I'm wiv da DJ

As you may have guessed, my boyfriend is messes around with other people's songs, and here is his new remix. Like, favourite, share.

P.S - Rabbits

During the week, I attempted to introduce some students to the art of Cockney Rhyming Slang, of which I am no expert myself. I learnt many things, they on the other hand did not learn very much and now think everyone in South London is a poet, or absolutely balmy and should stop drinking warm beer. Either way, it was a roaring success and now I have tribes of German children telling people to 'stop rabbiting on'.



When I was younger (as in, up to the last time I had a chance to speak to my Dad; 1 day still counts as younger...) he would continually tell me that I had 'more rabbit than Sainsburys', and I would secretly laugh at him despite the fact I was getting told off. I thought he was mad: 'errrrr Daddy, Sainsburys don't even SELL rabbits!', and would merrily continue with my aimless one sided babbling, much to his displeasure.

Now, anyone clued up enough to know that 'rabbit' clearly refers to 'rabbit and pork', which obviously means 'talk', will understand what my wonderful father was saying.



Older, not much wiser, yet still monopolising the rabbit market, I realised that when I'm writing, 99.9% of the time I do not know to whom I am writing; I merely just keep going on until my fingers hurt or I run out of things to write, or realise that I am just writing to myself and that the whole process is a little comical. Not only do I own more rabbits that Sainsburys, but also Waitrose and the local butcher (Tescos and Morrisons aren't posh enough to stock rabbit).

But maybe there's method to my madness. Maybe by unleashing the rabbits onto the big wide web, I will save my poor boyfriend from premature deafness, and leave reminders to my 60 year old self about what happened in my 22 year old brain. I am writing to the future me; I want to remind myself of all the fabulous things I have done and seen, all the weird and wonderful people I have met, the best and worst beers I have consumed, the reasons I should or shouldn't be allowed to drink tequila, the colour of the best sunset this spring, the smell of currywurst, the feeling of freezing snow being blasted down your neck, and the sweet euphoria of sniding a coffee before a lesson at 7.30am with 28 moody 13 year olds.

I haven't written a lot recently, because I have been having too many adventures. I'm sorry to brag, but that is the truth. One day I will have to be a grown up and earn proper money in a proper job, and it will probably be pants, so I may as well enjoy myself while I can. With that in mind, I am going to try and write about every adventure I have had since the first adventure here in Germany, and I'm going to call the whole collection:

"the Rabbit House Incident (whereby myself and Samuel woke up in a house full of rabbits)"

Just thought I'd warn ya.

- Jo

Awkward.

My favourite coffee shop in Göppingen is neatly tucked away down an unremarkable side street.
It is my favourite because they offer a delectable fusion of excellent cappuccino and remote distancing from my school, students, teachers and anyone else that I might know, or might know me. Paradise.

Although us Brits are internationally acclaimed for being Kings (&Queens) of small talking prowess, the nightmare that could ensue if we accidentally bumped into someone we knew, but not all that well, when out and about minding our own business and polite thoughts, borders on the traumatic.

This morning, I bordered on that trauma. There was trouble in paradise.

Sneakily I crept out of school for a coffee; I could have invited people, but I didn't. I loitered to my hiding place like the scallywag that I am, and settled down for an antisocial coffee. Then, BAM, I spotted another teacher sitting two tables away from me. I didn't say hello. He had seen that I had seen him and subsequently ignored him. Five minutes passed and it was then too late to initiate any form of recognition or, even worse, eye contact. I contemplated walking away and finding another cafe twice before I ordered, and drank my coffee so quickly that now, later, I have red bumpy burn marks all over my tongue.

Why, I ask you, was this such an ordeal?!

The problem lies in the fact that I am very awkwardly British, and that I know our lovely German friends do not have the awkward radar that we seem to possess. They don't even have a word for the emotion. (The closest you can get is 'unangenehm', which roughly translates as 'unpleasant'.) In the development of the German psyche, some bright spark realised that 'awkward' would hinder productivity, and so thereby decreed to bypass the whole scenario, preferring to battle uncomfortable situations head on without even a grimace.

I do not think this neglect of awkward is merely a German phenomenon; read any 'Welcome to Britain', or 'Britain for Dummies' guide and the rudimentary message is that you should under no circumstance known to mankind initiate any sort of conversation with a stranger on the bus/tube/bus stop, unless you want the poor Brit's bum to fall off with an overload of awkward. This means that no citizen of any other country in the world would understand the excruciating torture of deciding whether to get on the train at the same time as an old school friend you talked to once, five years ago, and having to make small talk, or else risk being known as the person-who-ignores-people; or, alternatively, walk the 5 miles home in the rain because you just can't face it.

Another colleague of mine asked my name for the 4th time, last week. Everyone has watched Mr McIntyre explain it to us; you just can't do that. The three times rule dictates that after the third time of asking, and subsequently forgetting, someone's name, no more can you ask what they are called. You must just accept the fact that you will have to call them 'mate', forever. But oh no, he laughed in the face of awkward and ploughed right on. Job done. He'll probably ask again next week and not even bat an eyelid.

What can I say - expat life, full of social predicaments.

Stroppy.

To put it simply, this week has been a bad week and I am now sitting in my room alone, eating 'health surprise'*, drinking wine out of the bottle and swearing aimlessly at inanimate objects.

Classy, and oh-so productive.

Pondering my rather vile mood, I thought I would take this chance to politely raise the following issues I have with the general public, and in the case that people have the same problems, urge them to forward the message of discontentment to those concerned.

(*Health surprise, for those unlucky enough to not know, is a fine concoction made of butter and sugar. It has been medically proven to promote a better mood, and stop crying in times of desperation. Also increases essay and dissertation productivity rates by at least 5%.)




Please stop pointing out the bleedin' obvious.

