Category Archives: just for fun

new year’s resolutions

Happy New Year!

I celebrated it rather modestly this year with copious amounts of red wine, Scene It and some Indian snacks. At midnight, we trooped out onto the streets of Pontcanna to wish everyone a happy new year, but there was not a soul to be seen. I thought it was rather sad. My mum is full of stories from the North East about warm gatherings, and strangers coming in from off the street to join in on the merriment. But down South, there was not even a squeak of collaborative joy.

Onto Cathedral Road, armed with a bottle of champagne and our best singing voices we attempted to sing Auld Lang Syne. When I woke up the next morning with a fuzzy head and as memories began to dribble back down into consciousness, I decided to make one of my new years resolutions to learn the words of this famous song.

Other New Year’s Resolutions:

2. To get a proper job by the end of the year.

3. To spend more time cooking.

4. To keep running at least twice a week.

5. To go on holiday somewhere exciting.

6. To move out.

7. To stop writing blog posts in an effort to put off work.

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christmas holidays

It is the day before the last day of the year; second to last; last but one. This Christmas holiday has flown by in a blink of Love Actually, Home Alone, The Holiday, The Grinch and every Christmas film you can dream of.

I had such good intentions when we first broke up from CJS. I had a week’s work experience with the Western Mail, plans for an hour of shorthand each day. I wanted to finish two of my features before Santa fell down my chimney and even, start revising all about fluffy subjects such as council tax.

This hasn’t quite happened. Luckily, there is a New Year’s Resolution that awaits me just around the corner, sure to be broken, soon after…

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find a freegan

About 3 weeks ago I set myself the task of trying to find a freegan for an article I wanted to write. They are curious beings. I have searched high and low for one to write on.

Twitter brought me back one freegan. But he lives in London, not quite Cardiff – where are these food finders? I can’t find them!

I got quite interested in freeganism when I started writing an article for alt:Cardiff. I even entertained the idea of donning a hoodie and raiding a supermarket bin, much to my mother’s chagrin. But I got slightly scared. I was offered no protection from my boyfriend who quite simply turned his nose up at the idea, not wishing to stumble through an orange dumpster dirtying his Superdry trainers – so, naturally, being the free-thinking woman I am,  I bottled it.

Remember that article I wrote about the benefits of Facebook for journalists over Twitter. At the time, I couldn’t really see how Facebook could help me – but it did.

It found me a freegan and I get to have a chat with her after Christmas. Now, where shall I take her, a coffee shop or round the back of a supermarket?

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a chat with GLC

I am writing an article on Goldie Lookin Chain this week, and as I can’t use all of the quotes I thought I would post them up here. They make for an entertaining read on a Monday morning.

In his own words, Eggsy from GLC:

Are you going to be playing any new material?
Yeah, loads of new stuff which will be out next year plus a load of stuff from the original albums, return of the red eye and don’t blame the chain. Sexual

Are any of the proceeds of the tour going towards Shelter Cymru?

I don’t know they put us in a bus and made us get drunk. So far Graham has been sick on his own thighs twice. I might get him to donate his gusset to charity. Tasty.

Are you excited about playing in Cardiff?

Cardiff is going to rock. We should know all the words by the time we get there and we know where all the Burger Kings are located. I think my dad is coming to the gig too. Well safe.

Why are you not playing Newport on this tour?

I don’t know. We should have a gig at Graham’s house. We could all get naked and have an orgy in his garage afterwards. And he could cook chips for the fans.

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a bike, yes please

I would like a bike. I have decided. I would like to be able to get up in the morning and cycle to university with the wind in my hair, and the dirt up my leggings.

People who ride bikes always look so smug, not only are they fit and healthy they are not polluting the environment.

I would like to parade around, wobbling in the skinny red line freaking out cautious drivers.

This is my thought for the day.

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an international virgin

I know nothing about rugby. I know men play it. I know women can play it. I know there are two teams that normally battle it out against one another. And I know that if you are Welsh you are supposed to know everything about it, girl or not.

My boyfriend knows a lot about rugby, and in a quest to retain the title of ‘World’s Best Girlfriend’ I thought it would be nice to let him buy me a ticket for the Rugby Internationals.

So, after a very exciting day which involved meeting John Inverdale, (and spending half the day trying to remember how to say his surname) and Jeremy Guscott  – more on this later, I headed to meet him outside Cardiff Castle. Blackberry in hand, I thought I would do my best to capture cardiff on a rugby international.

Having lived in Cardiff for a while, I know the atmosphere can be electric on a game night. I have often gatecrashed die-hard rugby fans nights out in an aim to make my aimless, I don’t need an excuse to have a drink night better, but this was the first time I had been involved. It was bitterly cold in Cardiff last night, and not even the blue, twinkling fairy lights could warm us.

