The Gap Year

When I started at Bristol University in 2003 you could spot the students who had been on a gap year from fifty paces. It was a typically drizzly autumn and yet they were all tanned, constantly wore flip flops and their chests were festooned with beaded necklaces (particularly the boys). If you ever found yourself next to one in the Wills Hall common room they'd tell you about how they smoked weed in New Zealand prior to saving a baby panda in Mongolia before finally finding themselves in Vietnam. If you haven't already seen it (and you should have) this superb sketch Gap Yah from The Unexpected Items is an accurate summation of the type.

 

The Gap Year is usually slotted in before university (and paid for by your parents) or right after University (paid for by a bank). I had gone straight from school to Bristol, then I went straight to London where I worked part-time in two theatres whilst doing a Masters, then immediately into full-time work and I never even considered a year out....until now.

Yes, slightly later than is the fashion, I am taking a Gap Year.

This idea first came about when my Dad inherited a house in Leicester. Knowing I was fed-up of the 9to5 lifestyle, catching colds off weary commuters and the fact that my landlord had just bought his third car (a Porsche) whilst I struggled to pay the rent each month; he offered for Max and I to live in this lovely house rent free before he put it on the market. And I kid you not, we decided to go for it.

And so this very weekend we will be packing up everything we've accumulated over the two years in our flat, getting in a very large moving van and escaping to the country.

But what does the future hold for me now I'll be swapping the Big Smoke for Evington Village? Truth be told, I'm not sure. I'm working part time for a new writing theatre company and I know I'll be writing myself a lot more. Definitely promoting my sitcom (watch the trailer here) and writing a play whilst completing the Royal Court's Young Writers' Programme. And when I'm not doing any of those things I'll be pottering in our new garden or wandering over the fields at the end of our drive.

Of course Max and I will also be saving up for the compulsory travelling. Although I'm not sure about finding myself in Vietnam (I watched Apocalypse Now yesterday and I'm not sure it's for me).  But soon enough, I'll be in the Leicester branch of STA discussing my gap year plan with some tanned graduate in flip flops and a beaded necklace.

I'll let you know how I get on. Like, totally. Yah?

Nickers Teaser Trailer

Dial M for Movie

Detective dramas are like crack to my mother. As a result of this I must have watched a zillion episodes of Midsomer Murders, Frost, Morse, Lewis (which is apparently exactly the same series but Morse has snuffed it), Sherlock Holmes, Poirot and a dozen others. My parents' home in Leicester has witnessed more grisly crimes than Libya. My mum and I could work for Scotland Yard, such is the forensic knowledge we have accumulated.

Recently it occurred to me that the British staple of Detective Dramas was ripe for a spoofing, and so I set about writing it. And thus my sitcom Nickers was born.  Nickers is a comedy series that each week spoofs a different detective TV show whilst following our odd couple heroes DI Bobby and Detective Large as they endeavour to catch the villain, get the girl and try to not kill each other in the process. This summer I decided to film a trailer for the show to help gather interest from producers.

I'd never directed a film before and I had absolutely no spare cash to make it with- what could possibly go wrong? Well, I'll tell you......

Getting a fabulous cast on board was actually the easiest part and all our first choice actors were free at around about the same time. And the fates shone on us once more as one of the best cameramen in London was available. After bribing Dan with beer and a curry he was on board too. Easy! Actually the first awkward moment came when sourcing props with my producer and partner in crime Max Davis:

We needed a policeman's hat, uniform, handcuffs and a truncheon so obviously we headed straight to a sex shop in Soho. I went up to the counter with some furry handcuffs and enquired if they had any that weren't fluffy. His colleague then took me to see the 'rougher stuff'. What I saw in that room still gives me nightmares and I fled to Ann Summers where I felt safer.

Feeling more comfortable there Max and I went up to the counter and asked for metal handcuffs, the sales woman quickly obliged us. Carried away, Max excitedly unfurled our whole shopping list of props. "We need loads more," he said smiling. The sales woman seemed a bit shocked so Max corrected himself with the slightly misleading, "Oh, it's not for us two, we're making a movie!"



Soon enough we had arms full of pornographic material and we were only missing one prop. But that prop was a big one. A Car. We needed an estate car as it's the top choice of TV coppers and it could also carry around all the filming equipment. But having zero budget meant we got the dodgiest KIA from the dodgiest rental place. I say rental place, it was actually a caravan in a car park. 

Notice the petrol cap held on by, yes, tape....



The KIA, which we nicknamed 'The Beast' was actually held together by selotape. We couldn't flatten the back seats to get the lights in. When we tried we discovered under one of the car seats a mouldy chip and a fake passport. However, by some miracle, it managed to both get us from A to B and take a leading role in the film.

The filming process went swimmingly. Max and Vicky were on hand to assist whenever anything looked like it might go wrong. Max managed to tame The Beast and indeed Vicky had to put out a small oven fire when we were too busy getting a shot and forgot the lasagne for our lunch. 

The cast too were awesome. The filming period was short but also the only few days of 2010 where it was hot. Katherine was hilarious and gorgeous despite the room being at least 40°C. She and Jen had to play it straight whilst surrounded by sex toys. Jen even braved a fight with my neighbour by throwing 'wine' (grape juice so the cast don't get drunk by take 5) over his car and lawn mower.

Roger and Brooks missed the first half of an England World Cup game and bravely ran around in suits and ties in the baking heat leaping over cars and fences whilst dodging dog poos (or not) without a second of complaint. Nadia and Claire gave up a Sunday morning to help out, with Claire spending an hour in the baking sun covered in fake blood under a sheet of tarpaulin with a pair of garden shears stuck in her chest.

All that was left was to edit the footage. In stepped super-cameraman Dan who, it turned out, was also the editor from heaven. And not just because every time Max and I went to see the edit we'd end up drunk as his beautiful girlfriend Aneta plied us with vodka to 'aid' our creative process.

Several months and bottles of booze later....Nickers was born. Now all there is to do is try and get a production company to make it. So watch the film, give it a 'like' and help all those who gave up their time to make Nickers by showing your support.

And who knows, some day, I'll be sitting down with mum to watch my own detective show. Unless Poirot is on and she changes the channel.

See the teaser trailer here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-HxMomMufg

Want more, the full 8min thrill ride is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEW-owe0GlY

Enjoy.

It's definitely not safe to go back into the water....

On the 1^st December news broke of a shark attacking and maiming four tourists in Sharm el-Sheikh. A couple of days later they caught a particularly large oceanic white tip, re-opened the beaches, and two days later another woman was killed by a shark. From this information I have decided two things:

One- The Police in Sharm el-Sheikh have not watched Jaws. It’s Shark Trickery 1/01: Chill for a day or so, let the fuzz catch a smaller shark, wait for the beaches to re-open and attack immediately. The authorities simply need to head out to sea in a bigger boat with a bounty hunter, Richard Dreyfuss and a few gas tanks.

Two- Package deals to the Red Sea will be much cheaper next year, so in these difficult times of recession it’s now top of my holiday destination list.  I will investigate the feasibility of diving in a suit of armour or trying to get through Egyptian customs with a speargun. Only foreseeable problem is that my boyfriend is terrified of sharks- so much so that if I hum the Jaws theme tune while he’s in the bath it upsets him.

I’ve actually had a couple of run ins with sharks myself. My first was on the Gulf coast in Florida. My Mum and Gran had waded out to their waist (probably for a wee) and were chatting. Suddenly Mum saw a fin behind my Gran and before she could say anything the shark hit her so hard in the back of her legs she fell over. Luckily my Mum was holding me in her arms, or I think 6-year old me would have been a delicious snack as they fled back in.

It wasn’t a great holiday all told, it later emerged that the shark had come inshore because Hurricane Hugo was building in the  Gulf. I spent the rest of my first holiday abroad in a hurricane shelter. And I was already heartbroken from seeing Mickey Mouse take his head off and smoke a fag at Disney World.

My second altercation was in the Dominican Republic where my dad and I decided it’d be a clever to go snorkelling in this dark cave - no one else was snorkelling there, not even the locals, what could go wrong?

We were in the cave for about half a second before I looked down and saw a huge shadow move below me. I looked at my Dad- his pale face and expression of abject terror let me know he’d seen it too. I glanced down again and saw that tell-tale fin.

Being an only child I’ve always been overprotected by my father - He once got me a can of weapons grade tear-gas “to keep in my purse for nights out”. But when there’s a shark near you, it’s every man for themselves, it's more terrifying than the acting in Jaws 3. He swam out of that cave so fast he was on the beach having a beer to get over the shock before I’d swum a stroke.