Namely:

"What's wrong with you today? You're well moody."

Apart from being an utterly stupid thing to say, it does nothing but make said moody person even more moody (and hate you).

Plz stp rytin lyk dis

wt u chatin brv? dere shud b no imigrints in dis cuntry cuz were british nd we wn2 stay british nd al de imigrints r durti nd smell ov curry init.

Your point is invalid, you moron.

Please refrain from Facebook photo dick comparison.

(Might I just point out, not actual dick comparison.)
I mean the endless photo comments which involve statements such as:

"Ohmigawd Jessica, can you just go and get ugly please?!?!"
"Don't even know why I uploaded this photo, I'm soooo ugly."
"Ew ew ew, I look horrible, you look so hot! ohmigod I'm ugly. Ug.Er.Lee."

And other mindless drivel.

Please stop harlem shaking.

I am out of the loop; watching the videos makes me feel old, because I simply don't get it.


Please stop making me jealous of your life.

Okay, I get it. You are wonderful. You don't sit alone drinking wine out of the bottle. You are in the gym. You can already speak 4 languages, including Mandarin. You donated all your money to charity 'cos you haven't racked up a huge credit card bill or horrendous overdraft you can't pay back. You don't cry when you stub your toe or swear when you get mascara in your eye, because you always look where you're going and don't need to wear makeup. Your YouTube videos are witty and charming, and when you sing along to your guitar, my heart really does melt. You are naturally that tanned, that blonde, that laid back, and when people say 'she's the nicest person I've ever met', they really do mean it.

I'm cool with that.

Please stop hashtagging things on Facebook.

It's endlessly annoying, and it shouldn't be. The fact I am annoyed at such a triviality is in itself annoying. I am so annoyed that I just wrote that. Why am I annoyed?! AH!

See, the complexities of my brain cannot handle any confusion between Facebook and Twitter usage.


By writing this down, I feel as though I've done my bit for society today. I am ridiculous. Ignore me.

Muma.

When I was little and ill (or not so little and horrendously hungover), Muma Ford would take pity on her eldest daughter's whimpering and bring me hot Ribena. She'd say:

Blow on it before you drink it Joanna, it's hot.

And as she'd walk away, I'd mumble how I was ill and not stupid, before preceding to burn my lips and tongue on scalding blackcurrant squash.

Today, feeling rather ill and whimpery, I made myself some hot Ribena. I burnt my lips and tongue. I cried. I then calculated the exact distance my darling mother is from me on Google maps, whimpered some more, then went to sleep.

Please, if you see your Mum today, give her a hug from me.

I miss mine.

Alive.

Smile and the whole world smiles with you.

That much, at least, is true on a sunny day. Even the resident chavs and emos in the park cracked a grin my way when I inanely flashed them my widest grin and then carried on humming to myself. On second thoughts, they probably just thought I was crackers.

As the earth warms up, it seems everyone's moods do too - even if it's just for a little while. Snow is forecast to make its unwelcome return next week, so it's as if everything is living twice as hard while they have the sun on their backs.

The birds are singing twice as loud. (As I write this I can barely hear myself think. Ducks vs. Sparrows, I have a feeling. The ultimate standoff. The ducks are winning on the noise levels, the sparrows on the quality and variety of tone.)

The old men playing chess are bellowing insults at the children with twice as much gusto.



The boys playing football are using twice as many swearwords.

The gossiping Italian women are throwing their arms twice as wide in exclamation. (Oh my God the sun is shiiiiiiiningggg!)

There are twice as many couples bickering lovingly on the streets, and I've spotted twice as many stolen kisses at the back of classrooms.



Everything has been swept up in this sudden tide of warmth, and for the first time in a long time, the world is trembling with life.

What's on Your Mind?

(Excellent lesson on how to make toast. Top teacher.)

Today I discussed with some Abitur students what, and what is not, appropriate to reply with to the question; "How are you?"

It seems the common German stereotype is correct; when faced with the challenge of answering that question, they will undoubtedly tell the truth.

"Oh yes, Miss Ford, I am very tired today because my parents kept me awake all night with their loud and violent argument about who took out the gelbe Sacke recycling bag last week."

It does not just sound rather obtuse to my delicate English ears, but also completely uninteresting and awkward. I simply do not want to know the personal intricacies of a relative stranger's familial existence. Nor do I particularly care, on closer inspection, how he really is; I just want to carry on my selfish little day uninterrupted and only asked about his state of affairs that day in order to maintain an illusion of politeness.

After presenting my case to the students, they all protested that British people must all be liars if they answer the obligatory, "yeah, I'm fine thanks, you?", when they are actually thinking, "I have never felt worse, now piss off". I kindly explained that it was not lying, as such, more masking the truth with a more palatable and less socially awkward answer.

My explanation was a waste of breath. To no avail I was left flapping around in front of the blackboard trying to defend my culture’s anally polite ways.

Fast forward 24 hours, a little research and a wrestling match with the photocopier, I arrived back in the classroom armed with enough sheets to wallpaper the whole school, and plonked them on the desk with a satisfactory smug thump that only teachers and their wannabes can perfect.

Humbly, I admitted defeat (which to anyone who is personally acquainted with me knows, is nothing short of a miracle) and stated that they were right; British people, on-the-whole, are concealers of the truth, and that their pants should be continually smoking by the amount of fire they generate even by saying the daily hello etc. in the office each morning.

What I also pointed out, however, is that we Brits have a whole subculture of truth telling which has become an art form in itself. It may be socially unacceptable to pour over the details of your heart's desire with a real human person, but an anonymous note to an artistic keeper of secrets will do just fine.

