McDreamy, McSteamy, and other things

Busy(ish) week.

Firstly - and rather inexplicably - we won Quiz Night. This is in spite of the fact that we were a) up against the women that knew everything (Mrs. F and Miss H) b) called Team Sophie, when everyone else was called something very witty (or thereabouts) and c) doing a lot of guessing. It was quite interesting to watch our transformations from easy-going, Freddo-eating students to sulky, competitive crazy people in the space of a few rounds.

Then, Sophie proved that she was as good a hostess as she was a bad quiz team-namer. We all skulked (or tottered, as was the case with Gem and I) to hers on Saturday night for a Chinese and Silent Hill. The latter left us bemused:-

"Why are you looking in a drawer? She's a person, not a pencil."

And I'm inclined to believe that we freaked poor Richard out slightly with our huge capacities for girly gossip, and our 'secret' eyebrow-raising language:

Him: "OK, I'm right here."

And, of course, we debated McDreamy vs. McSteamy. Which is so stupid, because McDreamy is not only hot, he is an actual nice person. A nice, hot brain surgeon with neither a mercenary streak nor a desire to betray his best friend. And McSteamy has weird facial hair. Yet opinion still remains divided. Obviously, my friends have various mental disorders.

And now I am very, very tired, because when I got home Matt and I decided to stay up until the wee hours watching England rebuild their innings, after what can only be called a horrendous beginning. Firstly: I. Want. Monty. And secondly, what is wrong with Harmison? Meh.

But it was never going to be easy.

"What would I do for a million pounds? Oh, anything, really."

"Me too. Does that make us easy?"

Word association

"But it's an emergency! An actual emergency. Sophie's... having a breakdown."

"Right. And, ahem, you're comforting her."

"Yes."

"So why are you still talking about bloody boys?"

I am, apparently, spending too much time on the phone. Not true, although the amount of times "get-off-the-land-line-you-have-a-mobile" is yelled in my house might suggest otherwise...

Aha! I went to see Borat! And it is just so funny. In a strange, cringeworthy way, but so funny nevertheless. The boring, boring people who bang on about how offensive it is should just take a moment to observe the genius that is Sasha Baron Cohen. He makes jokes that no other person would (or could) dream of creating. And I love Borat's misogyny. It is the perfect antidote to those sombre, holier-than-thou-art feminists who like to talk (and talk) about how repressed women are without ever trying to do anything, and blaming it on the men. Some of these women forget how bloody lucky we are in countries like Britain to have that equality and the opportunites that we do. Instead of tutting that less women than men are in the highest-paid jobs, perhaps they should get on a plane to the dark places in the world where women are routinely mutilated, dominated and oppressed.

But I digress. Everyone should see Borat. It is a brilliant film.

I was reading a feature today about how people associate single words to their friends and family. Strange, I thought, that relationships can be so complex but we can sum up the people we know in a word. Impossible, even. But no. So here are mine, a single word, or thereabouts, for each person. But in the spirit of harmony (and not sticking my neck out) I won't name names:

Scared. Hilarious. Sweet. Most intelligent, but most hidden. Bravado. All heart. A tough, tough cookie. The more you know, the better you like. Pretentious. Fun. Self-assured. Pensive. Emo!!! Fearless. Too cool for school. Really good looking. In love. A chip off the old block. An idiot.

But collectively, they are perfectly balanced.

Salisbury, not Sheffield

"So, what did you think of the play?"

We went, grudgingly, to Salisbury yesterday. The problems began early - about half an hour after we set off - when Mr. T put 'Wilde', the Oscar Wilde biopic, into the DVD palyer. Within the first few minutes, we came on to the first sex scene:

"No! No! Don't do it! Gay porn!" screeched one of the boys. "Noo! Oh. My. God. I can't look!"

So we spent an hour and a half watching the boys covering their eyes and wailing, and Sarah staring desolately at the screen: "I'll never look af Jude Law in the same way ever again."

By the time we got to Salisbury (which, incidentally, may as well be in a different hemisphere) all of us were already in the obligatory teenage sulk because it was bloody freezing. And then, in the theatre:

Old people.

So many old people.

In fact, our entire coachload of (lovely and youthful) sixth formers spent most of their time gaping at them.

"I really, really don't want to get old." said someone on the way home.

As for the play, it was, as Kat cleverly told all the teachers, evading having to give an actual response, "interesting". I also found the transition between Victorian society comedy and wierd X-Files style slow motion ballroom dancing interesting. Fundamentally, though, the play is flawed: Mrs. Arbuthnot goes on (and on and on) too much about her misery that it's impossible to appreciate any of the genuine feminist insight crammed between lines and lines of sanctimonious melodrama. "In her, all womanhood is martyred": but the audience never really cares. Humour is much more Wilde's forte. For actual morality, Henrik Ibsen is miles ahead.

Enfin, Grey's Anatomy. Last night. Absolutely compulsive. Even Sophie, this morning, greeted me with "OhmyGod. What is going to happen to Meredith?????"

What, indeed.

Ooh la la

Now. I'm not saying I don't really enjoy the academic challenges of Sixth Form; I am, however, beginning to feel that they are overestimating our 'talents'.

Evidence: our AS French class will, if everything goes smoothly, be partaking in work experience in France next summer. For two weeks, we will be living, breathing and working French. All very exciting, but, in our class, trying to get some of the people to just do the homework, without copying it off the internet translator, est la pierre d'achoppement. But, I suppose, what is life without a bloody good challenge?

Questions from Lal's questionnaire: no. 1: What is the most-listened to album in your collection?
A. OK Computer, by Radiohead.

So, of course, it's been another hectic week, the first of the new half term. In which I have learnt the following:

• The key to retaining your dignity: don't drink.
• Victorian poetry: strangely endearing.
• The answer to every problem, in every subject: shut the hell up and make some notes!

Quickly sweeping the drunken debris of half term under the carpet, we're back, and we're trying to think. I'm reading both Mansfield Park and Possession; in fact, a scarily big chunk of my free time is now taken up with reading. I mentioned this to Mr. T in an e-mail and recieved the following reply:

"But you'll never be bored again. And, as a future university student of English, it's good to get somewhere close to the workload you'll receive."

Somewhere close? Bloody hell.

No 2. And the album you listen to when you feel the entire world is against you?

A. Martha Wainwright, by Martha Wainwright. Because no one spits accusations and laments lost love quite like her.

And, in our spare time, we've made ourselves Ayla's personal councillors. Apparently, we've made some wise suggestions, much in the manner of marriage guidance councillors. Yeah right. The thing is, though, even though we may offer completely ineffectual advice, like "kick him", our hearts are in the right place. And, for some sick reason, we really enjoy being in the thick of things when it comes to messy break-ups. My inner sadist, definitely.

Salisbury next week. Ten hours of fucking coach travel for ninety minutes of vaguely amusing social comedy. As Ben said, we should have just sent someone up there with a video camera. Now, it seems, we will be spending the day eating chips at motorway service station whilst the driver takes obligatory 'rest breaks'. I think I'm being strangled to death by red tape. Rules and regulations: who needs 'em?

And, finally, number 3: Does musical perfection exist?

Yes. Grace, by Jeff Buckley. The man had a voice like nothing else on earth - and the songs are beautiful. And anyone with the audacity to cover Corpus Christ Carol is, quite frankly, inspired.

- "Daniel Vettori is my future husband."

- "Oh really? You'll have to fight me for him!"