Nostalgic fm - Radio For The Unfulfilled?

I have just been spending the spare minutes of my working day in between phone calls perusing the various news sites to find out what's going on in the world, and in between which celeb got fat this week and what new superfood will save us all, I came across a little story about a new radio station. Absolute Radio (formerly known as Virgin fm) are launching a new station, called Absolute 80s, which will be playing - yes you guessed it - music from that magical shellsuit-filled era of the 1980s. This station will be dedicated to the likes of Duran Duran, Prince,

Madonna...Chris deBurgh(?!) and expressly aimed at a group termed 'reluctant adults', society's 30-54 year olds, who want to regress back to memories of their youth that has been preserved in the cheesey music around at the time.

The chief operator of the Absolute Radio chain, Clive Dickens, said there is a gap in the market for this kind of station, that listeners of this age group 'have responsibilities, are members of families but still want to participate and have fun and be involved in music', and this radio station - which will have no DJs and be run on a dukebox type system - is the way to offer this.

There are a number of things that struck me about Dickens' statement. First of all, that those around the middle aged bracket with their responsibilities and families need something provided to them to enable them to 'have fun'. What a depressing prospect! Both that hitting middle age means you're going to be bored and unable to appreciate modern music, but also that the invention of a mere radio station will be able to solve such pining! At 22 I do already appreciate the memories that can be brought back through music, but to think that I will eternally crave for the music of my youth because it holds the only memories worth remembering...shall I just slit my wrists now?! Surely responsible adulthood holds some opportunity for fun? Surely 'the noughties' haven't brought that much disappointment?

Also, despite only being alive for 2 full years of the 80s, I and many of my friends would love to tune into such a retro radio station. True, it does not bring back many memories to speak of, but we would listen because we have been influenced by our parents' tastes, and - as with the slightly questionable return of shoulder-pads shows - because the 80s is very cool right now. It's a cheesey kitsch dream and allows for the most horrendous of dance moves. Dickens hasn't thought of this in his 30-54 year age range, either because us young 80s lovers are an unknown pocket of radio listeners, or because he wants to cover up his possible desperation. You see, the reason Absolute 80s has come to be is to fill in the gap left by Absolute Xtreme, which was dedicated to rock music but has been largely outdone by the other rock giants such as Xfm, NME Radio and Kerrang. So, are there really this large group of adults who are so disappointed with grown-updome that they wish to lose themselves in times gone by? Or is the Absolute group clutching at straws when there are so many other radio stations who have taken almost every niche going? I guess we'll have to wait and see.

I personally hope it is a success, then we can get a 90s radio station going when I too am middle aged and discontent...Spice Girls, 5ive, Backstreet Boys, N*Sync...

(Original story at www.guardian.co.uk)

I think I must have one of the only blogs, anywhere, ever, that hasn't made comment on the turmoil the world of celebrity has experienced recently with the death of Michael Jackson. What can I say, I guess I'm just a bit slow. Unbelievably it has nearly been two weeks since the 'King of Pop' died, and I think the event probably will be one of those where you remember what you were doing when you heard the news. I was in bed, vaguely considering dragging myself downstairs, when my sister thundered up to tell my mum and I what had happened - 'Michael Jackson died.' I had to ask her to repeat this several times, I didn't think I'd heard her properly - Michael Jackson was one of those people, so far away from 'normal' that surely he would be around forever, he was too different, too famous to die like the rest of us. But, unfortunately he did.

While I have always been a fan of 'MJ', I am not one of these people who are only realising now that buying his greatest hits might be a good idea, he was not a huge part of my childhood - I just remember trying, and failing, to learn the various dances he does in his videos - particularly 'Thriller', to this day I still find that video absolutely amazing! To me, especially recently, he was more of a source of intrigue and pity, if I'm honest. That good looking little boy from the Jackon 5 had grown up and cracked under the pressure of Hollywood. I watched the documentary with Martin Bashir and the inconceivable ramifications that followed it, leaving the nagging question in everyone's head - did he or didn't he? In my opinion, no, he didn't. Not that it counts for much, or has any evidence to back it up, but then neither did the tabloids who pretty much labelled him a paedophile from then on. This is one of the things that has got me about Jackson's death - alive = child abuser, freak but death = legend - like the former never happened. Why has this man had to die for the media to stop bullying him? And not only stop, but to make such great tributes to him - have the journalists actually found a conscience?

