Growing up with NCS

Brief silence. A hand shoots up. “Social enterprise is, like, when Jamie Oliver teaches homeless people to cook, right? Social enterprise is a charity business.” A small pause as she recalls the second question I’ve asked her. “Oh, and I want to work in events management.” And so another year as Summer Staff at NCS with the Challenge is well underway. I’m lost for words as I look at my team of Young People. Although they have already impressed me last week with rock climbing, hiking and canoeing, showing fearsome team support and bonding as soon as Day One, today already seems to be topping even that.

Next. “I want to work in artificial intelligence.” “Um, graphic design.” “I’d quite like to… Be Prime Minister.” Oh right – nothing too difficult, then. Was I this sorted when I was sixteen? Surely not. This lot are incredible.

Although, after five summers at NCS with the Challenge, I should have learned: they always are. A fact completely unanticipated in July 2012 when, a week before the London Olympics began, I sobbed in the car, begging my mum to take me back home. “I don’t want to go! It’s going to be… Weird!” the sixteen-year-old me whimpered. “I won't like anybody!”

Yet four years later, and the Rio Olympics in the limelight, I'm still coming back for more, and not one year of my journey with NCS has failed to impress or amaze me. Starting with my own 2012 experience as a participant after my GCSEs, completing two years of volunteering as an Associate Mentor then Senior Associate Mentor, and then beginning my journey as a Senior Mentor in 2015, I truly have seen the ins and outs of the entire programme and feel lucky to know both sides of the process. How I respected my Senior Mentor four years ago continues to inspire me as I work with my own team now, and my own memories of my time on NCS with The Challenge give me absolute faith that with the right encouragement and empowerment, every single young person we work with has the potential to achieve incredible things.

(Clockwise from top left) Me as a participant in 2012; me as a member of staff 2016: during the talent show, Dragons Den day, dressed as a "Roadman" by my team

Hiking on the Isle of Wight, 2015

I used to think, in fact, that NCS attracted the best of the best (how else would team after team after team succeed so perfectly and be so motivated, intelligent and hard-working? How else would I see so many original campaigns and inspiring speeches?) – young people who were without fail driven, kind, supportive, eager to be creative and willing to volunteer. The stars of their school, the rare gems of their community. I was astounded that whatever the challenge, they managed to take responsibility, think for themselves and make a difference. However, I was wrong. NCS does not simply bring in a specific streamlined breed of young people who are all automatically equipped to inspire and destined to change the world. Instead, the NCS programme has the ability to include and involve any single young person in the country, and then coax out that inevitable, dazzling talent within them – regardless of who they are. That’s right – watch out, world. They are all capable.

And when it comes to raw material to work with, we are ready for, and actively welcoming of, anything. The entire programme is about social mixing and inclusivity – any background or past is welcome and an astonishing number of tailored staff roles are at hand to cater for any severity of anything from a physical disability, to a mental illness, to a learning difficulty. Rest assured that you will be on a learning curve, no matter the part you play, but the challenges faced become the glue between a staff team, the bond between young people, and ultimately the most valuable lessons each participant takes with them for life. ‘Challenge yourself’ is on our code of conduct, and with good reason.

It has been a joy to watch NCS with The Challenge develop since I first became involved: only six years after the initial pilot of the programme, the ball is well and truly rolling, and I have faith that the momentum won’t be lost any time soon. NCS does not simply tell the young people of today to go into their communities and change what isn’t good enough; it shows them how to do so, and then encourages them to do it themselves. If ‘teaching a man to fish lets him eat for life’, then NCS is the equivalent of teaching a person the necessary skills to fish sustainably, to create a fishing business and then to divide produce amongst those unable to fish themselves… With some guidance on campaigning for endangered fish in their free time.

So… Why do NCS with The Challenge? Why work with us? Why participate?

I've been to Sussex. Durham. Isle of Wight. Devon. I’ve visited countless charities, businesses and local high streets. I've managed teams, made films, organised talent shows, directed workshops, been moved to tears, been confided in, and been utterly humbled. I’ve had Total Eclipse of the Heart sung to me while frozen with fear at the top of a high ropes course. I’ve had my hand grabbed as I jump, shrieking, into the sea. I’ve campaigned about social media and mental illness in teens, given speeches on the dangers of stereotyping, visited Make-A-Wish foundation, listened to stories about the Second World War from people who were there. Now, years later and a member of staff, I’ve performed S Club 7 tributes, been dressed up as a “roadman” (twice), witnessed the most seemingly unlikely friendships grow time and time again until I have come to expect them, dealt with complex situations I never thought I would, learnt to cherish the unexpected, held myself and others together (and in turn been held together too), watched fundraisers and performances of a lifetime, been made to laugh until I was in pain – and it’s my job. Is it any wonder that four years on, I still consider NCS an essential part of my summer?

I genuinely believe that NCS with The Challenge is the beginnings of the revolution of thought we so badly need in this society and across the globe. Social mixing, acceptance, respect, team-building and communication are being instilled from the ground up, from the generations that will form our future leaders and communities. NCS with The Challenge is encouraging, year by year, the foundations of the change our messy society is thirsting for, through a committed ethos of inspiration and social action.

Current affairs may seem bleak, but have faith: there are good things coming… And while they may be only sixteen years old today, just you wait. They could well change the world.

Second Year was a BLAST

I have done a lot of very heavy writing lately. And there is plenty more of that dark and dreary "what has our world come to, oh god no not Donald Trump" stuff to come, fear not, but for a light-hearted twist in the meantime, here are some fun facts about my second year of university. 

SRA tings

When I wear fresh jeans, I spill something on them within the hour.

Hélena

Scott Mills holds a special place in my heart.

Fun nicknames make things more fun.

Unless that nickname is “bindog”.

I enjoyed briefly having a manservant called Josué.

Precisely 57 mochas can get you through three horrific pieces of coursework.

I really like talking about cinéma du look.

Parkour is one of life’s true delights.

Chicken and chorizo is a staple.

You can plan to dress up as “the sun” but end up wearing blue with butterfly stickers on your forehead.

Don’t get Windows 10.

'Sun, sea 'n' sand'

Horace & Frédéric

It’s best not to tread in sick when wearing flares.

Avoid Nigel.

If I tell the Young People I’m working with that they have to keep going to the top of climbing wall, they will force me in turn to climb to the top of Jacob’s Ladder.

Lille is a cool place.

Even if you decide to enter the Student Radio Awards five days before the deadline, you can still cobble together a passable entry. Ish.

Ordering nachos with a pal and eating them in bed is great.

...Going out six days in a row is not. Can confirm - am not 18 any more.

If a taxi driver says “it’s my first day, you’re the boss now! Where are we going?” and I’m in the passenger seat, be worried.

Fringes aren’t bad at all.

First Aid Kit can get you through some tough(ish) times.

Fairytale of Hyde Park

Cardiff feels like a long drive away if you’re relatively ill.

You can start and finish Gossip Girl in one academic year and still pass your exams.

It’s possible to dress as a flirty penguin.

If someone isn’t very nice say goodbye to them!!!! Maybe forever!! Prioritise yourself lol!!!

Bonsais and oaks are both great.
Rewrite The Pogues' lyrics and get interviewed by The Tab.

I can get lost even when using a SatNav.

Always agree to face paint at charity festivals. You might get paid in wine.

Belgrave is where dreams are made.

I hope your year has been just as enlightening.

- xoxo Gossip Fox

don't even know who

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.]