Hi folks... just in case you happen to pop by here and wonder where the writing has gone... For the next year I've moved my ranblings to here:
http://www.52weeksof.org/
as part of a project to help out an old Uni mate with his start up. There's other interesting people writing there too so hopefully you'll find something you like. Also, you can follow me on Twitter too if you should wish!
@lauralexx
xxx
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Widower
His funeral was awful. I stood in the pew looking at the coffin, trying to rinse myself clean of selfishness, willing myself back to the day I had met him. I saw myself walking past where he stood and smiling at him, stopping to chat, realising what a man he was and would be. And then walking away.
I lie awake at night dreaming about his life with someone else, the perfect woman who would laugh at him. She'd wake up in the night when he coughed and help him back to sleep. She'd have liked the same films as him and never doubted that his soul was the one for hers. She'd have been the sort of woman to believe in souls.
They played music at the funeral in spite of the fact I had no one to dance with. I couldn't watch him sing along, he lay back in the box while we ate vol au vents and people asked me if I was ok. His family told me how happy I made him and I swore at them in my head because they couldn't see his other widow. She sat next to me all day, the woman he should have been allowed had I not kept him. I kept him because I wanted him, permanently terrified that wanting him and adoring him were not the same as loving him.
I missed him more that day than I knew you could hurt, my throat ached with the effort of holding my head up and the vol au vents in. His other widow, the one who would let the house get messy if it meant they could lie in bed together an hour longer, she hadn't even brushed her hair for the funeral.
She is still mourning 3 months later when I have gone back to work so that I don't have to stare at his shoes any more. She can't live without him. I am living without him and I want him back. I want him back so I can tell him to go, go and be with someone better. If I'd known he had so little time I'd never have kept him, I'd have let him off the hook to swim upstream and do something else.
People like me shouldn't keep pets or people like him. We're too frightened. Continually scared that we'll break them, and in the act of never hurting them we forget to touch them, forget to make them feel alive. We watch them as both of us get colder and more inactive. Then we weep.
I lie awake at night dreaming about his life with someone else, the perfect woman who would laugh at him. She'd wake up in the night when he coughed and help him back to sleep. She'd have liked the same films as him and never doubted that his soul was the one for hers. She'd have been the sort of woman to believe in souls.
They played music at the funeral in spite of the fact I had no one to dance with. I couldn't watch him sing along, he lay back in the box while we ate vol au vents and people asked me if I was ok. His family told me how happy I made him and I swore at them in my head because they couldn't see his other widow. She sat next to me all day, the woman he should have been allowed had I not kept him. I kept him because I wanted him, permanently terrified that wanting him and adoring him were not the same as loving him.
I missed him more that day than I knew you could hurt, my throat ached with the effort of holding my head up and the vol au vents in. His other widow, the one who would let the house get messy if it meant they could lie in bed together an hour longer, she hadn't even brushed her hair for the funeral.
She is still mourning 3 months later when I have gone back to work so that I don't have to stare at his shoes any more. She can't live without him. I am living without him and I want him back. I want him back so I can tell him to go, go and be with someone better. If I'd known he had so little time I'd never have kept him, I'd have let him off the hook to swim upstream and do something else.
People like me shouldn't keep pets or people like him. We're too frightened. Continually scared that we'll break them, and in the act of never hurting them we forget to touch them, forget to make them feel alive. We watch them as both of us get colder and more inactive. Then we weep.
Friday, August 17, 2012
I Banged My Head
I had a pretty serious bang to the head today. It's put me in a pretty bad mood, and so I've decided to be a bit snappy about some things at the Fringe that are really pissing me off:
1. Please can someone create a burger that will smell as good as a regular burger when it's being cooked but that will not give me the figure of a darts player after 2 weeks of solid eating.
2. Could someone tell every comedian at the festival that they have reviewers at every single show: it's called the audience. The poor fuckers that have actually bought a ticket. Surely you have noticed whether or not these bastards are laughing at you every day, if they are - don't let a patronising, poorly imagined review by one person (who didn't pay for the show and didn't particularly want to see it) undermine your confidence in what you know is working every day.
3. Could someone please tell every reviewer at the festival that their job is not to:
a) give away as many punchlines as possible so that the review is funny
b) retell the plot of the show with no opinions or extra information to add
c) grade it as either funny or not regardless of what the audience were doing, phrases like "everyone in the room was roaring with laughter but they were quite clearly wrong" just make you look like a bell end. Why not say what it was like, what you thought and who it might be good or bad for so that the review has a purpose other than to humiliate the performer or make you look intellectual.
4. Is there any chance of getting a medical professional to look at my head?
5. Running a youth theatre company whose "Flyering on the Royal Mile" strategy is "Hey, let's put all the men in suits and the girls in skimpy clothing." is creepy and seriously undermines the integrity of your show if you have to resort to that to get people in.
