The Resuscitaiton of the Boy Band: Take That- Back for Good.

I sit, I type, I await the ridicule (Bring it on Vox O'Malley- bring it on! Lily/ Gold Dust- I remember your dancing delight at Westlife- so bang goes your credibility)... I will however strive to avoid the gushy, overly enthusiastic: often accompanied by shrieking hyperbolic drivel, that fellow concert goers have endured since my recent encounters, with four men from my distant past .

I describe my musical tastes as ecletic (Pop Princess just doesn't work past the age of 25). I love to do the concert thing: the soul-altering U2 at Slane Castle, OXEGEN '05, Robbie at Croke, The Killers, Snow Patrol and even as far as Hyde Park, to the once-in-this-lifetime LIVE 8. I also feel, since we're in the general business of soul unburdening that I should confess that I've been to see Westlife close to ten times, I also saw Boyzone and try to catch Ronan Keating each time he comes to Belfast. Judge if you must...

but know this...if you haven't been to Take That concert, your judgement(of this particular pop product) is absolutely without substance- its NEVER just about the music. Their shows are truly a theatrical spectacle that could out Broadway Broadway. This 'Beautiful World' tour somehow managed to surpass all that had gone before (and not just because 'At the age of 39 Howard can still do a 'back-flip,' Jason can still break dance and Mark Owen still break a thousand hearts; in fact all the 'boys' look better than they ever did: oozing sex-appeal at the same power of their dazzling lights) this one boasted a string quartet, a grand piano, a historical tour of mankind, African influences and the best pop music you've heard in a deacde. And to those music purists who believe that 'the music should speak for itself, the light show, the gravity defying dancers, the mesmirising special FX are window dressing'; quite simply don't know what they're missing.

These boys (as they each are approaching 40- boys seems euphemistic: but in my mind boys they remain) are incredibly and charismatic, they somehow manage in an arena full to the rafters, to make you feel like the only girl in the room. The thousands disappear. Its just me and the boys. I've become the inspiration and the single recipient of one of their million love songs.


There is something almost spiritual about the live music 'arena' experience. . There is something about the collectively shared anticipation; the buying of the programme, the polite clapping at the often less than wonderful support act. Then its here. The moment. The lights go out, a feeling of sheer thrill spreads across stadium and through ever fibre of your being- the overwhelming stage lights blind you, the music begins changing the very rhythm of your heart. And in this instance: somewhere in your mind, tucked behind the forgotten school girl crushes, the bad 90s fashion choices, your first ever open-mouthed kiss; is every lyric to every song and the WHOLE crowd are singing along.

Take That were and are about more than making great pop music: they were a vital voice of my generation. I first encountered Mark, Robbie (gone but not forgotten; but never to return: we all realise - and probably did back in'93- that the 'star of those shows': that gorgeous boy from Stoke, had an ego so damaged by instantaneous, that NO band was the place for it to heal- I love him still), Gary, Jason and Howard when I first encountered boys in general: these five Mancunian lads were part of my (and my generation's) sexual awakening. But unlike their 'real-life' school boy counterparts: none of the fabulous five were ever going to hold me to public ridicule, break my heart or give my parent's 'potential teenage pregnancy' nightmares.

They are an indeliable part of my early teenage years: part of thpse first faltering steps towards independence. I was just discovering that weekends weren't just about no-school and Saturday morning cartoons; but instead about shopping trips for the top you would wear with your must have 501's, in preparation for even the smallest possibilities of a slow- dance (something of a discovery itself) at the local "Under 18's" disco that night. The boy of your dreams was just one song away; you would be married with three children by the time you were 25 and have made your first million by the age of 30.

Hold on just a rose-tinted minute: why oh why would anyone want to recapture their early teens? Puberty is so terribly unkind to us all: you're either a lingerie wearing trail blazer or THE LAST GIRL ON THE PLANET to need to wear a bra. You're a total prisoner to the molotov cocktail of hormones carousing around your rapidly changing body and no-one seems to understand just what you're going through.

