Ah Twitter, my ex-confession box

On Saturday I clicked the “protect my tweets” box on Twitter. Yep, my random thoughts are no longer in the public domain. Ok, so they are for a select few but from now on I lord over who sees them. When I first joined Twitter over a year ago, I had this box ticked but quickly unticked it, wondering why you wouldn’t want your musings about your dinner, the rain, or celebrities’ arses retweeted to people you’d likely never meet. It’s what Twitter’s all about, right?

Anyway, lately the idea of how I present myself online has started to pop up quite a bit. Without sounding like an OAP who doesn’t get the newfangled internet, there’s still a lot to be learned about how we act online. Until lately, I haven’t cared if I seem like a dickhead with my tweets (chances are I really, really do seem like one) but when professionals or companies I have to work with in my job start following me, I wonder how I’m coming across and how much they should know about me.

A few years ago a workmate told me she only accepted friend requests on Facebook from colleagues when she no longer worked with them. I thought this was crazy at the time, or a touch snobby. But now I totally get it.

You see, I’m now writing for a well known newspaper and since then, I’ve gained followers from companies I work with on a daily basis. The thing is, I don’t tweet in a professional capacity. I see other journalists tweeting about freebies from PRs etc etc but I think I’ve done that about twice (and only out of excitement). My tweets are personal and range from whines about my flat, whines about my ex to whines about general dickheadery. And, although I’m not Ellen Barkin yet, I swear. A lot. I shouldn’t care really, but part of me that is a hardworking, semi-professional (she’s in there somewhere, really) does feel a bit uncomfortable that the people I meet in a serious capacity at work events now know that little bit extra about my life.

Which is really weird because a) I haven’t given a shit what people think of me since I was about 17 and b) if I don’t want people I’ve actually met, and sometimes work with, knowing the inside scoop on my life, why put it out there to Twitter followers, 95% of whom I’ve never met?

What it comes down to is the fact I genuinely like to keep Work Me separate from the Me you might meet at the weekend or the Me my friends know for years. I know some people like everybody to know the ins and outs of their lives as though they are Kim Kardashian but I don’t. I don’t want to ever be at an event and have someone I have a distant working link to joke about me being shitfaced at a rock gig or laugh about how I slapped someone who groped me in the pub (oh yes, my tweets are full of such lively – read: drunken – anecdotes. Ok, not really but sometimes). Not because I’m embarrassed but because it crosses some kind of  work-life balance.

Here’s the boring reality: people you have to work with like PRs and companies you regularly are in touch with for work purposes are not your mates. They are lovely people, of course, but they need to respect you for it to work. Sure, if I found out that a PR I am in contact with is fond of jager shots at the weekend, I’ll like her/him a bit more, but I really think there is a line as to what you should know about some people. If it’s for work, keep it about work.

I have to say though, self-censorship really takes the fun out of the internet. Maybe I should set up a new @ProfessionalLisa account for work or, á la celebs with big egos, an @OfficialLisaHughes one. Whaddya think? Too pretentious? Or I could always pull a Courtney Love and have Good Lisa and Bad Lisa accounts. Oh, let the internet split personality fun begin. Just don’t tell my boss, alright?

nope, I mean the other Sisterhood!

Even though I studied the topic for years, regularly read books about it and questions like “why are there no women on that panel/jury/board of directors?” frequently shoot out of my mouth, I’m still floating the wave of indecision when I’m asked if I’m the Big Fat F: a Feminist.

My hesitancy is not for the usual reasons why women declare “I’m no feminist!” in a scared fashion. (You know, they think it means they’re a feminazi type who has hairy pits and is *shock horror* a turn off to the menfolk). No, I’m ambivalent about my own position on the feminist sweepstakes because there are key areas where I’m not sure where feminism stands.

One big issue is the notion of the sisterhood. Everytime I see “the sisterhood” in print, be it in a women’s mag or a literary tome, I cringe. I feel a bit ill. I want to scream. Why? Because the sisterhood is one of those great myths or theories that is successful only in theory. Reality has taught me it does not exist.

Sure, there are historical examples such as Women’s Lib where women bandied together and achieved things but in my own life, my experiences of other women have often been detrimental. In practice, women are competitive and, as I’ve often experienced, downright nasty. Not all women. But some really, really are.

