Father John Misty @ Southampton O2 Guildhall

On 21st May, I saw Father John Misty in Southampton.

The support act from Texas set the scene. Khruangbin, a soulful, funk, guitar band, were smooth and sexy. The frontman and frontwoman were beautiful sights to behold for the typical Father John Misty fan - one very well dressed bearded guitarist and a glittery faced bassist with a black bob and killer lacy culottes, who moved her hips perfectly to the beat. Father John Misty himself even came on for a few songs to play bongos at the back of the stage.

From the very beginning of his set, Father John Misty was mesmerizing to watch. This man is not only a musician and song writer, but a true performer with remarkably fluid hips and a way of moving that is somehow simultaneously camp and ridiculously sexy.

Thrusting and gyrating his groin in every direction, floor to ceiling, left to right, it is not surprising how much sweat this man could produce - distinctly noticeable when, twice, he came into the audience. Father John Misty was a mere two inches from my face. A famous and sexy man no less, I refused to stroke his beard or grab his hand like every other member of the audience felt the need to do. He was a liquid mess, a true rock-star.

During 'True Affection', Father John Misty's silhouette, in a flashing neon pink light, truly danced as though no one was watching with gesticulating arms and a torso that moved like a snake. Such a distinct way of dancing simply takes you away to another place, another dimension, to Father John Misty's world.

Despite a real lack of chatter in between songs, Father John Misty communicated to each and every member of the crowd through his lyrics and through his movement. Most notably during 'Bored in the USA', he sang the lyrics as though he was telling a story. He is an actor as well as an artist. There were laughs and cheers after each lyric he sang, as he paused for effect.

'By this afternoon, I'll live in debt. By tomorrow, be replaced by children'

He sang, with a careless kind of melancholy. We all laughed at the truth behind the words that he sang - despite not being in the USA at all. We all sang along as though we really were bored in the USA.

This artist pulled out all the stops. This is genuinely one of the best gigs I have ever been to. Father John Misty didn't rely on just his music to excite the crowd. He really performed with energy and an electric personality that charmed each and every member of the crowd.

I Don't Know Where I'll be In Ten Years Time, But, I'm Excited.

It's mission impossible to know where I'll be in ten years time, let alone five. In 2021, I will be at the young age of 24 and close to thirty in 2026. I don't know the rest of the story.
My focus is on the near future. In fact, I lead the kind of busy, spontaneous life that means I only really know what the next two weeks hold for me.

I know a few things for sure. From this coming July until next July, I will be the Editor of Wessex Scene magazine. This time next year, I will be reaching the end of my final year at University. In June, I'm celebrating my 20th in Copenhagen. In September I will move in with several new housemates - 3 of which I am already close to.

Spontaneity excites me. Truly, it does. But, the uncertainty of my future is terrifying. It's terrifying to consider a life after university. Despite being constantly bombarded by employability advice, CV workshops and work experience, the prospect of not being in full time education and working in an actual full time job makes me want to crawl into a duvet fort and read Louise Rennison books like I did at 14. I would like to deny the death of the late author. I would like to deny the passing of the Starman himself, David Bowie. Alan Rickman lives on, as does Harper Lee.

Nostalgia really is all that it is made out to be; escapism to a time where the future was certain and your life was in the hands of others. I am no one woman show. Although, I am independent and I suppose that is what should stop me from worrying. I am the architect of my future and whilst I cannot control external factors, at least I can steer myself in any direction I see fit.

The scary parts are all the external factors, the decisions of others or the natural progression of the life cycle. One of my cats died a few weeks ago, reminding me of the fragility of the here and now. Before next Christmas, it's a real possibility that my family home might be sold.

I am determined to constantly remind myself that it's really not all bad. This time last year, I would never have considered that I'd be so close to some of the people that I am now, I had no idea I'd even be running for the position of Editor of Wessex Scene. My brother might get his first girlfriend within a year, I might have a job lined up for when I leave university, I might go travelling. Who knows?

Perhaps, my reason for writing this, is that I am feeling a little lost and a little uncertain. As Tumblr post cheesy as this sounds, I'm simply on a journey.

So, let it all happen and bring it on.

