Timing

Timing.

The comic's best friend. The comic's worst enemy.

The catalyst of two people meeting; of sparks slicing and frittering into a night sky; to merge into something beautiful and huge, like an opera of colours and dizzying emotions that are popping out of a million champagne bottles, pop, pop, pop, POW! Right in the kisser. Bang. Shot to the heart. Shot to the pelvic area, where night flies buzz and swirl; they light you up inside, take you for a ride, turn day to night, while showing dancing lights. Timing can be beautiful.

Or timing dismisses you.

Timing is the waiting around for hours in London for girl X/Y/Z to show up, only to then find out:

A) They had got wasted on drugs with friends the night before

B) Met someone else the night before, stayed over at theirs and decided not to tell me.

C) They were getting back with their ex.

None meant to be. All duds; poor jokes and tumble weeds. Cest. La. Vie.

You can't even blame people for timing. You can blame people for being arseholes, but for timing? No.

Some people just still really love their ex; who are you to think they are an idiot for it? Just because you've had enough time, you think you have the right to feel vilified or mad? They haven't had enough nights of crying into their pillows, of torturing themselves over whether or not to send a text to the person they love, of writing for and against lists again and again as to whether or not they should stay with that person/give it another try... for old times sake. For loves sake.

Daenerys thinks the Game of Thrones is hard? She should try lesbian dating

I mean, for fucks sake. Its tough. Incredibly tough.

Right now, I am in a wonderful place where I am more or less indifferent to love and the opportunity to meet someone special. I don't crave love. Nor do I fear it. I fear living with someone again, of them taking my time, taking me away from my own life and hobbies and turning me into a faceless entity, lacking any form of identity. I have re-found myself and that took a while. Its not something I particularly wanna do again any time soon, if ever.

Jo Cooper: available for hugs most weekends.

But love is wonderful. Maybe not right now. But at some point again, of course.

The downside to dating is that we assume/hope that everyone is on the same level as us, or wants the same as us, or is at least a moderately functioning human being. However, reaching that level doesn't happen over night and ultimately all everyone wants is some attention and for someone to care. So I guess the moral to this story is, whoever you date, give them a cuddle. Doesn't matter if they don't ever call you back, or it fizzles out, or they are occupied with someone else. We are all in our own time zones; but what travels beyond those ticking clocks is a great big hug.

On Turning 27

Twenty Seven, funny old age isn't it?

Sorry for the nonchalant yet slightly awkward comedian entree into this blog post. I turned 27 on the 28th July of this wonderful year of weird weather and.... watching many a TV series and drinking rum. *coughs*

This seems to be a something of a core year within our culture; I am of course talking about the 27 club, which refers to popular musicians who died far too young and far too talented to go. The beautiful and beehived Amy Winehouse being the most recent member, she apparently quit the drugs only to dragged down by the clawed skeletal hand of an eating disorder that had kept her shackled for years. We also know how the story ends for the pained and pleading eyed Cobain, the verbose and bloated Morrison and of the mystery surrounding the dark eyed, swoonsome and self destructive Richey Edwards. 

All 27, all at a turning point in their careers; some were being crushed by the media attention and the demand for more, more, more. More songs, more stories, more shocks, more publicity.Others were being ridiculed, jeered and viewed as a joke; a caricature of something once awe inspiring and true.There were opportunities to continue into the light, into the stars and become bigger, better, bolder. There were chances to redeem themselves, come back to their fans and the critics, perhaps not as they once were, but something more raw, honest, and inspirational. Hell, they could have just gone and made some (more) babies, settled down and lived out their years quietly embracing their creativity in their own ways. Instead they died. What more was inside them? What more should have, could have, been seen or heard and embraced for its genius?

A few years from 30, an age at which many have settled down with children, a serious partner or husband/wife, 27 is also still flirting with 25, an age where many of us are still partying and unsure where we want to be or what we want to do with our lives. It is the middle ground between confused arrogance and acceptance, where we still believe somewhere deep inside that we are special and important. It is a time where we still desperately claw for what we want, for who we want to be, and where we want to go in our glittering future, before the real world grabs us kicking and screaming into the mundane. It is an age of jaded hope, of cynical dreams, of... any other relevant fucking oxymoron you can think of. 

It is a strange age for sure, and one that requires a lot of thought to ensure I make the right choices that are good for my life; where I want to be, both in career and location, and who I want to be with before it is too late. We can't fuck up now, not when we are so close to being truly brilliant.

Then again, I did just read on Twitter that 30 is the new 10. So technically I am fine for another 17 years. Is that right? God my maths is shit. *drinks rum and puts The Killing Season II on*

Moving on...

