-
THE OFFICE CHRISTMAS PARTY
🎧 AUDIO QUACK 🎧
Can’t be bothered to read it? Let me read it for you!
Skip Introduction 1:45
Last December, I was playing darts with Dad and Jack. I was great. Brilliant, in fact. But my dart skills are not what this Quack is about. No. This is about what was happening next to us – an office Christmas party. There were Veja trainers, beards, and a Christmas jumper theme. It’s a wild guess, but in a game of ‘guess the industry’, I reckon they were in digital marketing or something similar.
They were a little stiff at the start, crossed arms, swigging their Budweisers. One of them was on his phone, aimlessly walking around. “I’ll get it to you by the end of play tomorrow,” he yelled.
Two frollegues, had matching ‘Let it Snow’ jumpers on. They were using the time to fill each other in on gossip but kept getting interrupted by the game. “Your turn, Josie! Jose!” Josie would swiftly throw the darts and return to the gossip circle.
The guy with the wiriest beard was the best, casually collecting his three darts from the bullseye like it was nothing. The woman with the penguin jumper was the worst, chuckling to herself when the dart would bounce off the wall.
A platter of chips and chicken wings arrived and was demolished in minutes. After three rounds, Wire-Beard was crowned the best dart player in the office, and they said their goodbyes and went home. And that was the Christmas party. Done.
It was a far cry from the office party we saw in the 2003 Christmas film Love Actually.
The office manager, Mia, had organised a boozy do in an art gallery displaying photos of naked people. “Full of dark corners to do dark deeds,” she had told her boss as she opened her legs an inch or two. She then rocked up at the Christmas party dressed as a devil and asked the boss for a dance in front of his wife, Nanny Mcfee. How ballsy.
Perhaps scenarios like these are why we are now choosing social activities to celebrate Christmas with our colleagues rather than tipsy dos in art galleries.
Over the last few years, social game clubs have popped up all over the place: Flight Club (darts), Swingers (crazy golf), Clays (virtual clay pigeon shooting), and Whistle Punks (axe throwing). I suppose Mia wouldn’t have had the chance to have been so seductive if she had to book Flight Club.
“I’ve booked Flight Club…it’s full of sharp darts to do sharp…” Nope. Doesn’t work.
I was 24 when I went to my first office party. It was an out-of-space theme. Some came dressed as astronauts in skin-tight-silver onesies. I went dressed as the Milky Way, wrapping fairy lights around me.
The party took place in a club, down an alley in Soho, which sounds dodgy but wasn’t. I can’t remember the club’s layout exactly, but there were booths, a dance floor and a bar stretching from one side to the other. A free bar.
24, on an Assistant Producer wage and free alcohol… What could go wrong? Let’s just say that when a limbo stick appeared on the dance floor, I was thrilled to show off my Shakira skills. “I’m super flexible!” I boasted to my new colleagues before I ended up on my back, looking up at the disco lights.
The Head of Production must have seen this tragic fall because he came over and suggested I go home. So, I did. I ran out of the party before anyone could see me cry. I ran past Nelson’s Column and down Whitehall. If David Cameron were to peep out of his curtain, he would have seen a blob of tangled fairy lights running down the street. A wailing comet, you might say.
I planned to get home to Stockwell on foot but only got as far as Big Ben. It was 2:15 a.m. I called my then-boyfriend and sobbed on the phone, retelling him what had happened…kind of.
“There were these pink vodka shots. Everybody was limbo-ing. I’m going to get fired. It’s so unfair.” I rambled. Not long after, he turned up in the car, found me perched on the wall outside the House of Parliament, and took me home.
I didn’t get fired, but I was shy back then and deadly nervous about returning to the office. Of course, nobody was bothered about the assistant who failed at limbo. Two people on the account team were found making out in one of the booths – so that was the headline.
Perhaps this tightrope we must balance when mixing booze in a professional environment is also why activities such as pizza masterclasses and axe throwing are on the rise. As long as you don’t accidentally hit your colleague with an axe, there isn’t much you can do to embarrass yourself.
Besides, alcohol is not what it used to be. The health-conscious Gen-Z are not as lured into getting ‘trashed’ as we were in our early twenties. According to Beer Guild, In 2023, 19% of drink bookings were alcohol-free, which has climbed to 21% for 2024. Even me, the run-away-milky-way, doesn’t touch the stuff anymore. (I did, on another occasion, tear a muscle while trying to do the splits. The drunken Shakira era was quite a health hazard).
But it did make me think at 3 a.m.… If Richard Curtis were to write Love Actually today, how would Karl and Sarah confront their sexual tension if they didn’t have Norah Jones to slow dance to? Sure, there was the bad stuff with the boss and the PA, but sometimes there is nice love, and a bit of Dutch courage on a dance floor can be the trick to pushing two shy colleagues together.
But if Love Actually was set in 2024, would Karl and Sarah be paired up at a pizza-making masterclass at Pizza Pilgrims? Karl using his tanned, strong arms to roll out the dough? Or would Karl retrieve Sarah’s golf ball from the neon-lit Ferris wheel during a crazy golf tournament at Swingers?
OR would Sarah be rubbish at darts, struggling to get one stuck in the board. And Karl, seeing her struggle, would come up from behind. He smelled like the chicken wing he had just consumed, but Sarah didn’t care. It was Karl. She’d loved this man for two years, seven months, three days, four hours, 2 minutes….
Karl would lean in and say in Sarah’s ear, “Sarah….there’s a short, blonde woman over there who is brilliant at darts. Maybe… you don’t have to… but maybe you can get some tips from her? “
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
-
A DOG NAMED CLEMENTINE
🎧AUDIO QUACK🎧
Skip introduction 1:50
January 2023, Mum sent a photo of two random dogs on a beach. ‘This little Retriever needs a home. She’s 11.’ She circled the Retriever to save any confusion. Another photo followed, it was the Retriever wearing a snowman headband, ‘Clemmie.’
Nobody believed Mum would go through with adopting Clemmie. We thought her dog days were over after being landed with the family westie, Duncan.
