Welcome to the New Age

An incredible thing happened today – VAT decreased by 2.5%. It is an amazing time to live in; I was surprised and/or delighted at the prospect of Mars Bars decreasing in price by two whole pence, and iPod classics dropping by a WILD ten pounds. I mean, that’s exactly how to get strapped-for-cash shoppers back on the high streets and out of their savings-fund hidey holes, right?

Wrong, so unbelievably wrong. What Alistair Darling is doing here seems plausible in theory – get consumers spending more, injecting more money into the economy, in order to make this current recession a shallower, more tolerable one. Of course, many of the ignorant masses are going to see the words “fall” and “tax” and immediately set up extravagant pool parties (I am fully aware it’s the middle of winter) in which they’ll be drinking champagne by the bucket full, or actions approximated, but really, what is there to celebrate? As Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Osborne delivered the perfect mantra at the mini-Budget – “Tax giveaways for Christmas, paid for by tax rises for life!” 

As a matter of opinion, consumer goods have been overpriced for years, the purchase cost far outstripping the manufacturing and transport costs, so how designer jeans dropping by £10 (such as £170 to £160) is a significant change, I don’t know. It is as simple as this – these cuts in VAT will NOT get people shopping again as we have the sense to spend smart. It may well be the festive season, however, I am not going to be reckless with my money, as I can see straight through any change in tax. A cut must be funded somehow, and the money we save now must be paid back anyway. So if I rush out to the shops and spend more than I usually would, just because I can, when the times comes to clean up the mess, I’ll be down more money because I was reckless.
Do Labour not consider the fact that people, contrary to popular belief, have sense?

Has anyone considered the backlash of the amount of money borrowed to fund this tax cut? I think, in fact, Labour have labouriously (look mum, I made a pun) pondered this fact and have decided to implement this following the political cycle; that is, if they do not win the next General Election, it will presumably be the Conservatives who have to mop up their mess.

Hitting 18, Fags, Booze, Uni… Politics?

An interesting thing happened to me a few months ago. I received a letter from Leeds City Council informing me that I must register myself to vote in the near future. And, I, of course, ignored the letter and went on Myspace. A few hours later, I found myself thinking. Voting most certainly could not apply to someone so young, so politically unaware, whose closest experience of recession and political crisis was the film Billy Elliot, could it?

The problem is that I am part of the next voting generation, and most of us, myself included, have absolutely no idea how this country is run, the ins and outs of the economy, of political policy. It’s not cool to fret about the run on the pound, or Gordon Brown’s popularity, and as such, most of us veer to the territory of the “normal” – reality TV, soaps, music – whatever it is we use as our social standpoints. And there is the issue that once we hit 18, we make up a large proportion of any given political party’s demographic, no matter how uninformed we are. We are in no way equipped to make a decision which many believe is pointless anyway – how much could one vote matter? – and as such, we choose to ignore it, save for the occasional article in the Metro between Nemi, the horoscopes and Guilty Pleasures, which are much easier to digest and discuss.

I guess I could say my viewpoint on politics was as follows:
Conservatives: Ooh, they’re the ones that ruined the economy in the 80s, aren’t they, with that Thatcher woman?
Labour: Tony Blair was alright, I guess, better than those Tory lot. Gordon Brown looks like a chimp.
Lib Dem: Their appeal is they’re not Labour or Tory, right?
Everyone else: The Green Party? Are they all veggie tree huggers? Wtf?
So who would I have voted for? Well, probably Labour as everyone else is doing it. Not that I really cared anyway.

Pre-newspaper-reading-wtfispolitics Meg was probably not going to be of any use in this real world we live in these days. The credit crunch, inflation, boom-and-bust, what’s an exchequer? All just useless buzzwords in an already too hard to understand area. I say this, and most adults don’t really have an active interest in politics either, unless they’re particularly suffering due to current policies, or they are my father (who has an opinion about EVERYTHING).

So what can be done?
We have a mandatory obligation to attend lessons in school on religion, so why not politics too? It’s just as big an issue, and a grossly ignored one at that. Of course, any teaching method incorporated under government regulation will contain bias, so perhaps not. Brainwashing is definitely not the answer.
Adverts aimed at teenagers regarding politics? Contrary to popular belief, not all under 18s take advertisement content as gospel, and it would most likely get ignored, unless it contained breasts, a good tune, or both. Plus we’re all too busy stabbing each other to notice adverts anyway.

