Every so often a row of market stalls will appear in the town centre, sellin’ an array of goodies and not-so-goodies. To be honest, I never really pay that much attention. I’ve learnt my lesson after once payin’ near on a million squid for a bag of pick-n-mix (well, this is me we’re talkin’ about) at a similar event. Fudge is very heavy.

However, the last time I passed one of these impromptu markets, somethin’ did catch – and horrify – my eye. The stall in question was sellin’ those belts – you know the kind, I’m sure? The belt is simple enough (cheap black leather) but – aha! Here’s the twist. You can customise it (and by that I mean, spell out a word) with diamantes. Yes, you can have your name, or, shall we say description, screamin’ out from your waistband.     

And there it was right in front of me. Hangin’ beside the BITCH (‘s) and the PRINCESS (‘s).

ASBO.

What?!

ASBO? As in Anti-Social Behaviour Order? On a belt? Me no comprende.

Yes, I’ve heard all the stuff spouted by opposition politicians and the press: “youths see an ASBO as a badge of honour, et cetera”. I get that, and I agree. But still, I wasn’t prepared for this.

Spellin’ it out on a belt? What kind of example is that settin’?! And who’s buyin’ this kind of demoralisin’ tat?

That belt is a prime example of everythin’ that is shite & not right about this country.

Last month I read a sports piece in the Mirror that condemned the vile nature of footballin’ boo boys, collectively spreadin’ a “virus across the Premier League, infecting with hate everything it touches.”

Former Liverpool striker Robbie Fowler hits the nail on the head, when he points out: “You look around, and maybe society is a bit more aggressive these days, so it’s probably no surprise fans are a bit more impatient.”

Exactly, Mr Fowler. Sadly, there seems to be a sickenin’ growin’ trend in this country that it is acceptable to be nasty, vicious and violent.

And not just in the football arena, no. In everyday life – on the street, on public transport, inside shops, outside the houses of decent, hard-workin’ folk you who have worked for the things they have and are entitled to enjoy them in peace.

With items like that belt knockin’ around, is it any wonder youths swagger around Britain’s town and city centres, cider and fag in hand, shoutin’, swearin’ and spittin’ at strangers? Girls boastin’ the tide marks of 13-year-olds experimenting with foundation for the very first time – a patchy orange glow that ends just a half inch before the hairline. Girls dressed like boys, actin’ like boys – and boys actin’ like animals.    

Meanwhile, television programmes like Shameless celebrate the underclass – Frank Gallagher an anti-hero, a benefit-claimin’ drunk applauded.

If the characters don’t get their way, they turn to violence. It’s the same with the soaps. Upset a Dingle in Emmerdale and watch the male relations jostle around the kitchen table, vowin’ bloody revenge. The ‘cool’ people are hard thugs. The decent people ridiculed as mousy, pathetic, a joke.

I’m a Media graduate, so I’m well aware the “The effects of television violence? ” debate is age-old, and will no doubt continue to rage. (After all, the kids need somethin’ to answer in their Media GCSE’s, right?)

But the more this country turns into a never-endin’ episode of Shameless, the more worryin’ it gets.

Where will it end?

‘I’ve spent all my benefit money down the pub, aren’t I cool?’ car stickers?  

‘Never worked and proud’ T-shirts?

I despair.

But, don’t fret. The soap box is away.

For now…

The Audi Quattro is back. The snakeskin boots, back. The one-liners, back. HE is back. 

I tried to watch Demons. Prime time Philip Glenister? Of course I tried. But it’s hard to be loyal when the only thing worse than the show itself is the main man’s American accent. 

You didn’t get any “Reverse, you twat, or I’ll rip your innards out!” in Demons.

You didn’t hear “Some tart was givin’ him a five knuckle shuffle…” in Demons.

And so naturally, it was with quiverin’ open arms I welcomed back the no-nonsense copper that elevated Glenister to sex symbol status.  

The gloriously foul-mouthed, straight-talkin’, spaghetti hoop-munchin’ DCI Gene Hunt.