I find the idea of being supportive of ALL women purely because they are women to be a difficult order. Women can be horrendous but I’m expected to gloss over this, all the while harping on about how dangerous the patriarchal men are, purely because we share some biological attributes? Um….NO.

the sisterhood...in theory

I will stand up for any gender injustice. I will start a fight in my workplace if a woman gets harassed or is paid less. I will get any dickhead who gropes me thrown out of the pub and so on.  In short, I will fight the cause of inequality for women and will take no prisoners. But, I can honestly say, hand on heart, I’ve met some horrible people in my time and I’ve been called hurtful things but the worst I’ve ever gotten has not been from men, it’s been from other women.

Without making this a ‘woe is me’ pity party, I’ve met women who are self-proclaimed feminists who have been horrible to me, preferring to judge me on being a thin blonde than listen to what I have to say. I’ve worked with women who boycotted the famously sexist Hunky Dory’s campaign but who still made jibes about my weight, another area feminists in theory shouldn’t touch – but in reality, it’s their ammunition.

Yes, I’m a big girl and I realise this kind of bitchiness says more about insecure women than it does about me but, with this in mind, I have a hard time believing that all women can be friends and can help fight the power oppressing us. If you ask me, a lot of the time, it’s patriarchal women making swipes at other women which is holding women back. Read comments under Youtube videos of Adele or comments on the Mail Online about any female celeb if you don’t believe me. The comments by other women will make you cry.

But, back to the important question: does this really mean I’m not a feminist? Is the sisterhood an essential part of feminism and, by picking holes in it and calling other women out on their bullshit, does this make me anti the cause? Or does it make me a woman who badly wants the idea of the sisterhood to be real but is disappointed by women who have made it an impossibility?

Today I was avoiding work by doing what we all do, flicking through random profiles, and I came across a comment (left twenty mins before I saw it) on a friend’s page. The comment was by a woman my friend complains about nonstop and claims not to be friends with. Par example, we met up during the week and in the course of the conversation, he called this person numerous names at different intervals. The second thing I noticed was that her comment asked “what have you done with X?” X being the name of another woman he told me he can’t stand on several occasions, actual quote “really fucking annoying”.

I know what you’re thinking and no, I am not jealous. I just dislike bullshit, I fucking hate lies and, more than anything, I hate my time being wasted. And especially being wasted on negative Mickey Mouse bullshit.

See, here’s my problem: I’m the kind of person who believes life is too short for nonsense. If I don’t like someone I ignore them, I don’t go to their New Years Eve party, I don’t sit with them in the pub, I don’t add or accept them on Facebook, I don’t talk about them incessantly. I repeat, life is short. Surround yourself with people you like and your life will be better. Etc etc etc. I realise not everyone is like me (for example, I only accept friend invites from people I know and – shocker – actually like) but there’s no excuse for complaining about people while being secretly friends with them. I also get it that the internet is not real life and the word ‘friend’ means something different online, but, to be clear, her comment showed familiarity, that they’re on friendly terms, and this is what I have a problem with.

So, when I see that someone I know, who has spent hours, if not days, being quite wickedly critical of people in his life, is in fact friends with the people he has crucified at length (repeat: AT LENGTH) I wonder what else does he lie about? Can I believe ANYTHING he says? The answer is, of course, clearly not. Why would you be friends with people you claim are annoying and that you hate enough to talk about THAT MUCH? Or, more importantly, why would you lie to me about hating certain people when you clearly hang out with them and actually became friends with them on Facebook? If you ask me, that’s the mark of an immature person who can’t be trusted.

I have no room for liars in my life and I really can’t be arsed with someone who hangs out with people, laughs with them, socialises, whatever, and all the while is stabbing them in the back and criticising their lives.

There’s a word for that, it’s called two-faced and it’s one of the worst, most disgusting traits you can have. End of.

So, Facebook often makes us hate human beings and we all want to delete our profile BUT just remember, if we didn’t have it, think of all the bullshit-spotting moments we’d have to live without. (Yes, I am trying to convince myself here.) The other good thing about Facebook is you can press delete on people –  even if it’s just symbolically – and that feeling is pretty good. I know because I’ve just done it.

The Noughtie Girl’s Guide to Feminism, by journalist Ellie Levenson, should be right up my street. It promises to be a lighter take on the old topic of the patriarchy; tackling the C Word, taking your husband’s name and the feminist’s favourite beating stick, casual sex. You’d be forgiven for thinking that this was Caitlin Moran’s How to be a Woman  Draft 1. Oh but you’d be wrong. Very wrong indeed.

Why is the Noughtie Girl Guide so disappointing? Let me give you my reasons.

Firstly, this may come off petty but – the title. Jesus, the title. The word noughtie is thrown in at least once a page and it begins to grate after, oh, twenty pages. Is modern woman too scary, too serious, too assertive, that you had to make a playful, idiotic spin on it? Ugh.

Then there’s the writing. I’m reluctant to assassinate someone else’s writing but…Levenson’s style is flat, patronising in tone and just not as witty or engaging as she thinks, mostly because it’s all so clichéd. For example, she employs notions about men disliking cleaning and that men can’t be trusted to take a male pill if there was one. Ridiculous generalisations.

To be fair, there were some sections I agreed with. Notably, the notion of a glass umbrella rather than the famous glass ceiling, whereby women undersell themselves and (subconsciously?) hold themselves back from success. I also loved the author’s idea of Fumbies – Feminists Until Matrimony Beckons – because in my own life I’ve witnessed the transformation of pro-feminist friends into sops who believe the be-all, end-all is having a man once they get hitched or just get into a serious relationship. And then there was a  bit about older women becoming invisible. So, I liked those bits of commentary but the whole book doesn’t live up to its promise.

On the sleeve, the publisher announces that Levenson “reveals why it is so important for noughties women to be proud feminists.” Um, no she doesn’t.  As a whole, this is less a guide than it is the collected thoughts of the author, with some feminist principles thrown in.  We learn more about Ellie Levenson than the state of gender politics or women’s issues, which is a real shame because she starts the book by lamenting why feminism has such a bad name and why young women are reluctant to declare themselves the big fat F word.

Then there’s this gem. The most memorable statement is also one of the worst paragraphs I think I’ve ever read in a so-called feminist book – “I think we do women an injustice when we say that rape is the worst thing that can happen to a woman. It is, after all, just a penis.” There are just so many things wrong with this statement I don’t know where to begin.

Finally, my biggest problem of all is with the author’s askew definition of feminism. She says noughtie girls (puke) should adopt a “pick ‘n mix” approach to feminism. I’m an all-or-nothing girl myself so immediately I have a problem with this approach. This is essentially feminism for girls who aren’t really bothered. Feminism by its nature cannot be pick n mix. Open to evolution and to interpretation, yes, but something you can take on or off when it suits you? NO. A footballer’s wife who thinks she’s a feminist, who advocates plastic surgery, lives to buy clothes and stands by her man in the face of affairs is NOT A FEMINIST. Nor are women who earn their own money but think it’s ok to be objectified in the workplace or the pub and leave comments calling ScarJo a fat ass on the Mail Online. It’s a bit like calling yourself a Marxist but thinking some workplace exploitation is ok. My point is, there are cornerstones to feminism which you can’t sit on the fence about. 

In the final chapter the author states: “You don’t have to do anything to be a feminist, you just have to think you are.” Hang on a second. By this definition a woman-hating serial killer who deems himself a feminist is – wait for it – actually a feminist. I think this is an invitation to be complacent about feminism. She also declares that she doesn’t know about Second Wave feminism and glosses over the need for modern feminists to know the history and theory of the cause. When you think of how much the suffragettes risked for women’s rights, is just THINKING you’re a feminist enough? Is shrugging off your ignorance of the past ‘cos you’re a “noughtie girl” with a half baked notion of sexism OK? No, it fucking isn’t.

Sorry Ellie, but I’ll be sticking with Female Chauvinist Pigs for my modern feminism fix. And you, dear reader, should too.

Sandy and Danny in chalk and cheese mode

Alongside overeating, bursting Hulk-style out of your “Sunday mass clothes” and getting presents you never use, watching films from your childhood is an essential ingredient for the festive season. That’s why I’m unafraid to say I watched Grease three times over the Chrimbo holliers.

Maybe being in a Milk Tray induced coma knocked out some brain cells, but the first two times I sat down, ok lay down, to watch Grease it was the same as it ever was. A whimsical teen flick with double entendres, 50s prom dresses and 30 year olds masquerading as teenagers. In other words, I loved it as much as I did aged eight.

Perhaps the two nights on the booze revived said dead brain cells or something, but on the third viewing, Rydell High took on a less sunny demeanor.

