Review: My Week With Marilyn

Disney starlet Miley Cyrus, stung by anonymous online comments saying she'd gained weight, responded by posting a picture of Marilyn Monroe on her Twitter account with the caption: 'Proof that you can be adored by thousands of men even when your thighs touch.'

Putting aside doubts that 19-year-old Miley's thighs are approaching anything like Monroe's proportions (plus the pointlessness of responding to vile Twitter trolls wanting a public rise out of a celebrity, and the possible suggestion that male admiration is the only goal) it's not hard to see why she chose the image.

Watching My Week With Marilyn a few days ago, I tried to call up my prior knowledge of the subject. I took part in a production of Some Like It Hot at university, but I didn't play Monroe's part. I played Generic Bimbo No 3, and frolicked round the stage in a nightie with my boobs hoiked up to my chin. Not very insightful, or warm.

The sum of what I know is a caricatured image, a blonde poster icon with red lips and a clinging swimsuit, singing breathily. A Warhol picture. An idea held up far and wide, all waist and breasts and pout and leg, plus some sort of tragic ending involving pills and possibly a Kennedy.

Amy's List of Regrets: Part One

So there we were, the glamour of the local registry office all around us, waiting to give notice of our intention to marry. Palms sweating, we nervously grinned through our (separate) interviews to check we weren't already married and all that. Ridiculous to worry I know - all they did was ask me his name, my dad's job, and whether my intended was already related to me (I know I come from fairly near Dewsbury, but give me some credit). 

Still, having to answer any kind of formal question fills me with dread, especially the most straightforward ones. At the airport, the bored, usually monotone query "Did you pack your bag yourself?" makes me blink uncontrollably. I think I just exude an air of guilt. My parents still think I stole eight bags of Iced Gems from the kitchen cupboard in 1991 just because I couldn't stop giggling when they waved the empty multipack around accusingly. I did a lot of binge-eating as a kid, but I swear on anyone's life that it wasn't me.

It made me wonder how bigamists manage to get through so many of these interviews, and how the hell someone would get themselves in that situation. So (tenuous link alert) I started thinking about my own regrets. Just minor ones, bloody annoying niggles. Nothing like "I wish I'd never lied about being married before or never dropped those government documents in a bin in a public place or murdered that prostitute," but the ones that when you think about them, you do a little 'grrr' because they're just so irritating. So here are a couple of mine for your enjoyment.

My name is Amy and I can't drive

I’m sighing loudly and crossing my legs as yet another service station shrinks into the distance behind us, and my other half is staring pointedly forward, mouth set. This is a sensible direction to stare given he’s driving us up the M1, but I know his grimace is also because he’s gearing up to utter the full stop to all of our motorway conversations. Which goes something like this: “When you drive, as many loo breaks as you desire. Until then...”

I could have been motoring to toilet freedom, to unlimited possibility, to the shops, for 11 years now. I got as far as collecting the provisional license form on my 17^th birthday, and left it in the pub. My name is Amy. I’m 28, and I can’t drive. I’d ask for a group hug, but I think I might be the only one.

How has this happened? At 17, living at home, I was happy to cope with one bus an hour if it meant I could use the lesson fee for more pressing matters - like booze to drink in club queues while waiting to get turned away for looking 12. At university, I was predictably skint and then I picked up the boy, moved to London and took the tube every day. I cope.

But now and then, while arranging festival travel with friends, or knocking over small children on the bus with my Tesco bags, suspecting a Fiat-driving youth is preparing to shout, “Bus stop w****r!” I get a twinge that I haven’t quite caught up. I'm drifting towards the rest of adulthood with a mortgage, a fiancé, a loosely termed 'career', but I am still at the mercy of unreliable public transport and expensive taxis.

If nothing else, it loses me valuable argument ground. Much in the way I whine, “You don’t understand!” to non-smokers who tut at my on-off habit, my non-driving status means I’m unable to comment on anyone’s skill or lack of. Even I know you shouldn’t sit in the middle lane assuming it’s the ‘medium’ between fast and inside, but, y’know, they’re giving me a lift.