Yes, last night heralded the return of time travellin’ cum cop show Ashes to Ashes, the BBC1 hit sequel to Life on Mars.  

Oops, smack my hand. Silly me, I can’t mention the parent programme so soon. Because, before I’ve even written a word about last night’s episode, you’re all thinkin’ about how blindingly brilliant Life on Mars was, and how Ashes to Ashes is, well, just a bit rubbish in comparison. 

Unfortunately for Ashes to Ashes, its one – monumental – fault is that it is not Life on Mars. And don’t the critics let us know it.   

Keeley Hawes-bashin’ has become a favourite pastime of anyone with an opinion. What could she have possibly done wrong?  Well, she’s not John Simm, of course.

But do these bellowin’ critics not see – Ashes to Ashes is not meant to be a carbon copy of Life on Mars. For example, Hawes character DI Alex Drake, a police psychologist, has studied case file upon case file on Tyler and his 1973 experience.  If you remember from the very first episode, Drake listened to tapes of the dead DI, in which he speaks about workin’ with the maverick Hunt.   

Whereas Tyler found himself trapped in a world he could not understand or engage with, Drake knows. She is aware of her surroundings, her colleagues – and her guv’nor.

Ashes to Ashes isn’t a continuation of Life on Mars. It is a show in its own right – only this time the time travellin’ copper is a little more clued-up.

As director Jonny Campbell points out in an interview with the Telegraph (Ashes to Ashes: Hot fuzz; January 31 2008): “Alex, in a sense, is the viewer now. It’s almost like she’s watched a box set of Life on Mars, and is reacting to the world as a viewer might react: “Oh my God, it’s Gene Hunt!” And obviously she does lose herself in that world as well.”

My point is, Drake is afforded the freedom to enjoy herself much more than her predecessor, the tortured Tyler ever did. And this means Ashes to Ashes is well within its rights to be frothier and funnier than Life on Mars ever was.    

Last night saw Hunt and Drake investigate the murder of a police officer in a seedy Soho sex club – a settin’ which lent itself beautifully to the chauvinistic chatter of the DCI and his inferiors, DS Ray Carling and DC Chris Skelton.

In all honesty, the episode’s plotline was almost anorexic. Thankfully, however, it did scatter a few seeds – seeds which will no doubt flourish into somethin’ far more menacing and sinister than a dead cop in fishnets. Those involved have already promised that this series will be darker than the first, with police corruption lurkin’ in every murky corner.

How black is Super Mac? And will Hunt get sucked in from the white side?

And then of course there is Drake, and the time travellin’ thread. A mystery man is deliverin’ single roses, leavin’ messages in French – oh, and druggin’ and abductin her.  References to Princess Diana and her 1997 car smash? My money’s on Mohamed Al Fayed, but what do I know. 

So many questions – and no where near enough answers.

But isn’t this why Ashes to Ashes is brilliant? Yes, Life on Mars was utterly compellin’ television – and, even I admit, a better programme than its follow-up. But that doesn’t mean Ashes to Ashes isn’t a good show.

Entertainin’, witty, and with one liners packed tighter than a tin of kippers, Ashes to Ashes is a fascinatin’ series. The ‘80s touches are terrific (I loved Ray’s “Fire up the photocopier!”) and the supportin’ cast (Dean Andrews as Carling and Marshall Lancaster as the now-blonde Skelton) perform as brilliant as ever.

And then, of course, there’s DCI Hunt.

The manliest man on television.

Welcome back, Gene. We’ve missed you.

A few of weeks ago, I enjoyed a coffee date with a friend –  an articulate, witty and wonderfully well spoken redhead I befriended last year while studying tirelessly for my journalism qualification.  

We bonded over a love of cocktails and a patent dislike of hot-headed, Alan Sugar-type lecturers, and shared a glorious teacher-pupil relationship prior to the Sex and the City film release, from which I learnt all I needed to know about Carrie & Big/ Samantha & Men.

