The Voice: my kind of reality TV

I recently re-read a rant of mine about last year's X Factor; specifically, about the number of shameless soundalikes given airtime. Having watched new reality show concept The Voice over the past three weeks, it seems like the BBC read it too, thought, 'that IS uncool' and commissioned a show where having your own, unique voice is the very minimum required.

I love The Voice. I love it for Jessie J singing along and visibly willing people to be amazing, I love it for the ultra-camp WHOOSH as the chairs spin around, I love it for Will.i.am's unbelievable geeky, robotic weirdness and I love it for the almost complete absence of sob stories. I even love Danny ScriptQuiff's unbearable neediness.

While not all of the singers that have got through have my stamp of approval, how boring would life be if there was nothing to shout at the TV about? The potentially spine-tingling moment when an auditionee opens their mouth and the suspense of the chair-turning have me absolutely hooked.

Some people have moaned about Jessie J's loudness (love her), patterned shirt (love it) or interrupting (don't care, still love her), but I think the judges are a nice mix. You've got Tom Jones to soak up all of the naff cruise-shippy singers (who will hopefully go this week in the SING-OFF round!), Jessie to inspire tears and worship from every misfit auditioning, Will to deliver immense and unexpected Michael Jackson impressions, and Danny to silently scream 'LOVE ME!' with his eyes every time someone's picking their mentor.

I can't bloomin' wait for the sing-offs this weekend - way to tap into the Glee audience, BBC - and see how my favourites progress. Here they are, by the way...

J Marie Cooper

Team: Will.i.am

The redhead who absolutely stormed her audition with Mamma Knows Best, arguably Jessie J's hardest song to sing. I liked her style, I liked her attitude and her voice was just different enough from JJ's (a touch of jazzy vibrato for starters). Rumours abound that she's an evil diva, but I don't care. I like my divas evil, demanding and a bit mental.

Ben Kelly

Team: Jessie J

Ben had me at 'She packed her bags last night, pre-flight'. Love Rocket Man as I do, though, it was the risk-taking and piano skills that really sold this one for me. He's quirkier and less marketable than the above, but I'm feeling him from his bow tie to his red skinnies.

Vince Kidd

Team: Jessie J

Vince was a tough-looking platinum blonde with the piercings and the hood. But he showed his talent when he whipped out a funky, grinding cover of Madonna's bubblegum Like a Virgin, and his soft side when he was reduced to wibbly tears by the judges' praise. Can't wait to see what he'll do next.

David Faulkner

Team: Jessie J

The only one smacking of 'underdog' that I liked, David was the Welsh builder who rocked Superstition. If he can apply his crazy vocals to something more contemporary, I'll like him even more. I also liked that other guy with the hat, but since I can't remember his name (and can remember his fiancee was called Twinnielee), he's out.

Becky Hill

Team: Jessie J

I had to pick another girl, had to. I liked this one (although I wasn't enamoured with Jessie J turning her chair so early - seemingly because she'd picked her favourite song). I really wanted an amazing black mama with a huge voice, but didn't get one, or a gorgeous country and western type - and they rejected Harriet Whitehead, who I thought was quite good. So I pick Becky, whose tone I liked and stood out for me among a few cruisey or shouty types.

The judges seemed to put through more females I didn't like than ones I did, which is odd. Loving the blokes though. And let's face it, Jessie's definitely got the best crop of artists. Do comment with who you've loved or hated, or if you totally disagree with me about the show.

Images: BBC

*Apologies for the amount of capitals, reality TV singing shows really bring that out in me.

Bitchin'

A massive tee hee to this blog that posts weekly reviews of The X Factor with a strong all-bitching stance. I got hooked on the same anonymous reality-show bloggers during the last Andrew Lloyd Webber casting series Over the Rainbow (where their blog Over the Rainbitch provided a scathing critique of the girls’ performances and conduct.) It’s best to start early on these blogs as the in-jokes and references to the loved and hated judges/contestants do build up. If you’ve been a fan of the ALW shows from the start, you will still enjoy their I’d Bitch Anything blog in retrospect, especially their annoyance at Pirate Jessie and her frequent use of ‘sidegob’. Whatever your poison, there’s a blog for you: Strictly Come Bitching, Bitching on Ice, Bitchwood, The Apprent-bitch and even Bitching’s Next Top Model. One of the reasons these blogs work is because they’re reported by several people, with the others chipping in occasionally. They often have different opinions on the contestants, injecting a bit of banter into the proceedings. Some of my favourite snippets below:


…but what’s this? He has another song you say? The ‘sing another song’ gimmick is this year’s WHO IS DEAD and I am so, so over it already. The Bitch Factor

[Lauren] just makes me wonder if she can do any extreme emotion other than VERY ANGRY. I do enjoy her face on the word "confused", though, which denotes confusion in a Joey Tribbiani style. Over the Rainbitch

Jessie's Cockney accent is even worse; Dick van Dyke is watching this and sighing with relief that the worst Cockney accent committed to celluloid will no longer be his. I’d Bitch Anything

Ads. Cheryl tells us we’re worth it. Alexandra tells us her deodorant keeps working for 48 hours, the shower-avoiding weirdo. The Bitch Factor

Backstage, Jessica reminded us that she's just so privileged to be here, because she is REALLY REALLY NORMAL. Expect to see her running up a mountain and showing us her bra any day now. Over the Rainbitch

Olivia is next, and her zombie picture is hideous, in a good way. Elle loves it because "I haven't seen you look like this!" Well, yes, because this isn't Britain's Next Top Zombie (although I would watch the shit out of that show if it existed). Bitching’s Next Top Model


Do have a read, especially if you are a closet trash-TV lover like myself. Some others rocking my blogosphere at the moment:

My New Favourite Thing
Olivia writes about all things beautiful and quirky, from fashion and cupcakes to travel and teen crushes. This gives me regular bag envy but it’s worth it for the stunning photographs and our shared love of Dolly Parton.

West End Whingers
In their own words, ‘Phil and Andrew begrudgingly cut into their wine time to tell you whether it’s worth missing the Merlot for the Marlowe.’ A cross between the Muppets’ Statler and Waldorf and Sex and the City’s Anthony Marentino, these two go to see West End shows and report back scathingly or excitably on their findings.

Style Bubble
Susanna ‘Susie Bubble’ Lau takes us on a whirlwind tour of the catwalk, her shopping adventures, street style and anything she thinks is cute. What started off as an underground consumer blog is now an established comment on the fashion world.

PostSecret
One of the best blogging concepts out there, PostSecret is a project where people anonymously send in their secrets (some funny, some shocking, some sombre) and they are posted here for all the world to see. Fascinating.

RIP GMTV

Last Friday early morning classic GMTV was laid to rest in favour of a dire new concept called Daybreak, and like so many things (Opal Fruits, Woolworths, my youth), I just didn’t realise how much I’d miss it until it was gone. It’s a good thing of course, lifestyle-wise; I used to chop and change between BBC Breakfast and GMTV during my toast-munching time, thus missing out on valuable current affairs snippets in favour of red carpet gossip and stories about heroic pets. It’s a new dawn, and that dawn will be filled entirely with disheartening news about house prices and graduate jobs. But I forced myself to watch a good six minutes of the first Daybreak this morning, just to see if it had any of GMTV’s trashy warmth, silliness or unintentional hilarity.

Reader, it did not. Even if you can stomach the toxic combination of Bleakley and Chiles (really?), they are wedged in far too close to the camera in an uncomfortable ‘we get on great!’ proximity. Her rubbery spitting-image smile and his melting caveman expression make it difficult to decide which side of the screen is less painful to focus on, and while today’s weather probably wasn’t a production decision, the vast greyness behind their heads just added to the notion that this was a dark, dark day for breakfast television. The news (and I know no-one ever watched GMTV for the NEWS) was like any other third-rate channel’s news – dull, read by an attractive but nondescript woman and with the same terrible 80s-looking graphics as the rest of the show. Purple and yellow? Outside of an Easter Hat Parade these colours have no business appearing side by side. It’s hard to believe this is the big shift in ITV’s morning schedule, months in the planning. It looks like they had to come up with something in 24 hours, planned using only post its, purple crayons and a perpetual soundtrack of James Blunt in the background.

'I'm gonna punch you in the ovary, that's what I'm gonna do. A straight shot. Right to the babymaker.'

