State of Play

Man, I haven’t written about roller derby since I got knocked down by the cyclist and went to boot camp. I guess there’s not as much to say about it these days. I am still going to practice every week, though I have missed stacks of Saturdays due to moving, birthdays, visiting friends and family and other life things, but I’ve made it to most Monday scrimmages. A couple of weeks ago the latest Fresh Meat group joined the Rec League, and a new Fresh Meat group has started. Since I’ve missed Saturdays I haven’t met any of the new newbies yet. It is a little weird to not be a newbie any more. I mean, I know I still am really, or at least I feel like it most days, but it’s different now. I’ve felt a bit off too at practice, which I think is just because I’ve missed so many and the whole dynamic feels odd. I am not good with change, so I’m finding my feet with the new girls. They are all lovely and some are way better than me already, but there are also a lot of them which means I don’t get as much time on the track any more. I suppose that’s what the Rec Leaguers felt like when we all showed up, so it’s just getting used to it.

I have submitted my skate name to our league to send off to the keepers of the list in the States. I’ll do a bigger post about the name thing once I know whether or not it’s been accepted. I had a hard time choosing one. Most of the ones I liked were taken, and then I think I got name fatigue. It didn’t feel important any more, so I just picked one I kind of liked.

Yesterday was the first day of the Roller Derby World Cup, in Toronto. I didn’t manage to watch any of the footage but will hopefully get to see England play Ireland and later Argentina today. The link for more info is here. London Rollergirls have players in Team England, Ireland and I believe Scotland too, so I’m kinda cheering for them all. I hope they do well. And roller derby had a nice article in the Guardian, about the world cup, and for once wasn’t all about how we just like to hit each other or a run down of how you play. I should ignore the comments since most of them are people who’ve never heard of roller derby saying it sounds shit or is an excuse for girls to wear fishnets and hit each other. I used to let this bother me but now it doesn’t so much, mainly because they have obviously never been to see a bout, don’t know any rollergirls, and are just commenting for the sake of it. If you strip away all the things they think about derby – the costumes, the names, the big hits – you’re still left with a sport (yes, it is a sport, get over it people) that encourages women of all shapes and sizes, many of whom have never been interested in team sports or exercise before (I was one of them), to get fit, meet new people, raises their self-esteem and just generally promotes awesomeness. I really don’t see how you can have a problem with that, just because some players have funny names and like to dress up a bit. Look at the positives instead, or at least go and see a bout and then comment on it.

Road Kill

God updating your blog lapses when you’re in the middle of moving and you don’t have proper access to the internet. We still don’t, but we are in our new flat, hurrah! Last Wednesday was a bit hectic since our van men were an hour and a half late due to getting an accident on the way (bodes well). They were also not as good as the first guy who moved me and seemed to take issue with having to actually pick stuff up. Um…that’s your job guys. Still, we got in eventually and then Max had to go back to work and I attempted to put the place in order. It’s an ongoing process, but we have a wardrobe now, another hurrah!

I took Friday off work to get stuff done and also because I was headed to a roller derby boot camp. My afternoon did not go to plan as I was rudely knocked down by a cyclist and ended up sitting in the back of an ambulance for a bit. I did not get flashing lights though as it didn’t go anywhere. I’d like it noted that I WAS COMPLETELY IN THE RIGHT! I was crossing the road on the green man like a good girl and he was coming the wrong way down a one way street. I would generally look both ways before crossing but on a green man on a one way I didn’t. He yelled but was going so fast I didn’t have time to do anything before he smacked into me and I hit the floor. Hard. With my right elbow. I’d just been to pick up some bits for the flat and can only assume the oven tins took the brunt of the hit on my left side as I don’t seem to be hurt there, and I don’t think I hit my head.

I burst into tears from the shock but people were very nice and helped me out of the street and got me some water. The cyclist stopped too but didn’t seem that bothered honestly, and then police came, possibly community support officers I dunno. They were taking all our statements and then cyclist sped off, with one officer in pursuit, but he got away. I find this amusing now, but not so much then.

Initially I said I didn’t need an ambulance but in the end agreed to be looked over, and they were very nice too and I am fine just bruised and shaken. I still went to the boot camp and only fell on my elbow once. I would write more about it but since the majority of what I have to say is negative I should keep my mouth shut, lest I be breaking any roller derby rules. The good things were mainly getting to hang out with my fellow Rec Leaguers and laugh a lot (and moan about the boot camp) and also one brilliant lesson that spread over the two days and was really helpful, about default strategy and how to always be useful on the track.

