Dear Men

I would like to take a few minutes to address the men of the world. This is because I have noticed recently, and it does seem to be the portion of living males within myself and my friends' dating age range, that you seem to think it is OK to behave like utter vermin.

Maybe the world has lost a general sense of decency. Maybe your fathers were philandering anti-role models, giving you an odd compulsion to attract a mate but then quickly sabotage the situation with the gusto of a toddler making a sandcastle. Maybe your beloved pet recently died, sending you into a spiralling mentality preoccupied with darkness, futility and apathy. But I am calling time on the 'men are shits' parade - right now.

I didn't always feel like this towards you. I used to love meeting new men, finding out about them, all of their little quirks, playing the game. Now, it seems, one or two solid relationships into our twenties, we are not potential conversation and meal-sharing partners but faceless targets for astonishing levels of sleaze and timewasting.

I could blame your ex-girlfriends for no doubt 'messing you up', leading you to believe relationships were simple and long lasting and then running off with some tattooed lothario from the local indie bar. But at some point, a man in his twenties has to stand straight, look himself in the mirror and take responsibility for whatever kind of knobbery he is inflicting on unsuspecting womankind.

I never used to understand why women I knew stayed with the wrong man for years, or kept going back to someone who was never going to set their world alight (romantically rather than pyromaniacally speaking). Now I know. Because when they stepped, emotionally barefoot, into that big single world of dates and tentative texts, they were rewarded with nothing but bullshit.

I will never again admonish a friend for hotfooting it back to a shabby ex (or contemplating it) because it's seriously tough out there. There seems to be a trend for appearing completely normal and then knocking you for six with sudden, unspeakable wankery.

Boys - if it's genuine ignorance and you would like a legal document entitled Things That Are Not OK, please do just let me know. How we get from this stage of dating life freakshow to the one in the misty future where people are cohabiting and procreating all over the shop is beyond me.

I don't want this to be representative of the Miss Write experience since I hopped on a train to Cardiff, acquired all kinds of journalism savvy and snapped up a fabulous job and a cute little flat in the big city. It's been ace. But my goodness, do boys know how to erase all of that good feeling with blunder after blunder.

Yours sincerely,

Miss Write (and females everywhere)

Image: newsthump.com

Stung by the Spelling Bee

‘We can definately seperate this in one manouver.’

Does the above make you bristle just a little?

The Telegraph reported last week that 'separate' is the most commonly misspelt word, followed by definitely and manoeuvre, according to a study of 3,500 Britons. I have ranted before about how much constant misspelling bothers me, but ‘definately/definatley’ is certainly the blunder that I see the most. I think I’m a good speller for a few reasons: reading a lot (i.e. constant exposure to correctly-spelled words), genes (both my parents are pretty immaculate spellers) and a slightly photographic memory. I tend to be able to memorise phrases and passages word-for-word fairly easily, which made English a natural subject to continue with after school.

Separate is interesting though, as it’s one I remember being corrected by spellcheck and teachers in my teens, by which point I had most words pretty well absorbed. Some words definitely take longer to stick, especially in a language full of exceptions and quirks. It’s usually a phonetic issue, for instance we do say ‘sep-er-ate’, so the logical written form might well have an e where there is an a. This doesn't work for everything - by the same logic, definitely would be spelt 'definutly'. But I had some good teachers who offered me ways to remember the right spelling (I remember someone pointing out that ‘finite’ was the root of definitely, and I never forgot it.) Surprise is another one; we tend to omit the first 'r' from its pronunciation and thus 'suprise' makes much more sense. I am interested in the words in our hotchpotch of a language, I like to know where they come from and how they are linked internationally and to Latin, Greek and Scandinavian roots.

I do sometimes wish I was someone who is blissfully oblivious to the little errors of spelling and speech, I do recognise in an out-of-body way how annoyingly pedantic it is. There is a Mitchell and Webb sketch where David Mitchell’s character casually shoots people in a meeting for referring to espresso as ‘expresso’ and saying ‘pacific’ instead of specific. It’s so true though, for some people it just feels like an itch that needs scratching. I apologise for myself and the others, but let us correct you – we need to – and then go about your business, probably thinking slightly less of us. For now, be thankful you are not this particular young (I hope) Facebooker:

C is for Controversy

So, apparently I caused a bit of a rumpus in Glamour HQ this morning.