Given I refuse to wash our heavy casserole dish as it’s “too awkward”, it’s fair to say I am scared of things that are a bit hard. Ever contrary though, things that are really hard, I seem to throw myself at with abandon. Terrified, I quit a job I hated giving myself a month to find something else, and it worked. I ended a long term relationship and jumped into a new one a week later, and that worked too. Apparently, I am a girl of extremes. I can throw a steady income down the drain, but I cannot scrub an iron pan.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to imagine myself behind the wheel as time passes, and every journey with the boy carries an unspoken accusation of laziness. But much like the giving up smoking thing, and the pile of washing up, I continually bleat, ‘I will at some point, honest!’ Erm, but not now - we have a wedding to save for. That would just be silly.

I got back tonight, and I couldn't find any Friends

I'll start with a disclaimer, nay, a warning. If you do not like long-running, award-winning, jolly American sitcom Friends or have not ever watched it, this blog post may not have much in it for you. This blog is not going to be earthshattering, important, or even well written. It's just about Friends.

Screw the journo thing of doing a pithy bit of context for the uninitiated. Friends has been on one channel or another four times a day your entire life. If you ain't a fan now, I can't change you. And even if I could, I probably wouldn't because quite frankly, we number many and we're just fine. 

Plus there's just too damned much to explain. I can say "In LONDON!" incredulously whenever I want, and the boy, the best friend and occasionally the mother (if she's taken her clarity meds) will understand the reference. Sometimes just saying any word in the same tone as "In LONDON!" works. This post may run along those lines. You might think something like, "Oh, I didn't realise the irritating precocious child actor talking to Joey in Chandler and Monica's new house was Dakota Fanning" and that's okay. Saying, "Oh, was Brad Pitt in it once then?" means you should probably stop reading now. 

So let's crack on. I am sad Friends will no longer be on free telly at a time when nothing much else is on. That when I leave work or work-related things before 10pm, there is no longer a back-up to stick on in the background as I throw myself on the sofa and force the boy to make dinner. I am sad that it will no longer be the main reason I would ever watch T4 and thus pretend to be young and hip. So I'm just going to talk it out for a bit, okay? 

Polpetto: Once Upon a Balmy Summers' Eve

I've had one glass of (overpriced) red wine, and he's had a beer while we watched an intense film at a cinema on Shaftesbury Avenue. It's past 9pm. We're on the hunt for food.

Sniffing, memory-squeezing, wandering. Grub-finding in Soho is harder than it looks sometimes. It's 9.20pm and we're dangerously close to whining, "But we're in Soho! The centre of Lahndahn! The world at our fingertips!" Too much choice and not enough.

No matter, nights like these are what Polpetto are made for. We half-run to The French House. I've been before for work schmoozes (the nice kind where I go somewhere I like rather than the kind where I do any actual work) so I know you cannot book, which makes it perfect for a relaxed, drawn out, accidentally-drink-quite-a-lot-before-you-eat evening.

"Sit down boy, I will handle this one". I install him at the bar and nip upstairs to give the waiter my mobile number. This is so he can ring me when a table is free - I am not a hussy.

You cannot have a pint while waiting downstairs in the French House, however much you cry. And do not make the mistake of assuming the barmaid merely did not hear you ask for a pint and say it louder. They do NOT serve pints, only halves. "I saw Paloma Faith in here once," I tell him again.

He has a half of something. I have a cider, in a glass that looks bigger than a half. It is a weeknight and it is busy, we are lucky to find our seats. It is lovely where we are sat, the big windows are open on to the street, the pub feels cosy behind us. We finish our drinks, argue briefly about me going for a cigarette, then my phone is ringing.

Upstairs, there's room for maybe 25, 30 covers. The tables are very close together, and it feels a little like sitting in someone's attic. Retro, dusty-but-not-really, dimly lit. Previously, I've landed tables next to the windows, looking out at a flag moving lazily beneath, eating lovely food and supping wine. Those tables say 'Yeah man, I live in London and eat here and this is what I do'. This time, we are at a table that says nothing, because you cannot hear it over the conversations of those sat an inch away from you on either side. This is not a problem when you are fuzzily drunk. Sir, a bottle of house red please and thank you.

