My parents were not do-ers. They were the kind of parents who found giving us lifts places not only the worst of parenting, but in some ways, the worst of life. How I longed for the kind of parents for whom a trip in in the Volvo at 10pm on a Thursday was a chance to get out of the house. Sadly those two selfish individuals could not be doing with it. Not when Newsnight was on. They were also not rememberers. My friend’s mums all remember me and my job and whether I eat gluten and the name of my first pet and why I regret voting Lib Dem and the fact that I SAY I can’t give blood because five years ago they said I was too low in iron, but we all know that I could try again if I wanted to. My parents, almost without exaggeration do not remember any of my friends. The most irritating thing about this is their jolly nonchalance to the fact, like veteran actors being reminded on a chat show that they’ve actually won 12 academy awards and not 10. ‘Oh yes, your friend Jennifer’ they chuckle when you ask them if they remember your roommate who saved your life that one time in a canoeing accident. ‘I remember her!’ - ’Do you?’ you ask. ‘Hahahaha no of course not hahahaha!’ and then they turn up Newsnight. If pushed further, they say ’ Well darling there’s you and your brother and your sister. That’s THREE of you’ as though you should be thankful they remember your name. And at that moment, to be fair, you are.
It makes me admire all the more my friend’s mums, especially the types who volunteered to be the chaperone on a 3 hour coach ride to the nearest Boyzone concert when their daughter was 12. The kind of Mum who would sit at the back of coach, buttoning her padded riding jacked up against the air conditioning, trying not the get poked in the eye by a glow stick. The woman who let her daughter’s friend, who’s own Mum was at home watching Newsnight, puke into the spare plastic bags she bought, while re-gluing sequins on the RONAN sign. The woman who stares stoically ahead while the bus launches into a pre-pubescent fervent chorus like a guidance councilor on a Nazi youth field trip. The woman stands at the back while her daughter and chums, with wild eyes and the gritted jaws of media executives on a night out, swear eternal allegiance to the cashcow disguised as a boyband. Then that same Mum bundles every body up, after silently handing over £75.99 on a ruler with the word Boyzone written on it, and pushes them towards the right coach. It’s now about 10.15pm. Daughter’s friends are running round in ever decreasing circles screaming. Mum’s only hope is that, please God, one of them goes into a coma. The coach fumbles it’s way through the coaches full of other mums and kids on their way out of the arena and the city. Sometimes they catch each other’s eyes. Sometimes a single tear slides down their face. It’s nearly gone 1 when you’ve got own daughter home after all the drop offs. All the lights are off when you deliver your daughter’s mates to their houses. The girls let themselves in quietly so as not to wake their blissfully asleep parents. The fuckers.
SIMON IS HAVING A BABY!!! I love the baby. The baby is my very best friend. I asked the lady Simon paid to have the baby for him that I’m going to go to Laser Bowl with the baby. I hope the baby likes skateboarding!
MY BIRTHDAY PARTY. Today! Today is my birthday party! Grandma got Twiglets, which are just like twigs but your Grandpa doesn’t shout at you if you eat it because it’s not covered in dog poo, and we put the twiglets in a bowl with a picture of Batman on it. Wendy had her hat on for a week already because she’s excited but not too excited and getting carried away and she doesn’t have to go and calm down for God’s sake before Grandpa flushes her down the feckin toilet.
My friend Sinitta is coming!. Sinitta is like a young Winnie Mandela or like a young Michelle Obama or a young Beyonce. She likes to wear bikinis and nobody knows why. Grandma says she’s a few screws loose, which means you’ve got funny ways about you and nobody knows what you’re famous for. She’s also one of the ladies that Simon pays to go on holiday with him and pretend they want to have sex with him.
Gary is coming but only for five minutes he says because he’s on a way to something. I can’t wait to see Gary so much. I’m going to wait by the door so that he can see me as soon as he walks in the door. Grandma says this scares the life out of people! Grandpa says chance would be fine thing! This is because he wants to die.
Kelly Rowland is coming!!. Kelly is like a young Desmond Tutu. Simon has sent Andy instead of him because he’s helping JLS be sad because they’re splitting up because their last single got to 111 in the charts because they’re boring.
Grandma says now is Quiet Time so Wendy and I are practising our tricks routine without the music. I text Simon to let him know we’ve decided to use JLS music to cheer them up and he said ’ Who are JLS?’. This is because Simon is a fickle creep Grandpa says, which is where you are my best friend and you like JLS and hair dye.