But have I learned how to avoid shark attacks? Yes. Make sure there’s a weaker swimmer with you at all times, and if you see a shark don’t say a word, just swim away quietly and let it eat the other person. And if like me you’re going to Sharm el-Sheikh next year; learn the word for ‘shark’ in every language. So if a Ukrainian or Russian tourist swimming near you starts screaming, you know what’s up.

Now to end on a more festive note, yet keeping to the theme of ravenous beasts that need feeding, I’d like to use the power of blog for good and draw your attention to the Hungry Mouths campaign at the Wood Green Animal Shelter http://www.woodgreen.org.uk/how-to-help/hungry-mouths/. Give money to feed the kitten…or the sharks will come and eat you.

Sister Act

I just had one of those moments when you wish you could disappear into a hole in the floor. Three of us were talking about a local school that has been taken over by a church run Academy. One person then commenced a ten minute atheistic tirade. This was followed by a long pause before the other pulled a crucifix out from her blouse and declared how important her faith is to her. I, of course, diffused this tense moment with my verbal proficiency: "Err...Biscuit anyone?".

My first school was not only church run, but a convent. My parents sent me there because it was only a couple of minutes walk from home rather than any holy motivations. In fact the closest to prayers I've ever seen my father get was at the Heineken Cup Final when Leicester Tigers played Wasps. He looked heavenward and cried "For Christ's Sake can't they just score a try?".

If you think my time in a Convent was filled with kindly nuns imparting knowledge like a scene from The Sound Of Music, you're wrong.  Nuns can sniff out doubters like a spaniel can sniff out drugs. When one Nun, Sister Teresa, walked down the corridor I felt distinctly colder.

I had a harrowing experience one day when I was attacked by a chain smoking, six foot bully from St. Paul's Secondary School next door. When I told Sister Teresa how I was playing an innocent game of Pogs and he kicked me and stole my lucky gold slammer, which I still miss incidentally, she simply told me "to pray for him". And it didn't work, as far as I know he didn't shove my slammer up his own arse. Although I can't be sure.

Sister Teresa had disliked me since a class about Original Sin when I asked why God had let Eve eat the apple: "Did He let her do it on purpose or was He just not watching?" I asked. There's no easy answer to that question.

I made it worse one holy communion. I was really hungry and liked the taste of the wafers so I went round twice. She noticed and dragged me aside. "You can't eat Jesus more than once" she reprimanded. She told me to apologise; "Sorry" I said shamefacedly. "Not to me," she snapped and pointed upwards before marching away.

My suspicions that she hated me were confirmed when I asked to be Mary in the Nativity and she informed me that I'd already been cast as Herod. I shouldn't complain though as I did also get to double as a sheep, which was nice.

 

When the school was eventually taken over by a grammar school I felt a lot more settled as it attracted young people from all different religious backgrounds. Indeed, apart from being famous for giving us the Attenboroughs, Gary Lineker and Gok Wan, Leicester is also the most multi-cultural city in the UK. And just as everyone else was encouraged their own religious beliefs I was allowed my religious doubts.

Mind you, in Year 6 when the Drama Department did Jesus Christ Superstar as the end of term play I auditioned for Mary. And they cast me as Judas.

My grandma has got a boyfriend. He's called Phillip.

My Gran doesn't reveal exactly how old she is. We'd probably need to carbon date her or count her rings to find out for sure but I'd guess that she's probably approximately two hundred years old. In any case, we'd assumed she was safely put out to pasture. But no, she's wandered into the stud farm.

All the problems started when she got her new hip. It's made up of some super-metal alloy and she's now unstoppable. She's like an eighty year old Terminator, but scarier.

Recently I've been enjoying shocking people by telling them that my grandma brought her new boyfriend to my granddad's funeral. Now whilst this statement is true, it is slightly misleading. My maternal grandmother did bring her partner to the funeral, but it was my dad's father that had passed away. Nonetheless I still enjoyed the look on people's faces when I told them.

In fact her husband died thirteen years ago. I'm sure you'll agree with me that she seems to have moved on a bit too fast. I wanted to know how she's met this elderly Casanova. Turns out that she saved a seat for him at a game of bingo at Age Concern, an organisation that I now suspect is a sort of match.com for the mature singles.



Singles Night in Leicester



Everyone I tell about this will inevitably have one of two responses: The nice people say "Oh it's sweet". Well, they haven't had to listen to my grandma's discussion about how his chin whiskers tickle her face.  The unkind people (boys) say "I bet he's shagging your Gran". This response makes me feel very wrong, a bit like Bruce Willis in the Sixth Sense when he finds out he's dead.



Phillip, at the tender age of about seventy, is my Gran's junior. Yep, she's a cougar. She's always liked Elizabeth Taylor and loved Joan and Jackie Collins (no, they're not the same person). She's obviously been following Demi Moore's tweets. Maybe she watched Courtney Cox's new sitcom (she's probably the only one who did). In any case, she's a cradle snatcher. I don't understand the current trend for women to opt for younger men. My boyfriend is almost seven years older than me and he's still the least mature. As I glance over at him now he's wearing his Superman Pyjamas and playing Streets of Rage on his iPhone.



"No, you can't get ice cream until after you've had your dinner."



Now I recently visited her house for breakfast. What I'd expected was boiled eggs and soldiers, perhaps a mug of Yorkshire Tea. What I got instead was the news that they're engaged.

This is shocking news.

I panicked at the thought of several more cousins. I don't have enough money to afford a whole extra family's birthday cards and Christmas presents. My mum took the prospect of having a new step-brother and sister at the age of fifty very calmly. But I've seen all the Disney movies, and what do they teach you? That you shouldn't eat apples and that Step-Parents are always evil.

At some point I shall be a bridesmaid at their wedding, probably wearing a dress that she's knitted herself.  I suppose I will have to comfort myself with the thought that there's no stopping the Terminator anyway, and that I haven't seen her looking so happy for thirteen years.

Quarter Life Strife

I recently went to see Biffy Clyro at DeMontfort Hall in Leicester. In the middle of the mosh pit, surrounded by a sea of flailing teenagers there was one older guy with grey hair. I stared at this odd man out until I suddenly realised- that weirdo is my father.

He turned fifty-five recently and at this turning point where most men buy red sport cars my Dad started going to rock gigs. Mum permitted him to shave off his beard and grow his hair longer, she tolerated his newfound penchant for black jeans, I only hope she’ll step in before he gets ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed on his knuckles.

I observed these changes in my father as you might watch a natural history programme. Sometimes in my head I imagine a voice over by David Attenborough, such as “And now, the adult male only too aware of his own mortality will act like a complete twat”. Fully confident that, being female, I was less likely to have a mid-life crisis and even if I did it was at least a couple of decades away.

How wrong I was.

A couple of months ago I turned twenty-five. Usually I wake up on my birthday very excited that for a whole day I can freely be a pain in the arse and no one is permitted to tell me off. I’m the sort of person who tells everyone it’s their birthday- the postman, the cashier in the grocers, the tramp sitting on the floor outside the grocers. But on this particular occasion I felt like I wanted to keep it a secret.

I started to think about all the things I should have done by now. I rooted out an old diary from school as I knew I’d written a list entitled ‘Things to Do Before I’m 25’. I hadn’t done too badly- I had succeeded in two points: A Get a boyfriend and B Move to London. I had failed on points C and D though. I have not travelled around the world and it’s unlikely that I’ll win the Nobel prize for Literature in the ten months left before I turn 26. I had also failed on the final point E - Get an Andrex Puppy.

I started to fixate on this- I’d always wanted a dog. Why hadn’t I got one? Because to have a dog you need to have a house with a garden. Why don’t I have a house with a garden? Because I don’t have any money. Had I made a mistake picking an industry where it’s rare you earn the mega-bucks? Should I give it all up and become a financial advisor?

This line of thought led to an entire afternoon spent on facebook obsessively looking at what all my University mates were up to. I haven’t been on facebook for such a length of time since the Great Cider Upchucking of 2006 when I spent a full day de-tagging photos of myself.

Cider Chunder 2006: Scene of the Crime

My first instinct was to go for a haircut. I got a fringe, a straight across one like I had back when I was twelve and dreaming of Andrex Puppies. My second thought was to pretend that I was still at University and hadn’t grown up. I visited a friend in Bristol and we went to a nightclub. On the way in I was delighted to be ID-ed by the bouncer. The fringe was clearly working. I showed him my driving licence with such pride you’d think I was presenting him with the Nobel Prize I haven’t won yet.

My friend went to the bar but I headed straight to the floor and started dancing around enthusiastically. Soon I was beginning to feel a bit tired, I’m usually in bed by now I thought, and the music seemed a bit loud. I paused and looked around. There I was in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by a sea of flailing teenagers. Not only was I getting older, but I was turning into my father.

I heard a voice in my head: “And now, the adult female only too aware of her own mortality will act like a complete twat”.