The menus are the place mats. We peruse the array of Italian small plates. I, having downed a little more wine, am very enthusiastic about the courgette fries. We order a few more dishes too - sweetbread meatballs, a Devon crab dish, something with squid. The food comes as and when it's ready, and I like to eat like this. It's relaxing.

The first two come extremely quickly. Joy! He says the meatballs are over-seasoned. I don't want to concur because this is my recommendation and I like it, but they are. He begins to mumble misgivings about the place being too cool for school. I bat them away and pour more wine.

The two dishes are long gone, and we wait. The wine is disappearing fast. We are deep in alcohol-tinged conversation.

"Oh my god, are you having a little drunk cry? You are tiddled. You're panini-ed!"
"No!" Sniff. "I feel fat."
"I feel you've had too much to drink."
"You should never say that to a lady!"
"What? That's not some well known proverb or saying!"
"Shut up! Shall we have dessert?"
"Stop telling me to shut up, you drunken wench."

We realise our other dishes have not materialised. The waiter comes over and asks if we want the bill, a little surprised we should choose to eat so little. We ask for the rest of what we ordered, then the wine is gone, so we finish our meal with water. It is fine, (except the courgette fries, which are fantastic) and the waiter is nice enough not to mention my drunk face. 

We fall back into the outside world. "Cocktails!" I cry. "No" he says. "You're battered. Not a good idea." But it is too late - the cloud has lifted and I am happy drunk on a summers' eve with no work tomorrow. 

We stumble to Café Boheme two minutes away. We have a cocktail each. I choose the first fizzy one I see. Now he's finished his gin martini, he is well on his way too. "Listen, seriously why do you never do the washing up? Seriously?" I order another cocktail for myself, and a Bloody Mary with gin for him and go for another cigarette. I come back in and he's forgotten about the housework and the barman is smiling at us. We grin inanely back and leave for the tube, boozy and full.

Polpetto, upstairs at The French House, 49 Dean Street, London (approx. £50 dinner for two with wine)

Café Boheme, 13 Old Compton Street, London

Weddings: when a yes is just a no in a fancy hat

If you know me in real life, you'll know that I spent many years working in Boots. Cut me and I bleed Advantage Card points (the best value loyalty card on the High Street, FACT). And I took a massive amount of pride in providing good service with a smile, even when a man dropped his pants in the baby department and tried to put on a pair of Huggies.

Thus my hackles are raised when people complain about bad customer service, because a lot of the time, they're not distinguishing between being treated badly and simply an outcome they didn't want. An example of the latter would be me explaining why it's not my fault they couldn't buy a golden unicorn with their out-of-date gift voucher at 9pm on Christmas Eve. An example of the former would be me explaining while going 'DUURRRRRRRR' and leaning over the counter to tap their temples.

BUT it also means I know that providing a good consumer experience is really, truly simple - just listen and try. So, somewhat uncomfortably I am reporting that our shallow toe-dip into wedding planning waters has disappointed us both.

Now, please believe me when I say that I'm not writing this under the impression that the finer details of my nuptials are incredibly interesting to others. I'm a little bored myself. I just assumed that when we're potentially spending the most money we'll probably ever spend on one fleeting experience (student loan to alcohol ratio aside) we could expect good, even great service. 

Um. No. After explaining that we have homebrew and local foodstuffs we'd love to include, the first venue I contacted assured me that they were "very flexible with the food and drink" but "we only work with our catering team and homebrew can only be offered at certain times during the day". Right. The email went on to say "the entertainment in the evening is our marquee DJ only" . Truly, the king of flexibility.

Another manager spent a day talking to me and the boy about spending thousands of pounds hiring his venue - again, plus compulsory catering that came with - and managed to spell the boy's name wrong. Fair enough, nearly-husband does have one of them confusing foreign names like, but it was a response to an email in which I'd written it about five times. With my confidence in the attention to detail knocked, his colleague then forwarded a quote ignoring the budget we'd spoken about, but including a £420 charge for 'linen'. Linen! For £420 I want seventeen almost blind monks sewing the hair of angels into the bastard things. Why the effin jeff would I give this man all our money?

