A Very "Rennie Christmas"

Every year I clamber into bed in a food-induced stupour, wearing my 'comfiest' pyjamas (code for massive waistband), genuinely surprised by how sick I feel. Despite the fact that my stomach has been in 'Christmas Mode' since mid-November - "Full? Moi?" - I once again struggled slightly to pull off the ultimate nomming achievement of the year.

Seriously, there's a reason why you won't find many all-you-can-eat restaurants open on this day. At no other point of the year would I consider my daily intake - three solid meals ("solid" = "excessive") and around thirty-three mini-meals, combining sweet and savoury like a crazed pregnant woman who's just been told that all food in the world is about to run out - with a sick kind of fondness only ever repeated on Easter Sunday.

It got to a point in the evening where I actually peered down over my food-baby at the white chocolate mountain on the carpet and thought, "Naaah..." Because that's the down side to playing 'Ultimate Eating Champion' (Christmas? What Christmas?). We're all just setting ourselves up for failure. And I'm not talking the usual Sunday roast, 'hands up, I give up' kind of failure. This is more like leaving your loved ones out on the Front Line, many men fallen before you, scared for their lives but proud of the sheer determination and stupidity that gives them the strength to accomplish that final, near-impossible goal......... The Quality Streets.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Confessions of a Film Fan

Part I

• Try as I might (which is not very hard at all), I have little appreciation for Woody Allen. I mean, he's a very successful guy, but I just have no desire to watch any of his films (although I did once watch half of Vicky Cristina Barcelona, mostly due to my 'aesthetic appreciation' for Scarlett Johansson... He even managed to ruin that for me). I also have little interest in reading about his work, which is odd for me since I'll read just about anything film-related, or to talk about him whatsoever really.
  

• I do not like Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy. Sorry. I know, I know... it's a "travesty"... Really though? It's not. I hate Will Ferrell with a passion. The guy's annoying. As is Steve Carell, if slightly less so... (See? I'm talking in short sentences. I must really be unimpressed). The comedy is obvious-in-a-bad-way, and for a film I'd heard SO many people go ON and ON about... it's massively overrated. Did I mention that I hate Will Ferrell?

• I have not seen all of the Star Wars Trilogy. Don't get me wrong, I like them, and I appreciate their place in movie-making history, but it's just not my cup of tea. Plus I can get more than enough of the jist of the thing from a twenty-minute Family Guy remake (cue angry geek-mob). I do a great impression of Darth Vader though.

• I like Robert Pattinson. Ok, so this one might not really count, but despite some questionable performances (who can judge really, when he's mostly working alongside plank-of-wood-Kristen Stewart? Although man, what a lovely looking plank of wood...) I think the guy's alright. He was pretty good in Remember Me. Plus - the real reason I like him - he's a bloody good singer. Look him up!

• I think that Tremors is one of the most unintentionally-genius pieces of film-making ever to grace our second-rate TV channels. I spent the entire duration praying that Mindy (Lex from Jurassic Park) would meet some disgusting and humiliating end. To those who haven't seen it: Rent it now. Or wait for it to come on ITV3. I hope you're open minded! And to those who have seen it: You know you all loved it too.
  

Goodnight, Old Violet Eyes

Actresses are not made like Taylor anymore; noone uses the word "legend" or "screen siren" in this century.
(Kate Muir, The Times)

If they do, they aren't using it correctly. This was just one of many touching and fitting tributes to Dame Elizabeth Taylor, on the news of her death last month.

In all honesty, sitting here in front of my computer, trying to summon a string of words in order to pay tribute to her, feels like an impossible task. With each year that passes we lose many public figures, many people who have made a vast impression on the world. Occasionally we lose people who are entirely deserving of their 'legendary' label. And very rarely, we say goodbye to a star who we thought would go on forever. They appear untouchable by the limits of life, a soul so unique that their passing brings everyone back down to earth with a bump.

This was Elizabeth Taylor.

