2013-05-24T09:51:13-04:00 Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=olivia-rose Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Olivia Rose Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3077954 2013-04-15T19:00:00-04:00 2013-04-15T12:04:12-04:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
Almost six weeks ago I arrived in Bermuda, a country that I have frequented since I was a little girl to visit my family and a place I thought I knew like the back of my hand: I learned to swim the day I was flung off the dock in Harrington Sound over 20 years ago, I know every inch of the Crystal Caves, I can identify the whale by its tail at the aquarium in Flatt's (if you're a regular to the island you'll know what I mean).

Yet it wasn't until this trip that I discovered that there was life beyond Front Street (Hamilton's sea-view tourist strip) and that frankly, what goes on there is a darned sight more interesting than anything you might find in your cosy tourist bubble of beaches, bars and beautiful weather.

The first time I visited 'bakatown' (the closest thing Bermuda has to a ghetto) it was 11pm on a Sunday night. I was mildly inebriated - the rum swizzles here are delicious but lethal - and I was headed for an open mic bar with my uncle. I didn't know what to expect. I'd been warned that the venue was located smack bang on arguably the roughest corner in Hamilton (Court Street and Elliot Street) a place where gang violence had broken out on more than one occasion, a place where shootings had occurred. This was not the Bermuda I knew.

But when I stepped out of the car, I felt bizarrely as if I had come home. Bakatown is the only area I've visited on this island that really exists with that uniquely urban vibe: the heady blend of many types of people coming together in one place. On one corner of the street, there was a hubbub of what looked to me like East-London trendies, converse galore, mixing with island girls in all their ratchet finery. Loitering just over the way, were the obligatory 'questionables' with their missing teeth, talking to themselves and idly burning rizzlas on to the pavement. There was a house just down the street with a window open, blasting Soca and profanities, the shadows of men in hoods creeping up the walls. It was thick with atmosphere and I was on my way to my first night of many, at what I can now honestly say is Bermuda's most worthy place to visit... Chewstick.

Chewstick is not just a bar. It is an office, a classroom, a recording studio, an open mic night, an events organization, a forum for open discussion and a symbol of hope in the heart of Bermuda's most desperate community. The Chewstick foundation (a non-profit cultural arts movement) was born out of Bermuda in 2002 - they are dedicated to breaking down social barriers and providing opportunites to empower individuals and enrich the community through the power of storytelling in every medium.

Considering that the reason I decided to travel at all (next stop Kingston, Jamaica) was to pursue my creative talents (I've been photographing a demographic of young black males all too often grouped into the same bracket, written off for their pasts, unemployable for their tattoos and markings, insecure and misguided people who's social issues are down played in any nation you can find them) you can understand that when I arrived at Chewstick, it seemed like a beacon of hope for my project, which so far hadn't really gotten itself off the ground.

I'd come to Bermuda under the illusion that like I do in London, I could move unnoticed. That because I've been visiting for years, I could wander up to anyone I liked and take a snap. That because I can understand a thick Bermudian accent (they have a unique and beautiful set of vowel sounds - down the road sounds more like "daaahn de rooehd") I was basically a local... Wrong.

If you didn't know already, Bermuda is 22 miles long and only two miles wide at its widest point with a population of around 65,000. In short, it's abso-fucking-lutely tiny. Small enough in fact that I seemed to have acquired the label "fresh meat" since I'd arrived and was even informed one day by a drunk man in Somerset, that he'd seen me in town that morning and then again riding my bike through Sandys parish four times yesterday and twice today. He was spot on. Scary. That kind of conspicuousness is unnerving for a London girl - a place where I am normally anonymous.

When there are less than 1000 people in each age category, things can get a little claustrophobic. People know your business. You've probably slept with your best friends ex or cousin or brother. The police officer drinks with you until he's sick on Saturday and is back on patrol Monday. It's a double-edged sword. On the one hand, you have one of the most blended cultures in the world - no one blinks an eye at an interracial couple, you only have to walk in to Docksiders (one of Bermuda's most famous pub/restaurants) to see that rich ex-pats children drink alongside the kids from the bakatown in some strange symbiotic disharmony and take a drive with a local and you'll realize that the car horn's sole purpose is to beep the people you know hello along your way. On the other hand, you have a nation that's living on top of itself, caught in a bubble that was cast when it was at it's most affluent several years ago and struggling to keep up now the super rich have moved out.

Since the mass migration of ex-patriat businesses, guest-houses, hotels, restaurants and bars lie dormant all over the island. There's hardly anyone left that can afford to fill them. Many young people are unemployed, with little to do but drink, smoke ganja (which comes at an extortionate price) and stick their middle finger up to the world. Gangs have formed, guns have replaced machetes, respect has been lost and as far as I can see, little is being done to help. Everyone here is talking about it, young and old, rich and poor, black and white, yet few seem bold enough to speak up in a place where everybody seems to know your name. Yet things are changing.

It was obvious for me to see that a place like Chewstick is a shining example of exactly the kind of attitude Bermuda needs to adopt in order to instigate change. Even it's aesthetic on the street, the freshly painted red walls of the building and happy-looking-rainbow-coloured seating and art work out front, grab your attention on a run down road that looks sort of depressed in every other direction. It says: "HEY. STOP. LOOK. SMILE." And that was the feeling I got when I stepped out of the car that night. I felt like I was at home not because it looked the same as London, but because I can relate to that feeling. There is hope for us all, but only if you believe it's there. What Chewstick is saying is don't blame the area. Don't blame the people. Give them a place to exist together, give them something to do, give them a positive message and between us all, we can instigate change. This is a lesson we must all be taught, across the world.

There is a lull in tourism to Bermuda. Issues like the ones I am raising here are fast swept under the carpet in order to promote the island to the rest of the world like a glossy image on a postcard. YES, one of TripAdvisor's top ten beaches exist in this place, but what does that leave for those of us who have never been attracted to the beauty, but instead to the flaws? To me, there is no place more beautiful in Bermuda than Chewstick on it's gritty street corner, surrounded by 'bad boys' and wanderers whom directly contradict it's warm reception, inspirational founders and incredible staff (ask for Gavin, Najib, Haile or Deidre if you go, I guarantee you won't be disappointed).

Chewstick is a small company with a huge heart. I can relate. I am a tiny fish in a big pond, trying to change the world one portrait at a time. So when Chewstick took me under their wing, offered me advice and support beyond the call of duty and their already sizeable workloads, my project too began to flourish. Their close proximity to the domain of the Parkside gang and their dedication to giving everyone an equal opportunity, gave me chance to approach people from a safe space, invite them somewhere that no judgment would be placed on them, a place they knew, existed alongside and trusted. And for that I am forever grateful.

This year for the first time, I came to Bermuda not as a tourist visiting her family, but as an artist, seeking to document a place that has felt like a second home for as long as I can remember. A combination of being here in the off-season, an unprecedented amount of wind and rain (that believe it or not really chills you to the bone), my obsession with boys and a guided tour of the back streets in every parish of the island and I feel like my eyes have been opened to a whole new place.

Instead of looking out and seeing the white Bermuda roofs and pastel houses, I see the lonely properties left abandoned for years, overgrown with palms, paint peeling and roofs crumbling. I see a demographic of youth struggling to keep their heads above water during these dark times of recession. I see a British colony rich with history and authenticity that has somehow been forgotten but is somehow still remembered.

It really is a very strange and wonderful little place, full of characters and faces that you can't forget if you have your eyes open and the balls to leave your tourist guides and preconceptions behind. There's an urban underbelly here that is licked with tropical sunshine, a sense of community you won't find elsewhere and a wealth of natural beauty to be found off the beaten track. Come, explore, taste salt on your lips, climb a tree, say hello to someone you might have avoided had you been at home and if you do come here, please support Chewstick. Have a drink, listen to some music and donate at the bar, knowing that you are giving to more than just a good cause, you are contributing to an atmosphere which if replicated around the world, might just make a difference to all of us.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1702180 2012-07-26T19:00:00-04:00 2012-09-25T05:12:06-04:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
No actually, I'm not.

It took me just under seven minutes (London was surprisingly traffic free for a Friday night... "The calm before the storm!" he cheerily explained) to convince him that the Olympics is actually going to be the death of life as we know it for a full two months. I also hammered home the point that of course he's excited, he's about to have about 1 million more potential customers pour in to the Capital - Yay for cab drivers!

To be honest, the Olympics really scare me. And I actually mean it. The thought of the Olympics fills me with nothing but dread and a queasy sense of claustrophobia... Just how bad is it going to get, folks? There are men with guns on the roofs of flats, extra military being drafted in, even Boris is warning us, over and over and over and over again, to plan ahead, grin and bear it, allow extra time and to avoid Central London during the Games.

*ROFLMFAO*

Sorry was that, avoid Central London during the Games? Are you serious, Boris? I LIVE in Central London and so do most of my friends. Upsettingly, a good proportion of them also live in and around the Stratford area which as of Friday I will affectionately be renaming 'Hell'. So what am I meant to do for the next two months, I ask? Keep Calm and Don't Leave The House?

That's just not going to happen. And before you start waving your Union Jacks in my direction and telling me that I'm an awful grump for not supporting my country, hear me out. I never have been and never will be, interested in Sports.

I have never watched the previous Olympic Games with any interest and the only athletes I can name are Beth Tweddle (I'm a girl, therefore I have seen the gymnastics) and Usain Bolt (he's in a Virgin ad, right?) So what's in this for me? Other than a complete disruption to my life that is, because at this particular moment, the only thing keeping me from leaving is the fact that the airlines have bumped up their prices out of the UK, to persuade us to stay. Imprisoned by five little rings that mean so much, to so many people.