The Horrors of Living at Home in Your Twenties

I am aware I started another blog in a similar alcohol drenched vein, but I am a little drunk right now, so bare with me.

I'm gonna stand in front of you all, bold, yet slightly ashamed, and state that I, Josephine Cooper (at this point my ex girlfriend would add "the third of Scarborough" to be hilarious), am 26 and living with my parents (and 21 year old brother). Why am I here? (I will get to that) How did it come to this? (woah there Nelly, all in good time. Why don't you go put another plaster on your face while I continue with my intro?) Is it as bad as others would think? (In two words, fuck yes) Is anything going to change? (God, I hope so)

Nothing says Gangsta like a diamond encrusted weight.

What triggered this blog post? I guess it was coming in to my familial home after an eight hour day at work and almost two hour journey home; a journey I do five days a week. Do you think, knowing the length of time I am out of the house, knowing the pressures I am currently under with my job, that my parents would leave me the hell alone for 20 minutes when I get in to just get my barings, embrace the end of my workday, and allow me to just chill the fuck out? No. The bombardment of facts and opinions from within the very essence of their souls attacks me the very second I get in. They tell me about THEIR day, what THEY have been up to, who has pissed THEM off, made THEM laugh, etc etc etc and there I stand, harassed and rubbing my temples, as they witter on.... and on... and on.

If there is one thing I have learnt, on top of many deeply depressing, painful and cruel truths that have smothered or beaten me in this life, it is that nothing is free. I don't pay rent. Yes, this is awesome because it means I can do what I want, whenever I want, with whoever I want, but it does have its costs. And boy, those costs are big. Have you ever heard the sound of a willy waggle? Do you even know what a willy waggle is? It is the sound, of a man, waggling his willy after he has had a piss. I hear this from my bedroom, or rather I used to, until I learnt to cover my ears and turn my music up; even if it is on shuffle and Celine Dion suddenly blares out "It's All Coming Back to Me Now", anything beats that sound. Seriously, when I am on my death bed that awful noise will probably come back to haunt me (the waggle, not Celine Dion); spiting my lesbian genes as I breathe my last foisty, diseased ridden breath.

Some people, no matter how hard they try, will always have the sex appeal of an onion.

Another toilet related issue, is that as soon as I go into the shower, turn it on and start enjoying my own quiet, soapy, steamy solitude, someone will knock on the door in need of a piss.... or worse. Ever had someone do a dump while you are having a hot shower? It is UNFORGIVABLE behaviour. Almost as irritating is someone rushing into the shower as soon as you get out of it, even if your shower was a mere five minutes long. Even MORE irritating than that, but nowhere near as horrific as the shitty shower stench, is the person that knocks and makes it clear they need the toilet in a passive aggressive "oh its fine, I'll just wait, don't worry about me and my horrifically stretched bladder" manner so you rush out and completely stop enjoying your time out from the every day grind.

"You have already raped my nostrils, you may as well use my hand to wipe yourself."

I am an antisocial person. I am. I'm not ashamed of this. I hate people sitting next to me on buses, standing too close to me, trying to start a conversation with me about the weather, giving me a hug if I barely even know them, all of it. I'm not saying I am awesome, even though I am, but I really do embrace my own company; a fact that my parents seem to forget, despite knowing me for a whole 26 frickin years. The daily grind is almost worse for me than other people, because I am so horribly pernickety, socially phobic and generally dickish, so my time out is incredibly important to me and my own sanity.

Living at home and viewing your parents eccentricities in a magnified and intimate (shut up) manner costs me a lot, if the price is viewed in mental health chips. I'm not saying I'm gonna go out and start defecating on all public benches, terrorising small children with threats of Jaysus's wraith or talking through a beaver puppet while calling police officers "sugar tits" every Saturday, but it definitely bums me out. It doesn't really help that there are certain eccentricities within this household that I can't really discuss with my friends; for example, has your Mum ever spent more than 400 pounds on a life size doll of a premature baby that she got shipped over from Australia? No? Didn't think so.