She began her career as a child star during the 1940s, towards the end of the 'Golden Age' of Hollywood. Her most famous early outing was in National Velvet (1945), her third film and one which, according to writer Melvyn Bragg, "made her the little princess of the Hollywood kindergarten". She was one of the last actresses to reach star status through the latter years of the studio system, and as a result became the most sought-after - and indeed the highest paid - actress of the moment.

While her private life in no way hindered her rise to fame, her talent could not be denied. In a recent documentary Elizabeth herself commented on her ability to "turn it on" for the cameras. It seemed that some directors were initially concerned by her performances during rehearsal, only to have their faith restored once the camera began rolling. She won two Oscars for perhaps two of her more challenging roles, first as a high-class call girl in Butterfield 8 (1960) and second for the title role in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1966), where she played the 'vulgar' wife to Richard Burton's bitter professor.

It was also partly her personality that made Taylor so popular, and indeed rather special. It has struck me more so recently, with all the media coverage of her death and therefore the reemergence of various interviews, that I could watch and listen to her for hours. The best part... she was funny. For someone so absorbed by the industry at the highest possible level, she was actually very down to earth, and incredibly loving. I'm in the camp of people who believe that her eight marriages were not the result of frivolity but instead the mark of a woman who loved, perhaps at times irrationally, with all of her heart. Her fellow Hollywood starlet Shirley Maclaine said that Taylor had a desire to help the people who felt like they were misfits, and that perhaps it was because she too at times felt like one herself.

It's not just the star that the world has lost, or her incredible life and wealth of experience. It's the stories... the stories of old Hollywood that are gradually drying up, that the rest of us will never know. And the secrets. The secrets shared with old friends and co-stars who have long since become legends. Maybe it's because I'm a fan of old Hollywood, but I feel privileged to have lived in a time when a few of the original stars of the studio system - people who really, truly, deserve that status - were still alive. There will never be a time like it again. There'll certainly never be another Cary Grant, or Mickey Rooney (whom I once had the immense pleasure of meeting), another Bette Davis, or Clark Gable.

And not only will there never again be another Dame Elizabeth Taylor... There never was.

She was truly unique.

There's one scene in Burton's diaries that is gently loving and lovely. He is in bed and wakes to find that she has left the bed and is in another room. He calls out: "What are you doing?" She replies: "Playing with my jewels."
(Melvyn Bragg, The Times)

The Influencing Of Young Minds And Such

Facebook's great. It gets quite a lot of stick - quite rightly - but, aside from all the stalking and poking and other unsavory activities, it's perfect for keeping in touch with people that you would struggle to without it. And, in fact, it's recently helped me to progress from full-time 'bum' into a slightly more respectable situation. A brief, late-night conversation with an old sixth form media teacher of mine swiftly moved on from the usual pleasantries to an offer of voluntary work for the department.

My months of sitting at home, watching American dramas, eating carbs and talking about going to the gym are over. Well, for two days a week they are.

I'm a voluntary 'learning support mentor', which means I mostly sit in on classes of A Level and B-Tech media and film studies, and help the students with their tasks and discussions, or help out with resources from the office. My first couple of weeks were spent giving advice on coursework, which I really enjoyed because it's one of my strong points. I always thought, watching friends become teachers, that I wasn't sure how I'd ever move from learning myself to actually teaching other people. The truth is, I've found that luckily (and hopefully thanks to hard work!) I know my subject well, and making the transition into telling other people about it has been fairly easy. And enjoyable! The work at A Level is, naturally, a lot easier than I remember it being (isn't it always, looking back?!), so I enjoy going through it again, helping the kids to hopefully love it as much as I do.

And the strangest thing, other than the fact that to an extent I'm actually influencing young minds? My niece is in a couple of my classes... My niece, who I still think of as my little girl (and who clearly isn't anymore!). Very odd!

