There aren’t many things that would make my life better. I’m not bragging here (I am) but I have plenty of water - sometimes even squash - and on Saturdays I usually have a bacon sandwich at about 3pm. See? Everything I need. However, if I had been able to, this Christmas I would have asked for less material gifts, more life-enhancing gifts. Things that aren’t necessary for my day-to-day, but would in some way improve my life. I actually came up with a list (in my mind) of these gifts, but never bothered to write it down. Until now.
Here, for the first time, is that list.
1. A constant soundtrack.
I am certain that the key moments in my life would be greatly improved by the addition of a soundtrack. Something to score the everyday events that befall me. Ideally, I would prefer more cinematic compositions, to pull out those tender moments and add weight to all drama that I face on a daily basis. However, being me, it’s far more likely that instead of a symphonic orchestra following me round, I would be shadowed by a fat man called Clive with his own “turntables”. Not only would he put ‘Groove is in the Heart’ on every time I went to the loo, he’d also use a crappy microphone to narrate what was happening. Like a drunk DJ at a wedding in Bognor. The only things you’d be able to make out that he was saying were, “Err we’ve got a mauve Ford Cortina that needs to be moved so that Uncle Gary can do a quick run to the off-licence for Aunty Maureen’s spam”. Likewise, instead of tremulous violin strings coursing through my most romantic moments, I would draw the short ‘honky tonk piano’ straw, lending a catastrophic and pathetic air to my attempts to be cool and collected in the midst of passion. It would be like a black and white film, only instead of being a glamourous femme fatale I would be a crying mime with a sad flower in my lapel, who always got hit on the head with planks of wood at inopportune moments. So maybe not that, unless the Philharmonic are around. I’d give them bacon sandwiches.
2. If I was born blonde.
Of course I could dye my hair blonde, but I’m really bad with dye. When I did my hair black I ended up with a huge blob of colour on top, and then sort of stings of dark red slapping against my face. It looked like someone had cracked an egg full of chocolate on my head, and then just stepped back a few paces and laughed and laughed and laughed. And laughed. Also, whenever I dye my hair it always ends up going a sort of purply-red, no matter what colour it’s supposed to be. Plus I look a bit like Maxine Carr. That’s nothing to do with any of this, but while I’m here I thought I might as well mention it. So ideally I would like to have been born blonde, with eyebrows that match, and that sort of enthusiasm that comes with natural blondes. I swear they jump more. When I was a chubby 13 year old WHO ONLY WORE BLACK, I used to dream of being 16. I always pictured my birthday party at a roller disco - I was so into roller discos back then - and I would be wearing a sparkly beret (rank), and coudroy flares. And I would have long blonde hair. I just assumed it would happen, I thought that somewhere along the way my hair would change colour. Obviously it never did and I spent my 16th birthday at the Hard Rock Cafe in Leicester Square, wearing a long sleeved purple t-shirt, and huge denim jeans. Probabaly called something like ‘tent leggers’ (like bootlegs, but bigger). I also had an ill-advised bobbed haircut with a fringe, and it was that chocolate-dripping-brown colour I was talking about. Life is so cruel.
3. If Barack Obama knew my name.
I don’t want to be best friends with the guy. I don’t even want to spend that much time with him. I’m sure he’s really lovely, but I think it would be a bit weird if I suddenly became his good friend Elizabeth from online magazine readplatform.com. Plus I would run out of things to talk about really quickly. I’d manage, “So, wow, you got a basketball court installed in the maison blanc?” (Continental) “That’s coooool”, and “When you were buying a dog, you were looking at the same breed that my mum has got. I mean, you didn’t end up getting that one. But you were looking at it”, before I ran out of things to say. I’d spend the rest of my visiting hours - is that how the White House works? - walking around the Oval Office touching stuff and trying to remember bits of the ‘West Wing’ to quote at him. Which would take all of five minutes, because I didn’t really enjoy ‘West Wing’ - it just made me feel like I was a really bad person in comparison to CD or whatever her name is. I’d probably end up telling him that, and start crying, then I’d be escorted away by Michelle so that I could cry into one of her citrus-coloured dresses. Still, how great would it be if Barack knew my name?! Then when I @ him on twitter, he’d reply!!1
4. If I had Gok Wan’s job.
In so many ways, Gok Wan and I are exactly the same. Not in any actual proper ways that I can think of right now, especially not with you putting me on the spot like this, but in ideological and spiritual ways, we’re basically the same person. I too really want to stand in front of women and tell them to, “get their pins out”, and if I had the guts I would totally start calling boobs ‘baps’ or ‘fun bags’, or whatever he calls them. I’ve had struggle in my life too - he was bullied for being fat, I look a bit like Maxine Carr! In fact, that would actually be my opener to every show, “Hi, and welcome to Get Your Pins Out And Have A Floury Bap!” (or whatever it’s called) ”My name is Elizabeth, and I look a bit like Maxine Carr”. You need to imagine this with me standing in front of the camera, while it turns around me, and I turn with it. A lot of shows do this these days, I think it’s to add energy and vitality to their presenters. And also to show that they can turn in a circle. (Apparently Mylene Klass isn’t able to do this, which is why she always stands still. I’ve heard the cameramen who work with her find it incredibly challenging, you know, creatively). So yeah, I would be so good at his job. Unfortunately I hate shopping, and would probably make faces when I saw old ladies in their underwear, but this could be turned into a hilarious element of the show. ”Groan, argh, gotta go shopping now!” and “Come on Sharon aren’t you done yet? Urgh you look gross”. They would call it my ‘Real Talk’ approach in magazines like Chat (Life, Death, Prizes), and I’d probably win the BAFTA for ‘Makeover Show Host with the Realest of Talk’. See? Then all the pieces of my life would fall right into place.
Someone make my dreams come true?
Bye x