It’s not that GMTV was a sensational piece of topical television; it simply stood for a time when I had options. Bleak day, hungover day, can’t-bear-to-hear-another-economic-reason-my-life-is-about-to-suck day? Ben Shephard’s boy-scout charm and the ramblings of their (clearly on crack) TV guy Richard Arnold would momentarily disperse the challenges of the day ahead. Bad satellite links, verbal stumblings and crying babies drowning out interviews were all part of its wayward charm. Transparent timewasting – during their World Cup coverage, Shephard had a troupe of vuvuzela players competing with an English brass band for a number of minutes I will never comprehend – provided a good opportunity to flick over to the real world, aka BBC Breakfast. But while I know many of you were always exclusively Breakfast watchers, there is a small part of my brain, the same part that enjoys reading Cosmo in the bath, that just doesn’t know how it will get through some segments of a purely-BBC morning. The other day one of their correspondents was wedging himself through small tunnels in a cave for what seemed like hours, as some sort of topical nod to a big cave-related story. I can’t even remember what the point of it was, so traumatic was the coverage. It also doesn't help that the hosts are as forgettable as they are professional, and the business and sports presenters are snoozeworthy even when sipping your first caffeine fix of the day.

So farewell, GMTV: farewell to the interchangeable blondeness of Penny, Kate and Emma, farewell to the Pussycat-Doll-esque weathergirl, farewell to Real People interviews marred by grizzling babies, to Andrew Castle’s valiant stabs at being ‘cool’ and ‘hip’, to Fiona Phillips’ inability to be remotely likeable, to Richard Arnold’s pun-a-minute, ‘ooh matron’ TV coverage, and to many other little moments of lightness in my weekday mornings.

B is for Britain

We all seem to have a daily rant here in Britain about the rubbishness of the weather, the transport, the politicians and the chavs, but I have to say I bloody love this country. Not in an English-flag brandishing, football-loutish or snobbishly imperialistic way, but in that I'm happy being here most of the time. I don't share the now-fashionable obsession with emigrating to sunnier climes (although it's amazing to get away and I would love to live abroad temporarily) but I do have what is better described as an overwhelming fondness than a fierce patriotism for this sceptred isle.

It's easy to forget the fundamental joys of living in a developed Western country, but of course they are many - freedom of speech, equality, democracy and an uncorrupt justice system. But it's the littler things, those you miss at the end of a holiday, that warm my heart on a regular basis. The politeness - I have been told by more than one non-Brit than our pleases and thank yous are excessively and unnecessarily used, but I appreciate every little piece of verbal etiquette that comes my way. Yes, we apologise when someone else bustles into us, and often to entirely inanimate objects, but it's a compulsion that makes us loveable. I love the amount of satire in our press and on TV, especially the topical panel shows such as Have I Got News For You where no-one and nothing is too sacred for examination. I enjoy our eccentrics (even the Royal Family for their entertainment value) and traditions, and personally think we have a pleasant balance of conservative and liberal minds. I enjoy a cup of tea on a drizzly day while snuggled inside on a sofa. Sunshine puts me in a great mood, but 365 days of roasting heat a year leaves no room for seasonal contrast or variety, from your wardrobe to your leisure activities. Can you imagine being without the glorious novelty of a beer garden in summer, or a snowball fight in winter? We appreciate jetting off somewhere warm so much more for having such an unpredictable climate here. I love the smalltalk, the wit, the humour and the diversely styled fashionistas. I enjoy our straight-talking celebs more with every bland Hollywood soundbite from a US star, and the irreverence of our entertainment TV and awards shows. The history and culture of London is far superior to so many tourist destinations, we just find it hard to see that when we're so close to the action.

From our offbeat advertising to our disloyalty to political parties (the 'Ok, show me what you've got' approach to this year's election was truly impressive) and our ability to laugh at our own failings, from teen mums to snobbery, is what makes Britain unique. In some ways - mostly financial - we could be described as Broken, but in essentials we are flourishing. I like that a grown man can be reduced to tears by the kick of a ball and someone convinced they are Yoda or Jesus can get on their soapbox at Speaker's Corner without being moved on. In the next 24 hours I will definitely complain about the weather, become enraged by fellow commuters and needlessly mock a public figure, but deep down I'm happy that by random chance and good luck, I happen to live here.

When Derrick Bird shot twelve people on a seemingly motiveless killing spree in Cumbria yesterday, the reports were not met with sad resignation as a sign of the times. There were and are ripples of outrage, numbed shock and furious questioning in every paper, on every website and around every watercooler in the country. Do we ever stop and appreciate that such large-scale and tragic violence is a distinct rarity here? Sometimes it's hard to remember amongst the tax moans and the MP gags, but from high school shootings to Taliban-esque restrictions, terror and violence is part of the everyday for so many people around the world. That's not to say it is any less tragic that twelve innocents have been killed by one selfish man determined to punish the world for his misfortunes; simply that we should look around us once in a while and reconsider our disdain for this little piece of earth.

