Monthly Archives: August 2013

It’s Your Funeral

Three funerals, three common denominators:

  1. My Grandma’s funeral.  She was an atheist and wanted her funeral to reflect her socialist values.  My Grandma’s cousin, a Humanist, was to conduct the ceremony.  UNTIL … a religious bit of the family decided to participate by having my cousin’s husband, a pastor, take part of the ceremony and say lots of prayers and talk about how she would be reunited in heaven with lost relatives.
  2. My friend’s dad’s funeral.  He was a bit religious, but had lots of other hobbies and interests.  His neighbour, a minister, made the whole ceremony intensely religious and there was lots of talk about how he had grappled with his religion towards the end.
  3. My partner’s auntie’s funeral.  An atheist, but someone had found a bible in the drawer of the hospice where she died, with passages marked out.  This passage was read out and the Lord’s Prayer was recited. (Don’t Gideons leave bibles in drawers in every hospice room?).

If you believe in a god or gods, then you can make sure that they are appeased in any way you see fit at your funeral, but why on earth do Christians seem intent in shoehorning religion into everyone else’s last hurrah?  At funeral #3 I turned to my partner and whispered “I’m going to have to get a tattoo that says ‘No religious funeral'”.  Even better, I’m going to make sure that I have a will which specifies this emphatically.

Yes, funerals are for the living, and while I’m lying in a box what do I care about what happens next?  But I see a funeral as the last statement that you make before you slowly disappear from the memories of those who loved you and knew you.  I would hate for that statement to be hijacked by someone else’s belief system – particularly when it’s one that I have been so contemptuous about in life.  If you believe in gods or pixies or ‘energy’ or whatever, fine; you might attend the funeral of an atheist and believe that the soul/spirit/pixie juice/’energy’ of that person is still going.  Fantastic.  That might be less depressing than thinking about a corpse being burnt or rotting in the ground, but it’s YOUR belief, not mine, so at my funeral sit and think about that silently. I attended a Baptist funeral and didn’t tell anyone that they were wrong or insane or a wee bit creepy – I kept my mouth shut and silently fantasised about the death of religion.

A slight digression, but my refusal to pretend to pray actually got me banned from school assemblies as a youngster – the teacher stopped, mid-prayer, and pointed out to the whole school that I was the only person not joining in.  My response (age 8) was “I am an atheist and an anarchist and I will not pray”.  This personal moment of triumph was swiftly followed by a slap.  An ugly scene, in response to an eight year old girl sitting quietly in a non-religious school!

In a maudlin conversation, we might talk about what music we would like to have played at our funerals.  Often, though, the end is such a big emotional mess that this stuff isn’t really communicated.  It is, after all, pretty trivial stuff.  Grieving relatives try to pick something appropriate but do you really want that 80s soft rock playing as everyone files out past your coffin saying their last farewells?

The moral of this story?  Make it clear what you want.  Make it so that it would be an embarrassing and flagrant breach of your wishes to do anything off-script.  Be a nice person, so that no-one is tempted to subvert your wishes because you were a horrid old battle-axe of an aunt, who gave rubbish birthday presents, and smelled of hummus “I hated her – she’s going Catholic-style”.


The Shit Parade

In the absence of anything particularly eventful happening in the last few weeks, here are some things that have been mildly pleasing and slightly irritating.

  • I had a conversation with my bf in which he pointed out what the current ladies’ hair fashion is.  Prior to this conversation, if you had asked me a) What is the current ladies’ hair fashion? and b) Does your bf know anything about ladies’ hair fashion? I would have answered a) Errr long, perhaps a fringe and b) Hahahaha – get out of here you lunatic!  But I am now enlightened!  Chris pointed out that emo hair has now filtered into the mainstream for women, and even the dodgiest Bramley-dweller has a hair-do that has its roots in emo.  After extensive Googling of images of hair, I now see that he is completely right about this. 

emo hair

This is apparently emo hair (with a touch of the Harajuku going on)


