The Scrapbook of 'Cringe'

It would be criminal not to share this with you.  I'm sure you've had your fill of maudlin this week - I know I have. For every low, a high must be found.  And this is mine: I laughed like a drain at this article in The Times Newspaper. 

An American author and one time teenage diarist, Sarah Brown (weren't we all) decided to host a spoken word night called "Cringe" in which friends and strangers volunteered to read aloud from their teenage diaries, journals, notes, letters, poems, abandoned rock operas and other representations of the misery of their adolescence.  Her advice to people who were unsure as to what to read?  Pick the excerpt that physically makes you cringe, preferably the one that makes you think, “I can’t read that part”.

Cheaper and better than therapy, below are a selection of thoughts committed to paper on "toe-curling crushes, youthful angst, feuds with parents, and all manner of secrets entrusted to a teenager’s best friend: a diary". Enjoy these most cringe-worthy excerpts of some brave, brave individuals.

Alex Frith (16) Wednesday, March 27

I just saw myself in the mirror & thought I looked like Jesus. That’s just going too far. It’s this loose sweatshirt I’m wearing. Too white + comfortable + of course my rather dismal chin hair.

Pip Hawkes (14) Wednesday, October 19, 1988

I’ve made a real mess of my hair! On Thursday (nearly 2 weeks ago) I shaved a HUGE patch behind and above my ear – also I cut a VERY big chunk off the top of my head so I now have a short, spiky tuft! I also cut off the other ear lots of short bits and the most noticeable thing is this chunk out of the back. When you walk past people — they sometimes stare! Although I quite enjoy the attention — I want people to think I’m strange! And to respect me for it — most people in my class respect me for it — in fact they wholly encourage it! I wish to be a mongrel — a mix between these 4 groups, a punk, goths, trendies and my normally weird self. By ‘trendy’ I mean cycling shorts etc. I deeply admire punks and goths! I like the punk image but a gothic personality.

I’ve just decided —– well — not decided — but found out — I’m nihilistic! God – Dad’s just come in and told me to tidy my room — it is BLOODY TIDY!! He must have had a bad day at work — WANKER.

Jo Wickham (15) August 20, 1997

I hate Mum. She said I can’t have a coat as I still fit in my old one. I’m gonna feel like a prick if I wear a coat everyone was wearing last year. She’s such a bitch. It doesn’t cost that much and I need a coat. She’s such a slapper. She’s only doing it coz I get most things I want so she wants to say no, so I’m not spoilt. She’s such a bitch. And I’ve lost my keys and she’ll have an eppy if she finds out. Oh I hate her and I hate myself for losing them. God I’m pissed off — I know it’s only keys but if I’ve lost them I’ll go mad — I hate losing things but I do a lot. Oh I’m soo mad.

Stuart Bridgett (sixth former) July 14, 1997

OK. The evening started well. I had too much to drink…Dave asked me the question, “who do you fancy?” I said, to quote, “Well, up until two or three weeks ago I fancied Juliette Sharpe like crazy,” (True.) “Then I went away to Loughborough and fancied Julia Middleton.” (True.) “And I attained her” (False.) “Honestly, I was amazing that night. You know your counting ability is severely reduced in the hours of the morning – I lost count of the amount of orgasms she had.” (FALSER THAN A GROUCHO MARX MOUSTACHE AND GLASSES DISGUISE). Conversation slowly got started again. Uhnh. Ugh. AAAAAGH! OK – soon time to go – catch bus. Vomit. Get home. Vomit again. Go upstairs. Vomit again. (Probably embarrassment, not alcohol, induced.) Sleep. Wake up without a hangover, thank god.

Nathan Gunter (15) Sunday, March 17, 1996

I know it seems like regression, or simple confusion, but I’m starting to feel more than acquaintance for Jarrett. I don’t know what it is – homosexual attraction? All I know is that: 1.) I’m not feeling it much for Ashlee any more, and 2.) I really like Jarrett, in more ways than one. I am very confused. Extremely. “Every time I look at you I Go Blind” I’ve been listening to the Friends soundtrack, and in songs like “I Go Blind,” by Hootie and the Blowfish, “Good Intentions” by Toad the Wet Sprocket, and especially “Sexuality” by KD Lang I find my feelings about Jarrett and homosexuality in general mirrored. I wish one of these damn markers was a question mark. I’d decorate the whole damn page with it.

Helena Burton (15) January 15, 1991

By the way, Lucy is a bigger slag than I am. She got 17 votes for slag of the year. I only got 16. My Dad normally gives me a lift to school in the car, but he makes me sit in the back which is really embarrassing. So I told him I needed a change and I’d rather walk. Now he’s going to walk with me! So I’m going to try and get up before he gets up and go without him. I don’t expect Mum will let me though.

. . . Mark said I had big knockers today, which isn’t strictly true, but is a lovely compliment anyway.

March 2, 1991

I didn’t get to school in time this morning so I didn’t bother turning up. I really hate my parents, I honestly wish I was an orphan. Maybe I’ll murder them. I want some ice cream.