6. Please may I go home now, I am tired and my head hurts.
7. Where are the cheap Subway flyers that I lived off last year?
8. Does anyone have any spare money?
9. Could someone please tell every flyerer on the mile that I do not want to partake in a "swapsy" of our flyers. My aim when flyering is to get people to come and see my show, not to get rid of my flyers as quickly as possible to people who have no interest in coming to see the show. Shove your swapsy.
10. I need a cuddle.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Fashion
Surely all clothes are designer?
Has anyone ever made a jumper by accident?
"Aye, I was trying to make a kettle but you appear to be able to put your legs in it. And it's made of denim."
I can't help but think that the label 'Designer' is the lowest form of praise you can heap on an item, surely it just means: "This happened on purpose." Which is at best expected and at worse surprising for most designer clothing.
Has anyone ever made a jumper by accident?
"Aye, I was trying to make a kettle but you appear to be able to put your legs in it. And it's made of denim."
I can't help but think that the label 'Designer' is the lowest form of praise you can heap on an item, surely it just means: "This happened on purpose." Which is at best expected and at worse surprising for most designer clothing.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Foldy Roll
The currently breaking story of the Twitter troll who has been arrested after he sent horrifically offensive tweets has really caught my attention this morning. The incident caught the world's (for world's, read Twitter's) attention when he tweeted Olympic diver Tom Daley.
Since the Troll was highlighted, there's been a big mix of reactions. Some people saying they were thrilled to see him brought to answer for his actions, but some surprised me by scoffing at the seriousness with which this situation has been taken.
I'm all for pushing a joke as far as you can. I certainly wouldn't describe myself as a fan of heavy censorship. However, I think there's a big difference between joking, and aiming abuse at someone. Some comparisons have been made between this incident and the Twitter joke trial. I can see why, however, the big difference in my opinion is that this tweet was sent directly to someone with an intention for them to see it.
I find it highly unbelievable that Paul Chambers (Twitter Joke Trial) believed that anyone would take his tweet seriously, or that the powers that be at Robin Hood Airport would see it and act upon it. It was a reaction, published personal reaction not a delivered statement of malice. The troll in the Tom Daley case had sent his direct message personally to the young diver. To me that shows a remarkable statement of perverse intent that shouldn't be ignored as a huge differentiating factor.
I do believe that by putting yourself in the public eye you open yourself up to criticism as well as praise for what you do. But, while you have to understand that not everyone's going to love you, you don't have to be bullied online just because it feels more anonymous to the person putting the abuse out there.
Since I started doing comedy I've dealt with the highs and lows of social media attention, and I wouldn't even say I was anywhere near in the spotlight or the height of my game. I've received attention from people who've seen me gig that's made me genuinely scared to go to gigs by myself in case they turn up. While I'm prepared to be told I'm not funny, I'm not cool with being intimated into stopping. The only thing that will stop me doing comedy is me (and low ticket sales/bad reviews/never getting an open spot at The Glee).
While, having researched this particular Troll's twitter feed, I am pretty convinced he doesn't deserve jail (probably a cuddle and some self esteem) I do think it can only be a positive thing for the world if people start understanding that celebrities/athletes/midget comedians are still people too and there's a good chance that negativity you send their way will reach them. By all means have an opinion, hate them and criticise them, but if you're going to publish it then don't publish it by nailing it to their front door. Create a balanced summation of your thoughts and put it out there for consideration - even 140 characters is long enough for the vast majority of Trolls to have an introduction, main argument and a conclusion.
Since the Troll was highlighted, there's been a big mix of reactions. Some people saying they were thrilled to see him brought to answer for his actions, but some surprised me by scoffing at the seriousness with which this situation has been taken.
I'm all for pushing a joke as far as you can. I certainly wouldn't describe myself as a fan of heavy censorship. However, I think there's a big difference between joking, and aiming abuse at someone. Some comparisons have been made between this incident and the Twitter joke trial. I can see why, however, the big difference in my opinion is that this tweet was sent directly to someone with an intention for them to see it.
I find it highly unbelievable that Paul Chambers (Twitter Joke Trial) believed that anyone would take his tweet seriously, or that the powers that be at Robin Hood Airport would see it and act upon it. It was a reaction, published personal reaction not a delivered statement of malice. The troll in the Tom Daley case had sent his direct message personally to the young diver. To me that shows a remarkable statement of perverse intent that shouldn't be ignored as a huge differentiating factor.
I do believe that by putting yourself in the public eye you open yourself up to criticism as well as praise for what you do. But, while you have to understand that not everyone's going to love you, you don't have to be bullied online just because it feels more anonymous to the person putting the abuse out there.
