Whatever Happened to Good-Old Speed Dating, Jodie Marsh?

It is sad really, but I'm finding it really hard to feel sorry for Jodie Marsh's poor turnout of 'potential' husbands for her MTV reality TV show.

I mean, how many men would really want the world to know that they actually fancy the two-belt-straps-bra "glamour" (model?) thing who goes around wearing as little as possible just so she can get into tabloid papers and lads mags?

Apparently, the turnout has been so poor that the show has cast the net further afield to Sheffield, where she got an astonishing five contestants...

http://www.holymoly.co.uk/news/news/mtvs-totally-jodie-marsh-is-a-total-disaster-639.html

What ever happened to good-old speed dating, eh?

Big Brother Gone Mad?

Just read the story of Big Brother Australia not telling a contestant called Emma that her dad had died of cancer... Apparently her dad died sooner than expected and on his deathbed had asked that Emma not be told until she was out of the house, as he wanted her to enjoy the whole experience or something...

I'm still struggling to get my head around this. I don't know this girl's dad's entire health history, but I don't see how she could have gone into the house anyway... surely being with her father would be more important than trying to get 'fame' - Lord knows that kind of fame only lasts for three weeks or something; and besides that there IS always next year...

The other thing that riles me is how these producers felt they had a right to do this - regardless of her father's last wishes! She should still have been told! What makes these people think they can dictate people's lives for goodness sake!

Forget disgraceful bus drivers, what about train station controllers - how do they sleep at night? And not with Horlicks I bet!

The fact that Horlicks uses them on their TV ads just says it all. And besides that, I don't really use buses that much these days. And in the stilettos that I wear , I'm not in danger of their nasty ways.

To be fair, the last time I was running - more like limping - for the bus, the bus driver actually waited for my unfit self to get on the bus. It was so funny, there I was in 3-inch heels, a massive handbag (well big bags are a big fashion thing at the moment), a carrier bag with three pairs of shoes I'd bought in the sale at Faith that day, and a laptop!

I'm not surprised the bus driver felt sorry for me. Maybe he was just getting a thrill out of watching me limp for the bus. Lord knows what he was saying before I finally made it cos half the bus were ready to give me a standing ovation.

But back to my other point, the new culprits are train drivers ... And I need to take a breath before I start. Last Friday, I was standing on my usual platform waiting for my usual 5.35pm train. It's the same one that goes from Sutton to London Bridge. I was early for once so I just stood there relaxing, looking up at the monitor every once in a while. Then I noticed that my train had changed platforms. I had a few minutes to walk from one side of the station to the next, and I had plenty of time - even in my stilettos.

So, I'm walking across and then get half way down the stairs when the idiot train guys blows the whistle for the train to go. To say that I was fuming is an understatement. I still had a minute left and, if anything, my shoes were making more noise than a rugby team's cry before a match. And the idiot train guy blatantly saw me coming - if he didn't hear my clanging heels.

How do these people sleep at night?

Crap Customer Service Without a Smile

To the sales assistant at Penge Woolworths at 9.15am today, thanks for your miserable, wrist-slitting mood. A smile really wouldn’t have cracked your face – honest – and it would actually keep you looking younger as, believe it or not, we use more facial muscles when we give dirty looks than we do when we smile.

Oh and a “please” and a “thank you” is not an insult to customers. It is an insult, however, when all your customers are saying it to you, but you retort “£6.50” and don’t even make eye contact… word to the wise.

I just don’t understand what it is about sales advisors – or whatever they’re called in the store; the naming conventions seem to change as often as Britney Spears’ hairdos these days – and their blatant rudeness. I know I sound really old, but for the record, I’m not even 30 yet…

My thing is, we all have to earn our crust somehow, and if it means scanning food produce again and again and again and again for eight hours a day, then so be it. If you can beat wearing a cheap version of an air hostess’s uniform to do kids parties at McDonalds then let me know. For the record, this WAS during my ‘A’ levels and I got a promotion from being just a crew member; and hell yeah at the time I loved that uniform – anything but wear that awful red and grey striped polo shirt. And those tight trousers… don’t get me started.

