X+Y?=Zzz FACTOR

This week I interviewed X Factor winner Matt Cardle. While some of this year’s contestants have been hitting the headlines for all the wrong reasons last year’s winner, arguably the most talented male winner thus far has been honing his talent ahead of his first headline tour.

He’s set to release his third single next month and it’s a good’un. Cardle has co wrote the lion share of the album, something he says he was determined to do. It’s the first time that an Xfactor winner has been given the freedom to do so and it may well lead to Cardle bucking the trend set by previous winners of fading into relative oblivion after two hits, Steve Brookstein anyone?

The day I interviewed Matt, the tabloids were dominated by bleary eyed photos of binned contestant Frankie Cocozza. The Xfactor is a big show and all, but did the dalliances of a bird nest haired, drug glorifying teenager really warrant front page news?

Interestingly a tweet from the aforementioned Steve Brookstein, yes he’s on Twitter, well, he probably has a lot of time on his hands, read ‘‘Frankie Cocozza on the front pages…the debt crisis must be sorted then’’.

I’ll hold my hands up and say I was a fan of the show in previous years, but then I was also once a fan of Zack Morris from ‘Saved by the Bell’, things change. But this year despite the shock exits, the antics of a mock and roller, even Misha B’s amazing transforming hair it’s all a bit boring.

Some would argue it lost it’s, ahem, Xfactor-when Simon Cowell left.  Others would say the new judging panel is a bit cardboard, me, I think it’s because it’s all been done before, the sob stories, the boy bands, the one that everyone hates, the oddball that everyone loves and Louis Walsh clapping like seal and repeating lines over and over….a bit like Frankie Cocozza in that respect.

I reckon the show should call it a day after this year, but from the hundreds of thousands that turned up for this year’s auditions it’s unlikely. Something would need to change though because rather than the X for me it’s fast becoming the Y? Factor

Mirror Mirror on the wall...

 Why is it that when you are young all you want to be is older, then you reach a certain time of life, the scales tip and then getting older is the last thing you want to be?

Take teenage girls; eyelinered up, friend’s big sisters dress and heels so high when walking they look more like Bambi taking his first precarious steps than a model strutting her stuff.

Undeniably gorgeous they teeter out of taxis linking arms feeling all 'Sex and the city ‘and bravely attempt to bypass the doorman in the hope they won’t be id’d. Come on we’ve all done it.

Equally teenage boys long for the day when they can get their driving licence and take the pristeen 1994 citroen, thats been blocking the drive way for six months patiently waiting for a driving test to be passed, for a spin in the city centre.

Several years ago, by day I was a uni student, by night I channelled by own inner doorman as I stood behind the counter of an off licence. A job I loved because customers were always jovial, they were either going out for a big night on the town or staying in with a few drinks and were full of the joys of spring.

But every now and then a wide eyed chancer would come in. Sometimes alone, sometimes in packs for security, they’d teeter (in their Bambi heels) to the fridge and nervously grab several fluorescent alcopops which they’d then plant on the counter avoiding eye all contact. Or if they felt brave they’d go all out and ask for a ‘half bottle’ while staring at the ground or the ceiling, pretty much anywhere except at the person behind the counter for fear they’d be found out.

Then, inevitably, they would hear two dreaded words, Any ID? A licence would be abruptly slid across the counter. It was almost as if they were handling stolen goods and wanted to detach their prints from it as quickly possible. And no wonder because the photo and moreover the date of birth on the ID was no more them than it was Freddie Mercury.

One look and they knew they were caught, some laughed and quickly exited, some, mostly boys, tired to fight their case and say the photo was from years ago. I had to ask what moisturiser they used because the bearded bespectacled man in their photo looked nothing like the not yet shaving, fresh faced young’in stood before me.

Speaking of youth restoring lotions and potions, science boffins have created a ‘life extending pill’. Now anyone would be forgiven for thinking this ‘miracle pill’ would add years to your life, but it does quite the opposite, it takes years off, your appearance at least. Reckon that sounds a bit wacky? Well thousands of people across the UK would disagree because ‘Royal Green Astaxanthin’ to give it’s official name, has a waiting list of thousands and sold out within four hours when it went on sale this week in the UK.

According to those behind it the pill reduces visible signs of UV-aging through dietary supplementation within four to six weeks of use. Dietary supplementation? No thanks I’ll take crows feet anyday rather than give up my grannys applecakes!

Some Sights on Fright Night

Halloween is just around the corner and I can’t wait. It's one of my favourite days in the year and I love how everyone in the city young and old embraces it.

The 31^st of October was always a big occasion in our house and since we were no age our costumes have looked the part. My earliest recollection is my brother and I being Oliver Twist and his wee sister with soot covered faces and ragged clothes.

This supporting actress role did not go down well with the three year old me so the following year I was a vision in a rainbow of colours, dressed up as one of those Caribbean women with grass skirt and plastic fruit piled high on my head. Which, incidentally, my younger brother might have tried to eat because I might have told him it was real.

One year the parents decided that my two brothers and I (the young ‘in hadn’t appeared yet) would all dress up as the same thing. We agreed and giggled excitedly in the back of the car on the way home from school thinking about what theme the 'rents had come up with.

