Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.

Arthur. Attractive name?

I prefer it to Chad. It has more grit and less bleach.

Despite being severely under the weather I forced myself to the Royal Exchange to view 'Saturday Night and Sunday Morning'. When I say forced, I mean I was chauffeured there, back and was treated to ice-cream at the interval.

Sat on the banquettes, staring at the simple set, I had relatively no idea what was in store, bar being informed that I might see nudity and it was an adaptation of a 1960 film. Ignorant, I know.

From the moment that ducktail was revealed, I was enthralled.

It's a timeless subject: male tweenager sees himself as a big fish in a boring, non eventful pond. Controversially playing with the (attractive) mice whilst the cat's away and sowing his wild oats in any field open to him.

Arthur was said said subject last night; ale swilling, sharply dressing cock of the walk.

Aside from technology, the scene captured from Nottingham in the 50s is as relevant as a scene of today in any city. Congruent even. His dissatisfaction and resentment at life is tangible. His nonchalant swagger yet passionate opinionated bursts stand juxtaposed, enveloped in a confused, youthful exterior.

Faced with unwanted pregnancy, a loveless job and socio-political pressures Perry Fitzpatrick held down the characters' several identities remarkably. Coupled with an unnervingly gripping cast which included: Chanel Cresswell (This is England), Clare Calbraith (Heartbeat), David Crellin (Coronation Street), Jo Hartley (This is England), Graeme Hawley (Coronation Street), Ryan Pope plus some seriously talented individuals.

Hats off to the set designer Anna Fleischle and the directors in all guises.

Apt title: whilst we were watching him on a night out, becoming more and more inebriated, disillusioned and muddling through the one man party; not caring who he offended, spilt drinks on or hurt we patiently waited until came the morning. The hangover. The misery and pain: reality. Were we applauding the comeuppance? Or rooting for the anti-hero?

Shortly after leaving I tweeted:

"Saturday Night, Sunday Morning at @rxtheatre was better than a Beechams for my cold. The leading guy can rub Vicks on my chest anytime ..."

I was a tad too flippant perhaps. It blew me away and it's on til the April 7.

PEEE-DERRR

Despite being as nasal as Alex Borstein*, laden with fluey symptoms and a burnt index finger**, I managed to drag my sorry self to The Manchester Fashion Network event at Harvey Nichols, 'An Evening with Fiona McIntosh'.

With a strict one drink per person sign, I was fleetingly tempted to throw a few more Beechams down my razor bladed throat with a goblet of plonk, yet found myself with a glass of water in hand.

Cramped, yet optimistic.

Guided through a brief biopsy of McIntosh's life, I was distracted by her necklace, the failure of the microphone from presenter Katie Poperwell and the clash of prints, styles and try-hard attitudes from those in attendance.

With no fashion background to speak of, the lady is a marvel, bringing us Grazia in 2005. If I were her, I could die a contented female, yet her ambition and drive has seen her harness the re-branding of My Wardrobe and consult for several of the most prestigious titles in fash-land. You wouldn't think it, in an alluring way.

The notion of cultural differences between Grazias was engaging: France is the chicest of the plastics, Germany the most impressionable, Australia the most health conscious and Russia the most delusional. Next to launch is the South African Grazia, groundbreaking and certainly one to monitor post-May.

Most of what she spoke of was relatively simple to comprehend, and her advice was succinct, precise and void of 'floral notes'. Dealing in facts:

Be consistent
Know your brand, stay true to it, no deviation
Media and retail are mashing, deal with it
Mediocre websites don't cut the mustard

Then she lost me. The Q&A saw some snore inducing questions but the last one jolted. Internships and her views. In a roundabout way she said that the ones who do anything get ahead suceed, they need to realise that their palms won't be crossed with gold and be assured their talent won't go unnoticed. Codswallop.

I do love a good event. Especially when I'm as crabby as I was last night.

*voice of Lois from Family Guy
** deliriously made a quiche, I burnt the finger when I was putting it in. Lord.

