When musical worlds collide

I'm feeling a bit left out at the moment.

Not only am I the only chubby one I've seen at the gym, but the other mummies are all aflutter over Take That.  I'm not aflutter over Take That.  So, take that.  (Boom boom!)

Tickets for their 2011 stadium tour are now on sale.  Everyone's very excited about it.  Except for me.

I just never got into them.   "Whatever I did, whatever I said, I didn't meant it," well that's not an apology is it?   He doesn't even know what he did wrong.  Come back when you've learnt to take personal responsibility, Gary.

I do love Robbie though.  Oooh he's a cheeky one that Robbie.  He flashed his arse at the concert I went to, so I do love to tell people I've seen his bottom.  Unfortunately so has everyone else.

But I've just never been a fan of the boy band, except for a brief and secret flirtation with Westlife.

A few years ago, a lovely English friend was having none of it.  She was also dismayed to find I was clueless about 80s Brit pop, and she made it her mission to open my eyes.  In my defence, my first ever concert was Slim Dusty.  It was in a paddock, I was in my pyjamas and spent the night watching Dad jumping around yelling, "Go Slim!"  Here's some advice, on your first day at boarding school when you are asked what concerts you've been to, don't say, "Slim Dusty."

We had a road trip planned, so my friend decided that'd be the perfect time to start me off on Duran Duran.  Where I am from, Duran Duran are exceptionally uncool so I was far from thrilled.  On the big day, we were driving from Perth to the Pinnacles, but took a wrong turn.  That day I said the one sentence you don't want to hear in a Toyota Corolla: "Oh shit, we're in the wrong desert."  But you know what?  Duran Duran got us through.  How can you not love the panting in "Hungry Like the Wolf?"

As an aside, when we eventually did get to the Pinnacles we didn't get out of the car.  We just sat inside eating Twisties, reading Who magazines and listening to Duran Duran - while outside is the most haunting landscape you will ever see.  It just wasn't right.

So to all you wonderful Take That fans - enjoy.  I know it's big news and that you all get fab tickets.  And while you're at your concert, I'll be listening to Powderfinger (but possibly sneaking in some Westlife).

Outsmarting the Heathrow Injection

With enthusiasm far outweighing ability, I've joined the gym.  I've bought gym-friendly clothes which are too small of course, because I will shrink and fit them.  In the meantime they are rudely skintight and the world can see the enormous size of my undies.   At least big pants are in.  Apparently.

It's been five years since I paid any attention to my fitness, so the time has come.  

Luckily I do enjoy exercise classes.  The music and my general lack of co-ordination are all the distractions I need to complete a class without collapsing.    So yes, enjoying it helps but you can take it too far - hello, lady in my old Body Combat class who wore army fatigues and had stripy camouflage paint on her cheeks.  You took it too far.  It was a little bit scary.

The gym is not supposed to be humiliating.  The brochure says that all fitness levels are welcome.   Maybe it was my choice of class, but that was up there with "I keep slim by chasing after my children" for whoppers.


The first class I went to was Total Abs which I thought would be full of mummies like me in tracksuits.  But no.  Let's see: there were two lycra clad women in no need of such a class; there were three ripped, twenty packed, male model body builders; then there was me in my too-small trackies with my muffin top hanging out and an undies line not just visible but unmissable.  Oh goody.


Reminding myself that I might be a bit squishy but I have a personality, I got my mat and headed for the back of the room.  No worries.  Sadly, what I thought was the back was the front.  So I found myself not only fronting the class, but with a mirror in front of me.  So everyone in that room could see not just my arse hanging out of my pants, but all the wobbling in front too.  


For a warm-up we had to run on the spot.  That is not fun when your feet land and you feel your bum come down a second later.  Especially with a roomful of athletes watching you from behind.   Then I could barely do the excercises.  Amazing how you can go beetroot red just by flopping yourself down on the floor, arms and legs spread out like a starfish.


The final humiliation?  The fact that all the excercises depended on you squeezing your abs.  Squeezing or not squeezing, I can't feel mine at all.  It's as though my children used my abdominal muscles as sustenance during pregnancy.


But I've bought the clothes, so I'll keep going.   I'll let you know when they fit a little better.


(Sorry about the formatting!! Seems that the paragraphs don't like each other, so they're spacing themselves 20 paces apart.)

Tweet

And another one...

Thought I'd add this for fun.

Really should be charging for product placement.