First off, I never noticed that the whole movie is not about young love, school, friendship or sex, it’s about fitting in. For the whole film we’re reminded of Sandy’s polar oppositeness to not just Danny, but to all their peers.  After getting a needle jammed in her earlobes, being danced off the floor by gum chewing slutbag Cha-Cha, being the butt of Rizzo’s jokes and, to the realisation she must “say goodbye to Sandra Dee” in order to move from the sidelines, the whole film is a testimony to the idea a) being different is social suicide, and b) women will benefit if they change for a man AND his friends.

The lesson of Grease is: forget who you are, ladies, and become whoever your man wants you to be and you’ll live happily ever after.

UGH. How did I not notice this before?

Oh look! Sandy has morphed into the female Danny! Don't they look happier to you?

OK, so you could say (as I interpreted it until now) that Sandy was half alive, she was cautious and shy and adversity brought her true PVC-wearing self to the fore. You could say changing for Danny is a sign of her confidence (to wear sprayed on leggings) and her new joie de vivre. But it isn’t. Not everyone is outgoing and like a member of the Pink Ladies. Everyone is different. When she was bopping away for the TV cameras at the dance, she was hardly in wallflower-mode, was she? Still, she’s not good enough unless she discards what makes her unique in the film, in order to be interchangeable with all the other non-Patty Simcox female characters.

The famous ending of Grease tells us that if the girl changes for the boy, you’ll live happily ever after. Danny makes minimal effort to meet her halfway – he sticks on a cardigan but is still an immature git, concerned with what his friends think. But Sandy’s morphed into someone else, someone who is more palatable to the T Birds and Pink Ladies.  And this is my problem: why is it necessary for anyone to change? Why is fitting in presented as the solution? You can argue that Danny Zuko also changes. He joins a couple of sports teams in an attempt to appeal to Sandy’s love of a good jock and in the final scene he is trying on the more clean cut look for size. But, it hardly equals Sandy’s total transformation into a black wearing, smoking, messy permed sex kitten in stilettos who is suddenly cool with Danny gawping at her, is it? NO, IT DOES NOT.  The minute Sandy reveals herself as suddenly sexy, Danny throws off his new cardi and reverts back to being a lovable Cool Dude. Why? Because the moment of sheer insanity where he, the man, considered changing his ways has passed and he’s got himself a female version of himself who is eager to please and FIT IN. Which is as it should be. And is totally not a depressing conclusion. At all. Or something.

To ram the point home even further, the final song has the line “we go together lalalala” so we’re left with the oh-so-subtle message that Sandy’s transformation united the group. So, girls, forget your identity, it’s overrated. If it doesn’t suit your “friends” or your object of obsession’s pals, lose all aspects of yourself and do all you can to fit in. If Rydell High is a microcosm of life, it’s all for the greater good, well according to childhood classic Grease anyway. And the T Birds and Pink Ladies wouldn’t lie to us, would they?

Do you think she's a Britney Spears fan? MAYBE SHE IS!

“You don’t look like a metal chick.”  I get this quite a lot. My answer is simple: Because I’m not. I’m a woman who happens to appreciate hard rock and metal. I also listen to Adele, Hole, Funkadelic and Sinatra, to name a few. Am I expected to don an afro, babydoll dress or trilby every time I have one of them blasting on my Ipod? To some people, yes I am.

I’ve always been fascinated by the obsession with wearing your musical taste on your sleeve.

I know that the fashion element is part of all major music genres, from Gaga’s “little monsters” to punks with safety pins through their lips and nose.  On a sociological level, I get it that it’s less about fashion and more about showing pride in belonging to a subculture and reinforcing what the dress code is. But what’s wrong with keeping people guessing? I love not fitting into one pigeonhole which is defined by my CD collection. I enjoy being a closed book so why tell people who you are before you’ve even opened your mouth? Giving strangers a chance to pre-judge appeals to me about as much as getting rickets.

My problem with “looking the part” in terms of music fandom is twofold. Firstly, if it’s about expressing who you are, why are there rules? When I was a teenager I was a lot more gothy (weren’t we all?) but even then,  I found the often unspoken rules about how you should dress ridiculous i.e. if I wore black lace instead of a bright red dress, I was more acceptable. Once I started doing a crazy thing called wearing whatever I liked, when I talked about some types of music I liked, I was constantly (and still am) met with suspicion, surprise or interrogated about music because I don’t look gothtastic or like a female Dave Mustaine. But why should I? I’m still the same person. I know who I am and have no interest in conforming to a cultural stereotype. But still some people persist in equating clothes with musical knowledge or interest.