High Vis Dating.

I'm staring wistfully outside. There are three reasons:

Sun

Men

Squirrels & adorable creatures of nature

NB, not in priority order

Being trapped indoors due to gas pipe maintenance has its (minor) perks. The high-vis clad men rat-a-tatted on my door at 10, I flounced out all 'just got out of bed' when I'd done 2 exercise videos, washed my hair, slapped BB cream on and filled in my brows. You know, casual. We engaged in light banter as they took up some flagging. & I indulged them in tea and biscuits. I'm nice like that.

Flirting, tea making, flirting, laughing about my inability to find gas meter, flirting and hair swishing.

Not sure why, but gritty Mancunian accents with an equally weather beaten stance has an amazing ability to reduce me to what can only be described as a middle-aged single tart. I'm no giggler, but Jesus, one slightly amusing line escaped their mouths & I was throwing my head back hyena-like and wiggling as I dashed to make their brews.

This shameful action led me to contemplate my current love life. My being excited at 12 young strapping builders being outside, reflects just how (in)active my dating-sphere is.

Since moving back from London (10 days ago) I joined a dating site. Be it through boredom or being inspired by a friends new lady (met online), the traditional notion of 'internet dating' shed some of its stigma. Either that or my desperation swelled.

To be frank, bar/club hopping has lost its appeal. A few issues:

Gaining attention from (any) men is difficult if you don't resemble one of the Saturdays

If the male crowd are 'alternative', you're never 'alternative' enough

I'm not an (attractive) dancer

You can't hear more than 25% of the conversation

I only attract very strange men. No exaggeration.

As I'm not going to squeeze into a bandage dress or watch TOWIE for pulling tips or any time soon I'm thinking 'outside of the box' (hardly).

PROFILE:

Just moved home to Manchester from London. Working in PR and starting a male style advice site come Summer, this is not to say that I'm a fashion obsessive or overly critical of anyone else's style. Aged 23, with a penchant for 50s/60s related music and style, indie music, a keen interest in discovering new places, people and actively avoiding the humdrum of reality. Dry humoured. I appreciate wit and the ability to spell correctly. No cliched characters need apply. Cannot abide frugality (bad experience).

Standard right?

Within 4 hours I'd had 30 responses, 95% asking whether I'd like some 'fun' (substitute the word fun with a more colourful action) or worse, a sob-story (this isn't an X-Factor audition). What really got my goat was the inability to read. I'm from Manchester, I don't need 'showing around' and I specifically noted I appreciate the ability to spell correctly. One message;

'Hey ther, how it going? cool profile, love thoes picturs, anyway im kinda new to dis. Not sure i should say, but if u chek my prof an like what u c, id love 2 talk mre. Anywy peace xx'

I ask you. This was from a 26 year old male who develops software. Education?

Still. There were one or two who seemed relatively normal who contacted me. I've agreed to a date (after some witty error free banter) with a Graphic Designer. We'll see.

On telling my friend I was embarking on this, she gave me a rape alarm. I certainly know how to pick them.

Manchester Irish Festival.

My family is Irish, most families have a drop of the Emerald Isle in them. We get around.

It was the Manchester Irish Festival over the weekend.

Based in Albert Square, it was a celebration of rich heritage; enjoyed through the medium of music and traditional produce, bound together in a parade proudly endorsing all counties as well as felicitating the 3rd generation Irish connections to the past.

As gaelic football teams strode, floats ferrying Irish dancers trawled and cars emblazoned with county flags proceeded, the pride was tangible.

The bar was never less than 3 rows deep, naturally. The traditional stew ran out after an hour, naturally. & there was a buoyancy rich with gossip, Guinness guzzling and gaiety that transported me back to family parties from yester-year.

It's something the English don't have. As St Patricks day rolls ever closer, I think George who?