And how can anyone be nostalgic for the early nineties? Operation Desert Storm was just beginning, LA was in flames of racial hatred after the Rodney King verdict and the humanitarian horrors of the Rwandan genocide was about to be ignored by the world.

My nostalgia however, is for a personally much simpler time: when all five of us sat around the family dinner table on a daily basis; my older sister yet to start the family tradition of 'taking off' to University, my Daddy still with us. I didn't worry in the least about what to make for dinner, how to pay my car insurance, or my mortgage; and contraception was merely a source of giggling. The 'only ' terrorism we faced was our horrifying homegrown variety, Manhattan still buzzed beneath the Twin Towers, London commuters only Tube fear was 'were they running on time?', the Iron Curtain had crumbled and Nelson Mandela had been granted 'Freedom at Last'. We by no means lived in a perfect world but somehow, to me at least, it seemed a less frightening place to be.

The Backstreet Boys (did they ever go away?), the Spice Girls, 911(who?) and East 17 are jumping upon the'Let's get the band back together again' band wagon. My unqualified prediction? It won't work: they don't have the ingredients that make Take That, Take That. They are missing: the talent; the charisma and the new-found mutually respecting musical harmony of the boys who so graced the Odyssey stage in Belfast for the last five nights. Take That are unashamedly both proud and deprecating about their teenage-angst driven past: their audience has matured as they did: we collectively bring our life experience to the music: they in the creating of it and we in the appreciation. And in doing so reach they a whole new generation who are just discovering a beautiful world.

Can BIG be beautiful?: A response to 'Run for your life' by Lily Todd

Knowing, as well as I do, the very beautiful girl who is Lily Todd, it would be with great ease that I could proclaim her list of attributes; physical and otherwise; superlatives would surely abound. I could play the ‘You have a gorgeous husband and have given birth twice’ card; the ‘I know for a fact you turn heads as I have been there when they turned’ card and the ‘you wanna see curves come look in my mirror’ card; the last only in desperation…

However, I realise, that no matter how great a hand I played, neither Lily, nor any other 21st century girl would give credence to the full house of opinion I placed on the table.

History tells us that women are, have been and will forever remain their own worst enemies. Never has there been a more critical judge or scathing enemy than the one you avoid in the full length mirror.

My own 'curvaceous silhouette' is significantly curvier than I ever (as a flat-chested thirteen year old) wanted it to be. Like Lily, and like every woman walking the planet, I have my own demonic voice inside my head: she (among many other mean-spirited accusations) equates my size with my eternal state of singledom; she makes me reach for the chocolate.

Size is inextricably equated with sexiness. That I share a dress size with Marilyn Monroe lends little retribution. My smaller, quieter voice tells me: I’m sexy enough (or have big enough breasts) to have drunken one-night stands with, I have enough ‘inner beauty’ to be male friend’s Girl Friday but I lack the ‘whole package’ (or have too whole a package) to be somebody’s someone.

I can blame my ‘curves’ on a range of variables:
1. Genetics: child bearing hips are a family heirloom- passed on from one generation of women to the next.
2. A childhood spent in farmhouse kitchens full of fresh baking and with Grandparents who equated sweets with love.
3. I eat the ‘live alone’ diet too much coffee with the obligatory biscuits; of having cereal for dinner then late night snacks of all manner of fat-filled delights or the ever easy ‘take-out for tea’.
4. I ABHOR all forms of exercise (PE was my weekly torture, at school) or to be honest, I’m too lazy to exercise- it gets in the way of my lying around time.
5. My name is ‘Carrie’ and I’m a Chocoholic.

Or to summarise I eat the wrong things, at the wrong time and never get my flabby butt off the settee to do anything about it.

I share Lily’s moral dilemma. As a teacher I (in fact we both) face the daily burden of being in a position of influence. The pupils in my classroom increasingly belong to the camps at the extreme ends of the weight balance (plunging dangerously towards size zero or aiding the ballooning of childhood obesity figures). Along with teaching spellings and apostrophes and striving to inspire a love of Shakespeare; I also use my influence to rage against the concept of feminine beauty as dictated by the mysoginistic media machine.

(My utter hatred of Lara Croft is a widely- known fact, in school circles. The cartoon- generated Lara is so “top-heavy” that her spine could not in reality support her fantastical breasts. A female action figure who suggests brawn over brains as an answer to world devastation (or whatever the hell goes on in those games) is not an role model for this generation of hormonally charged young men and women- yet I digress.)

I preach the virtues of ‘searching for the inner beauty’; of valuing the substance rather than the style. I have absolutely no qualms in realising that a person’s worth is never measured in how they look. I metaphorically pummel my cellulite covered behind with a UNICEF imprinted bat, that reminds me, I should be grateful to live in a country that can feed itself.

But much like the list of superlatives I offered Lily, my virtuous offerings fall on deaf and slightly uneven ears. This is an issue rooted deep in every female psyche. Every woman has something she physically wants to change about herself. Deep down it is not the acceptance of the could be boyfriend; the intellectually challenging and gorgeous husband or even her best friend that she is seeking. Every woman is on a journey and the final destination is the inner acceptance of the outer you.

If Lily wants to run towards that destination, who am I to get in her way?

The Wonder of 'The West Wing'

“The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight...The streets of heaven are too
crowded with angels, but every time we think we've measured out our capacity to
meet a challenge, we look up
and we're reminded that the capacity may be limitless. We will do what is hard, we will
achieve what is great. This is the time for American heroes and we reach for the
stars.”
(From '20 Hours in America- The West Wing- Series 4).

I watch too much television: much of pure escapism,some of it entertainment and too much of it mind-rotting rubbish. But I love The West Wing. I am entirely betrothed to the promise of a better America (and therefore world) it projects- I rarely go a week(although I now get my Brad Whitford/ Josh Lyman fix from Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip: and get a Chandler Bing fix at the same time, my Rob Lowe /Sam Seaborn fix from Brothers and Sisters) without indulging in the next episode on the box sets that reside beside my DVD player.

I'm a girl with a minor degree in Politics. I've spent an inspirational summer in Washington DC as a Congressional Intern- a less than minor cog in the very mighty machine. So a fictionalised account of life in political crazed Washington is an obvious choice for a “televisual” obsession. Many of my memorable and most inspirational lectures while at Queens came from a visiting American Professor- who actually engaged in a dialogue within the lecture context (something that was severely lacking from the rest of my university lecture experience).

It is too easy to be disengaged with Politics: on a Northern Irish scale to be political is too often paralleled to being sectarian; on a national scale we are somehow the country cousins who've had enough attention for a while so we should now sit back, shut up and let somebody else make a mess of it for a change; and on our what has been described as an "unholy alliance" with G W Bush- it is too, too easy to be critical of a incredibly flawed situation.

In America there is one key political choice: you are either a Democrat or a Republican (there are of course the core shaking Independents/ Undecideds), you're Blue or Red, Pro-Guns or Pro- Choice...It says much about me that I'm able to define myself politically by American standards but sit on an uncomfortable fence here at home.
What The West Wing offers is a politics to believe in. An America that is what it wants to be: a country that models democracy for a waiting world.

Yes, I love the characters: I love their wit and their relationships, their oh so human flaws; the will- they, won't they romance of Donna and Josh, the intellectual and moral badinage between President Bartlett and Toby Ziegler, that Rizzo from Grease (Stockhard Channing) dumped Kenickie and married the President of the United States instead. I want to be CJ Cregg. I want to be Amy Gardner; and as for Sam Seaborn he is EVERYTHING I want a man to be- but its more than this, much much more.

The writing is simply phenomenal-you could write a book of modern philosophy on the gems of quotes this programme offers. The characters are believable, empathetic, witty, warm, intelligent; with both a deep passion and understanding for a complex country and its citizens. There are people here, especially the women, who inspire me to want to be more aware and involved; who remind me that democracy is not a right but a privilege; and that it is in fact our duty to humanity to be an active member of your local, national and global society.