But seriously, do these people realise how many people they can upset in a shift? I’m growing so weary of going shopping now – unless it’s for that must-have bag, or another pair of stilettos, in which case I can stomach facial expressions that resemble the back end of an orang-utan – because the thought of being greeted by someone with a complex about god knows what, who is going to cast a dark cloud on my day makes me think about taking homemade butter sandwiches to work and growing my own potatoes.

And heaven forbid you actually have to break up a gossip session at the tills to get served… and don’t even think about disturbing anyone who is concentrating on shelf-stacking to point you in the direction of something.

I’ve even given up asking for clothes in my size because even if it does exist in the mystery stock room, I know they’ll tell me otherwise. It’s like a little trap that sales advisors are waiting for naïve customers to fall in to. Yes, I honestly do believe that like bus drivers who wait for you to get within half an inch of the bus that you’ve been running half a mile for and then pull off while you bang on the door and swear obscenities at their cruelty, sales advisors get a thrill out of telling you, basically, where to go. If you haven’t experienced this yet – where have you been? – then try it out and see how wide the smile is when they tell you: “We only have what’s available on the shop floor [bitch].”

The only exception to that rule is at Faith, the shoe shop, where they hold those little gadgets to scan the shoes to see if it is in stock in your size. And I’m not just saying that because they had a wicked sale on last week… But like most technology, I’m sure it’ll get to a stage when even those sales advisors will get bored and just start saying the machine isn’t working or something...

National Lottery Scratchcards Do Work!

No, I’m not on commission from Camelot – but I would consider it if they approached me – this is me sharing my excitement at winning a tiny but significant amount on a scratchcard.

I won £12 on Monday. And the only reason why I’ve waited until now to share my good news is the shock of 1) actually winning, after a LONG time of, well, not winning and 2) winning more than just the usual £1.

You may mock, but £12 is huge. I’ve still got £2.63 of it left and I’ve been to Woolwothrs, Gregs the bakery, Sainsburys and Starbucks since I won. That’s a pretty good record for a spendthrift like me.

Roll on 1 July 2007 when smoking is banned

Roll on the glorious 1st July 2007. On this day, I will be able to stand on a train platform and move only to a) get on the train b) get away if a weirdo is standing too close to me c)because I feel like being closer to my exit point when I get off the train.

I will not have to move because some inconsiderate person has decided that my side is the place that they want to puff their cancer-causing, teeth-staining, bad-breath-inducing cigarette smoke. And it’s even more annoying when I’ve literally squeezed myself into the tiniest part of the platform where the air is smoke-free.

So like I said, roll on 1st July!

On this day, if it rains and I am getting on the bus – and the fact that it is a rarity these days is besides the point! – I can stand under the bus shelter to keep my peep-toe stilettos dry without having to give fierce looks to yet another smoker who has decided that they couldn’t care less about the fact that we all want to stay dry without passive smoking.

On this day, I can go out and paint the town red at my dancing venue or bar of choice and not narrowly miss my arm being turned into a stub point by a dimwit who can’t understand the importance of not swinging their smoking hand in small places. On this day, I will possibly avoid getting into an argument with someone who is crazy enough to burn a hole in my outfit or scald me with their cigarette because of their absentmindedness.

On this day I will breathe a sigh of relieve and, yes polluted, clean air! Oh how I can’t wait for this day…

Not more bloody bank charges!

My problem took a turn for the worst when my department was sold to our sister company. My pay date changed, and with me being busy in union meetings, other meetings and just doing my job, I didn’t get round to changing some of my direct debits.

On pay day, I was trying to buy my monthly travelcard in my local newsagents when the guy said the card had been declined. “What? How, I just got paid today – your machine must be playing up,” I said to him. But he looked at me like I was broke and should just accept it.

Something smelt fishy, anyway, so I rang my bank and hey presto, I’d been landed with about £1K’s worth of bank charges – in one month. After the direct debits that I had moved to the correct date had been paid for, I was about £10 in the black. That’s a pretty bitter pill to swallow.

In situations like these, I don’t even get that flush of panic that most would, because as far as I was concerned, the bank was going to put every single penny they’d charged me back into my account. I had a mortgage to pay, car insurance, union membership, magazine subscription, bills! And I hadn’t even treated myself yet!