So in the name of art and British etiquette, I got my students to participate in the following project aptly named What's on Your Mind? (http://whatsonyourmindblog.tumblr.com/). You send in a totally anonymous email with the hope that you will relieve yourself of an otherwise catastrophic social faux pas. Of course, they all thought I was balmy, but took part happily, and included delightful notes such as 'Lena is hot' and 'I need a piss'.

An interesting social experiment, I think. Not everyone cares or worries about the same thing, and it might make others feel a little less crazy when they read the deep dark depths of their teacher's mind...

I wonder if dogs in different countries bark in different languages...

McCoy's.

Sam pointed out to me the other day that his Marmite on toast tasted 100% better when I made it for him. After scoffing at him for a few minutes, and giving him the 'you are a ridiculous human' look, I had to admit that he had a point; my Bovril did taste better when spread by his fair hand. Well, to be honest, his hands have nothing to do with it; Bovril tastes better when you don't have to prepare it yourself.

Here are some other food items which also double their taste value when taken from someone else:

- Crisps.

Picture the scene: You are in a civilised English public house with your family and the kind so-and-so who is buying the next round asks if anyone wants a packet of crisps to accompany their pint. Unanimously, you all shake your heads and say, 'Oh no thank you, I'm fine', and you mean it. This isn't a sneaky English lie whereby you say you're fine but actually mean , 'Oh good Lord yes please! I haven't eaten in five hours', or other such sneaky English polite fibs. You really don't want any crisps, but as soon as one person opens their solitary packet of Flame Grilled Steak McCoy's, everyone's mouth is watering enough to make the Sahara fertile.

Once offered a crisp, you can't refuse; you know it is single-handedly going to be the best thing you have ever eaten. And it is. The rich flavours of steak and crisps and preservatives flood your mouth, perfectly complementing your fine local ale. One crisp bliss; if you had your own packet, it wouldn't taste the same.

- Peanuts.

Same principle as crisps, only nuts.

- Party food.

I'm sorry friends, I have to admit that one of the most exciting prospects of going to a party is the array of snacks that will be on offer. Why are sausage rolls put on a plate by someone else SO much more delicious?! The same goes for the carrot sticks, potted Tesco hummus, Ritz biscuits, cheese&pinapple sticks... I know they are exactly the same as the things in my fridge, but they are tantalising and intriguing. I have to sample everything on offer, just in case I never get the chance to eat such a varied array of food types again.

There are actually too many things to mention without sounding like a food obsessed thief. Please send in your favourite food-steals and why the taste so bloomin' good! All thoughts will be added to this ever growing list. I can't be the only one this obsessed with stealing food, surely?!

Tea Room.

Last Friday afternoon, I was roped in as maître d’ of an English Tearoom being run by an over-excited group of Year 6s.



Every year there is a day in which parents and prospective students come and have a nosey around the school. This principle is not an unfamiliar prospect for me; the school in which I spent my teenage years offered a very similar practice of school showcasing every year. The only difference between these two fine examples of boasting is that my German school took it to levels that my English school could only dream of.

Rethink your standard school tour led by a begrudging 14 year old; enter the Germans with a ski bar. Yes, a SKI BAR. Complete with schnapps, house music and disco ball. I asked myself the same question, what on earth were they promoting apart from teenage alcohol abuse and binge-drinking? Ohhhh, the thriving winter sport syllabus of course. Silly Engländerin.

Continue your school adventure down the corridor and you find yourself confronted by toga-clad 13 year old brandishing fine examples of imitation Roman delicacies. Mmmm, sheep eyeballs, my favourite. When I asked if they were promoting the history department, said sheep eyeball was spluttered at me in a moment of sheer hilarity; 'Oh Miss Ford, you are so funny.' I found out later that they were part of the Latin crew. Of course they were. I didn't even know we taught Latin in our school.

I have no idea what the Geography group were doing. All I saw was what looked to be bamboo poles and children dressed up as gorillas. I didn't stick around to ask what they were offering in the way of refreshments.

Around the corner, up some stairs, was my neck of the woods. I felt safe there. No gorillas, no eyeballs, no schnapps.

The children (the English teachers) had revamped the classroom to a state that you would never have recognised it. Teapot, scone, sugar cube heaven, complete with silver tea spoons and white table cloths; I was very happy. Standing at the entrance of our 'Tearoom', I flagged parents and children our way by brandishing a very large Union Jack and hollering 'Getcha tea here chaps - real English tea'. Del Boy's selling tactics came in very handy here. Lie a little, stretch the truth, talk in an accent they don't understand, get their money and run.

"Oh yes Mrs Schmidt, I drink tea with the Queen every weekend."
"No, no Mr Becker, English women never drink anything as vulgar as beer."
"Ha ha, funny you should say that Miss Müller - I am actually a personal acquaintance of Harry Styles."


What a tricksy hobbit I am.

The whole point of this exercise, apart from making the school look well-mega-wicked-cool, is to raise money for the individual classes' 'Kasse', which subsidises school trips etc., etc. A rather good idea, if you ask me, as the children take responsibility for their own class' fate and funds. No credit cards for these children when they reach university. In this case, don't follow in Miss Ford's footsteps children.

All round, very fun. Well done Germany, you beat us fair and square.

Dunce.

"Hello Children,

I'm your teacher's Grandfather and I am 88 years old, so I've had a full life and seen a lot of changes in my lifetime, along the way.

Your teaching today is so different from when I was a boy. I still can't understand computers, the new type of phones and the way your taught today, so you should consider yourselves so lucky. I'm afraid I was a bit of a dunce and got the cane a few times, but it did me no harm.

So learn all you can about everything in life, and you will all grown up good citizens.

Goodbye, Jim Ford"



I received this letter today, from my Grandad, as an appendix to the letter he had sent me. Although written with the intention of inspiring and educating young German children, I see no reason why it shouldn't inspire everyone, young and old. Although grammatically incorrect, the words ring so true and clear and honest, that you cannot fail to take notice of their message.