Duncan liked to bark at seagulls, which wasn’t much of a problem when we were in Oxfordshire, but Mum had moved to Cornwall, so it was a gigantic problem. Duncan wasn’t well-behaved. He couldn’t be let off a leash without charging off to find trouble. And he would plop his little white fluffy self in the most awkward places, like by the cooker when Mum was making dinner. His name was said in frustration multiple times a day. Duncan. When he died, Mum buried his ashes in a lavender pot, and then her lavender plant died. Duncan. That was Duncan.
Despite the white Westie trauma, Mum did end up adopting Clemmie. The next time I visited, an autumnal-coloured Retriever with a white face, was in the hallway, wagging her tail.
Clem settled into her new home with ease. She was an old, well-trained dog, eager to make you happy. I imagined her having this wise old lady voice. “Please, my dear, my ball.”
Mum found Ella, a young jewellery designer who would take Clem on extra walks. Ella and Clem would go down to the beach every day, come rain or shine. Clem’s favourite spot was the pool just before the sea, which she would trot into and had to be begged to come out again.
The other dogs respected her because she was old and gracious, in the same way we all respect Judi Dench. If a dog overstepped the mark (sniffed her butt), she would bark once, and they would leave her alone.
“Get off, you!”
Everywhere Clem went, she was adored. (Apart from a local man, who would walk by Mum and Clem with a pinched face. Mum still doesn’t know what she’s done to offend him). Apart from him, everybody adored Clem.
But nobody liked Clem as much as Mum. She had promised Rich she would be a strict dog owner, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help herself. There were rules, like, “Clem is not allowed in the bedroom”, but often, Clem would appear in the doorway with a grin and a wagging tail.
“You know you’re not allowed in here, Clem,” Mum said with a smile.
“Sorry, yes, just saying, hi. Oh, and one last thing. If you, Ella, or anyone feels like a stroll along the beach, then I’m game. Just say the word, and I’m good to go….”
Whenever we went to the supermarket, I would find Mum in the toy section, contemplating whether Clem would prefer the squirrel or a weasel. At Christmas, she had her own pile of presents to unwrap. “Santa” brought her a yellow chick, which became her favourite toy. (Unfortunate for that chick). Mum also had begun making gravy for the dog’s dinner, pouring it in using the Sunday gravy jug.
“Mum, why are you pouring gravy into the dog’s dinner?”
“Just makes the biscuits softer for Clem.”
There was this bedtime routine called ‘Nom-Nom times.’
At first, I heard it happening, and then I was shown the live performance. ‘Nom-Nom times’ consisted of Mum giving Clem three treats, which she received one at a time. As she chewed on a treat, Mum would sing, “Nom…Nom…Nom…” until the dog had finished. Then, she would be given her next treat, and the singing would begin again, “Nom…nom…nom…”
As I stood there, watching this thing happen, Clementine glared at me as if to say, “Please give her a grandchild.”
In the summer, the dog groomer cancelled, leaving Clem looking a little ball-like. How hard can it be to trim a dog? We thought. Well, quite hard, it turns out. To Clementine’s credit, she trusted us. She sat in the sun as we snipped away at her coat. We thought we had done an okay job, until she got up and we saw how uneven she was. She didn’t seem happy about her new short-back-and-side-long-back-and-side… style.
“What have you done to me?” she gasped with big, round eyes.
Clementine’s age was catching up with her. Her back was sore. It took effort to stand up; often, she did so with a “huff.” By the end of the summer, she was significantly slower; sometimes, on our walks, it was like watching one of those donkeys in the Donkey Sanctuary charity commercial.
“Haha! That dog is so old,” A woman laughed.
“You’re not too young yourself,” Clementine muttered back. Or was it me? I can’t remember.
When Ella took her to her favourite spot, she no longer trotted into the water. Instead, she sat on the edge with Ella and watched the younger dogs charging back and forth like an old lady enjoying kids in a playground.
The last few weeks, Clem was coughing, her tail was down, and despite the hand-poured gravy, she was not interested in her dinner. Mum didn’t want it to be, but she knew it was time. Last Wednesday morning, she put Clem in the car and drove her to the vet. They gave Clementine a pile of treats, which she nibbled on before she fell asleep.
We’re not going to put Clementine in a lavender pot. (We learnt from the last dog not to do that). We will place her in the sea, where she once loved to play. Then, to the pub to toast our auburn-coloured friend.
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
The Quack is also available on all popular podcast apps.
-
HOW TO FIND LOVE WITHOUT DATING APPS.
🎧 AUDIO QUACK 🎧
Also available on all popular podcast apps
Skip Introduction: 2:10
I wanted to see Gladiator 2 with my boyfriend, but this was a problem because I didn’t have a boyfriend. So, I got out my phone, went into the App Store and downloaded Hinge again…again. Their slogan is, ‘Designed to be deleted’. Sounds about right. I’ve deleted it three times now. The last time was whilst crying on a train because the man didn’t like me in real life.
The familiar white icon with the black H began to load onto my photo.
H for…. Ha! You’re alone.
H for…Horny and desperate.
H for… Husband teaser.
This wasn’t going to be like the last time. I was going to be clear(-ish) about what I wanted. I wanted to see a Gladiator 2. That’s it. No strings attached. So, I started to fill in the sign-up form…again.
Name. Location. Date of birth. You’re 33. Almost middle-aged. Is that correct? (Yes, Hinge. F*** off.) What kind of relationship are you looking for? Monogamy? Poly? Are you looking for a long-term relationship? Short term? (I want a 2 hour 28 minute relationship). Do you have children? Do you want children? Do you do drugs? Do you drink alcohol? Do you want to do drugs? Do you believe in God?
And it was at that point that I gave up. It was far too much effort. All I wanted was a man to sit with me for a couple of hours, who looks great in the dark, won’t try to talk to me while Paul Mescal is on screen, and, who, most importantly, won’t insist on sharing my popcorn. I hate sharing my popcorn. BUY YOUR OWN POPCORN!
So, I deleted it again. No dating apps. Well. There is still one more dating app. I am still waiting to be accepted onto RAYA. I downloaded it ten months ago and am still on the waitlist. Every time I go on it, I am met with this message:
“We continually review our waitlist and will send you a notification if there are any changes to your application status.”
They tell you to send referrals from current members. I have given them THREE already. That’s more than any job application.
The app is for the super-hot, rich and famous. So, a lot of models, bankers and the odd celebrity. This is probably why they won’t let me on.
