Recently, at the theatre...

Four great shows, four great evenings. Here, have some typical Hannah reviews (i.e. capslock and feelings and objectification, probably).

The Tempest @ The Globe
Globe, Globe, Globe ... spiritual home, bringer of endless joy, tridecagon of boundless wonder. I shall never tire of it, and was particularly excited about its season-opening production of The Tempest owing to the casting double whammy of Colin Morgan and Roger Allam. Merlin and Peter Manyum? Why, if you insist.

I was never going to dislike the production, with a cast like that and a long-held affection for the play after studying it for A Level (not to mention my Globe-blindness), but it completely exceeded my expectations. Much as I like the play, it is undeniably dry and not one of Shakey's strongest or most exciting. However, the text was eked for as much humour as possible with spectacular results - a charming, magical and warm production, it was a delight from start to end.

Allam's Prospero was, of course, a BEAST of a man - at once commanding and fatherly, and not as cruel as I've seen previously, which was lovely. His interactions with James Garnon's wonderfully ape-like Caliban were less abusive, more piteous - as a softy at heart, this pleased me. Moreover, Prospero's relationship with his daughter was particularly touching, with a star turn from Jessie Buckley too - her wide-eyed, playful Miranda was particularly lovely. Paired with Joshua James' bumbling, puffy-chested, adorable Ferdinand, the two brought a charm to the lovers I've never seen before. Gorgeous.

Jessie Buckley, Joshua James and PROSPERALLAM.

Nautrally, Colin Morgan's Ariel was going to be a highlight for me (tunnel vision, what can I say?), and he was pretty damn magnificent. I wonder whether the Merlin writers had him on some kind of magical diet, because he seems to have grown, bulked and aged about ten years since the show ended. Sprightly and ethereal, he wound his way around the stage effortlessly, and the less said about the whole upper-body-strength thing the better - this blog should at least attempt to be PG13.

Big pimpin'.

Boosted by spending a gloriously sunny day with friends in London, The Tempest was dizzyingly delightful and engaging from start to end.

Taming of the Shrew (Propeller Theatre Company) @ Sheffield Lyceum
This...was a weird one, and warrants a shorter review. I love Propeller - their productions are bright and smart and moving and always well-staged. Taming is always going to be a troublesome play, and I feel like it can be done one of two ways: 1. Kate is as complicit in the interactions as Petrucio is, and they play off each other to find a relationship that works for both of them, or 2. the domestic violence angle is exploited in an attempt to make a point, and exemplify its horror.

I prefer the first, no question, but I can see why you might attempt the second, as Propeller did. Their portrayal was incredibly well performed, particularly by Dan Wheeler - painful and uncomfortable to watch as it should be, there's no doubting the talent involved. I just couldn't get on board with the decision to play it like that. Firstly, alongside the bawdy comedy of the Lucentio/Tranio/Biondello subplot (which was undoubtedly well done again, and had me frequently in stitches), it seemed jarring and uncomfortable, but not in a good way. And secondly, though they amped up the play-within-a-play idea in order to pull away from it at the end, leaving Petrucio/Sly shamed and judged by the players for his awful behaviour, it wasn't enough for me. There wasn't enough overt condemnation of his behaviour to make me comfortable with the way it was played out.

I thought, for a time, that the portrayal was made worse by the fact that it was an all-male cast; but the more I thought about it, the more I wondered whether an all male company were, in fact, the only people who could do justice to such a storyline - the depressing truth being that it takes the overt abuse of a man at the hands of another man to really bring home the suffering Kate endures. It could have been too cruel were Kate played by a woman, and the strength of a man overpowered by Petrucio's cruelty may work to make the realisation all the more shocking.

I just don't know with this one, kids. It left a bad taste in my mouth, and I still can't get my head around why.

This House @ National Theatre
God bless NTLive, the National Theatre's endeavour to screen some of their biggest shows in cinemas up and down the country, and abroad. When I had a steadier job and income, I was back and forth to London an obscene amount, and was lucky enough to see loads of shows. These days, it's far more infrequent, and several live shows have passed me by - much as I'd prefer to see the shows in person, having NTLive to fall back on is a gift.

Particularly for a show like This House, which I would have been utterly foolish to miss*. Set in Whitehall between 1974 and 1979, it dramatises the inner workings of government during the period of hung parliament which saw the two leading parties grasping for as many votes as possible to push their policies through. We see the progression through the eyes and actions of the Chief Whip's offices, as they seduce the 'odds and sods' of fringe parties to their side, desperately trying to get the elderly, incapacitated and infirm into the House to make sure their policies are passed. The play cleverly backgrounds the rise of Thatcher in the Conservative party, which of course takes on a new poignancy watching it now, and the NTLive production featured an interview with Baroness Ann Taylor, who is herself portrayed in the play - and who paid testament to the play's accuracy.