You may have noticed I have quietly dropped the groom from the proceedings, and that's because I'm slowly realising this mob of sugar-coated con artists do the same. Poor betrothed - he is elbowed to one side as these people whisper in my ear about organza bows on each chair for £5 a go. Do I have to explain that there are two of us getting wed, that it is not all about me? It is quite a lot about me obviously, but a little bit about the groom as well. So please, stop trying to look at me behind his back when we both said no to the ice sculpture.

You all want so badly to create my DREAM DAY, don't you? Unparalleled flexibility to make the day exactly the way I want it. Then why is it that the answer to nearly every question I've asked so far has been "No" or "Yes, but..." which is just a no wearing a fancy hat. In fact, the only question to which anyone has replied in the affirmative has been, "Are you going to bankrupt us to achieve the wedding of someone else's dreams?"

Oh, don't I want to be a princess? Don't I know I'll only do it once, and who doesn't need silver almonds and uplighters and draping and twenty credit cards to pay for it all? Well yes then, you creepy, creepy people. I will agree - this is a once in a lifetime day celebrating me and himself. And guess what? If either of us thought it was a good idea to spend £400 on tablecloths, I don't think we'd be tripping down that aisle.

I am not landscape: discuss

I'm going about my business. A man shouts "Cheer up/give us a smile!" and I ask, "WHY?"

Does my non-smiling face offend you? Am I reduced to scenery, scenery that should plaster a big grin on its sulky chops at all times so that if a gentleman happens to look my way he is not repulsed by the view? Or should I be so grateful that you noticed me and my emotional state that I should smile in thanks?

It's not just the fact that my face at rest is rather unfortunate (while thinking about nothing at all, my face tends to look like I've just found out my dog has been hung, drawn and quartered), it's also the fact that I might actually be pissed off and that's nothing to do with you Man In Car / Man On Street / Man Up Scaffolding. And it's not just the old cheer-up-it-might-never-happen, it's the leering, the shouting, the beeping.

Now don't give me any shady "You think a lot of yourself, don't you?" side eye. It happens to every female I know, and I'm genuinely interested in what people have to say about it.

Hollaback is getting a lot of press at the moment, a website that describes itself as "an international movement to end street harassment" and allows users to share stories and post pictures of the people doing the harassing. So is Slutwalk, which started out as a group of girls marching on Toronto's police headquarters after a police rep told college students that "women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimised".

During a heated Facebook status this week, a friend of a friend responded to a discussion about rape with this: "If a woman dresses provocatively, shall we call it, and a man is caught looking, and the woman doesn't find him attractive, then the man is a pervert and it's entirely his fault. If it's not there he can't look. It's not either sides fault completely, but I'm fed up of it always being blamed entirely on the male." 

An Argentine journalist was recently sacked over an article in which he wrote that were he ever to meet the girl leading the Hollaback campaign, he imagined himself "telling her I would love to break her argument with my cock". The original copy posted on his blog, but deemed a step too far for the print version, read, "I would love to break her ass with my cock".

In this spirit, let me respond with my own cock - my angry cock of outrage if you will. Argument one: why would I dress up if I didn't want attention?

Yes, I wear things to make me look better, like heels or a minidress. I also use deodorant, wash my hair daily and brush my teeth. Are these for you too? Excuse me while I replace my wardrobe with binbags, grow out my 'tache, and you have a think about the impossibility of drawing a line when it comes to appearance.

Another: I'm complimenting you, you should appreciate it.

So how should I react? Even smiling runs the risk of opening up the communication channels and misrepresenting my level of interest. I'm not going to thank you for your shouted approval. But ignoring usually results in a barrage of insults about being a snotty bitch, and a notch up on the aggression. WINWIN.

Oh it's harmless, lighten up.

I doubt they're all the type who get a kick from scaring girls. But do they realise that at best, it's irritating and at worst, intimidating? Or perhaps they think I might come over and proffer my phone number? The answer is no, because they're not thinking at all. It just spurts out like an unstoppable disappointment of jizz, and I'm trapped into being grateful for the appreciation or risking confrontation.

If I'm feeling relatively safe, I ignore or occasionally shout obscenities while making rude hand gestures. If I'm scared, I give an embarrassed smile and hurry past, knowing that acknowledging won't antagonise the situation as much as fighting back or no reaction at all.

