Growing up is hard to do.

I'm back. I know I dropped off the face of the earth but I'm back now, I'm back for good. I'm sure you missed me. It's been almost 6 months, so to update you, I've graduated. I've also learnt to drive. If you didn't hear the rumours, this is despite the fact that I stalled going around a roundabout during my driving test and was overtaken by a pensioner, on a bicycle, a week before it. I've even gotten myself a real life job. Well, a year long internship, in the middle of Clackmannanshire. If you don't know where that is, turn left by the cows, follow the hay bales, make a right and then follow the smell. It's the graduate dream.

There are several things that I didn't realise about graduating from university. First and foremost, Buzzfeed doesn't lie. It is crap out there in the big bad world, life is rubbish. I spent all of my final year of university crying about my lack of prospects, desperate to graduate, grow up and find myself a job. In retrospect, I should have gone to grad school. Actually, I should have done another undergraduate degree. #fourmoreyears. Your dissertation might be horrid, but it's only the worst thing you've ever done until you leave. I've become the very character that I spent my four at university years making fun of. I can't let go, I can't grow up, I've become pathetic, longing to relive my youth. I spend most of my weekends in St Andrews where my cooler, younger, friends (academic children) take pity on me and let me party with them and their young, cool friends. Except I'm too old for it now, the two day hangover kicks in and I'm not adorable enough to get away with the antics that I used to. I remind myself of some distant elderly relative whose had one too many sherries and attempted the splits on christmas day.

The sad fact of the matter is graduation and growing up isn't, at all, the dream I was expecting. I have not become fabulously independent and made lots of young professional friends. Although, for the most part, my colleagues are really nice. Apart from the one that got drunk, started stroking my face and reciting in a Robin Thicke-esque manner, "you're a good girl" to which my response was something along the lines of- "well, quite, exactly, please leave me alone now." The only other significant blunder I've had was when I volunteered that I'd never had a kebab and announced that my favourite apres night out snack was a couple of cinnamon bagels smothered in butter and marmalade washed down with a mug of camomile tea. Outside St Andrews, that makes you just a bit sad. I haven't been jetting about on city breaks visiting my international friends, I haven't cracked out the apprentice suitcase since my last interview. I certainly don't frequent trendy city bars. In fact, the last time I went to the pub (with my Dad, because I don't have any actual friends) we sat beside a table of kids who were in first year when I left school. My oldest friends have upped and left, gone travelling, finding themselves, or are doing a proper masters. Meanwhile I've moved back home with my retired parents only to discover they've got a better social life than me and I spend most of my evenings with the dog. I've lost all of the few domestic skills I gained at University and have subsequently accepted that I have little to offer as a wife. I find puppies far cuter than most babies anyway, and I prefer my dog to most human beings. Clearly demonstrated in that the most exciting activity of my day is taking the dog for a walk in her parka and popping her collar so that we match. Maybe it's more than the lack of kebabs that have led me to become the office Sloan...

Growing up was easy, but it's not very fun.

Accidental Obsessions

During revision period I attended the joint birthday party of two of my very good friends, one of whom happens to be Irish, both of whom happen to be fabulous. A truly wonderful evening, it was, to be sure. Inspirational, tragic, educational, hilarious, enthusiastic, basically all the things that you want from a 20th/21st birthday party in the middle of revision week. Drama aside, I would like to concentrate on my love for all things Irish and, more specifically, one of the greatest things to emerge from the Emerald Isle. That is, of course, alongside my very bestest Irish friends, my very bestest Irish family, Guinness, my really attractive (albeit slightly short) chiropractor, potatoes, Ronan O'gara, Oscar Wilde and Ryanair. Only kidding, I only fly Aer Lingus (apart from when they send that comedy plane across and I have have to choose between swimming or flying Aer Arran, all the while trying to avoid getting charged for my oversized hand luggage.) So, you wonder, what could be possibly be missing from that eclectic list? Well, I'll tell you - Riverdance.

It all started at this birthday gathering, someone hit play, wapped 'Cry of The Celts' on and the rest is history, or more specifically, my playback history on Spotify. Which is, mortifyingly, available for all to see. I thought nothing of it, at the time, I just watched as the very essence of Michael Flatley's finest moments were basically recreated, right there, in my pal's living room. We then left the flat, clicked our heels along to the pub, on the evening went and not another heel tapping, velvet clad thought crossed my mind. That was until the following morning when I found myself in the library, sick of Eddie Redmayne mumping on about how there were empty chairs at his bloody tables, listening to Riverdance. I'm talking about the classic stuff here, circa 1998. The glory years of Gillian Norris, Bernadette Flynn and Michael Flatley. After a quick visit to Youtube, Gillian Norris became my latest girl crush, up there with Jenna Marbles and Alexis Bledel. I even embraced my curls for a couple of days. Then I realised that Gillian wears a weave and remembered that my natural hair is something akin to a birds nest, constructed by a blind bird, that has fallen dramatically off its perch and hit every branch on the way down to its inevitable doom. That pile of twigs and eggshell at the bottom of the tree - that's my hair. Gillian's influence didn't stop there. No! No! Gillian's sultry rendition of 'Gypsy' became the way I traveled to the library, to Tesco and to the gym. Although, instead of sexy seductress, I looked like that twat that does the sloppy swish. I no longer struggled with which music to choose to work out to: Lord of the Dance, with taps - that's what you want on your morning run along West Sands. Any problem, no problem - listen to a bit of Flatley and all will be well with the world. At first I was ashamed, I had to constantly remind myself to maximise screen and minimise foot tapping. Then I got too obsessed to be ashamed because Riverdance became the soundtrack to my life.

It is a familiar and a tragic tale. My Love by Justin Timberlake - both the most played song and most skipped song on my ipod. Promiscuous Girl - still know all the words, last played 2007. I've definitely seen 'A Hard Day's Night' at least 45 times. In fact I could probably rein-act it. A former phase, a former obsession, a previous lifetime. These obsessions are accidental, these days I stumble upon the latest ones, they pop up at social gatherings, sneak up on 8tracks and appear on Youtube's recommended videos list. I know the formula well: it'll last one week minimum if it's a casual Les Mis-esque encounter. It'll stretch to a month if it's revision period and I've not got much else to distract myself with. Inevitably, I know that I will end up asking myself what all the fuss was about?! As Riverdance fades and takes the same tragic path as Michael Flatley's career (it's getting a bit repetitive, past it and no one wants to see you with your chest out when you're the same age as their Dad) a much cooler Gatsby induced love of electro-swing has arrived. Daisy Buchanan might not be the greatest role model, but she's got great hair and even better fashion sense. Let's just hope I don't stumble upon Rocky Horror in time for Grad Ball.

Lessons from tour.

Let me, first, apologise for my lack of posts during May. I do admit that I sort of fell off the face of the earth - or at least, Facebook, Twitter and the rest of the band - for the duration of my exam period. I would love to blame this solely on exams, and an exceptionally productive revision schedule, however that would be a blatant lie. Instead, I blame it solely on discovering Game of Thrones. A truly unique television experience. I find that it takes me roughly three and a half hours to get through one fifty minute episode due to the extensive googling involved in order to keep up with the plot, remember which ones are related and which ones are at war.

But alas, my exam and thus, my University career finished over a fortnight ago and I might as well fill you in on what I've been up to. Ok guys, brace yourselves... I was on an orchestra tour. The Universities of Scotland Symphony Orchestra tour, to be precise. I mean, I know I hide it alarmingly well, but deep down I'm just a massive, big, geek.

Using the term orchestra tour, rather than band camp, goes some way into the prevention of conjuring up some American Pie-esque image, all manner of instruments going all manner of places they just shouldn't go. No, no thank you, not at all. Neither did I spend spent last week sitting about with 80 other plaid-clad, socially awkward, chess-playing, dweeby nerds, constantly on the look out for some interesting curtains to make into clothing. No, no thank you, not at all. Last week was, without doubt, one of the best weeks of my life. On the last night we left a club at 6am - yeah, it was daylight - now don't you tell me that isn't proper wild and not in an American Pie sense. But, I'm not going to bore you with all the in jokes, or the chat and the gossip. What I will do is share some top tips and general life advice - just incase you find yourself in any of these tricky social situations.