Now, if your natural inclination at this stage of the conversation is to tell me all about the history of the Games and pride and team spirit and all that jazz, I want you to know that it is not the Games themselves that bother me. Plenty of people DO like sports, they love the Olympics, they are desperate to support their team and they should be allowed to do so. Sports, athletes and being at the top of your game can be a life changing experience for people. But why do they have to do it here, in my hometown?

The Olympics started in Athens. That's the history, that's the tradition and there it should stay until the end of time, in one stadium that just gets redone every four years. Wouldn't that be a great way for the host countries to save the billions they pour out of their own economy and into their Olympic parks, with no real idea of how these vast spaces can be beneficial to the areas they are built in, post-Games? I know we will generate income from the influx of tourism, (provided they're all carrying Visa, sponsors of London 2012) but I have a little hunch that with five McDonald's in the Olympic village alone, one of which is "cathedral" in size, local businesses might just miss out on that cash.

And whilst I have your attention, I should note my absolute horror at discovering that McDonald's aren't just the official sponsors of the Olympics 2012, but have been sponsoring the Games in years past and hope to continue in the future. I'm sorry but can we just take a minute to pause... and THINK? So junk food is sponsoring the best athletes in the world? A McDonald's has been built in the Athlete's part of the village? And we're letting them have a monopoly on chips? NO local chips allowed! Only McDonald's branded chips! Why not replace the shot puts with Big Macs and the relay baton with a steaming Apple Pie?!

This whole concept is the antithesis of socially responsible business - it seems that again, we've picked the money of the corporate giants over government pledges to promote locally grown food at the Games... and now, rather than letting the Games inspire people to live healthier lives, it's inspiring them to get there, watch their sports and then treat themselves to McDonald's after a hard day of sitting down in a stadium. In the words of Terence Stephenson:

"It is very sad that an event that celebrates the very best of athletic achievements should be sponsored by companies contributing to the obesity problem."

But sponsors aside, there are more changes to our hometown that are really starting to make me eggy - namely the Games lanes. Since when did a sporting event constitute the shutting down of 30 miles of crucial (and already painfully congested) London roadway? Forget me and my commuters' plight, I'm thinking about local businesses, people with disabilities, anyone who cannot for whatever reason, take public transport over these summer months. What about places like Wapping, which has essentially been isolated to the point of becoming an island by the temporary barriers that stretch all the way up the highway? There is now only just one road in and one road out... Scary.

Again, we've heard Boris promise that the Games lanes will be operated flexibly so that when Olympic demand is low, us non VIP actual residents of the city will be allowed to drive freely in them without being raped with a £130 fine. Why then, am I currently staring at endless images of empty Olympic lanes and 32mile tailbacks on the M4? And believe me, if that scenario continues and the expected 1300 cars per hour are not travelling on the Games routes, I will be back in those lanes taking my chances at a fine. Not to be an anarchist, but if we all refused to pay, there wouldn't be much they could do about it...

Well, that is unless they decided we were 'Olympic criminals' under the new and completely made up bracket of 'Olympic Offences', which are basically just like regular offences, but with harsher punishments because they were committed in, around or during the Olympics.

Are the London authorities so desperate to show that they are taking hard line that they will change the law willy nilly to fit in with the "ethos of the Olympics"? And if we were to introduce sports offences, surely the first place to start would be the awful beer chugging, public transport ruining, punch swinging, foul mouthed football fans that we have to deal with on a monthly basis? And how, exactly, with such a major security fuck up (if you are still reading this you will no doubt be familiar with the G4S shambles and the recent stabbing in Stratford Westfield...) is this even going to be enforced?

There is only one thing about the upcoming months that I won't be complaining about. And that is the weather. Although I have been told (by hugely unreliable sources) that even the sunshine that seems to have come to us out of nowhere after months of rainy grey vileness, has been modified by the government to keep us happy. Hot, sweaty and happy. Melting on the overcrowded tubes happy. Stuck in sweltering traffic jams happy. Olympic happy.

Oh and Boris, I just hope you don't end up with egg on your face when it all goes wrong, because let us not forget that it was you who said:

"London is more prepared for the Games than any other Olympic city has ever been."

Cue tube strike.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1608207 2012-06-19T19:00:00-04:00 2012-08-19T05:12:08-04:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
I have considered myself at various stages of my relationship with Stratford, a tourist, a pedestrian and now, after years of walking around a somewhat battered Stratford Centre during the day (when it's a hubbub of cultures and colours) and at night (when it becomes, rather magically, like a free indoor skate park) a lover of Stratford and its surrounding areas.

Not only is the mall home to some of the best cheap and cheerful shops in London (check out their Wilko's if you don't believe me) there are great transport links, the Queen's market sells an array of exotic African and Asian produce, there are nice parks, gigantic fairy lights as you enter the area and a sculptural, spiraling, clock that mysteriously moved from Stratford to Maryland seemingly overnight, much to the surprise of the locals.

Now, the new Stratford City and the surrounding Olympic village are so vast, that they have earned themselves an entire postcode - E20. But perhaps E2012 would have been more apt, because after this year, when the Olympic stadiums have been dismantled, all that will be left are 11,000+ new affordable homes (that have saturated the housing market and positively quashed the anticipated housing boom in the area)... and Westfield.

The Westfield, incidentally, is more than just a shopping mall. In Layman's terms, this is 'the new bit' of old Stratford. The side where 'The Stratford Shoal' unashamedly hides the ugly 70s buildings that make up the real and authentic parts of East London and its cultural heritage, making way for a great generic boulevard that leads directly to the Olympic park, and is so bland that it really could be anywhere in the UK.

Unsurprisingly, Studio Egret West (the innovators behind this sculpture) weren't quite as forthcoming as to admit they were trying to conceal the back entrance of the Stratford Centre and instead, articulated a series of offensive quotes on their website, designed to pull the wool over our eyes. According to them 'The Stratford Shoal' is:

"A series of curvaceous and branch-like steel 'trees'. On these are fixed giant leaf shapes of titanium that glisten in the light and are able to move in the wind. The leaves also provide a screen for the assortment of Stratford Centre buildings behind. Rather than hiding this elevation behind, the leaves act to enliven it, divert attention from it and playfully raise the spirits of its onlookers, rising and falling with the choreographic elegance of a shoal of fish."

But all you have to do is read between the lines and suddenly you realise that every word, despite it's context is about 'screening', 'diverting' or 'hiding' what already exists in Stratford, lest the areas that look a little shabby and rundown offend the precious eyes of all of our foreign visitors this summer. This pretty-pivoting-moves-with-the-wind-and-did-we-mention-it's-made-from-titanium structure must officially be the most expensive smokescreen ever, costing a whopping £3,000,000.

Yes, that is three whole millions, poured straight out of our pockets and erected in a tangled mass of metal that only looks good from one side... and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to work out who is benefitting from the good view (anyone exiting the station and making their way to the Olympic park) and who is coping with the eyesore that is the back (anyone exiting the Stratford Centre).

Perhaps I could be accused of forming an emotional connection with Stratford, and in turn being unable to judge it accurately for the 'eyesore' that it is - after all, for me, the smell of African food cooking as you wander from the Stratford Centre car-park to the Theatre Royal reminds me of love and home comforts and good times with good friends. But then again, I'm sure the residents feel just the same way. They are the people who can't go home after two months. They are the people that will remain when the stadiums are dead and gone and East London life is restored to normality.

No one is denying that Stratford, Leytonstone, Forest Gate... in fact the entire borough of Newham, needs work. It's desperate for it. From its social infrastructure, to the state of the historical architecture, to youth unemployment, changes must be made. But a city that is proud of its heritage should surely want to invite international guests and media to a part of London that they could be proud of without erecting a vast and impersonal shopping village and well positioned architectural devices to ensure that the unsuspecting eye, at no point, ever lands on Stratford itself. God forbid the French got a look at Poundland!

But what is the real implication for old Stratford over the Olympics? All over town we've begun muttering our complaints, but the Stratford locals are the ones who really have to put up with life being turned upside down during the games. The Olympic route runs right through the delivery roads of many local businesses, and already there are fears about the whether goods vehicles will be able to get through. With the threat of Westfield looming, prospects don't look good for the Stratford Centre itself. Of the people coming from station to stadium, it will only be the seriously curious that will deviate from the carefully assisted routes in and out of the Olympic park, up the stairs and far away from anything that resembles real East London life, with the glimmering shoal as a backdrop to it all.

I can't help but wonder how long after the Olympic games are over, the man with his high pressure water cleaner will keep coming along to make the paving slabs spotless? I wonder when the first graffiti will be sprayed (and not removed) on the sexy black-glass bridge that takes you over the railway line? I wonder how an aspirational mall like Westfield, that arguably prices local people out of their own area, will affect the youth of Newham, who like all young people today, are already struggling with the problematic ethos that we have instilled in them, that consuming 'things' will somehow make their lives better, more important and more worthwhile.

And I also can't help but wonder what might have happened, if instead of going to the Studio Egret West to figure out an architectural and sculptural solution to the problem of the ugly Stratford centre, the council had put that £3,000,000 into getting the actual residents of Newham - the young people themselves - to do something about it. At least then they might have killed two birds with one stone, keeping the kids in employment and out of trouble by allowing them to feel a sense of pride in their environment and confidence in their own ideas. Maybe they wouldn't have made something as impressive as a titanium shoal, but I can guarantee that whatever their solution, it would have been homegrown, authentic and a real taste of East London.

