I was never someone who was incredibly popular. I was never one of the 'cool' people, a trendsetter. But I had a close group of friends who meant the world to me and who made my school days pretty fun.
That didn't change when I came to university. Though being the foreigner allowed me the opportunity to be the exotic and sort of mysterious girl, with my piercings, tattoos, accent and cool hair. I loved it. And I made new friends.
Now, I'm pretty loyal, whether it's to friends or a brand of cereal. Once I'm happy with something, or someone, I stick with it. I also have a very strong sense of duty. People who are important to me and treat me well, will have my undying loyalty to the very end. Case in point being my friend M.
M and I met in my first year of university, at a photoshoot for our school prospectus. I hated him on sight, for being a pompous ass. I went home and told all my flatmates that I'd met the most annoying person that day and that I was so glad that I would never have to see him again. So of course I saw him again a few weeks later, when I was giving campus tours...and he was as well. And we became close friends. We hung out, we laughed, we fought we just had fun. One year, his dad gave him his old Volvo and some of my best memories of the early noughties are of the two of us driving around in that massive, silver Volvo singing along to the Barbarella soundtrack. When I went through a terrible break-up in my second year, he was the only person who came to see me and make sure I was ok. He made sure I ate, he kept me company, he indulged my maudlin sentiments. And I truly loved him for it.
But then the downward spiral began. In the space of two years, he went from the life and soul of the party, to not even being invited to the party. And while I felt annoyed at him for letting himself get that way, I couldn't forget all the good times we had and how he was there for me when I needed someone most. So I returned the favour. We had lunch, we went for drives, we had coffee. I spent hours with him in his room when he didn't feel like going out. I took mutual friends to go and see him. We sat on his sofa watching telly, until we fell asleep together. I took him to get his prescriptions. His mother tried to re-pay me for coming out to see him, giving me petrol money, but I didn't want it. We still fought, but that wasn't anything new.
I knew he wasn't happy at all. He'd tried to kill himself a couple times and it wasn't pretty. But he was taking his medication and he started going to group therapy. I even spent New Year's eve with him and his family and he seemed happy. We made plans to see each other after. But then, I got ill, got tied up with work and we kept missing each other.
And one day I got the telephone call I'd been dreading.
They found him in a hotel in the city centre, with a bag over his head.
The only other time I cried like that was when my gran died. I howled and bawled and screamed. I was in shock. I was sad. I was angry. How could he leave me? How could he do this to his family? Didn't he know what this would do to them? Didn't he know how much we loved him. I went straight to his parents' house, praying I'd misheard his dad's message. But the police car parked outside told me otherwise. I went inside and cried with them. I'm crying as I'm typing this.
His funeral was so surreal. I didn't want to go, but I knew I had to. I miss him so much, even now. He was the one person who knew all my secrets. He never judged me. He understood me. A few months after he died, Barbarella was on telly and when the credits rolled, the tears did too.
I still think of him every day. Every single day.
Saturday 25 October 2008
Thursday 16 October 2008
No, no, no, no, no
A little bit random, I know, but important all the same.
Black socks look nothing like black tights. Therefore, they look stupid when worn with a pair of heels. The look is even worse when the black socks are no longer in their 'prime' and are a bit faded and washed out.
I cannot tell you the amount of women I see every day, roaming the streets of Manchester, looking like this. They obviously think it's ok. And I want nothing more than to chop off their feet and kick them in the face with them. Bah!
Black socks look nothing like black tights. Therefore, they look stupid when worn with a pair of heels. The look is even worse when the black socks are no longer in their 'prime' and are a bit faded and washed out.
I cannot tell you the amount of women I see every day, roaming the streets of Manchester, looking like this. They obviously think it's ok. And I want nothing more than to chop off their feet and kick them in the face with them. Bah!
Tuesday 14 October 2008
You were always on my mind...
I'm sitting here in the Language Resource Centre, trying to do some extra interpreting practice, but all I can think about is chipping down the road in my costume, and those boots I saw at the weekend.
Sigh! This is the burden of being a Trini. Carnival is too much 'in' us to ever forget it. Even people who don't play mas, tend to like to watch it, on telly or in person. My mother is the only person I actually know, who has never played mas, nor expressed a desire to do so. I'm sure there are others, but they're probably in the minority.
I do know that a new thing is Carnival trips, where people plan to leave the country, specifically for those two days as a mark of protest or what have you. Fine by me! Just means more space on the road for my effing massive and fabulous costume!
