Loose lips

One of the main features of being unemployed is the large proportion of your day that is filled with daytime telly. Some of it is good- who doesn’t want to watch rich cretins trying to buy a house on a limited budget or Phillip Schofield interview a transgendered murderer? Whilst these shows are usually given a bad name, they certainly fit under the ‘entertainment’ umbrella. Some daytime telly, however, simply drives me mad.

It isn’t surprising that at half past twelve every day; many people switch off their televisions. Yes, I’m talking about Loose Women. For those who aren’t aware of this programme, where have you been? Ultimately, it is an hour-long soapbox for opinionated and misinformed women, sandwiched between half-hearted interviews with old eighties pop stars and cast members of The Only Way is Essex. Reminiscent of a middle class coffee morning, these women like to discuss anything from benefit cheats to weight loss, putting their own spin on issues that they clearly know nothing about.

A few weeks ago, I watched an episode for which their chosen topic was about the importance of marriage. One of the women, the occasionally sensible Lisa Maxwell, is unmarried with children and has been with her partner for fifteen years. Cue: the other panellists harping on about why she should tie the knot as swiftly as possible. Janet Street Porter is very much concerned about the sanctity of marriage. Shouldn’t children be bought up in a solid relationship consisting of man and woman? She says, forgetting her own four divorces. It isn’t long before Carol Vorderman pipes up about the legal ramifications of not being married. It seems to have slipped her mind she has also been divorced twice.  Do I sense a pattern here? Of Course, it wasn’t too long until Andrea McLean and Denise Welch’s faces were splashed all over the gossip magazines with their stories of divorce too. It’s the new getting married, don’t you know?! Any excuse for a party.

The point is, the Loose Women give feminism a bad name. I’m all for sisterhood and waving your arms in the air shouting about how free you are, but these women seem to want to attack anyone and anything with male genitalia. Utterly shameless about airing their dirty linen in public, they feel the need to share everything about their male partners- from cheap innuendos about their sex life to how much body hair they have. Perhaps it’s time to shove five men on a panel show so they can talk about the women in their lives with such disregard? Somehow, I think there would be uproar. 

January blues are mandatory

Oh, January. You are so very unkind to us. This week is the first week back at work for most. We are fatter, poorer and experiencing what seems to be some sort of Wizard of Oz style hurricane in the south east of England. The Christmas lights that once welcomed us through the streets are rain swept, clinging on to buildings, endless and sad reminders of the fun we once had. Our resolutions to quit smoking and eating bread have fallen by the wayside and we’re beginning to hope that Spring will come earlier this year.

Still, we are bombarded with advertisements for how to reduce our waistlines and unrealistic celebrity exercise videos from women who have no bums. Rail fares have increased too, of course. Let us not forget that. Even the daily hassle of getting to work is costing us more and we’re suddenly sacrificing our prêt a manger sandwiches for the unrivalled joy of a delayed train filled with sweaty strangers.

And then there is the small matter of me being jobless. Again. Yes, 25% of graduates are unemployed and I’m back to being one of them. The news was broken to me earlier this week in a cold conference room that much resembles the setting of the 2001 film ‘Conspiracy’, in which it depicts a dramatic recreation of the Wannsee conference in Nazi Germany. Only this room was in a seaside town and no-one was wearing uniform.

Ok, so I’m being overdramatic. Having done the hard slog of actual grown-up work for three months, I thought that at the end of it I might be lucky enough to gain a permanent position. Nice try, no cigar. I was marched out like an X-Factor evictee, disappointed that I would never get to sing a cover of Snow Patrol’s ‘Chasing cars’ in the final show, accompanied by a black and white photo montage of my career-seeking journey.

It turns out that unemployment is much like meeting an old friend. It hasn’t taken me long to get used to it again. Indeed, it is much like we never parted. There are some things that haven’t changed whatsoever. There is the familiar tune of Vivaldi’s ‘Spring’ when put on hold to the job centre plus. The usual ensemble of greying pyjamas and blanket with sleeves, accessorised with a blank stare and twitch of the eyebrow. Most importantly there is the welcoming smile of Phillip Schofield and Holly Willoughby at ten thirty each morning. Things could be a hell of a lot worse.