The sad fact of the matter is, that we're living in a country that would rather spend £3,000,000 on hiding it's ugly past, than investing long-term in it's beautiful future. And sadly, nothing is more indicative of the state of not only our Government, but also today's society as a whole. That's right Britain, pave paradise and put up a parking lot, slap a Westfield on it and bump up security, ignore the real problems and slap a lick of glossy paint over the whole thing... because if we can't see it, it isn't really happening.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1404504 2012-04-04T20:52:20-04:00 2012-06-04T05:12:02-04:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
The difference between us however, is that where I understand that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Samantha Brick seems to think that beauty is a finite measurement. A universal scale for everyone... You've either got it like she has, or you don't, girls.

It's pretty obvious to me why this doesn't make sense. I'm sure there are men and indeed women in the world that will look at Samantha Brick and reckon she's pretty fit. However, naturally, there will also probably be just as many people that would see her and be either indifferent to her "more Kate Middleton than Katie Price" styling, or worst case scenario, find her wholly unattractive.

If Samantha Brick could see me right now, sat here writing this in my "grubby top and tracksuit bottoms," drinking tea and feeling sorry for myself because I'm having a fat day, I'm pretty sure she would not be thinking, Wow, she has beautiful hair and pretty green eyes!

Because to old Sammy B, appearance is everything. That's what gets you ahead in your career, that's what gets you a husband and that's what gets you free gifts and travel. Without looks, you are nothing my friends.

Well Sam, I for one am offended.

I see what you were trying to do. There's a bit of 'girl power' lost in your words somewhere. Something about how we should all be more positive about beauty, not let it make us feel inadequate in ourselves or jealous of others because after all, everyone is attracted to something different... We are ALL the most beautiful woman in the room. Perhaps you were trying to say that you are proud to be confident about your appearance? Maybe you were trying to empower women.

But you haven't.

What you've actually done, is repeatedly insult the women that your own insecurities have lead you to believe will hate you because of your beauty and presumably, our ugliness? And then to add insult to injury, you whinged at us about how we had no sympathy for what you had written about your overinflated ego. Believe you me, honey, playing the victim because you think you da bomb, ain't gonna fly with "the sisterhood" you clearly wish you were a part of.

I'm sure that once you've read this article you will shed a lonely tear and then exclaim (probably with your husband by your side, in full combat gear with his gun cocked, ready for action) that your point has been proven again! For the 6,798th time today, somebody is lashing out because of jealousy over how you look and not because of your deluded musings on pages of The Daily Mail.

To insinuate that women would be outraged at Angelina Jolie if she chose to truthfully, honestly and modestly describe herself as "beautiful" is almost as ridiculous as you putting yourself in a league with her. If we, the "venomous" British women are such jealous bitches, who can't bear to appreciate anyone above us on the hot-o-meter, why exactly do we make someone like the (forgive me) talentless but stunningly beautiful Cheryl Cole into a national sweetheart?

I am astonished at how you seem to have managed to overlook solving this dilemma - why do women hate me? - accross your last two articles. By your own admission people you knew at college have "crawled out of the woodwork to criticise" you for "always being like that," women you were close to have taken the "first opportunity" to say that "you had it coming" and "most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever asked [you] to be her bridesmaid."

I find it hard to believe you can think that all of those people made their important emotional decisions based purely on your looks? Perhaps it was more to do with your outdated idea that all women "find nothing more annoying than someone else being the most attractive girl in the room." Does there have to be just one? You're wrong anyway, the most annoying thing for me is two sounds happening at the same time. And when i'm in a room, I appreciate everything attractive around me. There's your answer and all in that one little word! Attractive. Beauty is meant to attract people, not repel them!

The thing about what you've written that's really annoying, is that you seem to genuinely think that any woman who does not immediately jump to compliment your beauty, must be jealous of you. How about wanting women to celebrate your achievements instead? And other than getting ahead in work by flirting at lunch time with your male colleagues (half of whom are no doubt married) what are they exactly? You forgot to mention that in either of your articles, so I don't know what to congratulate you for...

I've got plenty of girlfriends; they are all gorgeous in their own way. Some leggy and blonde, some austere and chic, some with ass and some with titties, some that are funny, some that are clever and some that are incredibly talented, women whom I would never describe as "shorter, heavier and older than me" so you can stuff your "women don't want to hang out with someone more attractive than them" nonsense. Moreover, I often go out of my way to make sure they know how beautiful they are. Weirdly, they do the same for me! And you know what? Some days I'll look at one of them and hate them because they have long legs and I don't but in that same fleeting moment, they're probably wishing they had boobs as big as mine, so it cancels itself out.

That's what "the sisterhood" is all about, real friendships that form an emotional connection that goes deeper than skin. Perhaps if you weren't so utterly concerned with your own appearance, you would have a few more of them yourself.

And sister to sister, some advice, no matter how much they flatter you,never give your keys to strange men that approach you outside the supermarket and ask you if they can park your car. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1375483 2012-03-23T19:00:00-04:00 2012-05-23T05:12:01-04:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
Now, I want to stress that I am no stranger to hard work. When I AM in an office or assigned a task, I will do it to my absolute best ability. For the last 10 years I have hopped from job to job and I am consequently well versed in the nuances of office life. Most of it, I understand - and sometimes I'll even get involved in it - office politics are unavoidable for any stint over four weeks and I pride myself on knowing most, if not all, office gossip from the six or so places I frequent - but the one thing I will never get, no matter how many excuses people give me, is why people put themselves through the torture of working ever-increasing, un-contracted hours, every day, with no lunch break and no financial respite.

There are many, many people who moan about work. When you spend five days out of every seven in an office and not out in the world, surrounded by people whom you haven't chosen to surround yourself with and staring at a screen all day long, it's no surprise you'd want to vent. But as the years go on, I've realised that most people are still moaning today about the same problems they had two, three, four even five years ago. And frankly, it's starting to aggravate me.

I have identified five different universal and recurring topics in the average 'work bitching session' which include: the boss, money (and more specifically not earning enough of it), annoying colleagues, stress (insomnia, acne, constant illness and heart palpitations included) and the real crème de la crème of bitching... Working hours and their impact on your actual life.

I've met people who will do a 12-hour day, five days on the trot, without even batting an eyelid. They'll suffer through for the good of the team, for the success of the project and often because they believe there isn't any other option. After all, the work has to be done by someone, doesn't it? But why does it have to be YOU, my friend, when you've already worked all the hours you'll be paid for this week in one goddamn day?!

Right, I'm going to do some maths for you. In Office A there are 20 staff, each of whom are contracted a 40 hour week, 9-5, Monday to Friday. Now let's theorise that each person actually ends up leaving work at say (what's reasonable to assume?) 6.30pm. That's 1.5 hours extra, 5 times a week. That equates to 7.5 hours in a working week, which when multiplied by the total number of staff, equates to a staggering 150 extra hours a week total. That is the equivalent of three jobs. Three whole extra bodies. Three lots of 40-hour weeks, that are being mopped up in a collective effort by super-keen, yet unbearably dissatisfied, disillusioned and stressed out office workers.

Yep, that's right, giving up extra hours of your life doesn't benefit you. Not unless you're working on paid overtime (yeah, RIGHT, overtime basically doesn't exist anymore because no-one seems to claim it.) In fact, all you are doing is giving your workplace valuable hours of your time that you WILL NEVER GET BACK. When people are up to their eyeballs every day in high-stress careers, they stop working to maximum capacity and become increasingly disillusioned. It astonishes me how many people don't complain and just suffer in silence, preferring to regale their friends and colleagues with the same depressing stories, year on year, than ever taking it up with the boss.

Let me put it this way. You CANNOT be fired for turning up on time and doing your allocated working hours. Similarly, you can't be fired for taking a full hour's lunch break. On the contrary, it is your legal right, so why on earth would you continuously allow yourself to be worn down to the point where you hate yourself and your workplace so much that you can no longer function to your full potential? Not to mention becoming unable to have a glass of wine with a friend without telling them that: "I have to get a new job, I can't do this anymore..."

Ok, Timmy, whatever you say, I stopped believing that story 18 months ago.

Problem is, if you play the martyr and sit with a smile on your face, prepared to mop up all the extra work, forcing you (and inevitably your team - we all know innately that the workplace is competitive) to stay later and later, the big boys and girls in suits at the top of the company hierarchy, will be sitting there feeling extremely pleased with themselves that everything around them is working just fine. And why would they investigate otherwise?

Remember: "Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed..." and especially when there's money involved.

Perhaps if the powers that be actually saw the office fall apart, and witnessed their staff finally standing up for themselves, they might consider the fact that they need to bring in more bodies to help stimulate a better working environment. After all, there are over 500,000 unemployed 16-24 year olds in this country at the moment that would give their right arm for a job, placement or internship.

If you are working ridiculous hours to get things done, unfortunately, you only have yourself to blame. Go home when you are supposed to every night this week and see what happens. You might get a talking to by your boss, but I can guarantee that you won't lose your job. In fact, you might actually enjoy having the extra hour and a half a night to say, go to the gym... visit your grandma... or simply not think about anything related to the workplace.

Because not even the most amazing job that pays the most incredible salary is worth your health, your friends or your actual life.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1161382 2011-12-21T19:00:00-05:00 2012-02-20T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
And why? Well, because of the greedy, nasty, investment wankers (sorry, bankers) getting souped up bonuses for Christmas, of course!

Lucky them!

This year I got a tax bill... Oooh and the promise that my train fare will rise in the New Year. Oh and because I was really, really good this year, they put up the cost of my car insurance. It doesn't really matter though, because I can't afford to fill my car with petrol anymore. There goes the trip to Cheshire to visit my family at Christmas. But it's fine guys, please don't feel sorry for me, I'll be just as happy at home (my mum's, not mine, ROFL you think I can afford to rent? Or BUY?!) wearing many, many layers, so as to avoid the ever-escalataing price of heating the house over the coldest season of the year. Lucky for me I have youth on my side, If I was an old lady I'd probably freeze to death what with the pension schemes being fiddled as we speak!

