Fading Gigolo [2013]

that subplot with vanessa paradis didn't make any sense either

When spaceships explode and they go ‘Bang’ in a vacuum, that’s really good that is. When she goes by that one tree and out of all of them, that’s where the hefty lad with the axes and stuff is hiding, that’s brilliant. Some man gets designs on some woman and he wins her over with actions that would totally constitute harassment and intimidation but it’s passed off as not only ‘comedy’, but also ‘romantic’, I’m there loving every second. Woody Allen voicing an ant, yeah mate, nice one. But Woody Allen being friends with John Turturro and then hiring him out for, like, actual money to Sharon Stone and Sofia Vergara because they want a threesome and that’s the only solution they can come up with to solve this totally unfathomable problem, it may be right to start thinking cinema’s lost its way.

Written and directed by John Turturro.

0. NOT THE COURSE – 0.4. Lesson inspections

Among the many, many changes the government are installing is the return to two-year A-level courses. Being nice for a second, one advantage is there’ll be more time to go into detailed study, as there’s several teaching weeks gained because of the reduction in exam leave. The pre-2000 arrangement was exactly this, with correspondingly more content covered over the two years.

But as (even) Cambridge University have noted, the invention of AS levels allowed for greater choice and diversity in study choices at 16-18, with a wider range of students staying on in Further Education, and more going on to Higher Education. This has been labelled as negative by some, objecting to there being ‘too many’ people going to university. This tends to be motivated by such bullshit things as (i) snobbery about newer/niche/vocational degrees tearing people away from whatever it is they consider to be a proper education, (ii) a desire for higher education to be a preserve of the rich, possibly with a sampled few of the poor picked out as being more ‘deserving’ than the rest of their class, (iii) a view that the only degrees worth doing are ones with a super-obvious career trajectory attached to them, combined with concerns that those who do courses outside of this category serve to ‘devalue’ their own qualification.

It’s been pretty commonplace for students to start with four AS subjects, leave one at the end of the first year, then drop down to continue with three A2 levels, or some other form of swapping about. The merit of this is not everyone fully knows what they want to do at 16, and the difference between A-level and GCSE study is worryingly large. AS levels have meant that students who fuck up a bit in their selection get a chance to have another go, to make things alright. But that’s going to disappear.

heathers is better than mean girls

On the one hand, teachers can sound like right cunts when they complain about their lessons being inspected. Depending on the management style [i.e. how much of a cunt these cunts are treated as being by other, hierarchically cuntier cunts] this can mean they’re complaining about the one hour a year when their boss is in the room with them while they’re working. People in many other professions experience far greater one-on-one scrutiny than this. Shut up, teachers.

However number one, this is rarely true, as there’s also the ever-popular ‘learning walks’, which means there’ll be a few weeks in the calendar when a senior person can turn up, hang around for a while, leave again, and then send you an email telling you they were there and they saw what you did. Officially, this has no implications for disciplinary procedures, but it does. There’s also peer observations, drop-ins, and whatever else excuse can be devised. More than this, many departments have big-hearted policies of openness, when anyone – bosses, for example – can come in at any time, in the spirit of sharing great practice, and definitely not micromanaging fuckers out of the profession.

However number two, a greater level of interference in other jobs doesn’t necessarily mean teachers are getting away with too much. It could just mean it’s even worse elsewhere, and even more unjustifiably. It may not be the best idea to get into a race-to-the-bottom pissing contest about who’s got it the worst, as the prize you get in winning that is being at the bottom, covered in piss.

However number three, the formal lesson inspection is in no way the only surveillance teachers receive. Rivers of data spill into and out of every valley, charting the meeting of targets, benchmarks and professional standards. Like any other job, the only thing which guarantees a lighter touch is the individual benignity of those above you. Which is no guarantee at all.

twelve monkeys is better than brazil but brazil is still great

I’ve had a few inspections now, and I’ve managed to get all the possible grades. I’ve been unsatisfactory, I’ve been outstanding, I’ve been the lot. Here’s some excellent tips:

  • Learning objectives – yeah, definitely get some of them. In as many non-observed lessons as you can, loudly draw attention to the artificiality of this essential teaching tool of writing out what students should be able to do on a small whiteboard whose only role is having learning objectives on it. When you know an inspection is on its way, remind the class that we’ll all have to go through this pantomime of learning objectives together, and then we can go back to doing things not properly once again. It’s a tax which, once paid, means you’re left in peace for a while.
  • Starters and plenaries – yeah, have these and all. A good starter activity for non-observed lessons is to ask the class why they haven’t got their books out yet, and then get on with teaching them. A good plenary in these conditions is to look up at the clock at the end of the lesson and go ‘Right, that’s it. Fuck off’. But observations deserve a bit more theatrical bullshit than this. If you’re not sure what sort of activity to do for one of these, just wave a batch of post-its around, or put up a PowerPoint slide with a single sentence on it. This will cause a placebo effect in your inspector, who’ll mark off on their sheet that your lesson had a punctual, focused start, and a time-bonded conclusory activity where all learners were assessed in accordance with the declared learning objectives.
  • Keep saying ‘And this relates to the exam because…’, ending the statement with whatever comes to mind – the details are pretty irrelevant. If you get really stuck, say ‘Assessment Objective 3’. That always goes down a treat.
  • For every six times you say ‘And this relates to the exam because…’, include one ‘And this relates to equality and diversity issues because…’, again ending with some extemporaneously assembled nonsense. Phrases like ‘accessibility’, ‘minority groups’, ‘toleration’, and ‘citizenship’ probably don’t hurt.
  • Always be on the lookout for a student saying ‘I don’t understand’ in reference to the lesson content or the instructions of whatever task they should be doing. You need to swoop down on that shit as soon as you hear it, vaulting across tables if you have to. Have a tense one-on-one with that sabotaging little prick until they realise they do actually understand, and without you they’d never have understood anything that’s happened in their lives ever. The only student declaration to be treated with even greater emergency is ‘I don’t feel safe’. But if they say that, you’re probably fucked no matter what happens, so you may as well just punch them already.

0. NOT THE COURSE – 0.3. Meeting the parents

At 14 I decided I wanted to go to university, the first person in my immediate family to feel this way. But we knew a few friends with the right connections, so they got hold of some battered prospectuses for me to have a look at. Firstly, I enjoyed the picture of the pigs on the page about Natural Sciences, and secondly, all the courses I liked the look of were labelled ‘Bachelor of Arts’. So I concluded I should take Art GCSE, and then A-level, despite not being suited to either one.

By the time I worked out that roughly half of all undergraduate courses were also called Bachelor of Arts, and studying Art as a discrete subject was nowhere near a requirement for any of the ones I was interested in, I was months into my A-levels. Had any of the project briefs been ‘Just draw a load of old shit’, maybe I could have done alright. But there was this insistence on direct observational drawing, which I lacked skill in and was bored by, and also a demand for quantity combined with quality, which I never delivered. I drew a few of the school’s cows – so Essex – and some ornate gravestones at the big church in town. For the final assignment, I twattishly picked a topic called something like ‘mythical beasts’, which immediately raised the practical problem of how I was going to find any fucking dragons to draw.

As a token gesture towards giving a shit, I arranged a trip to a nearby zoo, which had some lizards (that’s dragons covered), and some wolves (werewolves – they’re in the bag). I wanted some sketch material for vampires as well, but you just need people for those, and them’s all over the place. D and I packed a lunch and made the journey cross-country, borrowing an uncle’s Ordnance Survey maps. It would have been more time-efficient to get the bus or a lift off of a grown-up, but that would have meant more hours at the zoo, and therefore more drawing time.

Miles out of town, on one of the many winding country roads, we found a sign announcing the border of Essex. Twenty metres away there was another for Cambridgeshire. Where, then, was this space between them? Essex starts here, and Cambridgeshire starts all the way over there. It’s not Hertfordshire, and it certainly can’t be Suffolk. There’s no litter or people with webbed fingers.

actual fucking dragons i shit you not

Pausing to look down at this unexpected tarmac of the people, the spirit of our colonial ancestors suddenly pumped through our veins, and we claimed this no-man’s land as our own. Photos were taken, grand conquistador poses struck, fists clenched in symbolism of our land grab, imperialist feet planted astride the white lines etched on the smooth virgin surface. Whose street? OUR STREET!

It’s possible if we hadn’t spent so much time dicking about with our newly-taken empire, we’d have got to the zoo earlier, I’d have got more photos, gone on to do more drawings, and not utterly wanged up that extremely important assignment. But I think this is one of those cases where in every possible timeline and alternate reality, they all end up with me submitting a limp handful of sketches of poorly rendered creatures, and a papier-mâché bas-relief of a dragon on a pile of gold coins, of which passing critics would say, ‘My six-year-old could do that. Not the one that’s good at art, though. The one with no hands who I’ve kept locked in the cellar since birth. Fuck me, that kid’s a talentless loser. I might sell him for parts’.