Obviously not everyone sees Michael Jackson's death as a tragedy, or really any big deal - when I logged on to Facebook the day after it happened it was littered with both positive and negative comments - the bad press had managed to permanently sway some people. And then there was those incredibly witty minds who decided that making jokes out of someone's death just hours after it had happened was a good thing to do - even just a day's grace would have been nice. And, let's be honest, just because you put the term 'kiddie fiddler' into a joke, it doesn't make it funny.

Hopefully Jackson's memorial service yesterday would have silenced all of those cynics out there - love him or hate him, there was no getting away from the fact that Michael Jackson was an amazing, legendary performer who has left a huge legacy behind him, and the fact that he was just a man. A man who was a son, a brother, and a father. If people cannot have respect for that, then hopefully they can at least find some for his daughter, the brave young girl who stood in front of all those people to tell them that out of the ridiculous celebrity bubble, he was 'the best father'. No one can argue with that.

"Open The Door"...

...Were the words I had been dreading reaching my ears for some time now. When I did finally hear them, gruffly shouted from somewhere behind me by a bearded man in his sixties, I was not as horrified as I had imagined.

This particular moment had been swirling around in the back of my mind since the dark days of winter, when I was sat in my cosy room, idly looking around for some form of escape from the pending essay sat before me on my laptop. Nothing on tv, the world of social networking had nothing left for me...cleaning? Well, no, always a silly option left only for the very tedious work exercises. That's when I remembered, the little red card that had been sat on my desk since my birthday - my 21st birthday to be exact. It was a present from my stepmother, a voucher for the Virgin 'Red Letter Days'. It was worth quite a lot of money - she had bought it in the hope that I would book the same experience she had done a few months before; diving in a tank full of rather large sharks, with two trained divers beside you. While I'm sure this was great, and you are assured the sharks have been recently fed, what could the instructors do if they fancied my hand as a snack? I mean, even after the biggest dinner, I could always probably manage a KitKat...

So, I had a look on the website and browsed the different options that were available for the value of my voucher. Spa treatments...could be nice, but perhaps a little boring, car racing...I can barely control my Ford KA...that's when I saw it - on limited special offer for restricted time only - tandem skydiving!! It was perfect, it was exciting, dramatic, and got me away from those bloody sharks! When should I book it for? Well, lets see, I will have given in all of my work by May 18th, so how about the weekend after that? It's not for months, that seems perfect. And so, it was done.

All of those months passed an awful lot quicker than I was anticipating, however, and before I knew it, I was struggling to roll myself out of bed on that sunny Saturday morning. I think I had managed a grand total of an hour's sleep the night before. For one reason and another I found myself in the car with an audience of my mother, my auntie and my nan, all of whom cried out and nudged me whenever a plane flew overhead, or we drove past a sign for Swindon (where the airfield was.) This did not help my nerves.

After a few minor direction malfunctions we found ourselves pulling up at the airfield, which consisted of a field - oddly enough - a huge open sided shelter littered with parachutes being rolled back up and nervous 'students' wandering around, a mobile greasy-spoon cafe, and an array of picnic benches. We especially thanked the good weather after it transpired we had to wait for several hours on these picnic benches.

I went through the obligatory training, sitting in a circle with other pale-looking parachutists-to-be, it was like some kind of cockney-man-yoga to the angry sound of propellors rather than calming, twinkly background music. It all seemed quite simple in theory, but seeing my nan in the distance continually winking at me made it a little difficult to concentrate, clearly she had taken a shine to the instructor. Once this was done, I was ready, the nerves were gone and I was ready to DO THIS! But unfortunately, due to large numbers of people I had to wait four hours. For me, they were somewhat uneventful so I won't plague you with them. Let's skip to...