A lovely afternoon is had spent slurpin’ Starbucks coffee and despairin’ over our devastatin’ lack of fortune (qualifyin’ in a recession, I tell you) – and then on the way home, I pass an old haunt.

It is a proper workin’ man’s traditional boozer –  you know the type I mean. The lighting is sparse, the bitter cheap and the carpet sticky.  A damp spot on the seating usually is piss.        

Ah, my former workplace.  I spent 18 months here pullin’ pints & stoppin’ fights.     

Lookin’ at it in one way, it was such a fantastic time of my life. Lookin’ at it in another, it wasn’t.    

I drank every day, passed out on park benches and sunk Bacardi until I vomited. And on the downside, I drank every day, passed out on park benches and sunk Bacardi until I vomited. I adored the weekend adrenaline-fuelled craziness, leggin’ it down to the cellar super-quick to change a barrel or cheekily changin’ tracks when the DJ nipped out for a fag.

But I found the weekdays mind-numbingly borin’, stood behind the bar alone and not really knowin’ what to say, or indeed even wishin’ to speak, to people who clearly chose to while away their week in such a place.          

I walk by, thankful that I escaped that life. I did expect to escape it of course, a university graduate with ambition and drive – the job was always a means to an end.

But it did make me think. Where do I belong?

I am charmed by my eloquently-spoken redhead friend. In her presence, I exercise my well-researched vocabulary and suppress my broad northern accent.

It is me that asks: “Reading anything interesting at the minute?” despite knowin’ that when the question is returned I shall be forced to lie, for the last book I opened was the autobiography of bubble-gum (alas, Brit award-winning) popstrels Girls Aloud. And surely, I couldn’t admit to that? It is hardly high-brow literature, for goodness sake, and it is high-brow literature that I want to discuss. (I think.)  

My friend speaks of reading the Times. I read the Daily Mirror and of a weekend, the bizarre knockers-and-Nazi concoction of the Daily Star and Daily Mail. But does this really make me a bad person?

I’d hate to think so. Still, at least I know where to lay the blame. I do hesitate in mentionin’ the C-word because it has received a heck of a lot of negative publicity in recent times. But surely in this case, it is the only explanation?

Class.

Now please, this is comment on no one but my self. I have long struggled to find a definitive answer, desperately searchin’ for a social identity to embrace.

I am unashamedly working class. For five years I spent my weekends shiftin’ leakin’ bin bags and sweepin’ up half-eaten hamburgers so that I could afford to pay the student rent, enjoy that night out or fill my kitchen cupboards with Kwik-Save treats.

It pains me to say it, but I doubt a few of my fellow journalist trainees would even eat in a fast food restaurant, let alone work in one. For half a decade.    

I didn’t work to improve my CV, or make myself a more ‘rounded’ person. I worked because I simply could not afford not to.    

Now, after spendin’ years in education and the aforementioned menial jobs, I dream of career success. Most certainly for my own piece of mind, to know I have met my potential and achieved my goals.

But also to enable me to live the life – to move in desired circles, hob-nobbin’ with the doctors & the lawyers, sippin’ on wine that doesn’t come in a ‘buy two for a fiver’ deal and nibblin’ on olives brimmin’ with feta cheese.       

But would that person really be me? Or, at every social mingle, would I be pullin’ a performance worthy of The Winslet out the bag? Gluggin’ down wine that I don’t appreciate, gaggin’ on the ‘horrible little greens balls filled with white stuff’ and prayin’ that I don’t stumble across a heavy conversation on European politics.     

Knowin’ that I’d really rather be munchin’ on Pringles, downin’ vodka, flickin’ through the Closer magazine and laughin’ at the audition losers on the X-Factor.      

It is a tough one. I feel like I’m tryin’ to ditch the shackles and escape the prison of workin’-class, yet I fear when I arrive at the ‘Promised Land’ I will be met with derision and swiftly shown the door.  

Is the pursuit of middle-class suburbia worth it if when I arrive I realise I’d rather be sat in a McDonalds drive-thru?