This is the kind of hair that a kid who kicks my garden gate has

  • Something that has really been annoying me of late is something that I shouldn’t be looking at – The Daily Mail.  I know it’s the devil, but sometimes I can’t help myself.  I keep noticing how, in Daily Mail Land (a terrible terrible land), women do not leave the house just wearing clothes – instead they parade, show off, reveal, etc.  Here’s an example from today:  I suspect that Charlize Theron did not begin her day by saying “Hey guys, my body is looking AWESOME! Let’s go kayaking so that everybody and his fucking dog can see how AMAZING I look”.  It’s very hard to go out in public and NOT show your body – unless you are prepared to wear a burka or perhaps push some screens on wheels or become a disembodied brain in a vat (Charlize Theron reveals naked brain on outing with neuroscientists?).  But, I shouldn’t be looking at this shit, so I really have no right to complain about it.
  • Today I have also been annoyed by Sunday Drivers.  Now these are people who DO go out with the intention of showing off their bodywork – but unfortunately it is bodywork that is incapable of moving at the National Speed Limit.  I get the sense that these people think they are doing us all a favour, giving us a little treat in our bleak, dull lives, by taking their quaint and unusual jalopies for a run out on a Sunday.  To these people I would say I WORK MONDAY TO FRIDAY – I DON’T WANT TO SPEND MY WEEKENDS STUCK BEHIND YOU DOING 40 IN A 60! I HOPE YOU CRASH INTO A DITCH!!  In reality I try to get my revenge by looking at their vehicles with an expression of boredom with a hint of contempt. Or studiously not looking at their car at all (as I ram them into the nearest ditch).
  • On a more positive note, I have just returned from my new favourite place – The Yorkshire Ice Cream Farm.  This is a magical place that I only discovered this year – it’s an American-style diner that sells rootbeer and has a proper soda fountain and does pulled-pork sandwiches for meat eaters and veggie hotdogs for us veggies.  They make their own ice cream and do the best sundaes.  Unlike most American-style places in the UK, they actually manage to provide American-style service too – i.e. friendly, helpful, and efficient.  The sad thing is, that they only open between April and October, and I’m already starting to wonder how I am going to get through the sad winter months without it.



Three Pretty Good Things

Inspired by Margotandbarbara’s lovely life-affirming blog Three Good Things, I thought that I would share some goodness of my own…

Full Metal Jousting

Chanced upon while avoiding going to bed on a Sunday night, this is a US show which is bringing jousting back to America.  To be honest, I’m not sure that America ever had jousting (apart from in themed restaurants) but hey-ho they want jousting, and jousting they shall have.  There are lots of men called things like Rope and Landon, who are all living in a shared house and are spending their days learning the art of running at each other on horses while carrying big sticks.  It kind of makes you wonder if the knights of ye olde England trained in this way…

Yes, a man was disqualified for punching a horse in the head.  All macho bullshit aside, though, and this is a really entertaining show – combining horse skills with men hitting each other with sticks.

The Yorkshire Soap Company

I never thought that I would deviate from Lush for all my bathly needs – but I got really tired of all the attention that you get the minute you walk through the door there.  The Leeds Lush has about 2m of floor space, but on one visit I got stopped by five members of staff – each pretending that the item I was looking at was their absolute favourite.  This prompted me to shout FOR FUCK’S SAKE and walk out.  Also, Lush staff always call me ‘babe’ and I really hate that.  The products are great, but I can’t face going in there anymore.  The Yorkshire Soap Company initially looked like an inferior Lush rip-off, but once I’d tried their products I was hooked – especially these little bath melt things:


The soaps also make really cute gifts


I must confess that not all of the soap and melts I bought last year actually made it to their intended recipients.  I did have a very fragrant January though!!  YSC have shops in York and Hebden Bridge, and a good online shop too.

Cielo Blanco 

Finally Leeds has a good Mexican restaurant!  Not one of those shitty stick a sombrero on it and it’s Mexican Mexicans, but a thoughtful attempt to bring Mexican street food to the UK.  I’m a massive fan of Thomasina Miers’ Wahaca, and Cielo Blanco is doing something very similar here in Leeds.  It’s the only non-chain restaurant in the new Trinity shopping mall and it’s irritatingly popular (it’s really hard to get a table).  I’m going there tonight with some friends, and we’re adopting an OAP meal time, so that we have a better chance of getting in!  Good selection of veggie food, and my bf absolutely loves their chorizo.


Photo from

Normal bitching and moaning services will resume shortly…

An Unhealthy Relationship

I don’t think my hairdresser likes me very much.  “Why not get a new hairdresser?” you might ask, once you’ve finished laughing at what she’s done to my hair.  The problem is, I don’t think any hairdresser will like me – I’m not of their ilk and they know that.

