It's dress-down Friday, the perfect backdrop for reading my story Dress-down Friday, which has more stationery and workplace action, and which was published this week on The Pygmy Giant. Yay! You can read it here.
Today, my contribution to the Paraxis Library Wall has also gone live, along with a piece from my mum and submissions from various of my friends.
You can see the whole wall here and my contribution here. The editors had to chop off the last bit of my story because of its smutty content (it is a "companion piece" to Susie Loves Words, which appears in the Quickies: Short Stories For Adults anthology we launched this week - details on how to get your mitts on a copy on the blog soon!), so I'm publishing the story in its entirety here...
Microfiche by Sarah-Clare Conlon
You spend half your working day flicking through the dictionary; “the good book”. You edit report after boring report and pretend to look up specialised jargon alternatives in the thesaurus. You are actually poring over rude words, testing your encyclopaedic knowledge of swears against Roget. You usually win; the man has no sense of imagination. You couldn’t if you invented such a complicated cross-referencing system.
The challenge gives you an idea for an art project: one you’re certain you’d get funding for. The arts lot’d love it; they’d put on their special voices and everything. You’d catalogue all your favourite naughty phrases using library coding parameters, store them on microfiche and display the results on a light box in a darkened room that adds to the suggestive atmosphere. Accompanying this would be a series of Venn diagrams: male bits intersecting with female bits; the subset of shared bits including nipples, arses, hard, panting.
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humour. Show all posts
30 September 2011
16 July 2011
Automatic writing for the people
Right. So the other day I did this thing called The Reading, as part of the Not Part Of festival. You may have read about it here. You have three hours to write, in a specified slot, in an art gallery and there are 72 writers in total; each one is given the last paragraph of the last person's story to use as "inspiration" to write a completely new story. A bit like a chain letter. (Bastard, I hated chain letters - they were all the fucking rage in the 70s. Not that I wish to divulge my age, or anything of that sort.)
Right, so, it's a sort of automatic writing - y'know like what the Beats did. Or Oulipo. And I took part in this artistic expression experience on Thursday. It was interesting, if a little difficult. Anyway, I thought I would share with you the culmination of my efforts; tell me what you think. If I were to give it a title, I think I'd call it The Plan.
The paragraph that I was left sprung forth from the genius mind of my mate L'il Dave; without further ado, here's David Hartley's final par and then, after the stars, a strange story by me...
She was faced with the end of the world but she wanted no part of it. If this was collective imagination, then the collective could keep it. Half a mile behind her, blades rotating through the past, Ollie's helicopter was waiting. She took one last look at the roaring future, shrugged her shoulders and walked away.
*****************************************************************************
The past, the future: you can keep them. The present, that's where it's at; the here and now. Take each day at a time - you have no idea what it will throw at you. Just react as it happens. Live your life real time. Look at you now. You're live-streaming your thoughts out into the ether. You don't know why: as if anyone even cares, right?
But someone does, somewhere. They look at the words you spew forth every day on those modern-fangled fancypants networks you love so much. You tell them all about the most inane details of your meagre existence on this planet, God's green earth that is slowly suffocating in front of your very eyes. But you don't care, not really. Live in the moment. That's what you say, you think.
Keep plying your audience with the twaddle they seem to love so much. Look: I'm drinking a can of Coca-Cola. It's the full fat stuff: the taste is better, the packaging is a design classic. See: I'm smoking a Gauloise Blonde. Not a Gauloise Blonde Legere as they're not as strong, and I'm trying to portray an image of myself in a certain way. (Also, you can't have Legeres any more - European law, or something.) Watch: I'm eating a packet of Hula Hoops. I'm putting them on the end of my fingers then biting them off enticingly, one by one.
You're sending out messages. You're not all that sure why, but it's a way of connecting with them out there. Sometimes you even tap out stuff that only certain people will understand. It seems a bit pointless, but you want them to know you're thinking of them perhaps, even if you're only doing this by the power of describing your clothes, the contents of your bag, the book you've taken it upon yourself to try and read. What about Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451? You like a bit of dystopia. Breakfast Of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, maybe? It has a good title.
People relate to that kind of stuff. Stuff. Like the coke, the cigarettes, the crisps. People understand, and those understanding people are the ones who are also living in the moment, like you. Who cares about the past? It's done and dusted, you can't change it, move on. Who cares about the future? You can plan and plan and plan, but it doesn't mean that everything is going to go according to that plan. There'll always be something: a spanner in the works, a fly in the ointment.
Take things as they present themselves. This could be an opportunity. It could be an adventure. It could be a disappointment, it could be a disaster. You can still be prepared - it helps to carry an umbrella in a rainy city, for example. And where would you be without that knife in your pocket, that condom in your wallet, that safety pin clipped to the hem of your trousers? Life-savers are handy when you have a life that needs saving.