I was sitting with a banker once who showed me his RAYA. “It’s so annoying because all the models are in another country,” he said, then showed me the most beautiful woman…but she lived in Paris. It’s a cruel world.
I wonder what the reviewing process at the RAYA HQ is like. I imagine them reviewing the week’s applications in their Monday morning meetings, in a long room with twenty people wearing suits, sitting around a varnished table. One by one, a photo of the applicant appears on the screen, and the table votes Yes or No.
“This is Mary, she lives in Oxford. She’s 5ft 3. She has…six hundred followers on Instagram…..”
And this is when the boardroom will BURST into laughter. “SIX…hundred? My Mum has more followers than that. Next!”
I sought advice from one of my friends on RAYA. She told me I should buy a blue tick on social media. The blue tick used to only be for celebrities. (It was to stop scammers pretending they were Harry Styles, who was suddenly stuck on an island and desperate for money). But now, anyone can buy a blue tick.
I have this conspiracy theory or Black Mirror episode… that Elon Musk knows the world will end soon, and he will only let the verified users on X onto his spaceship, and will take them to the Moon to live.
I don’t want to live on the Moon with Elon, so I’m not going to get the tick. Which means I’ll probably never be allowed into the house of RAYA.
So, without the apps, how do you find someone and make them love you? I read somewhere that the worst thing you can do on a date is sit opposite someone and talk, which pretty much eliminates any dinner or drink date. That’s where I am going wrong.
Apparently, people are more likely to be attracted to you when they see you doing something confidently. You know, when guys do that thing when they reverse a car using one flat hand. God help me.
When I think back, every memorable time someone has caught my eye, in that slow-motion kind of way, it’s when I’m watching them doing something they’re good at. That’s when I think…. “Yes! Him!”
I was talking to my brother’s friend who told me, without me asking, that I would meet someone if I joined a running club.
“DO NOT join a running club,” Sausage said. She had witnessed me in P.E at school; pink-faced, losing most races, letting in goals in hockey, and not being able to successfully pivot in netball. “That is not how you’re going to attract a man!” She had a point. Nobody wants the red-faced girl, puffing at the back.
And even if you meet a man at a running club who becomes your boyfriend. What you’ve now got on your hands is a runner. Someone who will expect you to understand his daily 5ks and yearly marathons. One day, you’ll inevitably blow up and throw his trainers out of the window when he tells you he’s signed up for YET another marathon.
“But you said when we met at running club that you loved running.” He would argue. And to be fair, you did say that.
So, no running club. But I wasn’t sure what other activity I could do; I read, write, and do Pilates. I suppose I take the occasional photo, but what good is photography when you have a camera hiding your face?
Scared that I’ll end up being one of those mature women who set up easels and paint a high street, I asked my 600 followers on Instagram what activity they find attractive.
First suggestion. Running. Christ.
Second suggestion. Horse riding. I had lessons with my brother Joe when I was seven. He did something to his horse, which resulted in the horse galloping off. All I saw was my older brother bouncing like a ball on this horse across a field with all the instructors running after him. It put me off for life.
Playing a musical instrument. Only if they like a fumbling introduction to Wake Me Up When September Ends on acoustic guitar. That’s all I’ve got.
Tennis. I can wear the outfit if they want. I can drink squash by the side of the court and giggle. But, I will not attract anyone with my racket skills.
Hiking. I can Hike. Yes. This is doable. I will be like Meredith Blake in The Parent Trap. Maybe not a big incline though. Maybe more of a flat country walk….to a pub.
Chariot racing. If this comes back, I will definitely attract people with my chariot racing. Not to brag, but I would.
What I know I can do confidently today, is watch films. Maybe when I’m watching Gladiator 2 in the cinema, alone, a man will look over the seats, probably see me stuffing popcorn into my mouth…. and be like… “Yes! Her!”
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
I just want to share with you some outtakes from my AI image generator. I put in… ‘Hot men running group running past exhausted blonde woman.‘
DYING.
-
HOW DID THEY SURVIVE WITHOUT PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES?
🎧Audio Quack 🎧
Can’t be bothered to read? I’ll read it for you. Skip introductions 2:00
I went to Hermione & Sam’s to carve pumpkins on Halloween. Old me would have scrolled through Pinterest for inspiration and tried to carve something ambitious – like a pumpkin with teeth. But after years of failed attempts, I have resigned to the fact I’m not one of life’s pumpkin carvers.
So, this time, I stuck to basics: circle for eyes, circle for mouth, rectangle for eyebrows.
As we were carving, Sam spoke about the kombucha he was making. It was no surprise that he was making kombucha. Sam keeps houseplants like pets and has a stack of vinyl records of bands nobody has heard of. Making kombucha seemed like a natural next step in his err…. millennialism.
Kombucha, fermented black tea, has been around for 2000 years, but it was us, the well-being Millennials, who made it mainstream. We can’t resist a drink with health benefits, and the kombucha claims to have probiotics that balance out our gut bacteria. Our gut has been unbalanced this whole time?!!
Last week, I visited Mum and spotted a bottle of kombucha in her fridge. It made me proud. I had introduced kombucha to her household after discovering it in Australia.
“They drink this magic gut juice in the land of the hopping rat,” I said, as I stepped off the wooden ship that I had sailed across the oceans of the world in. (Ok, it wasn’t quite like that.)
Along with kombucha, I have also introduced oat milk, quinoa, and Taylor Swift. Mum has welcomed these new elements into her home with open arms.
“You want me to leave the oats overnight? Ok, darling.”
Her partner, Rich, not so much. He’s a bearded artist who never strays from a black t-shirt and likes to ride a motorbike. He took great joy in telling me that the word ‘avocado’ translates into ‘testicle’.
Once, while eating my green testicle on toast, I tried to explain to Rich what a gratitude journal was.
“You have to write three things that happened in your day which you are grate…”
Before I could finish the sentence, Rich was rolling his head.
“Let me stop you there,” he said in his Mancunian accent. Like the oat milk in his fridge, he didn’t see the purpose of writing down your positive moments. I argued that it’s healthy to reflect on your day. *Clears throat.*
Monday 28th October
Three things I am grateful for….
1) A woman in Gail’s liked my red jumper and asked where I got it from. I lied and told her it was from Zara.