It’s a constant, and when I say constant I mean at least thrice weekly, amazement to me that there are educated, well meaning, people out there living perfectly ordinary lives who honestly believe that the only famous homosexuals are the 7 people who’ve come out.
'That's unusual!' they think to themselves when Cliff Richard says he's chosen to live a quiet life alone with his dear friend and platonic mentor, a male ex -priest. 'Unusual, but in many ways, completely, completely normal.'.Then they carry on watching the tennis.
If you question this, your companion looks up sharply from Sue Barker’s commentary as though you’ve just told them that they’ve finally found a live Yeti. Then they ask if you’ve misheard - Cliff clearly said his live -in housemate was a friend.
'There goes that 50 year old movie star with ANOTHER model' they chuckle to themselves watching the premier of some movie on the news. 'He's such a ladies man. Shame he can't hold on to any of them for longer then six months. Why, I've had business contracts that have lasted longer then that! Tsk! What is he LIKE?! The 50 year millionaire scamp'
Don’t bother using the argument of statistics. These people don’t like maths. Or indeed, facts. There’s a lot of people out there who think facts are big old boring fishing nets capturing the dolphin of life. ‘But if there are 7 out celebrities, surely’ (you’re getting annoyed now but hiding it well, you feel) ’ SURELY it stands to reason that there are more celebrities pretending to be straight, because if there are 5000 celebrities and only 7 out ones STATISTICALLY some are very much pressed up against Tom Cruise in the dark you IDIOT’
'Like WHO?!' they say, 'Honestly, you think EVERYONE is gay'.
'No I don't' You say 'I only think the gay ones are gay. I'm very much of the belief that gay people are gay'
My sister, with whom I had this argument only the other week, said ’ You couldn’t name me 1000 famous people, let alone 5000’
Now that for me is the equivalent of telling Bear Grylls that people are saying he couldn’t build a shelter out of all the twigs in Hyde Park. YOU’RE not saying he couldn’t, you’ve just heard that rumour.
It took me three and a half weeks of my own time, but I did it.
I made an excel spreadsheet of one thousand celebrities and I didn’t even have to go that z list. It was relatively easy. Easier then say, doing something useful.I highlighted the out celebrities in a cheerful yellow.
When I finally finished and emailed it over to her, I had gone slightly mad. My hands were shaking. I had eaten much in two days. My sister had forgotten about the original conversation. You can’t win these things. Until Simon Cowell comes does an OK shoot with his partner Juan, people will continue to think going on a yachting holiday with 17 of your ex partners is just another example of the international playboy Simon Cowell being just too damn straight for a conventional relationship.
I am woken by the Head of Waking. He brushes my feet with a diamond from Korea’s famous diamond flower.
My Minister for Breakfast brings me A Chicken with golden noodle and he often tells me The Story of Golden Noodle which is to remind me of the time I was the first man to make noodle into gold.
I pat my pony Su-Jun. He sleeps with me, we are the first man and pony to be related by blood.
My council agrees it is best if I spend first part of the morning in bed, I have much bigger organs then the average boy and they need to rest for all my Thinking.
I have now been Thinking for some time. I do not worry. This is normal for me.
Su-Jun has gone back to sleep.
My council and I agree, after some discussion that that is enough Thinking time for me. My Dressing General arrives and we put on my military uniform because I am Head Man Of The Army. I invented the army very many years ago when I was a baby. In North Korea we have something wonderful which we have called guns. I BELIEVE it was my father who invented these, but it might have been me.
I’m sitting in my chair and Su-Jun is now standing up, we call this a Dynamic Arrangement and would look stately should a photograph need to be taken, and they often do.
That’s quite enough sitting. I walk down to the Meeting Chamber. On the way down I pass many of the framed pictures we have put on the wall. They are all of me doing my various duties. Sometimes I am looking at a new road. Sometimes I driving a limousine. In one I am riding a Yeti.
My Ministers try to discourage me from joining in the debates about the best ways to keep North Korea working so well, because they don’t want me to exert myself too much. This is a regular friendly argument. While we are debating, I ask for an orange tree because I like them but when it arrives I’ve changed my mind so my Head of Mind Changing has it burnt. Eventually, as is very often the case, my ministers admit that it is correct and proper that I chair this mornings discussions.
I cannot read the agenda properly because it’s boring, so I talk about today’s pressing matters as I see them.
Namely, one ‘Basketball’, a new game I have been working on. The idea is really quite simple.
Some men, and they must be tall men, that is one of the rules, run around a “court” and this is the name for the game area. Here’s the thing: they BOUNCE the ball around into baskets.
I ask my Ministers how they are getting on spreading the news about basketball and they assure me that I have already done it. I am often mis remembering things I have already done.
I am now tired.
It’s time for my mid morning snack, and as we are yet to appoint to a Minister of Snacks, my breakfast man ( he who brings me breakfast) gets me a hog roast and some peanuts.
It is time for me to go and shake hands with some old people while they take my picture. This is essential.
The old man I shook hands with turned out to be the oldest man in the world. This was very interesting, though not shocking because people in North Korea tend to live for a very long time. My own dear Father was four hundred and twelve at the time of his passing.
I ask him if he has heard of basketball, and he assures me that he has.
After lunch, ( dinosaur meat) I take a stroll in my go cart to see the Weapons of Mass Destruction, a favourite pass time of mine.
My father made two of them, and I made the other,
We are very lucky in North Korea, because our money grows on trees, adn as such we can build as many Weapons of Mass Destruction as we see fit.
Our weapons are famous all over the world and much admired,
I regret to say that I over-napped. The fault lies with my Head of Napping, so I had him killed.
I like to watch the news at this time. I see North Korea has won the Olympics once again!
It is bed time. My pajamas say ‘Running the Country Even In My Sleep”’ which is a bit of fun, and North Korean expression, to simply mean ‘Get On With Your Work’
Goodnight World. Goodnight North Korea.
Simon was meant to be taking me to the Spice Girls Play, but at the last minute he had to go and make sure James Arthur’s new album was OK,so he sent one of his big fellas that look after him and make sure noone shoots him in the face to take me instead! Simon was really looking forward to it but oftentimes he’ll have to stop what he’s doing and go and help an X factor singer. Only the other day, Grandma had our lunches packed for Madame Tussauds and Simon had to cancel because Gareth Gates had a cold. That’s the kind of fella Simon is, Grandma says.
Simon sent his best big fella Andy to take me to the Spice Girls Play. Andy likes cheese so Grandma put some dairy lee in my lunch box for him. Andy doesn’t say much because he needs to make sure nobody is going to shoot Simon or that nobody is going to call the Daily Mail and say that Simon tried to do sex on another lad.
'Andy!' I said when we got to our seats at The Spice Girls play. ' Andy! I got you some dairy lee!' and Andy ate his dairy lee even though it wasn't the interval. I asked Andy if he was excited about the Spice Girls play that was about to happen and he didn't say much which reminds me of Grandpa, who has Lost the Will to Live.
I sang along to all the songs and Andy didn’t know any of the words! The usher lady told me to stop singing so loudly! But I didn’t! Andy took me back stage to meet the Spice Girls when the play was finished because even they they weren’t IN the play because they’re old can can’t sing, there was a party happening. This was because the play was closing because people said it was rubbish, and nobody came to see it. I told Geri Halliwell that I was sorry that nobody liked the play and nobody liked any of the records she made, to cheer her up. Andy didn’t finish his dairy lee so I asked her if she wanted the other bit of his slice and she said no because she was a vegan. !. This is where you think animals are people.
Andy told me it was time to go home even thought I hadn’t given Mel C the book mark I had made her. Victoria wasn’t there because she doesn’t want to be friends with others anymore because she thinks she’s better then them because she got lots of money and is more famous. This is what I told Emma Bunton.
The next day Grandma and I met with a nice man who’s name was Gerald and he says he wants to be my agent. ! I took Wendy with me and the agent man didn’t want to touch her. The agent man says I’m to bring out my own perfume! It’s going to be called Louis. I wanted to call it Wendy. But Grandma said no.
Some I’m bringing out a perfume for ladies to wear and fellas can wear it too if they want and Grandpa said if Simon had a perfume it would be called The Closet.
I said this to Simon on Saturday night and he told me to stop calling him when I’m meant to be doing the X Factor. Simon’s my best friend after Wendy and Grandma and sometimes Gary.
Jenny Andrews’ 13th Birthday party. There were about of us. Boys AND girls. You heard. The most eventful night of 1993.
Jenny Andrews was fortunate enough to have between her house and the MFI carpark but a simple fur lined fence. Word had got round that this was where we were planning to hangout. This was a Saturday night. Things were looking up.
We were permitted to shuffle across the road to the car park in the dark by her parents at about 8.30. They must have watched us go with a strange mixture of pity and confusion, like watching a group of people with dementia on a day trip to the zoo. They didn’t know what we were going to do over there, but they were glad we had something, like when you give a baby a crappy bit of wrapping paper and it’s over the moon and you can finally watch a bit of Strictly Come Dancing in peace.
We pushed through the pines like the wardrobe to Narnia. Some of the boys got out their skateboards. The rest of us shuffled from foot to foot. I took a deep breath. So THIS was the MFI car park we had heard so much about. Jenny thrillingly informed us that we weren’t meant to be there at night, and for one heart-stopping moment Staurt Lawrence said he thought he saw a trolley guy across the gloom. This is it I thought, as we all prepared to scarper off into the the dark. This is the moment get arrested by The Man, just for livin life, my way. Fuck da police. It was just a tramp. Calm resumed.
It was getting cold . Daniel Titmus had gone up and down a bit on his skateboard. SAY SOMETHING TO THE BOYS said my Brain, who is always interfering when all it needs to do is sit there quietly and think about kittens. REALLY BRAIN? I asked ( I always double check – though as it transpires, not enough) YES DO IT NOW THIS WILL BE A GOOD THING said Brain quickly. OK STOP SHOUTING WHAT SHOULD I SAY? Brain goes I DON’T KNOW SOMETHING BANTERY, SLAG ONE OF THEM OFF OR SOMETHING
So I say to Daniel Titmus:’ Tsch! What you boys see in this skateboarding I for one will never know!’
In the silence that follows Brain says I SAID BANTERY NOT A LINE FROM LAST OF THE SUMMER WINE.
After that Jenny’s birthday celebrations were somewhat ruined for me.
The walk back from the MFI carpark has lost it’s illustrious shine, and I couldn’t enjoy the movie choice ( ‘Return of the Pumpkinhead’, my first ever 18 film, not recommended, there’s a really weird scene where a young woman has rigorous sex with a really really really fat man and it has nothing to do with the storyline).
In the car on the way home, Brain said LET’S NOT SAY ANYTHING TO BOYS AGAIN. IT’S NOT OUR THING. WE’RE HAPPY AS ARE.
I was cheered up after that. A comfortable silence lay between us.
THAT WAS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE
As everyone knows, but most people hate to admit to themselves, life between 8 and 16 is awful. There is literally nothing to do. Except maybe eat chicken nuggets on special occasions and if you’re a girl, have countless pajama parties, and look at the endless ticking of the clock. Boys, I genuinely don’t know how you got through it.
I took regular death marches around Woolworths on eternal Saturdays, just sort of wondering around, checking stuff out, seeing what was happening on the cover of Sugar magazine, admiring the miniature cans of Coca cola and lilt they bought out one Summer in the hope that they would keep the kids from rioting. To be fair they worked. Those miniature bottles keep us coming back weekend after weekend. We couldn’t get over it. They were like regular coke but really small. And that was life.
Once my sister and I were strolling through, much in the way that old people admire the rose gardens of their retirement homes, and we saw a grotesque plastic doll, maybe 3 foot in stature, called ’ My Size Bride Barbie’. It was like one of those sex dolls you see on Channel 5 documentaries, where the guy actually thinks he’s in a relationship with his doll and you see him flicking through holiday brochures and Ikea catalogs with it. I was raised a feminist, like all children should be raised, and was repulsed, but also drawn to the doll who stared out of her massive box. I knew it was wrong. But I wanted to see it. I wanted to see it’s little nylon veil and tiny snub nose and massive breasts that would have probably poked the pre-schooler it was intended for in her once innocent eyes. ‘Little girls!’ beckoned her false eyelashes ‘Look at me! I’m having the most fulfilling day of my life!’
'Get married! Cook! Clean!' This is what the toy section of Woolworths said in 1990. At the time, 9 year old me thought that this was as bad as it was going to get. One day i imagined, little girls would be playing with tiny dolls of Hilary Clinton and Maya Angelou, or at least Architect Barbie. If only I had known then the hell Woolworths toy department was about to descend into, I would have wrapped my little arms around My Size Barbie. At least she didn't have her tits out and a little credit card in her hand.