Well, at least I'm not working, eh?

Yeah! Every cloud has a silver lining! A bit of time off would do me good... Well, it would have done me good, if I hadn't spent the last month not working, desperately scraping the barrell for more freelance jobs because no-one can afford the holiday cover right now...

There must be some good Christmas telly to watch, you know, take my mind of my ever dwindling funds. Perhaps TOWIE's Xmas special... yes, that will make me feel better because AT LEAST I CAN SPELL LONG WORDS. But what is a long word in comparison to a long number on your bank statement?! NOTHING, I tell you! NOTHING! Even the TOWIE bastards are laughing at me!

No, no, I shouldn't blame them, it's not their fault that schools can't afford to pay their teachers (you know, those people that EDUCATE THE YOUTH OF THIS COUNTRY?) a decent enough wage to teach children to be something... anything but a reality TV star, children that will grow up to be aspirational and not just "well jel..."

Please help me, I can't fix this on my own even if I wanted to. I for one don't want to worry anymore, so it would really help, Mr Media, if you could maybe lay off the scary financial chat for a bit and just let me have my cold, lonely, poor Christmas in peace this year. Oh, unless you have some news to report about the bankers finally being brought down a peg for their ridiculous life styles and bachelor pads. Perhaps a Secret Millionaire inverse Christmas special, where some poor bloke from an estate in Newcastle with a family to feed gets to come to London and demand a million or a property or some cars or all three from whichever unsuspecting, smug, suit-wearing bastard he picks?

And then maybe when it's 2012 (yay, the year of the money sucking Olympics!) we can all make a New Year's resolution together...

Stop making everything more expensive please. We can't afford it.

Prioritise. Don't take the money away from the children, or the elderly, take it away from the rich. Put a tax on all of those ridiculous Candy&Candy 1 Hyde Park homes that are owned (but not lived in, oh no, NEVER lived in) by wealthy foreigners looking for somewhere to store a few spare million. And for God's sake, please recognise that we are TRYING, desperately, to be positive and get on with things.

But if you make it impossible to get to work because our earnings don't cover our rent, heating, electricity, gas, food bill or commute, I'm not sure what we're meant to do.

Sleep forever, the lot of us?]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1150695 2011-12-16T19:00:00-05:00 2012-02-15T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
Pop along to the local Italian and there's a full turkey dinner on the specials board. Sit in and watch telly and there's not just any Christmas advert, there's a vomit-inducing, musical, M&S Christmas advert. And god forbid should any of your loved ones have a birthday during this time! Good luck finding any form of greetings card that doesn't in some way feature Santa, a snowman, some holly, or warm interiors with open fires.

My birthday is Christmas Eve. I have received 25 years' worth of birthday presents wrapped in snowflake paper, I should know.

If you haven't already worked it out, i'm a bit of a scrooge. I don't do Christmas fever. I don't do standing around warming my cold hands on cups of mulled wine. And I certainly don't do stupid bloody Santa hats. So you can imagine my horror at being threatened with a pantomime?

"No." Was my immediate verbal response. A wave of nervous nausea was the physical reaction.

"Will. Not. Do. Pantomime." Was the conclusion.

I won't bore you with the details of how I lost my resolve, but this week, I did in fact get dragged down to watch a pantomime. And you know what? I bloody loved it.

Maybe i'm just getting old, or maybe panto's getting younger, but Cinderella at the Theatre Royal, Stratford East really blew my mind.

Who knew that pantomime was no longer a Christmassy assault on the senses, eh? Who knew that one of the ugly sisters had a booty to rival Serena Williams and moves that put Beyonce to shame? Who knew that the fairy godmother was actually a feisty Caribbean lady, come back from the afterlife to "cook up a storm"? And who the hell knew that Prince Charming was a gorgeous mixed race chap with the most intense golden afro I've ever witnessed?

NOT ME, that's for sure. (Oh and Craig Storrod, if you're reading this, I love you. We could be good together. Tweet me.)

The thing about this particular panto, was that despite my best intentions (I arrived as scrooge, huffing and puffing at the annoying people forcing me out of my seat to get to their own) I found myself laughing. Constantly. And not just a LOL. I'm talking a big, rip roaring, two hours worth of ROFLMFAO. Even the obligatory evil pantomime dame (Michael Bertenshaw) who is normally more drag than queen, was gut achingly hilarious, fabulous and wrong all at once.

I had promised myself that even if I did enjoy it, there was no way I was going to get involved in all the over enthusiastic panto crap (cue: "He's behiiinnnd you!") but there I was, booing the evil step-mother and getting miffed when the huge balloons filled with glitter (that were being volleyed across the theatre at the end of the interval) never quite came my way. I blame the constant giggles of joy and screams of delight coming from in front of me and to the right. There is something about children's laughter that is annoyingly infectious.

The whole production was almost worryingly engaging, there wasn't a scene that didn't include some sort of relevant cultural reference, as mentions of "Rihanna" and "Little Mix" were interspersed with characters like Sugary and Spicy, the ugly sisters double act that could have been plucked straight out of a scene from The Only Way is Essex. Don Dini (the Prince's wingman) was even kitted out in brothel creepers...you literally cannot get more current than that.

It seems that pantomime is no longer the antiquated story, revived, like I had imagined. In fact everything from the acting to the choreography felt young, multi cultural and fresh. Cinderella felt to me, like a whole new way of story telling in pantomime, seamlessly encapsulating everything that was pop about 2011. And most importantly, it did so without the use of a single piece of tinsel, minced pie, reindeer, or any other festive symbolism.

I guess you could say that I released my inner child this week and in doing so reminded myself that even if I'm not so bothered, the kid in me still loves Christmas. Go and watch Cinderella this year, it's worth it for the Rasta mouse alone...don't ask. Just go.

And get a bit of Christmas in your belly before it's too late, and you all die with a permanent scowl on your faces.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1116944 2011-11-29T19:00:00-05:00 2012-01-29T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/ Top Boy) and I certainly don't want to see Jason Gardiner tweeting about it. Oh, and for anyone who is currently reading this with their brows furrowed, wondering what could be so boring about a cut of lamb, a 'shank' in this sense is a knife or sharp object. Ergo, 'shanking' is 'stabbing' or if you want to be really PC about it, 'knife crime.'

Flippant? Maybe. But at the end of the day, and forgive me for being ludicrously simplistic here, I just don't see the bloody point of it.

For a start, in a war of violence there is never a winner. The shanked is either injured or killed, but either way, the likelihood is that someone will seek revenge. Cue... Another shanking. And so on and so forth until somebody somewhere (who's inevitably called "Shorty" or "Bigz" or perhaps... "Ginger Dave") calls the whole thing off OR until everyone Is maimed and/or dead and there is nobody left to shank.

And the saddest thing? These days, around the major cities in this country, the 'shanker' is most likely just a kid. And probably one that never really meant to use the damn knife as a weapon. But the fact of the matter is that there are youths all over the country, aimlessly waving their flailing limbs back and forth, shanks in hand, piercing everything in their paths.

A staggering 46% of 15-17 year olds have admitted to carrying knives for protection...as a defence. But hold on a sec, when exactly did it become commonplace to pocket a blade on your way out of the house? What on earth can any teenager have done that warrants then being stabbed, injured and potentially killed? Well...other than shanking someone, of course?

Do you see it now? It's a vicious cycle. To these kids, the bigger your weapon, the more powerful you are. Carrying a knife shows you mean business. It screams: "Don't mess with me."

The hardest thing to comprehend about Cameron's "sick," rioting, gang obsessed youth, is that they are just normal kids. Get to know them in the right way, that is, treat them as equals and not a persistent nuisance, and you would see that aside from the grades, accent and living situation, these boys (and forgive the generalisation, girls are involved in this demographic too) are in essence just that. Boys. Trust me, I know a couple of them.

As a photographer, I spend much of my time with people that wouldn't normally enter my sphere of influence. In the last few months, I've made friends with two brothers, 19 and 16 years old respectively. They are dealers, the kind that shot 20 bags of weed from their push bikes - urban businessmen if you will - and you know what? They're sweet. Polite. Funny. Attractive. One is a karate champion behind the scenes and the other one is aspiring to be a screenwriter at just 16 (and believe you me, if he writes the story down as well as he says it out loud, it will blow Top Boy out of the water).

These boys are by no means any different to the guys I've met throughout my life, from all places, backgrounds and walks of life. They might not speak the same as I do (sometimes I think I need a translator to keep up) but I would like to make it clear that the troubled youth that so many speak of now ARE NOT a different species of person. They don't walk around menacingly with scowls on their angry faces, whilst saying "f*ck" repeatedly with no respect for anyone, not even their mothers! Well, not any more than football supporters after a losing match, anyway.

These guys both still live with their mum, or when she occasionally kicks them out (she's a messy drunk, I'm told), they stay with their nan. And they love them both too. I recently found out, during a bog-standard chat with the younger one that he had (on at least one occasion) gone out with a knife on him. I didn't pose this as a question to him. He just told me. Like it was nothing. I was shocked. No, I was gobsmacked. MY boys have been out with KNIVES? I couldn't picture it. Seriously, these guys are adorable. You'd let your daughter date them. They aren't just sweet and polite, they are kind and caring, they are intelligent and devilishly attractive.

And I am absolutely convinced that neither of them would ever hurt a fly. Unless of course, that particular fly threatened their family, their friends or their livelihood. And then to be honest, I can't speculate, because the truth is that if you go out carrying a weapon, there is a chance that one day, you'll get caught in a situation where you are forced to use it. And then my boys would go from being men in the making, to murderers in prison.