2) Stephen finally replied to my text.🥰 (He had another busy weekend, that’s all. What with all the football, he couldn’t squeeze in two minutes to reply. Evolution is so funny, isn’t it? 😂A man used to carve whole stories into stone, but now, even when the phone writes the words for you, the modern man struggles to find time to thank you for letting him stay over).
3) The sunset was amazing!!!!
Perhaps Mum and Rich are from a generation that is thicker-skinned, so they don’t need a gratitude diary. They have, after all, survived most of their lives without the safety blanket of a smartphone. What did they do when their date went to the bathroom? Did they just sit at the table, staring into nothing with their unbalanced guts? And at the parties, when nobody was speaking to them. They couldn’t pretend to be texting someone to show they are in demand somewhere. (When really, they’re just writing a shopping list in the notes app).
Not only this but without a smartphone, how did they take photos of their pumpkin spice lattes with autumnal backdrops? Gasp. They didn’t even have pumpkin spice lattes. A macchiato could have been a fashion brand. A flat white could have been a rock band. There were no patterns on their milk foam. There was no milk foam at all. How did they do it?
Back to Halloween 2024. My pumpkin had turned out as predicted: basic and crap. I named it Janet. Sam, Hermione and Pheobe’s pumpkins looked like adults had carved them. They had teeth, eyes, and expressions. We were keen to know the best one, so we took a photo and asked Instagram.
Sam’s pumpkin, named ‘Hot Sauce’, won. Hermione’s ‘Clara’ came a close second, and Phoebe’s ‘Sea Biscuit’ came third. Janet came last, with no votes. Thankfully, I could overcome this rejection because of my gratitude diary.
Thursday 31st October
Three things I am grateful for….
1) Hermione & Sam invited me to their house for homemade pita bread and hummus and to carve pumpkins. Janet didn’t win the contest. Not a single person voted for her, but it’s the taking part that counts. 😁😁😁
2) Hot dads in Halloween costumes were taking their kids trick-or-treating. 😍 I particularly liked the cowboy who walked past me. Who needs Stephen? Not me.
3) The sunset was amazing!!!
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
-
ARE YOU STILL IN ❤️ WITH NEW YORK?
🎧 AUDIO QUACK (Skip introduction – 1:30) 🎧
(Also available on all podcast apps)
It was Friday night in the West Village. Baseball was on, and the bars were full of Yankee fans. Sausage and I were sat at a bar that was lit by rainbow fairy lights. We ordered drinks and agreed that the baseball kit was the worst of all the American sports kits.
A man settled on the stool next to Sausage. He was quick to tell us he worked in the Financial District. “I tell banks what to do,” he said, comfortably. He didn’t look like the men in the movies, he was wearing specs and a woolly jumper. He also had heavy eyelids. I wasn’t sure if this was a permanent feature, or because of the three cucumber martinis, he had claimed to have consumed earlier that evening.
The Man in Finance had come from money. He didn’t say this directly, but he told us he grew up in Boca Raton. I hadn’t heard of it. But, apparantly it’s the “Beverly Hills of Florida”.
“Do you have a boat?” Sausage asked him. He seemed to like this question.
“I did,” he said through a heavy sigh. “But I sold it.”
“A paddle boat?” I asked. He did not like this question.
“No. Not a paddle boat.”
We asked him what brought him to New York.
He said that he loved his lifestyle in Florida, but he came to New York to be a “big dog.” His phone started ringing. An unknown caller. He instructed us to look after his drink and ran out of the bar. Five minutes later, he returned to his stool, proud as a pudding.
“Was it a girl?” we asked.
“No, it wasn’t a girl.”
“Ohhh….druuugs….”
His face went serious. He scanned the room and lowered his voice. “Want some?”
We began thumping our chests like Matthew McConaughey.
“Mmm mm. Thump Thump. Mmm mm. Thump Thump.”
Man in Finance joined in.
“Mmm mm. Thump Thump. Mmm mm. Thump Thump.”
I began to add in the squarks.
“Gah!…. Gah!….. Gah!”
But this was too far, and it stopped the whole thing.
He went serious again. “So, want some?”
“Nah,” we said and continued the subject of New York.
(This is a family friendly blog after all.)
The Man in Finace loved New York. He lived in a one-bedroom flat near Central Park. He loved that he could go to a different bar every weekend, and the city provided everything he wanted.
“How could you not love New York?” he said with his arms opened wide.
“UM…I’m not a fan,” Sausage announced.
He almost fell off his stool.
“I’ve never met anyone, anyone, who doesn’t like New York.”
“It smells really bad.”
“There are some smells, but surely you can’t hate the city for that?”
Sausage described how every day she has to step through a group of men on her stoop, hunched down, rolling joints like they’re in an arts and crafts class. She also doesn’t like to ride The Subway at night. I agree, it’s a layer between Earth and Hell.
“And women are getting punched in the streets!” Sausage said, finishing off her list. She was referring to a trend where women are randomly getting punched in the streets. (Read about it here)
“Oh, yeah, I heard about that,” said the Man in Finance, then paused. “But still…it’s New York!” It was like he was defending Christmas. He turned his attention to me. “What do you think?”
I was a child when I first visited New York, and was mesmerised by how the buildings disappeared into the clouds like fairy-tale beanstalks. There were marshmallows in the cereal. Pizza slices the size of my schoolbooks, and a restaurant called Mars 3000, where the waiters were aliens.
As an adult, New York still has it’s magic, but it’s not because of the gigantic pizza slices. The city has this atmosphere that no other place can mimic. It’s like you’re in the middle of a human beehive. There is so much life stuffed on that tiny island. And where there is life, there are stories. It’s no wonder the city has inspired so many artistis.
Like, one of my favourite photos, A Llama in Times Square (1957), taken by Inge Morath.
You can spot locations of movie scenes wherever you go. The Plaza Hotel, where Katie sees Hubble with his new wife, in The Way We Were. The Big piano in FAO Schwarz , where Tom Hanks plays Chop Sticks in Big. And Grand Central Station, where Marty the zebra found his other zoo animal friends in the film, Madagascar.
There are icky things about New York, like the tourist trapping Elmo in Times Square. Someone please take Elmo to the dry cleaners. The city can smell of bagels, marijuana, sewage and sweat all at once. And I wouldn’t walk around at night, as it can feel less like Sex and the City, and more like the zombie film, I Am Legend.