In other derby news I can now register my skate name. If only I had one.

In Which I Refuse to Use a Predictable Title

I would be a lot better at keeping up with this blog if I didn’t have the world’s worst internet at home. It allows me to look at some websites but others it can’t muster the energy for. After weeks of trying to sort it out I have just about given up. This is what it’s come to, the fact that I can get online at all is seen as a blessing. I was going to write about going home to Yorkshire for the weekend, and the difference between my weekend and Max’s, since he was at the Big Chill hanging out with Kanye West (AKA, walking past Kanye West) and I was at an altogether different kind of festival (my brother playing in an empty field for charity). But since London has gone to hell in my absence I sort of feel I should mention it.

I wasn’t in London when the shooting happened last Thursday in Tottenham, and I wasn’t here for the first night of the rioting. I got back on Monday afternoon, preparing to go to derby practice that evening and keeping a wary eye on the news. As I was taping up my toes (new skates will be had soon, oh yes) I got a text telling me practice was cancelled due to the riots. Though the area we practice in was fairly quiet, it was kicking off in surrounding areas, and they wanted us to be safe. See, derby love peeps. I’d had a text from a friend saying my neck of the woods was allegedly a target, and to be careful. Now, I live in Stoke Newington, it’s like the least likely place to be hit by a mob you could ever see. It’s full of yummy mummies with designer pushchairs and people who get up in arms when a Nando’s opens. But coming home on Monday I saw a street that was closing up shop, shutters down and a weird, tense air. Later I heard that shopkeepers were standing outside their properties with bats, ready to fend off any attacks, but I don’t know how true this is.

And there lies a problem with what’s gone on in the past few days: rumour and speculation. If you looked up ‘Stoke Newington’ on Twitter, you’d see half the people there saying it was calm and all ok, and the other half shouting about cars on fire, and that a friend of a friend had said it was all kicking off, that 300+ gangs were descending, that danger was around every corner. There was nothing of the sort, and it’s this kind of reporting, without checking the facts, that I don’t like about Twitter. It’s great for getting information out, but you have to be careful not to believe everything you read. I think some people were just getting off on being able to incite fear.

I’m not even going to attempt to go into why these riots happened, or why they’ve spread, since smarter people than me have all had a go. But I will say that I think that it’s disgusting, and that I cannot imagine what it’s like to be one of those people whose entire lives were destroyed over the weekend when their homes were set on fire. I don’t know who those rioters were sticking it to, but it certainly shouldn’t have been these people.

I am hoping it’s going to calm down now and things will get back to normal, but that somebody, somewhere, at least learns something from it, whatever it is that needs to be learned.

Spot the Difference

Pajiba had a post the other day about movie posters being different in other countries. I find it interesting to see the subtle (and maybe not so subtle) differences that can be made, and whether it actually does mean anything at all or if it’s just several companies interpreting a brief. But I have noticed my own movie poster difference in the last few days, and it’s been bugging me to death. Mostly because the change is unnecessary, but also because it is butchering the language.

Exhibit A:

The poster for Horrible Bosses you get if you Google ‘Horrible Bosses Poster’. I can only assume this is the US version, or main version. It’s fine, it fits with the other posters for the film. Can’t see why it’d need to be altered.

Exhibit B:

Sorry for the quality, it was taken hastily as I waited for the tube this morning, and I haven’t been able to find a version online. So, why the change? And why did anyone think it was necessary to write ‘sex-crazed nympho’? Is writing nympho not enough? Does it not imply sex-crazed already; isn’t that kind of the definition? If someone felt a change was needed could they not have changed the sex-crazed bit and added something else that wasn’t redundant?

I really do not get this. Maneater is hardly a weird word. We’ve come across it here. Nelly Furtado assaulted us with a song about one for months. We wouldn’t look at the original and go ‘I’m not sure what they’re trying to get across here.’

And now I’ve spent far too much time considering it, (and promoting a film I have no real interest in seeing) and I’ll get no answers.

The First Fall

Last night I went to a roller disco in Vauxhall to try out my skates properly and to meet some of the girls who are in my training programme. They were all very lovely, and it was nice to see most of them have the same skating ability as me (not that great). The roller disco wasn’t what I was expecting really, as there are two quite small rinks and not all that great music. But since we got there early we had the place mostly to ourselves for a bit, which was nice as I got used to being on wheels again. When it did fill up a bit it was mostly with people like me, ie non-skaters and some who were obviously on skates for the first time. But there were a handful (all men) who were obviously excellent skaters and who took delight in whizzing around the place, skating backwards and doing all sorts of other tricks, which was somewhat annoying since there really wasn’t space for it, and it was intimidating, and one of them made me fall. Yes I am blaming him. I was happily skating along feeling a bit more confident, when this stupid big arse of a man skated onto the rink from outside it (you’re supposed to wait for an opening) and crossed in front and close to me as I was about to turn. I panicked and fell. Hard. The top of my right butt cheek took the brunt, as did my head. Since it was a roller disco and not derby I wasn’t wearing my helmet.

A marshal skated over to see if I was ok and ask if I wanted to see the medic. I said no, and went off to sit down, all shaky and knocked a bit funny, and thinking ‘do I want to see a medic? Natasha Richardson didn’t think she needed one and look what happened there.’ But I am obviously alive and well today so it’s fine. I just have a bruised butt. The first of many I am sure.

My Name is Mrs Nesbitt!!

I don’t think my name is that difficult. Carrie. Two syllables. No weird accents or umlauts. Not overly common when I was growing up but hey, Stephen King wrote a frickin book about a weird girl called Carrie, which spawned a film, a remake for TV, and now (bizarrely and unknown to me before today) a musical. And if Stephen King isn’t your cup of tea then there’s always that rather popular TV series and two films whose main character is Carrie Bradshaw. And there are some fairly old songs about girls named Carrie, but since one is by Cliff Richard we’ll move swiftly on. The point is, I don’t think people should find it so hard to get my name right these days. I spent my childhood having people go ‘Kerry?’ when I said my name. No you fools! It’s got a bloody ‘a’ in it! It’s getting boring now.

And yet it still happens. Most notably on invoices at work where I’ve had to say my name over the phone, and so am called Karry or Karey (on the same invoice too), or Carry (which is a huge pet peeve of mine because, who, who???? spells their name that way? And if they do their parents should be shot.)

So, just to be clear. My name is not Carry. Or Cary (I’m not a bloke). Or Kerry/Karey/Carey/Kelly. I have a nice name. Don’t ruin it.

Caution: Incoherent Rambling Ahead

I’ve spent a good chunk of today feeling enraged after reading an article about Nicholas Sparks. I really would like to punch him in his smug face. I have read one of his books, A Walk to Remember, in which a teenage ‘bad boy’ falls in love with a virtuous girl who is dying of cancer. Lives are changed, tears are shed. This pretty much sums up the majority of his works from what I can gather. I have seen the film of The Notebook and bits of Message in a Bottle, and they’re the same nonsense. You know going in that there will be an ‘epic’ love story where people will be kept apart by ridiculous circumstances and then most likely death, probably from something preventable, like say not going off in a dinghy into an oncoming storm. And if the main characters don’t die then someone (or more than one) around them will, causing unnecessary angst for the lovers before an ending that should leave you reaching for the tissues but after which we have all hugged and learned and grown.

There would be nothing wrong with this if it weren’t for Nicholas Sparks’ inflated opinion of himself and his writing. I would like to hope that he’s pulling everyone’s leg when he says things like those below, but he probably isn’t. I don’t mind books of this ilk, they have a place in literature, people like them. Hey, I’ve read Nora Roberts and enjoyed them, it’s cool. What they’re not though, are something to be held up as amazing literature, or likened to Greek Tragedies. Seriously Sparks, get down off that soapbox, you aint no Shakespeare. And your books ARE romances, so suck it.

This is the article that’s pissed me off, and I can’t remember where I saw it or why I was reading it but if I could take it back I would. Instead I am forcing it on everyone else. Or the five people who might read this. In it, Sparks utters such gems as ‘”I don’t write romance novels.” His preferred terminology: “Love stories — it’s a very different genre. I would be rejected if I submitted any of my novels as romance novels.”