There are certain things that I am sure piss off everyone about their parents, like the invasiveness into your private life via Facebook or your diary, or the way they look at you like you're being precious when you leerily ask them to wash their hands after they have handled chicken (being leery in Norfolk slang means getting arsey, not getting pervy, ed), or their bewilderment at your rage over them leaving prescription drugs somewhere easily accessible, which has resulted in you finding half a packet of chewed up paracetamol in your dog's basket. One paracetamol can kill a dog the size of a jack russell and considering I view my dog as one of my few true friends, whoever left them there should stop being such a heartless dick. There is also the fact I can not leave my toothbrush in the bathroom because someone will use it to either brush their teeth or attempt to murder me with e-coli, the fact I can not go within five miles of a kettle without someone expecting a cup of tea (even though they can't make a decent cup of coffee for me in return to save their lives. Oh, what's that? A cup of milky water with one granule of coffee and seven table spoons of sugar? My favourite!) I could go on, but you get my drift.

This is not a perfect situation by any means. I thought I had my perfect situation when I was in love, but that was a lie and that was temporary. I just need to keep reminding myself that everything is transitional and nothing lasts forever while I remain in this fishbowl and try to plan my next move. I also need to remember that, while I criticise and bitch about the people that I live with, they really helped me a lot when I was at rock bottom and for that I will forever be grateful. I also know that it would also probably be productive for me to look at my own concave reflection and find ways to improve myself instead of seeing through that and obsessing about my next independent step. The times they are a'changin', I just have to make sure I change for the better with them.

Family (Take Two)

My first memory is of my four-year-old twin sister and I in nighties holding hands with our bald Nanny and our six-year-old cousin Julie in a circle. We were singing 'Ring-a-Ring-a-Roses' and my Nanny had a Buzzy Buzzy Bumblebees head band on with a connected magnetic plastic bee bobbing up and down in front of her; when it came to the end of the song my sister Julie and I all fell down.

My Nanny was bald because she had cancer. She lived with my family in our small maisonette and was cared for by my mum, who was pregnant with my little brother at the time. I don't remember the complexities of the situation, how difficult it must have been for my mum to deal with her incredibly ill parent while also looking after two kids of the same age while my dad was out working on building sites throughout the day. I do know that she is my hero for doing it though.

It was a time you would imagine family would flock together, to support one another and to make sacrifices. Instead, the only time my Nanny saw her two male children was when they came round to ask for money. Both gamblers, both selfish, and both spoiled by the family culture of favouritising a human being for having a dick, they would stroll in as my Nanny lay, destroyed and grey, a sick bucket by the side of her, and ask for money for the bet that was a shoe-in. My dad, a man that holds his own mother in such a high regard, retains this memory with disgust. It was a time before carers, so my mum did it alone. I don't know how, particularly with a mum as difficult and histrionic as hers. But she did it.

That was all a long time ago now. We don't live in that house any more, the only time I hold my sisters hand is if we are running drunk somewhere or emotional at some cheesy tune being sung at a gig, and my foetus of a brother is now a 21 year old stud muffin, all swaggering arrogance and jaded cynicism that he is too young to be burdened with. We are older, stronger, have faced heartbreak and pain, both within our family and in our own private, separate worlds. The bonds are not as strong, like elastic they have been stretched and thinned out, but they remain between us, almost transparent, but as powerful as a spider-web.

Every year since my Nanny survived cancer she has embraced both a survivor and victim status. A strange, demanding, self-absorbed woman with a taste for melodrama, she would tell us every Christmas she wouldn't make it to the next one. Another trait of hers was holding every new-born baby in the family, gazing at it intensely, then passing the baby back to their mother before saying in a serious, almost regal tone: "That child will not be long for this world." Just an FYI, there have been no infant deaths in our family history over the last thirty plus years.

She is a conundrum for my emotions. I love her fiercely for her/despite her ways, as much as they infuriate me. I love that she is tiny and has the nickname 'Little Nanny' off my five-year-old nephew. I love that she played with us, even when she had cancer and was a big part of our childhood's when we were young, playing an active role in all of her grandchildren's lives even now. At the same time, I find the joy she gains from causing family arguments and long-term rifts between her own children incredibly aggravating, as well as her supposed blindness to bad eggs, like my cousin and uncle who have stolen off her, which is more likely down to her need for drama. She knows they have taken money off her, she knows they use her and speak to her in a disgusting, aggressive tone, but that doesn't matter, not when she can gain the thrill from my mum shouting at them in defence of an old woman. My Nanny rubs her hands with glee at this. The game is good fun when you're the King, but not so much when you're the pawn. Having realised this over time, my mum took steps away from her own mum, always loving her, always supportive, but with a more distant and guarded approach.

