For want of a more positive term, you could call me a rock wag, instead. Or some people just like to use the term groupie.*
Whichever way you put it, I’m dating someone in a band.
In short, this means I’m irritating the shit out of everyone who follows me on social media right now because the band in question – Black Palms – have just released their first track. And I REALLY want everyone to see it.
It’s a difficult one though because the problem is, when you’re in a band or ‘with’ the band, no one else really gives a fuck. Sure, friends and family will give it a obligatory Facebook like and maybe a share but will people actually sit and watch the video and listen to the track? Download it? Subscribe to the mailing list? Tell their friends?
If you’re anything like me, when someone asks you to check out a video on the internet your immediate reaction is to think “maybe later” and then completely forget about it. Videos are hard work. You have to get your headphones in or make sure your sound’s turned up and then actually invest minutes of your precious time.
It happened this week and it shook me to my core. I’d just come out the underground and was looking at Google Maps to work out which way my destination was, when a man on a bike swiped my phone right out of my hands and rode off into the night.
It was almost graceful, the way he did it – like he’d done it a hundred times before, which he probably had. Not so poised however, was the way I shrieked and embarrassingly, pleaded, as I ran after him for a few hundred yards. But that was it. My phone was… gone. In a matter of seconds.
Last week I worked my last shift as a producer on a little show you might have heard of called Good Morning Britain.
The world of breakfast telly is bonkers. You can never quite guarantee what’s going to happen next – so I have a lot of respect for the presenters and how they do their thing live on air at stupid o’clock in the morning.
To celebrate my departure, I had a go at taking on the weather – and quickly realised it’s even more fiddly and confusing than it looks. Many thanks to Alex Beresford for patiently giving me some much-needed guidance – and the best of luck to him as he competes in this year’s Dancing On Ice.
I love makeup and always have, from that fateful day in the mid 90s when I came across my mum’s stash in the cupboard under the sink and decided brown lipstick was the answer to all life’s problems.
Back then, being a pre-teen into her slap basically meant owning Rimmel’s Heather Shimmer lipstick, at least one frosted eye shadow and a couple of Body Shop eau de toilettes.
As time went by, I started picking up the basics from J17 magazine and good old trial and error, enhancing my ability from choosing a foundation that didn’t make me look like a tangerine to learning how to achieve that coveted feline flick with a glossy black eyeliner.
These days though, picking up tips on how to put your face on is on a whole different level, thanks to Instagram. Most high street beauty brands now sell lines especially marketed for young people who want to achieve the perfect selfie and gone are the days of making do with a dusting of powder and a slick of gloss. These days, beauty queens go for full coverage and they make it an absolute art form. And I love it – but I just can’t get down with it.
I’ve lost so many hours of my life watching people putting on makeup on the internet. But it’s akin to the way we watch The Great British Bake Off. You appreciate the pretty cakes on your screen but like hell can you be bothered to go through the blood, sweat and tears of whipping one up in your own kitchen for the office bake sale.
But in a fit of experimentation, I did decide to give it a go and I filmed myself one rainy afternoon trying a few trends I’ve seen reoccurring on my feed (I may have been subconsciously inspired by Lady Dickson who recently made her own epic contouring fail vid).
Being a woman who has frolicked on the internet for an undisclosed number of years now, I have seen many a case of what the cool kids call “sliding into your DMs”.
For those not down with the lingo, this has nothing to do with pulling on a comfy pair of Doc Martens – but roughly translates as “someone randomly direct messaging you in the hope of getting into more than just your inbox.”
Personally, I’ve had a lot of these across my social media accounts and I’m not deluded enough to think it’s because men see my twitter or Facebook page and decide I’m an alluring enchantress. I would put money on almost all women who spend a fair amount of time on social media having received an unsolicited private message from a complete stranger at some point. A lot of men too. And about half the messages received are probably not even from real people but so-called ‘bots’ created in cyber space and sent out in their droves to steal your identity, money, or soul.
Here’s a selection of DMs I’ve actually received over the past couple of years: