Wednesday 27 June 2012

Female Finger-Tappers

By Fraser Nickolls (http://www.frazzlecake.blogspot.com/)

Speaking as a bloke, I have to say that there are an awful lot of things about the 'fairer sex' which manage to completely flummox any male unwise enough to think too deeply about such issues. As a result, we simply skirt around these grey areas of knowledge, because the alternative would only result in screams of 'You wouldn't understand!' or 'I thought you understood me?', which are entirely undesirable - especially if it's your mum that's doing the screaming. This complete bewilderment may come as news to those of you of a female disposition, so allow me to present to you the snappily-titled:

Fraser Nickolls' List Of Girl Things That Guys Just Don't Get

1. Makeup
Guys have the same attitude to appearances as girls: Looking good is good. What isn't 'good' is for a girl to have slapped so much on their faces that it looks like they went for a mud mask at the local beauty salon and forgot to take it off. Around 99.9% of girls look better, more real, without foundation, blusher etc.. For instance, girls that cover their freckles with makeup; why? Freckles are awesome! Also, most guys think that freckles make a girl look cuter and prettier. As I mention in my own blog, 'Be happy with what you're given, you wouldn't have been given it if it wasn't good'. If you think that your eyes look too small; if you think that that mole on your cheek makes your face look lopsided; if you think that your lips are nowhere the shade of red that makes it look as though all your blood has congregated around your mouth, then all I can say is shut up, stop it and learn to love how you look. It's so-called 'imperfections' that we love- those little things that mark you out as an individual, as slightly quirky and therefore more noticeable.
Also, you tend to take inordinately long amounts of time putting your makeup on. We really don't have the time.

2. High heels
Never once have I, personally, ever felt the need to put on a pair of shoes that will raise me a head above everyone else, crush my toes, give me blisters and make me look like a newborn giraffe when I walk. Is it to make you look six feet fall, like those models off the telly, or so that you can step on someone's feet and therefore send them off to A&E? We don't get it, and what's more, most of us don't really like it.
Part of this is purely chauvanistic: guys don't generally like girls to be taller than them- we want to appear impressive and tall. This isn't my personal standing on the issue, but then again, my girlfriend is about 5 feet tall compared to my 5'10, so it's not generally an issue.
The other part is that, as I mentioned previously, most girls do tend to look a little ungainly in heels, especially those 7-inch stiletto things that taper down to points you could surely use for climbing a cliff of ice. We get the whole wanting-longer-legs thing, but looking like you haven't got full control of those longer legs just isn't good. PRO TIP: DON'T wear such heels if going out drinking unless you really know what you're doing. If you looked ungainly before, how d'you think you'll look with alcohol sloshing around inside of you? Significantly lacking in class, that's how.

3. Bathroom groups
Picture this: you're a guy. You're walking along the corridor with some girls. Then, with no prior warning, all the girls suddenly veer right into the toilets. Where'd they all go?, you'd think. Do I smell bad?, you'd think. No, turns out that girls just tend to visit the bathroom in small packs, like groupies. Or ducks.
The worst thing for guys about this curious natural phenomenon is the paranoia that sets in when you all suddenly disappear, whispering animatedly. Our standard response is to assume that you're whispering about how some other boy had said to you that our penises are significantly shorter than average. It's not nice.
By the way, if you actually go to the toilet, do you continue talking? That must be pretty awkward. Girl's toilets aren't like boy's urinals, where we can stand and openly discuss last night's football results whilst we relieve ourselves (which, I can assure you, we all do, all the time). Or are they? I must confess that I have never been in the girl's toilets, never having spontaneously grown a vagina, but from what I've seen in Waterloo Road, they are just rows of cubicles. Oh, and tampon machines.
I am forced to come to the only logical conclusion: you all think that you're going to get killed. Of course, murderers have little concept of 'boys' and 'girls' toilets… just 'murdering' toilets. Therefore, they will wait, hidden in the sink. One girl would get murdered. Ten would be too daunting. It's basic safety in numbers.
…That is the case, right?

4. Facebook photos
I assume that girl's attitude to Facebook photos is the same as the male's: to look good, to show the best side of yourself. However, there are so many things I could say that you're doing wrong at this point that I'm going to compile a sub-list.
Fraser Nickolls' Sub-List Of Dumb Girl Profile Pictures-The Duckface: Oh dear. Oh very dear. Why do you think that showing us exactly how much lip you have is attractive? It isn't. It makes you look like a duck. Men aren't attracted to ducks.
-The Sorority Squat: I don't understand. Having put on those high heels, you then attempt to look as short as possible, with the side-effect that you look like you're desperately in need of relieving yourself. it looks dumb.
-The Vest-top Lean: Yes, well done, you have breasts. Why d'you feel the need to deliberately semi-reveal them to everyone on your Facebook? It's like you're saying 'Hey, my face is up here!' You clearly took the photo with the intention of putting them on show, and yet act as if you aren't. Stop being so complicated! Our heads are hurting.
Why can't a simple smile suffice? Why do you have to contort parts of your body into stupid shapes for a 100X100 thumbnail on a newsfeed? Why do you… just why? We should be looking at your no doubt attractive face, your winning smile, your bright eyes -not your flexibility.


There are many other subjects I could touch on here, like the obsession with Justin Bieber that a lot of you seem to share (perhaps because, being a closet female, you feel an affinity with him?), or why a lot of really nice girls go out with total dickheads (do you feel like you've had enough of people being nice to you, so you decide to get with someone that'll treat you like shit?). But, alas, I am out of space here.

I hope that, on this point at least, we understand each other perfectly well.

Sunday 24 June 2012

Male Mysteries


I don't pretend to know anything about the optimal experience of being a bro, a bloke, a dude or a homie-g. As a girl, I'm genetically cut out for the daintier things for life, apparently. In between drinking tea from the finest china, wearing white dresses to dust off the shelves and picking flowers, I observe the behaviour of our co-species, and end up doing some serious head-scratching. Such animalistic, erratic displays of behaviour are mysterious; unanswerable. What the hell are you doing? WHY?



That said, I'm definitely not a man-hater. That's not me; I'm up for a co-existing society, even if it means I will do the exact same job as a man but get paid less for doing it (ha ha HA). I don't believe in the cliche that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. Yeah, men are mostly great, right?

Sure, but there's some things about you blokes that I just can't get on board with. I speak on behalf of myself, not the entire demographic of women.

Nobody is questioning your masculinity when you order pizzas.

So dull and uneventful was the summer of 2010, I spent it going to Pizza Hut almost every day, nonchalantly lining my veins with cholestrol and adding inches to the waistline. I went with quite a few guys, and they would each tut at me disappointedly when I ordered my trusty margarita. Obviously, it's not exactly the most reckless choice and earns me no bravado points - but it's tasty, simple and I will almost definitely have room for desert.

Guys, however, appear to have a complex about their choice of pizza. A pizza in a man's eyes is apparently a test of their testosterone levels - they will have it with every topping under the sun, prefably with BBQ sauce, and in no less than medium size. I appreciate the fact my food tastes are relatively simple - some might say "boring" - but having chicken, beef, pork, peppers, pineapple, onions and 3 cheeses sounds like a bowel evacuation waiting to happen.

The width and density of your pizza is not in direct correlation with your penis size - in fast food terms, getting a small margerita is the equivalent of an open expression of effiminacy. Where's the logic?!

Peeing Performances

Being of the female orientation, the privilege to empty the tank almost anywhere is one denied to me.
With men, your anatomy allows you to erm, whip it out, whenever you feel like it. Mostly, there's no code as to where and when it is appropriate to pee. As long as there's nobody within a few metres of you, it is a legitimiate area to do your business freely. Of course, this open display of relief could only stem from the fact that you're used to doing your thing infront of other men in the toilets; and if it's okay in the toilets, it must be okay for the rest of the world to see, too.

But I promise you - I PROMISE - nobody is getting glazed eyes over watching you pee. Do not treat it as a handy opportunity to flaunt your twang to onlookers. We are really not elbowing eachother out the way for a closer peek. 

Preferring Beyonce to Rihanna

Before I got a little more savvy, I believed there was no fool in this world who would not think B was anything less than the human  manifestation of perfection. Even if you weren't digging her look, you could give her talent credibility. Besides - a super-talented triple threat with hundreds of awards to her name, a "real" figure and being one half of the most powerful Afro-American couple in showbiz, what could dull this woman's shine?


Didn't Jessica Simpson already do the "washing the car" thing?

Rihanna. That's what - Rihanna.