A game was played on Tuesday, when my mum received a phone call from my Nanny's best friend, asking if my mum could take Nanny to the hospital next week. My mum said she was working but asked what it was about, to which my Nan's best friend explained that my Nan was bleeding and was going to see a gynaecologist. She has had cancer of the womb twice, the first time not as serious as when she lived with us, and my mum is worried it has returned. I am angry my mum is worried, and that she found out in this way, from her own mum's best friend? That is bullshit. My Nanny will be loving the questions going round in my mum's head: "Why didnt she tell me? Am I not there enough for her? Should I have made more time for her?" It is horribly unfair, manipulative and selfish.

Love is incredibly complicated, sometimes never more-so than when it involves the love within a family.I pray my Nanny is OK and that this is all a scare that can be dealt with easily. I love her very much and it pains me that behind the glee from this dramatic twist is a woman that has fought that ugly, brutal, and hungry disease twice already. Twice is enough. Once is enough. She has had enough of it so it should just leave her the hell alone so she can carry on being the difficult and bizarre, but incredibly loving and vulnerable woman that she is.

Family (Take One)

Family is like a cake, or a group of cakes, that you had no choice in buying, and they're there, and some are only available at Christmas... and some taste like dick and you hate them. Others taste OK but kinda a little off and then some you wanna eat and cuddle and punch in their cake face all at the same time.Others were clearly brought in a sale...

Seriously, why would anyone take the time to make such a thing!?

Enough of the cake metaphor. It was a terrible choice, and for that I am sorry.

This is not the way I planned for this blog post to go.

Take two on a more thought provoking, less horrifically described blog about family to come tomorrow.

A lesson in lesbian online dating

Hands in the air: I'm kinda drunk right now, so bear with me.

I met my bro for a couple of drinks and the subject of dating naturally came up, what with us both being single, attractive and moderately decent human beings (if you ignore our hatred of 99 per cent of the squealing, excitable, false, arrogant and frankly bizarre women that we witness in bars every week).

"Hey Ben, I'm writing a blog on dating."

"Maybe wait til your sober?"

"Nah, what's thw worst that can happen?"

So our discussion came down to POF, aka Plenty of Fish, an online dating/hook-up site that we both use to meet potential suitors that will, with our hopes at the top level, love us despite of or even for our quirks,will be our best mate who has amazing sex with us and is ultimately awesome so we can love them too, despite our fears of being hurt etc., or, with our hopes at the bottom level, offer us intelligent and witty banter, amazing sex, and fun dates for a couple of months (or in my brothers case, a couple of hours). Does this ever happen? VERY VERY  RARELY. And why doesn't it ever happen? Is it because no girls are interested? NO. Is it because girls are fucking crazy? In a nutshell: YES.

In a recent article I spoke about part one of my year of being single, which mainly involved a barely-serious rebound with a girl and the intense feelings of a girl called Hazel. The plus side to both of these women, despite their obvious differences in interests, looks and social abilities in the crazy world of dating, was that they both made it clear that they were INTERESTED. Yeah, Hazel attempted to give me herpes; yeah, she frightened the life out of me during our date, but she showed she was keen, right!?

Same with Caroline, I knew she liked me. I knew I liked her. I knew we were both in pain but regardless of that we enjoyed each others company, we had chemistry and we liked each other. Things were fairly simple, despite the obvious.... distractions towards ghosts of our pasts. But since... I don't know... October WHAT THE FUCK LESBIANS?!

I have had to avoid the same lesbian friend due to two horribly-cringe experiences for a period of a month or so each time. One involved her giving me the most awkward massage of my life in a gay bar; I didn't ask for it and I didn't want it, but she gave me it anyway. At one point she commented on how tense I was during this over-jacket-molestation, to which I said "Yes, because I don't like people touching me like that if they're not my girlfriend." This is true. The thought of someone even standing near me if I don't know them freaks me the Hell out. Following the knot-inducing massage, she later tried to kiss me, and even though I made it clear to her I wasn't interested by A) not kissing her back! and B) Not meeting up with her for a month or so, she still was the gift that kept on giving. Regarde:

(I won't name names, lets call her Shamone) Shamone: I am having such a hard time with this girl I have had sex with a couple of times and really like. I was seeing her when she had a girlfriend but she broke up with her because she was having sex with me; but then went to stay over at a girls house who she met off POF to watch films and now they call each other lots and hang out all the time and I don't know what to do. I asked her about it  and she said she kinda likes POF movie night girl and kinda likes me so I asked her out on a date and she said she couldn't because she was seeing this POF movie girl and I was so jealous. She then asked for a lift to meet this girl so I drove her half the half an hour journey and she didn't even pay me any money! I just really like her so much (because she is clearly such a brilliant person to have in your life. Wow.). By the way, are you free next Saturday? I thought we could have that date we have talked about, but have it at the local gay bar where this girl is gonna be with the POF film over night girl, what do you say?"