But I’m sure there are loads of you reading this who know how much of a brick wall these so-called customer service officers/advisors/assistants – whatever they want to call themselves – put up when it actually comes to servicing customers. That wall is bigger than the one that divided the former East and West Germany. Hell, it’s taller than that Great Wall of China. While I’m at it, I think the whole “customer service” bit should be taken out of their job titles because that is not what they do. But “customer disservice” or “bank service” would be more appropriate.

Anyway, to cut a long, tear-jerking, can’t-believe-how-stupid/insensitive-these-people-are story short, the bank refunded a miniscule two £38 charges out of the £1K “as a gesture of goodwill” (I hate that term so much it makes my skin prick every time I hear that!). I was lived. “How am I supposed to live this month?” I asked the woman on the line. All she could suggest was putting me through to lending to set up a “repayment plan”. At this point, I had lost the will to live.

In my mind, a repayment plan is what pays back a loan or a mortgage. Why the hell would I want one for paying back automated bank charges?

But what choice did I have? Either have some money to live on that month, or get a pointless repayment plan that swooped £152 out of my monthly wage, and whacked on about £40-50 worth of interest every month because officially, I’m in overdraft! The bastards…

At this point, I’d heard something about a website that helped people get their money back from the banks. And if you’ve read my entry about financialphobia, you’ll know that my student days were something of a financial grave. The guy on GMTV had claimed back £5,000 worth of bank charges. And I was on a warpath with Natwest, so I was ready.

Logged on to http://www.penaltycharges.co.uk/, downloaded all the letters I needed and let the games begin!

They tried all their delay tactics, but nothing made me smile more than demanding my money be refunded into my account within 14 days… but that didn’t happen of course.

After a couple of months, they’d sent me an offer letter for £995. I settled with it as I reasoned that it had been my fault in a way for not sorting out my direct debits. But I was not gonna let them keep that money because it costs them about £2.50 to send out a letter to me. So where the other £35.50 9are you with me? £38-£2.50 = £35.50) comes from is beyond me. And that’s been the whole point of this whole bank charges conundrum.

Now, I’ve started telling everyone I know to reclaim bank charges. You can go back up to six years, so get your statements out and start your claim! Think of the holiday you could go on, a new kitchen, alloys for your car, another handbag you don’t need and if you have a shoe problem like me, then another pair of silver stilettos never hurt anyone did it?

I’m on my next bank charges refund assault now. I’ll keep you posted…

Read this for someone else’s story: http://www.gm.tv/index.cfm?articleid=19615

Another step-by-step guide to getting bank charges sorted: http://www.thisismoney.co.uk/bankcharges

What ever happened to the modern man?

This is not another rant about how twisted society is, so please don’t click away! But what is happening to the so-called modern guy?

I just had a long conversation with one of my male friends about his perceived expectations of a woman and I nearly strangled myself. If he has these views – and up until today I thought he was your archetypal modern guy; I think that’s partly why he’s one of my best friends (up until now!!!!) – then there’s not much hope for most guys out there.

Basically, it’s the age-old story of some guys wanting to have their cake and eat it. They want a woman who works, earns a good crust and is attractive. Fair enough, I thought. But, this drop-dead-gorgeous career woman also needs to come home, do most of the cooking, cleaning and then once she’s done, be ready for any ‘womanly duties’ – if you get my meaning – when the lights go out.

What makes me feel sad is that he admitted that this is a pretty hard life for any woman – if she’s mad enough to run herself ragged doing all these things while he sits on his derriere – but he basically said that he wants to relax when he comes home. Fair enough, but what about her? When asked what he would bring into the relationship, he backtracked a bit. To paraphrase, he basically said he would do a bit of washing etc, but not cleaning like dusting etc.

This is a guy who hasn’t even hit 30 yet, so what’s happened? I’m so perplexed by the conversation that I’m suffering from writers’ block, and that’s pretty hard for someone who talks as much as I do!

I don’t want this to turn into some stereotypical whine about how hard-up women are and what lazy dogs men are, so I’m leaving it up to the men to enlighten me on this viewpoint, because so far, I have lost hope!