Much as they present fictionalised versions of events, This House and shows like The Thick of It have both shed light on areas of government I never would have given a thought to before - whips, spin doctors, the men and women behind the faces we see everywhere. It's simultaneously fascinating and unnerving to see the cogs in the machine, even more so to realise those cogs are human beings.

Photo by Johan Persson.

A pacy, vibrant, smart and hilarious production with moments of real tenderness and honesty and some brilliant visual effects and choreography, it was a real tour de force from newbie writer James Graham. The cast of main characters were faultless, with the relationship between Charles Edwards and Reece Dinsdale's Deputy Whips in particular a delight, and the rapid accent, clothing and facial hair changes from the supporting cast being pretty damn impressive too.

Reece Dinsdale and Charles Edwards (photo by Johan Persson)

I could talk more about other aspects of the politics of the play that intrigue and unsettle me, like the change in the social makeup of the labour party since the 70s, and the heightened policy-based idealism these politicians seemed to have, as opposed to the glory-hunting that seems to pervade politics these days. This House hints at both these issues and more without thwacking you over the head with a sledgehammer. It directly played into my interests in changing class politics, and made me more determined to pursue study of it further.

Obviously, I can hardly say 'make sure you get tickets!' now the show itself has finished, but gosh it was worth seeing.

The History Boys @ Sheffield Crucible
If you think I am capable of being in any way objective about a production of The History Boys that stars one of my favourite actors in one of my favourite roles, then you are sadly mistaken. I will, however, give it a damn good shot.

When I heard about the Sheffield Crucible (one of my favourite theatres) putting on a production of the History Boys (my favourite play), which was going to run through June 7th (my birthday) and would star Will Featherstone (one of my favourite actors) as Scripps (my favourite character), I was honestly a little bit concerned that someone had been stalking my subconscious, because that it quite literally everything I love. Then finding out that Oliver Coopersmith was taking the role of Posner opposite Matthew Kelly's Hector? Well, I snapped up tickets as soon as humanly possible. There's always a wariness with something that, on paper, sounds so great - what if it doesn't live up to my preposterously high expectations? But in this case, I just knew it would. I had complete and utter faith, and I was not let down.

Will Featherstone and Scripps, in rehearsals. I had ENTIRELY PROPORTIONATE reactions to this photo. (Photo by Robert Day: source)

It. Was. Brilliant. Fast-pased, dynamic, dazzlingly kinetic and energetic, it was a production full of youthful exuberance with its feet planted firmly in the 80s. I concede, with a text this strong it's hard to go wrong, but there was so much newness to the play which meant it was, to me, entirely invigorated. The movement of the sets was cleverly done and refreshed every scene, emulating that clattery desk-and-chair noise only found in secondary schools. The dance and music breaks were wonderful, and the boys themselves moved around with pure teenage vibrancy, as if the soles of their very feet were itchy and they couldn't stand still. The metre-stick-boom and satchel-camera employed during the film recreations; the constant action at the back of the stage; Dakin's earring - all these little touches added to the raucous youthfulness of it all.

Photo by Robert Day: source

And still the play kept its gorgeous moments of poignancy and heartbreak. Posner's reward, the funeral, Hector's breakdown, "the best moments in reading..." - all gorgeous, as they should be. It's also wonderful to see lines you know backwards as fresh as ever, garnering huge laughs from the audience; Ross Anderson's delivery of Rudge's immortal "one fucking thing after another" went down a storm.

The performances (and accents) were excellent all round - Coopersmith's petite Posner, all buttoned up in his duffel coat, was heartbreakingly good, and I was not let down by Featherstone's charming, whip-smart Scripps (who's ability to playing a moving piano was particularly impressive).

Oliver Coopersmith as Posner (Photo by Robert Day: source)

The stand-out performance, though, was Tom Rhys Harries' Dakin, who entirely reinvented the character in my eyes. Other productions have recreated Dominic Cooper's swaggering, old-before-his-time dickbag - not a bad thing of course, as Cooper's portrayal is brilliant. But Rhys-Harries brought Dakin back to school. Younger, gentler, more wide-eyed, this was a Dakin who was still, ostensibly, a boy, who was just as lost as the others, just better at pretending not to be. There was a tenderness and timidness there I hadn't seen before, and it was wonderful.

Tom Rhys-Harries as Dakin (Photo by Robert Day: source)

There's a reason this is my favourite play, and stagings like this are the a reason I'll never tire of it.

***

*I say that having now seen it, so if I had missed it I would have no idea what I missed, but shh with your logic.

Six truth punches that changed the way I look at things forever

(trigger warning: rape and sexual abuse, racism, ableism, homophobia, transphobia)

Beans on toast; sunshine; Take Me Out -- sometimes the simplest of things are the best things.

