Getting into journalism: a realist's guide

Call me a masochist, but I’ve spent a fair proportion of this morning (and the last six months, come to think of it) reading soul-destroying accounts of countless failed attempts to make it as a journalist in the oh-so elusive media world. In order to save you a similar time spent googling/ spiralling into misery and despair, here are what I have ascertained are the essential minimum requirements to counteract such failure:

A whole lotta luck: Whether it’s being in the right place at the right time, just happening to have seen that unofficial job advertisement on Twitter, or your new girlfriend’s Dad being the editor of a national newspaper…lady luck needs to be on your side, big time. Considering the fact that luck is something no amount of hard work/even money can ever guarantee, it is advisable to train your fingers to remain crossed as you sleep.

Virtuosity in its most famous form – patience: When I graduated in July, my cut-off date before I gave up on attempting to find permanent employment in an editorial-related field was the end of August. PAH! Aw, naïve younger self – how cute and blindly optimistic you were. Those horror stories of people working for no money, who were still without unemployment after two years that you scoffed at and vowed would NEVER be you, as an undergraduate? Yeah, that could definitely be you.

Money money money/ location location location: I read somewhere recently that while daddy used to buy his little girl a pony, nowadays, he buys her a column. Journalism is now unfortunately one of THE most socially exclusive professions. I have never once owned a pony, and not simply because I am ridiculously allergic to horses, but also because I'm sadly far from rich. I AM very lucky to live in London, however, which means that I've been able to mooch off of the continued generosity and patience of my parents, who've allowed me to be fed and watered while I commute to internships/interviews from the burbs. I also have a part-time job, the same one I’ve been doing since I was 17, and without which I certainly would not be writing this post, 6 months since I donned that silly cap and gown.  

Foolish (?) optimism: Your glass must remain half-full as long as you continue to look for a job. When reading the memoirs of successful writers who recount their first foray into journalism, for instance, you should try and draw inspiration from them, instead of merely feeling a sinking feeling at the realisation that unlike say, Lynn Barber, whose first job she gained after successfully spelling the words ‘haemorrhage’ and ‘diarrhoea’ (which HEY I also just did without using spellcheck!!!!) to an editor, you don’t actually live in the 60s.

The thickest of skins: Prepare to accept that you are the smallest of fish in the biggest of ponds, and therefore have a lot to prove. Prepare, in addition, to be ignored – a friend of mine who is also interning recently identified the general amount of time it takes for people to actually talk to you during an internship (after the initial introductions) at approximately 3 whole weeks. 3 weeks of merely carrying out orders and shrinking into yourself, and wondering if you might have some sort of social disorder which means no one wants to have an actual conversation with you.

Thinking about it, the people you’re working with probably aren’t unsympathetic monsters, but merely accustomed to seeing a stream of new faces come and go throughout the year - so you can't blame them too much for not overly investing in you. The objective then must be to make sure they remember your ugly mug! How you do this is up to you, but I’m guessing hard work and the old cliché ‘going the extra mile’ are the way to go – as opposed to the tempting alternatives of stamping your feet and yelling ‘DON’T YOU REALISE I HAVE FEEEEELINGS’ or, of course, muffled sobs in the toilet.

Courage, hard work, resilience, tenacity, talent, the odds being ever in your favour…: Essentially, yes, all of the qualities of a Hunger Games champion, short of the ability to murder someone. 

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Me, myself and Moz

At the moment, I’m in the middle of reading Morrissey’s Autobiography. I’m not about to attempt a book review, although I will tell you that while the ones I read before I started were fairly scathing about Mozzer’s tendency for moaning, it’s not really bothering me (though I’m not exactly one to criticise where rants are concerned).

I bought the book the very morning it came out. Partly, admittedly, because I walked past a Waterstone’s and almost collided with a man leaving the shop with his nose already stuck in the newly purchased copy, which I obviously took as a clear sign from the universe. But also mainly just because, well… I love a bit of Moz.

On the surface of things that morning, I, the 21 year old leopard-print enthusiast, and this balding 40 something had little in common. But that’s the thing – the appeal of both The Smiths and Morrissey himself is practically universal to those of a melancholic disposition. Hence why decades since their 80s heyday, teenagers the world over are still moping around to the tune of Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.

And despite the fact that he tends to come across as fairly…cantankerous, shall we say, it’s not just me; Morrissey has still found a special place in the hearts of millions, and inspired a following that belies his apparent contempt for most of humanity.

They say you shouldn't meet your heroes if you want to avoid disappointment, and Morrissey is probably in pole position in my most loved yet most unwilling to meet list. Just for starters, he’d no doubt be disgusted by my cavalier attitude towards chicken nuggets.

But actually, I’m more than content to remain very much out of his acquaintance, just as long as I can keep listening to his music. While I love the man himself - one of the most intelligent and articulate pop stars there’s surely ever been – it’s the songs he's penned which will always remain a landmark discovery of my adolescent years, and ones that I’ll still be listening to for many years to come.

So although this is a virtually impossible task, I decided to whittle down the lengthy list of my favourite Morrissey tracks, and why they happen to mean something to me, to the following...

Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

Not a blindingly original choice, I know. But I can still remember the first time I ever heard this song, and the way the lyrics, ‘In my life, why do I give valuable time, to people who don’t care if I live or die?’, jumped out at me as if Morrissey and I were the only ones to ever think such a thing - as moody introspective teens are wont to do. This song encapsulates the kind of existential angst that teenagers are particularly adept at (and I still am at times...) – looking for a job and finding a job, and yet still being miserable, being happy in the haze of a drunken hour…and afterwards, yep, still miserable! The song for anyone who ever occasionally feels like kicking ‘someone in the eye’.

I Know It’s Over

The kind of song that really earns Morrissey his miserable reputation. If you’re having a sad single bastard day, ‘And as I climb into an empty bed…oh well. Enough said’ will probably strike the right note. Sometimes there’s nothing like a good wallow, and if that’s what you’re after, with lyrics like ‘If you’re so very entertaining/ Then why are you on your own tonight?’, look no further. But not just that – there is of course more to Morrissey than his melancholia, and the lyric ‘It's so easy to laugh/It's so easy to hate/It takes strength to be gentle and kind’ is just a small example of his (in my opinion, anyway) great wisdom.

I Won’t Share You

I've always loved this song and its unusual sound, which I don’t think I can ever recall coming across elsewhere, but recently, the lyrics themselves have become particularly pertinent. Call me a wanky English student, but poetry was never my strong suit, and it’s not exactly cryptic, so I think I can be forgiven. ‘I won’t share you,/ No I won’t share you/ With the drive and ambition/ The zeal I feel/This is my time.’ Your early twenties is as good a time as any for being fairly selfish - thinking about yourself and going after ‘the freedom and the guile’ instead of the ‘you’, whoever that may be, and that seems like the essence of this song.

Everyday is Like Sunday

If you’ve been following this blog closely (the likely two or three of you – thanks!) you’ll be aware that I love the seaside, which is what Morrissey talks about in this song. Though not exactly complimentary, and partly inspired by Nevil Shute’s novel On the Beach, where a group of people are awaiting nuclear devastation, ‘Everyday is like Sunday/ Everyday is silent and grey', and ‘Share some greased tea with me’ are lyrics that are appropriate to a fair few British seaside towns, and even if they are grey, and nothing ever happens, ‘Trudging over wet sand’ is still one of my favourite things to do. Plus, it sounds amazing, and there’s something about it that means listening to it can still make me shiver. Seriously – play it loudly in your headphones, and thank me later.

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Reading for pleasure: an affair to remember

"The books gave Matilda a comforting message: you are not alone" - Roald Dahl 

One of the most life-altering, on/off, up/down, sometimes difficult - though ultimately fulfilling - relationships I've ever experienced has been with not, unfortunately, George Clooney, but rather...reading. And at the moment, reading and I are getting along quite nicely. In fact, I’d say we’re experiencing something of a second honeymoon, after going through a bit of a bad patch.

People sometimes find that while taking a relationship to the next level – be this moving in together, or maybe even getting married – may be the expected course of action, it isn’t always the best of ideas. All of a sudden, things have changed: got more serious; become restricted somehow; lost a bit of the original fun and carefree appeal. This is exactly what happened to reading and me when I stepped things up a gear and made the decision - second only in terms of seriousness where reading is concerned, I’d say, to embarking on War and Peace - to study English Lit at uni.

I know I know, it’s not exactly rocket science, and I’ll be the first to admit that, relatively speaking, a BA in English isn’t the most testing of degrees (though YOU should try getting your head around post modernism - and no, I still don’t really know what it means). But importantly for me, any association it had previously held with ‘pleasure’ went out of the window when reading became just another of life’s obligatory tasks.

Admittedly, my frequently unwise modular choices didn’t exactly help, and the compulsory ones often only made things worse. Let’s just say medieval literature and I did not get on. This isn’t to say that I spent the entire three years in the midst of an existential crisis, questioning my very point on earth (or at least at the university) – I could recognise good literature when I saw it, even if I didn’t necessarily enjoy reading all of it, and there were some gems that I did like along the way.

But all the same, I started to think that maybe reading and I weren’t really meant to be. One of the blessings of doing an English degree is that you became fairly adept at the fine art of bullshitting – or at least I feel I certainly did – but it became apparent in seminars, as we sat there in all our literary student splendour, sharing our oh so enlightened thoughts with the group, that unlike me, some people had genuinely really enjoyed reading Spenser’s Faerie Queene. And my lecturer certainly must have, to devote his entire life to analysing the shit out of it.

Luckily though, in recent months, with my degree over, and these mildly torturous reading restrictions lifted, I’ve been able to remind myself why I had once thought it was worth committing to what is really, when it comes down it, just words on paper. One of my biggest mistakes at uni, and one which went a long way in my fall out with reading, was to presume that just because my lecturer clearly thought something was an enjoyable read, that I should feel the same.  

And, if I didn’t, that I should somehow see myself as less worthy as a reader, and definitely of less intelligence (though admittedly my PhD possessing professor probably did have the edge on me there). Too many of us are conscious of what we feel we should be reading, and not just going for something we might enjoy. Obviously there are some classics which it is possible to gain pleasure and entertainment from, but for god’s sake, if you’re struggling through Middlemarch and every finished paragraph feels like nothing but a victory over your better judgement - which is probably willing you to pick up the TV remote - just PUT IT DOWN.

Abandoning a book halfway through is still one of life’s last taboos. But why should it be? If you’re devoting your last waking moments of the day to reading something, why bother if it literally bores you to sleep? I'm about to be bold - brace yourselves - and confess that I recently gave up on A Tale of Two Cities. According to Dickens, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, but for me, it definitely felt like more of the latter. I did the usual battling with my English student conscience – Dickens is one of the best novelists in history! Giving up would mean that I was both a failure AND couldn't recognise what is supposed to be some of the best literature of all time. But then I essentially just thought...fuck it, life’s too short.

People look for different things in a book – escapism possibly, and something completely alien from their day to day reality, while others might want something they can relate to; there’s certainly something amazing about seeing a feeling you had previously thought you alone experienced, articulated exactly there on the page in front of you. In recent months, I’ve been experiencing something in the middle - working my way through the novels of women with lots to say (which, if you’ve stuck with me after about 800 words or so, I’m sure you can tell is something I might relate to), but with the kind of success I could only ever dream of: Tina Fey, Lynn Barber, and pretty much everything Nora Ephron ever wrote. Each one of them is incredibly talented and creative and inspiring, and I'm enjoying every word. Yep, things are going well for reading and me – and I really hope it lasts.

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Autumn: the most wonderful time of the year

“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.”

Shockingly not my own words, but those of George Eliot. Post English degree, you no longer get quite so many chances to hide behind the words of people far more intelligent than yourself. But more importantly, Eliot sums up my feelings towards autumn, which seems to have descended upon us all of a sudden this year, far better than I ever could myself, and certainly a lot more succinctly than I’m about to. 

I have absolutely no desire for the arrival of an elusive ‘Indian summer’, a phrase banded about at this time of year by those who aren’t quite so ready to give in and get their coats out. Personally, once my tights are back on, I have no intention of taking them off for a good five months, and I always welcome this season of leg constriction with open arms.

For me, winter clothing in general is a million times preferable to the skimpy items you find yourself in during the summer. I love warm jumpers, woolly hats, patterned scarves, hefty boots and layers, OH layers. I also have something of a coat fetish, and my room probably bears a close resemblance to Kat Slater’s dressing room, with fur coats currently hanging all over the gaff.

Admittedly, bright skies and sunshine have their appeal, but there’s still a certain something I feel autumn has over the summer months. Perhaps it’s the eternal association – long after you’ve left school and September means anything especially different – of fresh starts and new beginnings. September will always be the seasonal equivalent of a blank page, more so than spring, when the bleating of new born lambs passes me right by, and most definitely more than January, by law the required time of hangovers and regret. What can I say? A crisp autumn morning just makes me want to go out and buy some stationery.

The majority of my favourite past times also seem wrong and generally out of place in the summer. I usually run the risk of the cardinal sin of WASTING the weather, a phrase teenagers holed up in their bedrooms across the land in hot weather are no doubt accustomed to hearing. Pulling the curtains closed to get rid of the glare of the sun on the TV screen can make the most innocent of boxset binges feel like a horribly sordid activity. Cinema trips are similarly more appropriate in the autumn months – film viewing becomes an enjoyable escape from the chilly reality, as opposed to the refuge for albinos it can feel like in the summer.

Another factor is certainly that as autumn approaches, so too does the season of mince pies and merriment that is Christmas. While I consider myself a fully-fledged christmasphile, what I really love is not the big day itself (which is always about as much of an anti-climax as the Eastenders Christmas special) but the festive build-up – never ending plays of Slade and all. Don’t get me wrong – I find Christmas stock appearing in shops in September as horrifying as the next person, but it’s nice to remember that while you might be freezing your arse off pretty soon, just around the corner is that magical time of twinkly lights and obesity. And while I can definitely do without Halloween, a ridiculous American import which I still completely fail to understand the point of, the equally pointless but far more enjoyable British custom of Bonfire night is also a great stop gap before the festivity really begins.

Perhaps most important of all, though, is that when it’s 30 degress outside, brewing up is not a massively acceptable activity. But as autumn arrives, tea-making becomes one of life’s regular necessities. Wrap up, curl in front of the fire, stick a film on and sip on your cup of tea…ahhhhh. I’m off to put the kettle on.

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Beside the Seaside

Being less of an English rose, more an unripened tomato, sitting out in the sun is never usually that high up on my list of things to do. Even after the winter being hijacked by the white witch of Narnia, and the sun finally resurfacing from wherever it had been hiding, I have still mostly been content to watch its comeback act from the comfort of my armchair.

There is an exception to this general life rule of mine, however. As the old tune goes, oh I do love to be beside the seaside. And after a series of early family holidays abroad were marred by either mine or my sister’s vomit – air turbulence and ‘mocktails’ apparently not agreeing with our delicate young stomachs – I established a love for the British seaside which cuts almost as deep as my love for tea and bourbon biscuits, ie: VERY.

Come rain or shine, the beach is one of my favourite places to be. Even in conditions that force you to unpack a mac, bundle up in fifteen layers and leave you with hair that’s less windswept, more windstraggled, I still enjoy a trip to the seaside. I have ventured away from the Big Smoke to just about every location along the South coast: Whitstable, Dover, Margate, Westgate, Deansgate, Dymchurch, Brighton and more. I've experienced the delights of the South West, in annual holidays across Cornwall and Devon. I’ve even found myself sunbathing – or slow-cooking like a crackling pig - where such a thing is usually unimaginable; with Whitby Abbey looming in all its gothic splendour in the distance.