Lady Gaga's monsters in Japan

A few months ago I was in a friend’s flat in London, which is above a guitar shop. One of the female guitar teachers (wearing all black and a Motorhead t shirt) ran into us on the stairs and went out of her way to give my floral blue dress a look of scorn. How dare I wear any other colour but black into a House of Rock which has the legend “Dimebag is God” emblazoned on the wall? This kind of crap both annoys and amuses me. I think to myself, well maybe if you spoke to me, instead of judging me on my clothes – that thing musical subcultures accuse everyone else of doing – we could have a chat about the implicit darkness of “The Great Southern Trendkill”, the Lulu debacle or about Lemmy’s Nazi memorabilia? Nope, it’s easier to assume the blonde in the coloured dress thinks Lemmy is slang for Lemsip and Dimebag is a type of handbag, isn’t it?

This leads me on to my second problem: I would rather know my shit about music than just dress like I do. I’m not saying both are mutually exclusive but I’ve learnt over the last 11 years attending gigs that just ‘cos someone looks like a typical music fan does not mean they are a walking rockopedia. And this applies across all genres of music, from wannabe punks with mohawks to the kind of white guy hip hop fan immortalised by that song by The Offspring. Again this infuriating example is drawn from my rock experiences but could happen within other musical styles: the famous goth/industrial hangout Slimelight in London has/had an entry policy whereby you had a membership card OR you could get a member to vouch for you “if you look the part”. That’s bullshit.  So, if I arrived at the club in my regular clothes a) I would be judged on this and denied entry and b) you’re saying that my choice of clothes means I would appreciate the music less than other people? REALLY?! How very open-minded and not-conforming-to-a-stereotype of you.

Maybe I’m alone in being annoyed by these things. I have severe allergies to any type of uniform so if you ask me to conform to your idea of a “rock chick”, you’re in for trouble. I guess my point is a simple one: even if people expect you to have Kanye-style diamond teeth ‘cos you love rap or a beehive ‘cos Amy Winehouse is your hero, you should wear what YOU want, not what you’re expected to. To stick with the hard rock theme, I’ll leave you with a lyric from My Ruin “you’re made to measure, baby, one size does not fit all.” When it comes to loving music, one size should never fit all – that’s what’s so great about it. I once knew a priest who loved Guns ‘N Roses, a company director who loved Rammstein, a civil servant who was mad into NWA, do you see where I’m going with this? Your appreciation of music shouldn’t be defined by your clothes; music is for everyone. It sounds trippy-dippy-hippy crap but be your own person and you won’t go far wrong. Unless, of course, you judge other people (like me) for not “looking the part”, in which case you’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’. You have been warned.

Some of these are pretty obvious but, based on conversations I’ve had this year, what’s obvious to me is breaking news to someone else so here goes:

1. The best person doesn’t necessarily get the job. I know it’s a pain when you see poorly written pieces making it into print when you know you could do so much better, but journalism isn’t fair. I may sound warped by the Leveson revelations but the media IS dog eat dog, you’ll get stabbed in the back and the sooner you lose the “this is so unfair!” instinct, the better. This isn’t an excuse to be sloppy though. I’ve met writers who adopt an approach of “Well X at X Highly Respected Newspaper does this crappy thing so I’m gonna do that” – WRONG. Be the best you can be, take rejection on the chin and persist.

2. Networking is everything. I’d like to say it isn’t but, in the Irish context, being in the know means you’ve won half the battle. You can try to trailblaze and do things your own way but that’s pretty much like walking into a labyrinth instead of taking the straight road ahead of you.

3. Don’t burn your bridges. Essential networking advice: be nice to everyone. I mean the receptionist, the interns, the PR people, the couriers – everyone. I used to think Dublin was a fishbowl but it’s the media in general and you never know who the person you’re talking to knows or what job they could be in next. Likewise, don’t slag journalists on Twitter. Not only do you look like a bitter whinger but someday he/she might be sitting in front of you on an interview panel and no one likes a lickarse groveller.