I read a lot of stuff on the Internet. It's both important and enjoyable for me to read about politics, sexism, racism, ableism, body image issues and similar issues that fall under the umbrella of "social justice" – it helps to educate me and encourages me to adjust my thoughts and behaviours in order, as I have previous put it, to not be dick. I've read so many incredible lengthy pieces of writing (whether blogging or journalism*), which I frequently bookmark or email to people to spread them around.

But sometimes, it only takes one sentence to absolutely transform the way I think about something, or to sum up an issue to perfection. Often referred to as a Truth Bomb, my preferred nomenclature is the Truth Punch – something that comes out of the blue, punches you smack between the eyes, and leaves you dazed, cartoon birds circling your head. And afterwards, everything looks a bit different; things have shifted, become more clear.

I thought I'd collect up six examples of times I've read a sentence or thought, and felt like I've been knocked for six.

ONE

(source)

Nobody deserves to be sexually assaulted in any way, regardless of how they're dressed. By stating that a woman is in any way responsible for being attacked because of her clothing choices, not only are you insinuating that she invited a violent sexual act upon herself (NO), you're insulting men, too -- suggesting that, in the face of a short skirt or low-cut top, they become physically unable to resist turning into a monster and attacking someone.

No. People are raped because someone decided to rape them, and while in a world that is already broken, keeping oneself safe is key, teaching women how to "not get raped" is ridiculous when it's not paired with explicitly teaching people to "not rape". If a person is going to rape someone, and decides to choose their victim based on the length of their skirt, then they will find someone to rape. If you're promoting changes to women's behaviour to "prevent" rape, you're really saying "make sure he rapes the other girl". The culture in which anybody thinks it's okay to sexually attack someone is the thing that needs to be changed, not the height of the victim's heels.

TWO

(source - though I'm 99% sure this isn't the original source, I just can't find the real one)

Ah, the Friendzone. A concept made up by guys (and perpetuated by everyone) who were super pissed that someone they were nice to didn't give them unfettered access to her pants. Oversimplified, yes, but that's the jist of it. The concept of the friendzone is 99% bullshit – if someone doesn't want to be with you, despite you being a nice person, that is not their fault. They're not into you in that way, so quit being an butthole about it.

While this applies to relationships between people of any gender identity, it's most frequently found between guys and girls, and as the latter, I can assure you that it's extremely creepy and disappointing to think that the only reason a guy would want to be friends with me is as a means to an end – that end being getting his end away. Women are not vending machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out. Just because you're a nice person to someone (shock horror, a friend!), doesn't mean they owe you anything: sex, eternal love, nada.

THREE
Annoyingly, I don't have an image for this one (my perfectionist heart is crying a bit) as I can't recall the exact phrasing, but the quote was something along the lines of:

As a white person, saying "I don't see race" is basically saying "I wish everyone was white".

It is, of course, an admirable ideology to be anti-racist, but saying "I don't see race/I wish we lived in a world where people don't see race" is crazy problematic. It comes from a place of erasure rather than equality; it says, "I wish you didn't have the qualities that make you different from me", suggesting that the victim is the person who should have something changed about them in order to make everything okay. For white people to reach equality with people of colour, we shouldn't be ignoring race. Instead, we should be making the time to understand and appreciate the differences, learning about the issues that have lead to the imbalance of power between racial and ethnic groups, and making the effort not to treat someone differently because you don't share a skin colour (like it's actually an effort - it's just 'being a decent human')**. Kerry Washington sums it up here; erasing someone's culture and history is not cool.

FOUR

(source)

This comes from the incredibly erudite and excellent Ali, whose blog you should all go and read because she's super rad. My mad skillz have allowed me to highlight the section that hit hardest, the Truth Punch: When I hear skinny girls obsessing about their weight, all I hear is "I don't want to turn into you". I don't have a commentary on this, because I haven't thought or read enough about body shaming and its surrounding issues to write one, but it shocked me into realisation, and really made me think about the very personal effect of the way I, and the rest of the world, see and talk about our bodies.

FIVE

(source)

It's really the first sentence of this passage that, for me, is the actual Truth Punch, but it's all good. I won't go into too much detail on this one, because I've covered it already in my previous post, but it hardly takes explaining, really. Political correctness isn't an assault on your free speech, it's adjusting your language to not marginalise people – it's evening the score. The defensive "oh it's political correctness gone mad!" is just a reaction to being calling out on linguistic bullshit. Politically correct is just a term assholes came up with so they can dismiss people who have the nerve to want to be respected. It's not imbalancing something that's already equal, it's redressing an imbalance that already exists. Nothing is lost - equality is gained.

SIX

(source, but again I don't know if this is the original artist!)

