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The Beatles versus Elvis. Jedi or Sith. Boxers or briefs. Marmite or not Marmite. Sometimes your only choice is to choose. And in just over a month, Londoners will be divided by the biggest showdown of all: Boris or Ken.
My attempts to pass myself off as a mysterious female sports journalist extraordinaire went down the pan. The game went the same way. It was a depressing performance on both counts.
When I was no bigger than a kidney bean, the football team I was going to support was decided even before my sex was. Imagine my horror when I look back at baby pictures and see myself wearing a romper suit emblazoned with the words, "Sunderland mad just like HIS dad." More troubling, if it wasn't for the gold studs in my ears no one would have batted an eyelid.
In one dark corner of the capital, a charged-up junkie confused Her Majesty’s Post Box for a needle exchange and casually deposited his skanky needle in it. Hours later, a dear friend who collects mail as a part-time job pricked himself with it. Cue the start of three months of worry while he anxiously waits to be told that he has either been worried for nothing, has contracted hepatitis c or worse.
If there’s one person you shouldn’t pull over in customs (by the wrist), tearing apart their carefully packed suitcase, removing their expensive two-piece lingerie sets with the same disdain (if not more) as a foisty dishcloth covered with mince, scrambled eggs and scrappy bits of soggy cornflakes - it’s the reporter doing a travel feature. As she may be inclined to write an angry blog.
Yesterday, Hornsey and Wood Green MP, Lynne Featherstone fully stretched her wings as she settled into her new role as Lib Dem Youth & Equalities Spokesperson by tackling sexism, not at ground level, but right at the top behind Buckingham Palace gates.
“Nanny, you’re a numb-nuts. That’s a doll not a baby”, said real Harry, aged about three, as he stared at his grandmother and the fake Harry she’d had made as his replacement. Out of the mouth of babes!
My realisation that you can’t fight the spirit of Christmas started with a free chocolate coin from the Ebenezer Scrooge of franchised coffee shops, ie Starbucks, cemented when a cashier letting me off 10p in Argos and celebrated with a ‘Best of British’ cheese platter from M&S. If freebies and cheese don’t define Christmas, I just don’t know what does.
I know how often I use cash now. Hardly ever. I buy my Oyster card online, which enables me to tap in and tap out with swiftness at various ports around the city. I pay all my bills by direct debit which is like some kind of financial eclipse when, at the end of the month, the euphoria of seeing your paycheck in your account is darkened by despair as, moments later, it disappears before your eyes - as authorised by you.
I know how often I use cash now. Hardly ever. I buy my Oyster card online, which enables me to tap in and tap out with swiftness at various ports around the city. I pay all my bills by direct debit which is like some kind of financial eclipse when, at the end of the month, the euphoria of seeing your paycheck in your account is darkened by despair as, moments later, it disappears before your eyes - as authorised by you.
With uproar about the paparazzi not being forced to attend Diana’s inquest and a frail looking Kate McCann splashed across news pages, it feels like our industry has been getting nothing but bad press of late. There is something mildly amusing about having to report on your own dirty laundry, isn’t there?
With uproar about the paparazzi not being forced to attend Diana’s inquest and a frail looking Kate McCann splashed across news pages, it feels like our industry has been getting nothing but bad press of late. There is something mildly amusing about having to report on your own dirty laundry, isn’t there?
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Haringey Independent's reporter Elizabeth Pears offers in-depth analysis and an occasional light-hearted look at the week's news
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