A Disastrous Date - Year Abroad #1

I have started a fortnightly column on the fantastic website Inter:MIssion Bristol where I'm going to bare my soul and talk about some of the embarrassing things that happen on year abroads. My first piece is all about a date that went disastrously wrong...

Image: bizeminervois

After 1 month in the wilderness, I decided that it was just about time to dive head-first into finding my Jean-Pierre. By that, I mean the stereotypical year abroad boyfriend; floppy hair, sickeningly romantic but not quite interesting enough for it to last the long distance after you leave. I should point out here, for interest, that we were advised to invest in such boyfriends by Bristol; apparently it will be ‘wonderful for our language skills’. Perhaps invest is not the right word.

Upon making my decision, there were many things to be considered. Should I fancy someone at the office? Should I take to one of my roommates? Should I join an online dating website? Alas, I apparently decided the best option was to meet a man at 3am in a promising location…in the street. I should definitely mention at this point that I wasn’t actually drunk, nor he, but I accept that it’s not the most romantic of scenarios. Well, anyway, it gets worse.

After agreeing to go on a date with this boy, we exchanged numbers and each headed our own way. After multiple triple texts, a Facebook add and a doubling up of those excessive texts as Facebook chats, it began to dawn on me that the street might not have been the best place to meet someone. ‘Don’t be so judgemental’ I told myself, ‘he might not be that bad’. He was that bad.

Our date night was set, we were to meet on the steps of the beautiful Bordeaux Grand Theatre. As I left my flat, allowing myself the perfect time to be between 5 and 10 minutes late, I heard my phone ring. Apparently he was 15 minutes early; he just wanted to let me know. Not too strange, but not normal date night etiquette I would suggest.

After meeting and having the mandatory awkward not-sure-which-side-to-kiss-first hello that so often happens in France, we headed off in a direction that I assumed was to find a bar. Not so. He thought it was appropriate to take me to his hotel room, he’d bought a bottle of wine apparently. After seeing the sheer panic on my face, we agreed to change his plans and head for an Irish pub, in a public location, where there are other people.

If I hadn’t had enough blinkingly obvious deal-breakers already, now came the explosive bomb that finally blasted away my naivety. ‘So what do you do for a living?’ I asked politely, ‘Oh, I sell sex toys’ he responded casually. I was momentarily amused to find out that apparently the word for ‘sex toys’ is the same in French, but then realisation dawned on me; this embarrassingly keen, wildly inappropriate vibrator vendor was not going to be my Jean-Pierre. Time to make my excuses and leave.

You can find the original article on Inter:Mission Bristol here.

If only...

Is Technology Ruining the English Language?

Image: cozylittlebookjournal

With the emergence of mobile phones and, in particular, the rise in obsessive use of them by young people, came the concern by some that mobile phones and text language have caused a demise of the English language. It is fair to say that ‘text speak’ has crept into spoken English and perhaps affected a few teenagers, but perhaps it is more the change in rapidity of our communication that could be the cause of the problem.

Having to admit that I occasionally read the Daily Mail to make my next point is a shame, but The Mail Online is a classic case of quantity over quality. The speed in which they produce their articles, in order to keep up with social media, leads to an offensive amount of typing errors and language mistakes. I am sure that the middle-aged journalist is perfectly capable of grammatically correct English, but perhaps the young and impressionable reader may not be.

Evolution of language is important, the words we use have to fit with the way we live our lives. The rapidity of communication, and the increase in unnecessary communication, render eloquent phrasing unnecessary. There’s no need for a grammatically correct way of messaging, ‘train delayed –will be 10 mins late’ because its purpose is the information it provides, not the way in which it is provided. It is a fascinating novelty of our generation that we even feel the necessity of sending such a message, and we regularly do, presumably our grandparents would have just waited patiently for our parents at the station, working out for themselves that the train was delayed.  

