What is your favourite quote and why?
I have many favourite quotes. Everyone has their favourite song lyrics and film lines. But let's face it, Johnny Castle walking into the Kellerman's playhouse and sneering at Mr. and Mrs. Houseman for putting Baby in the corner, probably didn't make anyone have an epiphany. I could be wrong, though.
I'd say my all-time favourite quote is from a Mr. George Eliot;
"It is never too late to be what you might have been."
I find it very inspirational. OK, it doesn't really apply to me now since I'm only 20 (21 in a few weeks; I'm having a quarter-life crisis about it) but I'm going to remember it when I'm older, if I start to think I've let life pass me by.
I'm a great believer in following your instinct. If something feels right, then go with it. Don't wait until New Years and use the safety net of resolutions to back up your "plans". If you want to do something, then do it. Don't wait, don't let anyone stop you.
So when I'm in my forties and I'm wondering why I never did go rollerblading along the Great Wall of China, I'll remember this quote. You're never too old to do anything.
Apart from get into the Wacky Warehouse, maybe.
"I've just seen the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."
"Don't worry, love. It's not the end of the world."
This world is a dark and dangerous place. And very, very strange.
Take today, for example. There I was, walking down the street, minding my own business. Then something fell from the skies and smashed into pieces at my feet. Upon closer inspection, this object turned out to be... a fire alarm. Accompanied by its original packaging. I half-expected the reciept to float down and land beside it a few minutes later. My mind cannot even begin to contemplate where in God's name this fire alarm came from. Maybe God threw it at me. I suspect he was in a bad mood today, as I'll explain shortly.
But when something like that happens to you at 11am, you should take the hint, immediately cancel all your plans, and go home. Lock yourself in your room. It's clearly not the right day for you to be amongst civilisation.
Which I half-did. I was on my way home when the fire alarm threw itself at me (and not in the way I wish Justin Timberlake would do). The incident only served to reassure me that I was making the right decision with my destination. I made it home without being attacked by airbourne domestic products, and relaxed for an hour or two. Then I felt safe to rejoin the outside world.
Oh no you don't.
As I mentioned, I suspected God was not in the best of moods today. This is the only assumption I can muster as to why a mere 30 seconds after I left my house and walked along my sun-drenched street, did he unleash an almost-apocalyptic rainstorm over the fair city of Liverpool, drowning all that lay in its path. Including me. Who was wearing jeans today. Whose jeans are still soaked up to the knees. I'm probably developing hypothermia with every word I type.
But defeated I will not be. I overcame God and his temper and went about my daily business of Law and Ethics lectures and job-hunting (neither of which were very successful). And then, on my way home for the second time that day, I saw it. Quite possibly the most preposterous sight I think I've ever seen in my 20 years and seven months on this increasingly bizarre planet.
A 60+ year old man weaving his way through the crowds... on roller blades.
I kid you not.
This sight alone would have been worth its metaphorical weight in gold. But the look on the face of one unsuspecting member of the public as he rolled past made it absolutely priceless. I'm not being age-ist here. I love old people and their crazy ways. I think I was more shocked at the sight of the roller blades rather than who was wearing them. I mean, who wears roller blades these days?
Pensioners, evidently.
I honestly do not know what the world is coming to. An end, judging by today. A stormy, fire alarm-throwing, roller-blading end. God help us all. Once he's calmed down a bit, that is.
I'm never betting again. At least not on stuff that I want to happen. Reverse psychology is the way forward.
Now, I'm not claiming to be an expert on every sport ever invented, not by any stretch of the imagination. I've only just started broadening my sporting horizons outside the world of football in the last 18 months or so. I'm still learning the ins and outs of everything. But now, I'm not just watching stuff for the sake of watching other sports. I actually quite like it. I'd say cricket's my second sport. I do love me some cricket. I also like a good boxing match every now and again. I even watched darts a few weeks ago. Darts! Who knew fat men throwing pins at a board could be so entertaining?
Anyway. Here are my thoughts on this weekend's sport. They're quite limited, because the full-length version contains lots of swearing, and this is a family blog. Kind of.