I casually tweeted Glamour magazine's editor, Jo Elvin (@jo_elvin) some thoughts on their June Women of the Year issue; namely that I had been a bit unimpressed by Lily Allen opening the section with a somewhat self-pitying attitude. As we all know, Lily's tired of the limelight and wants to retreat into 'oblivion' and have lots of babies. So far, so good - more power to her. But in the context of a section filled with witty, successful celebs like Ruth Jones, Zoe Saldana and Lea Michele, all at the top of their game, her moany interview just went down like a lead balloon with me. Anyway, Jo wrote a blog post on their website defending Lily from those criticizing her life choices. I can see how my comment suggested it, but I don't actually have a problem with Lily's bid for domesticity. I do however, have a problem with her own 'issues' with fame, stardom and a few grand in the bank - issues she feels compelled to press on us every chance she gets.

I like Lily; in a sea of PR-savvy schmaltz, she really is refreshingly honest. But when presented with an award voted for by thousands of readers, I'm sorry, you just suck it up and say thank you. Her response didn't seem to say that at all. Instead she criticized the public ('people have stopped buying music'), the media (particularly 'the image we're sold of beauty' - by magazines like Glamour, Lil?) and basically everyone who's got her to where she is today. Because she doesn't seem to like where she is, even if that is at the top of the charts, the awards shortlists and the style pages.

I just felt disappointed that someone could be offered a lovely photo shoot, an interview with the editor-in-chief, and ANOTHER award, and still feel compelled to re-iterate their boredom and disillusionment with their situation. It's not exactly the worst of the worst, after all. And yes, Lily, we get that you're all loved up right now, but I really didn't need to hear you witter on about getting your man's dinner on the table in time for him getting home after football. I, personally, don't think that's very inspirational (or even relevant) in a woman's magazine, in a section about great female celebs. I do agree with Jo Elvin that a woman's right to choose between dizzy heights or washing his whites is important and should be respected, but I just don't think Lily proved herself a great choice by being so negative and melodramatic about her own stardom.

Homos and fauxmos and straights, oh my!

One huge thing I've learnt in the single patches of my tempestuous dating life is that men are tricky. When you're young you're taught that boy will meet girl (eyes across a crowded room), say hi, be lovely - and single - and love will blossom in the blink of an eye. Not so. Noughties males seem to make the already baffling task of meeting a decent specimen much harder than it needs to be, not least because sexuality has become so flexible. Some social scenarios are easy to navigate; last week I went to the fabulous West End Eurovision, and I knew I didn't need to bother with looking hot in a squealing sea of gay men and dancey girls. But, confusingly, there's such a thing as the Gay Straight Man; I once worked with a gorgeous guy at a kids' summer camp, and was convinced he was flirting with me... until I added him on facebook and checked out the photos of him at a recent Gay Pride event. Many just don't go for the tank tops and hair product, and there's nothing more embarassing than thinking you were having a frisson with someone who was merely checking out the darling embroidery on your cardi. Please see Sue Sylvester's 'Sneaky Gays' rant for further disapproval.

Fauxmosexuals are even harder to spot - these are very well-dressed straight men who play up to the Gay Best Friend-type relationship (bitching, gossiping, hugs) and then BAM! hit you with the news that they actually like girls, usually by launching themselves at you. Goodbye potential GBF and hello bafflement. And don't even get me started on Bromance. Our formerly boisterous and marginally homophobic straight friends are now free to frolick with their boy pals, cry, hug and jump on each other in a non-rugby context without any censure. This is beautiful of course, and I would never want to turn back the clock, but then what chance do potential girlfriends stand? If their mancrush doesn't like you, you're out. If you hang in there, chances are your new boyf would rather cosy up with him of a weekend. The boundaries have changed, and we don't always enjoy it. 'Metrosexual' I have a bit of a problem with - is this not just another word for 'preening git'? By all means guys, spray tan, manicure and guyliner yourself into the blurry area between gay and straight, but I certainly won't be going there. Who wants a boyfriend who can lend you organic lipbalm and a tiny mirror at a moment's notice?

