Now That's What I Call... 90s!

You remember the words, you remember the dance routine - you even remember the awful music video that came along with it. But realistically, who could ever forget 90s music anyway?

It was the decade pop took itself to a whole new level- where it was suddenly acceptable to have line dances and to sing about Barbie dolls. It was loud, it was colourful, it was very, very cheesy- but it was totally proud of it.

At the tender age of about 8 years old, I was already fully into the amazing pop fetish that was the 90s. ‘Steps’ were my life. They were your typical pop group really; complete with upbeat cheesy numbers and the classic love ballads as well. I used to have all their albums- CDs AND tape cassette- I had their calendar and bought their annual every year. I even a horrifically cheesy poster of them above my bed, just so I could remind myself of how great they were before I went to sleep each night.

But the most amazing and exciting night of possibly my whole life, was when my mum took me to see them in concert. At 8 years old seeing your heroes in the flesh is a pretty big deal, so I had my outfit planned about a week in advance and even got my hair done for the event.  When they first came on stage I was literally so enthralled I couldn’t even sing along with all the words I already knew by heart.

The best part of the night though, was when ‘H’- my absolute favourite- sang a solo and came flying out into the audience on strings. That’s right, he flew. How amazing! At that point I officially fell in love with him and for the next four years of my life I was totally convinced I would marry him someday.

Although, of course, like all 90s pop bands Steps broke up. Despite physically crying at the time and throwing all their CDs of my rack (then later replacing them because I felt bad) - I somehow managed to get over the heartache.

It was then that I turned my attention to S Club 7 and dedicated my life to becoming their eighth member.

Ten years later though, and it’s pretty obvious that the 90s lives on in its own little way. When I was in school, my friend and I had a very specific plan to revive the days of that amazing decade. Being big fans of the Venga Boys, we thought we would make our own Venga Bus.

We were going to buy a camper van, paint it multi-coloured and upholster the inside with a furry carpet. We were going to attach a megaphone to the top which would constantly play the Venga Bus song, and we were going to drive around with the doors open so if you wanted to party you could, “get on and move your body”- just as the lyrics suggested.  How amazing would that have been?

We all love to be nostalgic about 90s music though, and I didn’t notice this until recently.  I went to a 90s night out with a few equally cheesy friends, and no matter what song came on - whether it was B*Witched, Backstreet Boys or some old school Take That- the crowd went crazy to each tune. Everyone knew every lyric, and everyone was just so happy!

So, even though I never joined S Club 7, and I never married H from Steps- 90s pop definitely still lives on.

We know it’s embarrassingly cheesy, but we still love it shamelessly. We are always going to remember the dance moves, and we are always going to sing every lyric off by heart. We are always going to embrace the cheese – because, let’s face it; the 90s was the greatest musical decade there ever was.  

The Greatest Thing You Will Ever Learn...

I am a girl. I like makeup and new shoes, I have fairy lights in my room, and I still cry every time I watch Bambi.

So naturally- like most girls- I love a good romantic film. Not necessarily the annoyingly predictable rom-coms that star Jennifer Anniston and are set in New York; but ones with a true love story line- maybe a tragic hero or two and the kind of ending that leaves you with a bit of a secret tear.

So with that in mind, it’s a wonder I hadn’t seen Moulin Rouge sooner. 

It does, after all, encompass everything I love in a film.  The heart felt tragic love story, the songs, the music and the ending that leaves you in total shock and awe.

At first, I was unsure of the loud and gaudy feel of the film. With Baz Luhrmman as the director- I should have expected it- but its colourful costumes, fantastical settings and somewhat curious sound effects seemed ridiculously showy at first.

But when the fast paced slapstick died down and the plot began to unfold, I was totally gripped.  What’s not to love about a romantic poet who comes to Paris for inspiration in love, life and loss and to experience the arts of a new city- but who manages to fall for a prostitute along the way? And when that romantic poet is played by Ewan McGregor…well, it just makes it all the more appealing.

The epic mix of love songs is another aspect of Moulin Rouge I couldn’t help but love. I didn’t think it was possible to take so many Elton John and Madonna numbers and mash them together into one dramatic show stopper.

And when this is side lined with unforgettable one- liners like, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return”- it’s just a full on romance fest. The oddest part is, it doesn’t even seem cheesy- it just seems to fit with the rest of the film.

Then, of course, there’s that awe inspiring ending. The unpredictable one, the dramatic one, and the one that leaves you with those teary eyes you so desperately try to hide. I’m not going to ruin it- but it is simply the perfect way to bring a serious ending to a crazy whirlwind of a film.

