Welcome the prodigal Andria from Austin, Texas back to the AMT fold:
I’ve been a listener since about episode 21. I had stopped listening for a while for one boring reason or another, and this past Christmas my husband, who was my boyfriend when I started listening, gave me a device chock full of all the episodes I’d missed that allowed me to listen once again from the comfort of my car on my long commutes to work. Since that time I have caught up on episodes 140 through 200.
I cannot tell you the immense pleasure it brought me, like being reacquainted with long lost friends. I absolutely giggled with glee when your parents visited on episode 200 and just grinned though the whole experience.
I am so glad to be listening regularly again, but hope I don’t burn myself out, as I often do on things I love, by overindulging. Which brings me to my question. Answer me this: what pleasurable experience have you ruined for yourself by indulging in it ad nauseam until you hated not only it, but yourself?
Making this podcast.
Readers! Tell us in the comments which of your pleasures have become torments. I’m sure that behind your civilised facades, you’re all Michael Fassbender in Shame.
Our next correspondent Lennox explains themselves as being English, but currently residing in Saint Lucia. This is germane to the question:
I moved to Saint Lucia when I was seven and I am now 16 and will be moving back to England in August. This is a wonderful thing because I miss England so very much. The only thing is I am a little nervous that I will not fit in or not know what to talk about. So answer me this: how will I overcome this and be able up fit in? What can I do now, before I go?
Prepare some standard chat by visiting the showbiz pages of any of the major tabloids. Observe which people crop up the most often, then acquaint yourself with the most car-crashy aspects of their lives. (Do not bother researching their work, as chances are they don’t do any.) Retain a few pointed observations about these people to drop into casual conversations about popular culture.
Next, practice saying, “Lovely day, isn’t it?” with a note of surprise in your voice, because presumably in Saint Lucia, clement weather is pretty much a given and therefore not worthy of comment. You will, of course, quickly become accustomed to daily conversations about the weather; these may seem pointless to you after nine years away, but remember that they are the only way that true Brits can communicate emotion. Do NOT compare the weather unfavourably to that back in Saint Lucia, however, unless you fancy a taste of the famous English delicacy, the Knuckle Sandwich.
Accompany your training with at least eight cups of tea. Dunk biscuits into it, even if you don’t want to.
Readers, do you have any pointers for Lennox’s reintegration into English life? Please help out in the comments.
I have friends on my Facebook account two years younger than me.
I see on Facebook there is a relationship option and I see some people who are younger than me are always in a relationship (which are in real life also) and in these relationships they say to each other that they are “Their true love”, “Love you forever”.
This fucking annoying relationships last a period of from 1 day to 1 month averagely.
So answer me this!
Do you think relationships at this age will go into them getting married and living together forever?
Hahahaha! OF COURSE NOT. In fact, how many decisions do 11-year-olds ever make which last forever? And as their superior in age, why are you allowing this to agitate you so? Smile indulgently as you observe their little romances play out over Facebook in less time than it takes to defrost a turkey.
But keep that smile even if they turn out to be in it for the long haul, and start cluttering up their walls with posts about joint bank accounts and trips to the garden centre and redrawing their wills so their love receives their collection of Tonka toys; for you, Tim, are a lone wolf, not being so rash as to let yourself be tied down at such a young age, keeping yourself free to play the field. Even though playing in the playground isn’t such an implausible option at this point.
Poor old Scott from London has got himself into a Slough of Despond (yes, a John Bunyan reference on AMT – DEAL WITH IT!):
I have been attempting to be more creative recently.
Last month I attempted National Novel Writing Month – and failed.
I’m trying to maintain a regular YouTube video – and failing.
I’m trying to write a short stand-up set – and failing.
The source of my problem seems to be motivation; after a few days I get overwhelmed by the pointlessness of whatever it is I am doing and lose any motivation to do it.
This also applies in part to my university work: I’ve been set ten chapters for ten different books to read for next week and I’m finding it hard to apply myself to it.
So, answer me this: how do you motivate yourself to finish things, both academically and creatively?
With one or a combination of the following three things:
1. fear;
2. deadlines;
3. money.
Without them at our back (1, 2) or waved in front of our face (3), ain’t no chance of us getting off our lazy arses.
With your academic work, you have a good dose of 2, and the prospect of 1 in the form of a stern telling-off if you don’t get done in time. Also, even though nobody’s offering you a pile of 3 for your efforts, you’ll be wasting your own if you don’t get on with it.
However, your other endeavours lack any of the three because you’re driving them solely, with no concrete aim in mind. So set yourself some targets – perhaps booking a spot at an open mic comedy night a couple of weeks hence, because then you’ll HAVE to get the stand-up written (unless you fancy trying your hand at improv, which I cannot recommend, because – well, face it, it’ll be shit).
But self-set deadlines only work for some people – not me, because I know I can shirk them since who’s going to tell me off I miss them? Me? Ha, as if! – so if you are one of those, try finding somebody else who similarly needs a kick up the arse, and agree to be each other’s arse-kicker. Write dates in a calendar, and levy fines if those dates aren’t met. Hey, nobody said creativity was supposed to be FUN. Or creative.
Readers, if you’ve got tips for galvanising Scott into embarking upon his masterworks, please add them in the comments. Alas, I can’t offer you any incentive, except altruism. And a cut of the royalties from Scott’s novel and comedy DVD sales in five years’ time.
Our next correspondent Michael from California has had enough of Dangerous Mindsing it, and needs you readers to go to the comments to decide for him the next leg of his career. He says:
I’ve been teaching English and history to twelve-year-olds for so long that my very first students are now entering middle age. This has gone on long enough; it is time for me to get into some other field of endeavor. Answer me this: what line of work would a teacher’s particular skill set allow me to enter?
Bodily functions. They’re a bother, aren’t they? It’s the bloody 21st century, SURELY we could have evolved out of having them by now! Or at least James Dyson could have invented something to sort them out better than the flawed systems currently available. Hurry up, Mr Dyson; Rachel needs you:
I’m writing from Lima, Peru where I work as a copywriter. I’ve been living in Lima for five weeks now and there is one thing that is really bothering me about this country, so please answer me this:
Why can’t you flush toilet paper down the toilet in Peru?
When I first started working here, I noticed that there was a little sign on the office toilet cubicle doors saying ‘Please don’t flush paper down the lavatory’. At first I thought this was just an office thing. However I came home yesterday to find that my cleaner had put up a sign in MY bathroom, opposite my toilet, saying ‘Please don’t flush toilet paper down the toilet’. It was accompanied with a picture of a sad/irritated-looking cartoon toilet. WHY?!?
If it doesn’t go down the toilet where is it supposed to go? If they have always had a problem with putting toilet paper down the toilet then why haven’t they come up with a better system yet? Like inventing the ‘three seashells‘ thing they talk about in Demolition Man.
Don’t get me wrong, I expected there to be some cultural differences when I moved to Lima from York; but this seems very odd. I am still putting my paper in the toilet and nothing bad seems to be happening. This means I am putting clean paper in the bin to trick my nosy cleaner.
I’m not a Peruvian plumber (surprise!), so my answer is pure speculation. I understand that the same is true in many areas of Greece, because the plumbing cannot cope with paper, and in their present plight I doubt that replacing all the country’s piping is top of their agenda.
So I guess that either Peru is the same, or that everybody has colonics there. Peristalsis is SO 19th-century, Rachel! Get with it.
This question is a companion to the previous post. It’s from Anonymous Girl:
I am thinking about dumbing myself down to get guys to like me; can you give me some advice? I can’t talk to anyone at home because they will just think I’m stupid.
Some questions for you, Anonymous Girl:
i) If they think you’re stupid, there’s no need to dumb down, eh?
ii) Is the guy you want to be with somebody who only likes dumb people?
iii) If so, why do you want to be with him?
iv) Is it really the case that men prefer dumb women, anyway? If I had dumbed down, my paramours would have been contending with someone annoying AND stupid! They wanted me for my brains, because I could help them with the difficult crossword.
Readers, if you can answer any of my or Anonymous Girl’s questions, please do so in the comments. Assuming you’re bright enough to find them.
What is the French for ‘cougar’? Max here needs to know, tout de suite:
I have recently started working in Paris as an intern and have taken a bit of a liking to the gorgeous French receptionist. She’s a bit of a bombshell, and I always make the time to go and chat to her as I try my best to look busy and vaguely aware of how to do what they pay me for.
I’ve asked her out for a drink before and she always hits me with a cheeky “maybe” and an even cheekier smile. Things have, however, hit something of a snag since she found out that I am only 20 and she is 31: last time we spoke she said I was “too young for her”. I replied that I wasn’t like most twenty-year-olds, to which she said I “Certainly wasn’t” but I still am unsure how best to proceed.
Obviously going out with an older (slightly) French woman is too good an opportunity to pass up and I think it ticks all men’s boxes, but she is also very sweet and charming.
So answer me this: what’s the best way of persuading her that I’m ‘all man’?
Apart from dropping tes pantalons and giving her a good look at your steak frites? Probably acting like a proper grown-up. Stop telling her how many Jagerbombs you puked down yourself last night; start dressing like a French version of Don Draper and ask her out on a very sophisticated date, eg at a support group for those suffering from unbearable existential angst after reading too much Camus.
Readers, you may infer that I have no experience in seducing gorgeous French receptionists, but if you have, please repair to the comments and offer Max votre conseil.
Here’s a hairy situation from Patrick from Nottingham:
My barber runs a very enticing deal of buy 10, get one free. Living in the beautiful East Midlands, my haircuts cost me merely £8, which as male tradition dictates must be rounded up to £10.
After over two years of religiously attending the same barber, I have finally achieved the glorious achievement of my tenth haircut. This now presents me with a problem: when I go for my freebie, is the tip included as a freebie? It seems that free should mean free: but should I pay the regular and expected £2, or does that seem mean?
Hmm. That’s a tough one. I’m one of those arseholes who doesn’t habitually tip after a haircut – because i) the hairdresser’s hourly salary is at least ten times mine and ii) they never do what I want – so have no idea about the correct answer. Readers, step into the comments and help out this polite-sounding man, otherwise he might panic about going to the barber’s until his hair is so long, it’s a trip hazard.
I was at a house party last Friday, and got very merry. Feeling empowered to be nice, I sought the nearest unhappy person, who in this case, happened to be a lonely-looking man sat on the kitchen worktop. I asked him to dance, which he did, and continued to dance with him for the rest of the night. He seemed shy, although very nice and polite.
After a drive home and a kiss goodbye, I left him with my number and forgot all about him; then a week later, I received a text asking me out to dinner. I obliged, and was taken to a nice Thai restaurant in town. However…
When sober, HE IS THE RUDEST MAN IN THE WORLD.
He called me a ‘chunky girl, you know, the top end of curvy’ (I’m a size 10), he called our mutual friend a dirty slut, spat food everywhere when he ate, went to the toilet, came back and discussed his ‘fucking…King Kong of a shit. Like one of the faces on mount rushmore. Smelt like a horse’s corpse’.
Then he went on to bitch about our ginger waiter, complain that there was no signal on his iPhone in here to anyone who would listen, laughed at a woman who fell over, was adamant that our two gay friends getting together recently was ‘sick shit’ and then at the end of the night, gave me a soft mint and tried to suck my face off.
He then said he wants to see me again, and invited me to dinner next weekend, ‘With maybe some playtime in the ballpit…’
So, answer me this:
HOW DO I GET RID OF THIS TWAT?! He won’t leave me alone 😦
By ignoring all of his comms? Shouldn’t be too difficult. Then he can bitch to his next victim all about his uptight lardy ex who wouldn’t put out.
(By the way, does anyone else get the impression that he’s so nervous when he’s sober, compounded by the usual nerve-wrack of being on a first date, that he tries to be funny, but is unfortunately terrible at it?)
Girls are sooooooooo confusing, as poor Harry in Luton has lately discovered:
Valentine’s Day seems to have become a day where people who are already in relationships give each other stuff and walk around holding hands and being generally lovey-dovey, but this year I decided to use Valentine’s Day for its original purpose.
Commemorating a martyr who was beheaded for his Christian beliefs? Very retro, Harry.
I decided to give a Valentine’s card to the girl who I’d fancied for a while, and duly bought it and posted it to her house. Having delivered my card, I bought myself a lovely doughnut – with hundreds and thousands, of course – and sat in the park, fairly certain that I was going to get some form of date from this whole arrangement.
Later on that day I received a message from the girl saying how grateful she was for the card, but that we might just be “really good friends”. She also put a load of kisses at the end of the message, and then sent me another message saying, “See you at school, unless you want to meet up?” with a bunch more kisses.
It’s at this point that I become confused…
Answer me this: Does this girl actually want to meet up with me? And if she does, then would it be a date?
Ooof. She’s either undecided, playing hard to get, or deliberately toying with you with no intention to follow through with Romance. Readers, which do you think it is? In the comments, please guide this poor boy.
My friend has asked me to do a reading at her wedding in April. It’s a church wedding, but as I am a massive atheist she has said I can do the non-religious one; however she would like me to choose something myself. In the past, I have been required to say the words ‘fondle’, ‘fart’ and ‘arse’ in wedding readings, but am not sure this sort of thing is appropriate in a house of God.
I have a degree in English Literature, but managed to get through two poetry courses without going to a single lecture and passed by writing 9000 words on nonsense verse, so I am not very well qualified and everything I have found online is twee and nauseating, or has been done to death. Help!
I CAN’T! The poems that are good for the purpose have indeed been done to death; you know why? Because most poets are
a) miserable
b) lovelorn
c) death-obsessed
d) fanatically religious
e) all of the above.
Any of these traits are incompatible with the majority of wedding ceremonies. At least with the nauseating twee poems, there’s little danger of you realising only as you clear your throat at the lectern that you’re about to read a graphic metaphor for erections and death in iambic pentameter.
I wonder why your friend is insisting you choose the reading yourself. Is it a test for you, to see how much you understand her? Is it so that she has some reason to freak out at you? Is it because she just can’t be arsed to search for one herself? (Fair enough.) At one recent wedding, the groom asked me to read a page of a biography of Bobby Fischer. Being a passage about children’s chess clubs in New York, it was in no way relevant to weddings or romance; the congregation was baffled; but my friend was happy, which of course was the primary objective.
But, if your friend indeed insists upon putting you through the literary wringer, consider recourse to prose – preferably of a more romantic, less esoteric nature than biographies of chess prodigies, but a touch of non-bawdy humour might be welcome. Alternatively, perhaps you could read the lyrics of a song that they both like? Hey, if Kylie can do it, so can you.
Readers, help Jo out: in the comments, either suggest failsafe poems that HAVEN’T been done at all the weddings, or ideas for a different sort of reading entirely. NB: the phone book, Roger’s Profanisaurus, or Penthouse Readers’ Wives are not acceptable sources.
Whatever you choose, though, choose something SHORT. There have been weddings where I’ve actually been hoping for the Oscars band to strike up just so that I could stop orating.
Answer Me This! Podcast 