I feel I have seen more of Michael Sheen recently than I have of anyone, ever. I swear last week I watched him on one television programme, then switched the channel and saw him on the next. I’ve nothin’ against the fella, but talk about promo-overdrive. Or possibly I just watch way, way too much TV.

Call it brainwashin’ if you will but the Sheen onScreen obviously worked, as I found myself at the ticket booth of a cinema last night, requestin’ three adults for controversial footie-flick The Damned United.      

Based on David Pearce’s best-sellin’ novel of the same name, the film examines Brian Clough’s disastrous 44-day reign in charge of Leeds United, the then- European Champions.  

Admittedly, I have not yet read the novel (although thanks to all the controversy caused by the film version, a copy has wormed its way onto my book shelf and is beggin’ to be opened.)   

But with the words of an outraged Clough family documented daily in the nationals, I’m well aware The Damned United (in book form, at least) has not gone down well with all people, least of those associated with Ol’ Big Head himself.     

Could this film really be as dark and menacin’ as the novel on which it is based?

In short, no.

Is it an entertainin’, engagin’ and, might I say, excellent film?

Most definitely, yes.

Let’s not pussy-foot around. The Damned United has ‘crowd-pleaser’ written all over it. This is not a direct adaptation of the novel which paints Clough as a dark and broodin’ boozer, tormented by paranoia and mad rage. It is a feel-good flick – some might even go as far to say, a Cloughie tribute.

So no doubt, the film will be seen as a bit of a let-down by some cinema-goers. Hardcore fans of Pearce’s 2006 novel will be disappointed that the film’s Clough is little more than a cocky, wise-crackin’ charmer.

The rest of us though should enjoy this film as the wonderfully affectionate tale it is.

Driven by an unhealthy hatred of the club’s former boss – and havin’ already pressed the self-destruct button on his time at Derby County – Clough takes the reigns at Leeds United, the then-dominant force of the First Division.

But without his assistant and great pal Peter Taylor, and facin’ a squad of players who do little but harp back to the ‘good old days’, Clough is forced to admit he cannot emulate the success of his bitter rival.   

Sheen is absolutely mesmerisin’ as the enigmatic and charismatic Clough, superbly masterin’ his idiosyncratic manner and dryly deliverin’ those famous one-liners. He is joined by a sterling cast – the excellent Timothy Spall as Clough’s right-hand man Taylor and Jim Broadbent as beleaguered, cigar-chompin’ Derby County chairman ‘Uncle’ Sam Longson.

Meanwhile, Colm Meaney is terrific as Clough’s arch-enemy – the ex-Leeds United boss and thoroughly dislikeable Don Revie.   

In fact, if anythin’ it surely should be Revie’s family callin’ for the film-maker’s heads, not Clough’s. Revie, painted as the Big Bad Wolf to Clough’s Little Pig, is an arrogant lump of a man, refusin’ to shake Clough’s hand at the final whistle and mockin’ his Derby County side at every turn. When, at the end of the film, the audience is told of Revie’s fate, it is almost greeted with a whoop of delight: Don Revie – lost in football wilderness. The baddie, the film-makers would have us believe, got his comeuppance.

Still, at the heart of this story is the glorious relationship between Clough and Taylor. Man-love is of the moment (think Smithy and Gav in Gavin and Stacey), and The Damned United portrays it beautifully. The scene where Clough arrives in Brighton and begs Taylor for a second chance (an event that never happened in real life, of course) is as touchin’ and heart-warmin’ as you will find.  

The Damned United entertains on every level. It is worthy of a watch, if it is only for Sheen’s magnificent performance. Speakin’ of which – ladies, do not be put off this film because it is a footie flick. The affectionate tale overrides all that.

And if a cheeky Sheen wink does not have you weak at the knees… well, I don’t know what will.

I am a woman. (Not that I feel the need to clarify.) I love to dress like a woman. I adore make-up, tanning products, and gloop-that-makes-your-hair-shiny (whoa, so not havin’ a There’s Somethin’ About Mary moment there.)  