This is a show that faces America's problems, unearths the dark periods of its recent history and presents answers to what then only seems like unanswerable questions. Nowhere else have I encountered such a clarified explanation for the Middle East conflict (a subject The West Wing returns to time and time again: most memorably perhaps in 'Issac and Ishmael'- their acutely apt response to the atrocities of 9/11a deeper understanding of America's relationship with Cuba (in '90 Miles Away) or with the political aftermath of each of the twentieth century wars.

By the series end they have intervened in Darfur, created a lasting Middle East Peace Accord; promoted a liberal woman to Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and elected a Hispanic President; which somehow makes the promise of this or a woman President, in the next actual Presidential election, potentially all the more probable.

The America it projects and the show itself, is not perfect and I'm sure if i was an American my view would be entirely different. There are times when the writing doesn't quite meet the mark when it is too sugar coated or gun-ho even for me. Although the willingness to explore the flaws of its own political system really is key to the philosophy of the show as a whole; I simply don't believe that 'Downing Street' - a British “televisual” counterpart would inspire in anywhere near the same way. I entirely believe that 'Carson's Corridors- Inside Stormont' would lead only to further ridicule of our own sapling system.

Maybe the Atlantic Ocean is not quite enough distance to give credence to my opinion. My Dad, from whom my political consciousness stems, used to say that I looked at the world through very rose tinted glasses.I guess this amazing programme allows my tempered view to exist if only in the corner of my living room.

Bless her- she's single.

I'm 28: I've my own house (well a little apartment), my own dented car, a job I love; meaning I am financially independent if not exactly buoyant, my (excusing my recent vanity induced brush with Ward 11) health: so therefore plenty to be pleased about: yet many of my friends, nearly all of my family and quite a few of the wonderful women I work with, see me as something of a sad little case because of one very small but seemingly significant piece of information- I'm single.



These women, and it tends to be women, are not in fact would-be Stepford wives, covered in baby vomit and passing out knitting patterns and strudel recipes, but are the yummiest of mummies who have sexy shoes, great haircuts and careers they are expertly and mindblowingly juggling with childcare and their own busy social lives.


Their pity takes on various forms, but out of 'love' for me they feel the need to do all they can in an attempt to remedy my dire marital status. An example being the "We'll find you a man" as happened on a recent work night out. The theory being, I can only presume, I had no time to consult, given the desperate situation I found myself in: single on yet ANOTHER Friday night; that they have done it already- they kissed their frog found their Prince and just what the hell had I being doing all this time?

These women, all of whom have gorgeous, loving and sexy partners waiting for them in their IKEA beds with beautiful sheets when they get home; think they are doing me a favour by scouting the "talent" of whichever eatery we all happen to be in. They, of course, have nothing to lose and only the sheer thrill of the chase to amuse to them. They are unstoppable: Challenge Anneka with much better outfits; the pursuit is as relentless as it is animalistic. On this particular night I had a plant toppled into an unsuspecting man in my "honour" - I kid you not. These women cared nothing or little as to my opinion of their would be victim: there is no talk of the zsa, zsa, zsu. Instead they say this, "This is my friend Carrie, she is single and desperate and needs to have a stilted conversation as you wait at the bar for the world's slowest gin and tonic".

In fact when you return from the bar, having in your attempt to leave ASAP, gulped the g&t, choked on the lemon wedge and spat it on his typically ugly shoes- they are indignant, in fact livid that you haven't sealed the deal- in fact you deserve to be single (like its some terrible punishment) because you're superficial enough to want to like the person you might potentially date.

Even worse than "find a victim" is the dreaded, ill-fated, never ever gonna work "set-up" with their equally desperate and single male friends. This 'its not a date' often occurs at your friend's house for a 'casual dinner', meaning there's no escape. You can't hide behind the bar You can't pretend you've met an old friend in the ladies. You are a prisoner. When inevitably the 'match' doesn't work you have to explain to your friend why you didn't get on with her husband's/boyfriend's/ fiance's best friend/ work colleague/ cousin/ dental hygienist (or they have to explain about why you didn't rock their world).

