Becky says things about … saying things on other people’s blogs

Yes, sweetest Listeners, I don’t just say things on MY blog, I say things on other people’s blogs! Isn’t that great?

The clown of all evil / knowledge / worldly omnipotence, Le Clown, asked me if I’d take him out of his cosy clown home in Montreal and show him the sights in London.

I myself couldn’t be bothered to do this, so I got Stickman to do it, and, predictably, chaos ensued.

le clown1

Okay, mate. I just don’t think anyone is ever going to ask you to show them round a  major city again, that’s all.

Anyway, Listeners, check out the whole unfortunate escapade here.

Becky says things about … what the hell we’re all going to do now

Right, so um … yeah.

Well, er … I mean we could … um … you know …

Dunno, really.

What ARE we going to do now?

I think I’ve forgotten how to live normally. What will we do with those minutes in which we used to check our London 2012 Results app? Go to the toilet? Have an apple? Kill a badger? I just don’t know. What will we do without the cheery smiles of Gary Lineker, Sue Barker, Gabbie Logan, and the rest of the lovely BBC sports anchors? How will we cope with hearing news stories about what’s going on outside the Olympic Games (I know, it’s a shock to be reminded that there is stuff outside London 2012 – I didn’t want to believe it but it’s true)? Instead of cheery gold medals and 15 year old girls putting their legs in their ears or something, we’ll have to hear about bad stuff like war and thievery and general naughtiness.

What will we do without cheering everything that anyone does? We’ve spent two weeks cheering literally everything with such gay enthusiasm – and we got really good at it as well – that I just don’t know what we’ll do without it. What does it mean to not cheer something? No, I can’t remember, either.

What will we do without the constant achievements? Without daily gold medals? We’ve had two weeks of almost hourly confirmations that WE’RE GREAT, but now what? Surely we can’t just go back to plodding along and never getting a prize for anything.

And after all becoming superfans of every sport that’s ever been invented – you know, the really interesting ones like cycling, rowing, gymnastics, judo, athletics, badminton, BMX racing – we’re now being abandoned by all those brilliant sports, and left with ruddy bloody boring shitty football. After two weeks of watching some of the most brilliant athletes and sportsmen and women in the world, we’re going to be back in front of a load of monstrously overpaid arrogant twonkheads scuttling and diving round a pitch and pretending they’re the best things since sliced bread. Brilliant.

 

I don’t want to go back to a normal life. I don’t want that cloud of sporting and patriotic greatness to dissolve and leave us with NOTHING. It’s like we’ve been looking after a noisy but thoroughly wonderful and entertaining toddler for a fortnight, but now its mum and dad have got back from holiday and taken it back. We are bereft. Nothing left to do but stare at the wall and contemplate our own miserable, tedious, meaningless little lives.

 

Life without London 2012 is shit.

Becky says things about … why Britain should never doubt itself again

The list of ‘How Britain Can Make a Huge Cock Up of Everything During the Olympics’ was endless. Our weather would be terrible, we’d never live up to Beijing, there’d be huge pile-ups at passport control, the stadium would collapse, the fireworks wouldn’t go off, the water in the Aquatic centre would be the wrong type of blue, the doors to the Velodrome would open the wrong way, we’d present an opening ceremony filled with Morris Dancers and bell ringing, and the rest of the world would be sitting smugly in front of their TVs and pointing and laughing.

These Games have cost more money than it would cost to ditch our world and build another, bigger, better, and more fun world in the space of galaxy next to us, and then ship all 7 billion people from our world to that world in a fleet of ten colossal and luxurious spaceships with indoor swimming pools and cinemas, then give everyone a million pounds as a welcome into the new world and a sign of good will, and finally blow up the old world to provide us all on the new world with a fantastic fireworks display. That’s a lot of money. And we’ve voiced our thoughts on how much money it is.

Like we do for everything, us Brits anticipated these Games with acute dread and prepared to heinously embarrass ourselves.

Well.

I think we all deserve to give ourselves an apology.