I say: CLICK: OFFLINE.

But what do I really want to say? How about: "How did we come to this? Where we sacrifice our friendships to get laid by skanks? Where we sacrifice our own honour and ethics for our own ego, so we can be the one these awful women choose? Shamone, you don't give a fuck about me, and what the fuck? We never discussed a date! I am so mad right now and hurt that you would treat me this way. Like a piece of relatively good looking meat to make some other girl jealous? Is my soul worth that? Is our friendship worth that to you? Do I mean so little that I am just an exterior?!"

So yeah, I mean, that story wasn't relevant to my point at stumbling at the first hurdle. Well, it is for Shamone and her skank I guess, but I was a mere pawn in that scab pile cesspit of poor behaviour.

I have stumbled at the first hurdle a few times, or even managed to get over the first hurdle, only to stagger a little, try desperately to keep running and ultimately end up bloody kneed and bashed on the floor, alone and bewildered. This is what happened with the police officer. We chatted online for a while, then she asked me out for dinner and I happily obliged despite her inability to converse properly online. Most conversations complimented me on my good sense of humour, with little banter back, but she was stunning and had a cool job.

So that weekend I was in a four star hotel in London that I got an amazing deal on and I was running late so the police officer offered to come to me. I gave her my room number, carried on getting ready and a few hours later there was a knock on the door. She was so beautiful. I still remember this really cute smile she did over something I said before we went to get food. We were flirting on the way, linking arms and teasing each other and play fighting and we chatted away in a bar in Earls Court. Before we knew it it was pretty late and I told her if she needed to stay with me because of tubes or whatever she could and I wouldn't try it on, so she did. Her profile was beautiful, as she lay there, semi smiling with her eyes closed and waiting for me to kiss her.*sigh*

So... what do you think happened next guys? After we spent the night making out and even kissing our way to the hotel door as we said our goodbyes and ,made promises to see each other soon and sent texts all day and for the next few weeks saying how amazing we thought each other was? What do you think happened?

"What DID happen next???"

I have not seen that girl since in the flesh. Just the odd Facebook update, and do you know why? Because I don't. We went from texting all the time, to nothing. Its not a big deal, in the big scheme of things, but she said she really liked me and gave me a really positive vibe, then she just disappeared. What the fuck is that?

So after a few weeks of expecting something to somehow develop in a hell hole of disappointment, I moved on to Daniella, an attractive, opinionated but ultimately weak strumpet who rang me every other day and flirted with me all the time only to stand me up on the day of our date because she met a 'straight' girl the day before who she was unsure about but thought she would give it a go. Things went well on that date for them, meanwhile I was left feeling like a dick by some toxic lesbian who had the audacity to say: "You shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket, you should be more like me and have more options open, but if things dont work out with me and (thinks of name to make up for sake of politeness) Dickmouth can I give you a call?"

"Errrrrrrr...... NO."

I naturally left her and Dickmouth to it; hurt, yet smug in the knowledge that they were clearly doomed. Three months later I got a call from Daniella, and it was back like old times. She was flirty, charming and witty, while also hurt and angry at the behaviour of Dickmouth, who was secretly messaging men on Facebook and flirting with men in bars. They were rarely having sex, bickering all the time and generally making one another miserable. So, from this, did Daniella take her chance at potential happiness with me? NO. Partly because I laughed at her downfall when she told me about it, partly because I admitted I was cautious at giving her any benefit of the doubt after her previous shitty behaviour, and partly because her egotism made her want to keep trying to be better than Dickmouth's desire for dick. Once again, and for the final time, Daniella let me down. Seriously, what the Hell?

After those two experiences I felt I needed some time out... and I am kinda drunk so its hard to remember what happened next. I did meet a girl at some point in Norwich who was nice enough and fun to talk to, save for when she was bitching about her parents. She ruined it by saying she had to be home by seven because her parents would be mad. FYI, she was 24.

There is also the story of coke girl. But I cant do that right now. I'm sorry.

"And the ones that aren't emotionally spasticated, that would be awesome. Thanks."

Another prime example of the weird behaviour of single people is Text Girl, who has been messaging my brother for weeks and telling him where she is on nights out, so he shows up and she ignores him. When he leaves she texts saying he should have stayed so they could go somewhere together. With this at the back of his mind, he goes to the next place she tells him she is at at a later date, only for her to ignore him again. What is the point in this behaviour?? Why do girls treat people this way? Is it that they just aren't into you? Or is it more that they frequently tend to have some sort of emotional relationship going on with an ex that they cant quite let go of yet, so they instead string along someone else as a distraction? Or is it all that so many women are just absolutely insane?