Since Curriculum 2000, anything lower than an E grade at A-level gets a U, meaning ‘Ungraded’. For my 1997 result, I had an N, falling between a U and an E, meaning ‘No grade’. This was somehow different, in a way which was never explained to me. The countrywide curriculum changes which came with the new millennium had a number of problems, but dropping the N grade was a good move.

Because AS levels are a stand-alone course lasting only a year, it’s now just half the tragedy it used to be if someone ends up studying the wrong thing. Had I been able to drop Art, I would have done, but even though my first year wasn’t even over, I had the choice of either continuing on to the end or dropping out of school entirely. I picked the first one, the resultant N foreseeable long before it was printed on my results paper. And it’s to this level of consumer choice we’re now returning, as AS levels are facing execution in coming academic years.

exponentially better

Parents evening is like a night of speed dating, where one side of the table doesn’t realise the other is thinking it’s like a night of speed dating, and the other side is really glad it isn’t a night of speed dating for around 98% of the people they get teamed up with.

Given the 16+ age of the students, we don’t get a high percentage of parents coming in for a chat about their tinies’ progress. And out of them, most are the keener ones who’ve made the keener children, and all I have to say is ‘Keep it up, yeah? Exams coming, bit more effort, you’ll be alright, thanks bye’. Meanwhile, I’ll be speculating on the relationship dynamics of the couples or singles who’ve turned up, and/or mentally trying to match up bits of parents’ heads to that of the children they’ve created.

There’s an institutional fear of the Aggressive Parent, and the teachers are typically placed in rooms with at least one co-worker, presumably in case things kick off. I don’t know how much good any of them would be if plastic chair legs started being pulled off for use as cudgels, so maybe it’s for future witness-for-the-prosecution eventualities rather than their streetfighting skills.

In school catchment areas with a bit more life to them, it’s possible teacher-on-parent death matches happen more frequently, but the most I’ve had to deal with over the years in my leafy cultureless backwater is some grumpy demands for an explanation as to why their child isn’t doing as well as we imagined they would. They’re very clever, you know. They did really well at GCSEs. Their art project was particularly impressive. The dragon scales were so beautifully crafted.

My advice to you, less experienced teachers, is just to remember who’s got the upper hand here. Admittedly, they may have known this student their entire lives, but you’ve read at least one book cover to cover without even checking if there was a film adaptation of it starring Adam Sandler. Use your cultural capital, teachers. All you’re dealing with here is a bunch of oafs who were so lacking in proper hobbies they thought they may as well give it a shot at creating an entire person out of tiny bits of themselves. But you probably know how to use semi-colons, or possibly even understand what quadratic equations are actually for. So stand tall and just tell them their kid’s got a stupid face, and the reason they’ve got a stupid face is because they’re stupid. If things get a bit fistpunchy after that, run behind the Classical Civilisation teacher you’re sharing the room with. They’ve got your back.

how did the dinosaurs die

0. NOT THE COURSE – 0.2. Marketing exercises

Following GCSEs, I did some A-levels, staying on in the same Essex secondary school. I know! You didn’t think they had schools in Essex, did you? Well, there was, and I think there still are. As it stood then, pre-Curriculum 2000, you signed up for a handful of two-year courses, the exams and whatever token gestures to coursework there might have been happening right near the end. If you found halfway through you didn’t like how things were going, well fuck you and fuck off. Go and get a job or something, which back then was borderline possible. One of my classes lost fifteen people between the first and second year, and two of them were teachers. Here’s how I did on the great A-level results day of ’97:

English Literature – A

Theatre Studies – A

General Studies – B

Art – N

Now, there’s a couple of oddities here. First of all, what – said people at the time (and are still saying today) – the fuck is General Studies? My school chose to make everyone enrol on it for the first year, it being an odd creature called an AS, taking half the time as an A-level, and worth half as much. Standing for ‘Advanced Subsidiary’ rather than the more elegant ‘Advanced’, AS-levels were a new creation. As is still the case, General Studies was taken into positive consideration by some universities but not others – the ‘others’ dominated by the most bourgeois and elite of these bourgeois and elite cabals.