Superheroes we concluded. I was surely going to be ‘Shera Princess of Power’ while my brothers were definitely going to be either ‘The Turtles’ or ‘Batman and Robin’.  We were in fact two priests and a nun!

As it was my first communion year I was very holy and took to my role as ‘Sister Anna Marie’ with gusto.  I donned my rosary beads and spent the entire night with my hands joined looking pius while trick or treating and blessing mammy’s for the bountiful rice crispy buns and monkey nuts that they packed into our pumpkin shaped baskets.

Our house was not alone in going all out for Halloween, all my friends were the same, and everybody’s costumes were always home made and brilliant. Someone was a ‘Ghostbuster’ with their dad's overalls and half a vacuum cleaner inside a school bag.

Two kids I know were dressed up as ‘Sam and Ella, two bad eggs’. There were pirates with tinfoil and cardboard swords, skeletons made out of a black jumper and some masking tape and Greek god costumes from a spare sheet pilfered from the hot press.

Now it’s become a multi million pound industry with more and more costumes shops popping up every year. The costumes are expensive but fantastic and everyone young and old takes part.

But the best costumes have to be men dressed up as women. I’m not talking drag queens with impeccable make up and legs to die for. I’m talking your average hairy legged, beer bellied bloke in a miniskirt, halter neck and pink stilettos.

Some may think the essence of Halloween has been lost over the years with it now being a fashion parade rather than a bewitching eve of all souls.

But the sight of of a middle aged man staggering up the road at three in the morning with one shoe, wig back to front and handbag round his neck...now that’s scary!

You've got mail

Online Dating discuss...That was the subject up for debate among a group of my friends recently.
Well, it wasn't  that formal, there was no sign of an audience or David Dimbleby presiding over the proceedings, nevertheless a colourful debate ensued.

Now, having not being a singleton for manys a moon, I couldn't reallly offer much in the way of an opinion although I have to admit that when the subject came up I did the whole 'cough cough lonely weirdos cough cough'. 

However the girl in question who has signed herself up to the most popular site de jour isn't an anorak wearing, bunny boiling loner with an unnecessary collection of porcelain dolls. She is successful, pretty, has all her own teeth and as far as I know has a clean criminal record.
Although, if rumours are true, because of a teenage obssession with Take That she's not allowed within a hundred yards of Gary Barlow, well, having seen how dashing he looks these days I'm sure shes not alone.

So why then you might ponder would she feel the need to sign up to a (snigger) online dating site?
Well she clocks up almost 50 hours a week in work and always has something lined up at the weekend so she literally has no time to meet anyone.
Couple that with the fact that everyone around her is betrothed or wed (I recently watched Jane Eyre and have come over all Charlotte Bronte) and that when she goes to visit her parents her beleaguered mother tells her she has taken to saying novenas in the hope that she will get a grandchild.

So she bit the bullet and found that many online female singletons were in the same boat. Fed up of meeting people in bars and hearing slurred chat up lines 'sheeriously you look, hiccup, like a film shtaar' or meeting someone at the gym 'yeah so I just bench pressed my own body weight, feel my bicep, isn't that amazing' she signed up.

Now she admits that her only experience of this sort of thing is having watched 'You've got mail' nevertheless she (bravely) decided to take the risk of having to date Meg Ryan. As with everything there are minefields and she has come across the odd oddball. There was the guy who posted a profile photo himself...from ten years ago. The bloke who joined the site because he hoped 'all women weren't as evil as his demon ex girlfriend' and the dude who shared a bedroom with 8 lizards and four snakes.

Being the (nosey girls) helpful friends that we all are we convinced her to sign on so we could filter through the profiles and the most shocking aspect of the whole thing was how 'normal' the majority of people were. Granted anybody can come across as normal wihen you only have a stamp sized profile photo and a description in less than 140 characters to go on, but for every person you would cross the street to avoid there were five that seemed your average Joe looking for an average Josephine. She's going on her first 'date' this week. Coffee, during daytime hours, in a busy place, with several exits, just incase it does turn out to be Meg Ryan.

Out of the mouths of babes

Remember school around the corner? It used to be on a Sunday evening before Heartbeat, which incidentally was the programme that signified a bath was imminent and would be swiftly followed by a bout of Monday-itis.

Well, school around the corner involved everybody’s friend Frank ‘the weatherman’ Mitchell having a chat to school children about this and that, while squirming parents held their breath in the audience praying that their precious cherub would not tell the nation the family secrets.

I have several schoolteacher friends and they have at times found themselves in the Frank Mitchell role when a pupil provides too much information. But the funniest has to be some of the answers they and other teachers have come across in exams.

History first and did you know ‘in war time, children in big cities had to be evaporated’ that ‘ancient Egypt was inhabited by mummies who all wrote in hydraulics and crossed the Sarah dessert and that poor Jesus died on Christmas day?

Science now and according to one student H20 is hot water and C02 is cold water, while a magnet is something you find crawling over something that is dead. Apparently before giving a blood transfusion you must check to see if the blood is affirmative or negative.