There is no off-switch. Whether I’m at work, off schmoozin’ with friends or enjoyin’ a night on the tiles, I like to look confident, attractive and, dare I say it, sexy. I like black eyes (of the liner kind, not the fist), glossed lips and rouged cheeks. That’s me. But when sexy turns to flirty, then you have a problem, right?

I do sometimes wonder if it is possible for me to make my mark in a male-dominated arena. And I mean, make my mark for the right reasons. Very frustratin’. I’m intelligent, I’m smart. But with my whoppin’ wangers (as a friend delightfully calls them), figure-huggin’ outfits and a make-up bag that would give Pandora’s box a run for its money, am I ever goin’ to be treated like a man? And would I be happy if I was?

The first time I attended a sports press conference, I pretty much had the entire contents of my wardrobe out beforehand. On one hand, yes I wanted to look professional – I wanted to look like an actual reporter.  But on the other hand, I wanted Steve Bruce and Mark Hughes to fancy me right? Right?!

Don’t worry, I know how very, very wrong this is, even as I write it. Yet isn’t it the thought that ultimately hides at the back of every woman’s mind, no matter how successful or strait-laced she is – to be attractive to the opposite sex?  

And where do you draw the line?

I ask because I’m admittedly still at the stage where if I fell upon a Premier League footballer in a bar, club or that very sort of establishment, I wouldn’t know whether to hold an impromptu interview or try and shag him.

On work placement in Liverpool, I let in slip that I find Everton manager David Moyes quite kinda attractive when he’s all suited & booted (yes I can hear your cries of ‘Eeurgh Rachael!’ but c’mon, I’m talkin’ in a SUIT. That trackie does nothin’ for me.) 

A day later I had to make a tough call. Either a) go to a new pet hospital with my own photographer, interview all the staff and get a page lead, or b) tag along with a reporter to the Everton press conference and get nothin’, apart from the untold joy of sittin’ a few feet away from the Blues boss and makin’ flirty eyes and pouty lips.      

A-ha, I think back now. Was this all a cunnin’ ploy to test my journalistic know-how? Actually no, I don’t think it was.

I chose the pet hospital. OBViously.

It was the right choice. I wanted a page lead by-line, naturally. Yet, on my last day, as I packed away my pencils & notebook and cleared the desk ready for the next hopeful to arrive, the thought still lingered in my mind: I could have flirted with David Moyes. Sigh.

So what’s a girl to do? Ditch the make-up and give her wardrobe a shake-up? Or add lip gloss and flirt with the boss?  

Either way, it’s not a problem I’m goin’ to dwell on. For, by the time I make it as a reporter, I shall be so old and wrinkly, even Fergie won’t touch me with a bargepole.     

It would be sixteen, of course, but one fella skedaddled the night before filmin’ started, without even steppin’ into the boardroom & meetin’ the Bearded One. But what of the walkin’-talkin- designer labels he left behind?

Maybe it’s just me, but as soon as the ‘der-da-da-da-der’ kicked in, accompanied by the candidates’ cringe-worthy business spiel, I was already on the hunt for this year’s Raef ‘The spoken word is my tool’ Bjayou. Surely vain science teacher Noorul Choudhury is this series’ token pratt Michael Sophocles?

And could Philip Taylor be cast from the same mould as last year’s winner & legendary dinosaur impersonator Lee McQueen? He may have been a bit too quick to berate project manager Howard Ebison, but he certainly seems to have McQueen’s charm, charisma & confidence. Not to mention the looks.

C’mon, in the tabs this week Philip even had the best of the worst one-liners: “Business is the new rock ‘n’ roll and I’m Elvis Presley.” Indeed.

Even if he doesn’t make it with Sir Alan, at least he got up to some pelvis-shakin’ with fellow contestant Kate Walsh (if recent reports are to be believed, of course).