Since I started doing comedy I've dealt with the highs and lows of social media attention, and I wouldn't even say I was anywhere near in the spotlight or the height of my game. I've received attention from people who've seen me gig that's made me genuinely scared to go to gigs by myself in case they turn up. While I'm prepared to be told I'm not funny, I'm not cool with being intimated into stopping. The only thing that will stop me doing comedy is me (and low ticket sales/bad reviews/never getting an open spot at The Glee).
While, having researched this particular Troll's twitter feed, I am pretty convinced he doesn't deserve jail (probably a cuddle and some self esteem) I do think it can only be a positive thing for the world if people start understanding that celebrities/athletes/midget comedians are still people too and there's a good chance that negativity you send their way will reach them. By all means have an opinion, hate them and criticise them, but if you're going to publish it then don't publish it by nailing it to their front door. Create a balanced summation of your thoughts and put it out there for consideration - even 140 characters is long enough for the vast majority of Trolls to have an introduction, main argument and a conclusion.
Friday, July 27, 2012
No (you're) Mad
I swear I never feel more like sitting down to do some writing than when all my possessions are heaped across a room that I'm attempting to move out of. This is very much the case right now. I feel like I've earned a break having just unloaded a fridge full of things that had set up better civilisations than the human race.
What with moving house, leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow and the imminent Olympic ceremony everything's feeling scarily like those crafty Mayans might just have been right. Is this the end of the world or do I just really hate packing?
Because I really do hate packing.
Since I left University in 2009 I have lived in 9 different places (and that's only counting Edinburgh once - if I counted each time I'd been it would be 11 separate living arrangements in 3 years). That's an awful lot of times to have to evaluate the heap of crap in front of you and ask if it was healthy to still be wearing bras bought in 2009.
It's amazing how much can happen in 3 years. 9 houses can happen in 3 years. In the last 3 years I have acquired (in order of importance):
* 2 beautiful nephews
* a grown up flat to live in like a proper grown up
* lifelong memories of Lapland, elves and some brilliant friends
* a fledgling comedy career
* some incredible house mates
* a tonne of confidence
* status as a Brightonian
* a grown up job in the city
* more cellulite than I would have liked
In the last 3 years I have lost:
* some incredible house mates
* a grown up job in the city
* my status as a Londoner
* at least 6 inches of height due to a tobogganing accident
* my copy of Goodfellas on DVD
That list took close to 45 minutes to pull together, and were it not for the heap of crap taunting me I could probably make it much longer. It's been a hell of a 3 years. If all 3 years are going to be like this then I'm going to be properly wrinkled by my mid-thirties. Mind you, if I carry on at this rate then by the time I'm 37 I'll have lived in another 44 dwellings so I think I'll be a bag lady living under a box with a mangy beagle to keep me company while I sing show tunes into a lampshade.
We're forecast a storm tonight in Brighton. I'm not sure if the weather men could possibly have known I'd feel so blustery at what appears to be the end of yet another era, but I think we'll have incoming showers by midnight.
What with moving house, leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow and the imminent Olympic ceremony everything's feeling scarily like those crafty Mayans might just have been right. Is this the end of the world or do I just really hate packing?
Because I really do hate packing.
Since I left University in 2009 I have lived in 9 different places (and that's only counting Edinburgh once - if I counted each time I'd been it would be 11 separate living arrangements in 3 years). That's an awful lot of times to have to evaluate the heap of crap in front of you and ask if it was healthy to still be wearing bras bought in 2009.
It's amazing how much can happen in 3 years. 9 houses can happen in 3 years. In the last 3 years I have acquired (in order of importance):
* 2 beautiful nephews
* a grown up flat to live in like a proper grown up
* lifelong memories of Lapland, elves and some brilliant friends
* a fledgling comedy career
* some incredible house mates
* a tonne of confidence
* status as a Brightonian
* a grown up job in the city
* more cellulite than I would have liked
In the last 3 years I have lost:
* some incredible house mates
* a grown up job in the city
* my status as a Londoner
* at least 6 inches of height due to a tobogganing accident
* my copy of Goodfellas on DVD
That list took close to 45 minutes to pull together, and were it not for the heap of crap taunting me I could probably make it much longer. It's been a hell of a 3 years. If all 3 years are going to be like this then I'm going to be properly wrinkled by my mid-thirties. Mind you, if I carry on at this rate then by the time I'm 37 I'll have lived in another 44 dwellings so I think I'll be a bag lady living under a box with a mangy beagle to keep me company while I sing show tunes into a lampshade.
We're forecast a storm tonight in Brighton. I'm not sure if the weather men could possibly have known I'd feel so blustery at what appears to be the end of yet another era, but I think we'll have incoming showers by midnight.
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