Did you know that seizure is a roman emperor and a centimetre is an animal with a hundred legs? Terminal illness is when you are sick at the airport and giraffes need long necks because their heads are so far away from their bodies. An adaptation is when you go to live with another family and symmetry is a place where dead people live.

The funny thing about children’s exams answers is that you can see their reason and can trace how their minds have travelled to just short of the correct answer.

What is also funny is spotting plagiarism, where for the most part a story barely makes any sense and then suddenly slap bang in the middle you’ll find the most exquisite prose ‘John wonted to go play sum footbal perchance it happened to be Spring’.

Equally a child can describe something with such aplomb that you would struggle to put it better your self ‘the ballerina lifted her long slender leg, like a dog at a lamp post’.

 And its not just at school that children are free with their information, like the now (in) famous scenario which occurred in my friends house. Every night just as they were about to sit down to dinner the nosey neighbour called round. On one occasion so fed up was he of the nightly intrusion the father of the house exclaimed ‘see if that is that bloody woman again!’ the child answered the door and came back into the kitchen followed by the neighbour and shouted ‘aye you’re right daddy it is that bloody woman!!

Red Carpet Roll Call

*Health and safety warning: be careful not to trip over the amount of names I drop in this column

They say the bigger the celebrity, the nicer the person. I don’t know, I hear Irish glove puppet Bosco is a right wee diva. They also say you should never meet your heroes because they’ll more than likely fail to live up to your expectations.

Well this weekend I decided to take that risk and head to Dublin to interview some of the biggest names in pop and rock.

The Stereophonics, Scissor Sisters, The Saturdays, Joshua Radin, Paolo Nutini, Labyrinth, Aloe Blacc and my old gal pal Paloma Faith were just some of the acts who performed at the 2011 Arthur’s day celebrations. And I managed to get up close and personal with them all to talk everything from number one albums to fruit and veg stalls.

After arriving in Dublin my first port of call was a plush hotel in the city centre where all the bands and musicians were holed up in hotel rooms ready to face a barrage of questions from interviewers from NME to National Geographic. It seems everyone was willing to take the ‘meet your heroes risk’ I was.

My first interview of the day was in the perfectly formed shape of The Saturdays. And yes they are every bit as immaculate and lovely in the flesh.

We talked music, fashion, babies, icons, first jobs and their upcoming tour. Apparently Mollie takes the longest to get ready and they’d most like to work with Stevie Wonder.

First interview done and I was ushered into another hotel room and there before me were The Scissor Sisters. Ana Matronic’s surname is Lynch would you believe and her family are from Cork. We bonded over matching names and the guys revealed that it was a double celebration for them not only was it Arthur’s day but also the tenth anniversary that the group first got together.

Next it was time to take up our spot on the red carpet where I interviewed the lovely Ed Sheeran of ‘A team’ fame, the song that is, not the crime fighting TV stars. He told me just before his career took off he was spotted in a LA club by Hollywood actor Jamie Foxx who then invited him to stay with him.

The red carpet was also a good opportunity to get photos and sound bites from famous folk. It was fun because you stand in one place and the lovely PR folk bring them to you, so it’s almost a conveyor belt of celebrities.

Aloe Blacc is inspired by Ray Charles. A set of matching towels. Joshua Radin was a painter before he was a singer. A cuddly toy.

 My favourite interview of the day however was saved for last. Just as the last of the stars had sashayed down the carpet the Stereophonics appeared in all their pint sized prettiness. I had interviewed lead singer Kelly Jones before, but that was on the phone, so this time I had to work overtime suppress the major fan within and channel all my excitable giggles into being a reporter and actually getting a few questions out.

They’re currently putting the finishing touches to their new album, the most obscure place they’ve ever played a gig was a public toilet in shepherds bush and Kelly Jones used to work on a fruit and veg stall.

Arthur’s day takes place every year to mark the anniversary of when Arthur Guinness signed on the 9000 year lease for the now world famous brewery.

So there's still around 8749 years  of  celebrations, I should have the whole celeb interview thing down to a tee by then.

Tantrums and Tiaras

Remember when you were six and went to New York fashion week and threw an almighty tantrum because you couldn’t get your teeth whitened? No? Me neither, because we aren’t Eden Wood and the star of a reality TV show about Middle America beauty pageants.

The mini model went into meltdown this week after the she was told she couldn’t try Glo brilliant teeth whitening kit because she didn’t have ‘her big girl teeth’.

While the rest of us would plead guilty to throwing tantrums on a similar scale at her age, they were more than likely because we weren’t tall enough to get on the ladybird ride at Redcastle amusements, or because the hair on our 'Girl’s World' head got all tangled, not because we wanted our gnashers to be visible from the moon.

Eden from Arkansas has ‘retired’ from the US beauty pageant scene after winning over 300 trophies and the pint sized premadonna has now set her sights on world domination. She’s currently cutting her (milk) teeth in the fashion industry and spends her time doing fun childhood things like attending catwalk shows with her mum and her agent (!)
 