4. Only write for free if… a) it’s a respected publication that’s going somewhere (crap websites with shoddy content are the Aldi version of journalism) b) the editors give you feedback so you can improve as a writer and they clearly respect your efforts and c) if it’s your own blog. I started this blog in June and already I’ve gained a regular commission based solely on the editor reading this very blog.

5. Those tales of chasing invoices and not getting paid for months are true if you’re freelance. There is also fuck all security, it’s high on pressure  and if putting yourself out there to pitch for work makes you queasy, join the civil service instead.

6.  So you’ve landed a commission. Well done! Now, to make sure it doesn’t go tits up – very important – stick to the brief you’re given. The editor will not appreciate a 1,000 word essay on Katy Perry if she’s asked you to write about Occupy Wall Street. Things happen, wires get crossed, not everyone communicates clearly and you can find yourself on an editor’s shitlist despite your best intentions. My advice is to bend over backwards, say yes and to always meet your deadlines. Finally – ALWAYS make sure you understand the correct deadline. There is often a long lead time in magazines so double check when you need to file – and be prepared for the call to tell you there’s been a reshuffle and your piece is needed now, now, NOW! Did I mention the pressure already?

7. I’m sure I’ll be accused of snobbery here but this is one of the most important lessons I’ve learnt professionally this year. Take advice from people who have succeeded, not writers in your peer group. Believe it or not, I naively spoke quite candidly about my experiences in journalism to fellow aspiring types in the past. Not anymore. Why? Because I quickly learnt that they took obvious glee in my tribulations and were visibly pissed when I landed my first proper commissions, attempting to put down what I was doing even though their own careers weren’t exactly setting off fireworks. Your friends in the industry can have ulterior motives in seeking your opinion and asking about how you’re getting on – remember they want to crack the journalism game too. If you need advice, ask an editor.

8. It doesn’t happen overnight. In fact, this year has taught me that it’s a tough slog and I’ve often questioned if I’m doing the right thing at all. Of course, there are exceptions like interns landing dream jobs or students who are in the right place at the right time and who become Editorial Assistants with only their college paper behind them. But, those will always be the exceptions.

9. Find your specialist subject and excel in it. Being able to write about a dolly mix of subjects is a good thing – but specialising makes you more employable. A quick example: beauty and music bloggers who now have columns in respected newspapers.

10. You don’t always get credited for your work. It’s shit but it happens to the best of us. I’ve found that if I write my name at the top or simply ask the editor for a credit I usually get it but, unless it happens constantly with the same publication, it’s an unfortunate incident that you should get used to. I won’t lie though, it never stops being disappointing, especially when you’ve told your Mammy to buy the paper and she can’t see your name.

Have I turned you off the profession yet? Hope not. Despite all my whinges and the fact it’s far from an easy ride, I honestly believe being a journalist is the best job in the world (cliché alert!) if you have a passion for writing and the media. And, to answer the number one question I get asked, the perks – from free gig tickets and press trips to the sycophantic way everyone wants to be nice to you ‘cos of your job title – are lovely too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a free cocktail to sip, a free expensive face cream to apply and a plate of free valium to digest for lunch. Journalism = living the dream.

Ah, now who doesn't love this scene? Um, the person standing in it.

They say that talking about the weather is a conversational nadir. Oh god, I’m blogging about THE WEATHER. Well, never fear, I previously blogged about my love of autumn so I’ve already hit a blogging low (until I get that piece on Cat Fashion up here).

I know for a fact I’m not the only person having hourly “sweet Jesus, my balls are freezing” thoughts. Still, I can’t decide if I love the shift in season or if it is actually ruining my life.

So, given my love of a good list, here’s my love-hate relationship with winter outlined. (Got anything to add? I’d love to hear yours.)

Boo! I hate winter

Snow: it’s so pretty but feckin’ hell, in Ireland we go into whingey, meltdown mode with the tiniest amount of it.

Forget your holiday plans: every year when the weather gets crap, I take a mad urge to fly somewhere. Last year I experienced the worst turbulence flying home from Edinburgh (like I was stuck with women screaming and gripping the seats – that bad) this time of year so I’ve learnt not to act on it. But, it’s pretty annoying not being able to act on impulse when you’ve got itchy feet.

Silly winter hats are cool! YES!

Wearing wool: knitwear is great and I have quite the collection but why is so much of it like wearing a coat made out of Brillo pads?