This one is a pictorial Truth Punch rather than a written one, but its excellent simplicity works just the same. This is occasionally a more controversial opinion to hold, because the consequences appear to negatively affect those in a position of privilege (they don't in reality, but they appear to). Equality isn't just about giving everybody the same chances; it's about redressing imbalances that are so ingrained in our society that we don't see them any more. It's not enough to open things up, in my opinion - concentrated effort should be made to gain ground for marginalised groups, whether they be ethnic groups, the disabled, those who have changed gender, whatever.

This often leads to people in positions of privilege claiming that they are 'victims' of affirmative action, that they missed out on something because of box-ticking and filling quotas. I call bullshit - I doubt any sensible person would give an opportunity to someone less worthy because they have to make numbers. We still live in a meritocracy, and people gain based on what they have to offer. But if two people are in exactly the same position? Well, if a small amount of box-ticking is what it takes to equalise a vastly unequal society, then so be it. I happen to think the burden is on those of us in positions of power and privilege to even the score. (Obviously this is a tricksy subject, though, so commentary and response are welcomed.)

***

So, there they are. Six quick shocks to the system that made me rethink, re-evaluate and adjust my system of belief. Extended commentary and discussion is great, but occasionally, simplicity is key.

*A distinction it seems odd to even make.
**Among other things, of course. That simple shift in behaviour isn't going to solve racism.

Baby's second conference - and now for something completely different

(I started writing this at the conference itself, then added to it on the coach ride home, before finishing it in dribs and drabs over the subsequent weeks. Basically, any 'I just did [x]' phrases are probably bogus.)

I've just got back from the 3rd i-Mean Language and Identity conference in Bristol (told you), and it's been quite the i-opener for me (don't worry, I hate myself for that pun just as much as you do). My first conference was for postgrads, so on a personal level this was a step up in the terrifying stakes, being my first 'grown-up' conference - the postgrads were so lovely, and these were Proper Academics that might rip me to shreds and tell me I suck! Throw in the fact that this was the first time I'd written a paper especially for the conference itself rather than presenting previously completed research, and it's unsurprising that I didn't sleep the night before.

Of course, I needn't have worried, because everybody has been wonderful, supportive and keen, even when I managed to talk about a graph that wasn't even on screen at the time. I'm beyond grateful (and still a little staggered) that people were happy to listen to me waffle for half an hour, and I'm even more grateful to Chris for agreeing to run the survey with me and present alongside me. It's been an awesome introduction to my eventual PhD work, and a great reminder that this is definitely what I want to be doing.

But beyond that, i-Mean has been a delight in an unexpected way. With the theme of 'identity' being such an abstract concept in the first place, it's unsurprising that the talks have been varied, but the sheer diversity of approaches, specialties and ideologies has been a particular delight. I saw several talks that were directly related to my sphere of research (Emma Moore, Julia Snell, Mercedes Durham, Fernanda McDougall, and Devyani Sharma to name just a few), but the majority of my time was spent meandering between talks which have no direct practical similarity to my stuff, but which captured my interest and curiosity.

I saw the very brave Nicola Puckey talk about metalcore fan identities and conflict in YouTube comments (particular props to her for voluntarily venturing into the cesspit of the Internet). Kay Richardson examined  Bigotgate and the political onstage/offstage persona; Yukiko Nishimura explained the employment of emoticons as a kind of 'virtual make-up' employed by Japanese bloggers to index a cutsey/kawaii identity; while Douglas Ponton talked on the distance-closeness aspect of the British Royal family in the media. All brilliant; all utterly unrelated to my field.

It's easy to get tunnel vision when you have a particular research interest, and of course having a dedicated focus is by no means a bad thing. But this weekend it's been lovely to dabble in wider areas of interest; to learn not to benefit my own work, but for the sake of learning.

I've also discovered failsafe areas of study where, even though I'm not working on the field myself, I'm especially keen to go along and soak up the research of the people who are. I suppose it's looking at my general interests through a linguistic lens (and in doing so, combining everything I love!). It seems to boil down to:

- Politics. There was a fantastic plenary by Ruth Wodak on the tightening grip that linguistic proficiency has on national identity, and how linguistic policing is more and more a part of citizenship issues, particularly in the UK. I think any investigation of language and politics just gives me more ammo to throw at people who say "it's only a word, stop getting so OTT about it" -- language IS politics, guys. I have a funny feeling my own PhD might get a bit ~social justice...and I'm quite looking forward to it.

- Feminism/gender issues. Well, naturally. i-Mean had a great wealth of language, gender and sexuality talks, and I wish I could have seen more.

- The Internet. Being On The Internet, watching talks about Internet linguistics is simultaneously fascinating ("ooh, I've seen people do that!"), embarrassing ("oh god, I do that!") and occasionally frustrating ("that's not what we do!"). If I hadn't fallen in love with variationist sociolinguistics, I think I'd definitely have gone into looking at language on the Internet. It's SO interesting. For now, I have to settle for blogging emotively on the subject.