It should be cheesy and it should be annoyingly predictable- but it isn’t. Somehow, it just works. Really, Moulin Rouge is one of those films you just need to see

So the greatest thing you’ll ever learn… is to embrace the gaudy drama, the love song medleys and the romantic one-liners- because behind it lies an amazing film.

The Word Disaster...

It only happens once every few months. It always takes a moment to settle in- to really soak into your mind. But when it does, it sends chills right through you.

I’m talking about that moment when turn on the radio, the news or log into the BBC website and there’s a story that automatically grabs your attention- a story that you know is so much worse than any you have heard in a while.

It sounds like I am being really dramatic here, and maybe I am, but this definitely happened me today when I saw the headlines about the earthquake in New Zealand this morning. So yeah, you can see that this is going to be a bit of a serious blog today I’m afraid.

It was the figures of the 65 dead, the 300 suspected dead and the 6.3 magnitude that gripped me, and with friends in New Zealand at the moment it’s needless to say it sent chills of fear straight through me.

Looking at the pictures of huge buildings which are just completely destroyed- with roofs caved in and one storey collapsed on top of the other- it all seemed so massive. And the pictures of normal, everyday people being physically pulled from the wreckage, or crying at the side of the road made it all seem so scarily real and ultimately horrific.

It got me thinking, how could we ever cope with something like that here in Britain? While other people’s hometowns are being completely destroyed by earthquakes, the worst we have had to deal with in the past while has been a mere foot of snow at Christmas.

I think because of that we can’t fully understand how awful it would be to be caught up in something like that. We hear the words ‘natural disaster’ all too much that we probably get to a stage where we fully can’t grasp the actual ‘disaster’ behind it. We can’t imagine the carnage and destruction an earthquake, a forest fire or a tsunami would cause because most of us haven’t lived anything like that. All we can do is watch from our TV screens, maybe shake our head and add a “that’s just awful”- but never fully understand the trauma.

So, I’ll keep this short, because I know it isn’t the most optimistic of things to read. As clichéd as it sounds, I just wanted to think about how fortunate we are here sometimes.

 And I wanted think of all the people in Christchurch who have got caught up in this and somehow say that I don’t fully understand the meaning of the word disaster, but I am sorry that you now do.

St Valentine's Way...

It comes around once a year, kind of sneaking up unknowingly as it does. It’s in the shops, it’s all over TV. It’s not Halloween, it’s not Christmas…it’s not even my birthday.

 And in case the title and the very date today didn’t give it away- it is in fact, Valentine’s Day.

I am sure that many columns and blogs will be written about this today. Some will be for the day of love- outpouring the warm, cosy feeling that comes with knowing you are happily taken. But there will definitely be many against it- most likely the emotionally-void-spinster-type and the proud owner of multiple cats.

I’m sorry, but I am feeling I might fall under the latter.

It’s just that, for some reason Valentine’s Day has always had this way of either depressing me or intimidating me- mostly because I didn’t get over my fear of boys until I was about  16.

My first experience of Valentine’s Day came in the form of a handmade card from a boy in my class at primary school. It was clad in way too much glitter and tissue paper and was delivered by his best friend.  But more amusingly, it declared his infinite love for me at the tender age of 9 years old.

While that seems like a sweet and innocent gesture now, at the time it left me so scared of him I genuinely couldn’t look him in the eye again.

Secondary school was not really any better. The charities’ committee at school used to set up this Valentine’s event where you could send a plastic rose to the person you liked, along with a message about your general life feelings towards them. It meant that the morning of every February the 14^th was the most tense of your entire school year. You knew that if those charities’ committee members came to your classroom and delivered roses to everyone but you, it was- officially- the end of your life.

I would like to say that now, several years on -with all those petty teenage insecurities in the past- that things are different. I’d like to say the dreaded 14^th of Feb doesn’t intimidate me anymore. But with the unique smugness that only Valentine’s Day can have against a single girl, this just isn’t true.

Being a mere 19 years of age, I should be content with being single- the world is my oyster and there’s plenty of fish in the sea and all of that. So, why is it that St Valentine’s just has this horrific way of hitting me a big smug smack in the face?

I don’t know if it is the endless TV adverts and soppy music that get to me- or the plastic roses or the ridiculously over-glittered cards. All I know is that St Valentine has some sort of way or depressing and demeaning the single amongst us every year- when all we really want is to be left alone in our emotional void with our numerous cats.