Mixing in drama circles, you'll find the tiny percentage of straight men are bursting to prove their hetero virility between trills and pliés. They'll hit on anything in a skirt to boost their fragile ego (yes, the jig is up, we all know you were the fat/spotty/weedy kid in school) while certainly having a covert girlfriend, and being a thespian, having the ability to pull out any line at any time to charm you. So the point is, I'm puzzled. Single life seems shark-infested right now, as I lose track of the types I need to mentally cross off the list. There seem to be so few simple, unbaggaged, nice men out there available for a straightforward drink and a no-surprises flirt. I've had enough drama for one year and am in the market for some smooth sailing. Although for now, the (non-sneaky) gays are perfect for drinking and dancing your troubles away with...

Spellbound

To make my desk days whizz by, I often browse around for funny sites that are a great read, so I don't just find myself tweeting constantly like some chronic oversharer [note to some... if you find yourself tweeting the words 'Note to self', stop and think for a moment. You have misunderstood the basic function of Twitter.] Some recent gems I have found include Over the Rainbitch - an endlessly spot-on critique of the Andrew Lloyd Webber casting show - the deliciously dark confessional Postsecret, and the latest, AwkwardFamilyPhotos. This last one is utter genius; people send in anonymous family photos that range from the bizarre to the heavily posed, and we all laugh at them. They are excellently captioned (although the messy blog-style site could do with a makeover) and accompanied by a thread of awkward stories. The stories are more hit and miss, but several, including an intense set of instructions for a family Thanksgiving meal and an equally asphyxiating birthday celebration itinerary, are just brilliant. Although quite America-specific, they celebrate the weirdness of families and their unintentional hilarity.

AFP's creators posted an email a while ago from a reader named Greg, who had sent them some fairly constructive criticism about the website. Unfortunately he had done so with very few words spelt correctly and, unforgivably, even suggested that they re-think their 'righting'. This sparked an epic surge of comments, many mocking the hapless Greg for his idiocy (often ironically in cackhanded online 'righting' themselves) some defending him, lots finding the colossal reaction to a little mispelling completely baffling. I do agree that lots of people suspend accuracy for their internet comments, tweets and statuses, but this was an email, and a formal critique at that. Shouldn't that have warranted a little care? I feel bad for him (and a little admiring, reading his razor-sharp follow-up), but I also feel that even the most valid point is dented when spelling and grammar is abandoned. Not only did the Gregster fail to see the comic potential of his email, but he sounded like a raving hypocrite. Emphasis on the raving.

Spelling and grammar are slipping ever closer to extinction - I read Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots and Leaves recently and sympathised with her exasperation. I know the wily pair don't come naturally to everyone, so some people have to put more time in and check their writing a little more carefully, but essentially, it's practice. I don't like overly pedantic people [especially vicious little anonymous twerps who comment on my every slip - yes you, arseface] but if we all stopped caring and thought, 'They'll know what I mean", no one would ever write anything compelling. I'm immediately turned off by writing with mistakes in it, from national newspapers to short online comments, and it inevitably undermines the writer's core message because it screams laziness if not stupidity. The immediacy of the internet is a wonderful thing, but how are younger generations going to learn to read and write correctly if such breezy inaccuracy is the norm online? It is vital to most jobs, especially when securing deals and seducing clients via email. In many a magazine office I've worked in, journalists either laugh at or swiftly discard badly spelt or nonsensical press releases; I know PR is a fast-paced environment, but you're selling something - at least run it by the spellcheck.

I would be interested to know which camp people are in: is it only us hardcore language fans still devoted to the preservation of the correctly-placed apostrophe? Do we need to chill out, or do the spelling culprits need to sharpen up? I'm not sure, but I do know I'll be proofreading this one to death.

For the Record

Ok... I'm often peturbed by how people with miniscule talent and giant bleached teeth take good airtime from truly amazing talents, but on this occasion it's just silly.

So how on earth is Cheryl 'struggling to sing my own song' Cole MURDERING this on Live Lounge, and they haven't booked the lovely Tori Allen-Martin a spot? This is what we call singing, Live Lounge producers. Note how she's emitting pleasant sounds, whilst simultaneously being able to produce more than three words in one breath.

Just saying.



The worst bit, if you can pick one, is at 1:39. Ouch.