Still.... when disheartened and blue, there is always Michelle Jenneke to look at. <3 

Sinister schminister (a review of the film)

True crime writer Ellison Oswalt (obnoxious name, who'd call a kid Ellison? just kill him now) had a hit in the nineties with his book 'Kentucky Blood' and, much like a drug addict, he has been Kentucky fried craving just one more after the following years resulted in very modest success. Desperate, he uproots his oblivious family, not just to a new town, but to the very house where the brutal and calculated murder of a whole family took place.

"I love my whole family to death. Literally, you just wait bitch."

The wonderful Ethan Hawke takes the lead as Oswalt, a man willing to sacrifice anything for another 15 minutes in the limelight; his marriage and his children come second to his wants and desires, even when he finds a mysterious box of snuff films in the attic. Who put it there? Who killed all of these families? You will never guess. Seriously, you won't. If this had gone down the serial killer route, it would have made for a fairly decent movie, but seeing that it was created by the producer of Paranormal Activity, shits about to get ridiculous.

Beats American Idol any day.

Having found the box, Oswalt takes it to his office and plays the super 8 films on a projector. Cue lots of rubbing of the chin, squinting eyes and downing of whiskey as our hero witnesses family murder after family murder. The deaths themselves, shown in a grainy and old fashioned style, are uncomfortable to watch yet intriguing. This is no crazed lunatic out on a stroll with an axe/chainsaw/gun that saw an opportunity and took it, these murders were well thought out, almost artistic.

"What did our family do at the weekend? Oh, you know, just hung around in the garden."

For example, the unfortunate family that were murdered in Oswalt's new home were hung from a tree in the back garden from a snapped branch and a pulley that lifted them from the ground into a desperate but ultimately futile battle to survive. They kick their feet, jerk their bodies, then one by one go limp before the film finishes.Another family are taped to sun loungers and yanked into a swimming pool one by one from a rope. While watching these horrible sights, Oswalt continues to glug away while writing extremely obvious notes such as: 'Who made this film?' and 'Where's Stephanie?'

Stephanie is the missing child of the murdered family, a child that the police have already given up hope of finding as they occupy their time sneering at Oswalt for showing up the mistakes of their cop bredren in his previous books. Maybe if they did their job properly instead of shrugging their shoulders over a missing child and whiling away their time dicking about bickering with a writer or dishing out speeding tickets they wouldn't have anything to worry about. As it stands, the cops have missed out on what is really going on in that old house, big time, and should indeed be very worried.

It turns out that these reels, dating back to 1966, all have the same symbol displayed and same creepy figure in the background that reminds me a little of Jigsaw or a secret band member of Hollywood Undead. He first appears in the reflection of the pool, a shadowy, pale, alien face, and then in the bushes; still blurred, still mysterious and terrifying. Confused and brown in the pants by these findings, does Oswalt ever think to call the police at the potential of a masked serial killer messing around with him? No. Not even when he starts hearing weird noises in his house, or when his kids start behaving in a manner that would usually result in some sort of therapy (the boy develops night terrors that result in one of the biggest jump-inducing moments in modern horror films, while the daughter starts painting strange figures of murder and boogie men in contrast to her earlier paintings of unicorns and joy).

I consume children even though I have no mouth. Your argument is invalid.

Later in the film Oswalt turns to a rookie cop and fan of 'Kentucky Blood' for information, who also puts him in contact with a deity and myth something or other know-it-all, which leads to the pieces coming together. I didn't fully pay attention at this point because I knew the route the film was going and I'm not big on the fantastical, but it is along the lines of a Pagan deity, called Bagul, that is using recorded images as a way to move through time and consume children after potentially possessing them or getting them to do his bidding of murdering their whole family.With this knowledge would you run away and never look back, think screw the book deal, the potential movie deal, the fame and the glory, I love the survival and sanity of my family and myself more? I would, but does Oswalt? Of course not.

We've been playing fancy dress with mummy's make up box.