And I for one, don't want to see that happen.

With the current recession pushing back all community projects and stalling the development of youth programmes, I can't help but think it's not the kids that are "sick," but the world they are growing into. Our world, where fast money and reality tv stardom has usurped hard work and steady earnings, where sports or music seem like the only options for kids who never thought they were clever, where laziness is bred and spreads like disease, where aspiration stops at money and forgets about dreams, where we disregard the serious manifestations of wider problems that affect the forgotten youth of today.

The forgotten youth who have been failed by their families, their education and by a government that tells them they are "sick" when they are so desperate for help that their cry for attention has gotten extreme to the point that they're running riot like a bunch of arrogant little pricks with knives in their pockets, burning down buildings in Croydon and looting the local Argos for no reason other than they have NOTHING ELSE TO DO.

I do sometimes wonder if these kids understand the wider ramifications of what they're doing beyond 'protecting' themselves, their peers and their respect. I can't help but think that if no one had a weapon, no one would need to protect themself with a weapon... After all, we don't want to end up like the States with a gun in every sock drawer now, do we?

There must be a way for us to give these kids back the confidence they need, to exist in the world as real human beings and not the gang version of themselves, criminal super heroes with silly code names. Surely we should be nurturing the drug dealers into entrepreneurial businessmen? Turning the cunning thieves into detectives? Sending the aggressive ones off to fight in to a boxing ring and not on the street? Lord knows there are some transferable skills there!

Tomorrow when I wake up, I hope there's something altruistic to read, and not another headline that points the judgmental finger at teenagers who aren't even old enough to vote.

Vote Cameron out, that is.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1098470 2011-11-17T18:00:00-05:00 2012-01-17T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
But the cleanliness of the carriages is not what I'm getting at here. Being on the Tube with basically everyone else in Greater London, twice within a 12 hour time period, sucks for EVERYONE involved.

And although you might think that your journey is the most crowded, that your line is the slowest, that your inter-change from Bakerloo to Hammersmith & City at Paddington is the most laborious of all... you are wrong. There is always someone else who had a worse start to their day and there is almost certainly a person that is more late for work than you are.

Why then, if we're all in the same boat (or, err, train) do individuals doing the early morning shuffle and the late afternoon rush, get so goddamned antsy?

You know the ones I'm talking about... from the persistent pushers all the way down to the last-minute-jumpers (that's on to the train and not under it FYI), it seems that the entire London Tube system is swarming with a vile infestation of not rats, but T.W.A.T.S.

Total Wankers At Tube Stations.

Now, I'm a fairly positive person. I understand that my journey in to work (where I will inevitably be shoved into an unwashed armpit at Harrow on The Hill and remain there until Baker Street) will be shit. So I try not to let it ruin my day. 

The amount of scowling you see on the tube is criminal. People! Think of your poor skin, already clogged up with the grime of millions of dirty individuals and their germs, only to be cruelly furrowed for two hours a day, resulting in serious stress wrinkles. That's right, there are people who hate their journey SO MUCH, that they'd ruin their face for it. Fools.

So in a bid to alleviate some of the stresses of the daily grind, I have identified the top five most offensive kinds of T.W.A.T.S and have thought of some handy tips to eliminate their negativity from your lives and ultimately, to save your (lovely) faces from permanent damage.


1) Last Minute Jumpers: These springy sadists are the kinds who saunter around the back of the crowd at a busy platform looking casual. Although they may appear to be members of the lesser-known 'pleasant traveler' species, they are not.

That laid-back swagger is in place to throw you off, because the second they hear the "beepbeepbeepbeepbeep" which signals the doors closing, they come at you full pelt and throw themselves into the carriage, with no concept of your safety or theirs.

The idea is to hit the rest of the commuters with such force that the crowd is pushed another couple of inches further back, therefore allowing them (but inevitably not their rucksack - cue door closing, opening, closing, opening, closing) room to just about squeeze in.

What should you do? Firstly, stay alert when you hear the beepbeepbeepbeepbeep. If you see a Last Minute Jumper coming, prepare yourself. The only defense is attack, so bend that arm and expose a menacing elbow to jab them out before the doors close.

Alternatively, do some split second team building and have your carriage companions link arms and heave forward so that not even a small iota of space remains for the Last Minute Jumper to jump in to. Hold this pose until the doors are firmly shut. And if they do re-open, don't let your guard down. Pesky LMJs will try twice, even thrice, if they are determined to get on that train.

2) Tut-Tut-Tutters: These territory terrorists are the kinds who cannot help but emit multiple tuts throughout the journey. I'm not talking about an isolated kiss of the teeth (that's a Londoner's right, if someone steps on your toe or knees you in the groin, feel free to do a tut). I'm talking about a continuous stream of "tsk" sounds, with added spray of spittle, coming from somewhere behind you and to your left. They also tend to be the same people who won't move down the carriage, preferring to desperately wedge themselves in the part of the train closest to the door.

What should you do? If you are on a particularly congested carriage, the kind where there isn't even room to breathe in, for fear of bumping uglies with the guy in front of you, simply smile broadly, turn your head, and ask them where exactly they DO want you to stand to make them a little bit more comfortable? Suggest (politely) that if it would make their journey a more pleasant experience, you could always just climb up the wall and stick yourself to the ceiling with the Loctite you keep in your handbag. Super glue. Guaranteed to shut a Tut-Tut-Tutter up everytime.

3) Rule Breakers: The sort of people that deliberately switch off their ears when the platform attendants command, in those booming voices they reserve solely for this very important job: "Please allow passengers off the carriage first, before boarding."

In fact, you can assure that by the time you've heard "Please" there will be at least one naughty Rule Breaker trying their darndest to hurl themselves through a crowd of commuters who are innocently trying to get off at the right stop. Annoyingly, T.W.A.T.S are like sheep and when one person goes for it, others follow, leaving the pleasant travelers stranded on the platform watching the RB's smug faces depart for the next station.

What should you do? Wiggle your way right to the front of the keen travelers who will have formed an orderly bunch where they know the double doors are about to stop. When the train arrives, make a big deal out of letting others off, by using one hand to direct them to the nearest exit and the other to hold the Rule Breakers back.

Bonus: If you do it right, this will look something like the parting of the Red Sea and you can imagine that you are Moses himself.

4) Over the Shoulder Metro Controllers: They come in two forms. The first is the person that cranes their neck and forces themselves right into your (already much violated) personal space, to indulge in as much of your Metro as they can, before you turn over to the next page. The second, is the person that missed out on the free paper and is therefore jealous, so places themselves (regardless of carriage capacity) smack bang in front of you, with their back to you, so that each time you turn a page, you have to scrape it across their suit jacket.

What should you do? Turn your newspaper upside down, but continue reading as if nothing has happened. If they start giving you strange looks, mumble something under your breath about being a Capricorn and how your horoscope is great today, then laugh hysterically. They will back away. Slowly. Oh, and if they can't see what you're reading because their back is to you, simply start turning the pages with wild abandon. They'll soon have had enough of their Metro massage and will take a step forward.

5) Blatant Perverts: These ogling octopuses really don't need much explanation...especially if you are a woman. They are generally unattractive and/or overweight and in most instances you will find that a bead or two of sweat has formed on their excited brow.

And why are they excited? Because they've been staring at your tits, of course! They will find it necessary to fiddle with their general crotch area more than once during your journey (however short) and may or may not have a little bit of dribble hanging from the corner of their wet lips. They will take every bump along the way as an opportunity to thrust their genitalia up against your lovely lady lumps. Check it out.

What should you do? To really scare the shit out of the Blatant Pervert, you should respond fully to his advances. Back that booty up against the offensive T.W.A.T whilst you sing a rendition of N.E.R.D's Lapdance... "Ooh baby you want me? Ooh baby you want ME? Well you can get your lapdance here for free..." Or, if N.E.R.D isn't your bag, you can simply wait for a quiet moment, look straight into his eyes and say "pervert" just loud enough that the people around you will wonder if that really just happened. This is best done just prior to arriving at your stop - the final flourish is flouncing out of that carriage without a care in the world.


Of course, there are other kinds of T.W.A.T.S that we've failed to mention in the top five: Persistent Pushers (stand your ground. Do not give in and push back, it will incense them), Heavy Loaders (they're going on holiday with that suitcase, you're going to work, give them no sympathy), Stinkers (self explanatory, if there is an enticing-looking space going that spans approximately one meter around just one man, it means he stinks like the aftermath of a bad curry), Handrail Hoggers, Phantom Farters and of course, there's the age old Pregnancy 'shall I give up my seat' Dilemma. With child? Or just fat? You decide.

So how about we all try and have a little more consideration tomorrow. See if you can lighten up, cheer up, and get the hell up an hour earlier if you insist on being so stressed about getting on this train and not the one that arrives in oooh, another 60 seconds or so.

Things can only get better right? It's not like London is hosting the Olympics next summer and gaining an estimated 33,000 extra passengers daily or anything...

And remember, there is no 'I' in Tube.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1016793 2011-10-18T19:00:00-04:00 2011-12-18T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
I am neither skinny, nor rich. These are both problems in the pursuit of appropriate 'black tie' attire. Not to mention the fact that I live in leggings (nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is more comfortable or practical) and move between my affectionately named 'dyke boots' (flat military lace ups) and my appropriately named 'whore boots' (huge great stonking platform zip ups) depending on day or night or indeed, road surfaces. All of the above are exclusively worn in black.