Smooth and creamy as a Bailey's Latte.

Single woman + flat = cat?

Something very small and easy to brush off as bad journalism really irritated me on the ITV London news this morning. On one of their headline reports between GMTV segments, there was a short piece on how 'most women' enjoy having a cat as their companion. Infuriatingly, it was such a hit-and-run item that I can't even find it on their website. Perhaps they've realised how dazzlingly patronizing it was and removed it. The 'report' basically went like this:

Lots of women, as opposed to men, are cat owners. Some live alone and really enjoy the company. *Cue interview with a woman with two frighteningly muscley sphinx cats climbing menacingly over her armchair while she coos over them.* Short summary: lonely women like cats, they make good company.

Now, unable to find the clip, I feel like I hallucinated this around 8am. It was staggeringly badly researched and directed with no apparent factual anchor, and I felt quite offended. I am a real dog person. I've wanted a dog pretty much since the day my toddler mind grasped what a dog was, I often get more excited and sentimental over people's dogs than their babies and my absolute dream pet is a big, slobbery, loving, loyal canine. I just finished reading Marley and Me and embarrassingly wept no fewer than five times while reading it on packed trains and tubes (a great read - a story of man's realizations about family and life as well as some damn funny anecdotes about their behaviourally-challenged labrador.) I honestly think if I found Mr Perfect and he told me he wasn't a dog lover, it would be as wounding as finding out he was a BNP supporter or secretly waxed his chest. In other words, a deal breaker.

I feel I'm owed some sort of explanation from ITV about their surreal feline revelation - was it just to contribute to the film, TV and book myth that women unable to find a man end up shacking up with a cat just to have someone to talk to at the end of the day? I don't know many women who would describe themselves as a cat lover, and I myself think they are fickle and cruel animals with a cold, mercenary look in their eyes. Give me a giant, clumsy, boundy dog to curl up at my feet any day of the week. Dogs for men, cats for women? The strangest example of mass gender-based assumption I've seen for a while.

Ostensibly male Andrew Lloyd Webber told press in the build up to his new casting show Over the Rainbow that he'd rather cast a cat as Dorothy's Toto as he's not a dog person at all. You may be interested to know that other self-proclaimed cat lovers have included Freddie Mercury (who had several named Tom & Jerry, Delilah and Romeo), Andy Warhol and, ironically, Snoop Dogg. The Pope also has a cat called Chico - perhaps an homage to the latino X-Factor contestant?

Conversely, President Obama, Audrey Hepburn and Thandie Newton are all Team Canine. I feel I'm in good company here (we'll ignore Paris Hilton - her dogs barely qualify.) Let's just keep the divide to dog people and cat people and leave any mention of gender and sex (or lack thereof) out of it.


PS. Here are some of my dream dogs. In case anyone wants to gift me one...

Just playin'... pretty damn cute though!

Bad Romance

I'm not romantic at the best of times. Secretly I love being spoiled, treated, and feeling special, but even when I'm in a relationship I find the whole Valentine's thing a little tough to take.
In a twist, this year I'm back out in barren Singletown just in time for V Day, spending the build-up feeling pure hatred towards heart-shaped balloons, cakes, chocolates and stuffed toys, shooting daggers at happy-looking couples on escalators and just wishing it was March already. This may sound sad, but factor in a work day that consists entirely of compiling a Valentine's day supplement for a Sunday newspaper. That's right. We're talking hearts, cherubs, love stories from history and art, and my slow loss of the will to live.

When did Valentine's Day become compulsory? When my relationship broke up I thought, bad timing, but at least I can keep my head down, keep composed and avoid the whole stupid concept of a 'romantic month'. It turns out, you can't escape it - Clintons is practically bursting with grotesque teddies and cards, the chocolate shop near my office doesn't have one box or display piece that isn't heart-shaped and BLOODY GMTV are doing 'Love Week', with special segments on their presenters' real love stories. Fabulous.

Where are the businesses or TV shows run by single people? Surely the CEO and manager of every store and channel isn't glowing and loved up? This enforced romance can only mean that everywhere, suicidal shop girls are stacking the shelves with 'I love you' cards (imagine), TV researchers are angrily brainstorming lovey-dovey ideas for next week's shows and people like me are being forced to research every famous couple that could make it work. It's too much to have to endure a heart-shaped world when your own heart is bruised.

