character investment

This week a massive 12.4 million people of the UK watched a fictional character fly off into the sunset with that bloke who was in the Natalie Imbruglia video for "Torn". If you have no idea what I'm talking about then I'm sorry. But if you do I am of course referring to Coronation Street and the fact that Tracy got her comeuppance and perpetual underdog Becky Granger/McDonald finally got her happy ending.

The social networks were set alight about their hatred for Tracy and their joy for Becky as if they were members of your extended family. We let these characters into our homes five times a week and sit with them on Christmas day. And it's not just TV if it wasn't for the good folks at Disney I doubt my moral compass would be as finely tuned. Characters are a big part of a lot of people's lives. Clearly.

But are we over investing?

Did you spend too much time wondering whether Ross and Rachel would get their shit together?

Did you gasp when Bruce Willis turned out to be a ghost?

And did you cry when Dumbledore popped his clogs? (Let's be honest he had a good innings)

Personally I used to blame my lack of job for regaling my brother with what JD had said in Scrubs that day. But now I find that I still use examples from TV and films as case in points during conversations and just as much as I do from my own life. For example if someone mentions adoption I inadvertently regale them with the plot to the 1977 Bollywood classic "Amar, Akbar, Anthony" in which a small time criminal is on the run from his former mob boss and through a series of coincidences each of his three sons are lost and raised by members of three different faiths, only to be reunited as adults.



See?

We see characters through every stage of their life. In particular soap characters and use them as benchmarks for our own experiences. Whether that's right or wrong though is another question entirely. But I'm sure many a teenage girl freaked out when Sonia form Eastenders didn't know she had real child in her belly rather than just a kebab baby. #totesbloats



I certainly didn't know you could go nine months without knowing you're pregnant. But Take a break and EastEnders proved me wrong and before we knew it poor Sonia was having her baby on the couch with Big Mo as her birthing partner. A lesson etched on our all our minds to this very day.

Then there are the actual love lives. We sit through hours of will they won't they that in the end do we really care? Of course we do. Well I do anyway. Will they won't they storylines are the foundation of every sitcom and many a drama. Meredith and Shepherd. Raj and Simran/Rahul and Anjali. Buffy and Spike. And Chuck and Blair...um I mean, who?



Their meandering love lives keep us hooked and tuned in. We use them to describe our friends who take ages to get together. Oh they are just like... nd... But real life isn't as comical. And there are no airport dashes. So when they do get together you just end up saying "Thank f*** for that".

What is life or drama without enemies? Mr. Schue has Sue Sylvester. Superman has Lex Luthor. Sherlock has Moriarty. And when good prevails over evil you might end up clinching a fist in sheer delight. Of course if it's Mr Schue you're often rooting for Sue.

You come to idolise these fictional characters calling on different films or episodes of something depending on your mood. People have end of series parties. They talk about fictional dinner guests (Don Draper, Jack Donaghy, Buffy and Stringer Bell.)People become invested and outraged. They complain when things don't go their way.

Poor Ronnie in Eastenders.

Death is too final for us as viewers. We wanted Buffy back so badly we literally pulled her back from heaven. Then there was Dirty Den. but the less said of him the better. There is a certain joy though or a shock if you will in a death you don't see coming. So when it pops up on the side of the Daily Mail Online or you read it accidentally on Wikipedia. Well, it kills you.

It can all become a bit much. So I'm gonna make space in my diary for real life friends. Just as long as it doesn't clash with the series premiere of Mad Men.



theguyinthebowtie

the musical regression

I turn 24 tomorrow.

And because I failed at my original New Year's resolutions in the first 22 days of the year and in perhaps in true narcissistic fashion I've decided to set some for my 24th year on this planet.

But of course resolutions are there to alter things you may have done wrong in the past and make you better in some shape or form

CAUTION: Tenuous link ahead.

I got to thinking about possible resolutions whilst shuffling along my iTunes library. A categorical who's who of quite awful music. (But with a few exceptions) it occurred to me I'm going through what I have now dubbed "The Musical Regression".
The Musical Regression is listening to music of your youth over and over again in a bid to capture some of the memories that those songs evoke.

I know. Pretty tw**ish.

But hear me out. We all have those songs that you play to remind you of certain times. Like listening to "Fairytale of New York" on the run up to Christmas, or how when the spark of the grill sparks off nostalgia, you have to listen to the Fresh Prince's new definition of summer madness.

And it all starts off with...

the first single

This is like one of those abhorrent first date questions. At least it is in the movies. And the guy will always have an interesting answer that he bought his first single from a record shop in 1976. Alas I'm just not that cool. And in the interest of honesty. I'll come clean. The first single I ever bought was:



I know. Awful, awful, awful.

Although a great song. There's no excusing that my first foray into Woolworths to buy a single was Cleopatra No. 3 cover of Jackson Five's "I want you back". It's bordering on the unforgivable. And I understand I've lost some serious Man Points.