Her not remotely mental mother Micki Wood says she hopes to build an 'Eden empire' because she wants to become rich and famous through her child, ahem, because that is ‘the child’s destiny’.  
Mother of the year Micki said the empire will include music, merchandise and an action figure. An action figure? Of a six year old beauty queen? What will her special powers be, grinning her enemies into submission?  

Now I have to tread carefully here for fear that a gang of Derry Feis mums picket the newsroom and threaten to have their daughters execute a four hand heavy jig on my car bonnet.
The Derry feis is an institution and was the first stepping stone to stardom for many North West singers, dancers and actors. There’s a strong Irish dancing community in Derry alone and the dedication and time they put in has to be applauded.

In that sense it is a million miles away from the looks orientated childhood robbing wrongness of a beauty pageant but the wigs, the tan and the makeup is getting more extreme every year and is in some cases a hair spray can short of pageant like behaviour.

I’m all for nurturing a child’s interests and talents but cashing in on their looks, making them aware of their flaws and plunging them into the beauty industry, a world so unforgiving that grown women struggle to deal with let alone someone who still has to sleep with the light on is anything but pretty

Simply Tantastic!

 I’m from Essex, it’s very, erm, Orange. The words of reality TV ‘star’ Amy Childs. She’s known to spend two  hours a day applying self tanning lotions and potions and she’s not alone.

 

A visitor on a night out in the North West these days would be forgiven for thinking we experience a Mediterranean climate.  Most gals, and a growing number of guys, regularly sport a deep bronze shimmery glow and (thankfully) it’s now more likely to come from a bottle than a sunbed.

The burning ball in the sky isn't an option because, aside from the health risks, you have a better chance of cooking a steak under the heat of a street light than getting a tan during Irish summers.

We’re not alone in our bid to be slightly leather looking 24/7. Three bottles of St Tropez tanning mousse are bought every minute around the world and retail boffins estimate Britons spend 35 million pounds a year on fake tan products. That doesn’t include the salon spray tans we get for weddings/birthdays/ just because it’s Tuesdays.

A line up of a group of us Derry girls on a night out could be used as a Dulux colour chart with tans ranging from mocha, chocolate, beige, orange and even the unfortunate polka dot –which occurs when the tan’ee opts for a instant tan only to be caught in a downpour, rookie mistake!

It does seem that dark hued tones are the look de jour and pale skin has become for the large part obsolete.  But in Victorian times it was very much the opposite. Pale skin was sign of beauty, wealth and social standing and dark skin was a sign of toiling in the fields. In those days rich folk were pale to indicate they were above and beyond work while a tan signified that you were a grafter.

Fast forward a few centuries and it’s the opposite. A tan, apparently, signifies luxury and opulence whereas pale skinned people are workaholics who never see the light of day, unless you’re one of those superwoman who manage to look glam while juggling work, kids, home and husband. As I fall into the 'pale verging on transparent category' I'm looking into the idea of  donning a burka. Pale problem solved.

Despite the female population loving the tan look it seems our male counterparts for the large part are bronzed off with the idea, seemingly the natural look is one they favour.

It’s a hard one to call, English rose porcelain skin versus sun kissed beach glow. The sun tan gets my vote and I’ll be looking forward to catching a few rays in the North West next summer, I hear its on a Wednesday.

How Much? Wheelie!!

It emerged this week that insurance premiums for drivers here are almost double than elsewhere in the UK. That won’t come as a surprise to any drivers here. Some Insurance quotes I’ve been given  read more like telephone numbers than reasonable prices.

Those mathematician types have calculated that drivers here are forking out an eye watering average of £920 pounds a year.

And it’s not just first time drivers that are paying a hefty price for the pleasure of burning rubber.

I carried out a *highly scientific  series of vox pops with drivers in the north west last week to get a clearer picture of what people in the BT48 area are handing over.

A 60 year old man was quoted  £800 but that was nearly halved when he gave an address from across the pond. As expected young male drivers topped the list of pricey premiums with one 19 year old quoted £1100, while a forty year old women was quoted £650.

The Consumer Council has cottoned on and is now calling on the Office of Fair Trading to get involved and put the breaks on the rapidly growing costs.

The insurance industry argues that the main reason for higher premiums here is the higher number of personal injury claims. There are people who are now even setting up companies which encourage people to make a claim. No win. No Fee. You win. We get all your money.

All this talk of  personal injury claims got me thinking, not about registering one of course, but of the type of excuses people have given. Some are so out there I would not rule out that they had been sniffing petrol while filling out the claim application form. Here’s some of the best

A Norwich Union customer collided with a cow. The questions and answers on the claim form were:
Q: What warning was given by you?
A: Horn
Q: What warning was given by the other party?
A: Moo

There was also,
"I had one eye on a parked car, another on approaching lorries, and another on the woman behind."
How about "I didn't think the speed limit applied after midnight" Or ''The car in front hit the pedestrian but he got up so I hit him again" And my personal favourite "In an attempt to kill a fly, I drove into a telephone pole." Well that’s what you get for engaging in animal cruelty.
 
 
That’s all for this week happy motoring!

*Not highly scientific

OMG ROTFLMAO!!!