But, I still love New York, and I told the Finance Man this… with a caveat.
“New York is a casual lover. You only visit him. You never settle down.”
(I wished I smoked when I was saying this.)
The Finance Man didn’t agree, of course. As far as he was concerned, New York was the greatest city in the world. He ordered another martini and offered his cocaine once more. We turned it down again, and told him to save it for a rainy day.
By now, the baseball was finished, and the Yankees had won. It was home time. We left the Man in Finance at the bar with his martini, waiting to encouter another stranger. Hopefully they’ll want his cocaine. Meanwhile, Sausage and I walked back through the West Village, arm in arm, laughing. The Empire State Building glowing blue above us. Oh, New York.
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
-
WHY AREN’T YOU LAUGHING?
🎧 AUDIO QUACK 🎧
Skip introduction: 2:20
“Maybe you should wait a month before you start cracking jokes.” Sausage was giving me dating advice as we walked along the Hudson River.
“What do you mean?” I said, offended. “They love the jokes!”
She then lifted my left hand, showed me my own bare wedding finger, and said coldly, “Clearly.”
I pulled my hand free and hid it in my jacket pocket, then changed the subject of what we should do on a Friday night in New York. I suggested a comedy show.
“Ok…” Sausage said, reluctantly. “As long as you don’t use the jokes on your next date.”
I’ve loved stand-up ever since watching Peter Kay on my parent’s telly. Garlic Bread!? Live at Apollo introduced me to Stephen K. Amos, and he was the first comedian I saw live. Since then, I’ve seen Mike Birbiglia, Trevor Noah, Sara Barron, Suzy Eddie Izzard, Lee Evans, Iliza Shlesinger…and more.
As well as solo shows, I have gone to comedy nights in London and Oxford to watch a variety of comedians perform. I was intrigued to see what New York had to offer.
At the local stand-up shows in Oxford, I usually grab a Lucky Saint and find my own seat, like a real-life grown-up. New York, you are not trusted to do this. A man takes you from the door to the stage area and tells you exactly where he wants you to sit. Our man took Sausage and me straight to the front row. He may as well have been trying to get us to sit in seats covered in jelly.
“No.No.No.No.No,” Sausage and I said in unison. Everybody knows you don’t sit in the front row of a comedy show.
When I went to see Josh Berry’s stand-up, I had no choice but to sit at the front. I was with a male friend, and we got hounded by the warm-up act, asking why we weren’t dating. “Why are you two not dating?” “Who rejected who?” And it went on and on and on …. Torture.
So, it was a firm no to the seats at the front. The man took Sausage and me safely to the back, next to an Australian woman. We didn’t know it then, but this Australian woman was going to be one of the main characters of the night, and therefore, the main character of this Quack.
When the first comedian started their set, I noticed something was strange. Usually, an audience laughs during a comedy show, but this audience was silent or tittering at best. It was as if they had their shows muddled up and they should be sitting in a Shakespearean tragedy.
The comedians would call us out for being hard work. “It’s not me! It’s them!” I wanted to yell. I was doing my part, after all. I laughed at everything. Some of it was truly funny too. Like the joke about Task Rabbit. The comedian said how turned-off she was when her boyfriend hired another man to put up a shelf. Sausage and I were in stitches. The audience was not.
But sometimes, I laughed only because I was a people-pleaser. It’s the same personality trait that makes me intensely watch air stewards when they are pointing out exits on an aircraft.
Cheers AI
Funny or not, the crowd was hard work, and this was made clear when the comedians dared to ask the audience a question.
“Is anyone here on a dating app?”
Silence.
“Has anyone here been to China?”
Silence.
“Anyone here gay?”
Silence.
I wished more than anything I could have said yes to one of the questions, but I can’t lie. So, I pressed my nails into my palms, wishing someone in the audience to be gay.
“Anyone here an only child?” one comedian asked and was met with the usual silence. “Really? Nobody here is an only child?”
“Move ooon!” The woman next to me heckled. And this was not the only time we were going to hear from the heckler that night…
One comedian made the mistake of asking a man in the front row where he was from. “Australia,” said the man.
Well, my neighbour got very excited.
“Where bouts in ‘Stralia?” She called out.
Oh no no no no no.
The comedian squinted in our direction, as I leaned dramatically to the right……. far away from my neighbour. It was critical for everyone to know that I was nothing to do with this.
“What did you say?” said the comedian with a smile.
“Where bouts in ‘Stralia are you from?”
“This is not a speed dating event,” The comedian said. He got a small chuckle from the audience and was about to move on, when…
“Just wanna know where bouts in ‘Stralia he is from!”
“Do you know how this show works?” The comedian asked, impatiently.
“I just want to know where in ‘Stralia he is from!?”
The comedian was no longer laughing. He clearly didn’t want his set to be hijacked.
You would think that would be the end of the Aussie Heckler, but no, she appeared again. One comedian, coming to the end of his set, said, “Ah, one minute left. How should I end this?” And the Aussie Heckler just started clapping…. hard.
CLAP….CLAP….CLAP….CLAP
“Oh.” The comedian laughed nervously. “Is that my cue to go? Ha?”
CLAP….CLAP….CLAP….CLAP
And that was that. The comedian was off the stage.
As Sausage and I left the club, I couldn’t help but to feel something went wrong in there. I’m used to being in pain from laughing so much after a comedy night, not pain from being so tense. It wasn’t the vibe I was used to. Sausage wondered if the New York comedy crowd were harder to crack.
Was it that? Or was our audience particularly difficult? Or were the jokes not funny enough?
I guess I’ll have to find out, when I use the material on my next date….
“Do you ever use Task Rabbit?”
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
-
BEEN THERE. DONE THAT. GOT THE PHOTO.
🎧AUDIO QUACK🎧
Skip introduction: 2:51
“Gen Z are turning their phones the other way to selfie,” Sausage said. “It’s so much better that way.” She took a selfie. “See,” she said, showing me the results. It was a good selfie.
We were on the Brooklyn Bridge during magic hour. The bridge was heaving with photoshoots of selfies and skylines. As the sun fell behind the financial district, I attempted to do the Gen-Z-selfie-way, only to produce a smudged photo of my face. Huh. I suppose you can’t teach old dogs new tricks.
