There are rumours of an imminent pizza order.

03:30 - My body is so confused because I'm eating a lot of pizza at a weird time but haven't been on a night out. First world problems. Each hour, at half past, a "one minute rave" is played on air to enliven the presenters and listeners. They are a little more taxing to tolerate as the night rolls on. But then I find out that Leeds Student Radio's coverage of the General Election is longer than any other student radio's and that perks me up considerably, even if the actual General Election results don't. Very proud.

03:33 - "Tone Radio" of the Uni of Gloucestershire spots my tweet about LSR's coverage length triumph and congratulates us, wishing me good luck. I get emotional. It's just so nice to be personally supported by the University of Gloucestershire. I'm slightly delirious.

Yes yes of COURSE I later wept at the typo.

04:35 - Cheers escalate from the Union's bar downstairs so I grab a radio mic. and head down to do some interviews. I'm a little apprehensive after a weeny swearing blunder from self-titled interviewee "One Beer Ben" in an earlier segment from the bar, so I make sure specifically to tell the rowdy group not to swear. Two minutes in and one of them swears anyway.

04:40 - The noise in the bar means that I cannot hear the presenters upstairs properly, so end up asking the same question twice. Understandably, the interviewees are baffled. Someone mentions throwing dairy products at Farage. Coupled with a slight issue in the headset which means that I hear my own voice but with a headache-inducing half-second delay, I get another wave of "What on Earth is going on? Is this real life?" I panic as I recall a Scott Mills feature where he uses a SpeechJammer to make the speaker confused and cause them to slur their words. I wonder if it's appropriate to say "Back to Tom in the studio P.S. if I'm slurring I promise I'm not drunk it's just a headset issue..." I decide against it.

05:20 - I am starting to feel tired and every politician in the UK seems to be quitting. It's a low moment. Even though the sun is rising.

06:12 - There is a napping epidemic and people are dropping like flies. Someone is curled up on the floor on a pile of coats. A bit like a studio pet. Yet again, I wonder if this is reality.

07:50 - I am ashamed as I wake up, completely unaware of the moment when I fell asleep. I'm on a sofa. Luckily, it's the one in the radio office (and I was only out for ten minutes so we aren't counting it as a nap). My neck feels permanently crooked. Then the "rEaLiTyyYy???!!1!?" situation worsens as the aforementioned "Unicorn Alliance" broadcast is played. Someone asks if I was on helium when I recorded my snippet. I'm too tired to decide if I'm offended or not.

08:00 - As the 6:00 - 8:00 show ends, my Stay-Awake-Pact-Buddy and I finally decide to call it quits... Twenty minutes later the Leeds results are announced. But we made it right through the night and I have a seminar in a couple of hours and everyone is distraught and so we trudge home.

It was a manic day and a seriously wonderful experience. Huge well done to the people whose hard work made our election coverage the success that it was. I feel very lucky to have been trusted with even the smallest part of the process.

And I can now definitively say that you haven't experienced the true joys of a General Election in a student city until somebody says "And so then we threw packets of butter at Nigel's face."