Now girls toys tell little girls that the days of weddings and cleaning are over. Now she should aspire to shopping, wearing loads of eyeliner, being mouthy to her parents and, and this really is the crux of the matter, getting boys to fancy her, by any means necessary.
The dolls are wearing hot pants, have pink hair and a little mini smart phone, on which her owner can imagine boys are sending her oppressively sexual messages. These little dolls say ‘Girls! If you want respect from other girls, let them see that boys fancy you! And the best way to do that is to have sex asap. Sure, you’re eight. Big deal. Do it. Also, get your mum to pay 15.99 for me. ‘
Evil lurks in the sidelines of those long evenings, after all the Australian soaps and clarinet lessons are over, waiting to take the children away, and it’s wearing coral lipstick and thong.
Reading Gwyneth Paltrow’s lifestyle blog, you could quite easily think you’d stumbled upon the lady taking the piss out of herself, if only you didn’t know better. Confused at first by the advice and examples of the way in which Gwyn lives her life, you’ll wonder what’s going on. Ah, you’ll think, chuckling to yourself. She’s having a laugh. Isn’t she? The sense of foreboding doom comes crashing down shortly after. Oh no. No. She’s deadly serious.
When I was a kid, your parents just sort of bundled along and gave you some vegetables and at parties all of you stood in a line with your mouths open like seals, while the Mum of the birthday shook a bucket of sugar into them.
Gwyneth, mum of two in 2013, suggests:
Don’t feed your children carbohydrates.
Do feed your children carbohydrates if you’ve made them wheatgerm cupcakes yourself.
Don’t feed your children sugar, unless you hate your children. ?!!! Wondering why you hate your children so much right now?!!!
Do your kids know anyone who eats sugar? How can YOU get involved?
We’re all busy working Mums. Just like you, I can hardly keep up with the hullabaloo round Pal-Martin Towers! I like to grow my own fungi in the car and that way the kids can nibble on the way to school. That way I can handsfree with my local Rabbi, so I can keep up with what’s happening Jew wise. Having a friend of my aunt’s who was Jewish, it’s really important to me and the kids that we get involved.
Sometimes taking your kids to the same old classes, such as ballet and Scouts, can feel restricting for the parent child dynamic. So this season, I’ve expanded the kid’s classes to:
Arabic (Gwyneth’s Notes: ‘Mum!’ they said just the other day ’ Mum, I don’t think we’re going to need business French!’. A handy reminder that just because your children have completed all the modules in Accelerated French doesn’t mean you have to enroll them in the political and business negotiation modules. Out of the mouths of babes!)
Origami - such fun and the kids actually made Chris and I our new coffee table, so that saved us a pretty penny let me tell you.
Butter Churning - it’s actually a complete myth that kids can’t churn their own butter. I was just like you and thought, no hold on, my five and seven year old can’t be churning their butter. Especially as I don’t let them eat butter, I’m not Myra Hindley. No, I would just not buy it from Fortnum and Mason, like any other working Mum. But it was my good friend Michelle (Obama) who said she had her kids churning their butter from infancy. You can imagine my embarrassment! Some of you may know that my husband and I live part of the year in London, a city, God (s) love it, that whilst wonderful, isn’t known for it’s Churning! So twice monthly the kids and Clarissa ( SUPER nanny!) catch a plane to Amish County, Penn. Now I wouldn’t dream of browsing the Dairy aisle in Kensington ever again!
Vajazzaling - A fun friend of mine recommended this class for kids, just a really great way for them to artistically discover themselves, to loosen up a bit, and to break away from the sometimes stuffy confines of their academic schooling, which of course is one of the downsides of sending them to such a traditional English school as Hogwarts, Sometimes my friends tweet me pictures of their kids swinging Californian rucksacks to school, sneakers scuffing the sidewalk and I think to myself -’ Should I be doing that? Shouldn’t I be taking my kids to a school in Cali, with the palm trees and the poor teaching and gun crime, you know, an ol’ fashioned ordinary education?’ And then I think, no. Follow your own heart for your own kids. Let the other kids get shot at if that’s what their parents think is right for them.
I’ll finish today’s entry because Jay and Beyonce are coming round for a dinner party. Jay Z is wheat intolerant so Chris can’t do his usual wheat curry. We’ll probably all crack open a Guinness. Like every other working Mum out there, I like to stay up late with my mates and let Clarissa take over in the morning. Am I right Mums?