I know there are those who aren’t quite so convinced – sand getting in places it shouldn’t, the murky seawater and tatty seaside towns being a poor substitute for the clear waters and four star luxury of the Caribbean – but for me, that’s all part of the charm. Where else but in England could you sail out to sea on a replica of Captain Cook’s pirate ship, with the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack and a gruff voice of Northern wisdom to accompany your journey?

As my mother once wisely pointed out, the beach is also one of the few places that could entertain anyone from the age of 0 to 80. Whether you’re just watching the world go by from your foldy chair, engrossed in a book, or building a sandcastle, there’s always something for everyone. 

A few days ago, I ventured once again to one of the less salubrious areas of the South coast. My phone had died, but that didn’t matter - the real world looked like it had its very own filter placed upon it. I walked up through a verge of long grass, past the chirping noises which always have me imagining the grasshopper of James and the Giant Peach, and emerged to a sight which no amount of Instagraming could conjure. Clear blue skies, a heat haze courtesy of the 30 degree heat (ah British summer time, you fickle mistress), a stretch of golden sand already scattered with people enjoying themselves, and their legions of stripy windbreaks.

When I was no more than knee-high to those grasshoppers, I would always return from a day at the beach tired, burnt in the patches I miss every time, with a belly full of ice cream, and the pages of my book encrusted with sand. This time, I can’t say anything had changed. And I've realised, maybe that’s what I really love about the seaside - the tide might go in and out, but mostly, everything stays the same. I hope if I reach the grand age of 80, I'll still be vouching for that. 

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21 thoughts at 21

Within the space of just a few weeks, I've not only reached the grand age of 21, but also made the transition from graduand (whatever that was) to a fully-fledged, ridiculous hat-wearing graduate. 

In honour of these two landmark life events, I decided it was as good a time as any to take stock of my relatively short time on this planet, and to ponder over what exactly I’ve discovered in the course of my two decades.

So without further ado, here they are, 21 things I’ve learned in 21 years:

1) Studying for a degree in English Literature may leave you with less than propitious employment prospects, but it will however mean you know how to use super fancy [wanky] words. Like propitious, for example.

2) When choosing a university, the one that tugs on your heart strings a little and makes you feel like it could be home should be your immediate first choice because one day, it will be.

3) People who proudly profess to have "never read any Harry Potter" should be regarded with suspicion. DON’T YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT ALL THE FUSS IS ABOUT?

4) Pets are overrated. There, I said it. To quote a very wise man, “You take your soul-searching labrador for a walk and a chat. I'll just watch a bit of telly.”

5) There is no faith in mankind that can’t be destroyed by reading the majority of comments underneath a YouTube video.

6) You should be able to have a good laugh at yourself, not just at other people. It will improve your levels of confidence and number of friends no end.

7) Homesickness varies hugely from person to person. And even if you’re one of the unfortunate ones who find themselves consumed by it like a dementor’s kiss which doesn’t ever seem likely to pass or fade, it will.

8) Likewise, heartache.

9) Nightclubs can be the scene of some of the most fun you’ve ever had. They can just as easily be the scene of the least.

10) Flakiness is one of the worst traits to possess. If you’ve said you’ll do something for someone, or turn up somewhere, bloody well do it.

11) You can never have too many coats.

12) There’s no such thing as ‘not being able to cook'. Everyone can, just some better than others.

13) If you’re one of the lesser skilled in the culinary department: pasta. Always, pasta.

14) Admittedly stolen from Caitlin Moran, but a life mantra I wholeheartedly sign up to: "Nine times out of ten, you probably aren’t having a nervous breakdown – you just need a cup of tea and a biscuit."

15) The book is always better than the film.

16) Ladies: an eyebrow pencil will revolutionise your life.

17) When asked for it, it is your duty to give the best possible advice to a friend. It is also your duty to avoid saying I told you so when they inevitably ignore what you say, and do what they were going to do all along.

18) There’s no music like souuuul music. 

 19) You should take lots of pictures of being young and wild and free because one day you’ll be old and…wrinkled.

20) There’s a saying that is a favourite of all Scottish nans: “Whit's fur ye'll no go past ye." Despite my natural cynicism, I really believe this.

21) At 21, you still have a whole lot to learn.

NB: I owe a debt to the brilliant writer Ian Martin, whose original article inspired this post and can be found here. 

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Mad Men Season 6 Finale - ‘In Care Of’

One of my favourite moments in the brilliant 30 Rock appears in the show’s own finale, when Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon attemps to discourage Jack’s ‘jump’ by demanding of him: “There’s so much to live for! Don’t you want to know how Mad Men ends?!” 

 

This question would almost certainly be enough to bring me back from the brink of suicide. And after six seasons of illicit affairs, countless cigarettes and more scotch than even the most committed of alcoholics could handle, we finally, FINALLY appear to be getting close, at least, to an answer. 

Season six has seen a number of big developments – aside from the rapid rate of Stan’s beard growth, we’ve seen the the rise of the creepily cheerful and generally elusive Bob Benson, Sally Draper’s less than pleasant discovery of her father with his pants down, and the loss of Pete Campbell’s picture perfect family, alongside his hairline. But one of the biggest developments has to be what (on reflection) has always been a foregone conclusion: Don Draper finally hits rock bottom. But while Don fell to an all-time low, Mad Men’s creator Matthew Weiner reached new levels of brilliance, with this episode veering deftly from moments of comedy to nail biting tension. 

The times were definitely a changing in this season, with Vietnam a dark spectre in the background of the lives of all of SCP’s staff , but the finale focused on the more personal (and questionable) morality and evils in their lives, and in Don’s, in particular. After Sally is kicked out of the private boarding school the Draper charm earned her a place in, you couldn’t help but cheer in agreement as she hung up the phone on her hypocritical father sneering, “Well I wouldn’t want to do anything immoral.”

This incident also merited another of the now rare but increasingly enjoyable interactions between Don and his ex wannabe Stepford wife Betty – her quiet resignation over the phone that with the young Sally Draper “the good isn’t beating the bad” met with a touching moment of tenderness between the pair as he referred to her with the pet name of old, ‘Birdy’. This moment certainly wasn’t missed by current trophy wife and soap star Megan, either, lying by his side. 

It was great to see Pete Campbell at his smarmy best, which went some way to compensating for one of Mad Men’s most far-fetched storylines thus far – Manolo, the manservant employed to keep Campbell’s mother out of Pete’s receding hair - apparently having pushed the old crow off the cruise ship they were travelling on, to her demise. The following exchange between Pete and Bob Benson, who greets him with one of his typically cheesy ‘How ARE you?’s, led to one of my favourite moments of this season, and certainly the most comic of the episode, as Pete yelled in response, ‘NOT GREAT BOB!’

Don’s judgement was questionable from the start of this episode – punching a minister in the face, attempting to go cold turkey (not advisable for someone who has whisky on tap), as well as extolling the virtues of Hersheys, which in my personal experience, tastes like crap and has a distinct vomit type aftertaste (I digress...). It got worse however, as he proceeded to ruin the ad pitch to the infamously ad free chocolate by telling them a charming anecdote about Hersheys bringing him the only childhood comfort he can recall... during his wretched orphaned upbringing in a whorehouse. 

The veneer he's spent years polishing slipped away in a matter of 30 surreal seconds, as Don’s hidden past as Dick Whitman finally crept into his present, and his partners looked on in dismay and not a little confusion. This erratic behaviour cost him more than just his business partners - at home, Megan slams the door in Don's face, with no indication that she'll be back. 

But the Hersheys pitch wasn’t the only unusual decision on Don’s part featured in this episode – after hijacking Stan’s relocation to sunny California - with utopian visions of him and Megan poolside, far away from the big city and his “messed up kids”, as she so charmingly put it, he enacted one of the only selfless acts I can remember in recent Draper history, giving up his place for Ted. 

Ted, the supposed good cop to Don’s bad, finally succumbed to surely the most annoying romance any office has ever seen; he and Peggy's school girl giggles finally culminating in a night of passion at her Brooklyn hovel. Peggy was the one who, earlier in the season, told Don she had hoped Ted would rub off on Don, rather than the other way round. Ironically then, it was the differences she had so liked in Ted that ultimately went against her; unlike the serial philanderer Draper, Ted eventually decided he needed to put a few thousand miles between his family and the woman that could ruin it all.

Season six ended with Peggy quite literally wearing the trousers – the first time a ‘pantsuit’ has been seen in the Mad Men office - she had her feet up on Don’s desk, the ‘indefinite’ time off the partners had forced him into after his recent less than reliable behavior leaving Peggy to take the SCP helm. With both Don and Ted out of the picture, it will interesting to see which way she decides to steer…

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Wendy Davis: Modern day Super Woman

At the grand age of 21, to my chagrin, I could hardly be awarded the title of ‘well-travelled’. I have, however, visited the state of Texas - Dallas, to be precise. It was quite literally a ‘flying-visit’, the heavy snowfall in our original destination of New York meaning that flying to the distinctly less appealing South was our only option if we were going to make it into the mighty US of A. After growing up on a diet of Friends, Sex and the City and all things New Yaawk, nothing was going to get in the way of our stay in the Big Apple, so off to Texas we went.

The memory of this brief overnight stay in the Lone Star State is dominated by a visit to the 24 hour American diner, Wendys, my first real-life encounter with the extremes of America (even the McDonalds in Leicester Square doesn’t stay open all night), and a burger and coke of epic proportions. This week however, it’s another Texan Wendy altogether who has gained my considerable, and far more worthy, admiration. 

Wendy Davis, Texan state senator and Democrat, has made history after an incredible effort to filibuster (an excellent word used disappointingly rarely in the UK) the draconian legislation proposed by SB5, the state’s new abortion restrictions. SB5 would mean the introduction of a policy endorsed largely by male politicians, largely affecting women. It would mean a 20 week abortion ban; new TRAP laws requiring abortion clinics to be certified as ‘ambulatory surgery centers’, which would close all but five of the 42 clinics open today, and it would also require clinic doctors to have admitting privileges at hospitals and greatly restrict the abortion drug RU-486. 

After a ‘people’s filibuster’ from opponents last week failed to block the bill, Wendy Davis stepped forward to stage her own. The senator planned to speak for 13 hours, without eating, drinking, using the bathroom, or even being able to lean on her podium. Had she wet herself, which I’m inclined to think I might have without a loo break for that long, she would still have been the most dignified person in that room. She was required to stay on-topic, focusing only on the bill and related subjects, like an extreme version of Radio 4’s ‘Just a Minute’. In a room full of people willing her to fail, she did her very best to keep the speech going, speaking quietly but purposefully as she read testimony from the women and doctors who would be affected by the passing of the bill, in order to delay it being passed before the midnight deadline. 