So the bottom line, for me, is this: I should not have to smile at men who make me feel uncomfortable. I just want to walk to the tube. Is that fair?

TONY'S CONTROVERSIAL BEAN DISH

Welcome to a land where every question is answered with a mistrusting glance, every doubt blown up to the size of a football pitch, and every mistake jumped on and dragged up repeatedly, squeezed for every last dreg of melodrama until there's nothing left but the dry heave of a seasoned bulimic. Welcome (drumroll) to the land of Great British Menu.

I'm being unkind. Welcome to the land of competitive food telly. Hell's Kitchen and Masterchef - I'm scowling at you.

My beef is the heavy editing designed to create drama. Each week, banter between the three chefs competing is reduced to the voiceover explaining why there's tension, the chef vaguely referencing the tension, cutting to a shot of another chef eyeing him across the kitchen while chopping carrots in a sinister fashion. It happens so often per show that these people must have learned to create gastronomic delights without ever looking down. 

I understand that half an hour of chefs silently beavering away on their chocolate tempering is not thrilling TV, but I find the formula repetitive. Their dishes are simple so there's NO ROOM FOR ERROR or their dishes are complicated so HAVE THEY BITTEN OFF MORE THAN THEY CAN CHEW?

Last week, we were battered round the head with poor Philip Carnegie's shortfalls. I'm surprised he didn't run screaming from the building with a pathological fear of ovens after the constant gloating voiceover repeatedly reminded us that "the Michelin-starred chef burnt his oh-so-technical starter and he's new to the competition, what a loser, throw rocks".

Now, I appreciate I'm a total dick to watch TV with. I bloody love reading out the disclaimer small print on misleading adverts, shouting "HA!", and am scathing in a fairly teenage way - an urge to prove I'm not stupid enough to fall for claims of Bifividus Digestivum Bollocksidis and buy loads of yoghurt perhaps - but I don't think it's TV snobbery. 

Shows like Britain's Got Talent and The X Factor (which I watch) do this a lot. The X Factor got so on board with the idea that they used the same cutaway shot of Dannii Minogue's reaction for two different contestants one series, but we don't feel cheated because these shows are big budget pantomime. Doing it on Great British Menu feels like a distraction technique. It smacks of someone not confident in their content, but why? When Tony Singh dumped a tin of Heinz in his main, I was perfectly capable of being faintly surprised without regular roars of "TONY'S CONTROVERSIAL BEAN DISH" through my telly box. Johnnie Mountain's emotion when he made it through to cook for the judges in the North West heat was genuine, no extra frosting necessary.

Maybe it has always been thus, and only now can I see the strings thanks to growing up, or getting a job 'behind the magic'. Yet I still love it and watch it daily. Food porn, huh? Ignore the words and just look at the pictures.

Great British Menu, BBC2, 6.30pm, Monday to Friday

We should have ordered the pizza

Perusing the menu at Zaza in Ruislip, we suddenly noticed how long we'd been sat there. On arrival, our drinks order was taken and produced within five minutes. 40 minutes later, they hadn't returned for the food.

An uncharitable murmur went round the table that it was to do with rinsing us for a higher alcohol spend. I mused whether the delay could have been because the staff knew we'd need hours to read the vast list of meals. Haven't these people watched Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares? The first rule of Eat Club is "Scale it the fuck down". I decided to leave my choice to Restaurant Tourettes and see what happened when the waitress eventually reappeared. Nevertheless, I resolved to drink no more, just in case.

The birthday boy mopped his brow. "Is it me or is it hot in here?" I sipped my wine and surreptitiously sat on a spare napkin to avoid the awkward situations an arse print can cause.

Our girl turned up. One of our party mentioned the temperature. "Oh I know! We've got those windows open behind you, though."

"We just opened those."

"There you go!"

Frowning, we ordered. I privately applauded my mouth's choice of 'Insalata Toscana' - chargrilled chicken and crispy smoked pancetta, tossed with avocado, vine ripened tomato, spinach leaves & wild rocket in a creamy Italian vinaigrette with Parmesan shavings. That'll do, pig.