Gettin’ all the candidates to act like scrubbers on their first day in the office was a masterstroke by Sir Shuggs. In the opening ten minutes I was confident the lads had nailed it as Geordie Philip got on the blower & struck a deal with a minicab firm, while the ladies dilly-dallied around, spendin’ a budget that they had not calculated on products they could not use. Brilliant.

But as time ticked-tocked on it looked as though the boys might end up back in the boardroom, as the team of car-washers left windows smeared with polish and the seatin’ covered in yellow duster fluff. Luckily for them, the girl’s team was just as shite at spittin’ & polishin’ – and unfortunately they were dealin’ with vintage models, not minicabs. Yikes.

Back to the boardroom, and the results were shared with the teams. The girls actually made a tenner more than the boys on the job, but thanks to their haphazard product-purchasin’ they were screwed. The scene in the café was priceless, as accusations rebounded off the walls. It wouldn’t surprise me if a full-on catfight had ensued – possibly improvin’ the appearances of some of the candidates.

In the end, it was Anita Shah who got the boot. A controversial choice by Sir Alan, as it wasn’t necessarily Anita’s fault that the team were budget-less – all of the team were accountable for that (whoppin’) blunder.

I can only assume he was sat at his desk, thinkin’ the same as the rest of us. And that is: “There’s no way I can look at that Upside Down Mouth for another 12 weeks. Anita, you’re fired!”

It is less than six months until I perform my duties as bridesmaid at a friend’s weddin’. I am delighted to be asked, wildly excited about the double D’s (Dresses and hen Do’s, darlin’) and, of course, very, very happy to see a good friend knocked-down-and-drownin’ in a wave of love.

All is great, apart from one minor detail: I will inevitably be turnin’ up to the event solo.

This is without partner, boyfriend, or any other er, significant other. And this is inevitable because, as a rule, I don’t do datin’. I don’t do relationships, I don’t do effortless mopin’-around-‘cos-I’ve-no-fella chic. I really am, in the words of an exasperatin’ Catherine Tate character, not bovvered.

But perhaps, I should be. As the very nature of this blog suggests, a mere six months before the event I am mildly petrified at the prospect of single minglin’.

And so here lies the delicate issue.

The problem I have, or possibly the problem with me, is that I never fancy men that I class as potential partners.

I am attracted to older men. And when I say older, I don’t mean slightly older, a few years here or there. I’m talkin’ decades. If only I had Lily Allen’s phone number, we could hook up and trawl nursin’ homes together.

I jest, of course. I would never have Lily Allen’s phone number. Okay, and I don’t go around pinchin’ the bums of OAP’s either. (Eeurgh.) But 40-plus men – yes, I would say I am a bit partial.

I can’t even justify this as a lust for all things shiny and powerful, as at university I dated a 42-year-old who was a mere student, as poor and scruffy as his younger counterparts.

A few younger fish have slipped through the net. There have been a select few men born significantly after the ‘60s that have caught my eye – one of whom, a pifflin’ four years my senior, did semi-successfully romance me.

Yet the dashin’ older man reigns supreme. He exudes confidence, a glint forever in his eye and a self-ironed shirt on his back.

But, and this is the big but – I don’t wish to date an older man. I want a bloke that knows how to use Twitter, not Teletext. I want a guy that wants to spend a summer weekend at Reading, not reading. And I want to crash and talk about Waterloo Road, not what happened at Waterloo.

The above is an exaggeration, of course. I mean, for God’s sake, Jonathan Ross Twitters and he’s 49, and my gran likes Waterloo Road and she’s 84. (Unfortunately, I have no desire to date either of these people.)

But if I were to romance, I would want to do so with a bloke who is livin’ his young life now, not livin’ a second one because the situation demands it.

I want us to explore, learn and develop together. I want us to experience the thrill of all things new, side-by-side each step of the way, not with me playin’ catch-up because he has been there, done that 20 years before.

I do not believe I am genetically-programmed to jump on only older men. As far as I know, there was no Sleepin’ Beauty-type curse placed on me as a young child.

I have proved I sometimes do fancy a man whose first-known prime minister wasn’t Harold Wilson.