Wearing pink running shoes and a back brace to make this marathon speech more bearable, for me, Davis embodied the positive female, feminist political icon that I don’t feel Britain has. The more I read about her, the more respect I have for her. Seemingly funny and feisty, raised by her mother, she became a single parent herself at the age of 19, but went on to university in Texas, as well as receiving her law degree from Harvard. This isn’t even her first filibuster – in 2011, she filibustered $4 billion in education cuts, which meant Gov. Rick Perry, of course, called a special session to push them through anyway. This makes it even more incredible that she was willing to stand up once again for what she believed in, in the face of considerable opposition and patriarchal sneering. 

It was also encouraging to see a another female politician calling the senators assembled out on the blatant sexism being displayed - Leticia Van De Putte had just returned from her father’s funeral, and repeatedly asked Dewhurst to walk her through his procedural rulings. After being continually ignored, she brought the house down when she asked: “At what point must a female Senator raise her hand or voice to be recognized over her male colleagues in the room?”

After Davis was finally brought to a stop after almost 11 hours of speech making, the democrats assembled stepped in, attempting to run down the clock. De Putte’s comment then prompted the public gallery, which had been filling up throughout the evening, to erupt, with the cheers that lasted for over ten minutes delaying a final vote on the bill to the stroke of midnight, and making its validity highly questionable. 

It’s events like this which encourage me to believe that within my own lifetime, eventually the decisions a woman makes concerning her own body will not be dictated by conservative men. It’s a widely held belief that the South is backwards in its beliefs and policies, full of narrow minded traditionalists. But Wendy Davis is pioneering and brave, and a born and bred Texan. 

While we may sneer at the South, it's worth bearing in mind that there are states across America with similarly unjust restrictions on reproductive rights, and here in Britain, a dearth of female politicians who I can think of with nearly as much respect as I do today of Davis.

Wendy's actions show that even as an individual, you have the power to make a difference. She is also living proof that to be a super hero, you simply have to stand up for what you believe in.

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The Ideal Chat Show

The chat show can be a cruel mistress: the likes of Jonathan Ross and Graham Norton might make it look like all you need are a few poofs and a piano, a bit of banter and a celebrity shamelessly plugging their new book, but it can be a tricky formula to get right.

Davina McCall learnt this the hard way, with the ill-fated Davina axed after just one series, and while the lovely Ruth Jones may be a great writer and actress, there’s something just a little bit awkward about her seasonal show.

While the host has a tough job to keep conversation looking natural and draw entertaining responses from the most vacuous of guests, as well as those who simply appear to wish they were anywhere but sitting on that brightly coloured couch (Kristen Stewart, I’m looking at you), the success of a chat show ultimately comes down to the right combination of guests.

With my time at university coming to an end, and my youth slipping sadly away, I've become a convert to this minefield of middle aged entertainment. Which has got me thinking, what exactly would this perfect combination be?

If you’ve ever been subjected to the networking exercise, “Who would be your ideal dinner guest?”, then you’ll know just how impossible a task this can be. But after a bit of deliberation, if I were the next‘Parky’ Parkinson, here are a few of the TV stars you might expect to see me interview:

LENA DUNHAM
My latest all consuming ‘girl-crush’ (I'm not altogether sure how acceptable that term is), Dunham has written, directed and also happens to have starred in her very own indie film, Tiny Furniture, as well as hit HBO show Girls. At just 26, she has already found herself the topic of much stuffy critical debate, the latest of which is the video she made supporting Barack Obama’s campaign merging the concept of two adolescent experiences – losing your virginity and voting for the first time (which unsurprisingly had the Republicans out for her blood). Funny, articulate and outspoken, she is the stuff of chat show dreams.

JON HAMM
Charming, handsome and a master of self-deprecating humour, I struggle to think of a better potential chat show guest. I would be happy to simply observe Hamm brooding moodily on the sofa – which I happen to have spent many a happy hour watching him do as star of the brilliant Mad Men. But it turns out that in real life he has the ability to have a studio audience in stitches – demonstrating the comic talent he displayed in (far too) small parts in comedies Bridesmaids and Friends with Kids.

DAMIAN LEWIS
My obsession with American spy thriller Homeland has transferred over to its affable, Emmy winning star, Damian Lewis. Americans are often shocked to find on hearing Lewis’s real life British accent that he is in fact every inch the Englishman, and it's still something of a novelty to hear his unmistakably Eton-honed accent. Given that his specialities as an actor are subtlety and restraint, it's also refreshing to see just how animated and charismatic he is in real life. Across the pond they are fully signed up to the Lewis fan club, but we need far more of him on British screens!

The correct chat show combination is clearly a matter of taste – and my choice of guest may not be your cup of tea. So who would you choose? Anything goes…just as long as your list doesn’t happen to include any one from Made in Chelsea...

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15 things Sex and The City taught me

Happy 15th Anniversary SATC

SATC is to my teenage years what Harry Potter was to the simpler, prepubescent ones. By that, I mean the kind of escape from a pretty standard adolescence that could only be offered by a magical kid who was best pals with Dumbledore, or a (similarly unrealistic) single and "fabulous" writer in New York.