And your life now - this life you're living one moment at a time, not making plans, going with the flow - is this life worth saving? Of course: it's fun, isn't it? Yes, but it's dangerous. Yes, but that's exciting. Yes. And people want to hear about it, remember? They're waiting to hear about it. You can't let them down now; you have a responsibility to Your Readers. They need you; perhaps they need to live through you.
Listen: I'm at the art gallery. I'm looking at art. I don't get the art that I'm looking at. Oh, I shouldn't admit that I don't get the art that I'm looking at. But I don't. It's dumb. Who the fuck funds this stuff, anyway? Why don't they give the money to me: I'm a living art experiment, aren't I? Living in the moment and all that. I could use the cash to keep up my body of work, extend my oeuvre, explore new forms of expressing these experiences everyone wants a piece of.
There's your application, right there. Copy and paste it into the online form, quick, before you forget, before something comes along to distract you: a phone call, an important email that Needs Answering Right Now, a meteor smashing into the polar icecaps and setting us all in a tailspin towards the sun, a gigantic spaceship hovering about Manchester Town Hall, demanding an audience with Richard Leese.
But that's not going to happen, is it? You, I and they all know that the aliens only ever put a humungous shadow over New York, Los Angeles, Washington, Johannesburg, Paris and London, at a push. Plus humungous isn't even a word. Probably gigantic isn't either; you can't remember and the dictionary has everything in it these days, colloquial, made up, everything.
You should know, you spend enough time flicking through the good book at work where you edit report after boring report and pretend to be looking up things like "data" (plural? Singular? Does anyone give a toss?) but actually what you're really doing is trying to find as many rude words as possible and testing your own encyclopaedic knowledge of swears against Roget. You usually win; the man has no sense of imagination. You couldn't if you came up with such a complicated cross-referencing system.
So, yeah, live in the moment. Get that funding bid off. Then get on with your next project idea: the one where you catalogue all your favourite naughty phrases using library coding parameters stored on microfiche and displayed on a light box in a darkened room that adds to the suggestive atmosphere. Or you could do a series of Venn diagrams: male bits intersecting with female bits, so to speak; the subset of shared bits including nipples, arses, hard, panting. And then there's the bedtime stories stroke of genius: two writers sat in a bed telling tales of titillation, like the Yoko and John of the literary world. The arts lot'd love that; they'd put on their special voices and extol the talents of the great minds who came up with such a brainwave.
But you're living in the moment, remember? These projects are plans. You don't have a plan. God, it's stressful, not having a plan. Why hadn't you noticed this before? You were trying so desperately to fly by the seat of your pants and cram in as many events and experiences and emotions and other things beginning with e that you've started to lose your way.
So let's make a plan, you and I. Maybe I'll make the plan and I won't let you in on it. Would that work? But then I'd be in control and wouldn't that be like playing God? That's twice now he's cropped up. But I don't believe in God, only extraterrestrials, because there's got to be something out there, right? Just not an old bloke with a beard sat on a cloud surrounded by cherubs playing lutes or lyres or whatever the damn things are.
If I make a plan, The Plan, would that be even more stressful? We're right back at the plans not going according to plan. That was the whole point of this discussion. Perhaps we shouldn't have these philosophical existential theological mental chats in our frame of mind. It's tricky, that's for sure. A proper dilemma. I can't make The Plan - surely that's for the Fates to decide. Leave it up to destiny, eh? But then you have to believe in the Fates and destiny to begin with, I suppose, and I don't believe in anything. Except extraterrestrials, of course. Remember?
But say we did have a plan. Just say. For argument's sake. Work with me here. What would The Plan involve? I can't see into the future, but I want one; the life worth saving, all that. You too, right? The life worth saving, I mean. Trouble is, my idea of the future would probably not be the same as your idea of the future, if you'd for just one minute think about the future and stop selfishly pretending you don't need a plan. Living in the moment, indeed. What kind of student anarchy thinking is that?
So we're getting nowhere with this. I want a plan, you don't want a plan. I don't want a plan, you want a plan. What, you've changed your mind now, have you? That complicates matters. Maybe that's the spanner in the works, the fly in the ointment: you've been pretending you don't want a plan, but actually secretly, all along, you've been squirrelling away thoughts of things that might happen in the future. I bet you've got tons of these thoughts hidden in the recesses of your great mind.