Feminists Are Not All Fat and Hairy

I often avoid the very general topic of feminism when I write. A lot of people have very warped views of feminism and the definition even more so. I have avoided it because I am well aware of my own fallibility and the extent to which people will fight for their opinions on gender equality.
This is also why I have chosen to write about this on my personal blog rather than for a student or national publication, online or in print.

What drove me to finally get my opinion out there was merely half an hour of watching Reggie Yates' documentary 'Extreme UK: Men at War', which showed men attacking feminism and complaining about male issues. I had to turn it off half way through for fear that I could not contain my anger and disgust. Many of the men on the programme seemed to think that feminism was going beyond equality; an attempt to turn the tables by asserting themselves and making men inferior. In many ways, these men seem to feel threatened by women fighting for gender rights and seem to believe that women have become superior already.

I'm fairly certain that women still have a long way to go before we reach full equality let alone superiority. Feminism should stand for equality, not for women's superiority.

Ultimately, I have reached a state of exhaustion where I am fed up with being objectified, not taken seriously in situations, cat-called and asked if I am on my period when I am legitimately angry about something, all because of my gender. These are only some of the ways in which I feel women are still not equal to men. We may have rights legally, but socially it's a different matter.

Cat-calling and street harassment are my worst fears. Stopping harassment is not about suppressing male sexuality and desire simply because it can be offensive, but for the general safety and comfort of those targeted. Not all men are rapists but enough are to strike fear into me as I walk past a man alone just on the off-chance that he might have horrible intentions. Whilst I could tell myself that most men won't take it any further than a comment, it doesn't decrease my anxiety or the feeling of violation. This is especially relevant since the attacks in Cologne and other cities in Europe on New Years Eve. I heard a story of a British girl whose clothes were ripped off her in Paris and she was violated. The fact is, these incidents were very clearly men targeting women and not the other way around.

Unfortunately, feminism has gained a bad name for itself. Many women and men say that they are not feminists but believe in equality of the genders. What they don't realise is feminism and equality are the same thing by definition. Yet, perhaps the movement has made such a name for itself that the definition has changed. This is a real shame because the word 'feminism' is distrusted by so many and may hinder the growth and development of gender equality. The men on the documentary were describing feminists as fat and hairy because they don't groom themselves for men. I mean who cares? We have the right to do what we want with our bodies whether men like it or not. This is just another example of the way that feminists are portrayed.

It is highly important than men gain equality too. Of course it is. There is no doubt there men face social issues in every day life. However, it is very worrying that some men want to slate feminism because they think their issues are more important. Historically and presently, women still face more dangerous and more serious issues based on their gender that are far less menial than the issues that were raised in Reggie Yates' documentary. They may argue that in today's society women do have far more rights than they used to. This is only true when we focus on the west, and there's still a long way to go. All around the world, places outside America and Europe, women suffer far more than men.

These are just a few of my opinions in brief. I am no way informed enough to make a fully infallible statement on the matter and I am open to comment.

Skiing For The Unbalanced and Unruly: Part 4

This is the final instalment of my skiing (or not so much skiing) adventure in Bulgaria this Christmas. The following days since my last blog post were less dramatic, disastrous and eventful. However, elements of the last few days have been pretty bizarre.

Worth noting is the Garra Rufa Fish.  The spa in the hotel offered a 'treatment' where you stick your feet in Garra Rufa infested water. As soon as your feet touch the surface, the fish swarm and start to nibble at the dead skin. They supposedly exfoliate your skin and, rumour has it, the treatment also has similar effects to acupuncture. Apparently, this has been banned in some US states for health and safety reasons. Despite this, we decided to try it out. I hated the feeling at first. It was far too ticklish and I squirmed at the idea of these fish all over my feet. Eventually I got used to the feeling and I could watch the fish without wriggling. However, about five minutes before the end, a fish drew blood on my Mum's leg. I realised, I may have paid money to be devoured by baby piranhas. This may not have meant death but probably an amputated limb. Thankfully, the treatment finished before they could swallow me whole.

The rest of the holiday had a 'let's make fun of Alice' theme. It seemed everyone in the hotel knew about the night after the bar crawl and thought it was so hilarious that they had to make a joke at every opportunity. The moment I put a glass to my lips I expected someone to come round the corner and shout 'I hope that's not vodka!'.
"This is my daughter, Alice" my Mum would say to every hotel guest, to which a giggle would follow. My dignity seemed to sink lower everyday.
Even on the flight leaving Bulgaria, I passed a hotel guest Mum had befriended on the plane.
"Not feeling too hungover, Alice?"
Actually, no I am not. That was several days ago, pipe down.