Truth is, I don’t know. It’s a matter of personal taste, but I believe we should equip ourselves with knowledge to help us make an informed choice about our future. The party in power will inadvertantly affect our lives in a matter of time, when we realise how badly constructed certain areas of finance are or when we frown in disgust at yet another incident which the government lets slip (Baby P, anyone?) Instead of sitting around doing nothing, why don’t we at least find out more about things which bug us?
Politicians will always lie, we’ve just got to find ones that don’t lie as badly as the rest.

So there we have it, this is the birth of a 17 year old girl’s interest in an uncool subject. Another one.

It’s been a while

It’s strange how much of my time and attention everyday life is currently consuming.
Wake up, college, home, sleep. It’s all so monotonous, and I feel like I’m not doing enough.
However, I’m not confident enough to go anywhere on my own to initiate anything. I’ve wanted to start kickboxing for a long time, but I can’t summon up the courage to go and check it out.
I’m worried at how little confidence I actually have these days, because I am going to end up alone and boring. I have no ways of de-stressing, no viable hobbies and a fear of initiation. So what do I do?
I’d really like a parent to take me to these places, or a good friend, or just someone who I know will give me the courage to start up a new thing so I can continue going. It’s not the continual attendance which gets me, it’s the first step, the one where I have to ask about things, deal with new people alone that terrifies me, and I don’t know what to do…

A Tribute to Ian Curtis & Control

Using the medium of photography, here is a rather quick tribute to Ian Curtis and the film Control.

Strange but necessary

Parents, I don’t suppose I will ever figure them out. My father, a highly intelligent, opinionated man, is scared (!!) of his daughter’s ability to articulate herself. My mother, down to earth dreamer, with a tongue as sharp as a knife, words slicing me apart inside as she tries not to hurt me.
I just wish they would make their minds up whether they are proud of me or believe me to be an abomination, considering I spend half the time violently oscillating around whether I believe myself to be a failure or not.
I am a teenager, and I will freely admit, a very difficult one. Bestowed with a generous helping of rebellion, insanity and just a little intelligence, and the vocal ability to sell ice to eskimos, I am a dangerous threat to any parent who wishes to see their daughter remain pure and innocent forever. These faults led me to leave home at the ripe old age of 16 due a vicious row with my parents, and, of course, disgrace myself along the way. Traditionalist parents to the core, it only seems natural for them to label me as a “difficult child” or, my favourite one, “just plain crazy”. So, I spent 15 months in exile, which was rather a liberating period, and a very insightful one at that, and now, I have been “let back into the family”. Still living in my own flat, of course.
So, tonight, I, being the difficult teenager I am, the only difference being I am now nearly 18, decided to open my mouth, with the disastrous consequence of actually letting my opinion spill out of it.

Shock shock horror horror.

And now, my parents cannot decide whether to be proud their daughter sounds like a 30 year old parliamentarian or whatever, or disgusted that she may well be exploding out of the “seen not heard” category so furiously that the family will be thrown into the disgrace of normality.

Is having an opinion and the strong ability to vocalise said opinion a curse or a blessing?
Who knows…

Rational terms?

Once structure is re-introduced into life, it is hard not to realise how out of control you actually are. I relish being back in an academically challenging environment, but there’s just something horribly empty about the way the rest of my life reflects back at me. It’s strange, how carefully applied eyeliner and a dash of blusher can hide all your problems, when all you actually feel inside is this hollow thrum of aching disorder. I feel as though I could probably carry on forever, hiding my burden under half-acceptable aesthetically considered masks, walking through the shadows so as not to get burned by the harsh light of confrontation. All it takes is for one flicker of recognition – the shining eyes, the knuckles bitten and worn – and suddenly, they’re trying to take my shadows away, blinding me with the so-called light of normality. It doesn’t work like that. Jolted into reality, the pain is only amplified into an unbearable intensity which is all too conducive to relapse, as soon as possible, please.
In an attempt to contain oneself – too intense, too emotional, just simply TOO MUCH – one opens the door to unseen tortures and hollowed out personalities, all inflicted by the most powerful influence of all in one’s life.
The self.

A new year of academia

Summer has passed by so fast, and, left in the wake of uncountable rainy days, I now find myself facing, like the majority of teens my age, a new academic year. So, cigarette in hand, brain firmly rewired and ready for a test drive, so begins the setting of (most likely unobtainable) goals for the next year.