So firstly, and this is very important - if you are on an orchestra course, the answer to: if you had to choose one piece of music to listen to for the rest of your life, what would it be? is not: easy, The Beatles - Norwegian Wood. This will lead you to almost getting kicked off a bus at a Belgian service station, highly undesirable.  Mumbling that Clair de Lune wouldn't be too bad either will only worsen the initial blunder and be met with cries of: oh, how Classic fm! Quel Disastre, he haw, aw naw! All I can say is that you win some, you lose some - but next time I'll know better. In retrospect, I should have gone for gold and said Shostakovich Symphony 5, cause thats the one that sounds a bit like The Godfather and Beauty and the Beast, isn't it? Luckily, no one had the energy to kick me off the bus but I kept my 'Top 25 Most Played' hidden for the rest of the week and successfully managed to suppress my recent Gatsby inspired love for Electro Swing.

Also important, especially for the St Andreans: the way to make friends and overcome the 'St Andrews' is full of massive poshos' stigma is absolutely not to sit in a village pub eating a three course meal, starting with smoked salmon, followed by a steak and concluding with a chocolate mousse. Especially if you are the only one eating, because the rest of the course has already consumed their Tesco meal deals back at the hostel. If you must do that, certainly don't go to the bar at the end of the night, receive your tab and exclaim "£76 - that's not too bad!" Because in most social circles, having a £76 alcohol tab, on a Sunday evening, drank mainly by yourself, isn't bad - it's a sign that you're an alcoholic. To clarify, not me. In fact, in an attempt to offset this, I tried my very hardest to crack out the best coast, west coast chat and discovered that the depth, range and variation of my accent is truly quite remarkable. One day, I might turn that steak anecdote into a comedy sketch. It certainly doesn't need all that much tweaking but if I had written it, Monsieur filet mignon would have matched a wine to each course. Although, no number of witty punchlines delivered in even my thickest accent could have neutralised a move like that.

I realise I'm rambling on, quel surprise. So I'll leave you with one last piece of wisdom. I wish I could write more, I feel that I've done USSO a massive disservice trying to condense it into one tiny blog post. But, to be quite honest, what happens on tour should stay on tour. Unless, of course, it's a lesson you can learn from. So I conclude that, there is nothing more certain to ruin a moment than to fireman carry a woman over a concrete pedestrian bridge and then procede to drop her on her head. Furthermore, if someone communicates with you after such an incident, via text, to tell you that said woman has now dropped dead - it is probably best to verify the legitimacy of such a message before getting yourself too worked up. Again, to clarify, said women was not me. But hey, you probably guessed that because any attempt to fireman carry me at the moment would involve procuring a crane. At this rate, between the Ben & Jerrys revision diet and a trip to the land of waffles, someones going to need to roll me across the stage at graduation. Speaking of which, I'm off to my spinning class.

The Graduation Bucket List

Due to a social disease I hear is extremely common amongst only children, known as ‘FOMO - fear of missing out’ - my St Andrews bucket list is fairly complete. There are very few stereotypical St Andrews events I have yet to attend or experiences I have not sought out. Ideal - considering my current workload and the proximity to graduation. At university, I’ve taken up golf, started a blog, adopted several very beautiful and highly devious academic children, godchildren and fairy god-children, I’ve been to May Ball (first year - classic, last year – table, this year – VIP, quite the champagne socialist and, at least, I know it), I’ve ‘met’ Kate Middleton, seen Tinchy Stryder and The Vengaboys. Really? What more could a girl ask for? There are, of course, some events that never made it on to 'the list'. For example, I’ve never been to a medieval re-enactment event. Because, I’m waaay too cool. But.... neither have I been invited to model in Don’t Walk. I can only presume that invitation got lost in the post, probably around the same time as my invitation to participate in the Kate Kennedy Procession...

So away from my bitterness and back to my bucket list: until very recently there was a gaping hole beside ‘pier walk’ and ‘attending a chapel service.’ I ticked those off at Easter. check, check. Although, I did arrive late and I couldn’t really see. That was probably for the best, as my only other encounter with the university chaplain was raisin revenge. I was highly intoxicated, dressed in a onesie, wearing a dodgy fluffy hat (with tassels) and had writing all over my face, there is even a photo of us 'growling' together. My children are as evil as they are beautiful. Although, believe me, that is not even the most mortifying tale from that weekend... So, back to easter... and chapel. Did the pier walk, wore the gown. check, check.

There is still one massive University of St Andrews bucket list box to be ticked off: May Dip. It’s been my default answer while playing my least ever favourite drinking game for the past three and a half years: never have I ever charged into the North Sea on the morning of May 1st. I have a serious, expansive and all encompassing list of reasons as to why, but for the sake of space; I’ll give you the best ones. I’ve got a fear of pneumonia and I have little desire to see my classmates half naked, I have even less of a desire from them to see me and I don’t own a wet suit – which is the only thing I can think that might make the experience remotely bearable. Is there a less convenient time to hold a dawn swimming event than in the weeks just before exams and dissertation deadlines? It also snowed on Friday, so it’s going to be freezing. Urgh, the worst thing is that this year I have no choice but to participate, because my bunch of manipulative little rascals orchestrated quite the series of unfortunate events for my raisin revenge. Not only am I in hiding from the university chaplain, they’ve gone and gotten me all cursed and I simply cannot risk failing my degree due to an unfortunate planking incident on the PH. However, if/when I end up in Ninewells, unable to do my one exam, because I’ve caught bloody norovirus, if/when I end up stuck here for an extra semester, unable to graduate, there will be one positive outcome (Sorry, two - cause' I'll have another year to perfect my strut) - plenty of time to hunt down my academic brats and throw each and every one of them off the pier. Revenge is sweet, kids! So, tonight will be May dip and see me check another thing off 'The Graduation Bucket List.'

Come at me June 28th, come.at.me.

When I grow up...

I am not in denial about graduation. I am definitely in denial about the various deadlines I have got to hand in before I get to attend graduation. Nevertheless, I know that the time to vacate St Andrews and start the next chapter is fast approaching. I consider myself exceptionally lucky to have spent the past three and a half years here. The town itself, sort of, draws you in. Well, it drew me in. Maybe it was a desire to be by the sea? Maybe it was castle sands, or the cathedral? Maybe it was the quad? Maybe it was the fact that my visiting day tour guide was an animated tweed character wearing a red dressing gown. Whatever it was, probably a combination, I fell in love with St Andrews instantly. Whilst all my school friends went off to University and became irritatingly streetwise and city savvy - I, the exceptionally navigationally challenged child that I am, delighted in the fact that my university career would be spent in a town only ten minutes long. Making it difficult, even for me, to get lost. There are, of course, those times when St Andrews seems too small. When you are engaged in a game of aisle dodge in Tesco. Or you bump into that person that you met once, that you don’t really know, don’t want to know, but your friend knows and your other friend is in a class with. Or, those situations that lead to an internal debate between wave or hi, you know what I’m talking about. Or when you think you should wave, but they avoid eye contact, so your hand is up there awkwardly, so you just tie your hair back and hope nobody noticed…. Yeah, we all have those moments when we long to break free. On the whole though, my four years here have been incredible, but four years are enough - both for my sanity and my overdraft. The time has come to move on.

Today, I am not in St Andrews, I’m in London for the latest instalment of a yearlong game that I have been playing, called: pretending that you’re on ‘The Apprentice.’ The game is best enjoyed while wearing a blazer, rolling a suitcase behind you, looking dead professional. This week’s episode, despite featuring a plane, was an utter joke. I’d like to share a top tip: if you ever hear the term ‘unrecruitment’ – run in the other direction, fast, like the wind. Run like the wind - on speed. As I don’t know London well, I have been trying my very best to spend as little time as possible aimlessly wandering around, because I look every inch the textbook definition of lost tourist. I have already put my fate in the hands of ‘Google Maps’ far too often for my liking today, so I have installed myself in a Starbucks. I’ve got an hour to kill until the friend I’m staying with tonight gets out of her class and comes to get me, you know - like your Mum used to do after school, when you were eight. I’m sat at the window, awaiting collection, dressed like a grown up, with my wheelie suitcase. Unsurprisingly as I sit here, slightly lost (although Facebook has just informed me that I am in Bloomsbury, where I am supposed to be), contemplating my future - I’m not feeling very grown up at all.

I can’t help but notice that everyone who walks past appears to have more of their shit together than I do. To be fair, that’s not overly difficult - I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, which is quite inconvenient. My, highly accurate, incredibly academic, humble opinion is that you are a grown up when you complete your education. Which leaves me roughly two months to get my act together. To add insult to the realisation of impending adulthood, last week, my little cousin announced to a room full of my relatives, who I am sure now think that I’m a lesbian, that he didn’t understand why I didn’t have a husband. I responded with an inspiring “eh, what would I want a one of those for?” which was met with a sassy “because you’re old.” I can’t say that being outwitted by an eight year old added much to my self-esteem, nor has it made me feel any more grown up. I know graduation is galloping toward me with at an overwhelming pace and I suppose I am ready to leave St Andrews. But am I ready to grow up? Probably not. Which is just as well really, because until I stop seeing every interview as an opportunity to pretend to be on ‘The Apprentice’ I’m undoubtedly not going to be overly successful at this whole graduate, grown-up nonsense anyway. 