I'd like to say this was an innocent mistake. A mere blip on the radar of my good taste but it was just the sign of things to come. Because it wasn't long until I fell in love...

the first crush



Britney Jean Spears was her name and the once scantily clad schoolgirl has broken my heart with more engagements than I can bear to remember.
as a teenager you can't publically declare your love for pop's greatest star since MJ without getting beaten up. So I moved on from pop via mere segue into the world of urban pop and then hardcore RnB. all thanks to one film.

Yes Save the Last Dance sparked off the popularity for fish out of water newbie's whore redeemed themselves through the magic of dance.



Two Step with me now.

Accompanying this average film was a soundtrack which was like the beginner's guide to RnB and the teens loved it. Including me. And so began my foray into baggy jeans, Timberlands and oversized polo shirts occasionally accompanied by a visit to Jacob the Jeweller's Pakistani equivalent; Junaid the Jeweller.

But then came the OC. (who said teens are easily influenced?) Yes the OC beautiful people with ugly problems. This was the first time I saw someone just like me on TV: Seth Cohen. The geek who got the girl. I salute you.



With the OC came several soundtracks and of course The Killers. The jeans became skinnier. The polos slimmer and it became acceptable to borrow your sister's GHDs. if she let you.



This was a simple time when you would fight anyone who said the Kooks were shit and Johnny Borrel was dick.

OK you wouldn't fight someone over it but at least get angry about when you were alone

A sign that things took a darker teenage angst turn and quite similar to "Save the Last Dance.

I tailed spinned (span?) via several indie films (and who am I kidding Grey's Anatomy) all of which introduced me to the dark world of The Shins and the melancholy of Beirut.



So now I'm stuck in an endless circle that begins with Manchester's favourite three piece sister group (Cleopatra) and ends with the discography to the Wes Anderson films via several Bollywood hits along the way.

Ah well, with age comes wisdom.

Maybe not...




theguyinthebowtie

lets socially network but not network socially

November 2011.

A bustling Brick Lane and a good looking chap in a maroon leather jacket has my friend Red and I cornered. No he wasn't a mugger. It was much worse. He was an East London "film maker".

"...And what do you do?"

"I'm a blogger?"

Note the raised inflection (Thank you English degree). Red was unsure of herself but under the pressure of the question, she panicked. This seemed like the best route. Plus she really wanted to impress the "film maker"...in the maroon leather jacket.

"Ah cool, cool" he muttered in a mid Atlantic twang and went on to ask us both inane questions for what seemed a lifetime but in reality was just less than minute. I instantly regretted agreeing to appear on camera in case I inadvertently become famous via a new dramality series and this video appears on one of those "Before they were famous" shows and I was caught dancing like Boyzone:



Sorry.

For the remainder of our day she lamented the fact that she called herself a "blogger", often interchanging it with the word "tw*t".

In her defence she is in actual fact; a blogger. Not a tw*t.

It occurred to me though that although social networks are part of our everyday lives we struggle to talk about them in our actual lives. It's what Twitter calls a #firstworldproblem. At least I think it is I haven't been able to ask anyone about it in real life.

Badum Tish.

It's not Twitter that has a monopoly on this situation though. Once again Facebook comes up trumps. Nice one Zuckerberg. This is where the links, photos and statuses you post may make or break your cyber and real life reputation. See countless Daily Mail articles about silly employees who've lost their jobs.

But think about it, who hasn't deleted a casual acquaintance because they turned out to be a tad racist/sexist/homophobic (delete as appropriate) or indeed just posted too many dull status updates.



It's important to bear in mind though these people may confront you. And no one wants the "Why did you delete me off Facebook?" conversation.

I repeat; no one.

You can still talk about others' social networking faux pas though. Remember that time that girl posted 103 pictures of her posing provocatively with a necklace. That sounds way worse than it was.

But nevertheless still hilarious.

I'm just about overcoming my fear of talking about my social networking. That's not to say I didn't have few bumps along the way.

No, I learnt about this the hard way.

Once a girl looked at me as if I'd killed Dumbledore and confronted me about a Facebook note I had written. The next two minutes were excruciatingly painful as I explained that even though I'd posted that note on a public site; quite frankly it had nothing to with her. That was how I would have liked it to pan out but in reality I just apologised profusely.

And I'll also profess that my moody and atmospheric Movember photos I posted on my Facebook from last year were all in the name of charity.



Of course I'd be lying. I'm just a bit of a narcissist.

But from now on I've resolved to do my bit and genuinely give back. And I'll start by combating #firstworldproblems by talking about my social networking.

No need to thank me just doing my bit.

theguyinthebowtie

hugs are drugs

I don't like hugs.

I could probably finish this blog right here. But I'll go on to explain myself. People often look at me in disgust as if I've killed a kitten when I say I'm not big on hugging. "You don't like cuddles?" they splutter with thinly veiled disgust. Cuddles. Adults should never use this word. But apparently it's acceptable.