- Sport. This is a surprising one, for me. I'm not hugely sporty, but I'm a keen spectator. I watch a lot of football in particular (owing to my dad's subtle indoctrination, of course - I still avoid red clothing unconsciously); despite the foulness that often surrounds it, the game and the culture fascinate me. I went to the National Football Museum in April, and it was so interesting to look at it all historically, and be able to appreciate the camaraderie and team spirit it fosters as well as analyse the abusive and sensationalist culture it perpetuates. There were a couple of sport and language talks at i-Mean, and they were incredibly interesting, too.

That last point brings me to the one thing that will most make me adore any talk anybody gives: enthusiasm. Kieran File from the University of Wellington gave a cracking talk about the linguistic makeup of post-match interviews, the performance of media identity by sportspeople, and how this differs between sports and cultures. It was my favourite talk of the conference. The linguistic content itself was stellar, but it was File's enthusiasm for sport, linguistics and the combination of the two that made me love it so much. He was so excited to have interviewed so many of his sporting heroes, and he'd taken something he loved and turned it into his bread and butter - that's basically the dream!

This is why I read people's dissertations, watch TED talks, and listen rapt when anybody starts talking about their work, no matter what it is. If someone is passionate about what they do, then it's a joy to listen to them talk about it. I refer to my favourite Road Dahl quote yet again:

“I began to realise how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. He taught me that if you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good. Hot is no good, either. White hot and passionate is the only thing to be.” -- RD, My Uncle Oswald

So, yeah. Thanks i-Mean 2013 - it was a blast!

On running, and a change of heart

I loathe running. I think it's possibly a mild form of PTSD after being forced to run cross-country laps in the rain for three years at high school*, but I literally can't think of a worse past-time. Running leaves me sweaty, uncomfortable and miserable. One of my main life mottos is that one should only run when one is late for something or being chased, and the fabulous Ann Perkins pretty much sums up my attitude to recreational running.

I admit, my the fervency of my anti-running agenda sometimes causes me to have quite extreme reactions to public displays of running. I'd occasionally scoff at triumphant tales of distances covered, dismissing them as smug and ridiculous, thinking that, as people obviously can't actually enjoy running, their only reason for doing so must be to make me feel bad about myself. I'm well aware how ridiculous my reaction actually is, but for so long I just thought the culture was one of lycra-clad smugness and needless self-inflicted misery.

Then came this week, where someone possessed the malice and audacity to attack the finish line of the Boston marathon. I was, of course, aghast at the needless lives lost and ruined, and spectated in horror as the manhunts ensued.

I also read about the incident. Several articles have been written by members of the running community, picking apart the particular foulness of attacking an event like the Boston Marathon - something I hadn't really thought about before.

Firstly, I read Richard Askwith's piece in the i, choice quotes from which are posted below:

"It's an easy story to forget, if you're a non-runner, and your vision of marathon-running involves skeletal obsessives flogging themselves joylessly to the brink of collapse in pursuit of an arbitrary, solipsistic goal ...  

I remember travelling to the start of my first marathon, in London, stomach churning with apprehension, fretting about what pace I should aim for and whether or not I was wearing the right shoes - and realising, minutes from the off, that I'd missed the point. This wasn't a race, it was a party. There were more than 30,000 of us, shuffling through the first miles at little more than a walk, chatting, joking, laughing at the runners in fancy dress - and wondering at the sheer diversity of it. There were people of every age, colour, accent and body shape; every possible charity was being supported. Best of all, every inch of the way was lined with spectators, cheering as though we were proper athletes... 

Big-city marathon running is about embracing humanity. It's about enhancing life: your own and other people's, discovering how much you have to give, giving strength to those you cheer on, raising money for charities you believe in, and resolving to come back and do better next year. And here's the thing: there are millions of us, and until the bombers kill every last one of us we will keep running and cheering and urging one another on."

It was after this that the particular venom in targeting a marathon started to sink in. An event where thousands of people put one foot in front of another for the joy of it, for charity, for the experience – that's something quite special. Coupled with Bostonian reports of record blood donations, incredible acts of help and bravery in dealing with the injured, and the city's residents opening their homes and hearts to anybody in need, the whole thing seemed to take the form of a metaphorical marathon: a wall of human spirit driving back any attempt at attack.

Then, today, I read Marina Hyde's Guardian piece; talking of her own previously-held cynicism, it closed thusly:

"Consider it a human Grand National on which we can all have a flutter. And it is the ultimate flutter, if you think about it, because you never know when you or yours might need to collect on the communal winnings their charitable efforts produce. Maybe some of the medical equipment that saved those injured in the Boston blasts was, by some circuitous route, funded by Bostonians running in previous marathons. Maybe the work of the medical staff who battled to save the bombing suspect was in part made possible by past donations from ordinary people doing this extraordinary, mad, 26-mile thing. If it was, I can't think of an irony more sublimely illustrative of who's on the side of humanity and right."