It's probably like one of those books you used to order off the back of cereal packets in the 80s, the ones where you get to the end of a chapter and are faced with a number of options, each one leading to a new set of circumstances. Like a tax return, only with princesses and monsters and pirates and monkeys. There were probably monkeys. So you got to the end of a chapter and had to decide your own fate.
a) Rescue the princess from the monsters and pirates and gallop off on a white monkey into the sunset where you'll get married and live happily ever after. Go to Chapter 2.
b) Don't rescue the princess from the monsters and pirates and save yourself from a loveless marriage and a lifetime of nagging. No one finds out what happens to the monkeys. Go to Chapter 3.
c) Rescue the monsters and pirates; leave the princess to set up a monkey sanctuary and die an old maid but she's content because at least she's put something back into society and you're content because you've got a whole gang of monsters and pirates to hang out with; ain't nobody gonna mess with you now, dawg. Go to Chapter 4.
So we need to think of the options in your head. I guess they're: carry on as is; don't carry on as is; carry on but this time with a plan. Oh, we're back here; I think this is a sticking point. If only we had some monkeys. They'd distract us if nothing else. We'd get caught up in training them to do party tricks; fetch and carry; make cups of tea. We'd be the talk of the town with our troupe of dancing simians throwing down rose petals for us to walk over. Now, that's a plan. (Note to self: look into monkey adoption.)
But let's not lose sight of the important details. The important details are The Readers. We'd kind of forgotten about them, but we'd be nothing if it weren't for The Readers. We need to keep them in new material, you know what they're like. So demanding. If we don't keep feeding them the snippets of information on the minutiae of our life, they'll get all sluggish and slow and eventually stop, like a Furby or a Tamagotchi. Discarded in the corner of the room, staring at the point where the two white walls meet, staring with dead eyes and no purpose in life.
We're the life-savers, after all. We thought it was our lives we were supposed to be saving, but really it's theirs. So let's get on with it; give them what they want, what they need. Words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, books, libraries. That's why we're here. What else did you think?
Right, so, it's a sort of automatic writing - y'know like what the Beats did. Or Oulipo. And I took part in this artistic expression experience on Thursday. It was interesting, if a little difficult. Anyway, I thought I would share with you the culmination of my efforts; tell me what you think. If I were to give it a title, I think I'd call it The Plan.
The paragraph that I was left sprung forth from the genius mind of my mate L'il Dave; without further ado, here's David Hartley's final par and then, after the stars, a strange story by me...
She was faced with the end of the world but she wanted no part of it. If this was collective imagination, then the collective could keep it. Half a mile behind her, blades rotating through the past, Ollie's helicopter was waiting. She took one last look at the roaring future, shrugged her shoulders and walked away.
*****************************************************************************
The past, the future: you can keep them. The present, that's where it's at; the here and now. Take each day at a time - you have no idea what it will throw at you. Just react as it happens. Live your life real time. Look at you now. You're live-streaming your thoughts out into the ether. You don't know why: as if anyone even cares, right?
But someone does, somewhere. They look at the words you spew forth every day on those modern-fangled fancypants networks you love so much. You tell them all about the most inane details of your meagre existence on this planet, God's green earth that is slowly suffocating in front of your very eyes. But you don't care, not really. Live in the moment. That's what you say, you think.
Keep plying your audience with the twaddle they seem to love so much. Look: I'm drinking a can of Coca-Cola. It's the full fat stuff: the taste is better, the packaging is a design classic. See: I'm smoking a Gauloise Blonde. Not a Gauloise Blonde Legere as they're not as strong, and I'm trying to portray an image of myself in a certain way. (Also, you can't have Legeres any more - European law, or something.) Watch: I'm eating a packet of Hula Hoops. I'm putting them on the end of my fingers then biting them off enticingly, one by one.
You're sending out messages. You're not all that sure why, but it's a way of connecting with them out there. Sometimes you even tap out stuff that only certain people will understand. It seems a bit pointless, but you want them to know you're thinking of them perhaps, even if you're only doing this by the power of describing your clothes, the contents of your bag, the book you've taken it upon yourself to try and read. What about Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451? You like a bit of dystopia. Breakfast Of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, maybe? It has a good title.
People relate to that kind of stuff. Stuff. Like the coke, the cigarettes, the crisps. People understand, and those understanding people are the ones who are also living in the moment, like you. Who cares about the past? It's done and dusted, you can't change it, move on. Who cares about the future? You can plan and plan and plan, but it doesn't mean that everything is going to go according to that plan. There'll always be something: a spanner in the works, a fly in the ointment.
Take things as they present themselves. This could be an opportunity. It could be an adventure. It could be a disappointment, it could be a disaster. You can still be prepared - it helps to carry an umbrella in a rainy city, for example. And where would you be without that knife in your pocket, that condom in your wallet, that safety pin clipped to the hem of your trousers? Life-savers are handy when you have a life that needs saving.
And your life now - this life you're living one moment at a time, not making plans, going with the flow - is this life worth saving? Of course: it's fun, isn't it? Yes, but it's dangerous. Yes, but that's exciting. Yes. And people want to hear about it, remember? They're waiting to hear about it. You can't let them down now; you have a responsibility to Your Readers. They need you; perhaps they need to live through you.