Maybe we’ll learn from this – maybe we’ll stop shrouding ourselves in pessimism, stop fearing the worst, stop apologising (let’s face it, we’d all prepared a written apology to read to the rest of the world after we’d cocked everything up, hadn’t we?), stop being embarrassed by ourselves and everything we stand for, and instead hold our little heads up and say ‘We’re British. And we’re fucking brilliant.’

Becky says things about … not saying things about the Olympics

I have decided to write a blog post that isn’t about the Olympics. I mean, the Games are great and all that, and we’re doing really well and these shiny medals keep pouring in, but we must be able to talk about something else, just for five minutes. It seems that people are really struggling to not talk about the Olympics, no matter how hard they try.

The papers can’t stop talking about the Olympics. Did you hear that the moon exploded the other night? Or that Venice has sunk? Or that the bottom of the earth fell off yesterday morning and consequently Australia and the Antarctic don’t exist anymore? Of course you didn’t, because we won a couple of golds and there’s literally nothing else worth talking about.

Facebook and Twitter can’t talk about anything else. Instead of getting fascinating insight into what celebrities think about politicians, or when they’re next on telly, or how much they’ve just spent on a sandwich, we’re getting representations of the various ways in which getting a gold medal can be expressed.

Office talk no longer revolves around the state of the stationery cupboard, or whether Lynn’s put on weight, or who ate the last Fox’s Golden Crunch; it now comprises detailed discussions on pelotons, propulsions and personal bests, and suddenly everyone is an expert on all things sport. Quiet little Marjorie who sits in the corner, studiously tapping away, never so much as being overzealous with a hole punch, is suddenly the world authority on taekwondo. Barry the postroom guy who shuffles through the office grumbling about Royal Mail and strikes and how his Labrador has been constipated for three weeks, is now an encyclopaedia of knowledge on the canoe slalom.

No one’s done any work in any office in the UK for days. They’re all huddled round the TV in the kitchen, cheering and groaning and spilling Cuppa Soups and elbowing tuna rolls out of people’s hands. It’s carnage.

So I’ve decided that enough is enough, and I’m not going to mention them in any shape or form and instead we’ll talk about other things that bear absolutely no relation to the Olympic Games, and I’m definitely not going to talk about them in this blog post.

Oh, bugger.

Becky says things about … planning the Olympic Opening Ceremony

So Danny Boyle and his team sit down in his mum’s living room at the first meeting to plan the London 2012 Olympic Opening Ceremony. They’ve got some tea, chocolate digestives, and a spot of fruit cake to keep them going and to get the creative juices flowing.

There’s a bit of thumb twiddling for a while, a bit of yawning – Danny Boyle’s mum has to replenish the biscuits twice – until Danny Boyle suddenly says thoughtfully: ‘I want there to be grass’.

The team members look at each other, shrug, and the allocated note-taker writes down on his special pad that he bought for the occasion, in his very best handwriting:

Then there’s a bit more thumb-twiddling, Danny Boyle has to tell off a couple of team members for texting, and they open another packet of biscuits. Then one particularly tall team member who happens to be smoking a cigarette, even though Danny Boyle specifically said there was no smoking, suddenly rises from his chair.

Danny Boyle’s eyes light up.

‘I want incredibly tall chimneys rising from the ground, with smoke billowing out of the tops into the night sky!’

The team members look at him.

‘Er, why Danny?’ asks one.

‘Um….’ Danny searches the room for inspiration, and his eyes fall on the Brunel University jumper that the youngest team member is wearing. ‘Industrial Revolution!’ he cries. ‘Yes! The chimneys can have something to do with that. Britain being industrial and stuff. Yeah. I definitely want the chimneys’.

So the note-taker writes:

By now Danny’s getting into his stride.

‘And DRUMS!’ he cries. ‘I want drums. Drums are great, who doesn’t like a drum? But instead of only a few drums, like a normal amount of drums, let’s have SHIT LOADS of drums. I mean, like, more drums than is sensible. The kind of amount of drums that would make even the most die-hard drum fan say ‘Woah woah woah, that’s way too many drums’. I want that amount of drums.’