It doesn't end there: you have to avoid calling into your friend's house in case he's there, you have be patted sympathetically on the arm when he gets engaged to the blond bombshell he went out with immediately after you ("You're SO much prettier!"), the hug when your friend is deciding what to wear to their society wedding, and the almost tears at the birth of the first baby: your friend feeling forever guilty that someone else got your happy ending.


They mean well this misguided coupled up friends of mine, really they do:. I know they only want me to have the same happiness they have (the huge post wedding debt, the difficult in-laws, the sleepless, nappy filled, milk stained nights- unfair I know and a topic that deserves further exploration) and I'm sure that there are couples out there who have met through the determination of matchmaking friends, but I'm guessing they are few and far between- the exception rather than the rule...

In saying that, to any friends out there reading this, don't take me off your "Still Single but Shouldn't Be" list, who's to say I can't be exceptional?

The Zsa Zsa Zsu

The spark. The lightning bolt. Chemistry. Or in the words of the late and oh so great Carrie Bradshaw- the zsa zsa zsu. That indescriable, undeniable, perhaps purely physical connection between two people, that marks our friendships from our romances, our mild flirtations from our all out flings and our polite "Good night" from our one-night stands.



Where does it come from? What is it really? Somewhere, out there, in world of government sponsored, world leading, Oxbridge graduated scientific knowledge I've no doubt there are phyisological/ pyschological/ anatomical reasons and evidence for why this phenonmena occurs, something to pheromones and chromosomes and other words that mere mortals can only hope to spell and understand...



...but if I'm humbly honest, I don't want to know the science behind it. It would be like one of those 'the making of your favourite special effects dominated movie' documentary when you realise that that particular actor didn't really drown in the ice strewn Atlantic,but it all happened on little sound stage somewhere in deepest, darkest Shepherd's Bush; or like having the world's greatest magician explain and demystify the most mind boggling illusion: understanding it, entirely ruins the thing itself.



So its out there, this zsa zsa zsu. I've experienced it; fleetingly, wonderfully: across a beer soaked bar filled with cheap perfume and fake ids, on a rain filled, wine fuelled Belfast street corner, and that cliched place of a far away land with the sun rising on the beach.



I remember moments: the spellbinding sensation of kiss, one that didn't need to promise more, but in itself, in that moment, made the world stop spinning or made it spin only for the two of us: I remember the way he felt(strong, solid, warm), smelled(of Farenheit aftershave) and tasted (Wriggley's Spearmint) and all importantly- how he made me feel and it is here that, even all this time and life experience later, I loose the words...





The zsa zsa zsu alone, I'm told, will not sustain a relationship: something beyond the lustful or physical has to also connect (even through the glasses tinted by endless chick-flicks, a multitude of 80s love ballads and and over-exposure to literature, through which I see the world, I don't believe it lasts forever), for that someone to be your Mr or Ms Right rather simply Right Now. Shared interests, compatibility in how you each view the world, mutual respect, affection, a shared sense of humour; certainly these things should help to sustain a relationship far beyond the limits awarded by the teenage heartbreaker of the memorable kiss.



But my question is this- if, as I've recently stumbled upon in the dating jungle, you find the shared interests, the compatibility, the respect, the affection: someone you can talk to for hours, someone who challenges your world view and opens you up all kinds of possibilities but there is, no matter how hard you try, how much you flirt, how many times he reaches out and caresses your hair with his fingers absolutely and utterly not even a glimspe of the zsa zsa zsu ,is the relationship worth pursuing? Should I add this fabulous, intelligent, witty man to a long list of unsuccessful boyfriend applicants? Or should I at the grand old age of 28, give up on the zsa zsa zsu and settle for the compatiblity I would be left with in the long term anyway?

And my answer- I want it, no more than that, I need the zsa zsa zsu: somewhere out there is, I hope, my spearmint tasting, soul altering, thunderbolt of scientific destiny: once kissed forever enchanted: I refuse to settle for less.