I need to do some work, but can't stop singing "Tell dem we Phea-sant!"
2kWhine, we ready!
Sigh! This is the burden of being a Trini. Carnival is too much 'in' us to ever forget it. Even people who don't play mas, tend to like to watch it, on telly or in person. My mother is the only person I actually know, who has never played mas, nor expressed a desire to do so. I'm sure there are others, but they're probably in the minority.
I do know that a new thing is Carnival trips, where people plan to leave the country, specifically for those two days as a mark of protest or what have you. Fine by me! Just means more space on the road for my effing massive and fabulous costume!
I need to do some work, but can't stop singing "Tell dem we Phea-sant!"
2kWhine, we ready!
Sunday 7 September 2008
C'mon county!
In England, football rules.
I mean, it completely rules. It dominates some peoples' lives. It dictates to them, orders them. I personally never understood it. I mean, I do have passions and loves, don't get me wrong. I'm well known to be one of the biggest Michael Jackson fans in existence (though I've never seen him live) and with Carnival coming up, people in my office are sick of hearing me go on about it all the time. But these are things I can take part in and feel a part of. Football though, I just don't see it.
Don't get me wrong. I like sports. I have a great respect for people who have that talent and are able to display it and earn a living from it. I don't think I could handle that pressure to perform all the time, knowing that my livelihood depended on it. So I tip my hat to all athletes. But this national obsession with football baffles me. And for a country that is so taken in with the sport, they're pretty rubbish. England haven't won the World Cup in over forty years. They didn't even qualify for Euro 2008!
People cry when their team loses. They get upset, they get emotionial. There are statistcs that prove that domestic violence goes up when England perform badly during the World Cup...to the point that some police forces go as far as setting up Domestic Abuse task forces specifically to deal with this increase. Wow!
But I still don't get it. Maybe it's because I don't like football. In the West Indies, cricket used to be the more traditional sport...at least in my house anyway. So that's what I follow, that's what I like, that's what I understand. But I don't cry when West Indies lose. That might be because it happens so much these days I might get dehydrated if I did! ;)
I do like watching football live though. I remember going to InterCol when I was in school. Admittedly, this was mostly for social reasons; you had to be 'seen' at all the 'right' games. Games between certain schools were deemed to be more desireable than others. So you got dressed in your most appealing casual clothes (at that time, usually short denim shorts, the shorter the better, and a cool t-shirt or nice top and pair of trainers) and you'd stand near the pitch or sit in the stands scoping out the crowd. That was the fun. I'm sure the matches were pretty good and we all cheered when goals were scored, but I didn't understand the rules of football- besides the obvious ones pertaining to goals and winning.
I know a couple professional footballers over here, and I must admit that seeing them live puts it into better perspective. I understand it a bit better now and my appreciation has grown. It helps having people you're friends with, out there. It gives it a personal touch. So you cheer harder, you want it more for them. You feel it more strongly. But I know these players. We hang out, we go out dancing. They're friends. Many football supporters don't have that. So why do they care so much?
A couple weeks ago, I went with my husband and a couple of my friends from work to watch Stockport County FC. My friend, let's call him Skyler (for no reason other than I think he'd hate being called Skyler) is a supporter. He has a season ticket. The thought of sitting in the stands at a tiny ground, eating pie and mash and drinking a pint appealed to me somewhat. Especially as my previous football match experiences in this country have involved me drinking vodka and cranberry juice and nibbling on free hors d'oeuvres in the comfort of the players' lounge. So I invited myself along to a match and convinced my friend Martha (once again, not her name) to come along. She is a MASSIVE football fan and supports her local team as well. She's the kind of supporter who comes in to work the next day all bubbly and excited if her team have won the night before. She jizzes herself when she sees her team have bought a new, good player. And yes, she cries when they lose.
Anyway, we decided to go and see SCFC play Scunthorpe Utd. Now, to be honest, these teams are in the lower divisions, so I wasn't expecting quality football. I really went for the craic and the atmosphere, and my word, it was there in droves! There were babies dressed in the team kit, little boys wearing the team socks (which I must admit, are quite cool), adults who looked otherwise normal and sane, wearing County colours and t-shirts. I myself decided to get into the spirit of things and did not wear my usual black, opting for jeans and a halter top...in County colours.
Walking in to the stands was an experience. I was nervous and excited at the same time. Someone was banging a drum and people were chanting. Chants on footbal terraces are legendary in England and it was nice to see that this didn't disappoint. It's amazing as well, that everyone knows what to sing and all join in lustily. I felt like some sort of anthropological observer, sitting there with my mouth open. I probably looked like a simpleton though.