So the note-taker writes:

At this point, one brave team member pipes up: ‘Um, Danny – this is great and everything – I like the grass, and the chimneys and the drums, this is all excellent stuff, but er… I think we need something that’s quintessentially British. You know, like, the most British thing ever.’

Another team member, with his feet up on Danny Boyle’s mum’s coffee table, says idly: ‘James Bond?’

Danny Boyle shakes his head.

‘No no no. We can’t just turn the Olympic Opening Ceremony into an opening sequence to a Bond film. I’m not having James Bond run into the middle of the Olympic stadium and start shooting at stuff willy-nilly. Unless….’

Danny Boyle grabs his phone.

‘That was unexpected,’ mutters one team member to another.

So by now Danny Boyle is really excited.

‘And then after the Queen leaps out of the helicopter with James Bond – oh, can you write down ‘gold safety harnesses’, please – then I want loads of beds, just fill the stadium with beds, that’ll look really cool, and let’s have loads of children jumping gleefully up and down on these beds, and some kindly nurses tending to them and stuff. And then…’ Danny Boyle takes a thoughtful munch on a chocolate digestive ‘… let’s literally scare the SHIT out of these children, and out of all the children in the world, by having giant inflatable literary villains explode out of the beds, and THEN…. let’s get the child catcher in!’

Well, this really sorts the men from the boys in the team.

‘All right, all right,’ mutters Danny Boyle, rather grumpily. ‘What about a load of Mary Poppins flying in to defeat the hideous creatures that are chasing the terrified kids round the stadium?’

The team members nod, as one leans to another and mutters

Danny Boyle is very excited. It’s all coming together in his head.

‘And there’ll be dancing, just loads of dancing, and loads of really funky British music, and let’s get some social media in there, show the world how digitally advanced an age we’re living in, how amazing technology is, and let’s have someone who’s really relevant to it all, someone really important…’

‘What about the dude who invented the Internet?’ says one team member.

‘Well, who knew?’ says Danny Boyle. ‘Yeah, get him to come along. We’ll put him in a house and then lift the house up and he’ll be sitting at a desk underneath and it’ll be really cool. And then there’ll just be shit loads of fire and funky blue lights and sparks flying everywhere, and stuff’ll explode, and it’ll be amazing.’

The team members nod slowly.

‘But there’s something not quite right,’ muses Danny, walking over to the window and gazing out of it (he does this for a bit of dramatic effect). The team members hold their breath, wondering what spectacular Britishness he will come up with: a procession of armed guards, perhaps, or a hundred canons firing, or a rousing rendition of Land of Hope and Glory?

Danny Boyle suddenly snaps his fingers and spins round from the window. The team members lean forward, anticipation searing like lightening through their veins.

The team members lean back again.

‘Right, well, thanks for a very successful meeting,’ says Danny Boyle, shaking their hands.

When everyone has gone, he picks up the notepad and glances over the notes that will eventually become the Opening Ceremony for the London 2012 Olympic Games.

And on the night of 27th July 2012, as the smoke of the fireworks dies away, the 80,000 spectators blink their dazzled eyes, and East London echoes with the roars of Britishness, Danny Boyle turns to his team and says ‘And that, my dears, is what I’m talking about.’

Becky says things about … being the Official Blog of London 2012

Well obviously I’m not. That would be ridiculous. But I’m sure that, somewhere, someone is writing the Official Blog of London 2012, on the Official Laptop of London 2012, on the Official Desk of London 2012, in the Official Room in a House of London 2012, in the Official Street of London 2012, and a bit later on he will make a sandwich with the Official Bread of London 2012 and fill it with the Official Smoked Ham of London 2012 and dab on a spot of Official Salad Cream of London 2012, and eat it at the Official Flatpack Kitchen Table of London 2012.

Now of course we’re all tremendously excited about the Olympics, it’s going to do wonders for London and the economy, we’re proud to show off our city and our lovely little English ways of doing things. But please – please – can we stop labeling

EVERYTHING

as the Official This, That and the Other of Bloody London 20 Ruddy 12???? Do we need an Official Television of London 2012? An Official Drink of London 2012? The world’s gone sponsoring mad. My bottle of Evian is apparently the Official Bottled Water of Wimbledon. Now I know that’s a nice bit of variety, and those thirsty tennis players will need to keep hydrated, but COME ON.