PMS

Relax, the initials I refer to are that which currently dominate our airwaves, screens and thoughts - Prime Minister Seduction. Well, it's about 50/50 Election and Volcanogate at the moment, but I am belatedly feeling a surge of democratic power after catching up with the weekend's media commentary on the campaigns, and watching the groundbreaking ITV party leaders' debates online. It's a thrilling thing be able to vote, and while the last election seemingly passed by without me noticing it, this year the public really seem to be getting involved.

The 18-20s particularly strike me as more vocal than I was in their position; perhaps it's the new surge of enthusiasm for the Lib Dems which appeal to them, or just the shaken-up feel of British politics that has seemed so stale and inevitable for years. Post-Expenses scandal, MPs are more apologetic and desperate for our support than ever. A lot of the high-faluting crap has been cut out as they begin to realise how jaded and savvy the public are about the spin and gloss of their campaigns. In my very first post on this blog, I wrote about the reactions to the Obama/McCain election and expressed a sadness that British politics are so much less passionate and patriotic. I just don't think it's our style though; as a nation we're unmoved by a soundbite and unconvinced that any party will bring large-scale change (quite rightly, really). Now I am impressed that things seem to be moving forward and becoming more focused here, with campaigns edging towards more info and less PR. I've grown to like the grey area in our system - I am not loyally 'Republican' or 'Democrat' but instead entitled to see what's on the menu and order as I see fit.

The TV debates have been the epicentre of this new approach - party leaders abandoned monotone voices, lengthy policy description and generalizations in favour of dramatic pauses and angry accusations, short'n'sharp outlining of aims and bizarrely specific anecdotes. I particularly enjoyed David Cameron's description of meeting a 40 year old black man who had moved to the UK aged six and served in the navy for 30 years. In fairness, neither of his rivals jumped to correct him after a spot of mental maths I imagine a six year old immigrant could do themselves. I did like the ferocity of approach, though - points had to be made quickly, sincerely and on the spot.

General consensus is that Nick 'Who?' Clegg came out on top after months of obscurity, but I wasn't that much more impressed with him. He had the best tone, body language and used the most accessible vocabulary, but I just wasn't feeling that musty yellow tie on him. Just joking - I felt he stumbled more than the other two over his answers, cleanly avoided the negatives surrounding tackling the econonmy, and kept reverting to the Lib Dem appeal as an alternative to 'Old Politics' (Did you know the Lib Dem party, founded in 1849, has been around 40 years longer than Labour?) A fresh face, yes, and definitely the one I'd shag if I had to choose, but he hasn't got my vote yet.

Poor old Gordy is the opposite of 'fresh face'; dowdy, practical and worn down, but I would always trust a leader (headmaster, boss, bank manager) who looks like the face of experience rather than the face of Creme de la Mer. In the blue corner, Cameron is almost oddly collagen smooth, with a sneery manner and just a hint of sleaze behind the good suit and family man image. If you're pro gay rights and equality, do make sure you watch the footage of his interview with Pink News, where he not only faltered over his policies and values but had the unmistakable glint of panic in his eye as his 'New Conservative' diversity-friendly image collided with the long-standing values of his party. I would also take a glance at the Don't Judge My Family campaign, countering the Tory plans to give straight, married couples a tax break. I have known married couples stay together far longer than they should, causing knock-on problems down the line with a sustained, unhappy family atmosphere. Equally, marriages can break up as a result of one person rather than both - should the abandoned party be left to pay more tax because they couldn't or wouldn't beg their partner to stay and make it work? Judging citizens based on their marital status is laughably backward - 'smug, Victorian finger-wagging', as Harriet Harman so eloquently put it. So the Tories are not scoring highly in my books, especially with Chris Grayling's (my local MP, oh the shame) recent comments on B&B guests.