It can be said that the word, ‘ruining’ may be a little presumptuous, ‘evolving’ may be more appropriate. The invention of the internet has lead to a whole new terminology such as, ‘blog’, ‘viral or, ‘social media’ which are all recently acquired vocabulary. Why do we feel differently about ‘lol’ and ‘l8r’? It is said that Shakespeare’s audiences were new to one in ten of his words, if he was allowed to creatively alter the English language, aren’t the teenagers of today?

Yet the fact remains that the internet has provided the small guy with a voice. If a hashtag is created on Twitter, there’s nothing the nostalgic English speakers can do about it. Although, the Italians feel much stronger on the topic, they can arrest shop owners with misspelt signs for ‘public abuse of the language’. We, on the other hand, have a good old moan. Well, I do anyway. 

French V British: What Makes Us Different?

Image: Crossed-flag-pins.com

I have only been in sunny Bordeaux for a week, but I have already noticed a lot of culture differences between us awkward Brits and our froggy neighbours. They may be stereotyped, but they’re very true.

Their Driving. I decided to make a little road trip out of my year abroad and so brought my car to Bordeaux with me. I expected dilemmas to arise when entering car parks and not being able to reach the ticket machine on the other side, but I hasn’t quite realised that the French aren’t particularly bothered by the welfare of their vehicle. I have yet to see a car without a dent or scratch and am counting the days until I find mine with a wing mirror knocked off.

Their Size. They may eat lots of bread, but I have yet to come across anyone larger than the likes of Dr Jenson recommend. I’ve seen lots of fast food restaurants, but fast food junkies seem to be few and far between.

Their hate of supermarkets. I haven’t quite worked out why, but the French seem to hate the idea of buying everything in one place. They have separate shops for food products (Boulangerie for bread, boucherie for meat, epicerie for all the condiments) and I really cannot understand the lack of the all-encompassing Boots. Make-up, shampoo and plug adapters all in one place? Yes please.

And the one thing we do have in common? We secretly love each other! We can’t get enough of French restaurants in England and I seem to be seeing the British flag everywhere in Bordeaux. Not only that, but within a 10 minute walk of my apartment can be found, ‘Sherlock Holmes’, ‘Charles Dickins’ and even a ‘Cock and Bull’ (Yes, real pubs! Apparently one of them even serves Pimms…). 

Image: Hammeroftruth.com

Why You Should Spend All Your Money On A Skiing Holiday

Insert some sort of 'on the piste' joke...

We all know that a trip to the French Alps is not exactly the cheapest way to spend your holidays and perhaps not the most important use of your student loan. However, I hope to persuade you that if you find yourself with a tiny bit to spare or you need an (energetic) break from uni, a ski holiday is the answer.

The Mountains. Exams getting you down? Dissertation looming? Fresh air is obviously what you need! I’m not talking about the untouched fumes of the countryside, but the refreshing sparkle of snow and the glint of a freshly pisted double black diamond run. 

The Alcohol. Almost as important as the skiing, some might argue that it is more so, is the necessity to party and to make sure you get as little sleep as is humanly possible during your week away. Not only do you party like it’s 1999 (apparently that’s a song?) but you discover a whole host of drinks that you aren’t allowed to even sniff when back home. Toffee Vodka? Yes please. Smirnoff Ice? Totally socially acceptable when abroad! 

The Humiliation. Watching people fall over is funny. Falling over is quite funny. Causing people to fall over is pretty funny. Trying to do a CAB 1440 MUTE  (that’s a freestyle ski jump apparently) and then bailing is pretty funny, providing you don’t break any vertebrae in the process…

The Competition. There is no way of denying it, when skiing with friends, there’s a battle to be the best. Luckily enough, you can just about get away with whispering expletives under your breath while dropping that cliff without anyone hearing your cries of fear. You may be completely terrified, but you will have secured your place as the most outrageous skier to all those watching and can go home with your head held high (as well as your broken arm). 

Image: LA Observed

The Drunk Scale

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

So I recently found myself in the disastrous situation with a group of friends where we all seemed to be at a different level of drunkenness. Although this provided me with lots of amusement, because I didn’t appear to be the worst, it led me to thinking about all the various stages of inebriation and when we’ve gone that little bit too far…

The Tiny Bit Tipsy. We all know this delightful stage, you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine and can feel it but you’re fairly confident you will still be able to get out of bed in the morning. It’s just enough to persuade you to add a winky face to the end of that text, but not cruel enough to force you into telling your ex that you’re over them. 