(I was going to make a joke about what would  happen if Thames Water jumped on the band wagon, but they only ruddy have! And you thought you were just drinking a normal glass of tap water – oh no, you are officially imbibing the Official Tap Water of London 2012.)

I mean, when is it going to stop? The potential is almost frighteningly infinite. And why stop at sporting events? Why doesn’t everyone else get involved? The Official Pencil of the Society for All Artists? The Official Icing Sugar of the WI? The Official Socket Wrench of the AA? The Official Walk-Across-Some-Fields-and-Over-Some-Well-Signposted-Stiles of English Heritage?

Nothing is sacred anymore. Nothing.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-18182541

Becky says things about … bad moods

I am in a very bad mood.

I was in a very bad mood yesterday, too.

I’m not sure why. I just hate everything and everyone and I wish everything would just disappear and leave me in a world of blackness so that I can fully contemplate my dark terrible mood.

(I wanted to write ‘dark terrible mood’ in different sized fonts, but apparently WordPress won’t let you change the size of individual words in a sentence. No. You have to change the entire paragraph. THAT has just taken the ruddy biscuit. I HATE WordPress.)

Yesterday, everything made me angry. The ticket gates at Surbiton and Wimbledon stations were open and unmanned. SO WHY DID I SPEND MONEY ON A TICKET THEN???? Look, National Rail, if you can’t be bothered to man your stations, then I can’t be bothered to buy a ticket. That’s how it works. But you can guarantee the one time I DON’T buy a ticket, your stations will be manned up to the max. You probably wouldn’t be able to MOVE for mans.

I got annoyed in Nero’s, as well. The man in front of me changed his mind SIX TIMES about what muffin he should get.

‘Blueberry. No – spiced apple. Actually, wait – chocolate. Oooh, no, that’s a bit heavy for this time in the morning…. I’ll go for blueberry. Hang on, no, definitely rasperry and white chocolate. OH NO WAIT I meant apple.’

I WILL BUY YOU ALL THE MUFFINS IN THE F***ING WORLD, JUST GET THE F*** OUT OF MY WAY AND NEVER DARKEN MY DOOR AGAIN WITH YOUR INDECISIVE F***ING QUIBBLING

Then later, on the train back to Surbiton, my carriage was filled with happy smiling schoolgirls, obviously on their way back from a BRILLIANT school trip to London, probably involving the London Eye, or packed lunches in Hyde Park in the sun, or basking on top of London tour buses, or a graceful boat trip down the Thames, and their happy sun-blushed faces made me want to ASSASSINATE EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM. 

Then, Sainsbury’s didn’t have the salad dressing I like.

OH YOU ARE KIDDING ME

I shouted to myself, not even caring that I’d made a toddler look up at me in alarm. Stupid toddler.

I arrived home to a small pile of window cleaning and pizza pamphlets by the front door.

WHY CAN’T PEOPLE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?????????????????

I cried at the very small pile of paper.

Today has not fared much better. I popped into University, and was faced by a boy walking around in shoes with very loud yellow soles. Man, it annoyed me.

(That photo just took three minutes to load. Can you believe that? THREE MINUTES????)

And, the icing on the shitty horrible cake – I get home and am faced with THIS (here go another three minutes I’ll never get back):

It’s Blue-Tack. A ball of Blue-Tack on the carpet. Why is it there? Where has it come from?

‘OH, WHY HAS THIS HAPPENED???!!!!’

I yelled at the Blue-Tack. It said nothing. Just sat there, blue and tacky. What a bastard.

I threw it away. I didn’t even place it on a more suitable surface, such as my desk, or the bookshelf, or in my pencil pot. No. Fuck the Blue-Tack. Just get out of my sight.

Hopefully my bad mood will wear off. Maybe the sun and the cloudless sky through the window will cheer me. Maybe not. I think I’ll just have to sit it out. And I’ll tell you one thing for nothing: if that shitting pigeon doesn’t stop cooing on the roof, I will go

UTTERLY MENTAL.