I still haven't 100% decided where my vote is going, but I do feel sorry for the flack Labour gets. Whoever is in power will cause dissatisfaction and attract mockery after thirteen years at the helm, especially in the wake of recession depression and a (non party-specific) expenses scandal. In the TV debates, for me, Gordon made the shortest, neatest points, seemed the most honest - including addressing the tough stuff - and seemed to have his policies most firmly in his head, and not in his notes. That said, he also made cringey jokes and got suckered into Cameron's playground bickering. I liked that he picked up on Cameron's constant quest to avoid giving any kind of answer ('This isn't question time, David, this is answer time.') Dave just seems to think he can respond with 'Yes, I agree *carefully registered name*, we're in a real mess. But look at what Labour have done about it - NOTHING. I'm not going to promise we're going to do any better but... Look! Look at them! Gordon can't even smile properly!' The day I see him respond with something resembling a plan of action will be the day I consider him as a possible leader.

I'm interested in the Lib Dem's ideas, but need to hear more than 'We're different.' This isn't Lidl trying to compete with Sainsbury's and Tesco, if you're a real contender come out with your policies up. Equally I need to read more into Labour's plans and track record, but I will certainly be stepping out to vote come May 6th. I think the Lib Dems will get much of the youth vote, if only because they're not such a broken record. Anything that gets my generation voting is fine by me, but make sure you get all your info before heading in to that polling station. I would love to hear if anyone's developed any new political leanings this year, and why. Particularly any new young Tories, oxymoronic as that may seem to me.

The world's unsexiest boyband [Brown's just a step behind on the choreography]

Sexual Heaving

*WARNING: some sexual references appear in this post*

As you may have gleaned, I haven't been working the past few weeks. In the odd, bug-stuck-in-amber world of unemployment, real life whizzes by you and inevitably you start to hear yourself starting sentences with, 'There was this thing on Loose Women the other day...' while your employed friends nod along in quiet pity. One of the least stimulating ways to pass the time is to stick on This Morning between 10.30 and 12.30 - somewhere between the buzzy morning segments of GMTV and the raucous hysteria of Loose Women, this bizarre two-hour festival of novelty news, low-budget props and D-list guest dominates daytime TV. I was a student in the heyday of Phil'n'Fern, and enjoyed their rapport - the giggling fits, the empathy of their interviews and a general feel of not taking it too seriously. I love Holly Willoughby, but she doesn't strike a blow in the name of female journalism. She's very blonde and made-up, playing to the dumb 'I can't cook and I sure as hell don't know where Finland is' persona and just not really having anything interesting to say.

So - picture a sofa-bound Monday 16th March, and nothing much to flick on to but This Morning. Harmless fun, I thought, but how wrong I was. Sex week. Great, I mused, it's a little odd at this time of day but I'm all for opening up the sex debate and making it more of a light-hearted, natural pastime that we should talk about freely. I'm no prude, but fluffy daytime TV in all its uncomfortably live glory managed to defeat me on this occasion. I only lasted about fifteen minutes before flicking over to The Wright Stuff (actually quite good morning TV: news analysis, discussion, some bizarre viewer phone-ins). I felt unbearably straight-laced for not surviving the 10am sexathon, but their pre-watershed 'frank discussion' demanded constant warnings about the delicacy of the subject and this combined with the awkward way things were demonstrated did not make for great viewing.

For those of your poor souls that missed it, the first sex-themed show involved the following: a young woman suffering from anorgasmia being coached in how to have an orgasm by a much older sex therapist, with the aid of a rubber vagina 'dummy' and a giant trunk of sex toys and lube. Their age gap and the neutral sofa setting gave the unnerving impression that we were eavesdropping on a bizarre mother and daughter lesson in masturbation. The poor girl was then plonked on the TM sofa where Phil and Holly eagerly asked how she had been doing with her home practicals since her pre-recorded consultation. Basically, 'Have you had one yet?' No pressure, dear. Then 'Sexpert' Tracey Cox (who seems to pop up everywhere like a pesky erection) talked Phil and Holly through the most common sex problems she wanted to tackle, using morning-friendly language and way too much emphasis on 'fun', of course. I half expected them to whip out the whipped cream and insert some swannee-whistle sound effects (don't laugh too hard - food/sex games are scheduled later on this week. Making me even more relieved to be back at work.)