...I heard my name being shouted across the crowd of picnicers by a stocky man, probably in his thirties, with the top half of his jumpsuit trailing around his waist, the arms dancing as he walked. I had seen him do a jump with a girl who's family had been sitting behind me, at least she had come back in one piece. My instructor, Ash, introduced me to my jumpsuit - I had been hoping for one of the garish multi-colour pieces that were hanging on a clothes rail, the ones that must have been based on an eighties shellsuit. No such luck, I had to settle for black, with some nice red and yellow racing stripes down the side - I would've been cool if I were a car. We walked through the long grass towards the plane - it didn't look much bigger than those I've seen teenage boys flying with remote controls. This pilot, however, was no teenager, and certainly no gentleman. As soon as I had reached within speaking distance he shouted over to me, 'Well, you can tell she's got a big arse!' (I was the only 'she' in the group, so there was no mistaking it). After a good sixty years of existence, how does he not get that you just don't say that to a female?!

Anyway, since he was the man in charge when I was at 10,000ft, I decided to let it slide. We all climbed inside the aircraft, the space inside was no bigger than the inside of a van. As there were seven of us - and all, apart from me, quite large men, there is only one arrangement of bodies that works - in between each other's legs. Bodily contact is certainly not shied away from in the parachuting business.

It took around twenty-five minutes for the plane to climb to the desired height, and I was strangely calm. I looked out at the views of the English countryside, admired how the fields looked like a patchwork quilt of various greens and yellows, watched with wonder as we passed effortlessly through the clouds. I was less panicked in this tiny, rickety plane than on a commercial passenger jet.

This is when those words came.

I was told to pull down my goggles as the door was slid open, and a wealth of noise and air flooded the inside. Two parachutists who were jumping alone went before me - the first literally shuffled to the edge and rolled out on his side. By this point, yes, I was rather terrified, but there was nothing I could do as my instructor began to move himself, and therefore me, towards the door. I remembered the training; as he reached the door I had to swing my legs out and hook them underneath the plane, hold onto my shoulder straps, and lean my head back - at least I couldn't see the ground outside. I don't remember falling out.

On rollercoaster rides, I always remember the sickening, stomach-flipping feeling that comes from falling a long way - I had been expecting to experience this for the thirty seconds I would be falling, but it never came. The speed made the air become some kind of buffer beneath me, and instead of falling at 120mph, I just felt like I was lying down in a very very windy place. The noise was literally deafening, and when the parachute was inflated the silence that followed was almost ghostly. It was only once we had slowed down that I could sort of comprehend what had just happened, and realise that I had done the scariest part. I had done it!

I think I laughed all the way back down to earth as I reminded myself of this, with the late afternoon sun beating on my face, and the air rushing through the few strands of hair that had come loose in the fall. I can't go into much more detail of the experience itself; like I have heard so many people say, somewhat irritatingly, it is simply indescribable. Only doing it yourself would allow an understanding of what it is like, and after the day I have had today, I would strongly recommend that you do.

And It's All Over

Well, as of yesterday I officially finished and gave in my last pieces of work for my degree. It's done, I made it, now I just have to wait for it to be marked (hopefully generously) and I'll have some form of a degree! Somehow I managed to choose my modules wisely and wriggled out of doing an exam; it's quite a sore point with my housemates, some of whom have three or four to revise for...I'm quite hated, but now I have absolutely no idea what to do - with the next couple of weeks before everyone finishes exams and can party, with the summer, with...life! I would have thought I'd be the most excited girl around, being free to watch all the films I put off when I was working, read books, draw stuff...but already I have itchy feet and it has only been a day! This wasn't helped by the fact that I need to start emptying my room of stuff as it's going to take a few trips to get it all home (where it's going to go is another matter...perhaps for another time) and placing all my books and things into boxes just reminded me of how excited I was three years ago in halls, taking them out, finding somewhere for them to go, making a space for myself.

Perhaps this is what I'm most scared of - losing independence. It's been a little daunting sometimes the amount I've had at uni, but, it's great! I can do the living-without-my-parents thing! And I don't know how it will work going from this to sharing a room with my sister again. Obviously I've had to do it over the holidays, but I think there's a different mindset when you know that it's only temporary. Hmm. 