So that's what I'm up to. I'm possibly going to be recruited into doing some more events for the liaison team too, after a couple of very long (but hopefully useful!) days spent trying to point local Year 9 students in the 'right' direction...! All good fun, and - in an attempt to further prove the point that I am now, in fact, an old lady - it gets me out of the house.

In other news, my dad's operation is finally set to happen next Monday, the 21st. It's scary to think that it's actually going to happen now, but also a relief. My plans for that day have so far ranged from digging a large hold in the garden for me to hide in for those few hours, to going to the pub, alone, and finally being one of those people from the soaps who tell the barmaid their problems. I'm sure I'll opt for something a little less self absorbed and a little more positive, though!

Keep you posted!

#carrollfacts

While many of us are gutted that Andy Carroll has left Newcastle Utd for Scouseland, this did cheer me up... Here's a few of my favourite #carrollfacts to appear on Twitter in the last couple of hours! (I apologise for a football related post... Too funny to leave unposted!).

• Contrary to popular belief, Andy Carroll cannot fly. He just jumps and chooses when to come down (@Paul_LFC)
• North Korea did test a second nuclear warhead, Andy Carroll used it to heat his morning porridge (@basilmcneck)
• Andy Carroll doesn't wear a watch - he decides what time it is (@psycllone)
• When Andy Carroll looks at himself in the mirror, there is no reflection. There can be only one Andy Carroll (Paul_LFC)
• Death once had a near Andy Carroll experience (@Campione_LFC)
• Andy Carroll can read Lady Gaga's poker face (@psycllone)
• Andy Carroll touched MC Hammer (@jimmyfrancis87)
• Many think Andy Carroll heads the ball into the net. This is not true. He merely stares at the ball and it knows what to do (@AMG133)
• Andy Carroll narrates Morgan Freeman's life (@JoeKidda)
• Andy Carroll doesn't wash his clothes. He whips the dirt off them with his ponytail (@mariusoftdahl)
• When Andy Carroll adds milk to rice crispies, they shut the f*ck up (@JoeKidda)
• Superman wears Andy Carroll pyjamas (@KrazyKop)
• Osama Bin Laden is hiding from Andy Carroll (@spanishkop)
• Torres no longer exists. Andy Carroll ate him (@shamblerinho)

The Toon will miss you, long haired lanky one!

For The Win.

One Radley handbag... to the value of £200... for free.......... every month of the year.

That's what my Grandma won a couple of months ago after entering a competition in You magazine. Not everyone's idea of the perfect prize, but the perfect prize for pretty much every woman in the UK who likes her accessories. I wouldn't exactly call myself a "fashionista", and that's a kind way of putting it, but man am I excited. I do own a Radley handbag already, but I'm now promised another by my darling Gran, whom I love dearly, and who, after reading this, will hopefully bump that one handbag up to two... Love you Gran!

This post, however, isn't about handbags.

Last week I won a competition myself: A place for me and a friend at a private dance class with Flavia Cacace, of Strictly Come Dancing fame (once again, this may not excite all of you. I, on the other hand, almost wet myself with excitement. Almost). An old college friend is an ambassador for Maxitone, a sports nutrition company, and advertised the competition on her Facebook page (Thanks Beccy!). I decided to enter, despite knowing that I'd have to get the train to London for the day (and marathon-Greys-Anatomy-watching doesn't pay all that well), that I may not actually be available on the day of the class, and that the guest I had in mind - my best friend Charlotte, also a dance lover! - probably wouldn't be free either. And low and behold... I only went and won the thing.

There were a few hours of slight panic while I tried to organise the trip, and a guest to take along with me, but eventually I wound up on the 9am train to London and made my way to the venue, the downstairs club of Grace Bar near Piccadilly Circus. My excitement turned into nerves as I realised that winning the competition wasn't the end of it, and that now I actually had to dance with Flavia...!