We sat down and the match started. Then a chap walked in and went to sit in the seats in front of us. Martha said he looked like he'd come from a night in the cells, which was the most appropriate description. Fresh number 1 haircut, freshly polished Rockports, requisite track suit. Sigh! He waltzed in, singing a chant set to the tune of 'Chim Chiminee' from that much loved Disney film, Mary Poppins. Of course his version was less um, Disneyfied. Someone sat in our row shouted at him "Oi, shut up ya bastard." Luckily they knew each other, so my fears of pre-match violence didn't materialise.
Things started going downhill (at least for County supporters), about twenty minute from half-time. Someone from Scunthorpe managed to score a goal during one of the brief moments the ball actually touched the turf. One of the chaps in front of us put his head in his hands like his world had just come to an end. I laughed.
At half-time, we went down to the bar where I had a pint of cider and got stared at. It would seem that County doesn't have a lot of black supporters. Ah well... I've heard that there's racism on the football terraces, but to be honest, I experienced none of it. My feeling is black people are too smart to go and sit on a plastic seat in the middle of winter, shouting support for some people they barely know, when they could watch the same match at home, having a nice hot drink and wearing fuzzy slippers. There were also an inordinate amount of people with bruises and broken arms and fingers. Chim Chiminee guy had a mate who came to 'greet' him (and I use the term in the loosest possible context). His arm was in plaster, he had a black eye and one of his front teeth were missing. Birds of a feather and all that.
By the time we went back upstairs, about one minute into the second half, County were 2-0 down and the mood was noticeably grim. The lad with the drum and the obviously super-human lungs and larynx (or a sponsorship deal with Fisherman's Friend) still tried to get things going, but when they scored the third goal, the dream was well and truly lost. People started filing out in disgust and despair. The chaps sat behind us were giving coaching tips from the back of the stands and I was absolutely loving it!
Afterwards, people met at the pub to dissect the match as well as drown their sorrows. Then they trudged home to wallow in misery and maybe even beat their wives.
I didn't have any alleigance to either team but really enjoyed the macth nonetheless. So while I'm probably not the newest convert to the followers of the 'Ball', I'm definitely going back to give my all for the County. Allez le Stockport!
I mean, it completely rules. It dominates some peoples' lives. It dictates to them, orders them. I personally never understood it. I mean, I do have passions and loves, don't get me wrong. I'm well known to be one of the biggest Michael Jackson fans in existence (though I've never seen him live) and with Carnival coming up, people in my office are sick of hearing me go on about it all the time. But these are things I can take part in and feel a part of. Football though, I just don't see it.
Don't get me wrong. I like sports. I have a great respect for people who have that talent and are able to display it and earn a living from it. I don't think I could handle that pressure to perform all the time, knowing that my livelihood depended on it. So I tip my hat to all athletes. But this national obsession with football baffles me. And for a country that is so taken in with the sport, they're pretty rubbish. England haven't won the World Cup in over forty years. They didn't even qualify for Euro 2008!
People cry when their team loses. They get upset, they get emotionial. There are statistcs that prove that domestic violence goes up when England perform badly during the World Cup...to the point that some police forces go as far as setting up Domestic Abuse task forces specifically to deal with this increase. Wow!
But I still don't get it. Maybe it's because I don't like football. In the West Indies, cricket used to be the more traditional sport...at least in my house anyway. So that's what I follow, that's what I like, that's what I understand. But I don't cry when West Indies lose. That might be because it happens so much these days I might get dehydrated if I did! ;)
I do like watching football live though. I remember going to InterCol when I was in school. Admittedly, this was mostly for social reasons; you had to be 'seen' at all the 'right' games. Games between certain schools were deemed to be more desireable than others. So you got dressed in your most appealing casual clothes (at that time, usually short denim shorts, the shorter the better, and a cool t-shirt or nice top and pair of trainers) and you'd stand near the pitch or sit in the stands scoping out the crowd. That was the fun. I'm sure the matches were pretty good and we all cheered when goals were scored, but I didn't understand the rules of football- besides the obvious ones pertaining to goals and winning.
I know a couple professional footballers over here, and I must admit that seeing them live puts it into better perspective. I understand it a bit better now and my appreciation has grown. It helps having people you're friends with, out there. It gives it a personal touch. So you cheer harder, you want it more for them. You feel it more strongly. But I know these players. We hang out, we go out dancing. They're friends. Many football supporters don't have that. So why do they care so much?