- Football;
I can't technically pass comment on the Derby, because I spent the majority of the game sitting in my seat with my head in my hands. But I will say that my three least favourite people right now are Mark Clattenburg, Steven Gerrard and Phil Neville. Clattenburg's a bottler, Gerrard's a whining little toerag, and Neville hasn't quite grasped the notion that he's not a goalkeeper. Also, Gerrard's face when he realised he was being substituted for Voronin's twin sister was priceless. Benitez is cracking up big time. Especially with his comments after the game. "I always feel that in England, players should not be rewarded with penalties for diving." I can only assume you're referring to one of your own there, Rafa. His constant tinkering with what is essentially a very good team could well blow Liverpool's title chances yet again, even the die-hards are beginning to lose patience with him. As for our side, I understand Moyes' unwillingness to throw Cahill and/or Gravesen straight back into the fray after so long on the sidelines, particuarly in a Merseyside Derby where they would have inevitably been kicked to pieces. But why not play Carsley? Our midfield was embarrassingly lightweight, and has been for a few weeks now. Carsley would have brought the experience and stability that was desperately needed in the middle. Dropping Baines was a major error also. Still, I don't think we played particularly badly yesterday, even when we were down to ten men. We certainly didn't deserve to lose. The lads can hold their head up high, we were more or less screwed over by terrible refereeing yet again. - Rugby;
I'm not saying England played particularly well, but everyone could clearly see that Cueto scored a legitimate try at the start of the second half, yet for some bizarre reason, it was ruled out. That try could have, and probably would have, changed the game. Had it stood, England would then have been in the lead. But apparently it's Get Screwed Over By Dodgy Officials weekend. Jonny Wilkinson looked like a puppy that had been kicked in the stomach at the end; my girl-ness took over at this point, I said "Aww!" a lot and wanted to give him a hug. - Formula One;
As I type, BMW and Williams are being investigated for fuel irregularities during today's Brazilian Grand Prix. As the three cars involved in the investigation finished fourth, fifth and sixth, should they be disqualified then Hamilton would move high enough up the finishing positions to be crowned F1 champion. So there's still hope yet for this weekend not turning out to be a complete and utter write-off. But if the result still stands, then Hamilton has every right to have strong words with McLaren. Their ridiculous decision to leave him out a lap too long on clearly worn out tyres in China is ultimately what cost Hamilton the championship. OK, he didn't help matters by bottling it completely on the first corner today. But had his engine not cut out on the seventh lap, the rate at which he started overtaking people from that point on, he still could have pulled it off. Still, at least Alonso didn't win it. In fact, Hamilton still finished ahead of him. Alonso's toys will be evicted from their pram with venom after this, I feel. And oh, how I will laugh.
And that's the end of a pretty rubbish sporting weekend. There's always next year, eh lads?
I put a bet on yesterday.
I'm not a betting girl, generally speaking. I'll have a flutter on the Grand National like most people, and like most people I pick my horse based on how fancy the jockey's jacket is. As you might imagine, this tactic is rarely successful. Remember last year's Grand National, and there were 74 false starts because one of the horses decided to stand sideways and get tangled in the starting rope? I picked that one.
But I digress. I'm not a betting girl, but something made me walk into William Hill and hand over a fiver in exchange for a little slip of paper. You see, this weekend is quite major in the sporting world. The British sporting world, anyway. England have made it to the rugby World Cup Final and no-one really knows how they managed it with such a poor team. Oh, hi, Johnny Wilkinson. Then there's the Brazilian Grand Prix which could see Lewis Hamilton become the first rookie to win the drivers' F1 championship. Unless he uses the wrong tyres again, or Fernando Alonso assassinates him.
But first, there's the small matter of the 206th Merseyside Derby.
I hate derby days with an absolute passion. I wake up in the morning feeling physically sick. I get butterflies in my stomach all day. And I'm usually halfway drunk by the time I get to the stadium due to one too many pre-match vodka and diet cokes in an attempt to settle my nerves. This is another one of my ingenious tactics that rarely comes off; if anything the vodka makes me even more nervous.
It's no surprise I've developed such a loathing of Derby Day. I'm an Everton fan. I spent most of my teenage years watching Liverpool stick three past us without so much as breaking a sweat. Some games were more traumatic than others. Watching the ball roll over the line after hitting Don Hutchison's arse and thinking that we'd finally done it, only for Graham Poll, that model of professionalism, to claim he'd already blown up for full-time. That was rubbish. Watching Gary McAllister score a 44-yard screamer in the last minute to make it 3-2 and hand the game to Liverpool. That was worse than rubbish. But whether it was last-minute heartbreak, or 90 minutes of garbage, the end result was always one of defeat.
But times have changed over at Goodison Park. We're good now! Well, we're supposed to be. When Liverpool come knocking we don't just stand aside and point at the open goal and say, "It's all yours, lads." In fact, sometimes, we fight back. Sometimes, the "small club" has the audacity to attempt to play football against the Almighty Liverpool. And sometimes, just sometimes... the small club wins. And I've got a sneaky feeling that this Saturday could well be the small club's day.
And England's day.
And Hamilton's day. (I know the Grand Prix's on Sunday, but afford me a bit of poetic license, yeah?)
Which is why I walked into William Hill, and picked up a betting slip, and wrote this;
EVERTON TO BEAT LIVERPOOL
ENGLAND TO WIN THE WORLD CUP
HAMILTON TO WIN THE CHAMPIONSHIP
I still don't know what made me do it. I've just got a feeling. And last time I had this feeling before a Merseyside Derby, Andy Johnson made a complete laughing stock out of Pepe Reina.
That betting slip will either be lying in tiny pieces on the floor of the Lower Gwladys at 2.30pm Saturday afternoon, or crumpled in my hand as I'm dancing round my living room on Sunday evening. Either way, this weekend is going to take me on one hell of a ride.
So.
How's it going?
I've decided after, ooh, 18 months of having a Vox and doing nothing with it, that I should start using it for something productive. So I'm hoping to turn it into one of those proper blog-type things that all the wannabe journalists seem to have these days.
Er... I'll start tomorrow.
Oh yeah, I rock at the procrastinating.