Top buys of the day

Soda bread

Stew (worth mentioning twice)

Red Lemonade

Emerald Sweets

Whiskey & Diet Coke (I had 30)

Top sights of the weekend

Bumping into people I only see once a year wearing the same outfit, every year

Feeding gossip to a distant relation to see how long it'd take to get back to me in a chinese whispered mangle of lies (approx 18 hours)

Watching the little Irish Dancers slap away on their heavies whilst brushing a jealous tear away as I never got near that stage in my dancing career

People watching. It's my favourite

Delusion.

If I were to write a novel, it'd be abut my Mother. I'd call it Guilt.

Reasons

If she's happy for more than 8 minutes, guilt.

If she spends over £10 on an item of clothing, guilt.

When she goes out & doesn't tell her sisters, guilt.

I blame the notion of Catholic Guilt. & it's been passed onto me. Difference being, she's 49 and I'm 23, my youth should be able to combat the evitable. It's a work in progress.

Urban Dictionary defines Catholic Guilt as: (click)

I recently moved home. Returning from London. It hasn't been a culture shock, in fact it's really taken a (recondite) weight off my shoulders, but ironically put tangible weight on me. This might be a new beginning for me, a return to that care-free 20 year old who hemorrhaged confidence.

Strange how in three years your life radically sidesteps, like Tetris.

I spent last week throwing myself into cleansing my possessions. Unearthing objects that emotionally impacted, from a letter I wrote (aged 14) to my violent Father, to a story book my brother &I made one Summer. It was cathartic.

Now I must look for a job and really decide what is it I want to do.

I thought it was PR. I was under the impression that if I worked hard enough unpaid, came in early and stayed late, then the laws of Karma would guide me towards a f/t paid role that saw me indulge in what I like to do best; communicate. Alas, the levels of responsibilities I was bestowed with varied greatly.

Remember when you used to go to swimming lessons? Imagine being a strong swimmer in the shallow end one week and a non-swimmer in the deep end the next. I didn't want repetition, just the opportunity to enhance my skills, develop them and be the best PR I could me.

I was a natural, had no problems getting interviews for big companies. The stick in the mud? Unknown, I've never had constructive criticism to pinpoint where I could have improved. Perhaps its the old elitist mentality, simply because I couldn't do a year within an unpaid role full time and meet some rather air-headed/influential people to play air kisses with I wasn't deserving of the role.

I'm knocking it on the head for a while. It was soul destroying.

What to do now? It's all a bit delusioning; from applying for admin based posts a post-labotomy patient could complete, to meeting acquaintances (loosely used) who have climbed the career ladder due to nepotism. There seem to be no doors (or windows) open.

Jealousy is not an attractive quality.

Must try harder.

I wish they manufactured motivation in a can.

Ash

As I type, I'm conducting a homemade liposuction procedure. My implements? Bicycle pump and an array of kitchen utensils. The targeted area? Thigh.

What pushed me over the edge?

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

I'm a 12, but JEEPERS, these garments were enough to reduce me to cellulite laden blubbering (ah ha).

It wasn't all doom & gloom, quite the flip side.

As I stalked up to the Market Street H&M, wristband slapped on, pickling myself in tea (5 cups before 10) I was giddy. Giddy at the thought of slipping into the chiffon, limbering into the lamé and caressing the cooling silk in order to satisfy the burning of the credit card in my pocket.

As I weaved between the overly loaded rails, I felt fit to burst. My pre-exam like nerves whipped away, I confidently strode into the fits, armed.

I liked it. More than Versace, more than Stella, more than Karl? It was fresh. Vibrant and wearable.

Fan-bloody-tastic bags. They must've cost a pretty penny.

Once these saddlebags are off, I'll be in those pantaloons faster than you can say Hennes & Mauritz.

Man oh Man.

Anyone remember that gem of a programme? I was 8 at the time. The orginal Take Me Out. Jeepers I wish it was still on ...

Memories (youtube clip)

Wonder why Chris Tarrant was the presenter, and spot Nell McAndrew what a saucy pot. Life before straighteners.

I've moved home.

It's going to be a bumpy ride. Mother has turned into the TV guide, and seems to have become annoyance personified. Yelp.