Thursday 31 May 2012

Frantic Assembly's "Lovesong" - Waterproof Mascara Recommended

"That was the story of our beginning...and this is the story of our end"

It is rare to find an audience of college students frustratedly trying to brush away the tears from their dampened faces at the finale of a show. Let's not kid ourselves; there's nothing cool, sexy or funny about a red nose and the inevitable panda eyes that follow. We adolescents prefer to attempt composure and indifference rather than openly express emotion - but an exception can certainly be made with Lovesong, where the themes of death and the person you are being eventually forgotten can certainly relate to any audience. These are perhaps the universal fears that strike a chord with all of us...

Writer Abi Morgan joined forces with physical theatre company Frantic Assembly to produce Lovesong; a bittersweet, haunting tale that spans the 40 year relationship of Maggie (Sian Phillips) and Billy (Sam Cox). It depicts both the blissful memories when the couple are still practically hazy-eyed from the acute shot of Cupid's bow, and the more turbulent times when Billy is crippling from the failure of his new business venture with a hard-hitting revelation from Maggie. It is a startlingly relatable, accurate representation of any relationship; tainted with highs and lows, tears and laughter; pain when trust takes plight, and the
irrevocable ecstasy found only in the arms of the person you love.

But perhaps most poignantly of all, Lovesong illustrates the "leap of faith" often taken to try and smooth out the obstructions the road of unrequited love often presents. The production is full of these risks the couple take together; from Billy taking his business Stateside, to trusting Maggie after her moment of weakness. It truly is a subtle reminder of the lengths even the most rational and calm-headed of us will do in the name of love; we would all take these leaps for that certain person.

The elderly Billy and Maggie are joined on stage by their younger selves, William (Edward Bennett) and Margaret (Leanne Rowe). Their prescences are weaved together with ease; at some points, Billy may direct speech at the memory of his younger wife, and vice versa. The movement also serves to mimic this effect; from the perspective of a girl who's own sorry dancing abilities only stretch to as far as the Cha-Cha Slide, even I can deduce the choreography is beautiful. It is minimalistic without being overly intricate, leaving the chemistry between the actors to convey the power struggle between love and the test of time. In order to extract some emotion - and often the tears and tissues - from the audience, Morgan has included some shattering one-liners and touching dialogue exchanges between the protagonists that even the most stoney-hearted may not be unaffected by. However, more comical moments provide some light-hearted relief that also depict the loving nature of Billy and Maggie's relationship, despite the darker times they face with Maggie's life becoming a ticking clock...

The emotion from the audiences that Frantic Assembly seek to evoke is not only produced by the dialogue and movement; the production elements also serve the purpose. The video projection onto the stage featuring the natural beauty of nature and freedom coupled with often melancholic acoustic notes do not help in the struggle to fight back the waterworks for the sake of social dignity. Believe me - and I self-conciously glimpsed around the auditorium ofen enough to know this - "there wasn't a dry eye in the house".

I couldn't reflect back on the show with any more fondness than I have now; even if at times the dialogue was a little vague - making the content slightly more difficult to comprehend - it is brought to life superbly by a delightful fusion of both younger and older actors. It disproves the myth that physical theatre must always be thoroughly intense and packed with flamboyant, dynamic actions; the more simple movements - particularly between the older Billy and his wife's former self - and interactions speak more about their relationship that could stretch beyond even Morgan's dialogue.

Some shows you will walk away from without feeling even a hint of emotion, that you may never really feel the need to talk about in great depth again. Lovesong - a tale of love and time - has made me remember my fears that one day I will be nothing more than a distant memory to someone; or worse, forgotten completely. But it also has reminded me to live life to its fullest; even if the odds are stacked against my favour. It has reinforced that love happens to all of us; and when it does, to accept it - and to accept the course of true love never did run smooth. Surely, those simple lessons from Lovesong can eclipse my fears entirely.

A weepy but wonderful night of theatre; if there's anything to thank my Performing Arts teachers for...

