Socially Awkward, My Condolences

The Diary of a Teenage Nobody…

“The Gruesome Twosome”

 

Oh how I hated the gym changing rooms. We weren’t allowed to spray deodorant in there due to one of the teachers having asthma. Every time I stepped foot in that hell hole I could practically see the green odorous mist in the air, and the stench of sweat mixed with old trainers burnt my nostrils. However it wasn’t the repulsive smell that bothered me, it was the look the other girls gave me. It was as if they didn’t have a television at home, so instead of bunking off and watching Countdown, they spent the hour staring at me for sheer entertainment. I don’t know why they felt this incessant need to gawk at me? Was it the fact that I shaved only the lower half of my legs, and not my thighs? Was it the fact that they all wore thongs and G-strings from La Senza, and I wore assorted shades of blue knickers from a multi-pack that my mum had bought from Marks and Sparks? There was literally about an inch gap from the top of my underwear to the underwire of my bra (saying that I didn’t have any underwire as I went for comfort instead of full and steady construction-like support- something my Mother always advised). It is also worth highlighting at this point, that the kind of people that used to stare at me probably think that the word ‘incessant’ refers to that stick that you set on fire to make you room smell nice and herbal. So you get the kind of people I was dealing with?

 

One of those starer’s was a girl with whom you are already acquainted: Natalie, the cake-eating-boyfriend-stealer gone wrong. If I had to paint a portrait of Natalie, she looks like Norbit’s wife (Eddie Murphy dressed as an overweight fat woman). If you haven’t seen the film, once again I advise a google image search- it will light up your life. Natalie was unfortunate in the fact that she was pretty fat and flat chested, however she felt compelled to publicly humiliate me by telling me (and the rest of the changing room) that I needn’t wear a bra as my boobs were like “pancakes”. Clearly she needed glasses, as I too was quite the little fatty and therefore possessed the mighty gift also known as:‘FAT BOOBS’. You know, the situation whereby you say to someone ‘oh my gosh you’re boobs look amazing!’, and yet they come with about thirty stones worth of body flesh. Well that was my gift from God…aged 14 and a 34FF…KERCHING! 

 

When I was 9 years old, my mum took me shopping to good ol’ Marks and Sparks to get My First Bra. I found the idea absolutely detestable, as I was like Peter Pan and didn’t want to grow up and get periods, and the Twins to match. My first every bra measuring experience was an absolute nightmare. My mum had to drag me into the changing rooms kicking and screaming to meet and greet the woman with the tape measure (oh how I hated the tape measure). Before “My First Bra”, I fashioned a white little sports bra which was as transparent as cling-film. This didn’t bode well with my white school shirt that was also see-through (nip alert). I therefore used to stuff tissue inside my sports bra to cover my little milk chocolate buttons. Although this wasn’t noticeable to the rest of my classmates, it was noticeable to the sales advisor who asked me to remove my bra. Along with my dignity, I had to pull the tissue out from my bra whilst she surveyed me. It was absolutely horrendous and one of the most awkward situations that I have ever endured. It’s also surprising that my Dad didn’t notice that we were using an extra toilet roll a day…so Father, if you’re reading this…you spent more money on toilet paper as it was being used to save me from public high school embarrassment, and for that I am eternally grateful. It only bit me in the arse whenever I had a bra fitting, but hey, ‘keep calm and carry on’ as the posters tell us. 

Why do we even have inferiority complexes about stuffing tissue in our bras? It’s just the same as paying 30 pounds for a practically inflatable over the shoulder-bolder-holder? Toilet paper is just the Primark of the bra industry…

Sheffield Student Comedy Festival

…IT’S BACK…

The Sheffield Student Comedy Festival will be on the weekend of the 23-25th March 2012. Not only will we be welcoming a variety of sketch, improv and stand-up comedians…we will also be hosting one of the Chortle heats! YAY I hear you cry at your computer! This year’s Festival is in aid of St Luke’s Hospice…so get yo’ asses down to the University of Sheffield for this epic comedy extravaganza! The official line-up is yet to be released, so follow @StudentComFest on twitter for more updates! 

The Diary Of A Teenage Nobody

Another extract from my teenage writings:

Eugh…Boyfriends…

Firstly, it is important to state that I haven’t exactly had the best track record. Whilst at school I had about 3 or 4 boyfriends, one of whom will probably be marching at Gay Pride this summer. I guess I went out with latter because we had similar interests, however at the time I didn’t realise those interests were stereotypically feminine, such as Fashion and….Céline Dion. Maybe I was ignorant? But I was young and excited to have someone buy my presents on Valentine’s Day (which is obviously the most important aspect of teenage romances!).

My first ever boyfriend at school was a boy called Sam. He was about a 5/10 looks-wise, but had a heart of gold (plus I was punching above my weight as I was a 3/10 at most). He had bought me a cute little bear holding a rose for Valentine’s Day, and asked me to be his girlfriend the following day in ICT. Little did I know, one of the main ring-leaders of the popular group had a massive crush on Sam…however she soon notified me of this. Being the lovely and spineless person that I am, I offered Sam up to Natalie like a piece of cake, saying: “Oh don’t worry, I’ll break up with him, and then i’ll tell him that he can go out with you. He probably didn’t really like me anyway. Smiley face…smiley face…extreme smiley face”. Thus ended my first ever relationship in about the space of an hour and twenty-five minutes. Sam didn’t react well to my idea of trading Natalie into our relationship like a car, and therefore declined the offer (probably because he was superficial and thought that she should lay off the cake). He therefore was girlfriend-less for about two days… when he found some other girl.

Boyfriend number two is my current and life-long best friend: Mitchell Glen Denham, a native New Zealander with a defined model-like jaw line, high cheek bones and full-lips to match. I think he mainly went out with me because he felt a little sorry for me, probably due to my devastating image (and not devastating in the same was he was: devastatingly beautiful). I had practically begged him to be my boyfriend whilst on a lunch break in the library, and after having sheepishly said “maybe” about ten times, he reluctantly accepted my offer. Merely three days later it was ‘Myspace Official’. Apart from the colossal divide in beauty, there were several other reasons that proved my suspicions in Mitchell pitying me. The first reason can be proven by what he got me for Valentine’s Day: Stationery. I hear you say: “Stationery? Really?”…Yes, really. Another point can be proven by why he dumped me. Did I cheat on him? No. Was I a bitch? Possibly. However, he dumped me because, and I quote: “I don’t like it when you’re moody and on your period”. Wow.

Candidate number 3 came about merely two weeks later. As Mitchell realised his pretext was a little weak, he tried setting me up with his friend Paul. Paul was the senior school womanizer. To this day, if I went back to my home town and screamed from the rooftops, “hold your hands up if you’ve had relations with Paul Martin!!!”, about seventy-six percent of the girls, women and grandma’s would put their hands up. I didn’t fancy Paul in the slightest, but I was cornered when Mitchell, Paul and I were stood in the quad and Mitchell asked Paul in front of me if he would go out with me. I was totally gobsmacked. It would have been nice if he’d consulted me first. What the hell was he thinking? Paul was experienced and I hadn’t even had my first kiss. Our relationship lasted four days. I was dumped via email. I always thought: what if I hadn’t checked my email that evening? That could have been embarassing. Dick.

Bachelor number 4: The gay one. We’ll stop there.

The Diary of A Teenage Nobody

Another extract from my Times Bestseller little self help book come autobiography that I wrote whilst I was at school. 

Doom Day

Although slightly hindered by my image, intelligence and Reebok rucksack, I still thought there would be a hope in me latching onto a group of ‘friends’. You see, I was like one of those little green sticky pods that you find in the grass, if you rolled around in me enough, i’d finally latch on, and be difficult to remove. So I walked to my music class and sat down next to someone who looked like they could be my type (greasy unkempt hair, NO acrylics, NO fake tan, and a little on the chubby side). I got a sudden feeling in my nether regions…I WAS STUCK (slight exaggeration). I had sat in some fresh and sticky chewingum, and as it was my first day, I didn’t know what to do. With the power of hindsight, now, I probably would have endured the gruelling discomfort of the chewingum lodged between my fat arse and the chair, but back that I was so indecisive and insecure that I just simply had to leave. 