I really think that a lot of young guys actually resent women working and being able to look after themselves. Afterall, it is the financial freedom we now have that means we don't have to stand for any chauvanistic views, right? In our grandparents' days women basically had to go with what the man wanted, and there would be no question that grandma would cook and clean and pander over her family. Yes, I don't see there being anything wrong with that. She was probably a housewife and her 'job' was to do these things.

These days, the working woman is almost penalised. If I think about my best mate's views, then it's like working is out of choice, but the woman still has to do all the homely things ON HER OWN afterwards. I'm still stuck at the question I asked my best mate: What are you brining to the relationship?

I'm still waiting for an answer...

Recovering financialphobe

Handbags, shoes, music CDs,make-up… oh and loads of clothes. That’s what my life revolved around in the first year of uni. Finally free from the Catholic girls school run by nuns, I was ready to embark on my new life of fun-filled nights dancing the night away and just living like a normal human being, not worrying about getting awful looks from the headmistress (a nun) if my skirt was the wrong length. Believe it or not, people actually got told off at our school if they wore a skirt that was too long! And I was a school prefect, so that says a lot, and deputy head girl at one point.

Anyway, my years of being mistaken for a businesswoman or a waitress – that does not go down too well when you’re 16-18 and have issues about the way you look anyway! – because of the black and white dress code we had in sixth form were finally behind us. And no more disapproving looks for wearing a light shade of nail polish from our chemistry teacher. I was free to be me and learn to get to know the real me, without all those rules and regulations telling me how to speak, how to sit, how to walk and how to be!

Well, typically, as soon as I turned 18 all the banks wrote to me. Telling me that if I was going to uni – and I was raring to go – I could get a student account with more perks than I knew what to do with. Oh and did I forget to mention the credit card and overdraft? How do these people get away with offering this to young, impressionable people? Obviously, not all students were or are like me – I think now young students are much more astute than I was back then because of all the media attention on student debt.

But for me, giving me access to all this “free” money was literally like sending a lamb to the slaughter. I’d worked part-time during my ‘A’ levels so it’s not that I didn’t know how to manage money. I used to be a damn good saver pre-university! But having a huge sum of money just waiting to be spent seemed criminal. And being newly released from a place where crime was a cardinal sin, well there was only one way to go – spending street.

And spend I did. How easy it was too. My wardrobe was like a Freemans’ catalogue by the end of the first term. By the second, I had moved on to my second bank account, and by the third term, it suddenly dawned on me that I actually had to pay this money back. It might have been interest free, but once you were max’ed out your overdraft and credit cards, the banks don’t see you in the same light again. Little did I know that my every financial move was being documented on a credit report… ahh bless.

I learnt the hard way that overdrafts and credit cards are not free money. And that it’s not money you have extra. It’s the bank’s money! You learn this quickly when you have a shed load to pay back.

I once wrote a feature – and a quiz for New Woman (www.newwoman.co.uk) - on financialphobia; the fear of addressing financial problems. People literally don’t open letters because they are afraid of what they’ll see in bills and statements. I recognised those signs in my younger self while researching for that feature, and it was at this point that I realised the madness I had got myself into at such a young age.

But, I can look back on this time in my life and laugh about it now, because I’m free. I remember having a heartfelt conversation with my sister about it a few years back and laughing really hard about the little tricks I’d used to keep my head above financial shark-infested waters. I had been so ashamed at the amount of money I’d spent – and the fact that after the first year of uni ended, I literally had nothing to show for it – that I didn’t tell anyone until it really took its toll. We sat and talked about spending money and had a real laugh about it. She puts it down to my mad sense of humour, but the therapy I got from that one conversation is worth millions… and I would know about the value of money.

On my journey, I found a good website that helped me sort things out in my head – Motley Fool (http://www.motleyfool.co.uk). Here, I learnt about snowballing debt to pay things off. For a while, I worked at a market research company in Victoria to help me get more cash to pay off the bigger debts that were eating into my happiness. It was such a miserable time for me, but every shift I did after a full day’s work at my main job was a reminder not to get into that same position again. Better to go through this when you’re young, free and single, I often say to myself than when you have a family, so I have to be grateful for that.