And

“There’s a difference between drama and melodrama; evoking genuine emotion, or manipulating emotion. It’s a very fine eye-of-the-needle to thread. And it’s very rare that it works. That’s why I tend to dominate this particular genre. There is this fine line. And I do not verge into melodrama. It’s all drama. I try to generate authentic emotional power.” But, well, he always does kill someone by the end of his tales, usually to maximum handkerchief effect. “Of course!” Sparks says. “I write in a genre that was not defined by me. The examples were not set out by me. They were set out 2,000 years ago by Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. They were called the Greek tragedies”

Oh lord. Can he actually believe his stories aren’t melodramatic? That they haven’t smelt authentic with the way he manipulates his readers? But then he says of Cormac McCarthy: “Horrible,” he says, looking at Blood Meridian. “This is probably the most pulpy, overwrought, melodramatic cowboy vs. Indians story ever written.” Melodramatic? He keeps using that word. I do not think it means what he thinks it means. Look, I didn’t like Blood Meridian, but I could appreciate the language he used, and he’s written other books that are beyond brilliant, something Nicholas Sparks will never even come close to. In another article he clarifies: “Look — The Crossing Guard? His early work? Very strong.” What did you think of The Road? I’ll be honest, I like his earlier work. You know what? I get that too. A lot of people say, “I like The Notebook.” That was my first book! I’ve done 15 things since then! That’s very common.”

Deep breath. McCarthy’s book is called The Crossing for starters, and it was hardly one of his earlier works, since he’s been published since 1965, and that came out in 1994, with five books in between. But dig yourself out of that hole if you can mate. I suppose he didn’t like The Road because there was no typical ‘love story’. But a lot of people did die, you’d think it would be right up his street.

I think this man needs to acknowledge that he is not the second coming of Sophocles and that what he does is fluffy entertainment at best that is designed to make people cry, that he is extremely manipulative in his work and he’s about one step up from Mills & Boon but that, hey, he’s made a nice career out of it for himself. I’d find it much easier to respect him if he did. Instead, I sit here and seethe.

Valentine’s Day is Stupid

It’s stupid when you’re with someone, and it’s stupid when you’re not. There, I have said so. My main gripe with it today is not about it mainly being a ploy for us to spend money ‘in the name of love’, but some other hideous aspects of it that have right wound me up. Namely, that women are manipulative shrews who say no when they mean yes, who set traps to make their partners feel bad. Women are just as much to blame for this, as shown by this delightful email conversation I had earlier:

Max: The girls at work reckon that by you saying you don’t want any fuss on Valentines day that you want lots of things done. Is this the case?

Me: No. Really no. Although a card would be nice.

Max: They still think you’re lying.

Me: Why would I lie? For goodness sake. Do you think I’m lying? Why are you talking about this anyway?

Max: The girls badgered me about what I was doing for you on valentines day. I said you didn’t want anything which made them mock me for my inability to read women. I protested “You don’t know Carrie, if I go overboard she’ll go into the fetus position and sob. She just wants a card.”

“SHE’S LYING!” They proclaimed. And mocked me more for being a tool.

So I emailed you and relayed your thoughts.

They told me you were playing hard to get.

I told them I’d known you for the best part of the decade and you weren’t like other women!* I don’t think you’re lying but they’re trying to talk me into it.

Me: Oh ok you got me, I want to show up at your door on Sunday and have you blindfold me and lead me into the house, which when you remove my blindfold has been decorated with scattered rose petals leading into the kitchen where there is an amazing candlelit meal awaiting me.

Or, you know, we could have pizza.

Max: They reckon I should take you to Paris for the weekend.

Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGH. Also, I hate Paris.

Other women are my enemy!!! (OK, not all women, just one type. I like other women really.) And this is a stupid, stupid day. It’s not supposed to be fraught with worrying over what someone’s going to do for you. Is it? I thought it was mainly about chocolate… And it shouldn’t be about playing games. What, I’m saying, no, no, don’t do anything, and then when he doesn’t do anything I’m going to pitch a fit? That is also stupid.

And then there’s Pizza Express sending out flyers saying ‘But she said don’t make a fuss for Valentine’s’. ‘And you believed her?’ Which adds to this whole thing but also, Pizza Express? Hardly making a fuss now, is it? You fail on both counts PE!

GAH! Because women can’t possibly ever say what they mean, and just want to make men feel bad. It is all a vast conspiracy. Never trust what we say men out there, we’re just setting you up and will add it to the list we keep in our heads of all the ways you suck. Or something. I don’t know what it is we do.

Damn it. I don’t want to be against Valentine’s Day in general. I just don’t want to have to feel obligated to do something AMAZING and ROMANTIC. I don’t want to play games of one-upmanship. Really I just want to eat chocolate. Is that too much to ask?!

*I do apologise here for his generalisation of all women.