In fact, my semi-successful romance with Four-Years-My-Senior was only semi in its success because of him, not me. Indeed, I am confident that datin’ a young fish is possible.

This situation can be likened to drug use. You can dabble while you’re younger, as long as you grow up and realise it is not a life-choice.

Dabblin’ with older gentlemen is, in my personal experience, a bucketful of fun. But then at 24, I realise if I am to ‘get on in life’ I need to stop, look around and find somethin’ (or rather someone) far more suitable to do.

It’s c-Old turkey time.

A friend of mine recently said: “How can we look into our children’s eyes and tell them to follow their dreams, knowin’ that we haven’t been able to achieve our own?”

What a sad indictment of life in Britain 2009. (And an excellent reason to never have children, I reasoned.)

She is absolutely right, of course. Should I ever procreate (and I’ll be honest, it does not yet appeal), how can I encourage my child to reach for the stars when I’m still scalin’ the rooftops?

Do we not share a responsibility to educate children on the real world? The one which inflicts disappointment and disillusionment – and which will quite happily toss you on the scrapheap at the grand ol’ age of 22?

Is indoctrination too harsher word to describe kids’ teachings on higher education? Surely, it is wrong to bring youngsters up believin’ that you must go to university to lead a successful life.

University is advertised by Grown-Ups everywhere as some kind of Promised Land.

Endless, open fields – of dreams, naturally – where young adults skip together hand-in-hand, pausin’ only to pick buttercups or cuddle fluffy bunny rabbits.

A place where the sun always shines and the skies remain bright blue.

And where, after three years, you will definitely be approached by a Big Boss Man and offered your dream job. Definitely, definitely, definitely.    

But what if you don’t fancy university?  Whoa! – don’t even go there. If you leave high school and get a job, you will definitely end up as a drug addict, prostitute/pimp (delete as applicable) or, at the very least, riddled with some sexual transmitted infection. If you believe the hype, most probably Aids.

Don’t go to university and you’re life will certainly be a bleak, hollow, empty never-endin’ tunnel of nothingness until you die. And then nobody will notice/care as you have clearly failed to make any positive impact on the lives of anybody, includin’ your own mother who has obviously already disowned you by this point.

Go to university and be happy. Don’t go and die a long, painful, premature death. That’s basically it. How ridiculous.

Obviously, I could never tell any person not to further their education. I would burst with pride if any of my young cousins decided to follow in my footsteps.

University is a wonderful experience – the academic challenge, the ever-expandin’ social circle, the independence and, of course, the ill-advised drinkin’ games.      

But I really don’t think the concept should be sold to impressionable young teens as the answer to life.

Yes, we are in a recession and it is a bloody hard to find any job, let alone your dream one. But I graduated from university in 2007 (a year before the credit really began to crunch), dreamily believin’ I would leap from education to employment – so sure that I’d find my perfect job & put all those skills I’d developed into positive use.

Instead, my part-time hours workin’ as a barmaid swiftly turned into full-time. My pub job was followed by a retail job.

Employment I could have easily secured with a handful of GCSEs, let alone A-levels & an upper second-class honours degree.

And I only escaped when I returned to education to study further. Lo and behold, I passed all I needed to pass and qualified as a news reporter – but while the certificate arrived, the jobs certainly didn’t.        

Don’t get me wrong, every person should have a dream and should fight tooth & nail to achieve it. I hold onto my dream, simply because I believe that, one day, talent will out. 

I was selected for interview at the News of the World. I worked voluntarily on a local newspaper for four months, showcasin’ my writin’ skills in restaurant reviews, property pages and near-death news reports. I impressed on placement at the regional papers.      

I know I can do it. Unfortunately, there are simply not the jobs out there.

This is a snippet of information that would be well remembered by the next Grown Up that stands up to address an assembly of adolescents. Because while there may be a university place goin’ beggin’ for any teen that fancies the challenge, there certainly won’t be a job.

And by then it’ll be a little too late to explain that sometimes the stars are unattainable.