With camera phones and social media, photos are no longer an afterthought but a vital part of our experiences. Photos of ourselves in places are proof that we have been there. That we have a life. Been there. Done that. Got the photo.
That week in New York, Sausage and I went to The Summit, a newish tourist spot with some of the city’s most outstanding views. It’s the 30th tallest building in the world, towering 1,401 feet tall. (If you’re not into measurements like me, that is approximately 83 giraffes). We went at 10:30 am to avoid the queue but had forgotten that this was Manhattan, so there was, of course, an anaconda of a queue.
We had our photos taken twice before getting into the elevator. In the first one, we were instructed to “Look up to the ceiling.” So, we did. The second photo was taken using a face scanner.
“Why?” I asked one of the Summit crew members.
“Oh. So, we can turn your face into a cloud…”
This made me more suspicious and confused.
We finally rode the elevator up the 93 floors to the top. We were directed into a vast, mirrored room with panoramic city views. Tourists were lying on the floor, taking photos of their reflection in the ceiling. Others had their boyfriends taking pictures of them gazing at the city below.
“Ok, Steven, can you do it one more time? This time can you not have the wide angle on?”
“But how will you see the city?”
“GOD STEVEN!”
Meanwhile, Sausage and I attempted to be pinpricked by the Empire State Building’s ariel. It’s harder than it looks.
The next room was full of floating silver balloons resembling metal bubbles. It appeared dreamy on The Gram, but the place was chaos in real life.
People were scrambling over prime photo spots, children were throwing and popping balloons, and the security was shouting, “Do NOT pop the balloons!” After taking a shedload of photos and being smacked in the face with a balloon by Dennis the Menace kid, Sausage and I moved on to the next room.
It was a screen that spread across the wall, with a video of rolling clouds and zen music playing in the background. Now and again, a face will appear in the clouds. Oh god.
“That’s not me!” I yelped as Sausage pointed at a smiley, chubby-cheeked woman appearing. Sausage was next, her face poking out like a worm coming out of a hole. We were not attractive clouds.
At the end of the experience, in the gift shop, we were shown the first photo they took of us. We looked like we had just been told to “Look up at the ceiling.”
They had superimposed us onto different backdrops of New York and even made us into a timelapse.
They wanted to sell us a photo album including photos of us as clouds.
Sausage said no.
I said yes
The next day, we went to a vintage photo booth called Old Friend in the East Village. I learned about it when someone on my Instagram posted a classic photo strip of him and his girlfriend.
The faded yellow box with a brown scratchy curtain was hidden next to a humble store selling cheap suitcases. We only spotted it because of the queue of 18–35-year-old women and the odd supportive boyfriend.
A woman took a photo of the strip with her phone as it came out of the machine. The idea impressed the queue, and we all decided to copy her. A man standing close by, wearing a Knicks top, didn’t understand.
“Is that what you do now? Take photos of your photos?” He scoffed. The queue dismissed this man as an idiot. Play with a ball or something. This was our fun.
When each pair stepped out of the booth, they came with a tip on how to use it: You can only see yourself in the reflection. Change your pose as soon as it flashes. There are four photos. You only get one strip.
“Why is it wet?” A young girl asked, panicked as she picked her strip up from the machine. We have come a long way.
By the time Sausage and I entered the booth, we were prepared. We crammed in on the rickety stool, paid the $8, and pressed go. Flash. Change pose. Flash. Change pose. We stood outside and waited for a few minutes, and then the film dropped out of the machine with a small “tit”. Sausage took a photo of the photo in the machine. I took a photo of Sausage taking the photo of the photo in the machine. This is getting out of hand.
Today, we can take hundreds of photos of ourselves anywhere we choose. We can flip our phones the Gen-Z way. Or the normal way. We can add a filter to make us look ten years younger. We can even turn our faces…. into clouds. Yet, despite the evolution of photos, there is still a queue outside an old photo booth in East Village. Maybe because four faded black and white photos of you and your best friend, taken in an old tatty booth with no way to edit them, are some of the best pictures you will ever have.
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
-
WHAT’S A SACK? AND OTHER QUESTIONS ABOUT THE NFL.
🏈 AUDIO QUACK 🏈
Can’t be bothered to read? Let me read for you.
[Skip Introduction 2:31]
Last Sunday, I went to an NFL game with my friend Sian. Sian was worried that she didn’t understand American football, but neither did I. It was Minnesota Vikings vs. NY Jets. I was supporting the Jets because I had been to New York and not Minnesota. I also wanted to wear green knitwear.
The first American football game I watched was in the film A Cinderella Story. Chad Micheal Murray’s character, Austin, was on the pitch when he spotted Hilary Duff walking away. He then does something no man would do. He leaves his team and runs after her.
His Dad yelled out, “You’re throwing away your dream!”
Chad Michael Murray replies, “No, Dad, I’m throwing away yours.”
Chad then catches up with Hilary. He kisses her as the rain comes down. Jimmy Eat World is playing. There’s sweat. There’s rain. There are Chad’s shoulder pads…
And that was my first impression of American football.
Back to the real match! The game had begun, and Sian and I were confused.
Sian’s cousin had sent a voice note explaining the rules as simply as he could, but we still had many questions. Like…
What is a sack? It sounds painful. Why are there three teams on one team? Do they take that white bench with them everywhere they go? What is the career span of a cheerleader? Why do some players have tea towels hanging off their trousers? And WHO is that beautiful bald man with the gigantic headset?
Jets’ coach, Robert Saleh. That’s who.
OK FOCUS.
We are used to “British” football – a game involving one ball and one brain cell. American Football, though, excuse the pun, is a different ball game.
As someone who could create a one-woman-play out of a text a man has sent, I can understand how one can overcomplicate a sport. See, if it were my responsibility to make up a game, I, too, would end up painting a gigantic ruler on the grass. I, too, would have monstrous headsets and clipboards. And I, too, would have 53 players.
“We will need a team for scoring, a team for defending, a team for kicking…”
“Can’t the scoring team do the kicking?”
“No, these have to be special kicking people.”
It’s so confusing who everyone is and why they’re there, that I asked AI to explain it…. using Toy Story characters as references.
Here is what AI told me….
Quarterback (QB) is Woody. Woody is the leader of the toys and takes charge during their adventures, just like the quarterback, who directs the offence and makes crucial decisions on the field.