I can't dance, not at all.

Despite enthusiastically singing along as the Arctic Monkeys tell me to 'get on my dancing shoes' - I should probably not bother. The problem is that I do put on my dancing shoes (which, incidentally, I cannot walk in) on regular occasions. I am a terrible dancer, literally dreadful. There is not a single person who has ever witnessed my dancing that would argue with me. I both accepted and embraced my lack of skill a long time ago.
I grew up in a town on the West Coast of Scotland and attended the same school for fifteen years. The only exposure I had to dancing was during P.E and twice a year when we had 'discos' in our school canteen. I managed to navigate through Scottish Country Dancing season, with relative ease because I'm not stupid. I often got to dance with my friends because I was about as successful during school at attracting males as I am now. Not very. Also, there is a learnable pattern, there really is no excuse to be crap at ceilidh dancing. Forward, two, three, turn, back, two, three, stop... It was not until I came home for the first time from University that I realised there was some sort of "problem". For some reason, and I cannot remember why, I ended up 'dancing' in my best friend's living room. It may be worth pointing out, at that time, I was the only one of my female pals who had gone to University and not found "the one" during the first fortnight. Incidentally, of those six "ones" only one of those "ones" remains "the one", four years later.  Anyway, as I was tearing up the living room carpet, I received some unwanted advice from my best friend. She pointed, sassily, at me and said: "This, (insert sassy hand gesture) is the reason that you are single."
Oh brilliant, I'll take some dance lessons and then someone will stick a ring on it. That thought lingered, for all of seven seconds. Quite frankly, if I need to learn to dance to attract a significant other, I'd rather die alone. Also, I've got bigger fish to fry in that department, There are, at least, 99 reasons why I'm single, and dancing ain't one.
So, my fellow left-footed companions: let me offer you some advice. Do as I say, not as I do. Avoid the dance floor and go prop up the bar or hide in the bathroom, unless the Cha Cha Slide comes on - in which case if you can't follow steps when there are instructions in the lyrics then you must actually have two left feet, and no toes, and no ears, and no sense. If you do find yourself on the dancefloor looking something akin to a fish that has taken crack, been caught and is now flapping about on the deck of a boat and slowly dying, I have two fail safe dance moves that I'll let you pinch - just so you don't look like a wombat. You are welcome. The first is to, simply, do some actions along to the words and stomp occasionally, if you can stomp in time - you are golden. The second, for when you do not know the words, is to raise your arm and flap it about, bicep parallel to shoulder, finger pointing to the sky. It looks dead sexy, promise. Throw in some knee action, shallow, in-time, squatting and you, my friend, are sorted. You'll blend right in, in there with the bumping and the grinding. Hmmm, maybe there are 100 reasons after all...

I like Twitter much better than Facebook

During 'Spring Break' I thought that I would be able to wack out a post every couple of days. This has, obviously, not happened. I have been far too busy. That's a lie, I have been far too lazy. I have been spending a lot of time listening to Bob Dylan and refreshing my Twitter feed. I have discovered Mad Men, which is excellent, and I have spent several grim hours trying to re-learn the guitar after an eight year break. I have realised, rather painfully, that I am not quite as musically gifted as I have led everyone to believe. RE: The Blog, I'm going to be much better this week. I promise. I am determined that this will not become another abandoned activity. Although, at least if it does - it will not take up any more room in my 'abandoned activity' cupboard, unlike my cricket bat, hockey stick, tennis racket, easel, keyboard, electric violin, and, formally, guitar.

Today, I wandered up to Glasgow. I, wrongly, decided to wear a hat. The bloody thing kept blowing off and I kept having to run after it (looking like a colossal moron) to save it from being flattened by a bus. After this happened for the fourth time, I remembered that I live in the west of Scotland and not the West Indies and my hat retired to my handbag. Distracted by my hat woes, I bought the wrong bloody charger for my laptop and will now have to do a re-trip during the week. Which is good, actually, because I wanted to visit Forever 21 but it looked intimidatingly busy today. Slightly more successfully, I picked up a copy of Jon Richardson's book 'It's Not Me, It's You!' which I have been meaning to read for a while. He's one of my favourite comics, so look forward to my review of that soon.