This week I received a text from a younger member of my family and despite that pricey university degree and the fact that a large part of my job involves writing I couldn't for the life of me decipher what in under god it meant. There were so many abbreviations it read more like an optician's wall chart than a text message. I thought perhaps she had accidentally sat on her phone and the random collection of letters was typed by mistake, alas she didn't and it wasn't.

There are some people who are death on this form of text talk, these people write out every word as it should be and include perfect grammar. Others seem to continually have their digits stuck on the exclamation mark, Hello!!!! Sounds Great!!!! or you have the real die hards who throw in the trusty question mark 'How's Things?!?!?!?

Those type of text preferences I can deal with, removing vowels from words to make them shorter is also permissible, snds gd (sounds good) so too are phrases like R, U and L8R but when it's a message entirely made up of seemingly random letters grouped together in a Countdown fanatics dream, then that's just not on.

Maybe I'm not down with the kids but I challenge anyone to decipher what AYTMTB or ASFASIC mean? Hieroglyphics on a cave wall would make more sense. So, not having Indiana Jones on speed dial to translate this encrypted message, I bribed/asked the teenybopper sister of a friend for a lesson in text talk.

The first means 'And you’re Telling Me This Because' the second 'As Far As I'm Concerned'. AYSOS? Are you stupid or something? Yes, on this occasion I believe I am. LOL is a classic and is the modern take on 'No Offence' it's use means you can pretty much say anything and it will be excused as a 'joke' For example, back in the day it was 'No offence but your shoes are terrible' that is offensive! These days its 'You're not invited Lol'

Lol has now been extended to ROTFLOL 'roll on the floor laughing out loud', there’s also ROTFLMFAO... let's just say if I was in the company of anyone who reacted to text message by doing just that I would SAFTW 'step away from the weirdo'.

TB used to be used quite commonly at the end of a text message. Surely if someone wants to Text Back they will, not because they've been prompted to, 'What's the craic? TB'  No. Because of your demanding ways you'll just have to guess what the craic is.

Is this lazy lingo they way forward and in future will we all be too busy to use full words in a conversation that we'll just be muttering letters to each other like sesame street Muppets on speed? It would seem so; it's already infiltrating the music scene. There is a band called LMFAO, and after hearing they're album I wanted to RMEO (rip my ears off) and Katy Perry keeps reminding us TGIF!

That's it from Quigley's point this week TTFN!

Get on your Soapbox!

It was revealed last week that Derry has been shortlisted as one of 65 potential locations for a local tv station. This got me thinking about the the type of programmes it could broadcast and so I Derry'ised some of the possibilites.
 How about 'Corporation Street' or 'Southenders' for the soap lovers among us. We could ressurect 'Glenroe' but have 'Glen Road' instead. We could showcase the goings on up at 'Brooke Park' as opposed to 'Brookside'. Imagine the cliff hanging episode when they realise someone has been buried under the swings ....
How about 'The only way is Earhart' or 'Keeping up with the Culmore'ians'
24 hours in Altnagevlin would be make for interesting viewing and we could have 'Everybody loves Raymond(s)' because surely everybody does.
 We could showcase 'The Heights' instead of 'The Hills', 'Lisfannon Beach' instead of Laguna. We could have the 'Lone (moor) Ranger or Nash 'Peace' Bridge, were a detective fights crime on the latest addition to Derry's landscape and a Derry 'Come Dine With Me' would be hilarious purely for the cutting local commentary as the Derry banter is unique and is one of my most favoruite things about the city and those who live in it.

But on a serious a note there is so much happening in and around the North West that a local tv station would flourish. Unfortunately, as with many places, the city often makes the headlines for the wrong reasons but theres an endless amount of culture, creativity and talent that is for the most part overshadowed by less than savoury goings on.

We have so much history that the Time Team would have a field day but our very own tv station would show the masses there's more to Derry than a checkered past.

This city has a lot to offer but one thing that stands in our way is that we don't rave about it. In any other countries I have been to people have no problem bigging up where they're from and taking compliments about it and indeed themselves, but in Derry we're top at putting oursleves down.
Take a typical Derry converstaion 'Thats a lovely top your wearing' 'This? Three pound, Primark, wile looking, only through it on me there, in fact it's going in the bin as soon as I get home' Or 'You're looking really well! Me? 'Not at all. Havent lifted a hairbursh in a week, I've put on four stone in two days, infact, here's a bat, would you mind hitting me with it?'
A consultation for interested areas to pitch why they should have a local tv licence ends september 23 and around 20 chosen areas will be given the green light, so lets channel our thoughts, keep plugging away and make sure we've more than a remote chance.

Back to the Future

 They say with age comes wisdom. I recently celebrated a birthday and while I don’t feel particularly wiser there are things I know now I wish I’d  known a few years back. So with the benefit of hindsight I’ve penned a letter to my younger self.

Dear  younger self, first things first, those denim wedges, dispose of immediately.  They are not the height of fashion and you will cringe at the mere thought of them later in life. Same goes for the turquiose hipsters with built in belt and patchwork jeans.

Dear younger self do not excitedly yelp ‘Yes!’ when the orthodontist asks if you want coloured elastics around your train tracks. They are not cool and will not in any way ease the gum shredding agony of metal wire pulling your teeth into place. While we’re talking metal listen to the pleas of your mother and decide against that belly button piercing.

