Etc. Archives - Page 2 of 2

After a particularly hairy week on the Alpha course, which I blogged here, I decided to go back. I glossed over my reasons in that particular blog post- partially because it was getting excessively long, but also because I had an episode of Breaking Bad that needed urgent attention.

So why did I go back? Why would I voluntarily put myself through another session of feeling vaguely offended and wound up? This is evidently not a place for an achingly liberal athiest. The free food was surely not worth the incandescent rage that followed, so I must have had another reason.

To be honest, I was intrigued to see how the next session would recoup. I was almost challenging Alpha to come back fighting: either give me a definitive reason to quit, or to make it up to me. I’d become invested in the course, and (cheese alert) I was enjoying learning.

You see, I went to a Catholic primary school, where the leading memory of religion was having an emotional breakdown in front of a priest, aged eleven, when I couldn’t think of anything suitable to say for my first confession. I also went to a Catholic secondary school, where the leading memory of religion was the fact that my RE teacher told us she couldn’t spell “crucifixion”. Other than those two stand out moments, I’m pretty ill-educated when it comes to what Christians believe.

Alpha had started to prick my interest in having faith. Though my personal beliefs are unchanged, I now feel like I actually get it. The logic, the personal experiences, the trust in there being more to life than squabbling amongst ourselves and acapella Beyonce megamixes. The mechanics of faith make sense now. I’m still athiest, or whatever, but something clicked.

Previous to this course, whenever people told me they had a faith I treated it with as much understanding as if they’d told me they had a degree in neuro-astrology. With a respect for their experiences, but no knowledge of a) what was involved, b) how you got started in something like that or c) how that would help you in daily life.

I’m still no expert, and I’m still far too silly to get involved in argumentative debates about God. But I’m still mystified by certain bits of religious zealousness- watch this space for my speaking in tongues special (yes really)- and I’m still baffled by people who are dead certain of one thing or another. More because I can’t decide between poached or fried eggs, nevermind God or no God.

When I saw three of my favourite poets (I have a top ten, what of it?) tweeting about their upcoming tour, I was pretty psyched. Tim Clare, Mark Grist and Mixy, all in one gig?! Score. Maybe I’d even get to meet them afterwards, and I could detail all the things I loved about various poems of theirs. Anxious the place would be packed and I wouldn’t get a seat in the private room of a Trafalgar Square pub, I emailed ahead and asked if I needed to book tickets.

As it turns out, no. When Jonathan and I rocked up ten minutes late, we were the only people there. Other than the three nervous and embarrassed looking poets, that is.

It was a little awkward. Though I was stoked to get to meet them, the elephant rampaging around the room couldn’t be ignored. I’ve heard of intimate gigs before, but this was something else.

After reassuring the panicked poets that a twosome was a perfectly valid audience, another two couples showed up, to everyone’s relief. Tim Clare apologetically started the night off, and begged us not to feel like this was some sort of bizarre hostage situation.

Clare described his set as “sort of like watching a poet have a breakdown”- with loud couplets ringing in our ears as he bellowed out his Beckett-esque “Death of Charlie Wordsworth” and faux-slurred his way through “Pub Stuntman”. Witty and quick, I have to say my personal highlight was his Women of History rap, video below. I never thought I’d hear a bearded man impersonating Thatcher tell me to “Do your own ironing”…

Mixy, the youngest of the trio, did a set that was surprisingly sweet. I really wish I’d caught his charming ode to insanity- a love letter to Syliva Plath- but he intertwined the preamble and poem so effortlessly that it took me a moment to realise that it had begun. It was a gorgeous and lively account of the relationship he wishes he could have with madness, and if you ever get a chance to hear it, please pay more attention than I did. His letter to Amy, a girl found in chain-nighclub Liquid, is equally as charming.

Mark Grist’s set echoed his past as a teacher, a lyrical school visit. His poems run on nostalgia and humour, with revealing letters to odious history teachers and children’s stories about dirty pirates. Like Mixy, his poem on the soul-crushing chain-club Liquid also got a mention, where he impersonated (all too well) the creepy LAD that graces every Tokyo, Liquid and Tiger doorstep and fondles inebriated girls every weekend. Funny and all-too familiar, Grist closed the show on a high.

As a whole, the show was fantastic. It really was the ultimate cosy gig, and felt more like sitting in someone’s living room than the centre of London. I’d started the evening out feeling kind of sorry for the poets- a free gig in the busiest city in the UK that attracts a grand total of six people must be tough to swallow- but by the end I was pretty smug about the set up.

There aren’t very many ways to relaunch a blog without coming off as a little bit of a wimp, or at worst, nauseatingly self-important. So with that in mind, try to forgive this awkward-first-post-in-months. Here goes…

EverySecondSong.com is dead. I’m kinda sad about it, because it was genuinely a big part of my life at university, but I am an actual grown-up now who doesn’t get attached to virtual spaces full of passive aggression. I didn’t even cry the first time I tried to log on and found out the domain name had been bought by a Japanese acne supplement supplier. Really.

After I lost the domain name, I decided to take the internet’s hint and go on a blogging break. Honestly, blogging had become a drain. I surprised myself by letting what was essentially a side-project take over my day-to-day life. I started feeling guilty for not posting more, I started taking a picture of EVERY SINGLE MEAL I ate, and my life had got boring. Seemingly everyone I knew was making the most of the sweet cushy months of post-exams and pre-un/employment, still funded by the remains of their student loans, and I was spending every weekend lingering around the Morrisons reduced section. Not much fun to blog about.

So I took a break. Cleared my mind, and started actually eating my food instead of just bloody Instagramming it. I got on with the big move to London, and slowly refuelled my desire to get back into writing.

Fast-forward a month or so, and I started pestering my boyfriend to set up a new site for me. After several terrible name ideas, I’ve settled on hellofarrah. It’s corny, a little bit of a cliché, and is a bit lame. But the best alternative, courtesy of my mother’s imagination, was ‘farrah-and-away’, and I just couldn’t bring myself to use my name as a pun.

And that brings us to this post. The new site is set up (thanks, Jonathan), the new name isn’t totally crap (thanks for trying, mum) and I finally feel like blogging again. Apologies, internet. For better or worse, I’m back.

Etc.

Blog Alpha: Why do I keep going?

The gig nobody went to

The awkward relaunch: I’m back, internet.