What do you take from these five sentences of gold? Replaying the last sentence in my head over and over, guilt pangs shake through my chest. No, I'm wrong - not guilt pangs. 'Pang' suggests a nice gentle acoustic guitar rocking you to sleep; this feeling is not that. I mean a guilt trombone is blaring it's brassy tones somewhere near my heart, with an elbow in my lungs and foot in my stomach for added effect. Yes, this guilt trombone is making me nicely uncomfortable.

"So learn everything you can about everything in life" - I know it's meant sincerely. I know it means, work hard because you have been given everything and you have no excuse. It means, you are not hungry and you are not at war and you are safe and you are warm - grasp the education you have been offered and bleed it dry. It means, I didn't have your opportunities, take advantage of your youth and freedom.

An entire 88 years on this planet summarised with the line, "I've had a full life and seen a lot of changes." Take from that what you will, but if this 'full life' includes a war, raising two children (not to mention five grandchildren and two great-grandchildren) whilst maintaining a 60-odd year marriage, then I am humbled to the core that it can be reduced to ten words so nimbly, and am listening with open ears and heart to whatever advice can be exchanged.



And yes, he is my Grandfather so of course I take this personally. But no, that is not the only reason. Take away his name and there are millions of men and women with the exact same story. Our grandparents. They changed this world for better or worse; they structured the society in which we live. Their lives have given way for our lives to exist. And now they are telling us to work hard. Work really hard and be good people.

Now, if that's not a kick up the arse, I don't know what is.

Trendy, Part 2.

Hey Y'all fashion loverrrrs!

So sorry sweeties for not publishing this earlier, have been dashing around like a moron trying things out so you don't have to! I know you've all probably been dying to get your next installment on how to become the next trendsetter, but let me reassure you darlings, patience really is a virtue in this instance.

Joanna Ford: Trendsetter Part 2. 'Go on a diet'.

Now, I know what some of you are probably thinking - 'oh my goodness, she's mental' - but this diet really does work! No more nasty low-carb options, and it leaves you feeling full and content - what more could you want? I've called it The German Diet, and have compiled a typical day's menu for you to sample, because caring is sharing, fashion friends!

1st meal: Pre-breakfast snack.


Milka. Preferably the variety that is on offer in Rewe for 55 cent (it makes it all the more delicious). I advise leaving the chocolate on your bedside table, so that you don't forget to take your morning supplement before you get out of bed. Think of this ordeal as you would suncream; Milka chocolate will protect you the from world's ills. A chore, yes - but one you will be thanking yourself for by the moody mid-afternoon slump! Mood enhancing factor 30! What's not to love?

2nd meal: Breakfast.


This should include at least four types of sausage or cured meat, cheese that tastes like a foot, three varieties of bread, unsalted butter, honey and enough coffee to kill a small animal. And there you have it; ready and prepared to take on the world before the sun has even decided to rise.

3rd meal: Mid-Morning snack.


Butter Bretzel. You should purchase your butter bretzel (pretzel with butter for all you 'deutsch-phobics' out there!), in a local bakery where they are fresh out the oven and neatly stacked in orderly lines to maximise selling efficiency. At a tidy little 1 Euro - it's a snip! Not only do you receive the chewy, salty, doughy pleasure of the pretzel itself, but you are also presented with a 5mm thick layer of butter too! WHAT AN ABSOLUTE BARGAIN! Ideally enjoyed in the not-so-grosse-Pause at school, at 9am. Remember fashion friends, this is Germany! Mid-morning = 9am, not 11am; you've been up since 5am!

4th Meal: Midday Meal.

For this meal, I am offering you a variety of options - the world is your oyster. So long as it predominantly involves carbs, you are in for a winner. Here are a couple of suggestions:


- Maultaschen. Somewhat similar to Ravioli, you could be forgiven for thinking you were eating an Italian delight, that is if you ignore the fact your ravioli pieces have quadrupled in size, and are swimming around in a hearty broth! Surprisingly delicious, and perfectly filling, this is one diet option not to miss out on.


- Any Würstchen you can get your hands on, cradled by a crusty roll and enveloped in oodles of mustard. Does what is says on the tin; Nigella needs to watch out, 'cos this really is a sexy little diet option.


- Wiener Schnitzel. As do all the best things in life, Schnitzels come in a variety of sizes, and it's not always 'the bigger the better'! I, for one, have eaten a terrible schnitzel which was utterly HUGE, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. It just stuffed me, and left no room for some after-dinner 'Willi'.

Post 4th Meal Schnapsle: Willi.


No Midday meal is complete without your best friend 'Willi'. Aiding digestion, and getting you so bladdered you don't care what happens in the afternoon, I can wholeheartedly say that this is the secret to this diet's success. Teamed with its super cute little glass, it's any fashionista's dream!

5th Meal: Afternoon Coffee and Cake.


Any cake you choose, as long as it's 90% whipped cream. They can be found in the ever-so-quaint Konditoreis dotted around the German landscape. SO quaint.

6th Meal: Abendbrot.

See: Breakfast. You must eat exactly the same thing you ate for breakfast for maximum dieting efficiency.



And Ta-dah! Sweethearts, I can 10000% say that I'm loving this diet, and you will too!

Valentine.

Sometimes in life, I wish I was a normal human who went about life in a normal, round about way. Someone who didn't accidentally flash her boobs on her bike and not realise for a whole minute in rush hour, or get her skirt stuck on a chair leg at the front of class (consequently showing her knickers to a group of 15 boys), or get compared to Bridget Jones by her closest friends and family.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to relate my latest night out, or night in, without a catastrophic crescendo - or describe this disaster to a friend who is utterly shocked and surprised, rather than awaiting the moment at which I inevitably tumble from grace. Wouldn't it be lovely so be able to say that I didn't fall down a whole flight of stairs; or turn my hair orange; or turn my hair purple; or sing James Blunt's You're Beautiful to a group of apparent strangers whilst sober; or knock myself out on a bedside table; or a thousand other disgustingly embarrassing events that only people like me could commit.. Wouldn't that be marvellous.