I know I should be a little more detached and appreciate that for some people, Valentine's is a lovely exciting time to spend with their partner, but the more I think about it, the more it incenses me. Valentine's day will never be satisfactory - early in the relationship it's riddled with pressures and fear over doing too much or not enough, further in there are expectations to be met and disappointment when it falls short of perfection, and in marriage it just becomes another day to accidentally forget, along with birthdays and anniversaries. It's hard enough to enjoy a perfectly serendipitous moment with someone dreamy at all, without trying to schedule that moment for one particular day a year.

I have a bad record with Valentine's day. I remember awkward high school years of wishing my crush du jour would look my way, bringing in Love Hearts to give unsubtly (but also the excitement at that first card from an inarticulate teenage boy.) When I was seventeen, I broke up with my boyfriend the day before Valentine's - a dispute over what we were going to do on the day, but really just the culmination of several terse months. Even so, it tainted the experience and taught me that things are not likely to be rosy every February 14th. During university, my single girlfriends and I had cocktails in a sort of 'screw you, we're single' spirit - but even this inevitably turned to boy talk and became a little morose. The last time I was truly spoiled was two years ago, when the relationship was just at the right stage - new enough to be exciting, not too new to make the big gestures - and I enjoyed it in the moment, roses and dinner and all.

But me and Valentine's 2010 are not going to get on at all. I can feel it coursing through me now, as if I'm limbering up for a big fight with a long-term enemy.
Options for the day itself include:

- staying in bed and refusing to concede even consciousness to the vile charade (perhaps letting V Day win a little bit there)
- hosting a vicious 'Bad Romance' party for single friends, complete with angry music, a ban on red/pink/flowers/hearts/chocolate, drinking unromantic beers and spirits and possibly watching a horror film. Or anything where the central love story is ultimately futile.
- combining the two and drinking in bed, crying like a mad person and screaming 'Liarrr!' at any love scenes that dare to cross my TV screen.
- accepting my own challenge to eat an entire jar of Nutella.
- turning up the speakers and caterwauling along to Kate Bush's Wuthering Heights. God I hope no hot men are reading this.

None of the options are particularly pretty but I just don't see how this day is going to be. I was all up for making it just another day of the week before the Hallmark gods started pissing artificial romance all over London. I'm off to stock up on the Jack Daniels and hide all the rom-coms - any suggestions for getting through Feb 14th very welcome. Bring it on.

Don't Rain on My Parade!

I was browsing the weekend's newspapers when I read Amy Jenkins' column in the Independent with interest. She makes some good points about 'women's entertainment' being a separate concept from other TV shows, films and plays, but I was riled by the judgemental tone towards 'the sort of women that go and see these things'. It was all sparked by Legally Blonde (which I reviewed not long ago.) Jenkins had been irked by descriptions of the hordes of screaming fans, and started wondering why female-marketed entertainment has become so tied up in hysteria. Along the way, she lets slip that she doesn't like the concept of LB in the first place:

...the whole thing masquerades so well as a story of female empowerment... But, as with all these "girl power" franchises, there's also something not at all empowering and much more subversive in the mix. It's the "What's wrong with a bit of lipstick" mentality – by which I mean that these films and TV shows put themselves forward as "celebrating femininity" but actually reinforce feminine subjugation.

She also drives home the point that someone like Elle Woods would not get anywhere in the legal world in real life. Ok, it's not realism. But it's also not claiming to be. How many courtrooms have you been in where the witness's sexuality has been discussed by a group of singing lawyers? It's also not claiming to be at all feminist - Elle's success in law is entirely accidental, other than perhaps her foundation of confidence. The hordes of silly fans have nothing to do with the pink and fluffy content of the play. Plenty of people went to those first few shows that didn't scream, or cry, or wolf whistle. The fact is, it's a teen story and attracts a teen crowd - along with already extrovert theatrical types, gay men and Blue fans who haven't moved on. If anything, it's the tabloidy casting that's to blame. Jenkins then name-checks several examples of female bonding over TV and film that I felt rather stung by:

All this started in a small way, I seem to remember, way back in 1995 when women were reported to be gathering around their TV sets with bottles of chardonnay to watch re-runs of Colin Firth in his wet shirt in the BBC's Pride and Prejudice. Then there was Bridget Jones and the whole Sex and the City sisterhood thing. That culminated in women reportedly making the (horrible) 2008 film a party event and drinking cosmopolitans together as they watched... Finally, of course, there was Mamma Mia!, the worldwide phenomenon that traded on the dream of middle-aged women getting their mojos back and still having some kind of clout in the sexual marketplace.