Man in Leotard = Funny

I was reminded of this recently and just had to share it with you.  This is a very lazy post, but far more entertaining than anything I could write.

Enjoy!

"Name's Keitha. Named after me Dad, Keith."

Guess what:  Australians are not New Zealanders.  

New Zealanders are not Australian. 

We're a pretty forgiving lot, and we understand when people confuse our accents.  Fair enough.  But our countries are actually a plane ride from each other.  Both our homes are girt by sea (another one for the Aussies there, see how I throw them in).  

But I think we're as close as neighbours can get.  Especially when you're overseas, Australians and New Zealanders are like brothers and sisters.  You weren't expecting this love fest, were you?

Like all neighbours, we have our moments.  And I'm sure there are some Aussies and Kiwis who can't stand each other.  I met one in the UK twelve years ago.  She was a New Zealander who loved to tell me how much she hated Australians.  And she really hated us.  Not sure what you're meant to say in response to that.  Do you apologise?  Does the fact that I came up with that response mean I've been in the UK for too long?  I ended up telling her I didn't have an opinion about New Zealanders, I just considered it another state of Australia.  That was fun.   


A little quirk that does mire our relationship somewhat is the tendency for Aussies to claim Kiwi achievements and famous personalities as our own.  Ho hum.  Sorry about that.


In my opinion, the best thing to come out of New Zealand in the last couple of years is the Flight of the Conchords.  They're a comedy duo who had moderate success in the UK before moving to New York.  Sadly for my great nation, they are very, very much Kiwis so we can't claim them... bum.  This was further cemented by a brilliant episode where Jermaine realises the girl he picked up the night before is Australian.  She's rough as guts, and her name is Keitha, "named after me Dad, Keith."  


Watch it here...

Follow that Food!

There's a great ad on TV for Yorkshire Tea.  It's a builder and his client having an argument, which is interrupted by a boiling kettle.  They then stop to have a friendly cuppa, before finishing and getting straight back into their barney.  The slogan is "From Yorkshire, where teatime's important." 

Watch it here: http://yorkshiretea.co.uk/#/stopping_for_tea/tv_ads

So of course when I saw it, I thought we have to visit Yorkshire.  I've never been, and we have to see as much of the UK as possible - it's such a wonderful country.  Plus I love tea, and England loves tea, so if the English think people from Yorkshire love tea then I need to be there.  

Then along came an ad for Knorr stock cubes.  Basically it's a suave velvet-voiced chef, someone I'm assuming is well known but I have no idea, cooking a roast for a bunch of Yorkshire ladies.  He makes the gravy from these stock cubes and the women all enjoy their roast so much that they eat in total silence.  The premise of the ad is that the country's gravy experts are from Yorkshire. 

Cool!!  Even more reason to go.  Who doesn't love gravy?  

So I told my husband.  "We have to have a break in Yorkshire because they love tea and gravy." 

I got the same look I got when planning last year's holiday.  Now I think that bout of holiday planning was inspired.  We couldn't decide where to go, so I got a list of my favourite icecream shop locations, and started from there.  Genius!!  In case you want to know, my favourite icecream shops in Australia are a chain called Cold Rock.  You choose your icecream flavour, then you choose your chocolate or sweets, and they mash it all up for you.  I could live on vanilla icecream and Violet Crumbles, so the perfect holiday is somewhere in walking distance to one of these shops.  See what I mean?   How amazing was I!! 

My husband thought I was a bit of a twit, but I still maintain it was a stroke of genius. 

Anyway, back to our Yorkshire conversation.  He agreed that, yes, tea and gravy is a good reason to go somewhere.  Although I suspect he was humouring me, as he doesn't drink tea and he doesn't drown his roasts in gravy either.  

Then he dropped the bombshell, "But you don't understand Yorkshire pudding." 

Ah.  Yes.  That's true.  I don't understand Yorkshire pudding.  And the name is seriously misleading. If you don't know what I'm talking about, basically it's like a big, crusty savoury scone that is served with your roast.  Apparently every time we've gone to the pub for Sunday lunch, I tell my husband that I don't understand Yorkshire pudding.  I still eat it, and in truth it's quite nice, but I don't get why you'd make it.  A roast is really easy - you slowly roast the meat, you roast vegies, you make  a gravy and choose your condiments.  Why you'd faff around with batter is beyond me.  I'll have to make it myself to see how it all works.  Who knows, I might be a convert and then I'll be eating my words.  And my Yorkshire puddings.