Spending Christmas in Bulgaria was surreal. It didn't feel like Christmas. Yet, at the same time it did feel very festive. It was certainly a white Christmas. There were Christmas jumpers so festive they could be seen from a mile away. Decorations were everywhere and I couldn't walk anywhere without seeing a Santa Hat.

Our Christmas Dinner was in the evening. We were served five courses. The first course was a kind of Greek salad, the second was a chicken and mushroom thing, the third was roast pork, a sweet potato sauce type thing, more potatoes, bacon and onion. It was lovely but it wasn't quite Turkey. Afterwards we were given platters of cheese and salami then ice cream with a chocolate muffin. Instead of Christmas crackers we were given little rolled up pieces of paper displaying what could only be described as a strange kind of fortune.
One read: "Opportunities emerge, don't get too urge"
Another read "Don't expect too much of Christmas Day. You can't crowd into it any arrears of unselfishness and kindliness that may have accrued during".  Yes, it was spelled 'Arrears'
The bad translation from Bulgarian to English did not fill the space in my heart that lacked Christmas Crackers, nor did the Bulgarian dancing that was loudly forced upon the room by course three. Forced joy is not my forté.

Nevertheless, the reps exercised their persuasiveness once again and I was out with them that evening; until midnight this time but, far less intoxicated. A deep chat in a Mexican bar, to the sound of a Mexican guitar trio covering Eric Clapton, ended the final night of my holiday.

To my amazement, the longer I spent in Bulgaria, the less chaotic it became. Despite my bad first experience at attempting to ski, I would want to try again. Perhaps next time I'll have more confidence in myself.

Наздраве!

Skiing For The Unbalanced and Unruly: Part 3

The morning after my alcohol nightmare I woke up still drunk with swollen eyelids. With virtually no dignity, I rolled out of bed at half past ten and missed another day of skiing. Nevertheless, I dragged myself outside and into the cold air to face the day.

We got in a cable car and ascended up the mountain through winter wonderland forestation and above snowy rocks. The half an hour ride was incredibly picturesque and the landscape seemed to go on forever. At the top I bumped into the beginners ski group I was with yesterday. I put my sunglasses on and held my head down in shame as my mother relayed the events of the previous evening. On the way back to the cable car we bumped into two of the reps who were at the bar crawl and again, mum relayed the events of the night. 

"I'm very cross with you two" She japed and proceeded to blame them for my excessive alcohol consumption. How embarrassing. But, they hugged me and we parted ways. 

A chilled out afternoon was in store since I could not handle skiing. Chaos naturally ensued. We went down to the spa and sat in the steam room for a while.  Curious, I turned on the tap on the wall. I turned it only a fraction more and cold water came rapidly streaming out. I couldn't turn it off. Mum tried too but then the tap head came off and water violently sprayed outwards and upwards. We ran out giggling while an employee tried to fix our mess. He gave us the tap head on our way out - a symbol of the madness of the holiday so far.

The evening consisted of a candle-lit walk through a dark and icy forest. Holding flaming torches, we slipped and slid the whole way to a little restaurant on the side of a road. But, before we got to the restaurant we had to walk through a mini estate that looked like a scene from a James Bond movie, set in a third world country. We were met by a barking, growling dog. Eager to get away from a rabid dog we moved on but several more growling dogs approached. It was dark, deserted and creepy and I genuinely thought I'd meet my death on this cold December evening in a Bulgarian forest.  However, as we reached the end of the estate, the dogs let us be and we approached the restaurant. It was surrounded by cats.

The meal was lovely but, my tiredness got the better of me. As mum spread around the story of my drunken mishaps, I sat in silence and waited for the meal to end. I began to realise why I wasn't a fan of package holidays. I was obliged to make polite conversation with strangers when all I wanted to do was relax. To my horror, the Bulgarian owners' daughter began to elect 'volunteers' to try belly dancing. Luckily I wasn't picked but for the next half an hour, I watched tipsy British people clad in colourful jangly costumes shake their bums on top of chairs and tables. I was glad to get the mini bus back to the hotel.

I am eager to see what madness these next few days will bring.