Isn't Life Just Gr18?

-My first night out since the big 18. Tears, a lost phone, a very drunk friend and 30 pounds blown

It seems from the age of about fourteen, my entire existence has been spent waiting to be eighteen years old. I foolishly spent many a birthday praying for a remote so I could slice off a few years of the waiting game. There were sneaky uses of others’ Ids, even an attempt to order decent fake ones off the internet, and of course the brave trying your luck at the corner shop method, but usually laughed away by the shop owner. The novelty of having my ID checked and verified by a cashier wore off pretty quickly, especially as it has lead me to discover that many people these days don’t actually know what year it is, or indeed can’t do a simple sum and have to count pain-stakingly slowly from 1993 to 2011. Also the fact that I look like a fucking angry corpse or something doesn’t do much for my confidence in ID checking situations, I’m not about to march right in there and say ‘well hello there young vender sir, could I have a bottle of your cheapest martini’, and wack out the old provisional licence when I look like my face is melting in the photo which is supposed to represent my face.

Being eighteen has been a little disappointing. I’m not sure if I expected a some fairy godmother to pop up out the ground and give me a money-free makeover, a driver, loads of energy and tons of friends who are always up for doing anything the second I turned eighteen. The fact of the matter is I’m still sat in my house, Snooki slippers on, on Wednesday night with no offers to hit the town and approximately 2p to finance me even if I wanted to.

Even if I do go out on the rampage, I’m so used to having to sneak a five pound bottle of vodka out of the house, or downing someone’s mum’s wine, or just asking for a little sippy of whatever everyone at the party is drinking that I don’t even know what to ask for when I’m out. Beer is too manly and boat-y, wine just makes me want to puke/sleep and shots usually rinse my purse and really aren’t exactly a whale of a time. Even Jägerbombs, the only nice, cheap and tipsy-making drink I can think of, are a mystery to me. For those of you who live under a rock or something, Jägerbombs are supposed to be a shot of Jägermister, bobbing around in a glass of red bull. You’re basically supposed to drink both the shot and the red bull at the same time by tipping both into your mouth at once, but queen of the dumbasses over here can’t manage that, so I pretty much just tip the shot in the glass most of the time. Often this is met with remarks of ‘CLAIRE YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG’. Cool story bro. I really don’t care.

So on the month’s anniversary of my eighteenth birthday, I’m kind of disappointed to be sat in a sleeping bag staring at my computer, just like I have spent every other evening for the last four years. No fairy godmother here. Hopefully I’ll enjoy my new eighteen-year-old status more on Friday, when I finally stop being a hermit and brave the world again.

Black Swan: Worth a watch, but not for the faint-hearted.

Starring Natalie Portman, who spends the vast majority of the film looking constipated, having people creep up on her and having very painful-looking and blood producing accidents, Black Swan is not for those with a weak stomach. The film follows the story of a young and dedicated dancer, Nina Sayers (Portman) in New York, who is finally gets her big break when her creepy ballet teacher Thomas Leroy (Vincent Cassel) gives her the role of both the Black and White swan in Swan Lake. Nina has, thus far in her dancing career, been poised and exact, so Thomas urges her to get in touch with her ‘dark side’ and become more of a black swan, as she is pitched against her alternate, Lily (Mila Kunis), who coincidentally keeps popping up in Nina’s dreams. Through her attempts to become more in touch with her own ‘Black Swan’, Nina becomes more and more shrouded in mental illness and her perception becomes increasingly unhinged from reality.



The majority of Black Swan should be watched through one’s fingers. There are some truly cringeworthily gruesome moments and this film is not for the squeamish, nor is it for young budding ballerinas or homophobes. It has its perks – the film cleverly follows the plot of the actual Swan Lake, in which the White Swan’s prince falls in love with her twin, and there’s this whole ‘oh my gosh that makes sense now’ moment where Lily and Nina go to a bar and a guy asks if they’re sisters. But overall, the film was just too nightmarishly odd for me, and it’s hard to know when there will be a nice bit of ballet or whether someone will suddenly fork out their eyeball or something. Not for the squeamish or weak-hearted, and a definite no-go for family viewing, unless your parents are cool about racy lesbian sex. If not, it’ll make a very awkward watch.

Shore-ly Loyal

loy·al·ty
[loi-uh l-tee]
–noun, plural -ties.

1. the state or quality of being loyal; faithfulness to commitments or obligations.
2. faithful adherence to a sovereign, government, leader, cause, etc.
3. an example or instance of faithfulness, adherence, or the like: a man with fierce loyalties.

Whenever I watch Jersey Shore, I’m always impressed by how fiercely they all seem to have each others’ backs. Out of everything to observe I suppose this is possibly the least significant – why not dwell on their inexplicable capability to drown themselves in booze, pass out in bed and still get up to work out the next day? Or their seemingly endless strings of skanky men and women being bought in and kicked out of the ‘communal smush room’ for one night? But having pretty much got past all these wonders by the first few episodes, I’ve started to have ulterior observations. On the whole, if someone’s your friend, then they’re your friend and that’s the end of it. They’ll believe what you say, have your back in a confrontation and probably even drag you home when you’re messy. At times I’ve found myself wistfully thinking ‘if only my own friendships were that simple’.

It’s hard to find loyal friends, ones that will listen to and believe your side of a story. It’s not a needle in a haystack, it’s worse. And what’s worse is that when you think you’ve sought out someone who’s got your back, it turns out they couldn’t give less of a crap about what you have to say. It’s like finding the perfect heels in the January sales - only to find when you wear them out, the strap breaks. I begin to wonder sometimes if I was born with a stamp on my head saying ‘don’t believe anything I say’ when I was born, only it can’t be seen unless I’m really trying to get my point across. Maybe that would explain why some people are prepared to accept the drivel, lies and nonsensical rubbish spewed into their ears by others who simply do not know what they’re talking about.

I guess it just bothers me when I hear people talking crap and not sticking up for my views because I just automatically assume that it’s part of the package. If you’re going to be someone’s friend, be loyal to them. Have their fucking back. Even if you can’t do that, have the fucking lenience to sit there whilst they speak their mind. And if you can’t do that, have the audacity to admit you’ve not got the tolerance, loyalty or reliability to be their friend.

Sorry if this blog has depressed you. Here is an adorable video to bring up your mood: