In More Alarming News About The State Of Britain...

...did you know you could apply to be James Bond online? I won't link directly to it because I'm scared but go HERE and then click on 'Careers'. I seriously thought applying to be a spy for one of the most highly secretive and cool ass agencies in the world would be an invite only scenerio.
Apparently not.

In other alarming news, britpopbaby almost applied to MI5 (apparently Matt did too, even more worrying eh?). They were ADVERTISING for intelligence officers at this site. All you need is a degree and the ability to keep your fucking mouth shut - I think you can guess why I didn't pursue my application. I filled in an online form and they sent me all the real forms - I think they were trying to disguise it as letters from a travel agents, oooo, top secret! I was very excited, as you can imagine, when the third question after name and address was, 'Do you own a personal website?' FUCK. I was faced with the following options:

1. Lie. But wait, this is MI5 - they're bound to find out! But wait, this is MI5 - they can't even track terrorist organisations to Leeds.
2. Shut down Gin Harpy AND Jake Watch. Gin Harpy wouldn't have been a huge problem but Jake Watch? No, I just couldn't.
3. Play dumb/clever. When questioned specify that I own 'blogs' not 'websites'.
4. Realistically think about do I want to work for MI5 - a lot of responsibility, the pay wasn't even that great, I'd have to move to London permantly and I'd never be able to tell anyone what my job was even though saying, 'I'm an intelligence officer for MI5' would be the coolest fucking sentence in the world bar, 'I'm an intelligence officer for MI6'.

So, all in all, I'm not going to apply to MI5 but I guess you can - just go to their website.

This post will self destruct in 3 minutes - hey it's MI5 not IMF, they don't have the resources!



P.S The MI5 tagline is just 'The Security Service' - not very catchy. It should be, 'This is MI5 not 9 to 5' like in Spooks.

britpopbaby's Night Down The Old Nick

And what a night it was! First off, I went there of my own accord, well, my mother's accord. She is desperate for me to join the police or as she likes to put it, 'Wouldn't it be nice to know you could get in, you know, if you wanted to'. Er, what? Fortunately it doesn't take Freud to work out the cogs behind this wheel. My Mum wanted to join the police when she was younger but couldn't because she had a heart defect (not serious, not even sure if she still has it but enough to keep her out the force). This is why I'm mainly going along with it, well, until someone hands me a bullet proof vest and tells me to watch their back or some shit.

The evening in question was a 'Familarisation Evening' for prospective recruits. Not as sexy as it sounds. I was hoping to get familar with some officers because there is a TV programme on BBC One at the moment called 'Traffic Cops' starring our local police station and some of the chaps they feature on there are very arrestable.

The first hint that I might not be quite the right material for Her Majesty's boys in blue came when I was getting ready to attend said 'Familarisation Evening'. Instead of thinking, 'What questions should I ask?', 'What issues are facing the police force today?' I was thinking, 'How much make-up should I put on?' and 'What should I wear? Pumps or flip-flops?'. After deciding on pumps and a respectable yet pretty mascara/lipgloss combo I boarded my sexy Italian car and bombed it to the police station, playing the steering wheel bongos along to Shakira. My hips don't lie either, baby. I broke every speed limit: hint two.

Arriving at the imposing headquarters I managed to neogiate both the speed bumps and security barrier. Once inside the building I did feel like I had committed a crime but I felt naughty not scared. Then the retardedness began...

First of all they made everyone sign in at three different points - once in reception, once in the canteen (?) and once in the final lecture room. Not only did you have to sign and print your name, you also had to note down your nationality - British White if you're interested. In all this took about twenty minutes each time because there were so many of us. I understand you have to have some level of security because it's the county police HQ but c'mon! As everyone signed in thrice I could feel my life slipping away before me and I hadn't even been recruited yet!

I was one of the first into the lecture room so I got to watch everyone else come in. I'd say about half of them looked like criminals - automatic assumptions about people based on looks alone - hint number three that I should not be a police officer, but wait - the next hour unfolded as some officer calling himself Head of Recruitment gave the world's most boring talk about how to fill in the application form correctly. It was like being spoken to like a five year old. I soon saw that quite a few people in the room needed things explained even more clearly so prehaps his tact was correct. When he came to the part about Criminal Convictions I naively thought we'd skip through this bit rather quickly, after all, why would anyone with criminal convictions attempt to join the police? OH MY GOD. Half the room started asking questions about driving offences and public orders! Retracting hint three that I shouldn't be an officer - I can spot criminals from appearance alone.

Other stupid questions asked included: "Will the police force buy me a house if I have to relocate?", "Do you have to wear boots because I have metal rods holding my ankles together?", "I got a parking ticket in Sainbury's car park once. Will you hold it against me?" and "I've applied to the police four times now and they haven't accepted me once. What am I doing wrong?" the same man later brought up some complicated point about serving time so I assumed that's where he'd gone wrong.

That was about it. I left in an almighty huff and also with the urge to scream out, 'I have a fucking degree! I'm better than this shit!". But I didn't. When I replayed the whole evening back to my parents Dad said, "Doesn't that give you encourgement that you'll get in?". Dad, were you even listening?

In Pop Nostalgia Today...

I just learnt that I've appeared on the same stage as The motherfucking Beatles! If you live in the North-West of England you most likely have a Beatle's story - my Dad beat John Lennon to shit in the school toilets once - I played drums for them for two weeks once - I wrote 'Hey Jude'.
Saying that, I haven't really grown up around The Beatles. Dad doesn't own any of their LPs because, as he sat me down and told me when I was younger, when he was growing up, in our town you were either a Beatles fan or a Rolling Stones fan and you NEVER divided your loyalty. Dad also claims that The Beatles were a band for the girls and very overrated. My Dad also thinks democracy is overrated so we'll move on quickly.

Anyway, my point is, I've never really 'got' The Beatles fascination - apart from the time I annoyed the fuck out of Anneka by playing We Can Work It Out over and over again in her car - that song makes me happy. I've gone off track again - despite not being a huge fan I was still excited to learn that I'd graced the same stage as them - Northwich Memorial Hall. Apparently they played there back in the 60's just as they became famous. They had booked months before and couldn't get out of it even though they tried (how rude - forgetting their roots already). I appeared on said stage in 2004 as a model in a fashion show, yeah, get me. There is a video of it knocking around somewhere. I just feel, I don't know, kind of cooler? I feel like now I have a really good point of interest if anyone brings up The Beatles at any future cocktail parties I plan on attending. Goes to show how powerful myth is...

Well, that's all. I have an exciting post to make, prehaps tomorrow, about my evening at the police station. See that, it's called building suspense so the readers come back for more - I'm a total writing pro. Tune in next week for tips on the technique of 'Foreshadowing'.

The Medieval Fayre

I'm not sure why we went but now I know we'll never, ever go again. Usually I appreciate English eccentricity - cow trials, cheese-rolling, Morris dancing - but these dudes were seriously fucked UP.

So it was Father's Day and being the good daughter I am I said, "Dad, what should we do today?". Dad replied, "There's an antique fair on at Arley Hall. I'd like to go to that and see if I can invest my life savings in grandfather clocks". I said, "Not fucking likely. When they say 'antique fair' they really mean 'car boot sale' but with tressel tables. There'll just be chewed Smurfs and jigsaw puzzles with pieces missing. We're not going there. Hey! Let's go to this Medieval Fayre at Tatton that I've just noticed advertised in the newspaper!". Dad replied, "Er, no". So thirty minutes later we were on our way to the Medieval Fayre.

Outside the Medieval Fayre there was a doughnut and crepe van which I later learnt had only been placed there to taunt us as inside the Medieval Fayre all you could buy was real ale, hog pie and scones. Nice. Mum hilariously asked the Gandalf looking man who was running the 'food' stall if they had a gluten-free option. Er, Mum, what part of medieval do you not understand? He looked at her like she'd just asked to hold a private court with King Arthur.

Everyone was dressed up like some peasant which was fucking creepy. They had real swords too. Dad loudly announced, "If I were to dress up to come to a medieval fayre I'd come as the King not some country oaf!". He later admitted that everything was, "making him feel uncomfortable". Everyone was really getting into it - using old english accents and they're were pigs running around! They were holding the fayre at this Tudor hall so with all these tents pitched in front of it and all these nutters walking around it was completely surreal. Occassionally you'd spot a Coke bottle and remember where you really were.

Anyway, it started to rain so Dad suggested we leg it promptly before we got huddled into a tent by the ironsmith who was making jousting armour (just like in A Knight's Tale with Heath Ledger) and keep smiling weirdly at us. We also had to stop Mum and Aunty Ange from buying gowns a la Rivendell. I demanded a crepe on the way out.

And another thing! I got admitted as a child! Mum got her money out to pay and the man in the ticket booth said, "So that's four adults and a child is it?". I was about to say, "No, actually. I'm 22, dickwad," but Mum jabbed me really hard in the ribs and said, "Yes, and one child".

Weird Sunday

There was something odd about my Sunday. I don't know if it was because I got up at seven to go to the gym or because Dad and I made the exact same trip to PC World that we'd made on Saturday (driving the scenic route and stopping off for ice cream) but it was just weird. I don't think my Dad's fast decline into insanity is helping much but neither is my nonchalant attitude to life at the moment.

I think both my Dad and I were in a strange mood. Examples:

Dad: "Nice day for a car crash" as we avoided a pile up on the dual carriageway.

Dad: "Should we ram raid PC World?"
Me: "Nah, it's too hot"

Dad: "I could take him" aimed at some random bloke that walked past as we were pulled up at traffic lights.

Dad: "Why can't people concentrate when they're driving? It's a serious business but people are chatting away on their phones and trying to drink their takeaway coffees and not taking any notice of what they're doing" During this rant Dad took a wrong turn and we got lost in a business park. The irony.

Me: "I had a dream last night that I worked in a zoo as the Kangaroo keeper"
Dad: "Me too!"
Me: "Really?"
Dad: "No."

Dad to me as the ruler I purchased at the shittest zoo in the world falls out of my handbag in the middle of PC World:
Dad:"You're obsessed with zoos, you are"
Me: "No I'm not", as the badge I purchased at the shittest zoo in the world drops out too.

This next quote requires some back story: Both my Mum and Dad help run the local sailing club which is no way near as posh as it sounds. Think dinghys not yachts. Anyway, a lot of the boats were getting vandalised by local youths so the club set up security cameras to catch them. On our way back from the expedition that was PC World we dropped in at the sailing club because Dad wanted to check the security camera footage.
Dad: "Look at these pair!" in reference to a couple getting mildly fresh near the safety boat containers.
Me: "Dad, I think that's improper use of your powers and the security equipment"
Dad: "I think that's improper use of a boat!"

Maybe it's because it's been unseasonally hot and we've got summer madness?

I'm Off To The Gym Tonight

Yes. You read it here first.

I figure a gin harpy must have the legs of a thoroughbred racehorse and the abs of Marky Mark. This is mainly in preparation for my summer holiday in Italy in which I plan to be fabulous and not at all tourist like so I can bag myself an Italian stallion. What could possibly go wrong?

Let's start with the gym - I rang them up this morning and the conversation went like this:
Man: Hello (inaudible mumble)
Me: Sorry is this Brook's Gym?
Man: What?
Me: Is this the gym?
Man: Oh, you'll want to speak to Sarah. I'll get her to ring you.
PAUSE
Me: Do you want my number?
Man: Oh, yeah...
Me: (gives number). I was told there was an induction tonight at 5.30pm?
Man: I dunno...
Me: My friend is booked in for it.
Man: What's your friends name?
Me: (why the fuck is that relevant?) (give friends name)
Man: Yeah, Sarah deals with it. Are you going to become a member? It's £35 for the induction and then £2 everytime after that.
Me: I was told it was £8 for the induction and then £3 after that?
Man: Yeah, you can do it that way. (WTF?)
Me: Okay, thanks. Bye.
Man: Ta-ra!

Three minutes later....

RING RING
Me: Hello
Man: Hi, it's me...(???). I've booked you down for that induction tonight. It's £8.
Me: Right, thanks.

I do not have high hopes. Last time I went to a gym I spent a hour cycling on one of those bikes with the saddle too high and it was really painful when I eventually fell off. Plus I went with my friend who was totally over the top about the whole thing, like, I'm setting it on Mountain!

Maybe I'll just drink water and knock back caffeine pills for six weeks.

I'm Just About Ready To Cry

When I left University last Friday I was promised I wouldn't be nagged about finding a job for at least a week because I'd been a good little girl, working hard and so on and so forth. Well that went out the window by about erm, Saturday morning.

I even applied to the police to shut them up and now I've even filled in the damn form and I'm getting all stressed out about fitness tests and how firm my grip is (it has to be 32kg). I don't wanna join the fucking police! Mum asked our neighbour, whose a policeman, to come round and chat to me about it. He kept using phrases like, 'dead bodies', 'mangled bodies', 'chasing', 'arms training' and 'our county can't afford a helicopter so we've got a van'.

Yesterday I was convinced to try out work experience for the BBC. I got all excited about that and went online to see what positions they had available only to quickly discover I'm not even qualified enough to work for free. Fuckers.

Mum has been nagging me to go back to my part time job but I hate it because they make me work 16 hours shifts catering for chav weddings. By the time I've finished I can never feel my feet and I stink of fags and lager and I've been sexually harassed by most people there - once the bride even squeased my bum. Plus I get bossed around and patronisied and I'm never allowed any responsibility - this from the people who can't even remember to pay me most months.

I want to cry. How is your job hunt going, my darling Anneka?

What is a Gin Harpy?

It may be a phrase I coined myself and if I did how mightily impressive of me, but, to be honest I think I heard it somewhere many moons ago.

My interpretation of a Gin Harpy is a fine sophisticated woman that has been perhaps dealt, what they consider, an unfair hand in life. As a result they are wickedly bitter whilst still retaining an air of dignity becoming of European royalty. Gin Harpy's like to drink gin, obviously, and they also like to crush men between their perfectly manicured fingernails. They are to be feared and greatly admired in equal quanities. Not to be confused with 'bitch', Harpies have much more class.

Examples of Gin Harpies?
Joan Collins or more accurately Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan from Dynasty. As a Gin Harpy you can also respect any deceased Hollywood star from the old school: Marilyn, Marlene Dietrich, Jane Russell, Greta Garbo - you get the idea. Tortured yet breathtakingly beautiful.

The Gin Harpy Lifestyle
Have affairs, sleep with younger men, ruin people, marry for money alone, have a special room for shoes, distance yourself, stay mysterious, look down on people, wear red lipstick, sneer, get drunk by yourself. The basic code of a Gin Harpy is that life is game that cannot be won and it's okay to be resentful about that fact.

So why is this blog called Memoirs of a Gin Harpy?
After trying other routes including 'intelligent', 'nice' and 'maternal', I decided the only path for me to take, as a woman in the 21st century was Gin Harpy. Alas, I am only a Gin Harpy in training but I hope to achieve full harpy status by the age of 25.

'Memoirs' is a little misleading as I'm not techincally dead but I did have some great explanation for this choice involving Roland Barthes's Death of the Author theory but you know, I've left Uni now and forgotten everything I ever learned.