The problem is, when it comes to palettable sex-focused TV, for me (and I'm not alone, I had facebook-status feedback agreeing that it was unwatchable) it has to be sciencey docu-style or late-night erotic advice. Any show centred around a sofa and a fruit bowl is not going to make successful strides in spicing up the nation's sex life. The dislike i'm registering here is not part of the Daily Mail Outrage school of thought - Sex Week didn't offend me, it just proved a massive turn off in all senses of that phrase. I know ITV is fielding complaints and Philip Schofield is defending the show's choice right, left and Twitter, but I stand firmly by my choice to avoid the saucy antics in favour of some traditional breakfast TV banter. Mine wasn't a disgusted channel change, but a 'I'd actually rather watch anything other than two sixty-somethings being told to get into the 'lazy sex' position' sort of impulse. Perfectly reasonable, I feel. Do let me know if you were disgusted, enthralled or if Sex Week is even on your radar, I'd be interested to know just where I feature on the Prudence McPrude scale of prudiness.


It might have been more 'frank' to make Phil and Holly demonstrate the sexual positions, perhaps with a Benny Hill-style musical accompaniment

It's a Girl Thing

You may have caught the latest chunk of the Katie'n'Peter saga on GMTV this morning. The TV equivalent of coke and jelly beans for breakfast responsibly set up (for news purposes, obviously) the warring exes for some fresh feuding. Having had Katie on the sofa earlier this week, it was Andre's turn - desperate, bursting to promote his awful Valentines album - to weigh in about his former wife's behaviour. Luckily the former Celebrity Mum of the Year (who was she up against, Courtney Love and Britney Spears?) handed the researchers a story on a silver platter by posting a gharish picture of her and Andre's two-year-old daughter, Princess, in full make-up and fake lashes on Facebook.

The offending photo

Now, even before this picture was leaked, I have long had my suspicions about that kid. With two naturally dark-haired parents, Cypriot heritage and an appearance-obsessed mother, it wouldn't surprise me if that Barbie blonde hair was dyed. Princess and Junior (don't even get me started on the names) both appear to have their lashes curled and possibly coated with mascara in those endless OK! pictures, and they just don't look like happy, normal kids to me. In this picture, the gharish fake lashes - Urgh! Using lash glue on your child! - and pink lips stand out starkly against her little baby teeth and big blue eyes.

Andre broadly stated that he found the fake-lashes picture 'disgusting', but it sparked some debate over whether girls will be girls, trying on make-up and mum's shoes. The trouble is, this girl is two. At two, girls just aren't girly yet - me and my sisters were definitely in dungarees with short hair, probably some pink but not predominantly, at that age. Toddler interests usually revolve around their plastic cup of squash, the walls and floor, mud, farm visits and the odd tantrum. Girliness, that minefield of pink and sparkle, comes later. That's what troubled me about the Andre kids - their gender seems so enforced. Princess is pink, chiffon, big skirts, curled hair, make up (notably not smudged on by a child, but expertly blended by adult hands) sparkly shoes, even rocking a hot-pink buggy as a baby. Junior is surfer shorts, khaki, white trainers, Logo T-shirts and gelled-up hair on occasion. Because why worry about whether four is too young to break out the Brylcreem when your kid can look like David Beckham? It's the parenting equivalent of tiny jackets and shoes on a dog. Bizarre, and unsettling.

I have a couple of times felt compelled to blog about the Pink Stinks campaign, but have always found myself slightly on the fence. I don't think it is necessarily a terrible thing that small girls gravitate to pink, it is a larger WAG/popstar image that is worrying when imitated. When girls think only about who they want to grow up to marry or what reality TV show they want to go on, that's what makes me sad. Pink Stinks is a slightly neurotic-mum manifestation of today's concerns about girls being flooded with pink, playboy-logoed, princessy clothes and toys. It seeks to redress the balance by promoting cool role models like female Nobel Prize winners and Arctic explorers (good) and bombarding toy stores with angry letters about their stock (hmm).

I know several people who feel strongly that nothing is that black and white (or pink, for that matter) and that girls with strong female examples in their life will turn out great with or without a Barbie obsession. I wasn't half as obsessed with glam, freakishly-proportioned Barbie as either of my sisters, but that hasn't made me any more of a science brain or adventuress. I'm still pretty damn girly, and I swapped ballet for gym and refused to wear skirts for several years. So maybe it's a case of phases - little girls discovering the excitement of sparkly nail varnish, princessy costume and playing mummy. But I don't think opening their eyes to the range of career options and hobbies available to them can ever be a bad thing; it's so tempting to assume that girls like ballet and singing, and boys like football and computer games.