I was so wrong. I never doubted that completing a marathon was a feat of human endeavour, but I'd completely misjudged the attitudes behind it. I thought them individualist and torturous, when they are, of course, based on community spirit, enthusiasm and pursuing a bonkers goal. A marathon looks a bit like the perfect encapsulation of the ferocity of the human spirit.

I'm writing this on a six-hour coach from Bristol to Leeds, clawing through my smartphone for any coverage of the London Marathon I can get my eyes on, honestly quite gutted that I can't watch the footage anywhere (though I'm not sure how well I'd cope - I'm choked up just writing this). Who am I, and what have I done with the jogging-averse grumpus I once was? Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to take up jogging on Monday morning, because I still hate the physical act with the burning fire of a thousand suns. But runners? Consider me admonished and converted. I'm sorry I judged you without thinking. What you do is mad and ridiculous and brave and incredible - well done, you magnificent weirdos.

*I wasn't forced to run for three years without stopping, just to clarify.

In pursuit of happiness

As some wise soul once told me, happiness is a skill. Now, anybody who knows me will probably say that I will punch you in the face with my perpetual optimism upon meeting you, and continue this metaphorical assault 97% of the time we spend together. I'm a giddy person. I get super excited when around animals*, I sometimes cry when the night sky looks particularly pretty, and I make this face with alarming frequency:

Thing is, I don't think it's easy to be happy, and I do agree that it's a skill - one I've worked at throughout my life. It goes without saying that happiness is circumstantial, and I'm lucky enough that circumstances haven't been so dire as to prevent happiness for extended periods. I also am lucky enough not to suffer from severe mental health issues, which are also naturally incredibly detrimental to pursuing happiness. But even from a pretty neutral starting ground, I've taught myself to be happy, and it's taken some effort. And, given time, effort has become habit, and habit has become a part of who I am.

I'm hoping this doesn't come across as a wanky self-help guide, because lord knows I don't have the authority or the audacity to pretend I can advise people on their lives in any way. But these are tips, I suppose. Tips that have helped me to be a bit happier in my everyday life. And I wanted to put them somewhere.

1. Take a deep breath
It's super easy, when caught in a bad situation, to freak the fuck out. In fact, you're more than entitled to do so. Heaven knows, I'm a cryer - as Kristen Bell so aptly puts it**, if I'm below a three or above a seven on the emotional scale, I'm probably in tears. And when you're crying hysterically, if someone says 'look on the bright side...', the temptation to punch them in the throat is rather intense. But listen to them: there really are good things that can come out of bad situations, and hearing them from other people not blinded by fear or rage or sadness can really help to rationalise things. Take a deep breath, and really take in the positives, the upsides. Eventually, it means you can start providing that help for yourself -- when something shitty happens, you're able to think of your own upside. Even if it's just one, one small good thing that can come from what seems, on the front of it, to be a complete crock of shite situation, it makes the whole thing less looming. Less all-consuming. There's good there somewhere; find it.

2. Say thank you
It's often the good deeds of others that make us happy, and while I imagine most of us have even the most rudimentary manners, and would thus say thank you, making the effort to do so properly is really, really uplifting. Looking someone in the eyes and saying how much you appreciate them, giving them a hug, or even just firing off an email to a company from which you've received particularly good customer service; a proper thank you makes you realise that, hey, someone did something for you. You, specifically. And it made you happy. And by saying thank you, you're most likely making them happy, too, which radiates even more happiness back to you. Win-win!

3. Find happiness triggers
Finding something that reliably makes you feel better is an absolute godsend. I have a few fail-safes: my 'pop renaissance' iTunes playlist; the BBC's adaptation of Emma from 2009; painting my nails; and pictures and footage of the aurora borealis. Like this one, which is intermittently my desktop background.

The aurora borealis over the Eyjafjallajokull volcano in Iceland, taken by Albert Jakobsson.

If you can, find something concrete that makes you happy, that lifts you inside, even a little bit. Have your happiness triggers nearby, ready to be grabbed when needed. It's almost like getting a hit - injections of happiness as and when you need them. Surrounding myself with reminders of the things and people I love (and the people who love me), allows me a quick pick-me-up when things are a bit rough.