Well that's good then, right? I've got 50% of this 'black tie' thing down. Or have I? No, it would far too simple in the world of fashion etiquette to make the title of the dress code literal. Plus, you wouldn't see me dead in a black tie, (actually, I did once wear one, but I was 14 and going through an angsty stage in and around Camden with a boy who took me to see Cradle of Filth when I was more of an Aqua's 'Barbie Girl' at heart...but I digress) because a black tie suggests a suit, and the only women that can wear suits and look good are high-earning City gals, models and celebrities.

Black tie is at its heart, a dress code. But for many people, men and woman alike, 'black tie' is a perjorative term. One that conjures up images of awkward evening events and posh social functions. The kind of occasions where you get chatted up by a pervy old rich man with a bulbous red nose whilst desperately seeking another trout mousse canape (who knows when you'll get morsels so tasty again!)

For a man, the main component is a black suit or tuxedo. And of course, dress shoes. Quite simple actually, don't know what they're complaining about. Women's dress, however, is a bit more tricky. There are no hard and fast rules. Cocktail dresses can be acceptable, as can full length gowns. But the difference between a cocktail dress and a full length gown is more than just a length of fabric. A cocktail dress is fun and flirty, but the ones you own are probably too short and the ones you can afford are probably crap. The length is one thing, but the label is another. Don't even try and walk into a black tie event wearing Dorothy Perkins. They'd spot you a mile off from the fabric alone.

And if you go full length, you can forget about public transport. To go out, and always at a typically early hour (because 'black tie' somehow always also means 'dinner') wearing your silkiest finery, feels as unnatural as dancing a salsa naked, on the tube.

In a gown, I feel too dressed up and inevitably, in the flourescent strip lights of the underground, I will catch a glimpse of my (sweaty with nerves) face and think, "Argh! Drag Queen", resulting in a bout of self consciousness that will ruin not only my evening, but my entire week.

'Black tie' = Black Cab.

There are approximately two occasions in a normal girl's life when she will ever be expected to wear full length. One is at her wedding - and on that day, she's the princess of the world and full length or not she feels fabulous - and the other is a 'black tie' event. But a wedding gown doesn't work on multiple occasions and a maxi (like that floral one you wear in the summer) won't cut it, so unless you're with Addison Lee and own a pashmina, forget the full length thing. You'll only go out and buy one (it will be expensive, if it's not, you will think you look cheap) and you will only ever wear it on that one night, for a few short hours, all the while feeling uncomfortable because you've got on some seriously tight spanks and you aren't used to stilettos.

Let's not even get started on shoes at a 'black tie' event. The idea is to be elegant...Ladylike. So to be teetering along like an elephant walking on knitting needles is NOT a good look. And 'whore boots' are definitely not on the guest list at a 'black tie' event.

Basically, as soon as you read 'black tie' on an invite, you're simultaneously excited and ultimately, screwed. With only four weeks to go and the promise of a night of heady decadence ('black tie' means free champagne, it's one of the perks), it's break the bank time. It's YouTube tutorial a new hair style time. And it's most certainly upper lip threading time. Because regardless of whether I'm thin, or rich, or famous with a stylist to call in bags of designer garb and tell me how to dress, I'm going to look gorgeous.

When it comes down to it, I hate almost everything I ever see dress-wise. I probably buy two a year, max, and these aren't even evening dresses. So unless I strike gold on a strenuous afternoon of internet shopping this weekend, I'll probably just make something myself. Lucky for me, my mum can sew and I have a strong opinion on what style suits me. I'm thinking black. I'm thinking an almost-floor length shirt dress, with buttons up the front that are undone from the thigh. Black tights (essential) and hey, I might even try and sneak in some 'slut shoes,' (patent and slightly smaller shoe cousins to my 'whore boots').

Oh, and if I get stuck on the dress, I'll make sure that i'm wearing the best damn lingerie in the room.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1015816 2011-10-17T19:00:00-04:00 2011-12-17T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
Saturday's show managed to gather a crowd of 11.9 million viewers. That's not exactly a small figure, but if I now tell you that this is a shocking 2 million less than at the same stage last year, you'll understand why Simon might be feeling the pressure. On top of this, despite ranting on (in his typically self-assured way) about how the X Factor USA was going to rack up a staggering 20 million viewers, it's first show got a mere 12.2. In a recent interview about X Factor USA, Simon told TV Line that: "We're gonna get there in the end. I do believe that... I also think we're approaching this, rightly so, as a start-of-decade show. You've got to bring in an audience, genuinely, who have not watched these types of shows before. That's the key."

Yeah, good luck with that Simon. Firstly there's the issue of finding people who haven't "watched these types of shows before." After Pop Idol, Pop Stars, Britain's Got Talent, America's Got Talent, So You Think You Can Dance etc. (I could go on) are there really going to be dedicated television watchers that are not already fully accustomed to the format of the modern talent show? No, is the short answer to that.

And how about the fact that he wants to treat it like a start-of-decade show? Now, that makes sense. In the States, once they're hooked, they're hooked. That much we know. And to be completely honest, I wouldn't be surprised if over the pond, Cowell does exactly what he's intending on doing and turns the X Factor USA into a hugely successful, multi-million dollar business.

I like the X Factor. And no, I'm not ashamed to say that. Since the start of the show eight years ago, I have had a vested interest in who would get through to the live finals. For a start, I love musicians. I have many friends who are singers and performers and I spent the best part of two years going religiously to an open mic night once a week, just because listening to live music and in particular, good singing, is one of my greatest pleasures in life.

So it's needless to say that over the last few years I have become a little bit disillusioned with it all. Somehow, the best singers that I'm looking forward to backing (from the regional auditions) seem to be slipping through the net. Half of them don't even get through to boot camp and in their place are a weird array of freaks, fatties and tone-deaf beauties, presumably designed to up the shows ratings. What. A. Shame.

For a few years now, the X Factor UK has been about more than just the singing. As Louis Walsh himself puts it, you've got to be able to sing, you've got to be able to dance and you've got to be able to entertain the people. But really, at the end of the day, what exactly does it say about the British public, that we need the likes of Johnny Robinson, Wagner, Jedward, Chico and other assorted talentless odd-bods, dancing in high production routines and garish costumes, to keep us entertained?

Perhaps it is simply the fate of the long running TV talent show. The X Factor is a business at the end of the day and you can be sure that if there is one thing that runs smoothly behind the scenes, it's the bit where some statistical genius tallies the shows ratings for that week and offers a logistical explanation for why certain people stopped, or started, watching. Do this enough over eight years and you'll have a pretty good idea of what kinds of acts 'sell'. So it is no coincidence then, that every year the X Factor UK becomes less and less about the singing and more and more about the 'shock factor.' Or the 'sob story factor.' or even the 'sex factor' (and by that I mean the person most likely to get off with another finalist in the X Factor house. Ahem, Frankie Cocozza).

In essence, the X Factor UK isn't a singing competition anymore. In fact, it's become something of a freak show. A farce. And ironically, nothing highlights that more than Cowell's brand spanking new baby, the X Factor USA. I had caught a bit of the audition stages over the last few weeks and was blown away by the calibre of the singers. It reminded me how long it's been since I have genuinely got excited about a potential new star. On the X Factor USA, the singers are real, old-fashioned, note perfect vocalists. There was so much serious, unadulterated talent (and just in those early stages) that I was actually asking myself how they would ever pick between them...

This weekend, I happened upon the X Factor USA during a lazy-day-in-bed flick through the sky channels. Over there, they've just got to the Judge's Houses stages and I switched on just as Stacy Francis sang Purple Rain by Prince to Nicole Scherzinger. Please, I urge you to watch it if you missed it, without a shadow of a doubt, that one performance alone puts the X Factor UK to shame.

Stacy Francis is a real star. She is a talented and awe-inspiring vocalist. When I watched her sing this (incredibly difficult) song, both in terms of the melody and the phrasing, I was completely in awe. As shivers went up and down my spine, I couldn't help but imagine that I was at the front of the stage, watching the finale of her arena tour, fans all around me screaming her name. That. Woman. Can. Sing. But I get the feeling that were she over here and auditioning with us, she wouldn't have got through, because aside from her voice, Stacy Francis is a decidedly unremarkable person. Next to her name on the TV screen it simply said "Profession: Stay at home mom". How poignant. This combination is what used to make the X Factor tick.

But who is to blame? We can all sit here pointing fingers and saying that it must be Simon Cowell or maybe ITV or maybe even the people in suits who sign the cheques that have made these (sadly, inevitable) changes. But effectively, the X Factor UK wouldn't have turned into the show it is today if the British public hadn't wanted it to. The X Factor is a well-oiled money making machine, that's it's ultimate goal. So I pose the theory that whoever researched what 'we' want this year, decided that the public are more attracted to the entertainment of a freak show, than they are interested in genuine talent. It's a depressing thought, that the majority of the voting public (that's over 10 million people) really are just jealous, bitter people that prefer to laugh at the camp, shrill voice and bizarre geisha outfits of the likes of Johnny Robinson, than listen to the dulcet tones of brilliant vocalists. Perhaps over here, we really do just want to be endlessly negative and watch people that we can slate week after week, yet not vote off the show.

In essence, shows like the X Factor, that run across international borders, clearly highlight the difference between the two viewing publics. In the USA, it is no generalisation to say that the people believe in something. It's as if their history isn't old enough to forget yet, everyone can achieve something if they just put their minds to it and work hard. They are fiercely patriotic, the age-old idea of the American Dream still prevails and I believe this is what leaves more room in their version, for the optimistic appreciation of talent.

You get the feeling on the X Factor USA that the audiences are less surprised when someone who is, let's say overweight and with bad teeth, has an incredible voice. They would never have referred to Craig Colton as 'unlikely' when he walked out on stage at his first audition. But, why? Maybe it's because they believe in the underdog, maybe it's because they are simply nicer people than us, or maybe as my friend stated adamantly last night, they've "seen people with voices like that all their lives... at church."