Dear younger self, don’t worry so much about exams. Fluffing your lines in a French roleplay is not the end of the world. You will go to France in your twenties and not once will you have to go to the market and ask Pierre for 3 apples and a bag of pears. Same goes for Maths, never in your adult life will you be faced with quadratic equations or Pythagoras Theorem.

Dear younger self get off the floor, yes it's devastating that Robbie has left but hold on to that coveted Take That T-shirt it will come in handy in fifteen years time at a reunion gig in Croke park.

Dear younger self the friends you have now will continue to be a big part of your life, so don’t be annoyed when one of them accidently spills tippex on your lime green Kappa bottoms, she did you a favour in the long run.

You’ll also be delighted to hear that some day it’ll only take fifteen minutes to straighten your hair because science boffins will invent straighteners even better than those Babyliss steam ones that leak and roast your ear everytime you use them.

Dear younger self when playing football on the front field don’t hack your friends big brother so much, yes he may be a 'glory hunter' now but your paths will cross again at univeristy and he’ll become your most favourite person.

Dear younger self, things turn out pretty well so worry less and don't beat yourself up when things go wrong because you get there in the end. I mean it about those wedges though!

Here's to Arthur

 In previous columns I’ve mentioned how I have found myself in obscure places all in the name of journalism.

From the Glenshane pass in 3ft of snow to a flooded Fermanagh in 5ft of water.But every now and then I get to go somewhere that’s not quite so random and last week I hot footed it to a pub in Dublin for the launch of Arthur’s day 2011.

The big day itself takes place on the 22nd September at 17.59 in Limerick, Dublin and this year for the first time in Belfast. And the lovely people at Guinness invited me to Whelan’s bar right in the centre of Dublin for the official launch and of course a wee sample of the ‘black stuff’.

Our visit was sound tracked with some top music acts including local band Cashier No 9 who went down as smoothly as the pints. Alloe ‘I need a dollar’ Blacc also took to the stage. Accompanied only by an acoustic guitar the man behind this summers most popular song oozed coolness and his voice was unreal. And I was delighted to find that when I interviewed him after he was as down to earth and cool as I had hoped. 

Unfazed by the horde of fast talking reporters he answered everyone’s question, laughed at my 'allo 'allo 'allo introduction and at my suggestion that he should capitalise on the songs success and release a follow up called ‘I need a coffee’, or ‘I need a Bentley’. We decided that he could even release an album listing all the things he needs and he would be sorted for life.

But undoubtedly the lady of the hour was Paloma Faith. I am a big fan of the flame haired soul voiced one and had to give myself a stern talking to on the journey to Dublin that I wouldn’t get star struck and laugh like a bashful teenager at everything she said.

It was important to be able to probe her on the pressing issues like where she got her shoes (turns out it was New Look, sisters keeping it real) and who she would most like to duet with (Paolo Nutini, because she fancies him)

The ‘Upside Down’ starlet arrived in a fetching flower jumpsuit with white and pink lily corsage in her hair. Tinier in real life but just as striking, she posed for photos outside the bar shouting ‘happy Guinness drinking’ to all and sundry before donning a floor length silver gown for her performance which was flawless and prompted my decision that we should become best friends.

That assertion was cemented, I believe, when on finishing her performance Paloma made a wrong turn coming off the stage and I found myself steadying her from falling over. I reckoned that more or less qualified as saving her life and decided that her eternal friendship and access to her wardrobe would make us even.

As we waited to interview her, a reporter turned to me and said I hope she’s not a big diva but I on the other hand hoped she would be. I wanted her to make unrealistic demands and only answer questions through the medium of dance or have a reporter removed from the room because he looked her directly in the eye. Alas there was no such tomfoolery because she was lovely and I’ll get to see my BFF this September for the big day itself. To Arthur!

What a Muppet!

  

A politician in the South faced a grilling last week over comments he made about a colleague not realising his microphone was on.

Wexford TD Mick Wallace and fellow political pals were gossiping in the Dail about Fine Gael colleague Mary Mitchell O Connor when he referred to her as Miss Piggy. The Swine.

Unbeknown to him a nearby microphone picked up the comments which went a little something like this, Wallace: ‘Miss Piggy has toned it down today?’ Flanagan: ‘They’d want to ban her wearing pink.

It wasn’t just the mics that picked up ‘piggygate’, just about every paper south of the border mentioned it and O Connor who interestingly has a penchant for wearing pink shirts and has a mane of blonde curls had to apologise.

He said he passed the comment because of the lady in questions handbag and that he was very sorry for the offence caused.

Ms Mitchell O Connor said she was hurt and upset but was over it. Part of me had hoped she’d reply with an acid laced Miss Piggy quote ‘You dare to offend moi? Kermy is slitting your tyres as we speak!

Perhaps they could make peace over a game of back gammon or Wallace could go the whole hog and buy her a box of truffles?

But it’s certainly not the first time someone’s been caught out by a pesky mic. A high profile gaffe was former PM Gordon Brown describing an exchange he had with a female voter in Rochdale as a disaster calling her a bigoted woman.