With my degree over and the real world looming ominously close, I am putting my feet up for as long as I have an excuse to do so and rewatching - yet again - my SATC boxset. In honour of what could be my last boxset binge in a while, and the show's own approach to adulthood, I decided to share a little of what exactly I learned from Carrie Bradshaw and co. 

NB: I'm going to start this with the disclaimer that I'm well aware of how vapid and annoying many people find the show, but that if you gave it a chance (and I know this for a fact after recommending it to a cynical friend) you might just like it. Yeah, she's not Simone de fucking Beauvoir, but Carrie still taught me a thing or two.

1) Opposites Attract.

No, I'm not talking about the old relationship cliché, I'm talking friendship wise. Samantha and Charlotte were never exactly on the same page when it came to well, anything much, but they realised that sometimes this can be just what you need.

Charlotte, for instance, shares this pearl of wisdom: "I don’t want to be the up-the-butt girl, because I mean...Men don’t marry up-the-butt girl. Whoever heard of Mrs. Up-The-Butt? No, no, no. I can’t. I want children and nice bedding, and I just can’t handle this right now."

Whereas Samantha is all: 

2) "Sometimes it’s the family you’re born into and sometimes it’s the one you make for yourself.”

The best part of SATC was always the focus on the friendship between Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha. As Big memorably pointed out, "You girls are the loves of her life; a guy is just lucky to come in fourth." Men came and went throughout the six seasons, but the four women were consistently there for each other, occasionally helping to point out which of the men needed to go. 

Self-professed baby hater Samantha babysits for Miranda, Carrie holds Miranda's hand at her mother's funeral, Charlotte lends Carrie the money for an apartment she's about to lose. Feminists who dismiss this show as materialistic nonsense have missed all of these lovely moments, and more.

3) Everyone makes the odd fashion faux-pas.

As much as I will forever worship at the altar of SJP, I feel she could have called the show's stylist out from time to time. Carrie is a supposed 'fashionista', but sometimes, her outfits were questionable to say the least. Seriously, a belt around your bare midriff...were your abs cold?! The show is famed for its fashion, but even the woman who admits to having spent $40,000 on shoes makes mistakes (and given its 90s setting, there were quite a few).

4) No amount of McDonalds will win round your commitment-phobe boyfriend. 

After discovering that her on/off boyfriend 'Mr Big' has been planning on moving to Paris without thinking to tell her, rather than bidding him au revoir as any sensible woman would, Carrie decides the best option is to dress up in a beret and purchase some "fish au filet" courtesy of McDonalds. Unsurprisingly, this isn't enough to bring Big round to la vie en France with Carrie in tow, and the McDs (along with their relationship) ends up going splat against the wall.

5) If you've found your Aidan, you don't need a Mr Big.

Team Aidan, or Team Big? The million-dollar question for any SATC devotee. I have to admit, I've always felt Big had a certain something ("abso-fuuckin'-lutely"). But when it comes down to it, any self respecting woman would be on Aidan's side. This is where Carrie, much as I love her, is at her most annoying. 'Oooo I have an amazingly lovely boyfriend who dares to ask me how my day's been so now I feel smothered and I can't possibly go to his country cabin for a weekend 'cos I'm a city girl' (yeah I'm paraphrasing a little).

Only in TV land would a woman start an affair with the guy who had dumped her time and time again, refusing to commit, and then married a younger model in a matter of months. As much as we all swooned just a tad at Big finally telling her "you're the one", it took him too bloody long to realise it.

6) Nothing should get in the way of a shopping trip.

These ladies were always shopping. This is definitely something I can relate to, though I have to admit I spend a little more time in Topshop than I probably ever will in Saks. As Samantha points out after Carrie questions her accompaniment on a shopping trip after sustaining an injury: "Honey, I have a broken toe, not a broken spirit."

7) Friends should leave the yelling at your boyfriend to you.

"I CURSE THE DAY YOU WERE BORN"... Just no, Charlotte. I think Carrie had it handled herself, what with the whacking Big round the head with her wedding bouquet after he fails to turn up to the altar.

Incidentally, why were they all so ready to forgive Steve for cheating on Miranda, but cursing Big's existence for his wedding day cold-feet?

8) Your friends probably know best, but you're going to ignore them until they get to say I told you so.

Hey Carrie, you know when you got on your high horse about your friends pointing out that moving to Paris with no job and no friends and a questionable man was probably a bad idea? They were right! Aleksandr Petrovsky was an unlikeable, weed of a man, and as much as I would jump at the chance to move to Paris, I don't think I'd be jumping quite so quickly if it meant living with him.

Charlotte was similarly wise to point out to Carrie that having an affair with a now married Big, who had previously claimed he'd never get married again, was definitely not one of her best moves. As much as we might hate the one they're making, more often than not your friends have a point.

9) Never trust a man who hasn't heard of Billy Joel. Or one who insists on saying "Alrighty". 

Carrie was understandably annoyed when Miranda admitted she didn't like Petrovsky. However, it quickly transpired that Miranda's judgement was correct. My mind had been made up as soon as he appeared to have no idea who Billy Joel was - how can you live in NYC and not know 'New York State of Mind'?