4. Be sad
Yes, this seems rather counterproductive, but hear me out. I may be giddy and ridiculous a lot of the time, but I also get super sad. Like, eat-a-whole-Easter-egg-in-one-day sad. At first I thought the key to being happier was to not be sad, to eschew grumpiness with a firm hand. Thaaaaaat...didn't work. Instead, if I feel low, I own it. I'm a cliché. I listen to sad music and cry in the shower. I retire to my bedroom for fifteen hours of mainlining Doctor Who. I'm ridiculous. But it really helps - not only does the sadness move past much, much quicker when you allow yourself to wallow and then move on, but it's the old logic: you can't know what happiness is without feeling sadness. Happiness feels all the better afterwards, rather than just the default. Embrace your emotional range! Feel ALL THE THINGS!

5. Cut rubbishness loose
This one is simple, but a bit brutal. If anyone makes you feel less than awesome, stop spending time with them. People who exhaust you, who make you apologise for who you are and what you do, cut them out. It's really fucking liberating.

6. Enjoy things unironically
Lucky for you guys, there's an entire blog post in the offing about this ridiculous bullshit culture of ~liking things ironically~ that perpetuates at the moment. Only liking things ironically means you're somehow restricting the happiness you're allowed to feel?? That is INSANE. Like things because you like them! Don't apologise for it! This whole idea that some things can only be liked ironically - Ke$ha, The Only Way Is Essex, text speak - is a manifestation of some kind of nebulous, non-specific culture police telling you that some things have to be liked in one way and some things in another. It really is nuts.

7. Count your blessings
Remember how your gran always used to say this to you, and you'd roll your eyes? Yeah, me too. Then I actually started doing it, literally counting my blessings. Sitting down and making lists of the things that have made me happy in the past week/month/year, writing them on the whiteboard on my wall, reeling them off to myself so I remembered how fucking lucky I am. In fact, I'll do one right now:

Things that have made me happy in the last week
a. My dad being well enough after his surgery to mock me when I fainted at his bedside.
b. Getting super into a new TV show, and sending screechy emails to a friend about it.
c. Not needing my bike lights in the evenings.
d. Meeting fantastic new people this weekend, and spending more time with ones I have grown to adore over the past year.
e. Eating a fuckton of great food with the above.
f. Justin Timberlake making music again.
g. Buying a Letterman jacket with my initial on it.

One great tip I read online is to write little things that have made you happy onto small pieces of paper, and pop them into a jar. At the end of the year (or whenever you need a pick me up!), you can crack open the jar and relive the little, lovely things that made you happy months before.

Sometimes these don’t work, and everyone is different. But they’ve worked for me and, as I forget to do them a lot of the time, a list like this might be, at the very least, something for me to come back to. But, you never know, it might help someone else, too.

The Divine Comedy - In Pursuit of Happiness

*It takes a brave soul to take me to the zoo.
**This is the cutest fucking thing in the universe, seriously. KBell feels me, y'all.

Onwards!

So, as most people will have seen by now, my Series of Escalating Dares endeavour has sadly been cancelled. My dad is having surgery in the middle of that very week, and I both want and need to be at home with him and Ma. I'm disappointed of course, but there will be plenty of other opportunities to raise money in the future, and in the meantime, potential sponsorship can be directed elsewhere! My housemate Ross is running the BUPA 10k for UNICEF, and you can sponsor him here, and my (very brave!) friend Tom is doing both the London Marathon and the Three Peaks Challenge in aid of the Bobby Moore Fund, which donates to colon cancer research, and can be sponsored here. Brilliant guys, amazing causes.

Elsewhere in my life, I am hurling myself headlong into other projects, and am thus hijacking my own blog to pimp out my newest project. Myself and Dr Chris Montgomery at the University of Sheffield will be presenting a paper at the i-Mean Language and Identity conference in April (eee!), looking at accent and identity in the Potteries/Stoke-on-Trent accent.

That's where you (might) come in! We need as many Stoke folk to take this accent survey as possible - it only last about five minutes, and is completely anonymous. If you're a local, please do give it a go, and if you could share it with friends and family too, that would be amazing.

Thanking you kindly!

Sheer, calculated silliness

On Friday night, I was lucky enough to snag a last-minute invitation to something I've always, always wanted to go to: a murder mystery party. My delightful housemate Ross was going, and there was a last minute cancellation. I'm not sure whether I'm proud or embarrassed of this, but I was able to throw together a costume in twenty minutes, and became Babs Crayfish: ex-nightclub hostess, aspiring actress, and girlfriend of an infamous gangster - complete with false beauty spot and glittery platform shoes. Along with the insatiable Oliver Steed, thespian and sleazebag (commonly known as Ross), we wandered across to our host's house (Brian Sewer, wine critic for the Times and general toff). We were joined by Charlie 'Champagne' Bunsen, aforementioned gangster boyfriend; Terence Shrimp, East-End wideboy and photographer; Tamara Fara-Bucktooth, socialite and girlfriend of the soon-to-be-deceased Lord Michael Jaggard; Mary-Jane Faithless, international pop-star and ex-girlfriend of said Lord; Martin X, American political revolutionary; and Kitty Killer, ruthless journalist and biographer.

Babs Crayfish and the insatiable Oliver Steed – and his painted nails (photo by Andrew)

We spent the evening around 80% in character, and everyone made a fantastic effort – wine flowed (a LOT of wine, if my head on Saturday was anything to go by), we had a fabulous three-course dinner, and worked our way through the evidence and dialogue provided. It was exceptionally hilarious, with some truly questionable accents (mentioning no names, Shrimp) and plenty of exaggerated gasps and vocal accusations. Having never been to this kind of thing before, I wondered how into it people would really get, and whether our natural, British uptightness would get in the way. I was absolutely blown away – everyone hurled themselves into it and milked the characters for all their worth; I haven't laughed that hard in a long time, it was a pure delight. And, triumphant host that he was, Andrew/Brian Sewer escaped unaccused and got away with murdering the Lord Jaggard – nobody suspected the stuck-up wine critic, despite his lack of alibi!

Through muggy hangovers, Ross and I spent a good deal of Saturday morning reflecting on just how fantastic an evening it was. Inhibitions were cast aside, embarrassment forgotten and everybody just went for it. It ended up being one of the best nights out we'd ever had. It was so refreshing, we remarked, for a group of us to just be so silly together for hours and hours.

It reminded me of why I love things like fancy dress parties -- it removes a lot of the pressure from social gatherings. I love spending time with people, but I'm often conscious of the way I look, act, and come across. Fancy dress and murder mystery parties remove that pressure, that weird sexualisation of events; they put everyone on an equally ridiculous playing field and make sure the night is fun and frolicksome as soon as it kicks off. It's odd, how I feel more comfortable in fancy dress than in my own clothes, but there it is. I just relish the opportunity to be silly.

This whole thing links into one of the best plot points from my favourite play/film: The History Boys. In Hector's general studies classes, his pupils learn the French subjunctive, the poems of Auden and the songs of Edith Piaf. However, they also learn the ending of Brief Encounter off by heart, and can perform a sterling rendition of When I'm Cleaning Windows. When explaining it, Hector says "it's an antidote; sheer, calculated silliness".

I love that. Taking the time off from the important stuff, the deep stuff, the grown up stuff like exams and bills and politics to just be silly. To recapture that giddy feeling of being a kid and not giving a toss what people thought, not caring about tomorrow. Putting on a silly costume, singing loudly and dancing wildly, cartwheeling in public. Particularly in a time where this exhausting 'ironic enjoyment' is depressingly prevalent, where it's only okay to enjoy certain things in a post-modern way, listing them as a 'guilty pleasure', I feel like time to be silly is necessary.

Admittedly, I am much more silly than a lot of people. I dance in public with alarming frequency and have mainly been listening to Little Mix's album on repeat in the last few weeks. But regardless, I feel like it's important to take the time to be immature again, to be silly, to not take things so seriously. Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional, etc. I know being mature is important, but it's just as important to let go. Be a bit stupid. "You're only young once, but you can be immature indefinitely" - Ogden Nash.

On that note, I bring this back to my latest silly endeavour: A Series of Escalating Dares for Comic Relief. I've had a few great suggestions for dares so far, but I still need more! Some examples, for inspiration, are below:


-- Dress as a bear and find 50 strangers to take growly, bearface pictures with you.
-- Dress as a Viking and undertake a raid of York complete with (carboard) Viking long-ship/dress as an Anglo-Saxon/Roman and defend York against all comers from the walls.
-- Treat any journey you undertake as an obstacle course.
-- Act like a cod Cold War-era spy (trenchcoat, sunglasses, shifty eyes, non-sequiturs, speaking only in code)
-- You can't speak, only sing. Operatic rules apply.
-- Spend a day speaking only in One Direction lyrics.
-- Narrate your day as if you're narrating the happenings of the Big Brother house. 
-- Go to work in your pyjamas.
-- Walk backwards. All day.
-- Travel around all day using increasingly ridiculous forms of transport: unicycle, rollerskates, hula hoop, cartwheels, etc.
-- Serenade One Direction with their own songs (obviously this would require the presence of One Direction)
-- Walk around all day in white clothing and carry pens, allowing everyone to graffiti anything they want on you/your skin, and you have to keep it on all day.
-- Dress up like a cat, possibly in your Top Cat costume, full face paint, ears etc and go and buy cat food and milk, you must meow at the person that serves you as you are being served.
-- Stand on a bench in a busy place, city centre or something, and sing "I'm a little teapot" as loud as you can, with actions of course.
-- Go to a pole dancing class dressed as a pole....completely covered in tin foil...and offer to be the pole.           

Any other suggestions? Let me know! I'll be posting the polls for people to pick their favourites soon, and then...roll on March 11th! Sheer calculated silliness: the charity edition.