Birthday boy opened his presents. I shifted around on my seat, preoccupied with my sweaty legs. The meals arrived. "Would you like some black pepper?" Why yes I would. In fact if I cannot be trusted to season my own meal, or equally the professional chef cannot be trusted to season it for me, I'd like you to grind me a little pile of it just on one side of my plate because you can't be bothered to lean over far enough. Perfecto. No, hold the Parmesan, thanks.

A green mountain, now with a volcanic flow of pepper down one side, faced me. Thin slices of avocado wilted sadly. Two rigid slices of salty pancetta looked embarrassed at the abundance of dry and distinctly un-chargrilled chicken covered in white ropes of something with the texture of mayonnaise, but no discernible flavour.

My other half was pushing some flabby Gorgonzola and walnut ravioli around a pool of split sage and butter sauce. He looked uncomprehending at it, then me, with watery eyes. "It's... split?" he whispered sadly. I ordered another wine.

Two chipper waitresses and a harassed-looking manager asked how we were at regular intervals. I remained silent. After the fourth "Everything okay?" and the mumbling had died down, our girl stopped dead, my tellingly still full plate in hand and stared at me. 

"Everything okay?" 

I smiled. "Food okay?" 

She was calling me out! Shit fuck shit, abort abort. I smiled again. She didn't leave. I continued to smile, then made a slightly strangled noise and widened my eyes, juddering my head in what I felt to be slightly encouraging fashion. She left. I flushed with shame.

We settled up. Our sunny waitress left to get the card machine, and returned with an unexpected plate of tiramisu complete with candle. In the minute or so of momentary confusion, her steely eyes locked on mine and unseen, she calmly hissed, 'Sing Happy Birthday'.

I dutifully burst into panicked song.

The Rules of Cool: Royal Weddings & Jigsaws

After weeks of noisy build up, we're half-heartedly picking over the Royal Wedding carcass, and mostly throwing out a big 'Well done!' to them crowned lot for their gloriously regal bash wiv a human touch. Their human touch may have been a five minute palace-to-palace drive in a 41-year-old wine-powered Aston Martin, but whatevs. It's a brave new world full of happy endings. Rejoice!

And why not? Masses of people enjoyed watching it, they held parties (street or otherwise), flocked into the capital and had a jolly old time. One of my friends made his own 'Kate & Wills' t-shirt with an iron-on transfer, despite having never previously displayed any indication of being a fan of The Firm OR arts and crafts. Seems across the board, we love a theme. We cling to St Patrick's Day with green faces and Guinness-soaked shamrock hats. We get utterly fucked watching our national football team fail on the international stage, and don't care because we're wrapped in a Union Jack and being sick on ourselves like some kind of pre-yoga Geri Halliwell. Thus, the wedding was officially OK to be interested in. We.Love.Kitsch.com.

As someone intrinsically uncool, I'm never quite sure what the rules are. I go mushroom hunting with my dad. I saw two fully grown men wearing suits ride skateboards today. I enjoy an occasional jigsaw. Charlie Sheen appears to be committing suicide slowly and publicly. One, all, or none of these things may be cool. Is it okay to buy a Catherine & William plate as long as you do it in an ironic living-in-Shoreditch-wearing-fashion-spectacles way? I don't think I understand irony. Buying a plate with royal people on it ironically is still buying a plate with royal people on it, no? You still paid money, it's still in your house quietly mocking you. 

Sadly, my tentative enquiries seem to point to jigsaws not quite making the grade. Perhaps this bank holiday I should have been supping lattes with my meedja pals yah, but I have been sat in my flat, giving myself backache hunching over seventeen shades of blue sky and swearing just as colourfully. Incidentally, sky that is now slightly brown because I spilled my not-a-latte-coffee on it (yes, it is a constant source of wonder to me that I ended up with a job that by a lot of people's standards is Pretty.Frickin.Cool.)

Oh I do it sometimes right enough - I've bought a £15 cocktail while mincing round in a pair of Louboutins, making out like it's NOBIGDEAL. I get a tiny highschoolfuckyou kick when I swan into some party or other waving a wristband. The same instinct that almost (almost) made me tell off the boy for whipping out the camera in a beautiful restaurant recently, because that was giving the game away. Thank fuck I didn't, because he then whipped out a shiny ring and who gives a crap about the game then? 