Although I wasn't a major fan of the whole clay-faced kids running about and making creaky noises turn the movie took, or even the later over-use of what was at first a genuinely creepy and mysterious horror movie villain, I did find the soundtrack and effects genuinely uncomfortable and tension inducing. The use of lighting, particularly around Oswalt as he kept secrets from his family and walked deeper into the shadows of his own egotism and selfishness, was also effective. Sadly it couldn't save my opinion of the film overall. Even the ending, with Oswalt and his family axed to death by the artistic daughter, didn't stop me feeling dissapointed. Too many cheap scares, too much of a good thing with Bagul, too many kids caked with make-up running about trying to be scary, and definitely too much over-acting from the amateur daughter in this scene:

If I bend my neck like this and stare into space everyone will shit themselves

Sinister indeed had elements that were sinister, the snuff films in particular looked disturbingly realistic, and the behaviour of a desperate father and husband sacrificing the safety of his family for his own needs gave the film depth, but ultimately the supernatural twist ruined the potential of what could have been an excellent thriller/slasher in the same vein as The Strangers. What a bagul of old bollocks.

For now Ethan, adieu. I await the sequel of the magnificent Before Sunset with baited breath.

A year of living singly Part One

It has been a year since I broke up with Ali. It the worst break up of my life and potentially the worst time of my life. In the space of a month I lost my job, my girlfriend, and had a partial thyroidectomy to remove a potentially cancerous lump from my throat. It wasn't exactly a typical break-up... I've never read a problem page story that reads: "My girlfriend was depressed, hated herself, hated me for loving her, hated our dog, hated going to uni, hated having a job, hated responsibility, hated everything, until one day she met a self-righteous, preaching, bi-sexual c-word and decided to go travelling with her. Wanted me to sell the dog because she needed money to run away, would sigh, roll her eyes and play Angry Birds on her tablet as I cried and tried to make things work, blocked me out by putting on her blinkers and looking straight ahead, past the three years of being in love, past the arguments, past her insecurities, her pain and mine, to those beautiful beaches, those exotic smiling people, the blistering sun and those sensuous calming seas, and of course, the potentially beautiful future she could have with that bikini-clad Lithuanian vilifying strumpet. What do I do, Dear Deirdre? What the fuck do I do?"

Some say life's a beach. I'd say its more of a massive stinky anus.

That was all a year ago, and what a year it has been. It all began with a rebound relationship with an emerald-eyed, engaging and emotionally engaged holistic therapist who dated me partly because she liked me and partly because I looked uncomfortably similar to the ex-girlfriend she was still in love with. She didn't tell me this fact straight away, of course, that would be weird.

By rebound I really do mean rebound. I broke up with Ali in late May 2012, I had my operation on the 10th of June and I met Caroline, my neck a butterfly stitched ugly mess of rawness, around the 20th. We walked around Hammersmith chatting in the sunshine before getting some drinks and nachos; I remember I liked her smile, the way she arched her eyebrows flirtatiously and her calm, relaxed manner. She asked me to go camping with her a fortnight later and I agreed because I liked her attention, I liked her, I had just acquired nearly five grand in redundancy pay and the thought of being in the same building as Ali for any longer than absolutely necessary was too unbearable. I had recently walked in on her and The Other Girl sharing the sofa bed one morning and had a major flip out. Items were thrown and savage, pain-filled words were hissed into Ali's confused, faux-innocent face: "Friends share beds Jo, its normal, you just cant handle the fact that she is bi-sexual. You think that means she likes me, but its not true, I swear it."

They say what hurts often instructs and I can honestly say that I have learnt a lot. One of the key things I can tell anyone reading this is:

One should always ignore the ifs and the buts
and instead listen to the head and listen to the gut.

If something is gnawing away at you, it is gnawing for a reason. Your gut isn't your insecurity, it is your protector and it is your friend. Listen to it and get out. Don't do what I did, which is basically the same as seeing a tiger running towards you and closing your eyes thinking that tiger isn't going to be there any more because whether you open your eyes or not you are going to hear that tiger coming; you are going to feel its hot breath on your face and you are really going to feel it as it rips you to fucking bits. Get out. Get out. Get out.

"You should have run when you had the chance."

You would think I would want to get Ali back for her turning my heart into an obliterated hole, and to be honest at one point I thought I would like that too, but when it came to it, came to me packing my bag and her knowing I was going to see that girl, and me seeing her making that face she makes when she is trying so fucking hard not to cry and I am chewing on my cheeks to stop me from bursting into tears because all I wanted at that time right then was for her to love me and for her to want me and to want to be with me and to make it work so I wouldn't go get on that train and I could stay with her and we could somehow be happy despite everything; but she couldn't do that and we couldn't go back to that... we couldn't go back to happy. So I got on that train and spent a weekend camping with Caroline in Devon.