Running Back (RB) is Buzz Lightyear. Always ready to launch into action, Buzz represents agility and speed, making him similar to a running back who needs to navigate through defenders and break away for big plays.
Wide Receiver (WR) is Jessie. Jessie is adventurous and always ready to catch whatever comes her way, embodying the wide receiver’s role of making strong catches and running intricate routes to help score touchdowns.
Tight End (TE) is Mr Potato Head. With his versatile nature—able to change his form in many ways—Mr. Potato Head mirrors the tight end, who needs to be both a strong blocker and a reliable receiver.
Offensive Lineman (OL) is Hamm. Hamm is solid and stands strong, providing support and defence for his team. The offensive linemen protect the quarterback and create openings for running backs.
Defensive Lineman (DL) is Rex. Though shy, Rex embodies strength and is determined to protect his territory. Similarly, defensive linemen are fierce players, aiming to disrupt the offensive and prevent them from advancing.
Linebacker (LB) is Slinky Dog. Slinky is flexible and quick, just like linebackers who need to cover ground, defend against both the run and pass, and react quickly to plays.
Cornerback (CB) is Bullseye. Quick and agile, Bullseye can dart in and out to guard against the opposition, making him comparable to a cornerback, who’s tasked with covering wide receivers and making intercepts.
Safety (S) is Andy. As the protector of his toys, Andy represents the safety position, which is all about reading the play and being in the right place to defend against big plays or provide support to other players.
Thanks AI. Now, it all makes sense. (I think).
‘Slinky Dog’ for the Vikings, aka Andrew Can Ginkel, ran up the pitch and did a touchdown thing. The whole stadium erupted in the Viking chant.
*Clap* “SKOL!!” *Clap* “SKOL!!” *Clap* “SKOL!!”
I was clapping away, having a lot of fun, when Sian reminded me I was a Jet supporter. Oh Yeah.
There was more charging and tackling, and “Hut! Hut! Hut!” But most of all, there was more talking. Every second or so, a yellow hanky was flung onto the pitch by one of the referees, prompting another discussion about what went wrong.
And again, I get it. If it were my sport, I, too, would have many rules so that we could talk more and play less.
It began to rain, and all the players were tumbling into each other like hedgehogs on ice. The rain, mixed with the shoulder pads, reminded me of the scene with Chad Michael Murray. I thought of Robert Saleh, the NY Jets coach, watching in despair as the Vikings scored another touchdown. He looked up at the screen and saw me, (I don’t know why I’m on the screen), but suddenly everything made sense to Robert Saleh. He threw off his gigantic headset.
“Robert, what are you doing? You’re throwing away your dream.”
“No, referee 5482, I’m throwing away yours.”
He climbed the walls of the Tottenham Stadium and found me.
“Mary, I’ve been waiting for….”
*CLAP!* “SKOL!” The crowd screamed, breaking me out of my fantasy.
Stephen Gilmore (aka Bullseye) had intercepted a throw, which meant the Minnesota Vikings had won, apparently. 17-23.
Sian and I leave the stadium a little wiser. We now know there is a beautiful man called Robert Saleh, who, whilst writing this Quack was fired from the NY Jets. Sad times. Skol means cheers. The midwestern U.S state, Minnesota, called their team Vikings because of the large number of residents with Scandinavian heritage in the state. New York Jets, well, the stadium was near the airport….Ok. And, with help from AI and Toy Story, we now know what everyone is doing on that pitch…kind of.
Flying Duck
The Quack is off and will return on the 23rd October. BUT, I will be releasing an old Quack for the podcast next Wednesday. Find me on all popular podcast apps. 🦆
-
MY DREAM PUB – THE KING’S KNEES.
🎧 Audio Quack! Skip Introduction 2:12 🎧
When I meet my Dad, it will often be in an old British pub. He’s comfortable there, as if it’s an extension to his home. He sits at the bar like it’s his dining table. And he is not alone, many people are comfortable in pubs because they know what to expect…
It would usually be a dark room designed to hide decades of spilt drinks and HP splodges. There is the smell of beer and urine. The surfaces will stick to your hands like fly paper. And there is always a wonky table being saved by the humble folded beer mat.
Even though I appreciate the charm of it, I’m not as keen to spend my time in a pub, but maybe I would if it was tailored to my liking.
See, if I had a pub… it would be called The King’s Knees.
(Illustrated with some interesting AI images)
Unlike the traditional pub, where it’s so dark it can feel like you’ve stepped into Captain Hook’s office; The King’s Knees will be bright and welcoming in the day, moody at night. There will be big windows, lamps, candles, and a gigantic farmhouse chandelier.
The bar will be made out of polished stone. (No, I don’t have a budget).
You can sit at the bar on the bar stools. These bar stools will not make you feel like a victorian school child in the naughty seat. They will be black leather (like an Eames chair) with a back. The height of the stool can be adjusted. This saves me and my fellow short humans from hiking up the thing. It’s not a sophisticated sight.
“Sorry Bob, wait a second.” *Get out climbing rope and climb the bar stool* “Ok….”What did you say your job was?”
The drinks offered at the King’s Knees are called pleasant names, none of this Neck Oil or Camden Hells. No. They will be called Dizzy Rabbit or Putney Heavens. Your well deserved drink will be presented, not in a bulky scratched pint glass that looks like it has a disease, but a crystal glass that makes you feel like you’re a guest of Mr Gatsby.
The drinks will be served by Joanie, a woman in her 50s, who is there like a second Mum, willing to give you the hard truth about your tumbling life.
“What I suggest you do is stop thinking there are plenty of fish in the sea. There was ten years ago, but now, at your age, not so much.”
Sigh. “Thanks Joanie.”
“Anytime. Here have another Dizzy Rabbit.”
You’re feeling peckish. What are the bar snacks?
What they are NOT are deep-fried pig skin with the hair still on. And they are NOT tiny packets of bacon flavoured crisps that tastes like something you would feed your dog.
No. At the King’s Knees you will be offered posh nuts. You know they’re posh nuts because they live in jars and are flavoured exotically; Honey cashews, rosemary almonds, sea-salt peanuts. Salt from the sea?! If nuts are not your thing, then there are olives, mini sourdough loaves and hot fresh popcorn.