Incidentally, I don't think we'll be seeing any websites devoted to showing boys the perks of wearing pink and taking dance classes. Surely the best you can do is offer a range of fun activities and let both genders mix with each other as much as possible? Take heed, anti-pink mummies: beware becoming just as controlling as those youth-hungry Katie types who project their idea of glamour onto their small child. On Katie's TV show she is filmed proudly showing off her toddler's makeover, saying 'Do you like it?' With no prompting whatsoever, Princess responds, 'I look like a mini you!' Not exactly a rave review.

Girl Power Grammys

I flicked over to the Grammy Awards on Wednesday night and I couldn't stop watching. The award presentations felt like dull delays between each epic performance, and it must be said that the fabulous females of the music industry totally stole the show. Every time I thought I had been wowed by one pop princess, another came out and completely eclipsed them.

Lady Gaga was her usual level of extra-strength crazy, with an explosive hint at her upcoming tour in her performance of Poker Face and Speechless. They've taken the video off of YouTube now, but it was absolutely phenomenal. The girl has boundless energy and can really sing live, not to mention another geometric hit on the costume front. I loved the creepy ringleader guy and the faceless Gaga-esque dancers, and adored the Terence Koh-designed double grand piano, with sinister clawed hands reaching out of it. Mud-covered Elton John seemed like a genuine Gaga fan and let her outshine him as they duetted on a mix of Speechless and Your Song, even changing his lyrics to say 'how wonderful life is while Gaga's in the world.' Amazing.


Beyoncé came out in killer heels, leather dress and heavy eyeliner and blasted out If I Were a Boy in the theatrical style she uses on tour. I would have preferred the hair to be a little bigger than the ironed-flat look she went for, but I loved the ghetto-fabulous gold armour dress and hoop earrings she wore to pick up her (count 'em) SIX awards. She also slipped into her performance a version of You Oughta Know by Alanis Morrissette, a song I have loved since my angry teenage years, and an ingenious choice which was a perfect match for her huge voice. More power to the girls.


Just when I thought my popstar dreams had all come true, out walked Pink. I always forget how much I love Pink's sultry voice, as she's not a such a strong cultural presence as G and B, but her stunning performance of 'Glitter in the Air' was spellbinding. It was the first time that night that I put down all other distractions and just stopped to watch and listen. She twirled from the ceiling on with acrobatic ease and managed to keep her voice smooth and serene while spinning upside down with water cascading over her. If the 2010 Grammys was like the Diva Olympics, Pink definitely stole the gold. Unknown song, daring performance and understated vocals, but utterly beautiful to behold.


The only lame duck of the night was the unbearably bland Taylor Swift, who not only stole four epic awards from competitors like Beyoncé and Gaga, but quacked out irritating 'OhmyGod' speeches and gave a seriously below-par performance of her already forgettable songs. Organisers even had the gall to ask Fleetwood Mac legend Stevie Nicks to sing with her, who looked completely thrown at having to take part in this shoddy karaoke performance of the teen wonder's hits. I'm with Kanye, she must be stopped.*


The Michael Jackson tribute was a little cringey - Earth Song isn't even good when it's him doing it, who thought adding Celine Dion to the mix was the solution?! - and his kids looked horribly uncomfortable, as well as like little sedated zombies who have as much biological connection to him as cat food. Still, RIP and all that. Generally the live stuff was genius (the Dave Matthews band and Green Day with guests were also highlights), Jay-Z and Beyoncé's support of each other warmed my frosty heart and it just reminded me how slick and powerful the US music industry is. With Pixie Lott, JLS and Cheryl Cole topping the nomination list, I'm not holding my breath for the Brits to top it.



*Edit: After writing this, it popped up on Jezebel.com that after poor wittle Taylor got a lot of flack for her 'singing' at the Grammys, the CEO of her record label decided to wade in with this defence:

"This is not American Idol. This is not a competition of getting up and seeing who can sing the highest note... This is about a true artist and writer and communicator. It's not about that technically perfect performance."

To my great amusement, original Idol Kelly Clarkson retaliated on her blog by writing:

"Thank you for that ‘Captain Obvious', because you know what, we not only hit the high notes, you forgot to mention we generally hit the ‘right' notes as well."
She signed the post,
"One of those contestants from American Idol who only made it because of her high notes."

Teehee.

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.

What's Occuring?

SERIES THREE OF GAVIN AND STACEY, that's what.