Charlotte's relationship with Trey 'Alrighty' MacDougal also delivered a fair few important life lessons. Firstly, the eligible doctor figure might be the better prospect on paper, but the bald guy who talks with his mouth full might just turn out to be the love of your life. Ohh I love Harry. Charlotte's relationship with Trey also extols the virtues of sex before marriage...because well we all know how that turned out.

10) Gay guys are a girl's best friend.

Some of the best lines in the show undoubtedly came from Stanford Blatch and Anthony Marontino. Case in point being: Charlotte [on being blind]: "Can you think of anything worse?" Anthony: "Stonewashed jeans and matching jacket."

I'm aware of criticism over TV shows featuring a 'token gay' character, but I've been lucky enough to find out that the idea of a girl having one of the most hilarious (and occasionally bitchy) gay guys as a best friend is definitely one of the show's most realistic elements.

12) Over the top and dramatic comments are occasionally perfectly acceptable.

"So I decided to go home, and kill myself." This quote appears in the episode featuring Carrie's 35th Birthday, when no one makes it to her birthday dinner on time and she realises she feels lonely and a little bit depressed, and rather than wait for them, heads home to be miserable. While wallowing in self-pity and generally feeling sorry for yourself are not exactly desirable traits, such activity is occasionally necessary, and who doesn't have a day like that sometimes?

13) If your friend is in a crisis, you should help her out and NOT just send your boyfriend. 

....Because he might find her struggling naked on the bathroom floor. Which ties into a larger Carrie inspired realisation - being generally selfish is not cool. While indulging in a Sex and the City marathon, you will most likely realise just how much Carrie enjoys talking about herself, at the expense of the other ladies getting a word in edgeways. A lot of the female support the show is famed for is definitely towards her, rather than from her. 

14) There's always something to moan about. 

I definitely have something of the Miranda about me - I was cynical before I even knew what the word meant, and I find complaining can be somewhat therapeutic. SATC showed that no matter what was going on in your life - single, married, working mother, trying to get pregnant - everyone has their own stuff to deal with, and it's a good idea to have a few friends to help you get through it.

15) You can tell your friends anything (though they might not want to hear it all)

So Samantha may have over-shared at times. But what was great about Sex and the City was that it presented all of the intricacies of female friendship - no topic was off limits. This didn't just mean gory sexual details, but also - much like when Carrie tells the group "I'm lonely" - an acknowledgement of what you don't even want to admit to yourself. Whatever it is, as they say, better out than in!

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Vintage shopping in York

It’s always a little soul destroying after you’ve painstakingly prepared for a night out, feeling pretty pleased about debuting your brand new dress, only to see someone at the bar sporting the exact same highstreet number. Even worse, if you have to acknowledge it suits them better. But there is no longer any reason for inadvertently finding yourself subject to a ‘Who wore it better?’ poll, since these days, shops selling vintage fashion are just as easily accessible as any of the high street chains. 

Vintage doesn’t have to mean you have to look like a 50s throwback, so don’t be put off if tea dresses and brogues are what you’d have consigned to fashion Room 101. Models and celebrities like Kate Moss, Agyness Deyn and Alexa Chung are all veterans of vintage fashion, and each has their own signature style. Vintage purchases also don’t have to come with a celebrity style price tag – while it would be nice to wear a classic Mulberry satchel like Alexa, Kate Moss is also known to enjoy a rummage around Camden and Portobello markets. 

York's high street is definitely one of the best I've ever shopped in. But it's well worth venturing away from the chain stores and exploring the city's vintage ones too. And after the recent closure of Deep vintage on Fossgate, it seems all the more important to encourage students to go in search of a hidden vintage gem. 

There have been a fair few changes in my life since I first went to uni, one of which happens to be with my shopping habits. The proximity of my house to Topshop has definitely increased the frequency of my shopping trips, BUT being at York has also meant I’ve strayed from my holy grail and discovered the many independent shops the city has to offer. 

Here, I compiled a list of just a few of my favourite places for vintage shopping. 

Purple Haze – 52 Fossgate

Plenty of scarves, bags, denim and pretty shirts and dresses make Purple Haze an ideal store for students, as well as a student budget. The menswear section upstairs is also well stocked and the place to go if you’re into a bit of Harris Tweed. Ideal for sunglasses – if the sun does ever decide to come out, they have a fantastic range for £10. 

Glory Days Vintage – 22 Walmgate

A tiny store located on the way into town, Glory Days has an array of stock ranging from the 30s up to the 80s. Like most vintage stores, prices can vary greatly, but it’s particularly good for reasonably priced colourful jumpers and cardigans. 

The Antiques Centre York – 41 Stonegate

Hidden down the stairs of York’s Antique Centre is a little room packed with vintage clothing and accessories. It’s a bit more of a jumble sale type affair down there, meaning a little more rooting around, but this means an even bigger sense of satisfaction when you stumble across a bargain.

But if rummaging isn't your thing, vintage fashion is easily accessible from the comfort of your armchair. It’s well worth taking a look on ASOS's Marketplace section, and there's always the vintage lover’s haven, e-bay for a secondhand bargain. Fewer however are aware of Oxfam’s online shop, which also has a great variety of vintage clothes, bags and shoes. With just a little searching, you could soon have a wardrobe to rival Chloe Sevigny’s. 

This originally appeared as an article on theyorker.co.uk, and can be read here. 

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