1. Get straight As in my 5 A-level subjects
This means 4 retakes, and unsurmountable hours of bloody revision. Biology, Chemistry and Maths need retakes, Psychology and General Studies do not.

2. Get my Duke of Edinburgh Silver award
This means actually participating in extra curricular activities instead of dossing on the college drive, smoking and socialising. Woe is me.

3. Enter at least one poetry competition, and win the fucker
This means deceivingly convincing someone of literary prowess that I, in fact, have a grain of talent, and am not (such is the reality) a talentless mockery of a writer.

4. Find a band who want a lucidly-absurd synthesizer pioneer
This means finding 2 or 3 individuals who are as crazy as I am, whose talent I can hide behind in order to participate in that holy-of-holies, a college band.

5. Save money instead of squandering it on stupidly expensive coffee and shoes that will one day kill me
This means giving up shoes. I don’t think that’s possible.

6. Go vegan
This means stopping eating shit. And meat. And eggs. And cheese. Oh, cheese, I’m so sorry, but you bring me out in spots and are full of cowling-lactate.

And, that, as they say, is that.

Wasted

Upon reading “Wasted” by Marya Hornbacher, I can honestly say that, despite having suffered from eating disorders in the past, I am truly lucky. Her book is a haunting account of her struggle with bulimia and anorexia, the former of which developed when she was a mere nine years old. She writes so eloquently and vividly, her acute mind nothing like her once-wasted body, her lowest weight being 52lbs – the same as my 9 year old sister.
It seriously made me think upon some serious obsessions I have been dragging around with me, most notably, the ever-niggling thought that I am fat and therefore a failure. At 127lbs, a monster compared to the images the media puts out as our standard of beauty, yes, I am immensely insecure about my weight, and yet, upon thinking about it… I am thin, for fuck’s sake. Not heroin-chic waif thin, mind you, but nice, curvy-yet-compact thin, apart from my 34E’s which are anything BUT compact. *facepalm*

I know this. The numbers, my friends, everything says this to me. Everything but the mirror. I don’t want to end up frail, dying and alone, but still, within me lies this inexplicable inner desire to just lose ten more pounds… And it scares me, because even if I do pull myself together (stop being self deprecating), will it be enough? I just want to feel comfortable in my own skin, yet admired by others. Problem is, to gain admiration in this soceity, it does seem the case that one must starve oneself to the near breaking point of oblivion. It’s twisted and yet I can’t seem to escape from it.

And it doesn’t really help that I am a stereotype and a HALF when it comes down to it all: obsessive-compulsive, tendency for depression, white, middle class, intelligent, under a lot of pressure, perfectionist… etc.
Typical

Where’s my choccie bar?

Remember?

I remember when we were young: when sex was a novelty confined to late night ramblings, forbidden fruit, the apple of our night worn eyes; when insomnia was a word used to describe those nights where you may just see the clock hit 00:00; when words mattered not, and actions even less.
I remember donning my cerise uniform, proudly rolling up my skirt, daring to show knees; untucking my blouse from under my too small jumper, the smallest hint of individuality; the first time I wore my hair down to school, brown and mousy, young and innocent.
I remember the times of crushes, a boy a week, where it was never serious because I knew they’d never like me and my flat chest, linguistic ability and lack of make up.
I remember being able to run down the stairs and feel no pain.
I remember not worrying, not living under the shadow I do now.
And I wonder, how will I remember these times?

Youth tastes so sweet, now it’s frittered away
a sharp tang of the past when our minds are at play
as we sleep off our headaches and the sting of growing old
pulling at our bones
we’re only seventeen, yet we’re still dying alone
nostalgia is our methodone

Home away from home

Upon spending one solitary day in my new flat, I can now justify my desires to live alone, as opposed to the hustle and bustle of the family home.
It is an utterly strange feeling to go from a confined space containing three children under 10, and the control of parental figures to a gutted, hollow flat containing nothing but technology and personality, which meld together to form a surprisingly comfortable hide-away, laden with independence, yet devoid of a cooker or any other functional utensil. It somehow isolates my passions, interests and passtimes and concocts a unique space in which I can escape from the monotony of functional living where one must cook, clean and hang onto the splintering threads of forced family life. For once in my life, I feel young, I feel free to explore that which interests me without the fear of judgement and passive, feigned enthusiasm provided by parents.