Alice Green (15) June 11, 1990

Reasons i hate my life
Home: Not allowed to use phone for 1 week. Parents virtually chain me to my room. Keep having massive arguments. Everyone picks on me all the time. No freedom. No harmony. Everyone hates everyone else (bad undercurrents). Not allowed to stay out late. Not allowed to use phone after 9.30pm. Work – Tiring and boring. Keep getting in trouble. Badly paid.

Friends: Paranoid about Tom In love with Barry (huge mistake). Not allowed to see Andy hardly ever. Vast numbers of people don’t like me. Haven’t seen anyone but Tom + Lee-Anne for weeks Louise has moved to Australia leaving me best-friend-less.

Church: Don’t want to get confirmed. Don’t like people much anymore. Don’t ENJOY going at all now.

Other: Work experience is such a pain. Parents are so unreasonable. Life is disorganized. I’m far too immature. I’m too fat! Keep being called a goth. Never got any money. Tired all the time. Bunk a lot now. Smoke quite a lot. Started drinking regularly. Keep on crying all the time.

Solution = Commit suicide

Andy Foster (15) Sunday, February 23 [after church youth club]

There was no push away when I put my arm around her. But ahhhh I didn’t get a kiss off Gemma at the end because I was on bicycle and couldn’t get off in time before she’d disappeared

Extracted from Cringe: Toe-Curlingly Embarrassing Teenage Diaries, Letters and Bad Poetry by Sarah Brown

Heart of Darkness

I've been thinking a lot about how 'cold' I've become towards the suffering of others.  I say this in the context of my aunt's obvious agony over her son's death.  Clearly traumatised and only just into the cycle of bereavement; (I think she is at the disbelief stage) a long way from acceptance in any event, I found  her pain easy to witness (not in an enjoyable way, golly no, don't get me wrong) but I was comfortable and didn't feel the need to fill the awkward gaps created by the hysterical sobbing of a grown person - an elder and figure of authority no less - with corner shop philosophy. But the fact that I wasn't sobbing right along with her signalled to me what I have for a long time suspected;  My heart has long turned to stone.  My husband would put money on it.   

Obviously I care, the point of my trip to Europe was to spend time with her at this most god-awful of times but I was not overly emotional about it and while I do wonder whether she will live long enough to see the cycle through to 'acceptance' (she's 70) and then what? the dreary and tiresome "living with the hole' for the rest of your life, I kind of felt the whole death thing is just part of the great unknown and there it shall remain.  Of course you could spend your life asking yourself: Why her? Why him? Why any of us? It's futile, serves no purpose and will never garner an answer in all the lifetimes that you may live.

I remember the time when Patrick Duffy's (Bobby Ewing from Dallas) parents were killed by gunmen who stormed their rural restaurant in search of what? Ewing Oil  - God knows why they felt they needed pump action guns to rob a small family restaurant - the point is that Duffy himself when asked about it in an interview not 6 months later said quite calmly that though he was obviously devastated, he felt it was just the way of the world - a divine order.  And apparently he'd been as calm from the day it happened.   I want what he's on.

Now, I won't go as far as to say that I agree with Bobby because I do think about my cousin and how unjust the timing of his passing was, and not a day goes by when I don't think about my mum with yearning and sadness at what could have been, but in a terribly harsh way I'm of the school now that says, "the sooner you get used to it, the sooner you can start living again" and in that sense I am unmoveable - Life is most definitely for the living.  This is why in the end, I didn't go to visit my mum's grave in Spain as originally planned because it meant that I would have had less time with my aunt, who needed me more than I guess I needed to stand by a headstone.  Anyone who knows loss knows that the dead live on in hearts, not on headstones, though I must say a visit to a family grave is oddly comforting and definitely cathartic.  But again - who are we really doing it for?

I know I wouldn't be this calm if I lost my husband or child - and believe me I never want to find out, but I know this much, I have a lot less time for mourning than I did. 

It's interesting because I'm very much on a path to the spiritual - more about that soon - patience mes enfants! and in this new guise I will most definitely come up against a lot of untapped pain and fear.  I need this heart of stone to cope and in that sense maybe things do happen for a reason in the long run.  I wouldn't be who I am or where I am or in training to do what I'm about to do had I not lost my family the way I did.

A medium - the same one I went to for a giggle - that said I was on the path to a life less ordinary also said that I am the sum of all my experiences - we all are and I suppose life is about being 'ok' with it.

Namaste everybody!

A Tale of Two Cities: The Bullfight Leg

Feet having barely hit the ground in London, I traversed the border into the wilds of Kent to replenish the heart centre with a visit to a dear old friend who recently had a very much needed, wanted and loved baby.  The sweetest cherub with whom my husband imprinted "Twilight-style" on sight.  Have a word!!  Ending with dinner at a 16th century pub - only in Enlgand! - we readied ourselves for the more visceral environment of the Spanish capital - Madrid.  Seething with red passion - my cousin-in-law is a card carrying communist -we decided to keep the fact we are both partial to MacDonald's Happy Meals to ourselves and partisanned our way into the Bullfight leg of this trip.

My family, every single member of, is a Spaniard thoroughbred.  Half hail from the celtic north (Galicia) and half from the very centre of the archipielago (Madrid).  I also have blood relatives in Catalonia, The Basque Country and The Canary Islands.  Tempting as it was to disappear to the islands, it was Madrid we committed to this time. Arriving in 39 degree heat, I was at home, my husband was in hell (why are we not in the Canaries?oh he was mad) and the nipper just very very confused.

My cousin - the communist - had vacated his appartment for us - bless his red socks and had moved with his wife to my aunt's house a few streets away for the week.  Actually it sort of served a dual purpose.  See, my aunt has just lost her son -  another cousin, my favourite - everyone's favourite - who had died in his sleep a few months earlier at the age of 49.  She is beside herself with grief and the company will have done her the world of good, all things considered. 

This recently deceased cousin was a recovering heroin addict, fact is, it was a wonder he'd made it this long.  But he had finally kicked the habit only to kick the bucket.  It's odd and tragic and at once utterly expected that he should die on one of the first nights out in 20 years.  An agoraphobic, obsessive-compulsive, manic depressive finally musters the energy and courage to visit a friend and stay over - to not wake up.  It's like he knew and wanted to spare his mother the horror of finding him dead.  (Of course he lived at home.)

Unluckiest man in Madrid, he never really found his stride and told me once he simply didn't feel like he was of this world.  Very interesting fellow.  He's now in an urn nestled among his mother's prized china in the living room.  Where else? Apparently he was also claustrophic so a casket and ground burial was out of the question.

So it was that kind of week. Tea and sympathy.  Suffocating heat and Himalayan treks across the city to visit Goya and Velazquez at El Prado museum; Picasso and Miro at Reina Sofia; Burlesque street performers in El Retiro park and tapas, tapas and more tapas.  Late nights and free porn on TV.  Delightful.

And visits to a childhood open air pool in south Madrid.  My favourite.

Though I retain and very much honour my Spanish roots, I felt very foreign this time round,  like I have drifted too far from my ancestry and yet it seems very natural.  I'm a nomad - not by design - this was decided by my parents who chose to immigrate to the UK where I was born half human, half Vulcan.  I've always been a foreigner in this sense - in the UK, here in Canada and now again in Spain - it's normal for me now. 

Coming back to Canada then didn't really feel that awful.  I realise that home is where the heart is and the heart is where happiness is.  Happiness is what I make it.  Don't get me wrong - my heart isn't in Canada but I know now that if I can carve a little happiness then I'll always be home. 

A Tale of Two Cities - The Bulldog Leg

Got back to Toronto last night after a two week holiday, split as fairly as I could between UK and Spain given it was my family in Spain to whom I owed a real visit. Yet - like a love affair - I was unable to let the opportunity to visit London pass. Stealing an illicit 3 days in London I wasted no time on foreplay.

Minutes after checking into the Holiday Inn, Camden Lock- despite 10 hours of travel and with jet lag pulling ever more forcefully at my eye lids; tempted as I was to drop like a rock onto the bed, scissor kick the cramp out of my body and surrender consciousness to the cool fresh white linen, I showered the smell of airline off and took my ragged body onto the familiar grey slabs of London's pavements - gloriously bathed in the warm sunlight of a balmy late summer's day.

Camden having been the urban setting for much of my teenage life, provided the stimulus my haggard mind needed (and so much more) with memories stepping out from every corner ranging from the real to the ethereal.


Meandering past The Electric Ballroom, I remembered countless Indie/rock nights and 3am kebabs. Less salubrious were the thoughts that came to me as I browsed the old book and antique stalls of The Stables and Courtyard areas of this vast unique market. Eventually I twisted my way through the back streets of Chalk Farm up Primrose Hill to take the best seat in the house.




Medicine for the soul



There isn't a part of London that doesn't hold an important significance for me. I miss it terribly but I need to be careful not to let nostalgia cloud my mind. It was for a reason I left. That reason would so easily creep back if a return were not to be managed properly. Perhaps this is the way it has to be. Like a ferociously passionate relationship between two people who are just too similar - the only way to be friends is to stay apart. Perhaps that is what London has to be for now - until I can reconcile my wants with my needs and become better at being 'me'. I owe it to myself and all those around me who have ever invested time in 'me'.



I didn't squander the little time I had in town on being maudlin however much I obviously enjoy this state of mind. I met up with all my friends and this time they did see me wave. I satiated my need for culture by visiting the Tate Britain and the Hayward Gallery whilst savouring both the conversation and the wine. I've given up alcohol as of yesterday. It's part of the requisites for achieving this so-called 'life less ordinary'. I have to practice what I'm about to preach.


The next day, we went in for the kill and spent the day by the Thames and all the gems that area has to offer and as the time to say farewell both to the friends and the city I love and miss so much approached, with the pitiless step of a Greek Tragedy, I decided to do that most un-British of all things and openly cry. To my astonishment, my friends cried too.


I felt indescribably better for a person who wanted to do nothing but stay and carry on like I'd never left but I had other responsibilities - this time to the family. And so the Bullfight leg of the trip began: Madrid.