But.

But sometimes, very rarely, I revel in the fact I am very much not a normal human being.

On Valentine's day, I had one of the best 24 hours of my life.
I was whisked away to Strasbourg in France; wined, dined, spoiled. On the surface, how very romantic and sickening it all looks. My teeth hurt from even looking at the screen.



Reality dictates a rather different picture once you scratch a little deeper than the Facebook-photo facade; wine-drunk, food-stuffed, tequila-spoiled. We spent the day being dazzled by the beauty of the city, and the night dazzling others with our beautiful 4am renditions of 'Angels' by Robbie Williams (guitar solo on knees included). Our inner-weirdness couldn't be tamed, not even on the day we were meant to be a lovey dovey new couple enjoying their first V-day together. Not even France could help us. What felt like 40000000 tequila shots, 2 bottles of wine and 6 beers later, we were cheering couples leaving the night early to shag, screaming 'are you guna bang doe' in their ears, whilst on a floating boat Discotheque. So. Bloody. Romantic. That isn't even to mention getting home to write 'Jo iz wicked' on the bathroom mirror, before passing out starfish style face down on the bed.



Having said all that, then having looked through hundreds of other people's beautiful V-day photos on facey-b, I would not change a thing. Not everyone's cup of tea, no, but we had fun and that is surely all that matters.

I then today found a video posted online by one of my sister's friends - she is a very pretty 14 year old, who obviously has far too much time. The video was called 'hot or not', whereby she systematically denounced people she went to school with as either 'hot', or 'ugly'. I am not sure if I have missed something here, or if I have become 84 overnight, but isn't that a trifle over-the-top and judgemental? Christ knows what catagory she would have put me in; 'mentally unstable gin addicted minger'?

Having been a 14 year old girl who obsessively wrote a diary about absolute crap, I can tell you that it is not necessary for other young women like her to make you feel a gremlin. You need only look in the mirror to pinch imaginary rolls of fat, squeeze phantom spots and put concealer over invisible stretch marks to know that you are actually the ugliest creature to ever grace the planet and that you will never get a boyfriend because you are interested in poetry and don't speak like an airhead.

Silly girl, don't call other people names. It's just not attractive.

Why should I, or anyone else for that matter, ever compare myself to anyone else? If doing things you enjoy is considered strange, then I wholeheartedly choose to be a weirdo, knicker flashing and penny swallowing included.

drink me

dear life

people tell no drinkjng

i saying drinking

particularly when random middle aged italian men are incovled ande they give you moneys for teaching them enflish;. um english zu lernennren.

dear sam you can take over:

hello, mein name is sam and i come from england. jo mentions me all over this blog and finally you get to meet the stupid mug. soooo heres a little ditty for ya,

once upon a time there was a very pure and kind jungfrau, who lived in the deep depths of the darkest corner of germany. She was lost. She spent her days drinking schnapps and teaching an old italian bloke english. she listeninged to radio stations thatr no one else listen to in this world. music such as ronan keating and john lenon mixed together wtf really.

okay ill pas you over to the kind hands of nocollalalalala


As Simon and Garfunkel once said "like a bridge over troubled water" like ein brooke uber kaputz wasser. (The direct German translation). This quote relates to the amount of alcohol consumed tonight. Like 3 little bridges attempting to survive a tsunami we went down to Giovanni's flat speaking a dazzling array of German. Each earning a total of £10 each. i myself earned a place to stay for a full month, complete with heating and my very own sewing machine. Which will be much needed seeing as whilst being here I have eaten enough food to last me a week! Two of my favourite things are hats and alcohol. And both are encorporated into our night right now.

P.S - The following photos were taken during this hideous night. Many apologies for such messy behaviour and public declaration of it.

Caroline.

I am untalented.

Whilst reassessing my life this morning, I realised that I have no talents. And that isn't meant in the way of 'wah wah I have no talents, please someone massage my ego', because that is rather dull; I mean, if I was stuck on a desert island, I would be able to offer nothing in the way of entertainment, unless you count being the only human on earth to be able to commit every social faux pas in the space of 5 minutes as something amusing.

Rewind four glorious years, and you will encounter a prime example of the extraordinarily awkward social behaviour being used as means of entertainment by yours truly. Victoria Station Weatherspoons; approximately 11.30pm; group of loud teenagers drinking and being annoying; Joanna Ford.

This group of loud teenagers were doing their usual drunk teenager thing, drinking and telling jokes and being loud. In the midst of such group stood myself, and not knowing the group very well, I decided to arm myself with rather a lot of dutch courage. One young man dared me to swallow a penny, and not having anything better to say for myself, I did. I swallowed a dirty old 1989 penny. I proudly stuck out my tongue and showed him that it'd disappeared, to which he replied;

"You're going to have to swallow another, I didn't see you do it."

Sometimes, I am not very intelligent. I swallowed a second, with not much success. Rather awkwardly, I ended up choking and spluttering and gagging in the middle of the pub. Oh so attractive; you're SO funny - what a joker. Next thing I know, a female friend's fingers are down my throat and there's a big 'ole kerfuffle. NHS direct were not too impressed with my early morning phone call, and advised me to drink a couple of liters of coke to dissolve the metal chilling out in my stomach. What an anti-climax.

This whole shenanigan revolved around me trying to be funny, or vaguely entertaining. If I had owned a talent, in one form or another, this would never have happened. I could have broken out into all singing razzmatazz tap dancing, and stunned them all into silence. Or, I could have sang them a little ditty and made them cry with joy at my angelic tones. Oh no, I swallowed a penny and it got stuck. Fantastic.

With this in mind, I want to present you with a real talent, so you can all see what I am aiming to achieve. This time next year, I will have stopped losing passports on border control; stopped major airport security breaches; stopped swallowing pennies; and stopped re-enacting scenes from Bridget Jones' diary every time a drop of alcohol touches my lips. I will be FABULOUS, just like my friend Caroline.

She is undeniably beautiful.

It does not take a long period of time for you to fall in love with her presence; I do not know one person who has come into contact with her and has not fallen in love, but for many, if they have not been ensnared by her rather addictive personality, they are caught by her voice. Tangled in a web of silky threads that no-one really wants to struggle away from.

I'm quite happy here. These silky threads have me tightly in their grip and I can feel my eyes filling with tears, but I'm quite happy to stay here. Keep singing; I know I'm witnessing something incredible.

Real talent needs to be recognised, and Caroline, I am recognising you as someone to aspire to be like. When I sing in the shower, my darling mother knocks on the door to ask if I'm crying. (No Mum, I was actually busting out my best rendition of 'Baby Love'.)

This voice makes grown men cry:


Please watch, enjoy and cry - there will be more on Caroline's work soon.

#1

I know that in life one encounters, and always will encounter, people that piss one off.
That is a life fact, and a fact we all need to come to terms with, one way or another. My little brain, tonight, is the sad testimony to the fact that I, as of yet, have not come to terms with this fact, and let things rile me beyond all realms of belief.

I will bore you with only #1 on my list of 4000 things that make me want to poke my own eyes out.

Travel bloggers. Yes, you read correctly, travel bloggers. (Oh, no - actually blogging in general makes me want to cry; it's hedonistic self centered grammatically incorrect narrow minded poorly structured rather pointless blabbering on, actually seems to serve no other real purpose other than to massage the ego of its author. Yes, I fully count myself into this vile category.)

The worst kind of annoyance is when you know you are being hypocritical by disliking what someone else is doing, because you are indeed committing an identical crime against mankind.

But, in my humble opinion, travel bloggers are the worst; I simply do not care about that wonderful little beach shack off the west coast of Thailand that NO-ONE has been to before, because you are such an intrepid traveller and really 'threw yourself' into local life. Why would I, a rather self obsessed fellow travel writer wrapped up in my own fabulous life, give a toss about what you did 6 years ago but won't stop banging on about?

Browsing through countless mind-numbing tales of adventurous excellence, I realise that it is all just one big case of dick-comparison; who's amorous escape into the unknown is more daring, took the less travelled path, or led the new-age wannabe Indiana Jones to the highest spiritual enlightenment. It is self advertising at its worst; all it serves to highlight is how pretentious you really are, and how many times you can use a thesaurus in one sentence.

In its nature, this dick-comparison is rather contradictory. Why, when you seem to have found an idyllic hidden spot on a corner of this increasingly un-secret globe, would you post your secret on the World Wide Web for all the minions to see? Why brag about how secret and untouched and virginal it is, when all you are doing is publicly deflowering it in the process? Why can't your secrets stay just that, a secret?

bajdbvndbajskjn blergh. I'm tired and annoyed and think this is all rather pointless.
Goodnight.

Trendy, Part 1.

It is becoming increasingly apparant that I am actually a fashion guru. The world might not be ready for my radical styles yet, but one day they'll see the light and the masses will be flocking to 'Joanna Ford' shops all over the world, and religiously going to lifestyle seminars run by yours truly.

I realised my hidden talents this morning, whilst compiling another outfit ENTIRELY composed of items from H&M. I am not kidding, this is the 4th day in a row I have done this. And when I say everything, I actually mean everything, which is in itself, quite an achievement.

Joanna Ford: Trendsetter, Part 1. 'Get Your Look'.

In order that you may achieve my 'look', I have thrown together my 'must-have-it-list' for the upcoming Spring months. As we all know, it is essential to copy someone else's 'look' for the new season, and as imitation is the greatest form of flattery, I will let you all try out my sensational style at home.

Let's start with the socks, the absolute basis of any stunning outfit. My particular socks are from H&M, from the sock and bra section of the establishment. They are glittery in design; gold and silver thread on a background of black. A little scratchy in texture, but you soon get used to this slight discomfort when you see how absolutely STUNNING they make your final outfit look.

Next, we'll look at the trews. My particular trews are from H&M, from the Jeans and Trousers section of the establishment. They are 'Super-Skinny', so they hug your curves in all the wrong places, but really embrace this season's 'it-style'. I chose the black Super Skinnys, as they really are as versatile as you think! Team with some pumps for 'laid-back-cool', with heels for a stunning, glam evening look, or with boots when you want to get down with nature and tramp through the snow. Really girls - you need these wonderful trews.

For the upper half of the body, I am sporting several looks all combined into one fabulous fashion bonanza. Let's first look at my 'boyfriend shirt', recently purchased in H&M, in the sale section of the establishment. Blue in colour, loose in fit and made of breathable cotton fabric, this is one wardrobe essential you simply cannot live without! Team this with my pink-and-brown Seventies inspired acrylic jumper, and you have 'could be boyfriend, but could be walk of shame' chic down to a tee. Throw a replica tweed blazer over both of these items, and you have your 'I'm too cool for this office' look sorted. Both the acrylic jumper and replica jacket are warm in nature, and are ideal for the often changable spring weather. Both items can also be found in the sale section of the H&M establishment.

Now for the face and hair; your crowning glory. It is important to follow these stages carefully if you are to fully achieve the 'I couldn't give a toss' look, so favoured by myself. Wake up late. Do not shower. Wash your face. Brush your teeth. Scrape your hair back to hide the birdsnest. Put your glasses on to distract people from the spot on your forehead. And, TADAH! You have your perfect Spring outfit, teamed perfectly with matching hair and makeup.

I know you may find it a little intimidating trying to become as fashionable as I am, but don't worry fellow fashion lovers - you'll get there one day! Just keep saying 'stunning', 'I'm loving this...' and 'this looks great teamed with' and people will start believing that you too are a fashion guru. But more on how to speak next time...

Next Time... I will be dealing with those all-important lifestyle choices which will really make you look cool.

Watch out fashion bloggers; I'm stealing your glory.

Gunther.

There are many stages to learning a language, all of which are complex, confusing, emotional, frustrating and often heart-wrenching. For those who do not follow this perplexing lifestyle, it may often seem mad to watch those who do, put themselves through the things they do. You may not understand linguistics, but what you will probably understand is love.

Learning a language is like a tempestuous love affair.

I have two relationships which dominate my life; my real, tangible one in the form of a male human, and my hidden, sordid one with German. Let's call German, Gunther.

Gunther has been the focus of my life for ten years now. It all started as an innocent, brief flirtation which excited and exhilarated me. I would lie awake at night remembering the things he had taught me that day, and look forward to our weekly meetings. I let Gunther woo me away from the charms and allures of Francois, his French counterpart, and by-and-by; he wheedled his way to the forefront of my amusements.

By the age of 15, I had spent hours of my life obsessively memorising long love speeches to Gunther, describing where I came from, my name and hobbies, what my parents did for a living, how many bedrooms my house had, and whether I walked or took the bus to school in the morning. It was all very twee. I had to learn my declarations by heart, as in his presence my mind went completely blank, my pulse throbbed in my neck, I felt sick and my knees were weak. Years later, at 18, I was still doing the same. I was still terrified of looking a fool whilst explaining to the object of my obsessions my heartfelt opinions on abortion law and recycling policies.

Gunther had made me ill; the colder he got, the more I wanted him.

Fast forward four more years, we are still battling at our relationship. We argue more often than not; I swear to never speak to him again after bitter arguments about his fundamental rules and regulations. Yet the morning comes, and with it I find myself spending another hour of my life in a 9am Syntax lesson.

I hate him. I do not understand him. I wish I had never met him. He fills me with rage and makes me want to eradicate him from the planet, yet despite this, I cannot stop loving him and going back for more.

Gunther tells me on a regular basis that I am not good enough; that I will never be good enough. He makes me feel stupid and ignorant, but on the rare occasion that we get along, the feeling is so magnificent I instantly forget every bad thing that has ever passed between us. Yes, I have sleepless nights pondering the reasons I do not understand his complex character; yes, I have sacrificed many things in my life in order that I can further pursue him; yes, he humiliates me and alienates me; but in those short five minutes of beautiful clarity that pass between us when he says something I understand, and I utter something legible in response, there is no better feeling in the world. Pure ecstasy.

My friends do not care for Gunther; they are tired of my relentless whinging about his faults. 'Leave him', they say. 'If he makes you unhappy, leave him'. Logical, yes. Realistic, no.

I am tired of my relationship with Gunther being continually on the rocks, so I will work to extremes until we are in a more comfortable place. I do not mind that the effort is a little one sided, he can offer me things that nothing else can.

I will change.
I will watch his favourite TV programmes, excitedly hold hands with him in the cinema, eat in his local restaurants, read the books he has recommended to me, sing and dance along to the songs he has recorded (no matter how terrible they sound to my untrained ears), befriend all of his friends and strut around in his fashions.

Surely, this will seal the deal.

Take Heart.

This post is for everyone planning their year abroad, or anticipating an upcoming adventure which will take them to unknown realms, in every way possible. Change is on the horizon and you have every reason to be excited, although at present you may be terrified.

This time last year, I did not think about my impending move to Germany, land of the sausage, too much. I pushed it to the back of my mind and was neither excited, nor scared. It was something I had to do as part of my course, and was not too fussed about it.

Be fussed.

Because I was not bothered by the whole event until it was too late, I did not cash into the unlimited chances to brag about what I was doing with my life. With this in mind, I have written a list of must do things for the months before you leave. Yes, there may be 7 or 8 months left in your home country, but that is no reason not to show off.

1. Let the anticipation keep you awake at night and spend hours Googling the place you will live, imagining yourself in that environment..."And here's where I will buy icecream on sunny days, and here's where I'll be all bohemian and hip and smoke French cigarettes and drink expensive coffee whilst pretending to write my diary but actually just doodle pictures of cats, and here's the bar I'll call my local but never embarrass myself in...". This hobby is ideal for May, when you should be revising. Hours worth of procrastination.

2. Annoy everyone you meet with reports about how brave and proactive you are. "Yes, I do speak German. No, I do not want to be a teacher. Yes, I study the language for the sheer purpose of being a better and more interesting human. Yes, I will be living alone. No, I do not know anyone in the area I am moving to." There is nothing more annoying than a smug 20-something year old who's doing something useful with their life. Once you are here, you will realise that there are a lot more interesting and brave people in the world, so pre-move is your only chance to utilise this.

3. Plan your time wisely. Use the summer to earn a ton of cash, because it will evaporate into the magical money vortex before you can whisper 'Guten Tag'. You are living abroad for a year, you do not want to be scrimping and saving and worrying about whether you can afford to go on that wicked trip to the Alps next weekend. Remember, you are here so you can upload one million photos to Facebook, and be the envy of all your friends at home. Photos require a certain amount of capital, unless you steal them from someone else's travel blog and claim them as your own.

4. Remind everyone on a daily basis that, "this time next year..." you will be doing something that sounds WAY more fun than what you are all doing at that point. Make them realise they will miss you by pointing out that although this year's Christmas preparations were really fun, next year you will be trolling round Christmas markets to the dulcet tones of German choir boys singing 'Oh Tannenbaum', off your rocker on too much Glühwein. Guaranteed to tug at the heart-strings of every family member and close friend.