We headed over to gate 6, round the back of the Millennium Stadium on the bank of the River Taff and made our way into the ground. Leaving the boys to pick up some watery Carling, Jen and I bumped into our first hurdle. Someone was sat in our seats! Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. I am not one of those people who makes you move on an empty train just because the flimsy little ticket poking out of the back of your headrest does not match up with the one held in your ice, cold hand.

But the match was sold out – so we weren’t quite sure whether to check our eyesight or start a fight.  Three stewards later, a lot of ticket checking, moaning and not much action –  the lady in orange managed to make the impostors move.  One row along.

Sat in the third row behind the Welsh goal – I think –  they swap at half time, I witnessed it – we were able to warm ourselves from the pyrotechnics, which definitely symbolises the Welsh dragon, I began to feel a bit nervous. Why? Because the national anthem was coming up. I would have had more chance knowing the words and being able to sing along to The National Anthem by Radiohead – which by the way, are much easier and only have around three lines. Yet another reason to love Radiohead.

I am Welsh. But here’s the catch. I am the only person in my entire family tree to have been born here. No-one in my family is patriotic. My mum wanted me to take yellow and green ribbons so I could support Australia because my brother lives there. Consequently, I do not feel Welsh and do not know the words to the national anthem:

Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau

Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi,
Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri;
Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mad,
Tros ryddid collasant eu gwaed.

Cytgan
Gwlad, gwlad, pleidiol wyf i’m gwlad,
Tra môr yn fur
I’r bur hoffbau,
O bydded i’r heniaith barhau.

Hen Gymru fynyddig, paradwys y bardd,
Pob dyffryn, pob clogwyn, i’m golwg sydd hardd;
Trwy deimlad gwladgarol, mor swynol yw si
Ei nentydd, afonydd, i mi.

Cytgan

Os treisiodd y gelyn fy ngwlad dan ei droed,
Mae hen iaith y Gymry mor fyw ag erioed,
Ni luddiwyd yr awen gan erchyll law brad,
Na thelyn berseiniol fy ngwlad.

Cytgan

Never mind that Welsh has a ridiculous amount of ridiculous letters put in ridiculous places. Ngw? Come on..But here I was, surrounded by true rugby fans and proud to be Welsh McDiarmids (slightly ironic seeing as they hail from bonnie Scotland) and I didn’t have a monkeys. I got to the chorus and faded into the background. Singing and rugby in one night. This was a new one.

Kick off. When all things are equal.

Within the next 10 minutes, in my expert opinion, we had lost the game. I have been to two rugby games in the past month or so. The first one, was when the Cardiff Blues played some team from up North. Ross said that it “was the worst game he had ever been to.” After last night’s match I think he had something to compare it with.

For me, as an international virgin. I was rather disappointed. There was no atmosphere. Everything and everyone fell silent. Not even the faint cries of “oggy oggy oggy” could stir up Welsh spirits. Things got so bad that there was even a ruckus in the crowd behind us. And I thought this was a gentleman’s sport.

74,000 people stormed into the stadium hopeful and expectant. They left feeling rather dejected and a little bit robbed I would imagine. Having not bought the ticket, I was just grateful to be there. Double the pain for Ross, then.

Leaving early, we fell out onto the quiet streets of Cardiff. It was ice cold, the weather reflecting everyone’s spirits and pissing down on us. Sweet.

What do you do when you lose something that you care about? In Cardiff, you tend to get drunk and listen to some god awful music and steal a drunk Welsh girl’s, Welsh hat. But this, this is just too much. Hope you don’t find yourself in one of those incriminating photos…

Off to Barocco to dance with reckless abandon, grooving one’s hips and thinking that one is the world’s best girlfriend while doing the world’s best dance moves. Both are probably untrue.

My post-match commentary –

  1. Learn the words to your national anthem.
  2. Wear red.
  3. Don’t go to the bar on your own without some form of chav defence.
  4. And always, always make sure there is someone there to tell you when to cheer.

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24 and still at no.22

I’ve been considering setting up a new niche – the thoughts of a twenty-something trainee journalist who still lives with her parents. This is something I know about, well, but don’t want to know anymore about. Enough is enough.

If I have to hear “Simon is going to take (insert terrible artist) under his wing”, one more time, I may spontaneously combust.  I have heard the same line since Lemar was back on that BBC spin off, what was it called? The Wretch Factor? No, I know not.

But really, how long can it go on. I am “obviously not making much of an impression in the room” said my dad when he asked me for the second time whether I had seen Gavin and Stacey this week.

I was sat right next to him.

To relieve my melting ice-cream like stress – watching The Muppets sing Bohemian Rhapsody pushed all of my 99 buttons:

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