Why I’m the sort of person that hairdressers dislike

  1. Conversation is awkward – I don’t watch soap operas or staged reality shows, which limits conversation.  Two years ago there was a golden era, where we both watched Masterchef and the chitchat really flowed.  I would time haircuts or restyles to coincide with Masterchef.  Unfortunately she stopped watching it and, after a period in which I would recount episodes in order to persuade her that she was really missing an awful lot of tough cooking, the subject was dropped.  I don’t like the music they like, I don’t fancy the same men that they like, we don’t socialise in the same places; it is AWKWAAARD.  My hairdresser runs the place with her sister, and their mother is really quite awful (from what they say) – sometimes I will make up gripes about my mum, just to fit in (though my main gripe “She never lets me pay for lunch” just doesn’t cut it!).
  2. I am not a proper woman in their eyes because I have hairy legs and will leave it a really long time to get my hair re-done.  My nails usually have a bit of bombay mix trapped down the back of them.  I like to sit and read books about the history of fonts.
  3. I will never buy any of the products that they try and flog me, because they are tested on animals.

There are therefore very good reasons to dislike me, but although she isn’t overtly hostile  she is clearly taking the piss:

Evidence that my hairdresser is clearly taking the piss

  • One time I went to get my fringe trimmed, and they were both out.  Even though I knew it was a terrible place, I went to the cheapy ‘No Appointment Required’ place across the road and they butchered me.  I was folically maimed.  When I went back to my hairdresser to help me get it sorted out, she asked if I’d gone to the place over the road and I lied and said I had gone to my mum’s hairdresser (mothers!). The worst part was that while they were sorting my hair out, another woman came in who had made the same error (but she had the balls to admit it).  For an hour they kept asking me “Are you sure you didn’t go over the road?”. That was three years ago, and yet it still gets mentioned every time I get my hair cut.
  • One time I had lots of layers put in and she said it was virtually a “Rachel” (this was in 2004 – so way too late to be in any way fashionable) – but didn’t tell me this until she’d finished.  She then put on a silly voice and said “How’s Brad Pitt?” and danced around the salon chanting “Jennifer Aniston” until I paid and left.  That was a bizarre one.
  • I recently had more fringe added, and now have a weird extra piece of short hair that is neither fringe nor rest-of-hair.  It likes to stick out of my head at a 90 degree angle.  When I went back for a trim she insisted that someone must have  surreptitiously cut my hair (“Have you been over the road again?”) and would not accept that she was the only person to have been near me with scissors in the last six months.  “Ah well,” she said, “Your hair grows like bloody grass anyway. It’ll come good”.
  • Despite strict instructions that my new hair role model is Claudia Winkelman (pictured below), she ALWAYS cuts my fringe too short.  And not just too short to be Claudia-like, it’s kooky short – which I’m not sure I’m able to carry, if I’m being honest, since I have a face that’s a bit like that of a petulant child who you’d want to smack (add that to the list) and a short fringe just accentuates the whole smackableness.


Lovely Claudia and her delightful fringe


Not quite this bad, but getting there

So, my options are as follows (I’m in a bullet-pointy kind of mood today):

  1. Grin and bear it. Suck it up. Woman up. And so on and so forth.  Develop a suitably kooky personality to go with the hair.
  2. Grow out the fringe, stop dying my hair. Never visit a hairdresser ever again.
  3. Train my boyfriend to cut hair (tell him it will improve his Starcraft skills and that his ability to defeat Zergs will improve tenfold if he can master the art of layering unruly hair).
  4. Find a new hairdresser.  Send out a questionnaire asking about favourite books, TV shows, views on politics, etc. and choose one based on compatibility.  I would also use this as an opportunity to find a hairdresser that doesn’t make coffee that tastes like Nescafe that has been filtered through a hairnet.
  5. Embrace a life of social exclusion, vilification, and mockery, and go across the road.

Of course it will now be months until my fringe is at the ideal Claudia level, so I will immediately forget all of this, leave it until it’s too late to really put any thought into it and then realise that I can’t see anything and need a hairdresser immediately and then I’ll find myself back in the arms of my abuser.  Perhaps one day I will find the strength to break these damned chains.