3.30pm feels “late” and serves as the perfect excuse not to do anything.

The cold. Goddamnit, the fucking cold. I officially don’t know how they do it in Russia or Iceland or Any Other Cold Country because I am so cold typing in bed right now that my limbs feel ready to snap off Itchy and Scratchy-style.

Everyone is sick and sneezing in…your…face. Ugh.

Getting out of the shower into a cold bathroom feels like you’re lying naked in the snow and you’d rather eat maggots.

Christmas: the whole thing makes me sad.

Your electricity bill is 99% boiling the kettle to heat your family of hot water bottles.

Dogs in coats. Just wrong.

I can’t walk late at night because it’s Weirdo Hour.

The Christmas Number 1 crap. Who cares? And please, please, please stop pitting my favourite bands from my teen years (RATM, Nirvana) against the X Factor winner. Let people listen to whatever they want!

I kinda love you, winter

Satsumas. Hardly needs elaborating, does it?

Festive season drinking/making a tit of yourself at work parties

The trip home for the holliers

Breaking out my gigantic duffle coat and not giving a shit that I look like Paddington Bear.

Using alcohol “for medicinal purposes”.

Wearing as many sequins as possible so you resemble a bauble.

The cold: a pro and a con, this one. I hate hot weather. And yeah, any excuse to wear a blanket all day.

Irish people saying “Santy” all the time.

It’s a Wonderful Life will be on the TV, one of my life’s most important films. I heart you, Jimmy Stewart.

Eccentric pensioners are not the only ones wearing Santa hats.

Overeating is socially acceptable. Plus it keeps you warm.

The number one thing I love about winter which makes me forget all my whinges about snow, the cold and having a blue face: quality family time. Best. Thing. Ever.

For years I’ve been a real grammar nazi, as they say, and my friends roll their eyes when I miss the point of a celeb goss story, preferring to point out a typo or when I refuse to like a Facebook page ‘cos it has ‘your’ not ‘you’re’ in the name. Yes, I’ve done these things. My excuse? I write for a living so words are my business. I am anal. I am pedantic. And so far, I’ve believed the media was too. But it isn’t.

A quick look at some of my favourite journalists who are at the top of their game and you’ll discover they’re not exactly swamped in Spelling Bee trophies.  Caitlin Moran and Grace Dent are both much-loved, much-read journalists. I love their writing but, after following both on Twitter in the last year, I found myself gutted that both regularly tweet the kind of typo I’d actually die about. Moran herself has stated she can’t spell and, in my past life as a PR girl (ssssh!) I received emails on a daily basis from hacks at national papers who wrote in lower case, abused commas and apostrophes and often made basic mistakes like “when will I here back?” This appalled me. I’ve railed against these people, who clearly rely on subs to rework and fix their work, as though, like singers who mime (cough, Britney, cough) we’re being conned when we chuckle at a well-written column in our morning newspapers.

But now my icy pedantry is thawing. I’ve started to reconsider my long held belief that you must, must, must be a dab hand at spelling and grammar to be a writer. Years ago, on this very topic, a journalist for an Irish newspaper argued with me that you don’t need to be the world’s greatest speller to be a great journalist. How I scoffed. She used the example of a friend who has dyslexia – and, man, could he write. Can you see what I’m getting at?

I’m not saying ‘fuck grammar!’ because I still believe that if words are your business, you should be able to wield your weapons properly. But, having something to say is much more important to me these days than being technically brilliant. For me, as someone who is a couple of years into her career as A Serious Journalist, the most offensive sin a writer can commit is not bad spelling, it’s bad writing. Most pedantic types I come across actually write in the most BORING fashion and I feel like screaming at them that you can be a disciple of the Guardian Style Guide all you want, but if your writing is boring and you can’t splash colour across text with your words, what’s the point? You’re not a better writer than the next kid, you’re just someone who knows the rules.

At a time when you can throw a stone on your local main street and chances are you’ll hit a journalist, having a writing voice and style that reels readers in is more of a USP than being a walking copy of The Elements of Style. I’ve found out that an acquaintance (who admits she has appalling spelling and grammar – you know who you are!) is working at a national magazine title for a while now. It’s not a huge publication but a substantial step in the right direction. And, no, she’s not “in the know”, she got it because she’s been writing for years and knows how to pull together a feature you want to read, forget the technical stuff. I know countless journalists who are the same. My point is, if you’re a young writer and, like so many I meet, the main string on your bow is pedantry, you might wanna work on your writing skills instead. Or, ideally, become excellent at both. 