Last week, I was writing an essay and, naturally, spending more time than usual on Twitter. I like Twitter much better than Facebook. Twitter makes me like people I do not know, whereas Facebook makes me dislike the people that I do. Twitter is great. I choose who to follow and, more importantly, who not to. I have chosen specifically not to follow anyone who, is married to a footballer or has appeared on 'The X Factor' or 'The Only Way is Essex'.  Unfortunately, despite actively avoiding all characters 'Daily Mail', as soon as I navigate away from Twitter I am bombarded with celebrities I do not like. They come up on my Buzzfeed, they land in my inbox and they appear on my Daily Beast Cheat Sheet. The Kardashians, 'great' example, pop up everywhere. Please go away. Especially the pregnant one, I don't care that it has decided to name it's child after a direction on a compass. Kim, Kanye - you are completely undeserving of any attention. The Beckhams, again, everywhere. They are, at least, slightly more tolerable because they have occupations other than 'celebrity'. It seems like the more minor the celebrity, the worse they are. Do not get me started on Jordan. Minor league celebrities have got high school syndrome. They might say one funny thing, or sing one catchy song, or shoot one successful video but they never quit while they are ahead. They do it over, and over, and over again until you get so sick of them that you forget what was entertaining in those first five minutes. They try to re-capture the magic and they end up on celebrity Big Brother, or with three failed albums or a straight to DVD movie or an autobiography, aged 25.

It's not that I hate all celebrities. Far from it, I just find many of them very irritating. There also seems to be some sort of formula whereby the more irritating the celebrity, the more intense, visible and audible the fan. Now, don't get me wrong, I am a fangirl in my own right. I, however, like to save my enthusiasm for those who I see as both talented and deserving. I love Rachel Weisz, I love Jennifer Lawrence, I love Bob Dylan, I love Jimmy Fallon, I love Ellen Degeneres and I could go on, I really could, for days. If I met any of the above, or countless others, I would probably cry and I'm not joking. I once met Will Smith in an airport. I asked him for his autograph - he said yes. Despite this, I ran back to my parents, autograph in hand, and then ran off to the bathroom, in tears. I think it was a combination of being so overwhelmed and so pissed off that all I had said was "can I please have your autograph?" I had completely missed my one opportunity to recite the entire 'Fresh Prince of Bel Air' theme tune. I also completely ignored Jada, which was actually quite rude. I pulled myself together, left the lounge, boarded the plane and decided that should I ever meet another celebrity; I would be much more cool. No sooner had this thought crossed my mind, than I realised that I was sitting an aisle away from Kate Moss. This time, lesson learned, I didn't say a word. Eight hours later and feeling pleased that at least I had been cool, but, rather pissed off that I had obviously just blown my one and only chance to become best friends with Kate Moss. I thought to myself, next time you meet a celebrity, forget cool, you are going to say something utterly brilliant. Did this happen? No. Although I would never call Kate Middleton a mere celebrity, she was my next victim. Freshly engaged she and, my second favourite, Will made a trip to St Andrews to kick off the 600th celebrations. I sort of met her, as much as you can meet someone when there is a bloody great iron fence in between you. I mumbled something inaudible, possibly a hello, but I definitely shook her hand. I stood next to my very tactical friend who brought her dog and, at least,  I managed to wangle my way into national press. I've got a picture to show the grandkids, albeit I look awestruck and rather dense. Luckily, no one took a picture five minutes later, as Kate drove off, and I burst into tears as I once again realised that I had lost another potential celebrity best friend.

I, unlike the occupational celebs, know to quit when I'm ahead. The latter experience, convinced me, once and for all, that my relationship with celebrities is best left to the medium of Twitter. Yours probably is too. Please, all you crazy fans out there, even if you fancy your chances in the minor league (no matter how reem you are) Joey Essex already has best mates (or so I'm told). Fangirls of the world, stop getting upset that Eva Mendez is dating Ryan Gosling, just be happy for him! You are probably not going to meet him and he is almost certainly not going to fall in love with you, if you do. It would be a great shame if either Eva or Ryan died alone, they seem great on Twitter! While we're at it, stop waiting for Rob to dump Kristen and stop proposing to Eddie Redmayne. Your celebrity infatuation will only end in tears, and trust me, celebrities are never worth crying over.