Saturday 19 May 2012

Why I Will Never Marry A Rich Man

When all's said and done, at the end of the day, when you look at it from a wide perspective: the prospect of having a wealthy over half is not a grim one. I can throw my hands up in the air and admit, I would not mind eventually settling down with a successful oil tycoon/businessman/some equally as impressive-sounding
job.Romanticized and unoriginal as it is, I do quite fancy being the working class girl saved by the kind of guy that has his own "team", now you mention it!

It sounds perfect - a plucky failing writer (how I see myself in 10 years time) saved by the glamorous rich man. I could be idle and unapologetically lazy, safe in knowing that my high-flying husband was bringing home the wonga to support his loving wife. I could do stereotypical rich-lady things, like claim to do "voluntary work" and go to "exercise classes" to fill my endless spare time. Obviously, I would be lying.

Luckily for mankind, I've already acknowledged that little old me will never snag a rich man clad in an Armani suit - that wasn't either stolen or is a fake ripoff, that is. I just don't have the charm. Or many, many other things...

These are some other valid reasons as to why I'm destined to marry another mere snotty-nosed chimney sweep:

1. I enjoy David Nicholls' books. Mostly because they are narrated by losers; Stephen McQueen is a failing actor, often playing a dead person or passer-by in little known TV shows - or worse, an understudy. Brian Jackson has just started university. He is ridiculed by his peers for his seemingly irrevocable enthusiasm for all things "general knowledge", yet continues on a spirited endeavour to win the heart of the beautiful ice-queen Alice. See? These guys are "losers", doing "loser" things.


Like a good cold-hearted bitch, I have a high old time chortling through these books by myself. When I read through these two particular books for the first time, my "critical voice" went something akin to this:

"HAHAHAAA. This is such a cracking read! Imagine being like this guy, hahahaha what a tool! What kind of arsehole comes out with stuff like THAT? Wow, I'm glad I'm not that guy! I'm much cooler than this guy, there's definitely room for Floraidh in this world, haha, oh yeah!...wait, WHAT?! Hold on a minute - why do these characters sound so much like me?!"

I drop my book - ahem, my KINDLE - bewildered, with only the shame coursing through my veins to stop me collapsing right there and then. After years of telling myself that some people do actually find me mildly funny, even if their giggles are either pitiful or at my expense, I am no more than the real life version of Brian Jackson. I spend an embarassing amount of time reassuring myself that my big day is coming, the luck is coming my way because hey, I'm a pretty cool chick and I surely deserve it; the truth is, I'm not entirely confident I'm not a bit of a loser, myself.

THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": In "Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason", there's that scene where the dishy Mark Darcy has taken Bridget to the Law Council dinner. Bridget makes a bit of a fool of herself infront of Mark's fancy lawyer acquaintances, by voicing her opinions to the wrong people, drinking too much and dressing inappropriately. THAT IS THE STORY OF MY LIFE

2. When I watched "The Shining", I let down my once unfailing elegant disposition. Though I do try my humble best to hold myself as what can only be described as "regally" at all times, I did the embarassing thing - texted my dad frantically, before running to the toilet JUST to turn the light on. Just to check my room in the boarding house hadn't transformed into the Overlook Hotel, with all its sinister prescences.

Realising my guard was slipping between my fingers, I modestly tried to reassure myself whilst I watched it. Look, Flo: it's MCMURPHY! Your pal MCMURPHY, the GOOD GUY! Yanno, from "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest"!? Don't worry man, this guy isn't scary, you big WIMP! Even when he knocks down th-the d-d-door with that axe...



THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": "The Shining" is NOT the scariest film in the history of cinema. In a world of Jigsaws, human centipedes and hills with eyes, this isn't the bad guy of the horror genre, here. So why do I act like it is - infact, why do I do descend into a quivering, illiterate coward with every horror film I see? Not suave enough. Must try harder.    

3. Megalomania is only another condition from which I cannot be saved from. I am under the false pretense that I have a lot of money to spend, always. I think I am little orphan Annie, who has been rescued by the wealthy adoptive parents, and is suddenly accostumed to a life of fine dining and luxurious clothes. Now, that isn't true - I'm a student. I admit my parents are generous with what they give me; one of the best phrases coined since parenting became a pseudo-science is "Give them enough to do something, but not  enough to do everything". BUT I WANT TO DO EVERYTHING, EVEEEEERYYYYYTHIIIINGGGG!

THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": to be entirely truthful with you, I think this might put me in an advantageous position. It would probably cure me.
***
THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ELIGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": I'm a megalomaniac charity case who needs to be saved from herself.

4. Maybe it's a teenager thing, maybe it's a girl thing, or maybe it's just Floraidh going it alone, but I am inexplicably emotional. This is not limited to a few mere tears when somebody dies in a soap, or at a particularly poignant song. Even in what should be a happy scenario - like when I found out I got a boarding place at this college, or when I heard my GCSE results - I always bring the mood down that tiny bit by turning on the waterworks. Sometimes, I just cry because I have nothing else to do. It's not a proud existance, and maybe it is questionable that I half-enjoy it.

Apparently, there is no straight, logical correlation between the activity of my tear ducts and a predicament.

This doesn't just apply to the waterworks, which always arouse an awkward atmosphere as spectators wonder to theirselves why on earth that girl has broken down into inconsolable tears in Pizza Hut? When I'm in a good mood, I am in a good mood, if you know what I mean. I "leap" rather than "walk", I talk in "lyrics" rather than "every day language", and it drivespeople up the wall. I can't just be quietly pleased or content; this is big, big news.

(FYI, I didn't just weep at "Beaches"; these were loud, heavy sobs that were heard all over Harsewinkel)            

THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE":  Did Carrie Bradshaw win the heart of Mr. Big by crying herself to sleep in his arms every night, and he just thought it was "cute"? No. I suspect this does sound a bit bipolar and suspicious; I'm not THAT bad, it just makes for entertaining reading. But anyone who cried at Gavin and Stacey's wedding probably does need to have a chat with theirselves, in all fairness. This does not exude the kind of calm, soothing aura required to stabilise my hardworking - and wealthy- husband's emotions at the end of a rough day at the office.

5. I will never touch a pair of tights with suspender-print on them. Now, I'm not sure where the root of the mystique surrounding these tights originates from, but it suggests that they are, infact, the only sure-fire way to capture a man's attention. They say "money can't buy taste", so even a man with money is probably not immune to the charms of the suspender-print tights.
Because I'm haughty and concieted, I think they're trashy looking.




THE REASON THIS MAKES ME SO ILLEGIBLE FOR "RICH MAN'S CHARMING, BEAUTIFUL WIFE": It doesn't even matter any more- Why d'you wear these, girls? Why!?

Thursday 17 May 2012

A-Z Listers

What springs to mind when you hear the word "celebrity"?

Glitz, glamour, red carpets and rubbing shoulders with A-Listers? Impossibly exquisite make up, clothes that can only be described as "darling", intricate hair styles? Endless supplies of champagne, fast cars and luxury hotels? Living the high life, and the whole world thinking you're fabulous?

Sounds great, doesn't it? You probably quite fancy being a celebrity yourself! Yet - apparently - being a celebrity ain't all it's cracked up to be.

As a self-confessed avid reader of celebrity bibles "Heat" and "New", I am increasingly aware of the nation's fascination with celebrity culture. Wether it's their latest beau, how they're doing their hair or what they are/are not eating, it seems the British press are intent on peering into every aspect of lives of the high profile stars. Outside celebrity spots The Ivy and Nobu, you can gaurantee there will always be a gaggle of paparazzi waiting intently, ready to pounce for that one, crucial shot.

However, some critics have suggested that the nation's obsession with these stars is unfair; is it not a breach of privacy for the intimate details of their lives to be printed out for the eyes of the public? It would almost be an understatement to say that every trivial feature of their lives is put under scrutiny by journalists; even the more sensitive topics that wouldn't ordinarily be a point of discussion between a group of non-celebrities.

Well.

Take Katie Price (also known by her alter-ego's name "Jordan") - model, businesswoman and queen of the tabloids. Having kickstarted her career as a fresh-faced glamour model, she has since capulted to stardom through her marriage and  subsequent divorce from Peter Andre, her various reality shows, her "frank'n'frequent" interviews and - who could forget? - THOSE barely-there outfits. It would be a fair observation to say this woman isn't afraid of the limelight.



(Did I mention her two marriages were filmed by ITV?)