Everyone says it, but my Mum is the best. My mum’s style of parenting is similar to that of a mountain ranger. Prepare for the worst case scenario upon each excursion outside of one’s duvet. 1) Asses danger for one’s children ( use internet and/or government recommended resources by all means. Maybe your local community centre is running a Fire In The Home class for example?) . 2) Warn children on said dangers. Try and throw in some examples of children you know who have died. 3) Sit at home and worry. 4) One day they will move out and then at least you don’t have to see their little faces everyday going out into the world and potential death. Good points: I’m the only person I know who’s Mum bought them snow boots . Not for skiing, I mean just for wondering around the United Kingdom. I’m the only person I know who’s Mum sent them special chain attachments for the bottom of their snow boots in the post. Good luck everyone else next time there’s a bit of sleet.
My mum saw danger in all things, including The Enemy - all animals smaller then a greyhound.
A child of such a household emerges slowly into the world, blinking in the sunlight, armed with a machete and wary of all sudden changes in the weather and strange men.
Once, when i was 22 years old I had to friend to stay at our house. He was taking the rubbish out. ‘Could you just pop two rubbish bags around it so that the badgers don’t get it?’ I asked.
'Oh, could you just use two binbags, so we can keep those badgers out?'
'The badgers. We need to keep the badgers out. Before they attack the bins, and eventually, the house.'
His face told me everything I needed to know and in that moment I realised. ‘Badgers don’t attack one’s bins, and potentially house, do they Dad?’ I asked. But I already had my answer.
The Media tells me a lot that I’m in a generation of apathetic drifters. Nobody cares about politics, everyone’s too busy watching young women from rich families release a sex tape so they can become famous and eventually have their own perfume. I’m not sure that’s true though. It’s true that no-one really cares about politics, but I don’t know if it’s entirely because Paris Hilton accidentally on purpose filmed herself being dry humped and we were all waiting to see what would happen next. I think it’s because as the years have gone on, we’ve all become postier and postier modern. We’re a generation obsessed with self awareness. We’re so self aware that the smallest of everyday tasks, such as feeding the cat, becomes laden with thoughts such as ’ oh GOD here I am opening the KruchyKat again like a DICKHEAD. What even IS a cat? This is so generic I would kill myself if it wasn’t so DONE already’.
If anyone dares venture an opinion on a political event, say if a group of friends are having a quiet pint and one person is asked what they think of Lambeth’s recycling collection policy, the askee always has to supersede their answer with ’ I mean I literally know NOTHING about this! NOTHING!’ . The spokesman then freezes after they’ve realised they screamed that last bit in a moment of panic. They just wanted to make sure no-one around the table was thinking ‘God Simon thinks he knows EVERYTHING about south London Recycling collection rotations and he it seems like maybe he doesn’t.’
I’ve even heard several people say things along the lines of ’ I think it’s kind of cringe to have an opinion on something political, unless you’re like, an MP, or I don’t know, Nelson Mandela.. It’s kind of arrogant, when you think about it. ’. So there we are. 2013 and we’ve taken self examination so far that caring about things is arrogant. People even shift and look uncomfortable when charities are mentioned. They don’t want to be seen supporting the charity du jour INCASE THAT CHARITY TURNS ABOUT TO BE WRONG ABOUT SOMETHING. And it’s a bit 70s, abit over, to care about other people anyway. Let’s all go and lie very still in a darkened room until we die.
The generation below me are evolving further still, or rather de-volving , going backwards, like tiny pre-Jurassic bacteria in the murky grey sludge of life. Whilst people my age are like crabs suddenly caught by an arctic drop in temperature, totally frozen and silent as we don’t know what the right thing is to say or feel, the life forms younger then me wear their ‘awkwardness’ like a fetishised badge of honour. Even the popular cool ones scream about how they’re such unbelievable awkward dorks it’s not even believable. They do have an opinion on stuff, they’re just too awkward to talk about it. My heart goes out to the real losers among them. It must be crap to see the teenagers in their pier group with shiny long hair and no spots and the kind of face that never lurched into grotesque formations on hitting puberty, take away being awkward and a dork and make it seem like endearing, if misconstrued modesty. ‘being awkward is all I have you knobheads’ the real geeks are probably internally screaming, ’ Don’t take that from me as well!’.