Listen: I'm at the art gallery. I'm looking at art. I don't get the art that I'm looking at. Oh, I shouldn't admit that I don't get the art that I'm looking at. But I don't. It's dumb. Who the fuck funds this stuff, anyway? Why don't they give the money to me: I'm a living art experiment, aren't I? Living in the moment and all that. I could use the cash to keep up my body of work, extend my oeuvre, explore new forms of expressing these experiences everyone wants a piece of.
There's your application, right there. Copy and paste it into the online form, quick, before you forget, before something comes along to distract you: a phone call, an important email that Needs Answering Right Now, a meteor smashing into the polar icecaps and setting us all in a tailspin towards the sun, a gigantic spaceship hovering about Manchester Town Hall, demanding an audience with Richard Leese.
But that's not going to happen, is it? You, I and they all know that the aliens only ever put a humungous shadow over New York, Los Angeles, Washington, Johannesburg, Paris and London, at a push. Plus humungous isn't even a word. Probably gigantic isn't either; you can't remember and the dictionary has everything in it these days, colloquial, made up, everything.
You should know, you spend enough time flicking through the good book at work where you edit report after boring report and pretend to be looking up things like "data" (plural? Singular? Does anyone give a toss?) but actually what you're really doing is trying to find as many rude words as possible and testing your own encyclopaedic knowledge of swears against Roget. You usually win; the man has no sense of imagination. You couldn't if you came up with such a complicated cross-referencing system.
So, yeah, live in the moment. Get that funding bid off. Then get on with your next project idea: the one where you catalogue all your favourite naughty phrases using library coding parameters stored on microfiche and displayed on a light box in a darkened room that adds to the suggestive atmosphere. Or you could do a series of Venn diagrams: male bits intersecting with female bits, so to speak; the subset of shared bits including nipples, arses, hard, panting. And then there's the bedtime stories stroke of genius: two writers sat in a bed telling tales of titillation, like the Yoko and John of the literary world. The arts lot'd love that; they'd put on their special voices and extol the talents of the great minds who came up with such a brainwave.
But you're living in the moment, remember? These projects are plans. You don't have a plan. God, it's stressful, not having a plan. Why hadn't you noticed this before? You were trying so desperately to fly by the seat of your pants and cram in as many events and experiences and emotions and other things beginning with e that you've started to lose your way.
So let's make a plan, you and I. Maybe I'll make the plan and I won't let you in on it. Would that work? But then I'd be in control and wouldn't that be like playing God? That's twice now he's cropped up. But I don't believe in God, only extraterrestrials, because there's got to be something out there, right? Just not an old bloke with a beard sat on a cloud surrounded by cherubs playing lutes or lyres or whatever the damn things are.
If I make a plan, The Plan, would that be even more stressful? We're right back at the plans not going according to plan. That was the whole point of this discussion. Perhaps we shouldn't have these philosophical existential theological mental chats in our frame of mind. It's tricky, that's for sure. A proper dilemma. I can't make The Plan - surely that's for the Fates to decide. Leave it up to destiny, eh? But then you have to believe in the Fates and destiny to begin with, I suppose, and I don't believe in anything. Except extraterrestrials, of course. Remember?
But say we did have a plan. Just say. For argument's sake. Work with me here. What would The Plan involve? I can't see into the future, but I want one; the life worth saving, all that. You too, right? The life worth saving, I mean. Trouble is, my idea of the future would probably not be the same as your idea of the future, if you'd for just one minute think about the future and stop selfishly pretending you don't need a plan. Living in the moment, indeed. What kind of student anarchy thinking is that?
So we're getting nowhere with this. I want a plan, you don't want a plan. I don't want a plan, you want a plan. What, you've changed your mind now, have you? That complicates matters. Maybe that's the spanner in the works, the fly in the ointment: you've been pretending you don't want a plan, but actually secretly, all along, you've been squirrelling away thoughts of things that might happen in the future. I bet you've got tons of these thoughts hidden in the recesses of your great mind.
It's probably like one of those books you used to order off the back of cereal packets in the 80s, the ones where you get to the end of a chapter and are faced with a number of options, each one leading to a new set of circumstances. Like a tax return, only with princesses and monsters and pirates and monkeys. There were probably monkeys. So you got to the end of a chapter and had to decide your own fate.
a) Rescue the princess from the monsters and pirates and gallop off on a white monkey into the sunset where you'll get married and live happily ever after. Go to Chapter 2.
b) Don't rescue the princess from the monsters and pirates and save yourself from a loveless marriage and a lifetime of nagging. No one finds out what happens to the monkeys. Go to Chapter 3.
c) Rescue the monsters and pirates; leave the princess to set up a monkey sanctuary and die an old maid but she's content because at least she's put something back into society and you're content because you've got a whole gang of monsters and pirates to hang out with; ain't nobody gonna mess with you now, dawg. Go to Chapter 4.