Perhaps as a clever business move from the former Page 3 regular, it's clear the British public have been placed in a voyeuristic position of Jordan's life. From her relationships, juggling a high-speed career whilst being the mother of 3 children and her latest business ventures, Price's viewers have been kept thoroughly up to speed with every intimate detail of her life.

So is it still unfair to publish details of a celebrity's life into the national press, despite them opening the door to them in the first place? I argue that if Price is so keen to allow cameras and reporters into her life so freely, then surely this only serves as a beckoning finger to the British press - since she's happy to be so upfront in her business ventures, then her growing column inches are only justified.

The sad fact is, she isn't the only one who is apparently happy to do this. Step forward, Imogen Thomas!

On the other hand, there are many A-Listers who are constantly trying to keep their personal lives underwraps. When you see shots of swanky cars with blacked-out windows, a celebrity caught off-gaurd trying to hide their faces with a newspaper, and that ONE actress you really like who just won't be interviewed, I think these are hints. Hints that these people do not want their personal lives leaked all over "The Daily Star". If a celebrity is clearly trying to gaurd their privacy - and is going to extreme lengths to do so - this serves as a warning to journalists everywhere that they are not prepared to be the next front cover of a trashy magazine.

I suspect this is when the British press need to put down their Kodaks and respect the wishes of these celebrities. Underneath the Dior make up and perfectly-preened tresses, they are only human with the same right to live without constant surveillance, as you and I do. Though to us their sudden appearance of cellulite is news, it is merely just another - if slightly mundane - feature in their day-to-day life.

With the scandalous lives and events surrounding Katie Price, Imogen Thomas and Jodie Marsh - to name a few - perhaps these views can be relaxed. Why? Because these are the ones who are conciously trying to grab headlines; if having a reality show - amongst other attention-grabbing schemes - isn't a sure-fire way to openly allow your privacy to be breached, what is? Simply put, this league of high-profile women shouldn't have started their own fire, if they cannot handle the heat.

Sunday 13 May 2012

From One Potential Failure To Another - A Guide To Sixth Form

When I got my GCSE results on that fateful August morning, I swore to myself I would never do anything as special, pure, and true. Though they were by no means worthy of the Kings School newsletter (pffft), I was pleased my hours of undivided attention to my anthology and mulling over how that Hitler bloke had a "moment" in German politics had not been in vain. It was a poignant time in my life and a pleasant reminder that hard work pays off. Rewards were given, genuine surprise was rather tactlessly expressed, calories were added.

That was nearly a year ago now. Since then, I've moved away from home, started A-Levels and become practically a veteran drinker - well, definitely 2/3 of those. Admittedly, it's been a challenge; but one l look back on fondly. I have now dealt first hand with the challenges that do inevitably come with going from secondary school to "further education" (you like the sound of it, don't you?), and definitely feel a bit wiser because of it. You are never formally taught how to deal with all new expectations, and you can feel weighed down with pressure that you apparently will just instinctively "adapt" to. Surprisingly enough - you can, and you do.

It is undeniably a huge transition you face, going from Year 11 to Year 12. I remember recieving countless talks on what to expect, and a foreboding sense of dread sinking into the pit of my stomach; apparently, I could expect to kiss goodbye my social life and dedicate my every waking moment to studying. "Would a job really be that bad...?" I would wonder wistfully to myself.

Yet, the reality is only as bad as you make it. So from one teenager to another, I can offer some earnest words of advice that can help you find your feet when you find yourself teetering.

It brings me great resentment to say the smug looking elders in all those talks weren't lying; A-Levels really are a big jump from GCSEs. With all my teenage angst, I remember scowling at any sixth former shoving their woes and "oh my life's so hard!"s in my face, and I was quietly assured in the knowledge that actually, you whining mong, I'll be able to cope, don't try and convince me otherwise! But now...they m--m-might be right, so I'll try to explain in a less condescending manner. Think of me of Janice, and you are Cadie - without you going all "Regina" on me.

