Here is a link to my latest column about the glut of TV cookery shows and my inferior fish finger sandwich: http://www.wharf.co.uk/2012/06/blondes-eye-view-turning-off-t.html
Here is this week’s clean Wharf column: http://www.wharf.co.uk/2012/06/blondes-eye-view-one-canada-sq.html
And here is the unedited version with some slightly rude words in it (warning: stray commas may cause offence):
Men who wear suits and ties should not cross their legs. Controversial, I know. Everyone should be free to wrap their legs around whatever they want. As long as whatever they’re wrapping consents. Yet, I can’t be open-minded about men in suits crossing their legs in a dainty little knot. It looks wrong.
Ever seen a suited man on the DLR doing a high-knee leg cross? It’s distracting. They look like they’re practising a yoga position. ‘Strengthen that core. Contract that pelvic floor. Don’t wee.’ Do they count to ten and repeat with the other leg? Are they breathing properly? Are they meditating? Is this part of a new iPad app? Is leg crossing the new planking? I’m confused.
The Wharf alpha males have conditioned my expectations. I presume all suited men sit with their legs REALLY FAR APART. They have to take up half your tube seat. They need that extra space to let it all hang out. They demand young women blush in shock and awe. They like frightening the pigeons. Showing us just how big a dick they are, I mean they have.
I’ve always assumed it’s a reaction to One Canada Square. No matter which way I look at it (and I look at it a lot, it’s hard to miss) the building is a teensy bit phallic. Do our boys, our brash bankers, our lairy lawyers, and our aggressive accountants (okay that last one’s a bit tenuous), feel threatened by the giant shining glass member that represents Canary Wharf?
Surely not. By that logic all the Wharf women would be getting boob jobs to compete with the curves of Canary Wharf station. And last time I checked silicone levels in E14 were still more linked to chips than tits. If the buildings aren’t intimidating the alpha males into their wide-legged penis posturing then what is? The Wharf alpha females, I guess.
Blogging. It’s all a bit of nonsense, right? Nobody reads a blog unless it’s really good. And how do you start writing a blog, which currently doesn’t exist, and make it a ‘really good blog’ instantly? It’s mind blogling. I shouldn’t start with the puns. Blog off. Blogging on. To blog, or not to blog, that is the predictable question.
It’s all been done before. I’m too late. It’s enough to give me bloggers block, or webpage fright. I’m writing something that nobody will read. I’m a post-blog existentialist before I’ve begun. Is blogging to no audience the same as talking to yourself? My Gran said that was the first sign of madness. The second is probably tweeting. Least if no one’s reading my blog I won’t have to check my spelling.
But that’s defeatist. I can do this. I can conquer the blog. I googled blogging tips. “The best thing to do is write passionately and try to provide meaningful, useful information,” according to this article: http://weblogs.about.com/od/writingablog/qt/The-Secrets-Of-Blog-Post-Length.htm. I confess I didn’t read any further than that quote, I was too busy trying to think of something meaningful and useful I could impart. I’m still thinking. Passionate though, passionate I can do.
“Passionate” is the word people use to politely describe me after I’ve drunkenly ranted at them about an issue. They mean shout-y. Or aggressive. Or really, really loud. All of which I’m re-branding right now into: “passionate”. I own passionate. I can totally work passionate.
So what am I passionate about? That’s the key to a really good blog. You write about your passion: fashion, feminism, food, books, those small china thimbles with cats painted on them. Whatever. Then fellow passionate people flock to your blog and ‘pash’ over it (like teens do on Auzzie Soaps. It involves tongues.). Easy.
Except I don’t have one all consuming passion. I get distracted. I am a goldfish with wifi. I am a butterfly flitting from one colourful idea to the next. Given enough wine I could be passionate about any of the things I listed above, except the china cat thimbles. Sorry.
My passion cannot be contained to one area. I have an excess of passion. I’ve just been waiting for the right outlet. The blog may not be read by anyone, but least I know now what it’s going to be used for. Pash away.
I tripped over my heels and fell into writing by accident. Picture the scene…
In a curry house somewhere off Brick Lane, London, a group of people sit at a table devouring poppadoms. They’re your average motley crew of friends of friends who don’t want to go home when the pub closes.
Me (swaying slightly due to excess wine): I’m Angela.
Editor: Can you pass the Mango Chutney?
Me: What do you do?
Editor: I’m the editor of [insert name of a paper based in a financial district of London].
Me: I read that! I loved the stuff you did on the Flaming Ferraris. BUT you don’t have any women on your paper. Or at least not any visible ones. This is the naughties, women are a huge force in the financial sector. YOU NEED MORE WOMEN. (Repeat, drunkenly, ad infinitum.)
The next morning, while looking in her handbag for paracetamol, Angela finds the editor’s business card. On the back it reads: 350 words by Monday.*
*Some dramatic licence and less alcohol were used in the re-telling of these events. To be honest it’s all a bit fuzzy.
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