So we need to think of the options in your head. I guess they're: carry on as is; don't carry on as is; carry on but this time with a plan. Oh, we're back here; I think this is a sticking point. If only we had some monkeys. They'd distract us if nothing else. We'd get caught up in training them to do party tricks; fetch and carry; make cups of tea. We'd be the talk of the town with our troupe of dancing simians throwing down rose petals for us to walk over. Now, that's a plan. (Note to self: look into monkey adoption.)
But let's not lose sight of the important details. The important details are The Readers. We'd kind of forgotten about them, but we'd be nothing if it weren't for The Readers. We need to keep them in new material, you know what they're like. So demanding. If we don't keep feeding them the snippets of information on the minutiae of our life, they'll get all sluggish and slow and eventually stop, like a Furby or a Tamagotchi. Discarded in the corner of the room, staring at the point where the two white walls meet, staring with dead eyes and no purpose in life.
We're the life-savers, after all. We thought it was our lives we were supposed to be saving, but really it's theirs. So let's get on with it; give them what they want, what they need. Words, sentences, paragraphs, chapters, books, libraries. That's why we're here. What else did you think?
06 September 2010
Location, location, location
It's been four months since 1,000 volunteers willingly (and without the influence of alcohol) stripped off in Salford for photographer Spencer Tunick. The Lowry commissioned the living installation to celebrate 10 years of wind-swept life on the Quays, and the weather on the weekend of the shoot was characteristically breezy as ever. I knew of the project - in fact, I know someone who got their kit off for it - but it wasn't until I heard curator Katie Farrell (at the last Blogmeet) describe the pressure of priming people and places that my interest in the show was properly piqued.
The exhibition runs until Sunday 26 September in (thankfully) the larger gallery space, and I was pleasantly surprised by how many pieces it includes. The website tells me only eight locations were used, but it feels like much more thanks to the variety of poses and props. Double-decker buses are a humorous platform for one diptych; the snaking queue to a hand carwash another. Some of the compositions echo the paintings of the art space's namesake LS Lowry with, for example, Castlefield's rusting railway viaducts a backdrop to the bodies going about their business. Colour is an important motif, with pretty pink blossoms reflecting naked skin and the participants planted like blooms in the laid-out rose gardens of an old-fashioned ornamental park. Elsewhere, in the airport set, a sensation of movement is achieved through the gradual change in stature of the "statues".
One criticism would be the stilted effect the unnatural posturing undoubtedly has, but Everyday People still has plenty of merits, not least trying to spot where the photos were taken and how it was possible to take them without some naughty passerby managing to get in on the act.
The exhibition runs until Sunday 26 September in (thankfully) the larger gallery space, and I was pleasantly surprised by how many pieces it includes. The website tells me only eight locations were used, but it feels like much more thanks to the variety of poses and props. Double-decker buses are a humorous platform for one diptych; the snaking queue to a hand carwash another. Some of the compositions echo the paintings of the art space's namesake LS Lowry with, for example, Castlefield's rusting railway viaducts a backdrop to the bodies going about their business. Colour is an important motif, with pretty pink blossoms reflecting naked skin and the participants planted like blooms in the laid-out rose gardens of an old-fashioned ornamental park. Elsewhere, in the airport set, a sensation of movement is achieved through the gradual change in stature of the "statues".
One criticism would be the stilted effect the unnatural posturing undoubtedly has, but Everyday People still has plenty of merits, not least trying to spot where the photos were taken and how it was possible to take them without some naughty passerby managing to get in on the act.
23 October 2009
It's not the winning that matters (oh, who am I kidding?)
So I'm still reeling from Wednesday night and the shock of the moment (and certainly nothing to do with the copious amount of drink imbibed soon thereafter) when the Words & Fixtures moniker was announced as the recipient of the glittering Best New Blog gong at the 2009 Manchester Blog Awards. Look at us working that logo! We wear it well, non?
The evening, which took place in the newly refurbed and reopened Band On The Wall, was compered by a very-tight-and-very-red-dress-wearing Maria Ruban, who came up against something of a challenge with her catchphrase idea (we'll just leave it at that, eh?). Prize-giving duties were taken up by Kate Feld, and winners received a book courtesy of Manchester Literature Festival, a cheque courtesy of Arts Council England and a CD bearing the aforementioned logo courtesy of, ooh I dunno - Manchester Blog Awards? The bloggers nominated in the Best Writing category gave readings, as did author and judge Jenn Ashworth (showing her immense talent for situational description, but, if I'm honest, something of a downer with its rather bleak subject matter). Various mp3 bloggers played us some top tunes as part of Bloggerpalooza, a unique music streaming event, and I enjoyed The B-52s very much through my by then drunken haze.
The judging panel included: author and Guardian columnist Naomi Alderman; Dave Carter, head of Manchester Digital Development Agency; Richard Fair of BBC Manchester; author (and former blog award winner) Jenn Ashworth; Mike Noon of Arts Council England North West, and, last but most certainly not least, Manchester Blog Awards founder Kate Feld. Apparently, one of the judges said of W&F: 'It was the only blog out of the 24 shortlisted that made me laugh out loud.' See, I said I should become a comedian, didn't I?
So here's a list of (and links to) all the movers and shakers at the 2009 Manchester Blog Awards; big heartfelt congrats to them all (and, indeed, to everyone who was nominated and shortlisted):
Best City and Neighbourhood Blog: Lost in Manchester (anonymous). One of the judges said: "Sometimes it's easy to forget to look at what's right under your nose. I love its unashamed raw passion for Manchester."
Runner-up was The Manchester Zedders (Liam Purcell and Marie Pattison).
Best Personal Blog: My Shitty Twenties (Emily Morris). One of the judges said: "Moving, thoughtful, funny and wise. Sometimes heartbreaking, always uplifting."
Runner-up was Cynical Ben (Benjamin Judge).
Best New Blog: Words and Fixtures (Clare Conlon - that's me, that is!). One of the judges said: "It was the only blog out of the twenty-four shortlisted that made me laugh out loud."
Runner-up was Songs From Under the Floorboards (Andy Wake).
Best Writing on a Blog: My Shitty Twenties (Emily Morris again). One of the judges said: "It's almost impossible not to get drawn into the story that this blog tells."
Dual runners-up were I Thought I Told You To Wait in the Car (Richard Vivmeister Hirst) and Dave Hartley's Weblog (Dave Hartley).
Best Arts and Culture Blog: Run Paint Run Run (Ella Wredenfors). One of the judges said: "Opinionated, heartfelt and pleasantly rough-around-the-edges, a blog with an infectious enthusiasm for art."
Runner-up was The Manchester Hermit (Ansuman Biswas).
Blog of the Year: Lost in Manchester (still anonymous). This was awarded to the blog with the highest aggregate score in the competition. One of the judges said: "Quirky, original and focused, with an eye for detail. Putting the extra into extraordinary."
This here's a pic, from the MEN, of Emily Morris (My Shitty Twenties), Manchester Blog Awards organiser Kate Feld, me (me!) and Ella Wredenfors (Run Paint Run Run). Don't we make a splendid line-up in our posh frocks? And I like the height graduation.
This big ole bunch of links is some of the stuff that has been written in The Press and on the interweb thingy (if you know of any more, kindly post a comment. I thank you).
The Guardian: Women Dominate At Manchester Blog Awards
How-Do: Best Blogs In Manchester Revealed
Manchester Evening News (mis-spelt name and all): Single Mum Scoops Blog Award
Neville Hobson: In Conversation With Kate Feld
MDDA: The Return Of The Anonymous Blogger
Visit Manchester: photos
The Manchester Lit List: Manchester Blog Awards - And The Winners Are...
Searched Designed Developed: Manchester's Blog Awards Demonstrate The Real Power Of Blogging
New:
City Life: Girls On Top At Manchester Blog Awards 2009
The evening, which took place in the newly refurbed and reopened Band On The Wall, was compered by a very-tight-and-very-red-dress-wearing Maria Ruban, who came up against something of a challenge with her catchphrase idea (we'll just leave it at that, eh?). Prize-giving duties were taken up by Kate Feld, and winners received a book courtesy of Manchester Literature Festival, a cheque courtesy of Arts Council England and a CD bearing the aforementioned logo courtesy of, ooh I dunno - Manchester Blog Awards? The bloggers nominated in the Best Writing category gave readings, as did author and judge Jenn Ashworth (showing her immense talent for situational description, but, if I'm honest, something of a downer with its rather bleak subject matter). Various mp3 bloggers played us some top tunes as part of Bloggerpalooza, a unique music streaming event, and I enjoyed The B-52s very much through my by then drunken haze.
The judging panel included: author and Guardian columnist Naomi Alderman; Dave Carter, head of Manchester Digital Development Agency; Richard Fair of BBC Manchester; author (and former blog award winner) Jenn Ashworth; Mike Noon of Arts Council England North West, and, last but most certainly not least, Manchester Blog Awards founder Kate Feld. Apparently, one of the judges said of W&F: 'It was the only blog out of the 24 shortlisted that made me laugh out loud.' See, I said I should become a comedian, didn't I?
So here's a list of (and links to) all the movers and shakers at the 2009 Manchester Blog Awards; big heartfelt congrats to them all (and, indeed, to everyone who was nominated and shortlisted):
Best City and Neighbourhood Blog: Lost in Manchester (anonymous). One of the judges said: "Sometimes it's easy to forget to look at what's right under your nose. I love its unashamed raw passion for Manchester."