So your workload increases, you have more lessons per week on one subject, and it's suddenly an unwritten law for you to voluntarily (?!) study, without being set any work, because that's just what you do now you're in sixth form. The word "independance" is thrown around the room like a pesky wasp in your first lessons for each subject, and it doesn't sound overly encouraging. How the hell do you cope with all these new expectations piled on your shoulders - "responsibilities"?! I thought they were for adults?

Though you cannot implore teachers to just PLEASE, please just be a really great guy and not give you any more homework, you can make it more bearable for yourself. Using my study periods wisely certainly helped me when I was minutes away from a homicidal rampage fused by stress; back in September, I siezed every free period as a chance to grab a hot chocolate, take a leisurely stroll into town or occasionally dawdle aimlessly through college, generally feeling quite grown up and sophisticated. This is fine, until you realise you have all types of scrawls all over your work diary with yet another task to have completed for the next morning. Cue groans and crates of Red Bull...

It's essential that you use your time productively, and look at the greater scheme of things; maybe you'll spend your next few free periods cooped up in the library, but you have the evening to do what you like - free of that subconcious, niggling voice reminding you of all those essays that are screaming to be written.

Picking A-Levels you like is also important; further education isn't compulsory, so you may aswell enjoy it. If you cannot stand German and never enjoyed it at GCSE, then you can say Auf Wiedersehn to the subject the minute you walk out of  the exam hall! That said, picking subjects you're good at will put you at an advantage for A-Level - you got an A* in German? Even though you hate the subject?

That's life, and you've gotta just roll with the punches, grumpy bear.

Your choices for A-Levels are not quite as restricted as they were at GCSEs, so that's another opportunity you should try your best to sieze. Obviously don't do P.E if you can't run for ten minutes without collapsing on the ground gasping for air. If you can't write an essay in a logical, coherent fashion, don't take History or English. I took two subjects I wasn't really familiar with, but I ended up genuinely enjoying both of them.
Dip your toes into a different subject, but know what you've let yourself in for - you could be in for a pleasant surprise, or a nasty shock.

Try and maintain your perspective when it feels like the mountain of work in your desk just won't shrink - you've chosen to be here, and as long as you prioritise, it WILL get done, and you WILL deserve a McDonalds at the very least when it's finished. The formal term for this is "deferred gratification". Though you might not be able to go out tonight, when results day rolls round you won't believe that flood of relief and pride, and you may even get a Pizza Hut out of it - like I did. It was a good day to be Floraidh.

Finally...well, just because I take a "it's in the past, this is the present" mindset because I'm an 'orrible, twisted troll, doesn't mean you necessarily will. The end of Year 11 marks an unsettling period of separation from everything you've ever known; friends move away or go to different colleges, and admittedly at the time I did find it disheartening. Yet you'll know where you stand with your friends, and with your "friends" - if the Ant to your Dec/the Salt to your Peppa/the Tim Burton to your Johnny Depp has moved away, you'll stay in touch. It's the inexplicable truth.

That's the beauty of true friendship; it's like the smell of month old Pickled Onion Monster Munch in your underwear drawer - infinite.

This concludes my words of advice concerning how to stay sharp when sixth form finally rolls round, and I bid you good luck, young warriors! This is from the girl who went through a phase of regularly getting kicked out of the library for eating in a bid to stay awake with deadlines looming, and we both know there's no rehab for that sort of thing. Like I said, I never thought I'd do anything as special, pure, and true as my GCSEs. But now I like to think I'm definitely a bit more clued up and cooler about these things.

Monday 7 May 2012

Flo's Falling Behind On Her Life, Again

"I'm sick of all these pointless brand mails, tricking me into thinking I'm important enough to have real e-mails sent to me", I grumbled to myself this morning. Every now and then I occasionally check my Yahoo account, full of hope for a life changing mail offering me a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to escape the dull, colourless scenery that is England.

Of course, this hasn't actually happened yet. But it'll be a while until I put those sweet little dreams to bed...

This morning I bit the bullet and simply unsubscribed from all of these notifcations, then felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow as it dawned on me that I will now never recieve an email. Life changing or otherwise.

This has absolutely nothing to do with anything.