I love Gav'n'Stace. I love the menagerie of characters as if they were my own eccentric kin, I love the witty script, the spot-on regional stereotyping and most of all I love the fact that underneath the bizarre comedy there is real, unmistakable heart.

I got into series one quite late, only this year, and it took me a couple of episodes to get into it. I read an interview with Alison Steadman the other day where she described reading the script for the pilot and being won over by a moment where Pam has been upset by badgers crying on the TV. When Gavin questions whether they were really crying, she simply says 'I know what I saw.' I think we all know that woman.

If you've ever lived in Wales or even popped over for a rugby match, you'll also know a Nessa. And a Stacey. And definitely, definitely a Bryn. Bryn is possibly the purest amount of Welshness you could vacuum-pack into one character. I love his slightly-behind-the-zeitgeist jokes that quickly back up into seriousness (today, the Apprentice: 'Gav - you're fired! I'm only joking I am, I don't have that kind of power.') James Corden as the kind of bloke I'd hate in real life still manages to make Smithy loveable, an unbelievable feat.

Having spent three years in Cardiff, their shift of location from Essex to Wales actually made me long for that easy Welsh charm; London with all its buzz and glitz is still a very isolated place at times. Nothing is more important than a commuter getting that train on time, no time for pleasantries. I loved the un-PC endearment 'lovely', although it took some getting used to. Working in a bar with brassy, loud Welsh girls who gave as good as they got with the rowdier customers made me feel like the most uptight Surrey specimen in the world, but I really enjoyed it.

I adored the nightlife and the lack of posing - cheesy music and body con dresses are as important a part of a Cardiff night out as chips on the way home. There is no underdone, relaxed boho chic; Welsh girls go all out with big hair, big heels and fake lashes. Absolutely fine by me, why should we agonise over whether our look is too much? If you want to wear a sparkly dress, wear it.

If you haven't got into Gavin and Stacey yet, beg borrow or steal series one to get a feel for it. It seems like small snapshots of unremarkable lives in some ways, but it's the real things in life - relationships, arguments, humour, human eccentricity - that make this golden, heartwarming, must-see TV.

Cereal Monogamy

Mitchell: Pedantic, overly articulate, ranting, irritable and sarcastic. And topping many a 'Shouldn't but would' list.

Hilarious comment article by David Mitchell in today's Observer.

I also have a tricky relationship with cereal. This could be tied in with my milk issues - I like strawberries and cream, ice cream, cream-filled profiteroles, but if there is even a speck of cream in my milk it totally freaks me out. I can't explain it either, but it'll probably come out in therapy when I'm thirty. Cereal used to be a perfectly normal start to the day; I remember when a Kellogg's variety pack was the breakfast hallmark of special occasions and treats, usually involving a tiff over who got the Coco Pops. But these days, if I'm eating cereal I am almost certainly on a rare and short-lived health kick.

I went through a phase in the second year of university of stocking up on Fruit'n'Fibre, which at least attempts to incorporate some tastier fruit pieces, and skimmed milk in a desperate bid to kick my bread habit. Now having given up such dieting efforts at the ripe old age of 21, only once in a blue moon do I deviate from my love affair with toast to delve into the raisin bran. This is odd because the rest of my family are devoted cereal eaters, it is the only proper start to a weekday, usually substituted by more exciting options at the weekend.

But Mitchell is right in saying it is a curious thing to market as enjoyable rather than essential. Anyone who saw this year's Apprentice candidates fudging their way through the breakfast product task (Oh, Pantsman... there is nothing anyone can say that will justify that departure of taste and sanity) will appreciate that essentially you're trying to make puffed rice, brown flakes, and shrivelled fruit exciting and delectable. As I understand it, my option of two slices of wholemeal toast with marmite is just as healthy and fibre-rich, and I even avoid the hidden sugars lurking in the cereal option.

I just can't understand any culinary lust towards a breakfast option which strongly resembles the dried mix you would feed a rodenty pet; if I feel I'm not getting enough fibre or fruit, I'll get involved, but stop trying to make me excited about it.* There's a reason cereal doesn't appear on those food-porn M&S ads: 'misshapen, crunchy, brown flakes.... shrivelled unidentified-floating objects.... this is not just cereal....'

*I'd like to make an exception for Stateside luxury Lucky Charms - any leprechaun-bearing product involving colourful marshmallow shapes is fine by me. If you have had the misfortune never to try these, get hold of some in Selfridges Food Hall. Believe me.