Sunday, January 15, 2012

Imperialism, Ponies and the Rosetta Stone

Let’s all level with each other here.  Let’s tear down this fourth wall that separates me, the blogger, from you, the blogee. (Does that make sense? In order for you to be the blogee I’d probably have to be blogging directly about you, which isn’t the case. However, it’s a word I just made up, so does it even matter? Probably not.)

Anyway, I’m sick. Not sick-sick, just your basic cold and flu bollocks that doesn’t really warrant any attention, but has rendered me bed-bound for the last three days. There are so many balled-up tissues on my bedroom floor it looks like a child’s interpretation of winter. I’ve been getting through the unpleasantness by watching series one and two of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which of course means that whenever I do leave the house, I naturally think someone’s going to attack me.  

Anyway, this whole time I’ve been in quarantine, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of appropriate blog material. Aside from a fairly confusing anecdote about a French hotel owner who asked me to be his concubine when I was nineteen, I’ve got nothing. So instead, here are some unattached thoughts.


The years between eight and fourteen are an odd time to be a girl. You’re starting to grow out of Barbies (Ok, theoretically you should be growing out of Barbies. I still keep mine under my bed to ward of danger and ugly person thoughts.) but you’re still too suspicious of boys to obsess over them in any real way. These wonder years must hence be filled with PONIES PONIES AND YET MORE PONIES.

For many years, the pony loving aspect of our personalities has lain dormant, nuzzled into piles of warm hay within our sub-conscious. Then, of course, the movie War Horse happened.

How on earth is anyone supposed to function normally with this plastered on the side of a bus? You can’t, that’s how. That’s why my browser history looks like this.

Do you know what the Paradise Ranch is? It’s a ranch that you can go to and work at. Do you know where it is? Buffalo. Do you know how much it costs to go to Buffalo? Four hundred and forty four pounds.



When I lived with my parents in Ireland, I knew about panel shows. Sometimes I even watched them. The Simon Amstell seasons of Never Mind the Buzzcocks were a beautiful thing. But all these panel shows were always filtered by a plethora of other kinds of TV shows. Now that I live in England and have a basic TV package, its wall-to-wall, twenty-four-seven, relentless, boundless, unstoppable fucking PANEL SHOWS.

I think it has something to do with the inherent cultural arrogance of English people. Now, I love you guys. Really. I do. But if history has taught us anything, it’s that there’s nothing English people love more than putting a ton of English people in one place. In days of yore, ‘one place’ used to mean India, Ireland or the Falklands. Now, the only place left worth colonising is your living room between six and eleven o’clock every evening.

Behold, the new face of Imperialism.


Is there any human being in the world who has seen an advertisement for the Rosetta Stone and not thought of ordering one, right that second? Why doesn’t everyone in the world own a Rosetta Stone package?
I’ve only seen one person use Rosetta Stone, and it was my friend Erica, when she was using it to get better at Chinese. Guess where Erica subsequently spent the year of 2010? In China.

A Rosetta Stone package should be a basic human right, along with food, water and the internet. When you hit puberty, you should be sent a Rosetta Stone package of the culture that most suits your innate wants and needs. That way, I could be in Japan right now. You could be in France. Your boyfriend could be in Cuba, witnessing first-hand the effectiveness of communism on a small and organised scale. And everyone would speak in much shorter, more delightful sentences.

1 comment:

  1. Have you heard about the Englishman who had an inferiority complex? He thought he was the same as everyone else.