He was then forced to back peddle furiously even visiting her house to apologise, but arguably the damage was done and the next day front pages were splashed with the story.

Even the Royal family have been caught out. During a photocall in 2005 Prince Charles was heard muttering -"These bloody people. I can't bear that man. I mean, he's so awful, he really is''-about the BBC’s royal correspondent Nicholas Witchell...Ouch!

But we reporter types are not immune to the odd on air slip up. During a speech by former vice presidential candidate Sara Palin reporters, unaware they were on air, branded her the dumbest of the dumb and compared her speech to that of a seventh grader.

Even Alistair Campbell couldn’t spin that into some sort of compliment, ‘No no we said fun’est of the fun’ then again she might well have   believed them, after all the woman claimed she had foreign policy experience because she could see Russia from her house.

Yoga to be kidding me

I gained a valuable life lesson this week and that is anything with the word ‘extreme’ in front of it is never a good idea.

Unfortunately this pearl of wisdom came to me not through a book or by listening to the enlightened words of a spiritual guru, no, as with many things, I realised I shouldn’t do it, after I did it.

I decided I’d give Yoga a go. I thought I’d play the head and partake in this ancient form of exercise in my living room via a dvd. So on the ball was I, I thought I'd get the inside scope on the basics so that when I did go to a class, in public, with other people who were incredibly bendy and had their own yoga mat and homemade wheatgrass I wouldn’t look as much of a fool.

So dvd purchased, sofa pushed back I pressed play, fully expecting to be largely sitting crossed legged and humming. I now realise I expected to be meditating not stretching every muscle to snapping point.

It was ok to start with, although I should've known the suspiciously bronzed, immensely muscled instructor and is team of Sports Illustrated model friends did not look the way they looked by simply standing on their tippy toes and pointing their hands to the sky. 

Ten minutes in and it dawned on me this was not beginner yoga, this was extreme, tear inducing, wrap your leg behind your left ear and balance on your right hand agony.

Of course I couldn’t do any of this but I’m a competitive being and wasn’t about to let Mucles Mc Torture man get the better of me. I did the warrior one two and hellish three and dozens of other shapes that would make a contortionist go, jeez that’s awkward.

I did everything but spin my head 360 like that girl from the Exorcist, but after forty five minutes I pretty much looked like her and had the bad temper to match.

Needless to say I did not feel at one with body and mind and for the next three days I felt like I had been kicked, repeatedly, by Mc Torture and his gang.

 When I regaled folk of my yoga no no and cast aspersions on anything extreme someone mentioned extreme ironing.

According to the official website, extreme ironing is "the latest danger sport that combines the thrills of an extreme outdoor activity with the satisfaction of a well-pressed shirt". 

Apparently some (people with too much time on their hands) have ironed on a cliff, in a canoe; while snowboarding; in the middle of the M1 Motorway and whilst parachuting.

While I could be forgiven for being a tad over ambitious about my stretching ability when I think of these extreme ironers a yoga term suddenly springs to mind ‘planks’

If its not broke don’t fix it!

There are some things that are perfectly ok to dust off and use again.  Whether its a 1970’s fur coat, faux of course, found at the back of a vintage store, or an old t-shirt you’ve had since Uni, not because it is retro chic, but simply because it still fits and you’re delighted.

But some things are better left untouched, fondly remembered and reveered with respect, those things include classic films.

It seems there’s a new remake or ‘adaptation’ in the cinema every week. Chaps named Zack or AJ, fresh out of moviemaking school, who on their directorial debut decide to breathe new life into and give a post modern interpretation of a classic or in lay mans terms destroy everything that was good about it.

For some, remakes simply enhance films that back in the day effects just couldn’t do justice to. But I think the age of 3D HD blue screen effects and the addition of whiter teeth, bigger muscles and longer legs, is a case of style over substance.

When I heard the ‘Karate Kid' was to be remade I winced, for that is a cult kid classic.

Mr Miyjagi could do anything, teach trophy winning finishing moves, fix any injury and beat up a crowd of high school jocks, despite only being four foot three and a hundred and ten.

‘Karate Kid 2’ however was unnecessary and ‘The Next Karate Kid? Hilary Swank maybe a million dollar baby now but back in the early nineties she was an angst ridden high school loner who dragged Mr Miyjagi away from tending his Bonsai tree to teach her how to dance for the highschool prom, whatever would Danielson say?

Some sequels are good though, Godfather 2, yes, Sex and the City 2, a resounding no.

As bad remakes go Alfie pretty much tops my list. Michael Caine’s cheeky chappy yet still charming character in my armchair critic opinion outclassed Jude Law’s cocky pink shirted cad.

Director Tim Burton is a fan of the remake and I am a fan of Tim Burton but, the original Charlie and the Chocolate factory was far better than his version.

Burton also took on cult classic ‘Planet of the Apes’ Hmmm if only there was a way to type the tumbleweed effect.