In the meantime, I've just discovered pasties.  A trip to Cornwall soon, methinks.  

What do you think?

Marital Bliss - Scary Style

You see, we mortals live here on Planet Earth.  It's a fabulous, wonderful place with everything you could possibly want.

Famous people, also known as celebrities (not sure who is celebrating what?), do not live on Planet Earth.  They are in a magical, mystical place known as La-La Land.  And good luck to them.

There are occasions of interplanetary mingling, but all in all that's the way it is and it works pretty well.  

Cue a recent interview with Scary Spice and her hot-blooded husband.  Let's call him Mr Spice.  I have never met either of them, they are probably good people who love dogs and doorknock for the Salvos.  

But if you were wanting proof of the aforementioned parallel universe, last Sunday's News of the World interview is pretty conclusive.  And highly entertaining.  Let's see... 

The interview includes a photoshoot of the two of them together.  The writer notes that throughout the interview, Mr Spice is forever "grunting, grinding her from behind or dry-humping her leg."  The photos back this up with plenty of eyes-closed writhing and general good taste.   The author talks about feeling uncomfortable as Mr Spice crawls on top of his wife, "breathing heavily, his hands mauling her thighs."  

Mr Spice is clearly pretty proud of himself, "the other weekend, I think we set a world record.  She literally had me tapping out til I had nothing left." 

His wife helpfully points out, "And we did it on a flight over to London recently... I trust him to be faithful because he's so worn out he wouldn't have the energy to do it with anyone else."

Of course the interview concludes with the obligatory "We're a normal, busy family."  

Now I think it's great when people are... ummm... pleased.   But let's pretend you are being interviewed with your partner for a national newspaper.  Would you really dry-root in front of the photographer?  Or tell the writer you're in the Mile High Club? 

This is the part where I say "I'm not a prude" and I assure you I'm not, but puh-lease.  The world does not need to know what couples get up to at home / in public toilets / on planes.  Did you hear me, inhabitants of La-La Land?  By all means, go for it.  Just try, for the rest of us, to keep it to yourselves.  

Your thoughts? 

Back in the Day

Turning 30 gives you a license to do 2 things.

1.  You can romanticise "the good old days."  This means you have every right to tell anyone who cares that back in the day young people knew about respect, and just 10 cents would buy you the world's biggest bag of sweets.  See what I'm getting at?

2. You can think teenagers are from another planet.  This is not a point I'd ever thought about before, perhaps because school seems like yesterday for me.  But on the weekend I had a moment of "you have got to be kidding" and it involved a 14 year old girl.  Now I'm guessing she isn't your average 14 year old, but what she had to say was so far removed from the 14 year old me that I'm still thinking about it.

She was on the last page of The Sunday Times' Style magazine, in a small section called "What are you wearing?"  There was a full body shot, demonstrating she is clearly trendy, sorry, on trend.  If I may briefly interject here, I'd like to say that while peep-toe heels are beautiful, peep-toe boots are just strange.  The Times Magazine had an interview with Jenny Eclair who made the point and I completely agree.  So bravo Jenny.

Back to our Young Person.  This is what Isabel had to say about her clothes:

I would describe my look as Parisian boho rocker.  I like to mix different styles to create something completely new... Experimenting is a must, from playing with shape to mixing old and new, such as the 1950s with grunge.  It's all about contrast.  My look normally consists of a textured piece (maybe leather, knitwear or plastic), a bold print, and creepers or DMs (that's my rocker side).  When I dress, I style my clothes with a theme or a trend in mind.

For the record, even with the peep-toe lace up boots, she looked fantastic.

Now just for fun, think back to when you were 14.  Were you choosing clothes based on their texture?  A theme?   I'm guessing you didn't.  If you did, you were clearly too cool for me.

When I was 14 my wardrobe was pretty much about looking like my friends.  I now look at teenage girls walking around in matching outfits and I have a quiet giggle, knowing full well that was once me.

Want to know what was in my 14 year old wardrobe?  Levi's 501s (so high!), pleated trousers, lots of olive green, Country Road chambray shirts, Laura Ashley dresses.... now that I'm writing this it's slightly depressing, but it was the early 90s.  I certainly wasn't the girl letting it all hang out, I wouldn't have been allowed out of the house.

And of course I respected my elders completely and only ever needed 50 cents a week.

I'm inclined to think good on Isabel, she's obviously having fun with what she wears and she looks great.   Just hope she can keep it up for the next however many years.