Teachers with spare slots in their timetables got desperately asked, ‘Do you mind doing some General Studies?’, and then they went, ‘Yeah, s’pose. What are the hours?’ The next day, they were sat in front of a bunch of tinies who’d either chosen to do General Studies because their range of interests was so polymathically broad they couldn’t possibly round it down to anything so limitingly precise as History or English Language, or more likely there was nothing else they were really suitable for, and in the third hour of their torturous enrolment interview they got desperately asked, ‘Do you mind doing some General Studies?’, and then they went, ‘Yeah, s’pose. What are the hours?’

check your heteronormativism, dude

check your heteronormativism, dude

Somehow, us 17-year-olds discovered the school only ran General Studies because it gave them a good deal in terms of funding. We thought this was terribly awful of them, but as I’ve discovered since working in the industry, places which don’t take these kinds of financial non-opportunities are pretty much fucked for alternative sources of money. One monetary escape route which had wide popularity in the last decade was to  sell off your playing fields to house High Street-destroying supermarkets and luxury flats for upwardly mobile dickbags.

We general studiers went to a few of the classes. I don’t remember what happened in them, the teacher I recall was nice enough, but one week they didn’t show up. We hung around for the lesson to do some doodles and talk about Warhammer, returning the next time to another unmanned room. Eventually we worked out we’d been abandoned, and didn’t do any more studier des generals (that’s French) until the end-of-year exam. There was a bunch of opinion-piece style essays to write, and some reading and comprehension questions. I’m not sure what grade I got for the AS.

At some point in my second year, rumours went round that if you wanted to convert your AS to a full strength General Studies A-level, you just had to say to the exams office, ‘Mate, can I do the A-level, please?’ and you were in. Further investigation revealed the school wasn’t even putting on the pretence of classes for the subject, so attendance wasn’t a problem. And even better, the exam was 100% composed of multiple choice questions. It was a pub quiz! And an A-level! Combined! And you didn’t even have to put a pound in to enter! We signed up on the spot.

Pretty much everyone I know got an A grade. I got a B. Among the A-graders was Y, recently moved over from Ukraine, who mockingly asked how he got a better mark than me, given that he was, in his own words, ‘a bloody Russian’. I had no answer, and my attention was more appallingly focused on the bizarre N grade I’d picked up for Art. But more on that next time.

retention ratings

One of the cuntest of cunt ideas from recent governments has been to push further the values of ‘free market competition’ into the education sector. This is bad enough of an ideological bumspoodge when dealing with regular consumer products, but slapping it on to schools and colleges has fucking really shit things up. I’m sure I’ll raise more general objections to laissez-faire economics when I get on to discussing the political philosophy unit many blog entries from now, but from a first-hand, directly lived experience perspective, one single area in which this has impacted on my working life is in the growing emphasis placed on appealing to prospective students during workplace marketing actions.

As a side note, ‘pupils’ has long gone as a preferred term, and ‘students’ often gets ditched in favour of ‘learners’, which I’ve always thought sounds a more spongy, passive phrase. Reports come in of senior managers at the more odiously run institutions referring to them as ‘clients’ or even ‘products’, which is at least unapologetic in its dehumanising, conveyor-belt attitude.

courses get your courses stack em up sell em cheap

Open evenings

The last one I did, this parent comes over to me as I’m setting up the display, and says they’d come to the previous night and it may have been because it was late in the evening but they got the impression I didn’t really care about what I was doing and could I now sell the course to them with more enthusiasm? I didn’t remember this meeting they were talking about, but it certainly sounded like something I’d do. To appease their concerns, I leapt right in with an unbeatable 4/10 presentation, more than double the pizzazz the situation required.

There’s little to enjoy about standing in front of a table telling a succession of families exactly the same thing about what the course you’re teaching even means – ‘Is Philosophy like Psychology and Religious Studies?’ ‘No. It’s not. Fuck off.’ – and the only way to dilute this tedium is to enlist student helpers from the current herd. Their nominal role is to engage with parents and their young, showing a living outcome of the college’s efforts, but their true value is having someone to whisperingly swap shit-talking disparagements with about everyone who walks into the room and, on quiet evenings, those passing by the open door in the corridor beyond. Clearly you need the right kind of student for this, so be careful how you choose them. Never make the mistake of getting a helper who’s actually enthusiastic, because then there’s the real risk of making the course look like a good idea to a far wider audience than it actually benefits from.