The class was great fun, and Flavia was incredibly lovely. She taught us some salsa steps, which she insisted were basic (!), and for the most part they were, with some more challenging steps at the end of the routine. It was all very relaxed - there were about eight of us, all salsa novices and most of the girls new to dancing altogether. We had a couple of breaks and I got to have a chat with Flavia. She told us about a tour she's about to start with her dance partner Vincent Simone, and how busy her life is, not just during Strictly. I asked her when she started dancing and she told me she began at the age of five. I was secretly hoping she'd say "Oh, I just picked up some classes in my late teens and you know, it just kinda happened..." Alas, my dreams of one day dancing like Flavia Cacace were somewhat shattered.

All in all, an amazing day. Flavia was kind enough to have a photo with me - which unfortunately was lost in a camera mishap - and to sign an autograph for my niece Kate, who was one of my original guests but unfortunately couldn't make it. She even later replied to my "Thank You" message on Twitter, saying that she too had really enjoyed the class.

I had a brilliant time; what with being a big fan of Flavia herself, of Strictly and of dancing in general, it was pretty much the perfect prize! Yes, even more so than twelve Radley handbags! The moral of this story: enter competitions. Especially the free-to-enter ones that you think you'll never stand a chance of winning. But just not the ones I'm entering, 'kay?!

P.s. Flavia... you're a legend. A very talented, very beautiful legend!

"Hey! I thought you were in London?"

As many of you know, the answer to that question is "No, no I am not in London." And those people will also know that I'm currently back in the delightful haven that is Cesspool... I mean Blackpool (Only joking... I love it really! Warts, STI's and all). What a lot of you won't know is why... why I'm still here, what I'm doing with myself, what my plans are.

The easiest answer to all of those questions would probably be "I don't know", and to be honest it is sort of true. I moved back at the end of September after leaving my job at Halo and jetting off to Canada for a little holiday. My plan was to have some much-needed family time for a few weeks, maybe a couple of months, and then begin the job-hunt, hopefully returning to London in no time at all. As anyone who's ever had a 'plan' of any kind will know, they pretty much never go to... well... 'plan'.

Turns out the Old Man needs a bit of work doing. And no, my Dad is not having botox, or peck implants. Shame really, that would have made for a brilliant blog post. No, my poor old padre has been suffering a bit of late due to some problems with his heart, and needs to have an operation. It's mostly a preventative measure, in the way that nothing serious has troubled him yet, but without it he could be in some bother. So, when we received that news I decided to stick around for a bit longer, until after Christmas, so I could be around for the operation and to help him recover afterwards.

Once again, those pesky 'plans' are proving troublesome, and unfortunately he hasn't been admitted yet. Turns out Blackpool's ICU is being used for swine flu patients at the moment so, understandably, they're not taking on any cardio operations.

So.... we wait. And for the fourth month in a row I'm chilling with the family. Which is bloody lovely, if a little frustrating at times, what with all the waiting and not knowing what my own plans are. I've been filling my time, as you know, with a lot of Grey's Anatomy, as well as cracking on with the entire series box set of The West Wing. I have been trying to use my time a little more effectively, doing a lot of reading and trying to do as much writing as I can. It also makes a change to spend so much time with Dad. Turns out he still likes to be commander of the remote control, and still loves to "tidy" anything you leave unattended for longer than thirty seconds, never to be found again. LOVE YOU DAD!

So. My "plan". Honestly? I don't have one. But I never really have... and I've done just fine so far haven't I? I find people are too preoccupied with planning everything to the finest detail, and on occasion I am one of those people. If I'm going on a trip, I like to have everything sorted out in advance. If I'm going to have a big expense at the end of the month, then I'll plan my spending to prepare for it. But right now... well I can't make a plan. I have ideas about what I would like to do once I no longer need to be at home, but right now my plan is my family, my Dad, and making the most of the fact that I can watch six episodes of my favourite show in one day, because maybe I won't get to do that again for a long, long time!

For now, I'm back to my roots, living it not so large in Blackpool. But fingers crossed I'll be back to London soon, and fingers crossed there'll be something exciting for me to do when I get there. And no, I'm not worried.... what good would that do?!