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

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.

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.

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.

Alcohol.

Christmas time, mistletoe and wine. Well, actually, lots of wine. So much wine that today I have the mother of all hangovers, a red wine stained hat, no money and an empty bottle collection on my bedside table that would put any hardened alcy to shame.

I think I can speak for many households in Great Britain when I say, it's the same story every year. One vat of mulled wine and several G&Ts later, Grandad is merrily chewing the ears off my sister with enthralling wartime stories; the dog has nicked Mum's chocolates and has emptied the contents of his stomach on her prized Persian rug; the boys are close to a punch-up due to dubious rule breaking in the Snooker/Darts Championship and Dad has fallen asleep, open mouthed on the sofa whilst claiming to be watching a repeat of 'Darling Buds of May'.

I don't think anyone actually looks forward to this tried and tested formula for Christmas day, it's all a bit too stressful. The festive spirit is just a bit too much for us to handle, so alcohol is used liberally to lubricate everyone's moods so we can maybe start to resemble a happy, 'normal', functioning family. Or maybe just get us so blotto we don't care that Grandad's telling us for the 500th time that he liberated Jersey from the Germans, or that his false teeth keep falling out when he talks.

Pondering on this Christmas' alcohol abuse, and being fully motivated by a tequila-gin-wine-Guinness cocktail hangover, I have decided to give it all up for a month in aid of a charity that strives to help and transform lives, Cancer Research UK. It's all a bit silly really when you think about it; most of the population getting drunk because we can't handle familial awkwardness, while others are fighting with everything they've got for the chance to argue about the rules of Monopoly next year. Perspective, in this situation, is very sorely needed.

So, I'm going to do it. Friends, family, strangers; this girl is going to be G&T free for the entirety of January. This may sound like a walk in the park, but for me - this is huge. How am I going to survive a day at school without the promise of some Amber Nectar when I get home? £5 or £50, I don't care how much I raise, as long as it goes to help someone that needs it more than me.

Christ knows how well this is going to go.
Wish me luck.

http://www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-joanna-ford

Decadence.

We went to a bar where they had 23 varieties of gin on offer for the perusal and pleasure of the merry customers. I was a very merry customer.

Who seriously needs 23 varieties of gin?

This girl.

This girl is hooked on life. Life which is dizzying, petrifying, heartbreaking, heartmaking, sleepless, anxious, toe-wriggling, eye-glistening, stomach-churning, blinding, winding, ever-changing, unpredictable, inspirational, breathtaking, choking, suffocating, intoxicating, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, mindblowing and beautiful.

A gin for every occasion.

Beer.

It turns out, Germans like beer.

I know this may shock and surprise some people, but it is true; they really do love the stuff. So much so, that towns dedicate whole weeks of the calender to celebrate the majesty of the beer produced in the region - singing songs, holding hands and guzzling litres of the liquid gold, whilst parading around in leather trousers and bosom enhancing dresses.

Last Saturday, I found myself in the midst of this mayhem. Picture the scene, myself (a timid, modest young lady who enjoys a quiet ginger beer at the end of a long day) accompanied by two like minded gentleman, stranded in a beer hall where the only occupations available to us were: beer, beer songs, beer induced dancing and beer induced friendship making. Terrible. Bad Canstatt promised a 'Volksfest', rather naively I believed this to involve a tombola, merry-go-round and a tin of sweets.

After this horrendous encounter with the beer-loving masses, I decided to investigate further into this dark underbelly of German culture.

My first stop was the supermarket. Not only were there nearly one hundred varieties of beer available to take away in crates, they were priced at a maximum of 90c each, and many of them were brewed locally! In my very town! Not only that, dear Readers, but if you take your used bottles back, you will receive money for doing so - practically forcing the poor consumer to drink.

A diversion into work on Monday illuminated me to the fact that the wretchedness of drinking beer is not only forced upon adults in this country, but the teenagers too. A youth, 16 years of age, in my English class informed me that he too had been at the so-called 'Volksfest', and not just on the fun fair rides, Ladies and Gentlemen, in the beer tents too! It is legal to drink beer and wine from the age of 16; well I never.

Tired of this investigation, I arrived back to my home town to find that a wine festival had taken over its sleepy streets.
What ever will they think of next?!

Last night.

Things I remember from last night:

- Oktoberfest.
- Beer.
- Drunk Mark.
- Being really hot.
- Being really cold.
- A random hut party in the woods.
- Inviting myself and Sam to stay at someone's grandparent's house.
- Tequila.

Things I do not remember from last night:

- How we got to the random hut party in the woods.
- Who I was talking to in the random hut.
- When we left the Oktoberfest.
- Where the new German girl is now.
- Where drunk Mark is now.
- Where the Grandparent's house is.
- Why I was in the woods drinking in a hut.
- Tequila.