So I raised my hand, and explained to the teacher the situation, probably in a bit too much detail which caused the rest of the class to burst into fits of laughter. However at least I wasn’t known as ‘sick boy’, like David, the boy who never lived down the fact that he projectile vomited his Weetabix all over three people in our first ever assembly. True story. However, I digress… the teacher, Mr Townley, sent me to the Medical room to seek non-medical attention. So I waddled down the long C Block corridor to be greeted by the ‘little and large’ of the medical room. I always thought that fat people were stereotyped as being ‘bubbly’, but the ‘large’ was most definitely the bitch of the two. To save the long winded, creative and imaginative explanation of her appearance, she basically looked like Mrs Trunchbull from ‘Matilda’ (google image it…NOW). I then explained to these fine women the situation at hand. They denied me the opportunity of calling my parents, and asking them to bring me a spare pair of trousers. Clearly they wanted to embarrass me further by forcing me to wear a pair from ‘lost property’. ‘Lost property’ basically comes second best to taking a dog-turd out of a red doggy bin and covering yourself in it for the day. 

As all of the girls trousers were petite, and I was a little over-weight…(who am I kidding?)…well, FAT, the only pair that fit me were boys trousers with a protruding crotch area, which luckily was filled by my protruding belly. To add further pain and embarrassment, the trousers smelt like wet farts which had been encrusted in the fabric since the day Jesus rolled away that stone. I therefore walked back to my music class, my head held in shame. The black leather loafers didn’t help. I looked like I was dressed as a sweet school boy transvestite. 

The Awkward Moment When…

You find something you wrote when you were 15 and thought you had it all: 

An extract from my New York Times Bestseller shocking attempt at an autobiography of a teenage nobody (aka oneself):

Hello there fellow comrades. For those of you with whom I am not acquainted, I am Louise Newman, 19 year-old university student extraordinaire with an awkward and crushing school-hood. People may say that I am ‘weird’, but I myself prefer to use the word ‘quirky’.  According to ‘urban dictionary’, the website that is used by the sorts of people who call others ‘weirdo’s, a ‘weirdo’ is ‘a person who is weird’. The person who wrote that entry certainly had an imagination, one which I wish I too possessed. He or she was probably the person in English class whom when asked to describe an orange, said ‘it’s orange’. I particularly love the twentieth entry for the word ‘weirdo’ on urban dictionary whereby a fellow states:

 “A weirdo is the boy or girl at your school thats NOT a nerd but not exactly normal either…and NOT uniqe…the person that discuss things most of the people at the skool wouldn’t like to dicuss..also the one that looks funny buts not handy capped…but be nice…there probably going through an “akward stage. :/”.

I particularly love the mis-spelling of the three following words: unique, school and awkward, and the use of the incorrect ‘their’ of the three. Maybe these mis-spellings have a new and urban definition.

Lets call the writer of article 20 Larry. Larry may be correct in the sense that a ‘weirdo’ looks funny. As a child I looked like Charlize Theron…of course I am not referring to Charlize herself, but to her portrayal of the lesbian come prostitute come serial killer in the hit film ‘Monster’. My friends regularly joke now that during my younger years I looked like a bit of a tramp come bag lady. You see, my Mother worked long hours therefore my Dad was a house husband and fulfilled all ‘mummy’ duties, including being in charge of hair, and it was NOT attractive. Conversely, when I was a toddler I had the potential to be a pampers baby model with my platinum blonde hair, great skin and my smoking hot bod. If Hugh Hefner were a ten year old, I would have been one of his ladies. 

Tina Fey on the Red Carpet at the Golden Globes…

Just reminded me that I need to go to the gym.