Runner-up was The Manchester Zedders (Liam Purcell and Marie Pattison).
Best Personal Blog: My Shitty Twenties (Emily Morris). One of the judges said: "Moving, thoughtful, funny and wise. Sometimes heartbreaking, always uplifting."
Runner-up was Cynical Ben (Benjamin Judge).
Best New Blog: Words and Fixtures (Clare Conlon - that's me, that is!). One of the judges said: "It was the only blog out of the twenty-four shortlisted that made me laugh out loud."
Runner-up was Songs From Under the Floorboards (Andy Wake).
Best Writing on a Blog: My Shitty Twenties (Emily Morris again). One of the judges said: "It's almost impossible not to get drawn into the story that this blog tells."
Dual runners-up were I Thought I Told You To Wait in the Car (Richard Vivmeister Hirst) and Dave Hartley's Weblog (Dave Hartley).
Best Arts and Culture Blog: Run Paint Run Run (Ella Wredenfors). One of the judges said: "Opinionated, heartfelt and pleasantly rough-around-the-edges, a blog with an infectious enthusiasm for art."
Runner-up was The Manchester Hermit (Ansuman Biswas).
Blog of the Year: Lost in Manchester (still anonymous). This was awarded to the blog with the highest aggregate score in the competition. One of the judges said: "Quirky, original and focused, with an eye for detail. Putting the extra into extraordinary."
This here's a pic, from the MEN, of Emily Morris (My Shitty Twenties), Manchester Blog Awards organiser Kate Feld, me (me!) and Ella Wredenfors (Run Paint Run Run). Don't we make a splendid line-up in our posh frocks? And I like the height graduation.
This big ole bunch of links is some of the stuff that has been written in The Press and on the interweb thingy (if you know of any more, kindly post a comment. I thank you).
The Guardian: Women Dominate At Manchester Blog Awards
How-Do: Best Blogs In Manchester Revealed
Manchester Evening News (mis-spelt name and all): Single Mum Scoops Blog Award
Neville Hobson: In Conversation With Kate Feld
MDDA: The Return Of The Anonymous Blogger
Visit Manchester: photos
The Manchester Lit List: Manchester Blog Awards - And The Winners Are...
Searched Designed Developed: Manchester's Blog Awards Demonstrate The Real Power Of Blogging
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City Life: Girls On Top At Manchester Blog Awards 2009
12 September 2009
A little lift
You know how when you get in a lift sometimes and other people get in after you and it's kind of inferred that you sort of have to take charge? Well, I found myself in that very situation just the other day.
I was headed for the ground floor down from third and thought I'd better check the second person was too.
"Are you going to ground?", I queried, then (because I was in a very giddy mood, having just escaped from a difficult, drawn-out interview process) quipped: "I don't mean, 'Are you going into hiding?', but you never know. I can give you a disguise if you need it."
Lift passenger number two thought this was hilarious and said they'd use it again some time. Praise indeed.
Anyway, I didn't get the job, but hey - I may now consider a career in comedy instead.
I was headed for the ground floor down from third and thought I'd better check the second person was too.
"Are you going to ground?", I queried, then (because I was in a very giddy mood, having just escaped from a difficult, drawn-out interview process) quipped: "I don't mean, 'Are you going into hiding?', but you never know. I can give you a disguise if you need it."
Lift passenger number two thought this was hilarious and said they'd use it again some time. Praise indeed.
Anyway, I didn't get the job, but hey - I may now consider a career in comedy instead.
29 August 2009
Holy strawberries, Batman - we're in a jam!
Taken in traffic en France: proof Batman was really European - he drives a batmeuble.
Wonderful Batman-Robin conversation, found in a Google trawl (other search engines are available):
Robin: "You can't get away from Batman that easy!"
Batman: "Easily."
Robin: "Easily."
Batman: "Good grammar is essential, Robin."
Robin: "Thank you."
Batman: "You're welcome."
Wonderful Batman-Robin conversation, found in a Google trawl (other search engines are available):
Robin: "You can't get away from Batman that easy!"
Batman: "Easily."
Robin: "Easily."
Batman: "Good grammar is essential, Robin."
Robin: "Thank you."
Batman: "You're welcome."
27 August 2009
Totally foxed
Here's a great sign that was posted on the noticeboard of the campsite we stayed at in Berlin. It reads: "Do not let stand your shoes outside! We have a fox, he robs the shoes!"
Apart from it being a lovely example of literal translation, it also taught us that the German word for fox is "Fuchs". Tee hee!
The other foxy pictures are of a German bottletop and one of my knockers. I just thought I'd include them for your delectation.