But as I say: I don't know the rules.

"God Dave, the Queen's looking well good these days"

I've been digging out some pieces I wrote about three years ago. This is both to ease myself into this blogging lark gently - much like lowering one's genitalia tentatively into freezing cold sea - and to finally have them appear under my name. When I was starting out, an absolute horror show of a woman took me for a bit of a ride and stuck her own twatty moniker on my work. I buried them in a folder in a folder in a folder Russian doll style so I didn't have to be reminded of my own stupidity, but I feel now is the time. Forgotten bylines everywhere, these are for you.

"God Dave, the Queen's looking well good these days"

Ah, one does love happy accidents. In particular, typing ‘D’ instead of ‘S’ can provide one with sheer minutes of hilarity. Attempting to write ‘God Save the Queen’ using a minuscule, rubbish laptop (the cutting edge in technology around the time Elizabeth II was the cutting edge in say, new royal babies) comes out as ‘God Dave the Queen’, which I’m sure you’ll agree is a fantastically amusing mistake.

Possible situations where this phrase could be employed include; admonishing your mate Dave saying something inappropriate near the Queen; introducing the Queen to the God of Daves; or you and your mate (not necessarily Dave, though it wouldn’t be a problem) exclaiming in wonder, approval or shock at a spectacular transvestite named Dave.

Anyway, I digress: I can’t say I agree with the Queen having God’s protection on top of the hundreds of security guards and secret service agents that accompany her on every trip. Especially since any terror threat on one of these hand-shaking jaunts could be immediately identified as the only people in the crowd under pensionable age, and not waving Union Jacks and commemorative plates.

Perhaps she needs saving from the angry hordes of single-birthday schmucks forced to survive on one mere birthday a year, while she luxuriates in a second fair-weather celebration in case the sun don’t shine in April.

It seems being Queen is about eliminating unpredictability, the possibility of accidents: one does not risk the chance of one’s birthday parade being rained upon and orders another. One does not risk unknown elements attempting to shake one’s hand, and one employs a hundred guys in dark suits to control the unruly retirement crowd. One does not risk unfamiliar genetics invading the family, thus one marries one’s cousin, Dave the Third.

So much of everything is an accident, and it is the unpredicted in life that gives it spark. In the gaping void where my double-birthday should be, I take comfort in the notion that the whole human race could be a happy evolutionary accident, and perhaps royalty a quick slip of God’s keyboard.

One Patron Saint Please, Hold the Fun

I would like to invoke some saintly power please: Saint Expeditus and Saint Francis de Sales will do. Saints of procrastination and writers respectively; together they are a force to reckon with. Stick our George up against saints like that, and he just don’t cut it. Fair enough, he does have a lot on his plate. St George also patronises twelve other countries, seven cities, the Scouts, freemasonry and sufferers of skin disease and syphilis. A broad range, I’m sure you’ll agree, and in and amongst he slays a dragon or two.

Still, as kind as he may be to twitching, itching casualties of eczema and the like, I’m still not on board. Perhaps it’s his name that doesn’t fill me with hearty patriotic pride. Was Saint Bob busy? Saint Ned washing his hair? George cannot compete with the alliterative might of St Francis of Assisi, say.

So, does lack of patriotism stop us celebrating St George's Day with abandon, or is it classic English reserve? The same English reserve that means I don’t just smile and pay the hairdresser who ruined my life with her scissors, I actually tip a tenner and say it’s the best haircut I’ve ever had (then burst into tears on the street outside).

I’ve felt the swell of patriotism, unusually while watching a Hindu festival dance and bang drums through a standard English town centre. The mix of cultures; the colours, music, food; that was what made me feel proud of the country I’m from.

And it’s not like we can’t get rowdy when we want to. We’re as good as the Irish at drinking to St Patrick from 10am, drowning in Guinness and singing through the streets of London. Perhaps then, this is where the patriotism is; it is English to celebrate other cultures, another country’s patron; it is English too to hold back on our own carnival, to not blow ones own trumpet come April 23^rd. And possibly, it is particularly English to borrow someone else’s saint and get inebriated on their time. Sully our own occasion? I don’t think so.