Anyway, I haven’t completely lost my pedantic ways. When it comes to my own spelling, I will continue to have a mini-heart attack over my own odd typo but, if you email me saying “you’re a great writter”  I WILL serve your ass back to you on a plate. But hey, if the world of Big Serious Journalism doesn’t care about other people’s typo problems and adult Spelling Bee competitions, why should I?

Despite knowing I’m in a community of million, I still feel somewhat protective of her legacy. That’s why, when the news dropped that a movie was being made of Colin Clark’s famous The Prince, The Showgirl and Me memoir, I had mixed feelings. It’s a fantastic book, offering a rare glimpse into real film-making history which other biographies lack, so I guess it really was a movie waiting to happen. Then I fretted and expected the worst. Marilyn has been ripped apart in contemporary media and sewn back up Frankenstein-style so what’s often dished up as Monroe may as well be her emulator Jayne Mansfield or another lookalike, it’s that far removed from reality.

I doubted that Michelle Williams could do justice to Marilyn’s ‘glow’, not because I still think of Williams as Jen from Dawson’s Creek, but because I didn’t think any modern actress could reflect the highs, lows, vulnerability, raw sexuality, humour, despair, insecurity and warmth that was Marilyn/Norma Jeane.

Consumed with cynicism from the outset, I still had to check out My Week with Marilyn for myself. And yes, I had my claws out.

For those who are not mildly obsessed with the impeccable Miss Monroe, My Week with Marilyn is a film about the making of a film, specifically The Prince and the Showgirl, Marilyn’s English expedition with Laurence Olivier. Despite featuring one of Marilyn’s most-loved performances, the shoot was characterised by trials and tribulations, clashes with classically-trained, Method-hating Olivier and the eventual breakdown of Marilyn’s marriage to Arthur Miller. And it was all witnessed by Colin Clark, a cinema lover who got his break as Third Assistant Director on the production – and quickly fell under Monroe’s spell.

Michelle Williams (surprisingly) rocking it as Marilyn Monroe

Within ten minutes, my doubts about the casting of Michelle Williams dissipated into the shadows of the cinema. Incredibly nuanced, from the quivering lips to the startled blue eyes to the breathy tone of voice, her performance is the closest we’re likely to get of interpreting Marilyn accurately on screen. Another of my reservations quickly hit the highway around the halfway mark: I was worried that, like TV movies of the past, this portrayal would fail to paint the full, complex nature of Marilyn and would instead play the victim card or, even worse, just the Blonde Bombshell one. Again, I was wrong. We see a Marilyn who needs love, who has ambition, who has self-doubt, who laughs, who is childlike,  who cries, who is uninhibited, and, most of all, we see a great movie actress who, when she delivered, was something else.

Williams isn’t the only perfect casting choice. Everyone in Simon Curtis’ film throws a stellar performance into the ring; from Judi Dench as the ever-supportive Sybil Thorndike to Julia Ormond as the ageing Vivien Leigh, or Eddie Redmayne as wide-eyed, lovable, Etonian storyteller Colin. And then there’s Branagh. Who else could fill Olivier’s shoes like Kenneth Branagh? He is ideally cast as bullying hamfest Olivier, an acting genius of the stage who sought the same acclaim on film. I particularly liked how this film recognised Olivier’s jealousy towards his female co-star (yes, men can be jealous of women) particularly because Hollywood history tends to depict Marilyn as a headcase who drove her colleagues insane. On a side note, I was a bit perplexed at attendees of the screening roaring with laughter as Olivier tells Monroe to “just be sexy”. Anyone who empathises with Marilyn at all would know her aim was always to be a good actress and how much Olivier’s treatment stung her. I guess some will always be more in love with the blonde image than the woman.

In many ways this film is a love story: firstly, a love note from Clark, the author, to Monroe, a woman who stole his youthful heart. Secondly, it’s an invitation to fall in love with Marilyn again (the real, complex but wonderful woman). It’s also a beautifully shot, endearing film. Finally, if Michelle Williams doesn’t bag an Oscar for this, I’m giving up journalism and running away with the circus*.

(*Go see the movie and you’ll get the reference!)