24 August 2009
The Galaxy of Transylvania
While on my recent mammoth road trip across Europe, I drove through Transylvania in Romania.
Contrary to popular belief, there weren't any vampires, sweet transsexuals or Sylvanian Families (not that I remember encountering, anyway), but I will acknowledge that there are a number of noteworthy places in the region.
One such example is Turda, which definitely lives up to its name and looks like a really shitty little town.
At one point, I also fancied taking a detour, but having realised that leaving the pot-holed single-carriageway main route would probably add an extra day to the trek east, I had to make do with childishly giggling at the two signs, one above the other, indicating the way to both Cunta and Spring.
Contrary to popular belief, there weren't any vampires, sweet transsexuals or Sylvanian Families (not that I remember encountering, anyway), but I will acknowledge that there are a number of noteworthy places in the region.
One such example is Turda, which definitely lives up to its name and looks like a really shitty little town.
At one point, I also fancied taking a detour, but having realised that leaving the pot-holed single-carriageway main route would probably add an extra day to the trek east, I had to make do with childishly giggling at the two signs, one above the other, indicating the way to both Cunta and Spring.
21 August 2009
Going Dutch
As often happens when I go abroad, I am in a near constant state of ecstasy thanks to foreign words and their similarity in sound or spelling to rude phrases in English. I know it's quite teenage of me, but there you go. Swearing is cool; I don't give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut if you say otherwise.
I've decided, therefore, to share some of my childish humour with the readers of Words & Fixtures, just because I can. I'm a blogger, see.
"Slagroom" (click on the pic to see it in hyper detail) was advertised for breakfast at the Glastonbury-like campsite we stayed on in Amsterdam. My brain immediately brought up images of a space filled with girls sporting nasty earrings, scraped-back hair and Rochdale bellies sticking out over the top of too-small jeans. Shudder.
20 August 2009
Gateau fabulous
A propos cakes, I never used to see what all the fuss was about. Now, however, I'm something of a fan, although not in a "Must. Eat. Cake." kind of way. No, I'm not obsessive, but a nice piece of Victoria sponge, lemon drizzle or coffee and walnut like my nan used to put together with her eyes closed is such a civilised treat on a slumping afternoon stuck in an office with cranky air con. I can also divulge that cake-baking works wonders in the world of the freelancer and as a result I have become quite the master baker; call it chow bribes, if you will.
Nonetheless, there are limits to kuchen-munching, and being forcefed cake from half nine in the morning is probably one example. This cake line-crossing happened at the wedding in Romania I've just got back from and wasn't helped by the accompanying quaffing of local schnapps/moonshine/paintstripper known as Tuica ("tweeker") and spinning around on the dancefloor to Europop. Thankfully, I was fine, but my friend Mark, who was also there, looked frighteningly pallid and sweaty even before sundown. Wedding over, we were handed an envelope and a little box, not unlike a McDonald's Happy Meal but with marriage-related graphics. The envelope contained a photo of the newly betrothed couple and the box? More cake!
Anyway, here's a joke about cakes, which I came across yesterday. Strangely, it was put on Twitter by the National Trust press office, of all things/places/people.
What's the fastest cake in the world?
Scone. (... s'gone)
Ha!
And here's aother cake-related item:
My mate Nikki has been accepted to stand on the empty plinth in Trafalgar Square on 23 August to provide a visual portrait of Britain. As her five minutes (well, one hour, actually) of fame happens to coincide with National Sponge Cake Day, La Nik will be rustling up some culinary delights, making like the domestic goddess she so isn't. I'm hoping to get some visual evidence of her "creations"...
Nonetheless, there are limits to kuchen-munching, and being forcefed cake from half nine in the morning is probably one example. This cake line-crossing happened at the wedding in Romania I've just got back from and wasn't helped by the accompanying quaffing of local schnapps/moonshine/paintstripper known as Tuica ("tweeker") and spinning around on the dancefloor to Europop. Thankfully, I was fine, but my friend Mark, who was also there, looked frighteningly pallid and sweaty even before sundown. Wedding over, we were handed an envelope and a little box, not unlike a McDonald's Happy Meal but with marriage-related graphics. The envelope contained a photo of the newly betrothed couple and the box? More cake!
Anyway, here's a joke about cakes, which I came across yesterday. Strangely, it was put on Twitter by the National Trust press office, of all things/places/people.
What's the fastest cake in the world?
Scone. (... s'gone)
Ha!
And here's aother cake-related item:
My mate Nikki has been accepted to stand on the empty plinth in Trafalgar Square on 23 August to provide a visual portrait of Britain. As her five minutes (well, one hour, actually) of fame happens to coincide with National Sponge Cake Day, La Nik will be rustling up some culinary delights, making like the domestic goddess she so isn't. I'm hoping to get some visual evidence of her "creations"...
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