I should really revise more thoroughly on the weekends; no half-hearted glances at a textbook, limply leafing through my anthology or writing down a few monosyllabic words on empty pages. During the weekdays at college I've grown deft at taking myself to the library, looking as unapproachable as possible to deter any distractions and doing some genuinely productive work. These are the revision sessions that what I learn stays with me, because I'm not surrounded by Cooler And More Fun-Looking Things To Do.

Part of being Under-21 is that I have mastered the fine art of constructing any situation so it is considerably uglier than its reality. Thus, I can easily utilise the excuse I've been repeating for every monumental failure that's ever occured in my college life - I'm a boarder. Not only am I faced by the perils of exams, coursework and a few real cretins for classmates, I don't even have my mother's lap to sit on or my Dad to shake me  by the shoulders and tell me an old army anecdote of his that makes my situation look trivial ("how could I have EVER been so silly by worrying about THAT old thing"...). Generally, I take an extremely rational approach to voicing my excuses:

"MUUUUUM!!!! I can't do it! I can hear people enjoying their lives in the corridor and it's putting me off and I have to tidy my room because I can't concentrate in a messy room even though I've done that all my life and I have loads of washing to do and I can't go about with dirty clothes and I'm really tired because the bed springs here are trying to impale me and I JUST MISS YOU AND DAD SO MUCH!"

The problem is, I have "aspirations". These are to go to a university I'd genuinely worked hard to get to, study English Literature with Creative Writing, become a little bit more interesting and find a rich man - the latter being something that will probably not directly correlate with my A Level results. I occasionally weep over this.

And this supposedly marks the end of a terrible monologue that was intended to announce that I'm embarking on a blogging diet. Blogging is the chocolate in my life; I eat too much of it, slowly making me fatter. I abandon all the other good food in this world; this being a poorly-phrased metaphor for my studies, and The Only Way Is Essex, which I'm also falling behind on. So during the exam period, I'm cutting down drastically on Blogspot. This is a "see'ya later"...

It's been grand, guys. But you don't want Hell to freeze over when I don't get my predicted grades in August, just as much as I don't. xxxxxxxxxxxx

Wednesday 2 May 2012

So You've Decided To Become A Babe Magnet?

There is no better way to start this "know how" than a big, hearty CONGRATULATIONS! The first step to becoming a babe magnet is accepting you're already highly unsuccessful in the department of attracting women. As you're of the male orientation, this is probably a devastating ego deflation; never fear though, wounded warrior, for I - a mere, humble woman - am here to create the next Hugh Hefner in you.

If you're a guy...looks wise, things aren't very easy for you, I'm afraid. If your skin is no stranger to the dreaded acne, your lack of ovaries mean you can't take the contraceptive pill to clear it up. Should you be a little more adventurous,  there's always the option of some foundation (read: the orange stuff girls paint on their faces) to make your complexion a little more bearable, but you then run the risk of being called a homosexual.

The choice is in your hands.

We get that you might not be strutting your stuff down catwalks anytime soon, and David Gandy isn't quaking in his brogues at the sight of you in some Armani boxers; but looks surely aren't everything, right? Indeed, there are alternatives that may still make you a little less hideous.

Solutions for the perpetually unsightly:

Become charming.

Just because you're doomed to a face that leaves young children in floods of tears, doesn't mean your personality can't become alluring and capable of capitvating your chosen suitor. The secret to being charming is to be "friendly" - the idea that when people try to converse with you, you respond with ease. You aspire to treat them with respect, and on the odd occasion modestly attempt to make them
 laugh - and not just about the fact your nose is crooked and one nostril is more generous than the other. Another key to becoming charming is to never appear without composure; this means no more drowing your sorrows! Step away from the Smirnoff, the Heineken and the bourbon. There is no knowing what kind of boring sentiments will pour out of a drunkard's mouth; with you, we need to ensure you're always on top "wooing" form. It may be your one, pure hope in life.

Think of yourself as the 2012 Quasimodo; you weren't blessed with devastating good looks, but nobody can ridicule you for being a genuinely top bloke.

Find a talent.