I also read a book called A Girl's Best Friend Is Her Money: The Motley Fool Women's Investment Guide by Jane Mack and Jasmine Birtles, which gave me more good tips.



Then Alvin D Hall who wrote Your Money Or Your Life: A Practical Guide To Solving Your Financial Problems And Affording A Life You'll Love came on BBC2 with his informative financial freedom series, where he literally beat the crazy spending out of people with his money-pinching tips. I couldn’t believe that there were other people out there who didn’t bat an eyelid when spending, spending and spending like me (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/breakfast/3051395.stm). But they also helped me sort myself out.

These days there is so much information out there. A decade ago – I feel so old saying that – I was on my own and at the mercy of my debtors. I used to say that once I’d paid off my debts I’d never get a credit card or use my overdraft again. But that’s the weird thing, if you want to build up your credit, you have to use them to show that you can manage your money. If you don’t, the fact that you have no credit also has a negative effect on your credit score. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place.

So, am I cured? No! I still find it hard to fight the spending temptation. It’s like what an addict goes through. If I see a nice bag or something that I want, I want it. But the lesson I’ve learnt is that it’s not worth getting into debt over. O get guilt pangs if I think I’ve spent too much money, which is great because back then, I couldn’t have felt an ounce of guilt when I was spending if it slapped me in my face!

Bingo with a difference – bitchy bingo with the LIPS (www.lipsnyc.com) crew in New York City

My life has never been the same since I went to New York for a week with work.

The weather was rubbish, and somehow I only managed to buy myself a wallet – ok, so it’s not a real Dolce and Gabbana piece, but shops NYC’s Soho would have you dumbstruck to tell the difference between the genuine article, but off course the price tells you different – and a black shirt that I can now barely fit into, but that’s another story... By the way the wallet’s quality was as good as the $10 I paid for it – the inner seams on one of the compartments had come undone inside a week of using it, so I was far from impressed.

Anyway, like I was saying, the weather was pretty poor for March – like -6 degree Fahrenheit – and I’d given up on fashion because every nightly stroll to the must-go Madison and Fifth avenues left my head feeling like an ice pick.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the UK’s unpredictable weather because frankly, I couldn’t see what all the damn fuss was about the Big Apple anyway! Not ‘til I went to this bitchy bingo thing. Near Grenwich Village, LIPS (http://www.lipsnyc.com/) is well hid, but once you find it, you’ll want the whole world and his dog to know.

Basically, it’s bingo compeered by transvestites. You get a sit-down meal, and you play bingo. It’s one of those things that you have to go to because no one can describe it to you fully. The trannies are not the tacky sort by any means. Lily Savage would look like Jade Goody, and the LIPS trannies would be Sarah Jessica Parker or someone like that. Talking of SJP, I believe there was an episode of Sex and the City that had a scene at LIPS. They had the immaculate looking one with the big green hair, who, I have to say, is the sweetest person ever. She’s on a diet, but I think she looks fab just as she is.

After about five or so Margaritas I’d forgotten all about my gripes about NYC – the horrid subways and their more than confusing maps – not to mention the rip-off metro card, and NYC’s weird toilets (could someone please tell me why they have that weird split in the middle?), not to mention the delis, which left me bloated for weeks.

Ginger, the compere for the night was hilarious. Then she clocked me and my Korean work colleague and that was it. Next thing I know I was standing in front of the whole venue giggling like a hyena on acid, saying this God-awful things back to her – under duress, of course…

Anyway, all the trannies do their little performances from Broadway shows. And they’re actually quite entertaining with it too. Some poor guy got whipped to within half and inch of his life by one tranny’s wig. But he wasn’t complaining… that’s another thing about tranny bingo that makes it so much fun. Everyone there comes with an open mind and to have fun. Like this 73-year-old woman who was there to celebrate her birthday.

How could I forget about the prizes on offer if you get a full house? I’m sure even Anne Summers would need a special license for some of those toys. I think a lap dance was the most ‘reserved’ prize.

My best part though was when my work colleague was accosted by one of the trannies who thought he looked ‘cute’. Being married, and only there because I’d harped on about going so much he felt he had to take me, this poor guy didn’t know what to do with himself when he had a derriere stuck in his face. Quality.