A couple weeks ago, I went with my husband and a couple of my friends from work to watch Stockport County FC. My friend, let's call him Skyler (for no reason other than I think he'd hate being called Skyler) is a supporter. He has a season ticket. The thought of sitting in the stands at a tiny ground, eating pie and mash and drinking a pint appealed to me somewhat. Especially as my previous football match experiences in this country have involved me drinking vodka and cranberry juice and nibbling on free hors d'oeuvres in the comfort of the players' lounge. So I invited myself along to a match and convinced my friend Martha (once again, not her name) to come along. She is a MASSIVE football fan and supports her local team as well. She's the kind of supporter who comes in to work the next day all bubbly and excited if her team have won the night before. She jizzes herself when she sees her team have bought a new, good player. And yes, she cries when they lose.
Anyway, we decided to go and see SCFC play Scunthorpe Utd. Now, to be honest, these teams are in the lower divisions, so I wasn't expecting quality football. I really went for the craic and the atmosphere, and my word, it was there in droves! There were babies dressed in the team kit, little boys wearing the team socks (which I must admit, are quite cool), adults who looked otherwise normal and sane, wearing County colours and t-shirts. I myself decided to get into the spirit of things and did not wear my usual black, opting for jeans and a halter top...in County colours.
Walking in to the stands was an experience. I was nervous and excited at the same time. Someone was banging a drum and people were chanting. Chants on footbal terraces are legendary in England and it was nice to see that this didn't disappoint. It's amazing as well, that everyone knows what to sing and all join in lustily. I felt like some sort of anthropological observer, sitting there with my mouth open. I probably looked like a simpleton though.
We sat down and the match started. Then a chap walked in and went to sit in the seats in front of us. Martha said he looked like he'd come from a night in the cells, which was the most appropriate description. Fresh number 1 haircut, freshly polished Rockports, requisite track suit. Sigh! He waltzed in, singing a chant set to the tune of 'Chim Chiminee' from that much loved Disney film, Mary Poppins. Of course his version was less um, Disneyfied. Someone sat in our row shouted at him "Oi, shut up ya bastard." Luckily they knew each other, so my fears of pre-match violence didn't materialise.
Things started going downhill (at least for County supporters), about twenty minute from half-time. Someone from Scunthorpe managed to score a goal during one of the brief moments the ball actually touched the turf. One of the chaps in front of us put his head in his hands like his world had just come to an end. I laughed.
At half-time, we went down to the bar where I had a pint of cider and got stared at. It would seem that County doesn't have a lot of black supporters. Ah well... I've heard that there's racism on the football terraces, but to be honest, I experienced none of it. My feeling is black people are too smart to go and sit on a plastic seat in the middle of winter, shouting support for some people they barely know, when they could watch the same match at home, having a nice hot drink and wearing fuzzy slippers. There were also an inordinate amount of people with bruises and broken arms and fingers. Chim Chiminee guy had a mate who came to 'greet' him (and I use the term in the loosest possible context). His arm was in plaster, he had a black eye and one of his front teeth were missing. Birds of a feather and all that.
By the time we went back upstairs, about one minute into the second half, County were 2-0 down and the mood was noticeably grim. The lad with the drum and the obviously super-human lungs and larynx (or a sponsorship deal with Fisherman's Friend) still tried to get things going, but when they scored the third goal, the dream was well and truly lost. People started filing out in disgust and despair. The chaps sat behind us were giving coaching tips from the back of the stands and I was absolutely loving it!
Afterwards, people met at the pub to dissect the match as well as drown their sorrows. Then they trudged home to wallow in misery and maybe even beat their wives.
I didn't have any alleigance to either team but really enjoyed the macth nonetheless. So while I'm probably not the newest convert to the followers of the 'Ball', I'm definitely going back to give my all for the County. Allez le Stockport!
Tuesday 26 August 2008
It's coming up to that time of year....
So
Carnival is in the air once more, and even though I no longer live in Trindad, I can feel it all the way over here. I signed up for my costume two weeks ago but the excitement began well before that.
Carnival is something alien to most non-Trinis. My husband isn't Trinidadian and he just does not 'get' Carnival. He doesn't understand why I want to put on, what is basically a bathing suit, and run around town behind some lorries with a cup of vodka in my hands. He would prefer to sit on the beach with a bottle of Stag and a bake and shark. Sigh!