What sort of sisterhood hating is this?! Yes, I enjoyed Colin Firth in Pride and Prejudice (I was too young at the time for Chardonnay, but I remember reading Bridget Jones and appreciating that as a great girls' night in.) Yes, I saw Bridget Jones in a girly crowd and loved every minute - as did a lot of men, I happen to know. Yes, I went to see Sex and the City after a tribute day of shopping and cosmo drinking... I had loved the show for its six-year run and wanted to celebrate its fun, fashionable, fabulous spirit. And guilty again, I saw Mamma Mia at the cinema with my sister and mum, who is from the original Abba-loving generation, and laughed and sang along with the whole screening room. All of these brilliant memories of great times with fellow females were suddenly tarnished with disapproval. Having fun, en masse, perhaps drinking (whisper it) alcohol? What were we thinking?!

I'm not surprised Jenkins found the Sex and the City Movie 'horrible'; she probably couldn't relate to the main characters' experiences of love, friendship, heartbreak and the ultimate alien concept, having fun. Similarly, she was probably left cold by the sisterly spirit of the main girls in Legally Blonde, although she should have recognised herself in the initially snobby, humourless Harvard students. If anything, Sex and the City and Legally Blonde: The Musical are unrealistic mainly because they show women supporting and encouraging each other through mistakes and victories. Certain educated British women have been taught that manicures and girls' nights out only dumb us down, and the only true way to succeed is to see every woman around you as competition. This makes me sadder than any 'anti-feminist' plot could... As a culprit of the aforementioned "What's wrong with a bit of lipstick" mentality, I feel you can miss out on so much of life by taking your career, your gender, yourself too seriously.

One of the enjoyable things Bridget Jones, SATC and Legally Blonde had in common for me is that women became real, three-dimensonal figures of fun. When Helen Fielding wrote Bridget Jones, some people were horrified by the sight of a woman getting drunk, focusing on a man rather than work, going back to a cheating lover and, more often than not, just scribbling 'I blurry love Daniel' in her diary before passing out. Many, however, just saw themselves. We are not perfectly poised creatures, and we are sadly programmed (not just convinced by the media) to seek a mate and on the way, make ourselves look attractive in order to do so. I don't understand this idea that in order to be a powerful woman, you must eschew anything light-hearted, romantic, silly or exciting. The single woman drinking a cocktail with girl friends and objectifying the hot man on the screen is a hell of a lot more enlightened than the young married woman keeping house for her man and watching what he wants to watch while fixing him a drink. SATC and Legally Blonde both suggested that we might be a little pickier than that in our twenties and thirties, especially if we were lucky enough to have other women for companionship, laughs and conversation.

I'm not in the staunch 'Who needs a man?' camp but I can't stand this other extreme, the idea that groups of women bonding make the world a stupider place. There is something enchanting, wonderful and yes, shoot me, EMPOWERING about being in a roomful of women all having fun and being entertained. I felt it when spontaneous cheering, singing and clapping all broke out in the usually-mute cinema during Mamma Mia, I felt it in the relieved and knowing laughter at Bridget's hapless antics and I thought I would feel it at Legally Blonde, having listened to the witty lyrics and touching character friendships via the soundtrack. But it was a mixed group the night I went - and both the men and women present laughed, cheered and even booed. I think Jenkins needs to go back and read her own piece, where she describes the play in the title as 'the opium of the lasses.' While 'opium' suggests underlying danger and influence, it primarily represents a high, a boost and heady escapism. These shows may not change the world, but they've certainly lifted my mood, even just for a moment. Just as in this post, I take exception to anyone telling me that "celebrating femininity" - translation: having fun or feeling pretty - is a waste of time. There is enough crap in the world without these people draining all the colour from it.