I digress.

I am also pretty bad at hugging. I seize up when a person approaches me arms outstretched unable to see a way out of this social obligation.




It's become quite obvious to those around me as well. Leading a colleague to comment that "accepting hugs should be my new year's resolution." Do one. Although you can't blame her. I work in a quite huggy industry. You've come back off holiday? Hug. You got a new dog? Hug. You're having a baby? Hug. Ok so the last one's acceptable... it just doesn't help that I also fear pregnant women. But that's another issue.

I'm not a monster. I just have to prepare myself for the type of hug that I am about to commit to because hugs are a political minefield...

the bear hug



The worst of all hugs. That crushing hug when you don't know when you're going to escape. Where you can literally taste what the person who is hugging you smells like. It's horrendous. And when it's your cousin Sagheer from Peterborough crushing you the experience gets much worse.

the mismatched heights hug




When you're taller than the person you're about to hug it can lead calamitous results. Once, whilst giving someone a hug who just happened to be my line manager I accidentally chinned her. And I don't mean I punched her. I didn't really know what to do with my chin and through some miraculous situation prodded her just below the shoulder with my chin. Leading her to shout out in pain and do that sharp intake of breath like when you stub your toe on the door. Morts.

the unwanted kiss

Now sometimes you don't know if someone's gonna give you the old peck and hug. And because I try and get the hug over and done with as soon as possible I often put myself in this situation. And this leads to awkward kisses on neck and ear. So when you pull apart from the hug the only thing you can do is pretend that that didn't happen.

the side hug




The side hug is the iamvip/tillate picture staple. It's to reflect that you're having a good time and that you like the person you're getting snapped with. Right? Wrong. For me anyway. The side hugs has been tarnished by an old retail manager who after berating me on the shop floor pulled me in for an extremely uncomfortable side hug as way of apology. It's up there with my top 5 bad hugs.

the man hug

Now the man hug is filled with more minefields than the others because not only do you have to take into consideration all the other aspects of hugging but you have the added 3 rules.

You never make eye contact.

You leave some space between crotches. Vital.

And you ALWAYS pat on the back. No more than 3 times. Otherwise it makes Baby Jesus cry.

I'll stop now before you think I'm totally devoid of human emotion. I'll leave you with another video. This is what would happen if you tried to hug me and we were in a Bollywood film.



theguyinthebowtie

the window

Hello my name is Furqs and I'm a serial platonic friendship starter. O.k. that sounded better in my head. But I think I do have problem. It's an affliction that hopefully affects more than just me and that guy from "How I Met Your Mother". And obviously even he sorts himself out in the end. To clarify I'm not saying I'd like more people to dance that awkward dance it's just that it eases the social pressure of knowing you're not alone.

So how did I end up with several extra sisters, a few best friends and in some sort of weird and platonic "Big Love"; a couple of work wives?

Well in my opinion its social science at its finest. However Anthropologists are yet to define it exactly. in layman's terms it's that time when a man meets a woman and the mad dash that ensues to stop the window on a romantic relationship closing. I, along with every American sitcom call it The Window.

Ah yes. The Window.

The Window is an indeterminable amount of time. It may close on you when you least expect but rest assured. There's always a window. And unlike those self help books that harp on about windows of opportunity this is a window of...inopportunity. Or something wittier and to that effect.

Of course not all closed windows lead to friendship. Some windows of opportunity last the space of a night. The kind of night you see a beautiful group of ladies and decide to dance to break the ice rather than speak to them. Unless you're Usher this doesn't really work. Not that I've tried...



In the cases of really long windows the Ladies may think you have been dragging your feet and being Player. You know how it is bruv... But often it's just like Stevie Wonder (and later Blue featuring Stevie Wonder) sings in "Signed Sealed and Delivered" a simple case of being a fool and staying too long. And now it's too late. The Window is closed.



I know, heart breaking. I've morphed into a male Bridget Jones lamenting the state of modern relationships. But platonic relationships do have some benefits. Just not the obvious ones. For example your platonic friend may be first aid trained. Always handy if you're on a loveless meal and begin choking. Or more importantly they can get you discount at Topman. I'm sure you'll agree both of these things are vital.

I'm kidding. It's not just those very few perks of having a platonic friendship. I should also take this moment to clarify that not all my friendships with girls started with a view to having a conversation with my parents as to why I'm not marrying a Muslim (what can I say I'm a hopeless romantic). No, no sometimes you can genuinely meet yourself in female form and the thought of being anything other than friends with those ladies is so abhorrent you'd rather eat your own vomit.



Moving on and just in case I've crushed the hope of a fellow geek. I'd like to leave the blog on an optimistic note. I can of course only present to you data from popular culture.

Signed, sealed, delivered.

theguyinthebowtie


Tim and Dawn



Emma and Dexter



Ross and Rachel



Veer Zaara