I will also be avoiding ‘The rise of the planet of the apes’ it’s not a remake its just I haven’t been able to look at any type of monkey type creature since I read the story of a woman who had her entire face ripped off by a neighbours pet chimpanzee. Firstly who has a pet chimp? Secondly what on earth did she say to it?

Some remakes work well, but I’m struggling to think of a single one. Zilch, zero, nada. Maybe its because I actually know nothing about good films and should stick to the day job or perhaps its more to do with the neighbours blasting Atomic Kittens take on ‘The tide is high’ Cover versions? Don’t even get me started on those.

Anyone for Tennis?

I’m currently engrossed in all things Wimbledon. It’s my totes fave sporting event. Maybe it’s because as a child it was always a sign that the summer holidays were just around the corner or perhaps it’s because I have convinced myself that if I watch sport by some sort of televisual osmosis I too will become as fit as those racing across the baseline.

This year is no exception, whether it’s the wardrobes of the powerhouse pair the Williams sisters, the inevitable down pour of rain which prompts the frenzied sprint to covered the pristine court or the drama when a 135 mile an hour serve collides with a hunched over official at the back of the court…ouch.

The Pimms, the strawberries and cream, the white clothes only rule, the american spectator asleep behind his tennis ball shaped sunglasses, I thirty love it all.

The standard at this year’s tournament is unreal, top class athletes competing in gruelling 5 hours games fuelled only by a banana and weirdly coloured energy drink.

But, some argue the real characters of tennis have been and gone. Andre Agassi and his remarkable permed mullet for one. Perhaps even more remarkable is that the long lion mane hairstyle he sported in the early nineties was in fact a wig!

 The Wimbledon champ admitted the toupee faux pas in his autobiography a few years ago. Now, I’m all for men stepping up and taking on the balding battle but surely he could have opted for a short back and sides rather than a bon jovi-esque bouffant barnet.

One of Tennis’ most memorable characters is John Mc Enroe, like him or loathe him he was entertaining. The site of his white man afro, held in place by a groovy head band, furiously waving his racket at the umpire shouting his now trademark ‘you cannot be serious’ was top class.

The baseline disputes too have been confined to the history books with the introduction of Hawkeye, the digital camera that captures a shot deeming whether its in or out, but the odd time we see a hacked off player back chatting the umpire as he sits unflappable in his highchair.

Ireland has never really featured in the tournament but this year Conor Niland hoped to change all that. However the Irish man, ranked 184 in the world, lost his first round game. But I wouldn’t discount him just yet; for as a junior he beat 6 times champ Roger Federer, not an easy feat.

Although the English do better, they never, despite the hopes of a nation, can go the whole hog. Nevertheless each and every year thousands flock to ‘Henman Hill, ‘Rusedski (I’m really Canadian) Ridge’ or as it’s been named this time ‘Murray Mound’ in the hope that this will be the year that their man can win.

Hopes are high that Andy Murray will seal the deal. He is able to floor opponents on courts around the world but has yet to reign supreme at Wimbledon.

While I admire his prowess, he’s hardly the mostly charismatic of sports stars. A post match press conference would be more exhilarating if it was taken buy his sweaty wristband.

Nevertheless I’ll remain transfixed with all things tennis based until its game set match.

When Computer Says No

I often view the internet as a useful, nay, vital tool in my day to day job.

Like Turner and Hootch, Cagney and Lacey and Lois and Clark the internet and I, despite the odd hissy fit, work well together and get the job done.

Access to broadband is up there with coffee and the ability to translate the double dutch scrawling of less than perfect shorthand, scribbled down at lightening speed, outside a courthouse, in the rain.

So imagine the blind panic that ensued when the world wide web decided to down tools for a brief yet earth shattering time mid way through a busy news day last week.

Reaction to ‘computersaysnogate’ was varied. Some maintained perspective and observed that in the grand scheme of things all was not lost, hippies! Others, mid way through writing a story on an online programme, were less than impressed and brandished a stapler with intent to cause an internet router grievous bodily harm.

At this juncture it has to be noted that the internet outage only lasted thirteen minutes before we were back on line. But during that seven hundred and eighty seconds, yes I did the math’s, well there was no internet, what else could I do, it gave an insight into life without the world at our finger tips.

While one can still do the job without it, reading the news on air goes largely unaffected, the the ability to provide an update on a fast moving story on our website is nigh on impossible.

It got me thinking about the days when reporters led a internet-less existence. Images of a 'jack the hack’ type character wearing a tribly with the press card slotted into the brim, who meets his sources beneath a bridge of noisy traffic, who has the down low on the 5.0 and the latest on the crime boss who has the boys take care of business while he goes to dinner with his broad immediately sprung to mind... or maybe I just watch too many old school mafia films.

Nevertheless it made me appreciate the skill of old school reporters, the art of networking and making contacts and the trust they built up with their subjects. And despite the leaps in digital technology a lot of that has largely remained.

Yes, news may now be presented through different mediums to meet the needs of people in their busy lives but the nature of getting a good story has largely remained unchanged.        

While we may now record interviews on our digital dictaphones, upload them on to news station webpagse and compress stories into 140 characters,the core elements are still there.

With that in mind I'm off  to get my head measured for a Trilby, well, one has to look the part.