Dogs are, of course, allowed. And so are cats. There is a residential Bernes Mountain Dog called Mr Darcey, who likes cuddles and does an excellent impression of a rug in front of the fireplace. The fireplace is in the designated reader’s corner, which has lamps, sloppy sofas and armchairs. You can read or do your online shopping here. It is treated like a quiet carriage on the train. You can be sure you can read your book without anyone disturbing you.
“What you reading there fitty?”
“Erm…Pride and Prejudice.”
“Sick. What’s it about?”
“Erm……”
There is an area for when you do want attention. The area has communal tables and games like shuffleboard, a pink pastel-coloured pinball machine and Scrabble. If you’re single, this is a great place to stand. If you’re a married man, do not stand here.
This is my favourite. A pub’s toilet situation can be like battle of the sexes; who gets the ground floor toilet? The Mens toilets are commonly, easily accessible on the ground floor. Meanwhile, the Ladies are way up high in the heavens, and it can feel like you’re walking up a tourist attraction to get there.
In the King’s Knees, there will be no climbing. All toilets will be on the ground floor and clearly signposted, so you don’t end up on an impromptu treasure hunt. The toilets will be triple the size. They will have flattering lighting and floor length mirrors. One of these mirrors is designated for Hinge selfies only. (Stops people hogging the mirror. It’s a problem). The cubicles will be rooms, not some flimsy space hidden behind a saloon door, with a gap wide enough for a peep show. An infinate amount of toilet roll is crucial. And I want those dryers that makes your skin come off its bones. Oh, and Tom Hardy reading ‘I am a Tiger’ , will be playing on a loop.
The best thing about The King’s Knees, except for Mr Darcey, is the coming together of strangers to watch the ‘sport’.
Every Tuesday, people will leave their families to come to The King’s Knees. They will settle at the bar on their (adjustable) bar stools, stare at the screen, and erupt…. as The Great British Bake Off theme begins to play…
What? Do you really think I will allow actual sport in my dream pub?
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
-
SURVIVING FILM SCHOOL
AUDIO QUACK (skip intro 2:14)
Also available on all popular podcast apps
When I turned up at film school in 2010, I was nineteen and had come straight from my sweet, sheltered all-girls Catholic school. I wanted to learn how to write screenplays like Richard Curtis, and how to cut film montages like the one I had seen when Bella was dying in Twilight. You could say, I was a little green back then. Sometimes I wonder how I even survived…
Survival Tip One: Hide.
One teacher was a former TV director. He wore long leather jackets and drove into the school on a Harley Davidson. He would walk into class like a Resevoir Dog and began with a scary pep talk
“I tell you guys, this industry is not for the faint-hearted. If you can’t stomach me, than you won’t last a second out there….”
We then started the class, which was filming puppets.
One by one the students would take it in turns to be “in the director’s chair.”
“Why did you cut to camera 3? The shot of the puppet is clearly better in camera 1!?” The teacher would shout.
I didn’t fancy being in that director’s chair, so I volunteered to be the class editor instead. I hid far away in the editing suites, and got one of the highest marks in the class.
Survival Tip 2: Take notes.
The course was mostly practical; learning how to light a room to look like a sunset and how to focus a camera. But sometimes we had film studies. These classes would vary depending on the lecturer. Like once, a screenwriter came in. He had some work to do, so he put on Die Hard for us to watch. “Yeah, just…take notes on Bruce’s character arc.” Another lecturer came in and wanted to show us how much he knew. He spent the lesson naming obscure arthouse films and then got angry that we hadn’t watched them.
“What do you mean you haven’t watched 1988, Drowning by Numbers? Guys, come on!”
He then went on to say that Michael Bay (director of The Transformers franchise) had, “bent over and let Hollywood screw him.” I wrote it down in my lecture notes. Michael Bay….has bent…over…and let…Holly….wood …screw him…
Survival Tip 3: Damien wants to make films.
The first day of the experimental film module, had us meditating for twenty minutes, whilst the teacher walked around and said things like,
“What do you see in your mind’s eye?”
The idea of this module was to teach us how to be as creative as possible. We were given a project called ‘colour’, where we had to chose a colour and do a presentation on it to the class of why that colour makes us feel creative. I chose white and bought some white caps and fabric pens. My thought was that white allowed a blank canvas for us to create. I got the class to draw a design on their cap.
Everybody had fun drawing doodles and writing words on their cap, but fellow student, Damien hadn’t drawn anything on his cap.
“I haven’t drawn anything on my cap because…no offence Mary…but it’s this kind of s*** which is why I left drama school. I came here to make films, not to draw on caps. I’m going home.”
He walked out. I looked down at my cap which I had drawn sunshines all over, and whimpered.
Survival Tip 4: If you don’t smoke pot, make yourself useful.
I made some good friends at film school, even if it was done in a roundabout way. We would occasionally gather at a house where four of the guys lived and sit in a dark lounge, surrounded by DVDs and beer bottles. A joint would be passed around the living room. When it got to me, I would smile and wave my hand. “No, thank you.” (That’s another lesson Catholic school didn’t teach you—how to be cool). One night, I got bored of the drowsy film chat, so I went and cleaned the boys’ kitchen. I was supposed to only wash a few plates, but it got out of hand.
One of the boys came in, red eyed and confused. “Why is our kitchen so sparkly?”
“Oh, I just did a little wipe down,” I said, as I lit a scented candle and left it on the bench. They were super happy with me, and I was invited back.
(In hindsight, it would have been easier if I had just smoked pot).
Survival Tip 5: Catering
After three months into the course, we were let loose to create our first short film. Student films are notorious because of the limited budget and limited skills. Mine was no exception. I had my crew of students, four professional and patient actors, a borrowed living room, and a mousy voice.
“So…I was…thinking…perhaps…we could…go again…but…this time…could you….do it like…you …like your….wife…please?
What I didn’t have in on-set presence, I made up for in the catering. It may not have been an Oscar-winning film, but I put on the best spread: sandwiches, gummy worms, carrot cake… If only actors ate food.
Survival Tip 6: Back up.Back up.Back up.
Jess, Kat, and I took the five-hour train journey to Durham to film a documentary about the student drinking culture. We spent all night filming students as they drank in bars and danced in clubs. As soon as we got home, I accidentally wiped half of the footage. Back up. Back up. Back up….
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
THE QUACK 