Weekend Loveliness

Weekends go too fast, this we all know, but I very much enjoyed this last one, even if it was over way too quickly. On Saturday I went out for lunch with a friend, and then to see Avatar. I know, I’m a bit behind, but it was still packed to say it’s been out a while. Stupid Saturday. I wasn’t sure I was going to enjoy it, seeing as I was in a right mood when we went in. First of all, to see a film in 3D it’s £12.75. I think that’s disgusting, since it’s not exactly cheap to go to the cinema in London anyway. And then we discover Vue now have assigned seating, which they didn’t used to do, and as me and Jen bought our tickets separately, we ended up sitting at the opposite sides of the cinema from each other. Not best pleased.

Anyway, once I was settled and my eyes had adjusted (it takes me ages with 3D, I don’t know if it’s cos of my bad eyesight or what, but it’s hard to focus) I really enjoyed it. I mean, it’s pretty silly, and its basic plot has been done about a million times, but it’s great fun, and it’s beautiful. Pandora as a planet is amazing, the plants and animals, that’s some imagination going on. And of course Sam Worthington is the most beautiful thing of all. He makes my heart beat fast. Possibly not when blue, but I loves him, oh yes. I don’t think it’ll ever fall into the category of my favourite films, but Cameron’s done a good job here, and it’s really entertaining.

My Sunday was lovely too. After an annoying start going to Max’s and getting stuck in traffic and having to go back on myself to take another route, we walked to Crouch End for Sunday lunch. And Max put up with me whinging the whole way because I was STARVING and no one told me we were walking over a mile! My god. I am so hard done by you know. But it was well worth it. We went to The Queens and it was amazing. A lot of the time Sunday roasts in London are hit or miss, and I’ve had a fair few that were disappointing. Not so here. I was going to have sausage and mash but they didn’t have it, so we both went with the chicken. They brought it to us on a big wooden slab, a whole chicken, and stacks of roast potatoes and veg (cauliflower cheese!! My favourite) and gravy. I ate far too much.

Later we went to the pictures to see Daybreakers. You’d think it’d be right up my street, seeing as I love vampire/human race in peril stories, but for an action film it was quite meh. I was a bit bored. I think it’s Ethan Hawke, he’s quite a boring actor. He has one expression the whole way through. It’s one of those times where the trailer is better than the actual film. Just watch that. And it wasn’t helped by the dumbasses we were in the cinema with who wouldn’t shut up. Happens a lot in Wood Green, sadly. Why can’t people understand that talking at full volume is rude? Or that giving a running commentary on a film is annoying? You are not in your front room people, shut the fuck up! I did tell them to be quiet, nicely.

Not the Best Way to Start Your Day

Travelling by bus in London can often be an experience, and not a good one. There are times you’re left standing in the cold for far too long, only to finally see a bus in the distance and then have it rush right by you because it’s full to bursting (usually with smug people). The journey can be uncomfortable if you’re not lucky enough, or pushy enough, to get a seat. In the summer it’s too hot and in the winter it’s miserable and wet and cold. The drivers, for the most part, are grumpy/mean/seemingly go out of their way to kill you. They sit behind their little partitions and ignore you, or yell at you, or they throw you off for no reason, or change destination because someone in an office somewhere tells them to haul ass with their route. It’s infuriating as all hell.

But I get the bus everyday, because it is easier, because I get a seat on my morning journey as the bus starts at my stop and the idea of getting on the tube fills me with even more dread. At least here I can put on my music, read my book and shut out the world. A couple if times I have been injured by bad driving. Some drivers can’t seem to use the brakes correctly and speed about and then slam their foot down, sending passengers flying. The last time one did this my knees smashed into the seat in front of me and my kneecaps felt like they were on backwards.

This morning was even better than that, ending with having my face slammed into the driver’s partition window. Oh man. Ow!!!! The driver was rotten, he was grouchy and either stupid or deaf, because he yelled at people and ignored the ticket inspectors when they got on and told him to do stuff. He kept braking very sharply, I am assuming because he wasn’t totally paying attention, and the last time he did this I was getting off so stood at the front (but not too close because I am a good girl). He hit the brakes, a rather large chap behind me slammed into me, jarring my arm and making me lose my grip. I didn’t get either arm out in time and so my chin took the brunt of it. I yelled. A lot. Driver mumbles ‘Oh are you ok?’ No I am not fucking ok, my face nearly went through your window!! I’m wearing my specs today so am quite happy my chin took the worst of it.

My chin is feeling a bit better now, and although I have sent a complaint in to TFL, I can’t imagine they give a crap. They probably get reports about drivers everyday and ignore them.