The English Department (legends that they are) organised a talk for us finalists after the last pieces of work had been given in, and it was lovely (despite my needing the toilet for the duration) as they outlined what we had all achieved in our time on the course. I had never really thought about it, but I have worked bloody hard at this - most of the time - and I couldn't help but feel proud that I'd seen it through to the end, and so far done a pretty decent job. What did not help, however, was everyone around me raising their hands when asked 'Who has solid plans for when they leave?' I'd like a plan. The free wine following the talk helped make me forget about this for a while though, which was nice. Especially as it was poured by my lecturers (one of which I think may have made a start on the wine beforehand, she's great! I seem to like brackets in this post.)

This was another thing that hit me - it's just typical that, unlike secondary school which I got so bored of, couldn't wait to leave, and unfortunately run into people that went there all the time, I have to leave university after a much shorter time, where I have loved being, met some amazing people, and finally just about feel like I know what I'm doing...what's up with that?! Oh well, if I try to put a good spin on it all I suppose I've been so lucky in experiencing any of this at all, and I can stay in touch with the people that matter once it's all done. Yes, I like that thinking.

For now though, I will try and take advantage of my freedom watching some crappy TV whilst doodling whatever comes into my head, as I miss it. After that, I guess I should spend some time thinking up one of these plan things that everyone else seems to have...I wonder what I was doing when they were all thinking of theirs?

The Monumental Day...or not so much

Today was the day, the defining moment in a student's university experience, the moment all of your time of (sometimes questionable) learning has lead up: The Dissertation. After a year of deciding on a topic, going through hours of research, trying to form some sort of comprehensive argument, and trying to get my head round how to reference all of these witty quotations I'd come across - today was the day I finally handed it in.

Now, I know larger and larger proportions of society are going and getting themselves one of these degree thingies at the moment, but with the amount of stress, worry and sleepless nights some of my housemates and I went through over these projects, it was like we were the first people ever to do them. And we're the fairly organised ones that have given them in early, who knows about these others that have been rumored to be living in the campus library now; their skin pale and oily, rings around their eyes, and shaking hands from an overload of caffeine having only just started to research their topic a couple of weeks before the due date. 

No, I wasn't one of these people, I could have stretched out working on it until Monday, but the truth is I'm so sick of the sight of the thing that I just wanted it out of my life. And did that bring me relief? Well, not really. Firstly, I'm still worrying about the damn thing even after I've given it in - is there anything else I should have done? Why don't I have as many references as other people? Secondly, the feeling of being free from this weight that has been pulling at the back of my mind for so long is a little unsettling - I sat watching some celebratory daytime tv earlier feeling like a naughty schoolgirl - surely I should be doing something else? And thirdly, even though I was organised enough to give it in early, the very thought of doing so made me forget all of my things for my afternoon seminar, which put an extra 40 minutes of very speedy walking time home and back to campus, and quite frankly, rather than going out to party I'd rather collapse in bed!

So much for Britain's youth of today being manic and out of control, I'll be asleep by 11!

Turn Up For The Books!

Well, this blog was not only intended to be a string of review ramblings, but also about the experiences of a student graduating into a seriously messed up work place. I haven't had anything to report, as despite sending my CV to lotsss of job listings on various graduate job sites I hadn't heard a peep. Until now. This morning, in fact about ten minutes ago whilst I was leisurely browsing through my junk emails, I got a phone call in response to one of said applications. As excited as I was that someone had finally got back to me, it was unfortunately regarding the position I knew least about...in video games. I have been asked to attend an interview next week, so will of course be scouring the web for as many interview tips, do's and don'ts, and all the rest of it - but I doubt there will be tips for feigning an interest in video games. What to do?

Well, I guess, like most people do at some point in interviews, I'll just lie. And, like most people who lie in interviews, the interviewer who is used to people lying and catching them out, will catch me out. Pessimistic? 

And then, my other dilemma, what if they actually offer me the job? It is minimum graduate salary but if I accept it would probably mean I have to live in London...and after rent and graduate loan payments have been taken out of my salary, I'll have about £5 left to play with. And then, what if they offer me the job, I accept, and a couple of weeks later I get a response from a prospective DREAM job - right now I'm not even sure what that would be - but I can't accept it because I'm already busy moulding my hands into claws from playing video games all day? (Will I even get to play the video games?)

I think I liked it better when no one got back to me...