An ugly AND boring person?! One may require a lie-down at the mere, tragic thought; do they really exist!? Well, yes, they do; and God forbid you be one of them. To compensate for the fact you make Frankenstein's monster look like a sex god, there MUST be something about you that makes you mildly interesting. Can you play one tune on any established instrument? If so, take this instrument with you to every social occasion, if people aren't too embarassed to be seen with you. In the prescence of women, ensure you play that one, single tune, over and over. It's a fail-safe, fool-proof siren call, leaving women swooning over this man who, gosh, MUST be a descendant of Kurt Cobain - I too can admit there is no aphrodisiac like a man who can play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" on the harmonica.

Music not really your calling? I did suspect that might be a stretch - how about sport? With your alleged 15% extra body strength, you should really be using it to your advantage in this dire situation of being a hideous looking thing. If you've decided your "type" is a gormless looking idiot with no respect for herself or her body, then claiming yourself to be a footballer is probably the way forward for you. It is their sole ambition in life to sleep with a professional footballer, sell their stories to highly-respected broadsheet "The Daily Star", and enjoy 15 minutes of notoriety - therefore, I advise you to hang out around the tackiest estate you know whilst aimlessly kicking a ball at a wall. Give it a few minutes, et voila!

Fake your sports talent, by getting buff.

...got shot down in flames, did you? Awwwh, I can't say I'm surprised. Don't give up, though - if you can't embody the real deal, there's always the option of giving the impression of being a top athlete. Your impressive physique will say more about you than you will ever need to reveal to the ladies.
Buy a box of something that has both the words "muscle" and "carbohydrates" on it, prefably with a picture of an angry looking man with ridiculously bulky arms somewhere, too. Consume this. Do some weight lifting - start with 5kg, progress to 60kg. Reap the rewards.
..hey, you and I both knew this endeavour woudn't be an easy one! Ask yourself - are you committed to becoming a "babe magnet" or not?!

Love ya' mother.

Did you see that picture in the papers recently of the ever-lovely Prince William cradling a baby? The average British woman looked on adoringly, wondering why they can't mould their own husbands into emulating such perfection. Well, believe it or not, us females just love a man who looks like a loving father (it screams "breed with me!"). The chances are mothers tend to keep you away from their little'uns though, for fear of unsettling them before their lives have even begun. Never mind.

However, we do also love a lad who has another number 1 lady in their lives; their mothers. Why? It shows he has respect for the woman who had our faeces in their fingernails, catered to all of our fussy-food needs, and loved us when we have truely felt like no one else ever would. This love for the the woman we all owe everything to proves that you generally treat the woman in your life very well - you wouldn't think it with the state of the lads some girls go about with, but it truly is the most endearing quality a man could possess. Despite the fact it's partially her fault that you look the way you do, her unfortunate gene pool should not deter you from making her the number one woman in her life - we LOVE that. Really, we do. There are indeed rumours of hearts beneath our bosoms.

Take her shopping in places vastly-populated with babes. Go to restaurants together - babes love Nandos (self-professed Nandos lover and part-time babe right here). Generally put on PDPAs (Public Displays of Parental Affection), and observe as flocks of overly-keen women surround you, saying they know it's a bit impromptu and everything, but you seem like a really nice guy and they know a fairly cheap hotel nearby...?

Fix up, Look sharp.

You don't need reminding that your face looks like an elbow, so moving swiftly on; another way of compensating for your misfortunes is gaining attention and "HE'D GET IT!" looks through alternative means. This can be by simply dressing like a boss at the best of times; a sharp dresser is an attractive quality, and I know I'm not alone in thinking that. You don't have to dress like Mick Norcross, but just by wearing clothes that cling to your few good features - should you have any, at all - you're earning some massive brownie points amongst your eligible peers. Girls love boys, and they love clothes; two for one is like killing two birds with one stone! Don't be shy, topman.com is just a click away..

"Get rich, or die tryin'"

I think the profound words of 50 Cent are fairly self explanatory.

This just about wraps up my brief guide to becoming a babe magnet; follow these steps, and you can't go far wrong. It's true that there is no immediate cure for being an ugly bastard; but there are litle adjustments you can make to ensuring you're ever so subtley easier on the eye. If you feel these tasks are much too demanding, then may you and your cat lead a happy and fulfilling life together in your one-bedroom apartment.

If not - When you're making a cuppa for your new beau the morning after, don't forget to thank your good pal Flo. xxxxxxxx