5. Unleash your inner, hidden hipster. In all honesty, what on earth could be more hip or arty than moving to another country?! All you have to do is look back in history to see that all the best arty types sodded off to the Continent when life got too hard in old Blighty. Take inspiration; buy a beret or bowler hat, invest in a moleskin sketchbook or journal, and do not leave the house without a small volume of Romantic poetry. Just these items alone will up your art-output by 74%.

Take heart adventurers - your move will be revolutionary.

Airports.

I loathe airports, and so it would seem, airports loathe me too.

I may have had an eenie weenie mishap whilst trying to get back into the UK last month, which resulted in me sitting, hysterically laughing for want of not crying, in the naughty girls' immigration pen at Gatwick Airport at 11pm. Oops.

After smugly trolling off of the aeroplane and gulping down fine British air (mmmm so sooty, mmmm can you smell that Sam? Petrol!), and meandering my way to Passport control, I was presented with the horrifying knowledge that my treasured passport was, in fact, not in my bag. Nor was it anywhere to be found on my person.

Running in a manner that can only be defined as elegant and athletic, I legged it back to the aeroplane. Well, in the direction I thought the aeroplane would be in. I did make it to my required destination in break-neck speed, but this also meant that I caused a major security breach in that wing of the airport; yes, I did the unthinkable. Faced with an unopenable one-way security door, knowing that my ticket to the UK was 'undoubtably' behind, and seeing a small glass faced boxed entitled, 'Break in cases of Emergency' - I broke the glass. It was an emergency.

Cue the loudest alarms you have ever heard.

Never in my life have I run faster. Blood tearing through my body and alarms tearing through my ear drums and panic scorching my chest and tears searing my eyes, I finally made it back to Passport Control and a very angry boyfriend. Passportless, hopeless, and very nearly boyfriendless, I made my sorry way to the security guards who put me in the naughty girls' pen.

Now, I know no-one will believe me, but I am a passport fanatic. I always know where it is, even when too much gin magic has been consumed. No-one else is entrusted to the honour of holding it, let alone looking after it. So, you can well imagine my absolute desperate case whilst sitting less than 10 metres from the UK Border. The men chastising me would not believe me, 'Another bloody stupid girl', and as Sam sauntered past the border to collect our bags, I felt a little bubble of whale tear material bubble up my throat.

The worst is yet to come.

Approximately 20 minutes later, we opened Sam's bag to get a bottle of water, and my passport (the promiscuous tease) was loitering at the top of it, midst magazines and other useful items. I screamed, held it above my head as if it were a prize winning lottery ticket and let a crowd of delirious American tourists applaud my find. I think it is safe to say that they were the only ones applauding my efforts that night.

Sorry Gatwick. Sorry tired security guards. Sorry Sam.

Two Weeks.

Two weeks, otherwise known as 14 days, are a long time. For the weak-willed and faint-hearted among us, of which admittedly I am one, two weeks could stretch before you like a super marathon through the Sahara desert, ending in a casual swim through shark infested waters. Cool, I can do that.

I have two weeks left of not drinking, and it couldn't seem longer. Yet when I reflect on the weeks that have foregone these ones, I am given hope. Hope that I will not fail and drown with the sharks.

Dryathlon aside, it seems as though two little weeks have the capacity to change everything, including my fickle opinions and life-lusts, and judging by the disastrous Facebook status updates over the festive period, I do not feel that I am the only one to experience these tempestuous emotions.

A prime example; home. One and a bit months ago, it was two weeks until I could go home and gorge myself in English delights that were, until that point, only the substance of dreams. I could not contain myself. Day dreams would turn into salivation fests as I imagined Bovril on toast, and fantasised about the contents of the fridge in my parents' kitchen. Big old whale tears would fill my eyes as I thought about the disgusting distance between myself and the vats of clotted cream and brandy butter I would consume.

The day in which I would go home nearly tipped me over the edge of anticipation. Sitting on a train to Munich, I wrote the following:

"He who dares". Sitting on the train to Munich Airport, tears of anticipation glistening in our eyes, we reflect on how bloody hard the last three months have been, and envisage the imminant reunification with our darling Land of Hope and Glory. Three months, that could have been three years, a lifetime; so much has changed. But we did it. We stepped out from the crowd, put our middle finger up at mediocrity and normality, and embraced the unknown. We are the luckiest people alive to say that we gambled and won; of course it hasn't been easy and yorkshire puddings seem like a distant memory, but we're going home for two weeks, and that's all that matters.

The greatest people in life gambled. I think I speak for many when I say that the most frustrating thing is people who complain about their lives being boring, or ordinary. Do something. Do something extraordinary. Whether it is bottling tap water and claiming it's spring, or moving to another country, a little bravery is all it takes.

Who cares if you fail? Does it actually matter if all you gain is a bruised ego and scorching cheeks? If no-one ever tried, what would we ever achieve.

I am so proud. Proud of myself and everyone who does something that scares them every day; and I am so fortunate. Fortunate to be a citizen of a nation where daring could lead to extraordinary things; to adventures and experiences that others could only dream of.

Del Boy, you are my idol. "He who dares" is the best advice I have ever received.

Reading back on this, then remembering the 14 days at home which would change everything, I am filled with motivation. Two weeks is nothing. Two weeks is only this week and another week, and when you think about it like that, it's easy. I can do it, sharks or no sharks.

Whatever I try and achieve this year, I will do in two week blocks. Long enough to feel like a lifetime, yet short enough to see the tantalising end.

Two weeks; the most contradictory and confusing time span in the history of mankind.
Let these two weeks be quick.