The protege of Jay-Z is younger, renowned for her rock'n'roll antics, risque lyrics and ever-changing hair cut. But unlike B, she is totally willing to cast herself as this fetishized little plaything, ready to roll over and writhe around for the cameras.

I maintain this is because men are intimidated by the mighty Beyonce. She can do sweet and sultry in videos like "Sweet Dreams" and make your knees buckle with lust in "Dance For You", but she could also pop a cap in yo' ass in "Girls (Run The World)". The Destiny's Child days - well, forget about it! She'd have you for breakfast, and your little dog, too.

The Brooding Photo Poses

Picture this - you're at some old relative's wedding, and you're wearing a suit. If you say so yourself, you look dapper. People keep approaching you to tell you how well you scrub up, and don't you look so much like your father? You smirk at them sheepishly, but deep down, you know that hell yeah, you do look alright, actually.

People have brought cameras along to the wedding, to capture the smiles of adored relatives and the exquisite table arrangements. For some reason, they want your mug on their camera too. Instead of a smile, you tilt your head to one angle, suck your cheeks in ever so slightly to define your cheekbones, David Gandy style, and shoot the camera a look that says "I'm troubled and mysterious".

What the hell even is this?! Guys, what every happened to a smile in a picture? It doesn't have to be a toothy, unnerving number, but even a subtle tilt of the mouth and widened eyes makes you look infinitely more attractive. If we were to take a picture of a group of lads, and only one of them gave a little grin - our eyes would dart towards that guy. Oooh, who is that guy?

It's said guys think the same about girls in pictures; a smile is more likely to make us say "hey, can I get your number?" than a moody, vacant stare. We're not that different.





I got asked to write a blog about this lack of understanding between the two genders, and I will not ignore the cries of the people. To offer a balanced view, I contemplated somehow writing what guys can't comprehend with women. But hell, what do I know? In a desicion not taken lightly, I've roped in my trusty blogging steed Fraser to get his two cents in, offering a genuine male insight that us girls spend our lives trying to dissect. This will be posted on Floraidh's Uncensored Pen tommorow, so keep your eyes peeled on your news feed!

You can find Fraser's blog at http://www.frazzlecake.blogspot.com/

Thursday 21 June 2012

Why I Prefer Facebook To Twitter

Today is the Thursday 21st June, 2012. In this day, I have eaten chicken dippers, and they were delicious. I have extended a weary hand of friendship to many people, and this is uplifting. I may have just lost myself a job for an inexplicably bad reason, and this is disheartening. But what could be more definitive of the Thursday 21st June, 2012, than the sudden temporary demise of Twitter?

The punters of the global "Twittersphere" wept virtual tears. Facebook has since been inundated with woeful status', wondering what we as a human race could've done to deserve such treachery from what is dubbed as the Bruce Almighty of all social media. Mark Zuckerburg, hear this now, or learn it later - today, you've become nothing more than a back-up option. You're the dingy boat, because - for reasons unknown - the cruise ship has left the docks.

Personally, I never really latched on to the hype of Twitter, though many of my friends have. I gave it a good shot, wrote a few Tweets, I didn't exactly "take off" and my ego wasn't lightly caressed as it is when my status' get likes. Defeated, I made a swift return to FB. I'm not entirely certain this wasn't also because Twitter did not offer me what Facebook can; voyeurism.Shameless, filthy, apparently legitimated disrespectful breaching of other's privacy.

Here are some other reasons why Twitter can get Twatted (?):

- 140 characters to sum up a comment seems a bit bland to me - it's a limited platform. Through the medium of the almighty Facebook status', you could write a short story describing your day, from the harrowing desicion of signing a letter "yours sincerely" or "best regards", to the exact amount of calories consumed in your Pret A Manger sandwich, and why exactly it was bad for you. Your thoughts, observations and opinions can be told free of word limits and having to write "to" as "2". It's not gauranteed that your friends won't think you're a boring douchebag if you kick the arse out of it, but hey, haters make you famous, right?

- It doesn't quite have the artistic credibility as Bebo, but Facebook roundhouse kicks Twitter in the stakes of personal expression. You can modify your FB to become more of a reflection (if slightly exaggarated) version of you; you can include more detail about yourself and your interests through your profile, exclusively delivering a representation of you that Twitter could never hope to offer. The cover photo feature is a precise rendering of the more awesome, less tedious aspects of your life. On Twitter, you can upload photos, have a teensy profile picture, and that's the world wide web's limited comprehension of you. Thus, the crucial window of self-depiction is a narrow one.

- The ticker feature on Facebook. 'Nuff said - that voyeurism I mentioned earlier is apparently a bad thing about social networks, but it nurtures my own once more.

- People like to think of their Twitter account as some kind of virtual cocktail party, with the doors open to everybody and friendly bouncers who will offer you cigarettes. Your Facebook is more the VIP Drinks Lounge; only your nearest and dearest can come and live a virtual dream and get on dat hype ting with you. Er, hello - can we try and see the beauty in this for a minute please?!  A peek of your life becoming so exclusive is a good feature. Also, if faced in a real life predicament, I would definitely choose the VIP Drinks Lounge, but I suppose this won't ever happen.

- See this thing I'm writing now? This blog? I would not be able to - ahem - "advertise" it so easily on Twitter. I don't write it for my own two eyes and to marvel at my own witty observations and pithy remarks (joking), and presuming you guys aren't going to seek out my blog yourselves, it's all down to some self-promotion. There has to be hook to lure you in; damnit, I can't write a good hook in so few characters!

- As handwritten letters have become a thing of the past, we've now kept up with the modernity and use impersonal social networks to talk to our friends and family. This is particularly valuable to me with my family being overseas, so I'd hope to be able to do it quickly and efficiently, privately or otherwise. Facebook is the captain of my virtual social heart, once more; the Twitter thought exchange is - a reccuring theme now - very limited, as is the messaging service. Facebook offers efficient connectivity in a variety of methods, plus the ability to attach photos and even "Facetime". Twitter does not have some kind of webcam facility.

It was reported recently that Twitter has a following of 200 million users. Facebook  has 600 million users.

Consider that a case rested.

Tuesday 19 June 2012

Elephant

Possibly the most celebrated perk of living in Germany is the lower drinking age. Though alcohol is definitely a Bad Thing and there's nothing big or clever about watching somebody pee in the middle of the street, it is a law I've chosen to sieze with both hands. I'm not yet 18 but I already know what bars I'd like to start and end the night with, what drinks I can and can't handle and which people I'd like to disassociate myself with when I go out like the plague, thank you very much.

The same applies to clubbing. When I moonwalk my way into a club, I moonwalk with an objective, open-minded sort of view as to how the night might turn out; even if the stench of sweat and booze on people's breaths is enough to induce a coma, I do not take offence to this. It is a club, after all, and who ever said these were places of sophistication and class? Even the vomit my nice suede heel just been submerged in - that's just part of the package, right? Light-hearted fun was never meant to be glamorous, every bona fide metropolitan clubber knows that.

But with promises of Elephant being "soooo f-cking awesome!!!", I forgot about the free-spirited views and laidback approach to club expecations. Having just enjoyed a few hours in Ringlok, where drinks are reasonably priced, the music appeals from everyone to the metal rocker's to the pop princess' with there being enough elbow-room to occasionally do the "windmill", I raised my hopes considerably and expected a somewhat classier affair.

Well, classy affairs require a small fortune, apparently! A burly, gruff bouncer greets us at the door, snarling at us in the way German bouncers do, and we're told we've gotta pay 10 euros for the privilege. "10 euros?!" I sneered at Amaury. "This had better be worth it". He laughed reassuringly, in the way German
 friends do when they think they're on to a winner with clubs in terms of fit birds and quality booze. Teetering on heels that I hadn't quite gotten used to, we stumbled up the stairs to find ourselves in the 2012 Moulin Rouge.

The lighting is dim, only illuminated by the neon colours of the bar and lights; in contrast to the warehouse form of Ringlok, the walls are adorned with funky contemporary art pieces and the windows burst with colour (not unlike a church, but the two are in no way comparable aside from that). And wonderfully, there is no smell of sweat and no vomit on my shoes!



As I was in bloke company, I had no choice but to begrudgingly "check out the talent" with them. "Talent" is apparently populous here - women who would not look out of place on a cover of Vogue Italia sprawl on the plush sofas, their limbs tanned and toned, rouched lips pursed, looking blase and irritatingly beautiful. As you do when you're people watching (and trying not to stare), I tried to delve deeper beneath the porcelain skin - what does she do? Is she a model/waitress? Model/student maybe? I would never know, but I was starting to consider the effects a nose job would do for my overall "look", and maybe I could join the demographic of "hopelessly wonderful-looking people" dominating the club. Sadly, this is somewhat optimistic if you are anything like me, and you have only the sexual prowess of a loaf of bread...

Unfortunately, the men and their "talent" failed to parralel the success of the women. Ladies, if you're looking for some hot eye-candy when you're out, don't get your best bodycon on for hitting this place. Though Elephant is crawling with female foxes (Did I just say that?), the only eye-candy you can expect to find has a pension, and hasn't seen their belt buckle since 1997. Sadly, for every two women is one balding man in an Armani suit with Hush Puppies, and this unlikely pairing only indicates one conclusion, one I thought only existed in Katie Price novels. Sugar daddies.

As a Hip Young Thing, this fails to impress me. The music isn't too bad; there is no instantly recognizable pop hits that emits the screams of young women and dragging the guys onto dance floors. Some DJ Tiesto style disco tunes blare and that's enough for a little shuffle, but nothing to take "I'M HAVING SUCH A GOOD TIME!" pictures over. The fact the club is filled with young women clinging desperately to old men who resemble children in sweet shops is downright cringe-worthy viewing, and that's not just me speaking as a mere teenager who is yet to see "the horrors of the real world". An ideal up-for-it crowd is part of the fun; they're the ones that help to create the vibrant atmosphere you'd expect from a club in a city like Bielefeld.

I leave you on this note - if I were a drink, I'd be a lukewarm Stella Artois; trustworthy, within everyone's drinking ability and not strong enough to give everyone the boke the next morning. If Elephant were a drink, it'd be a Cosmopolitan; expensive, glamorous looking but may cause a bitter taste to settle in your mouth afterwards. So why the hell did you spend so much money for what looked so glamorous, but failed so spectacularly to impress?!

And that is why Nelly the Elephant is the only elephant there is room for in my heart.

Wednesday 13 June 2012

(Lack Of) Prowess And Dignity


One unpleasant life lesson I took on board last summer was that boredom can render a person bed-bound. A sheer lack of useful things to do, people to do useful things with and bad television that surely isn't useful to anyone at all can result in only one way to pass time, and that's lying in bed aimlessly. I thought that wouldn't be the case now I'm older, wiser and more geographically/socially mobile in Germany - like boredom is a childish emotion that you eventually grow immune to. Sadly, this has not happened; now I have nothing to revise for or any immediate responsibilities, I have nothing apparently productive to do with myself. Lying in bed with nothing but my own crippling ego and sombre thoughts to keep me company seemed like the only solution - Floraidh vs. Time. Apparently doing housework would be productive, but I strongly believe that's an artful lie devised by my mother to make me "contribute". It's gotten to the stage where I walk to the NAAFI to get a Twirl (those who live in Germany will be shaking their heads at the pure ghastliness of it all) because it's a reason to shower and get dressed.

Yesterday though, I was due my time for another outing in the big bad world; with my brother's NRA being today, Finn needed a tie. Finn could have gone to Gutersloh to get a tie, there are plenty of places that would certainly sell ties in Gutersloh, but Finn wants to go to Bielefeld because it's got a Pizza Hut, and it's bigger. But mostly because it has a Pizza Hut.

Did I complain? Hardly; if I were a horse, I'd have broken out of my stable and drawn in the mud with my hoof - "I'm ready to go shopping now". A few amusing things happened - not by a universal standard, but by my own.

You know when you're just cruising down the street, you've got a little sass-walk going on and your hair looks cool, so you generally feel like a pretty fabulous chick? Yesterday this happened to me, the realisation that I did have my moments of being a straight-up goddess, and no, you can't have a picture taken with me. I went to Bielefeld to perform my sisterly duties and help my brother with finding a tie for his NRA; whilst he scoured the shelves of Peek & Cloppenberg, I had headed down the road to H&M after discovering that nobody in the right mind should pay over 40 euros for a tie.

I sashayed down Bielfeld's Bahnhopf Platz like I was Agyness Deyn working the catwalks in Paris, swishing my hair and hoping people were admiring my new sunglasses. But - so wrapped up in my own prowess, I was! - I managed to walk full-frontal into an elderly German man, who was understandably thrown by the whole charade. Though I'm not the most fluent German speaker, I scrambled to find the right words to utter some kind of apology; after a bit of self-deprecating, a little "I'm-mad-me!" kind of chuckle, all would be forgotten and I would forget I was such a dick as to walk straight into an old man. He would remember me as the girl who walked into him, and would eventually track me down to have a sentimental chat about my errors. He would leave me a note before he died. This would also be sentimental.