So is that what we Brits have come to? Are we just a secular bunch of beer-guzzling morons, who find more fun in complaining at the TV every week than they do actually enjoying it?

Tulisa Contostavlos summed it up well when she pleaded for the security of girl band Rhythmix at the first public vote. Mentioning the 'curse of the girl band' she said something along the lines of "all four of these girls are representing you women out there. They're just normal girls. They won't steal your boyfriends."

At the time, the comment struck me as odd, but the more I went over it in my head, the more sense it made. That is exactly the curse of the girl band. It has nothing to do with talent and it has everything to do with the public. Can it be true, that women in this country are SO insecure, that they wouldn't vote for a group of attractive girls to win, simply because they're attractive? It wouldn't surprise me. Over here, we aren't as hopeful or aspirational. In fact, sometimes I think the voting public in this country are completely disillusioned with a propensity for being wary, suspicious and unsupportive.

Although saying that, we do have a wicked sense of humour... at least we can understand the appeal of old Johnny Robinson in all his drag-act glory and you know what? If the X Factor wasn't running under the rouse of a singing contest, he might even get my vote.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1006727 2011-10-12T19:15:41-04:00 2011-12-12T05:12:02-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
There has already been some media speculation over whether or not Beyonce 'enhanced' the size of her baby bump for the purposes of the big reveal - Beyonce was adamant that she would make the announcement herself, so what better way to do it than unbuttoning her sparkly blazer after a brilliant performance at the VMA's and giving her swelling belly a good old rub? Add a wink and a camera pan to a jubilant Jay-Z and BAM! Pregnancy announced. Cue a twitter meltdown and media storm, with journalists being dragged out of pubs and restaurants, off sofas and away from Eastenders, and straight back to the office to write up the story, like, YESTERDAY if possible but NOW will do.

Beyonce's pregnancy was and is, BIG news. Stop press material. At the time, I didn't think that much of it, beyond a few speculative conversations about how attractive a girl-child that looks more like it's daddy than it's mummy would be. Not attractive, was the answer I came up with.

But never once did it cross my mind that Beyonce was either a) not pregnant at all or b) enhancing the size of her bump for the purposes of a great pap shot to tout to the world press the next day. Why didn't I think of either of these two possibilities? Well frankly, because both ideas are too weird to just think them up over nothing.

To come up with conspiracies that far fetched, you need some kind of tangible evidence. Something like this clip, where Beyonce's bump seemingly folds in to itself and moves around under her dress (admittedly it is VERY strange and I cant come up with a plausible explanation - though saying that I am no expert on the firmness of a baby bump). The sort of evidence that certain newspapers all over the world will have been watching out for like hungry gannets, ever since a source was quoted (after the illusive VMA's announcement) as saying:

"She [Beyonce] wanted the announcement to be dramatic, so she made sure she had a [prosthetic] baby bump."

A strange little remark - but OK we could believe it, just about. She wanted to make a show of it, she was maybe not as far along as she had hoped (bump-size-wise) and it made some weird semblance of sense to enhance the bump for the purposes of communicating her pregnancy to the world. If this is true, it would be weird, yes, but not completely out of the realms of possibility.

So, from the official announcement to the interview with Australian TV personality, Molly Meldrum, on the Sunday Night programme, here are the actual facts: Beyonce has been married to Jay Z for three years and has repeatedly stated that she planned on having a baby by the time she was 30. The pregnancy was revealed in August, one month before her 30th birthday. She has announced that the baby will be born in February, which by my maths, makes the date of conception June. So, in effect, Beyonce was one month pregnant when she made the announcement.

Hmmm. A few things spring to mind here. The first is the 'three month rule' (it might be an old wives tale, but with the tragic prevalence of well publicised celebrity miscarriages over 2011 you would think an expecting mother might be more suspicious) and the second is the issue of the VMA's bump. Is a one month bump really going to show like that? And if we are to believe the bump enhancement story, what else has Beyonce deceived us about? Even I found myself going back to pictures taken in September of Beyonce pictured with a little bump in a bikini in Croatia. And suddenly, what once looked very much like the stretched belly of a woman with child, suddenly looked more like a post-burger bloat. It's amazing how a little bit of suspicion can change what you see with your eyes!

The third thing I noted was that it was most probably no coincidence that the announcement came just one month before her 30th birthday and only a few weeks after she had told Piers Morgan during an interview on CNN that:

"I feel great and I feel like 30 is the ideal age [to start a family], because you're mature enough to know who you are and to have your boundaries and your standards, and not be afraid, too polite -- but you're young enough to be a young woman."

But does that coincidence have to be macabre? Can it not just be, that Beyonce wanted a kid by 30, so she's gone and got herself up the duff before she's 30? Oh no! That wouldn't satisfy inquisitive minds - it's far too simple an explanation - no, she must have in some way fabricated the whole pregnancy instead. So here, we'll do the speculating for you, just so you can see how wildly far fetched it all is. Now this is the bit where we step beyond the realms of reasonable possibility...

Perhaps she can't have children and didn't want to tell that to the world, so is pretending in order to not lose face as she turns 30? Perhaps she is adopting a child and preferred not to share that information, so is instead going to strap on a (growing) fake bump every day for the next nine months to fool us all? Or maybe, just maybe (and this is the conspiracy that I would bet my bottom dollar is going to be the favourite across blogs and social networking sites) Beyonce has got a surrogate carrying her real child so that she can save her stomach the stretch marks and never lose the body that was a large part of getting her where she is today... Superstardom.

Imagine that. One small quote and a video clip where at 57 seconds her belly folds and suddenly you have the catalyst for wild speculation and conspiracy theory. And all because we don't like the idea that we're being lied to, by someone who is by no means under any obligation to tell us the truth.

Madness, right?

Or maybe not. The fact remains that in the weird and wonderful world of celebrities, anything can happen. Whatever story you've got, someone else has a stranger one and it's always something that you can't believe anyone would ever be stupid enough to do, ESPECIALLY when they are constantly in the public eye. Stories so wild that they actually insult the regular Joe by trying to pull the wool over his eyes when he is by now (having read years upon years of gossip columns) well versed in the bizarre practices of celebrities. So, when your whole life is cracked open for the world to scrutinise, is it any wonder that you'd do anything in your power to retain control of that one last remaining secret in your life?

Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? The world of media and social gossip seems to have given that concept a complete redesign. Now Beyonce is guilty until she can prove her innocence, in this case her innocence being a REAL nine month pregnancy where the baby grows in her own womb and her belly increases in size at a normal rate, until a small person is produced from between her legs. And short of filming the baby coming out, I'm not sure how exactly she's going to prove that...

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.999851 2011-10-07T19:00:00-04:00 2011-12-07T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
Hindsight is a precious thing and is perhaps a thin (almost transparent) silver lining to the otherwise very black cloud that is - being told that you have an incurable illness. Suddenly you have the foresight to know that it's time to start looking back. You can contemplate what you have done, and what you haven't, and in the end, you will spend every waking second from that moment on, doing what made you happy and not what made you sad.

What Steve Jobs (and in turn the entire Apple Mac brand) represented was a certain type of innovation. We can give it many names; it's a kind of forward thinking, opinion forming, out-of-the-box-ideas way of life. And that really is what Steve Jobs represented. A way of life. Yes, I own a Mac, an iPhone, an iPod and I'm desperate for an iPad, but being a Mac user is more than just owning the products. It's allying yourself with the minority.

Nowadays, ask a PC person why they don't have a Mac and they will tell you that their computer can do everything a Mac can do only it's cheaper (and they'll feel quite smug about it too). But that's all a PC is in this day and age, just a great imitation, never an original thought. Let me give you an example of the difference.

If a Mac is Prada, a PC is Primark. Prada come up with the concepts each season, sending models down the catwalk in the newest designs, created from everything that was great about the past, with a sprinkling of things we don't even know are great yet, from the future. Primark doesn't have a catwalk show, it doesn't make a big show of itself, it's gets on with things, knowing accurately which trends are worth copying and which ones were too 'out there' for the masses. It dilutes the ideas of the major fashion houses and produces fashions that people can afford. It's aspirational.

Furthermore, if a PC is clever, a Mac is intelligent. A PC went to school and bought all the right text books. He read them front to back, he absorbed the information and he applied it during his exams. His essays were perfect. Exactly like the test answers he learned from. A Mac flicked through the book, extracting the important information. He then combined what he had already learned with his impeccable sense of reason, to come up with an answer that hadn't already been written in a book. His essays had style.

At school (I went to an independent girls school in Hertfordshire) I was a Mac. In hindsight, I think that what the teachers wanted to produce were PCs. Word perfect little lemmings, ready to embark on careers in law, medicine, business or politics. Serious jobs. 'Real' jobs. So when I exclaimed that I would be running off to art school instead of Oxbridge, more than a few eyebrows shot up. "But you're so clever!" was the frequent rebuff I would hear. It became like an insult. I didn't want to be clever, I wanted to be an artist.

Being stubborn, from that day forth I trusted my gut and eventually moved into the creative world of the arts. After university I went freelance and I've never looked back. If there is one thing I believe in life (and trust me, there aren't many, I have a very nihilistic view on everything) it is that there are no truer words than: "Don't Settle."

And noone says it better than Steve Jobs did himself, during the Commencement address on June 12, 2005.

"I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle."

These words are not just inspirational speaking. For many, this is absolute truth. This is the gospel of the creative and innovative person. If you don't love what you do, you'll look back and the dots won't connect. You'll have wasted your life to somebody else's opinion of what you should have been or done.