The tension here is between the more corporate line of friendly, accessible promotion with an end goal of maximising student numbers and therefore funding, and a concern about getting the most appropriate people into the room in the first place. And it’s not as if these are truly oppositional values, as my decision to be more selective in this begrudging sales pitch comes from a recognition that a more welcoming demeanour does result in higher numbers, but that’s because a load of seats are then full up with people under the wrongful impression this is all going to be a fun and easy time. And I don’t personally have much against teaching students who have little chance of passing the course, but I’m made to care about it because I’m held accountable for the results at the end of the year.

So my ever-recycled course description across the evening always begins with points which have little mass appeal – i.e. the higher-than-normal entry requirements, the complete absence of coursework over timed examinations, the length of the essays, the complexity of the subject. If they’re still standing after that, there’s an ok chance they’re going to be alright. You’re welcome!

you'll like it not a lot

Introductory sessions

As the looming pressure of battling other institutions for future students increases, it’s declared open evenings aren’t enough. Don’t wait for the apples to fall – tear them from the tree. What we need to do is get schools to ship their kids over to us for a day to experience what we’re really like, and what we’re really like is much warmer and lovelier than those other places they’ve just been made to visit. Please come here. Please. You’ll never leave.

We do this for school students looking for post-compulsory places in the next academic year, but to make sure that branding root is stuck into them deep, we also do it for ones a year before that. As the competitive spirit bubbles ever higher thanks to the motivating factors of massive funding cuts, and the newly emerging predations of academy sixth forms and free schools, there’s sure to be a day when the T-minus-3-years crop gets targeted too. But why stop it there? Let’s get ahead of the game now and do some sponsored ante-natal classes.

There’ll be no colourful pens, no smiley face stickers, and definitely no tubs of lolly pops in my introductions. I can’t imagine the terrible consequences of doing a philosophy wordsearch, pin the tail on the post-structuralist or epistemological Jenga. I make a point of doing a lesson as close to the style and content of the actual course. And for every unsatisfied customer at this stage, I know that’s one fewer miserable face doing the A-level, feeling the experience was misrepresented, wishing they were anywhere else.

Obviously, it’s all still superfun and interesting. I’M NOT A MONSTER.

0. NOT THE COURSE – 0.1. Teaching blog introduction

anyone anyone anyone

Yeah, alright? In the inspirational words of that woman in ‘Cake Farts’, the semi-popular internet shock video: ‘Let’s get this done’. If you’re unfamiliar with this audiovisual text, it’s a winning metaphor for capitalist education systems. The child’s mind is the beautiful, freshly baked cake prior to hegemonical influence. That woman’s bum is the constraints of the economic superstructure on all aspects of life. Her farts are a succession of destructive governmental policies. The resultant smushed-up, guffed-on cake is the soul of the educational victim in late era neoliberalism. It’s a very layered work. Oddly, unlike the cake itself. This is probably very clever.

I’ve been teaching for eleven years now, so I’m really fucking good at it. We can all think of teachers we’ve had, and we know the longer they’ve been in the job, the definitely better they are. It’s a shame I’d have to retire at 68 under the current framework, as that’s depriving a shitload of kids of whatever extra-genius demagogic wizardry I’d be churning out into my seventies and beyond.

I’ve only ever taught A-levels, which for our international readers and people in ridiculous generations are a course which can be started by students following their GCSEs as their first step into post-compulsory education.

Oh my god, some of you are so foreign or temporally disconnected you don’t even know what that means. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you. For free. So a GCSE stands for General Certificate of Secondary Education, and they’re typically studied for two years, finishing when the students are 16. In olden times they called them O-levels, meaning ‘Ordinary’, with the ‘A’ in A-level meaning ‘Advanced’. That’s nice. These are my GCSE grades:

English Language – A
English Literature – A
Mathematics – B
Balanced Science – BB
History – B
Geography – B
Technology: Electronics – C
Art and Design – C
French – C

Yeah! That’s right! Look at that education! Obviously when I did them that was back when they were really hard, so any of you slackjawed lankhairs currently clumbling out the system who’ve recently picked up fifteen A* grades, just remember that back in ’95 getting what I got was totally difficult to accomplish. Thanks to people in my current profession being pressured to methodically teach overly prescribed courses to the letter, with a mind continually set on attaining wanky professional development targets and securing their overlord employers’ place in the national league tables, GCSE grades have largely been on the up since I sat them.

typical school day

My job in its current form is dominated by teaching A-level Philosophy, which I first introduced to my workplace in 2004. I’ve done Media Studies and Film Studies as well, and I took the register for a couple of Psychology classes once, but I don’t want to claim I’m an expert.