The Moreishly Merry. So now you’ve reached the 4 drink mark, the texts become more cheeky and the drinks seem to go down faster. This is where you have to make the all-important decision, go all out or go home. Obviously the former is much more exciting and since you’ve had four drinks, one more can’t make a difference…

The Haphazardly Happy. You need to dance. Too much alcohol and adrenaline to sit still. Flirting with the bar tender is a necessity at this stage, and don’t forget confidently chatting to the fit guy/girl at the next-door table. This is it, the perfect drunk paradise, definitely the right decision to wear that top, you look fabulous. Then you decide to have one more…

The Shamefully Sloshed. The words are starting to slur, your foot gets stood on by some idiot’s high heel and you don’t really notice, you’re wondering if you can get away with a cheeky tactical chunder in the toilets…someone buys you another drink. 

The Painfully Paralytic. Woops. Time to start saving for that sorry/thank you meal you will have to buy for your flatmate who left the fit bird he was snogging to carry you home.

Review: Untouchable

Les Intouchables

As I may have made evident in the past, I am somewhat obsessed with all things francophone and when I discovered that there was a French film of such prominence in the film world that I hadn’t seen (apparently the 3^rd most watched foreign languages film) I jumped on the opportunity to go and have a peek. I can say quite frankly, I have not been disappointed.

The film tells the clichéd tale of a rich invalid being introduced to the lifestyle of a rebellious black guy from the banlieue with a good heart. What starts out as a short term job that gives Driss somewhere to stay turns into a cherished friendship. Somehow despite the stereotypes, including being initiated into smoking weed and hitting shamelessly on women, this film avoids the cheese entirely and simply makes you laugh. 

The expansive disparity between class is stark and repeatedly prompted throughout this film, but it’s Driss’ frivolity when it comes to Philippe’s disability that charms an audience into seeing the funny side too. With lines such as, ‘Where do you find a disabled person? Where you left him’, you might expect to hear a collective, sharp intake of awkward breath in any cinema, but Philippe’s acceptance of his disability (and indeed, the joke) settles us into a calming sense of security. In this film, you are allowed to laugh. 

With a beautiful soundtrack by Ludovico Einaudi only ever interrupted by either Philippe’s choice of Vivaldi or Driss’ Boogie Wonderland, this film manages to find a perfect balance between its sombre subject choice and its optimistic ‘live in the moment’ atmosphere. 

The Familiar Family

Image: FOX

This weekend I made the expedition voyage to the north to celebrate my heroic grandpa’s 95^th birthday with the entirety of my family. Admittedly, I have a rather large family with 18 cousins and 2^nd cousins I actually know but it made me think about all those family stereotypes that may actually be true…

The Wacky Aunt. There is always an aunt who is a tad eccentric sure in her opinions providing you with endless hours of amusement with her ‘back in my day’ comments and hilarious judgements. Whether a fan of the cynic aunt or not, you can certainly while away the hours listening to her thoughts on your 2^nd cousin twice removed’s new hair colour.

The Random Cousin. Everyone has that cousin who you’ve been introduced to enough times that you should definitely know their name, but you just don’t. No matter how hard you try to remember, it just won’t come back and you end up having to talk about yourself for the entirety of the conversation to avoid awkward moments.

The ‘Why Haven’t You Grown’. Yes, I do still get this one. Now you may be asking why at the age of 20 I am still growing, well I am not but I do now make the life choice to occasionally wear high heels and it amuses me to see the look on my uncle’s face when I am suddenly 4 inches taller than I was 6 months ago.

The Endless Goodbyes. When the time comes to give everyone a kiss and head off back home to conversations in which you don’t have to smile until your face hurts, I always find that I end up saying goodbye to everyone about 10 times over a period of a few hours. In my book, the phrase,’ we’re definitely leaving now’ is vastly overused.