But I am just overflowing with emotion right now. I'm looking at different options for my boots, and let me tell you, just looking at pictures has me trembling with anticipation. People at work must think I'm crazy because I'm sitting here clapping my hands and grinning like I just won the lottery.
They don't get that it takes a massive amount of co-ordination between friends, months in advance, to work out who's playing in what section (the band was decided years ago!). The don't get that registration is serious business and that you have to be quick on the draw or you'll lose out. They don't get that accessorising is almost as important as the costume you'll be wearing. So the fact that I'm basically jizzing my pants because I think I've found someone who can make me a pair of fab boots, is totally lost on them. Sigh!
It'll all be worth it in the end though. This evening, I'm going to go home and trace the outline of my feet on a bit of cardboard and send it home to my sister. These are the things we do for Carnival.
Carnival is in the air once more, and even though I no longer live in Trindad, I can feel it all the way over here. I signed up for my costume two weeks ago but the excitement began well before that.
Carnival is something alien to most non-Trinis. My husband isn't Trinidadian and he just does not 'get' Carnival. He doesn't understand why I want to put on, what is basically a bathing suit, and run around town behind some lorries with a cup of vodka in my hands. He would prefer to sit on the beach with a bottle of Stag and a bake and shark. Sigh!
But I am just overflowing with emotion right now. I'm looking at different options for my boots, and let me tell you, just looking at pictures has me trembling with anticipation. People at work must think I'm crazy because I'm sitting here clapping my hands and grinning like I just won the lottery.
They don't get that it takes a massive amount of co-ordination between friends, months in advance, to work out who's playing in what section (the band was decided years ago!). The don't get that registration is serious business and that you have to be quick on the draw or you'll lose out. They don't get that accessorising is almost as important as the costume you'll be wearing. So the fact that I'm basically jizzing my pants because I think I've found someone who can make me a pair of fab boots, is totally lost on them. Sigh!
It'll all be worth it in the end though. This evening, I'm going to go home and trace the outline of my feet on a bit of cardboard and send it home to my sister. These are the things we do for Carnival.
Monday 25 August 2008
Version 2.0
Well
I'm taking a second stab at this. I had a blog once. A long, long time ago. Before I lived in Crewe, before I worked in Manchester, before I got married. I found it oh, so therapeutic. But also oh, so time consuming. And true to form, my short attention span won out in the end and I sort of gave up.
So here I am trying again. The odd thing is, my life isn't so terrible these days so I don't really have any inspiration. But what I do have is boredom. A lot of it. So I might as well try to sate it enforcing my views upon the world.
I decided to name this blog Life in a Northern Town because I live in a Northern town, somewhat against my will, and it's the name of a very catchy 80s song. I live here against my will because my husband owns a flat here. Funny thing though, he's hardly ever lived here since he bought it. And now he gets to live in fabulous Munich, and I'm stuck in the land o' the Chavs. But he'll be home soon...and will be able to share in my misery.
This is the second northern town I've lived in since I came to England in 1999. I went to uni in Preston and spent three years there after I graduated. Preston's not the greatest place on earth, but it was my first home in England and it will always hold a special place in my heart. And in any case, compared to Crewe, it's bloody Paris!
So I live here and have to deal with it as best I can. Here's to life in my northern town!
I'm taking a second stab at this. I had a blog once. A long, long time ago. Before I lived in Crewe, before I worked in Manchester, before I got married. I found it oh, so therapeutic. But also oh, so time consuming. And true to form, my short attention span won out in the end and I sort of gave up.
So here I am trying again. The odd thing is, my life isn't so terrible these days so I don't really have any inspiration. But what I do have is boredom. A lot of it. So I might as well try to sate it enforcing my views upon the world.
I decided to name this blog Life in a Northern Town because I live in a Northern town, somewhat against my will, and it's the name of a very catchy 80s song. I live here against my will because my husband owns a flat here. Funny thing though, he's hardly ever lived here since he bought it. And now he gets to live in fabulous Munich, and I'm stuck in the land o' the Chavs. But he'll be home soon...and will be able to share in my misery.
This is the second northern town I've lived in since I came to England in 1999. I went to uni in Preston and spent three years there after I graduated. Preston's not the greatest place on earth, but it was my first home in England and it will always hold a special place in my heart. And in any case, compared to Crewe, it's bloody Paris!
So I live here and have to deal with it as best I can. Here's to life in my northern town!
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