Barring any unforeseen circumstance, this academic year is set to be my last in my job, my last teaching A-level, and also my last teaching in England. I’m going to do a second MA in Vancouver from September 2014, and in so doing hope to make the leap to tutoring at the Higher Education level. Because of that, I’m starting this teaching journal to document these end times. Hopefully this will include the following things:

• Learning materials used
• Experiences over the years of teaching different topics
• Sagacious advice on teaching amazingly
• Informed reflection on my own experience of education
• Recommended methods on indoctrinating the young
• Helpful commentary on relevant government policy
• Incorporation of theories from the philosophy of education
• Weary analysis of industrial disputes and trade unionism
• Swearing
• Dick jokes
• Appropriate usage of apostrophes

I’m not sure a text currently exists with similar aims, meaning I’ve got a pretty amazing USP. There’s no way I’m not getting a book deal out of this.

Explosions are boring


Married couple, both artists. Share a big house. Mostly stay on separate floors. Don’t speak to each other much. Somewhat awkward when they do. Nothing happens.

it's not you it's me and it's also you

Every seven years, someone turns up who, rightly or wrongly and without any intent or malice on their part, pulls off the astonishing feat of looking like being with them would be better than being with nobody, and they do this so dramatically that I actually try and do something about it. Most of the time that means getting a mutual friend to go ‘Oi mate, guess who fancies you?’ and then they’re all ‘Oh, ok. Cheers’. That such magical fairytale situations like this happen at all is a great testament to either the immense qualities of this handful of individuals, or to the grandness of my delusional fantasies. And here’s ‘Exhibition’, as wonderful an advert for staying single as I’ve ever seen. If only I’d grown up watching this rather than ‘Say Anything…’, ‘Singles’ and ‘Some Kind of Wonderful’, I wouldn’t be getting all mopey every seventh winter.

‘Exhibition’ shows a more recognisable and believable picture of romantic relationships far better than any film ever actually described as ‘romantic’. And I don’t reckon writing that’s even me being a dick or nothing, and I’m backing that up now with a single conversation had with S a couple of weeks back, a likeminded ‘child of divorce’. Except of course her parents aren’t divorced or even separated, just living, S tells me, separate lives in one house. Occasional accidents will happen and they’ll end up in the same room together, sometimes with S there as well, reading on the sofa surrounded by what is now to her a comfortable uncomfortable silence. Sometimes this is broken up by terse exchanges of statements pretending to be conversations. They’re staying together for the kids, and the kids don’t really give a shit.

Turns out both me and S are amazed anyone keeps it going more than a handful of months, and the thought of me living with someone only seems like a good idea if I wanted the relationship to fall apart within a week of picking up the door keys.

‘Exhibition’ has long silences, plenty of alone time, doors shutting everywhere, duologues no one seems to enjoy, and moments of affection drained of any warmth thanks to their stagnated repetition over the years. It’s love when it gets tired. It’s love when the only reason someone says ‘I love you’ is to see what the other person does, and not being sure the gamble’s going to pay off. I thought it was great, and I may have completely missed the point of what it was trying to do.

always a chore never a pleasure

TRACKS [2013]

Couple of hours later, and I’m in another cinema watching ‘Tracks’. This one’s a true one, although somescenesdramatisedbecauseofreasonsyaddayaddawhatever. Mia Wasikowska, thankfully given a lot more to do than that non-role she landed in ‘The Double’, wants to get her dog, get some camels, and walk hundreds and hundreds of miles across the Australian desert. She’s not some gap year cock or looking to commune with The Wild and find her spirit animal or any shittery of that sort. She’s just fucking had enough of everyone. And the most enjoyable scenes deal with her growing hatred towards the people who get in her way of achieving that. Cursory, unemotional goodbyes to close friends as she kicks off on her possibly fatal trek set the tone, ending up with her wrapped in a blanket, hiding in a hedge from photographers and yelling ‘LEAVE ME ALONE!’ as loud as she can. She should go visit that couple in ‘Exhibition’. They could all have a great time being in different rooms to each other and not saying anything. This one was fucking great as well. What a day I had.

hey dog do you want some camelmiles tea lol geddit

hey dog do you want some camelmiles tea lol geddit