Instead, I uttered a very pithy "eungfh". He laughed and patted my shoulder, before walking off and giving me a wave like we were old buddies who had fought in the war together.

And now he follows me on Tumblr!
                                                          
In the same shopping trip that I'd based my day around, my mum downed an extraordinary amount of Diet Coke when we were in Pizza Hut; put it this way, if it had been an ice cold Heineken she was chugging in such a short amount of time, I'd have been genuinely impressed and would have cheered her on like a football hooligan. An hour later, her knees were practically buckling from needing to go to the loo so desperately. After embarking on a quest to find the nearest loo in which even a frail woman having a stoke in the middle of the street could not distract us (metaphorically speaking. This obviously didn't happen) we finally found one in a desolate restaurant on the third floor of a department store. At this stage, she was starting to tell my brother and I about her "not needing to go so bad since she was pregnant" - we crumpled our faces in embarassment. Some things you just can live without knowing.

It wasn't her relief that amused me, though; it was her sudden drastic change of behaviour and outlook on life afterwards that was both incredibly unnerving but quite funny. She started rapping to Eminem and Dizzee Rascal, Eminem and D12 at roughly around 120 decibels - in the middle of a busy shop, much to my brother's dismay (Finn is currently experiencing the teen "I must look as cool and mysterious and aloof as possible" stage and so endeavours to always look cool and mysterious and aloof, with not even our pesky mother to hold him back).
Lynne Clement was living it large, like a reckless teenager in a filthy underground rave. She declared herself as "Mrs Rascal". She did a little jig on her beloved "flatforms" right there, in the middle of Karstadt, like the 1980s had returned. Her sudden vitality for ghetto life and being nothing less than funky fresh  is faced by Finn walking away with his head down and his hands in his pocket. Like a mother trying to rein in her particularly hyperactive child, I tried tactfully tell her that her behaviour wasn't suitable for the public. She told me I was simply jealous, because I didn't know the words to any cool songs.. I tried to tell her, honestly, I did - but she really was a bat out of hell, perhaps even worthy of a slot on the Discovery Channel.

I'd never seen anything quite like it.

But like many amusing memories written down, you just wouldn't get it unless you were there at the time.

Sunday 10 June 2012

How To Go On Holiday AND Go To Heaven

Roughly 15 hours ago, I stumbled out of the Ryanair plane, poised awkwardly between wanting to throw up and wanting to skip with sheer glee, knowing that I'd survived yet another journey. As something of a nervous flyer, I didn't take particularly well to 5 hour journeys to and from Tenerife - to survive felt more of a personal triumph than the logical outcome. It's reported that there is a one in sixty-thousand chance that your plane will crash; but when a plane crashes a few days before you go home and you had a rather ominous dream the night before, that nugget of knowledge seems to burst up in flames somewhere. I don't like flying, and I treat those who do with suspicion....

Despite that one molehill - or, in my eyes, a mountainous terrain - on the greener grass, it was an awesome week after a stressful period of exams and a few friendship spats. The weather was warm without being stifling, and I've even acquired a tiny ghost of a tan! Though here in Germany and in the UK my skin would be scoffed at if I announced any pride at its new-found radiance, where I come from it'd be worthy of a celebration and a pint down at the local! I also finished three books, and I ate a lot of good food. I had no immediate responsibilities and whenever I had pangs of "Oh yeah, I need to revise that!", I could have give a wry little chuckle and remember hey, those exams finished two weeks ago. What's not to enjoy?

Unlike most holidays when I mostly divide my time between prancing around on the beach pretending I'm Kim Kardashian and then lying in bed groaning from my sunburn after being Kim Kardashian,  this time I actually learned a thing or two.

Firstly, I've always had this...I don't know, notion that all spanish women just always looked impecccable, regardless of their age or the state of the weather. Wether the sun is beating down a harsh 35 degree heat or the wind is blowing a gale, it's always seemed like the women of spain would still have every hair in place without a trace of smudged eyeliner (Unless it was artfully meant to appear that way) or lipgloss that doesn't sheen.