We had a lot of fun camping. I remember we spent 16 hours together in a tiny tent because it was pissing it down, and we drank wine, and we had sex (I cried afterwards), and we read books to each other and she played her guitar to me. I am glad she was my rebound, even though it was so obviously doomed. We lasted around five months of camping, staying in hotels and at her parents house before we called it quits; neither of us was ready for a relationship and we both obviously had a lot of shit to deal with. It hurt a lot though. Despite her occasional spoilt brat behaviour, her criticisms, and the time she waved her hands around my head in front of a gang of bewildered butch hockey players to 'heal' me after I smacked my head on her car, it did hurt (not the car, that obviously hurt, even after her alleged healing hands wafted air around my head, I mean the break up itself).

This is a prime example of what love is.

As another one bit the dust, another girl came along. Her name was Hazel, she was a singer/songwriter and she was the most intense, crazy-ass date of my life, save for coke-girl, but she comes along later. For now, we are all about the Haze (I never called her that). We spoke online, on skype and on the phone all the time before we actually met and there was a definite bond of some sort, which Hazel took to mean that I was the love of her life. When we met she had written me a little love letter on a postcard, had two hair products for me because I once casually mentioned that they looked good from an advert, and a cup with her home town printed on it. Within half an hour she was looking up flights for me to go to France with her in a fortnight to meet her sister, was asking me to go to a hotel with her and generally being terrifyingly intense. It was in Tate Modern when I  accidentally touched her hand on the escalator and felt like I had been electrocuted that I realised I was out of my depth in this situation. We went to a cocktail bar and Hazel and I sat in the sun chatting, a nice casual conversation for a first date:

Hazel: We don't have to get a hotel, I could come home with you?

Me: Errr... I think we could just spend some time together today, during the day and see how we feel about that at another point.

Hazel: But we could spend so much more time together! I really wanna keep hanging out with you and I could meet your family.

Me: Mmm. *sips long island iced tea*

It was then that Hazel went in for the kill, kissing me in a way that reminded me of a turtle gumming on some cabbage leaves. Once it was over I asked to be excused to go to the bathroom, where I made a hasty phone call to my friend Tony.

Tony: Hello? Aren't you on a date?

Me: Help me!

Tony: What?

Me: She kissed me and I didn't like it and she asked me to go to France with her and she wants to come home with me or for us to get a hotel and I'm frightened!

Tony: Err...

Me: Hurry!

Tony: I don't know! I've never been in this situation!

I hung up in disgust and went back upstairs where an expectant Hazel waited.

Hazel: So?

Me: What?

Hazel: Did you feel anything from our kiss?

Me: *coughs awkwardly* Well.... no. Actually. Did you?

Hazel's eyes filled with tears and she put her coat on. So I did too, because it seemed like the time for us to put our coats on. We walked out, Hazel first, her back rigid with rage. We walked a little while together, in silence, while I hoped she wasnt about to punch me with her tight fists.It was then that she turned on me, her eyes hard yet watery.

Hazel: You didn't feel anything?

Me: I'm really sorry.

Hazel: Nothing?!

Me: I'm really sorry.

Hazel: But I thought we had a connection. We talk all the time! We tell each other everything! I really like you and I know you like me.

Me: I'm really sorry. I do like you but I didn't feel anything and I'm sorry.

Hazel stared at me for a while as I looked at anything but her.

Me: I'm gonna go.

Hazel: You're leaving me here alone!

Me: Well, you know how to get back don't you.

Hazel: You don't want to talk about this!

Me: I'm really sorry.

It was then that I got on the nearest tube and got the early train home.A few weeks later Hazel rang me to confess something, told me I would hate her and that she was sorry. I told her not to be silly, of course I wouldn't hate her and that I was sure that whatever she thought was bad really wasn't that bad. It was then that she told me she had herpes and felt really terrible for trying it on with me so much. She had also had sex with someone just before our date, and one person after and felt she needed to confess because she "really, REALLY, liked me."

"Bitch, that makes no sense."

It was another lesson to learn I guess: Just because someone may be really awesome to talk to, may make you laugh and be a great listener and good looking and talented and cool, doesn't mean they aren't an absolute herpes ridden nut job when it comes to dating. Haha, that wasn't where I was going with that at all, what I really mean to say is that regardless of all of the above, if you don't have chemistry, you don't have anything. This was a lesson I learnt with my next date: the beautiful, pillow-lipped, lovely, yet ultimately bland Lauren.

To be continued.

(In part two expect more awkwardness, me being molested, straight girls trying it on, me losing friends, vag-teases, commitmentphobes, girls with girlfriends, Ali realising the grass isn't greener, a make-out session with a hot police officer and a night with a coke-taking Jamie Winstone lookalike near-to-millionaire munchkin)