Having a freelance career isn't necessarily 'free.' There is no guarantee of a wage every month... there isn't even a guarantee of work and you are only ever as good as your last job. The freelance life has no routine, you're jumping from one place to the next in completely different parts of town, with new working hours every day. You are constantly searching for something bigger and better. If someone asks "Do you wanna come for dinner on Thursday?" your answer is probably... "Err, can I let you know on Wednesday night?" - you might be free now, but you could be booked in a week. And God forbid you suggest a sick day to a freelancer. Every sick day is money straight down the pan. Plus, Macs never get viruses.

But inversely, the lifestyle is spontaneous, independent, full of new people and experiences. It doesn't matter WHAT you do, just that you're doing it. And this is what I love in life, being undefined yet still being productive. I am a writer. I am a journalist. I am an artist. I am a photographer. I design books. I research pictures... And why stop there? There is no end to the amount of job titles one should be allowed to apply to the bottom of their email signature.

If it wasn't for the Macs of this world, pushing the boundaries of what a job description is and could be, questioning the mundaneness of the 9-5, really progressing with new ideas and never stopping to question why, we'd all be stuck in a world with PCs that run beautifully well but never change.

For anyone out there like me, that worries when their friends with 'real' jobs call them lazy if they're stuck with seven days and no work, stop now. We just didn't settle for the life society told us we should have. And thank God we didn't. Because maybe one day we can make, do, write about, take a picture of, sculpt or solder together something inspirational that might change the world.

Well... that's what iDream about.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.992053 2011-10-03T19:00:00-04:00 2011-12-03T05:12:02-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
Apart from one hellish week somewhere back in June, he and I were never officially "together." First he was a booty-call, a means to an end, he served a purpose. For a long time I never stayed the night, never had him back to mine and never communicated with him in daylight hours. It suited me.

But somewhere along the line, as it inevitably always does, our relationship crossed over into no-man's land, the metaphorical 'grey-area', a place somewhere between sex and love. He said he liked my mind. Slowly but surely I started staying over. We opened a gateway of communication, which in this age of technology, meant there was really no going back. It became constant. We spoke on Facebook. We started texting. We would whatsapp all hours of the day because we could. But despite this constant flow of consciousness, never once would we discuss "us". Because to all intents and purposes, there was no "us". And that's how we liked it.

Until one day, he met someone else. Suddenly the relationship that we'd never had, became the NOT-relationship that we were very definitely having. Emotions started coming in to the picture (I was sad, he was frustrated) and at around the six months mark, everything got... well, it got messy. When they were on, we were off. When they were off, we were on. When I look back at it now, it's pretty text book. I was the other woman, a good distraction. Over the last year we've been on a rough journey. There's been passion, anger, love, hatred, desperation, sex, pain and excitement and sometimes all of those things at once. Intense, to say the least.

So now, I find myself sat here, having drained myself of tears, wondering how exactly I managed to get so deeply entangled in a NOT-relationship that I had never intended on becoming a part of, with a NOT-boyfriend who my friends would now refer to as a total... well, I can't write that word in this article. I guess I must admit to you that I am sensitive and emotional - I'm creative, it comes with the territory - but i'm not your typical girly-girl. I'm strong minded, well educated and obsessed with people, which is why, I think, I am attracted to otherness.

Like many other women dissatisfied with what 'the norm' has to offer, I am seeking some kind of perfect imperfection. I have a modern idea of what I want from a relationship. I'm not looking for 2.4 children and a husband that tells me i'm beautiful in the morning (i'm not beautiful in the morning) and then goes about his mundane day as part of our boring, but happy, existence. Nope, sorry, that life is not for me. I'd rather a man that was deadly honest. And that's exactly what I got, a man whose final words to me were such a painful truth that they didn't finally click until days later.

And do you know what the worst thing is? At the end of it all, at the time when I am most entitled to hate his guts, I don't. I don't hate him at all. Everyone around me tells me that I'm better off without him. And I am intelligent enough to understand that I am. I've not felt sadness but a soaring, unequivocal freedom in the immediate wake of every "goodbye" we've said (it's happened more than once) and I know that in this situation, I walk away with my whole life to look forward to, having cared as much as I could have and probably more than I should have, for another human being. He walks away knowing that he hurt someone that gave him everything she had to give.

I believe that a very real, primal sense of care and nurture goes hand in hand with being female. Of course, some women have more of it than others, but if women are from Venus and men are from Mars, I can guarantee you that Venus is a more understanding place...it's just in her nature. But understanding can be a dangerous thing and can easily be confused with weakness.

I am not weak. I just refuse to hate somebody who I have taken the time to understand. When my friends told me not to try to express to him how much he has hurt me, now that we are finally at the end, they were right. Even if he did listen, it wouldn't have the desired effect. He'd sooner call me every name under the sun than admit to himself he had anything to feel guilty about. But yet I still don't hate him, because I understand why. I understand down to the tiniest nuance of his being, WHY he has done what he has done.

It doesn't excuse his behaviour. It doesn't excuse the fact that I allowed myself to be treated without respect for a long period of time, but it does help me deal with this horrible sense of loss. A sense of loss that to all intents and purposes, I shouldn't be feeling. HE was the bastard and yet there's been no eureka moment when I've jumped up and screamed "good riddance!" When you have a NOT-relationship that is built on a twisted type of honesty, with a person you are willing to take the time to understand, it makes it very hard to close the book. Because you never had a relationship to lose in the first place, just the constant promise of what-if.

It's at times like these that I wish I had more of that angry, self-respecting gene that so many of my girlfriends seem to have. The one that makes you turn around the first time things get nasty and say "I'm done with this" and damn well mean it, but I don't. It would be so much easier to hate him and slam the book shut, but then what would I have left? 18 months wasted and several degrees less respect for myself? Nah. I don't hate people. I understand them and at no detriment to myself. I will mourn the loss of this person in my life, regardless of how I've been treated, with dignity and respect, not only for me but for him. It might make it harder, but he is from Mars after all, and it isn't that great there from what I understand.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.975344 2011-09-22T05:45:21-04:00 2011-11-22T05:12:01-05:00

Olivia Rose http://www.huffingtonpost.com/olivia-rose/
The same can be said for the entire concept of Facebook. An amazing tool to stay connected - all you have to do is login and browse your newsfeed and suddenly you aren't alone anymore. Everyone you ever knew, and their wives are there, nattering away, making you feel like you're part of some new world. A world that exists entirely within your computer screen, or nowadays, smart phone.

To say we are inundated now with communication would be an understatement. Throughout the day, we are assaulted with emails, phone calls, text messages, watsapp, BBM and of course, the old faithful, Facebook. And to be honest, I am one of the addicts, someone who spends all day with the tab open (partly because it makes me feel like I'm not just at work all day and partly because if I don't, my phone bleats constantly with the many 'likes', comments and messages I receive a day).

I know that Facebook can be an incredible tool for connecting people. As a photographer, I have utilised it as a professional tool to find models, assistants, locations etc. In those circumstances, Facebook is good to me. It's like my little friend, I call him 'Facey B.'

But just like all people, Facey B isn't always nice. He has a nasty side to him and hey, although you aren't meant to "shoot the messenger" and all that, Facey B has brought me some of the worst news in my adult life. Seeing the man you love go from 'single' to 'in a relationship' hurts more than a slap on the face. Watching them 'like' someone elses photographs is like a stab to the heart.

Facey B is terrible at keeping secrets. And ever since yesterday, it all got worse. I can't even go into the new top stories feature and for the entirety of yesterday I was battling with bizarre 'top story' choices. Facebook didn't inform me how to change this, so it took a few updates, a few Facebook chat boxes and a knowledgeable friend before I could sort out my news feed. I felt like I had lost control with a relationship that I was perfectly comfortable with.

Suddenly I'm given new features against my will, they've improved something that, as far as I was concerned, didn't need fixing. And with little warning. Or perhaps I was blind to the warning, hoping that it would never really happen. Ignorance is bliss and all that.

There is now an extra bar of information on the right hand side of my screen, constantly updating itself, constantly flickering like a TV playing white noise. Oddly enticing to the eye. I spent the entirety of yesterday not doing work. I just watched that bar update, hypnotised. Most of it is drivel, which was annoying in itself.

Then suddenly I realised that I was seeing things I hadn't seen before... but even as a self proclaimed Facebook stalker (the things you can find out about other peoples lives with a little searching are incredible) I didn't feel excited. I felt dread. Suddenly we cannot post to walls without instantly alerting our Facebook community. Suddenly there are no secrets whatsoever. And suddenly I was scared about how this was actually going to affect my real life. The one that exists outside of Facey B.

Everyone needs secrets, it's how we keep our sense of mystery. It's how we can juggle flirting with Matthew and Michael on the same day whilst we're trying to make our decision about which one is better suited to us. This kind of behaviour has always been around, but before social networking, it was harder to execute... and there was certainly less chance of getting 'caught out.'

With new Facebook bombarding us constantly with information, suddenly what was once a fun way of obtaining a bit of something to chin wag over the coffee table, is a dangerous step in knowing everything about everyone. We all like a bit of gossip, but too much of anything is a bad thing.

For any serial cheaters out there, who deliberately hide their friends list so they can add attractive people a-plenty and flirt via 'poking' or 'liking' or 'wall posting' beware! Your better half will be watching you. And they will know exactly what you're up to, real time.

For me, the most disappointing thing is having my choices taken away. Once upon a time, Facebook was a tool that you could manipulate to show you more or less of what you wanted. Now, it's just gratuitous. Like the people at Facebook are conducting some mass social experiment to see just how much information will send us devoted Facebookers crazy.

They may just have done it this time. Embarrassingly, I cried twice yesterday. Both times, it was because Facey B told me something I didn't want to hear.]]>