To give you a visual, here is what I used to think all Spanish women looked like:



And here is what they actually look like:



See the dilemma? My notion wasn't even that; it's a truism. I already look bad - I don't need all these Esmeralda's reminding me I'm the proverbial Quasimodo.

There's a lot to learn on holidays. Your journey to Spain/Greece/Corfu could also - more excitingly - be viewed as a journey of self-discovery. They bring out the impatience and lack of tact in all of us; intrinsic qualities we always thought we were too nice to actually have, but new surroundings mean they rear their ugly heads. The tables have turned; you might not be that nice after all! You could be an idiot, or - even worse! - boring.

DON'T: Be A Sun Slave

Slimmer legs, more defined abs, radiant-looking skin...these desired features are all promised to you, supposedly if you catch enough rays to gain a tan. These promises can define the purpose of coming on holiday for some people; a tan is the key to open the doors of becoming A More Attractive Person. Thus, these people that will spend every moment sunlight shines on them lying motionless on a lounger, soaking up the rays like a sponge.

If you are pale and your skin is the colour of month-old milk; sorry pal, but that's how you're meant to be, and it's what you suit best. If your mission in life is to have the complexion of a cast member of "The Hills", you are clearly not well-informed of the wonders of the modern make up developments. You are also worryingly in need of a Hobby, or A Life; seriously, is there more to existance? Yes, my friend, there certainly is.

DONT: Live The Reclusive Life You Live At Home

Dude, come on - that's not why you came here.

There are people who go on holiday, and go about their ways in the precise manner they do at home. As in, lying in bed on Facebook, refreshing their news feed and watching Jenna Marbles videos - the difference being they wear vests and board shorts, and the sound of talking and poolside music can be heard rather than rain pattering on window panes. It's essentially equal to spending Christmas Day in solitude; it's both laughable, and slightly pitiful.

As a professional boarding person, I speak from experience; a few people living in one place can lead to brewing a feverish hatred for one another, or maybe "cabin fever", in which one person may claim the others are dampening their creative spirits and - encouraged by the ghost of the person who did the same before - take an axe out to show them they "need to take their medicine". Well, this only happened in "The Shining", but it's possible (but for the sake of me getting a good night's sleep, I'm not saying any more about that). Get out of the hotel room and actually have a holiday from your mundane life back at home.

DO: Avoid Cultural Disputes

Though we're all guilty of laughing at those daft Germans wearing socks'n'sandals, the sad fact is that even the British are lured towards that mysterious fashion statement. This might be why you tend to get confused by who's-from-where when you go on holiday, unless you hear their voices. It's not the only signifier of somebody's nationality; infact, there are hardly any. This is particularly confusing in Tenerife, where everyone in spanish, when I live in Germany sometimes, and live in England most of the time (I know, it's crippling being culturally enriched!)

However, I've suffered a few social flops in the past week when my ability to distinguish between who-speaks-what-language faltered and ended with me scarlet-faced and trying to giggle self-deprecatingly...whilst willing the ground to swallow me whole. The secret is, you have to kid yourself everyone is English to avoid saying something when you know you're mature enough to rise above it, but want the opportunity to get away with something a little risque.

Look - I KNOW it's frustrating when you're in the dinner queue for a really tasty looking tuna steak and some tool has barged infront of you like they're Mr Bumble and you're the mere Oliver Twist, but biting your tongue here may spare you some embarassment. I'm no stranger to muttering a satisfying little "bitch" or "twat" under my breath, but I highly recommend venting your frustrations more quietly - calling somebody a "bint" and her then turning around and giving you a talk on respecting your elders is painfully embarassing (trust me, I know). To everyone present, you're clearly ignorant scum. So you've damaged your chances of the night ending with everyone in a conga-line, jazzing to the Loca-Motion and downing tequila slammers together - and where's the fun in that?!

DON'T: Be Rude To The Hotel Staff

They're just people doing their jobs. If they can't accomodate you and your family in a room with "purer" air conditioning or more flattering lights in the bathroom, it's probably down to circumstance rather than them bearing a bitter grudge against the Brits and wanting you to have a shitey holiday. It probably isn't their fault, so don't pout or put on one of those dreadful "I'm thoroughly disappointed" voices; this isn't even Holiday Ettiquette - it's being a tolerable human being. Get it together and be nice.

DON'T: Push In The Queues
Otherwise you might have some blonde British girl calling you a bint.