'Laugh, oh how we would laugh at anything': a tribute to my comrades and commanders in Preston

There will be a distinct Last Supper atmosphere at uni this week. After the NCTJ exams (joy, joy, JOY), that's it. End of story. We all go back to where we come from. I'm sure we'll keep in touch - we're all each others' first contacts after all. But it won't be the same as travelling on the rollercoaster journey we've been on.

These are the people I have spent an unhealthy amount of time with over the last nine months - and I will miss them very much. This blog post is a tribute to the guys, gals and teachers who have made my time in Preston a hoot.

For those of you who aren't aware, I've nearly completed my postgraduate diploma in newspaper journalism at the University of Central Lancashire. Like most postgrad courses, it's been extremely intense. Sort of like being shot from a cannon. The first few weeks, I didn't know what had hit me.

In theory, it looked like it was going to be a ghastly year. Up at six every morning, leave the house at quarter past seven, arrive in Preston at half eight. 15 minute walk from the station to the campus into a room where Delwyn Swingewood made each of us believe at some point or another that we had chosen the wrong career path.

"What the fuck's this?"

"I don't understand what this means."

"'While', not 'Whilst'! How many more times?"

"Exclamation marks. We call them dogs' dicks."

"Who do you think you're working for, the FT? What have we said about sloppy copy?"

"There are journalists who drink and journalists who get drunk. Make sure you're not the latter."

"You're not Jane Austen. Just get on with it."

I now realise this was part of the psychology of the course's structure. Delwyn and Mike Williams (our other teacher - more about him later) had to knock the corners off us and reshape us into efficient news reporters.

We quickly learnt to become word Nazis - adjectives, council bullshit terms and jargon were public enemies one, two and three. I think I speak for all of us on the course when I say there were some pretty dark moments. Copy was returned looking like a road traffic accident, Delwyn's furious scribbles obscuring sentences you had so lovingly (and successfully, you hoped) constructed.

But god, it did us good. By Christmas, I knew instinctively what made a snappy intro and was learning all the time where words could be dropped or substituted for something more succinct. I still have a lot to learn. In fact, I don't think you can ever stop learning in this job because you're dealing with different people and different stories every day. That's one of the reasons I feel privileged to do it for a living. (note to self: that statement may work better when I actually have a job).

Delwyn took us through the ropes most of the time, complete with 'as an actor said the bishop' jokes and witty repartee with members of the class. It's no surprise that Delwyn worked on Private Eye. Satire reigns wherever he goes. From day one, despite it being a really tough course, I've laughed a lot. It's one of the things that kept me going.

Mike Williams taught us every Monday. His approach was slightly different - classes were more informal, and a welcome change from Delwyn's constant bollockings (these lessened as the year went on, thankfully).

Mike is a Fleet Street veteran - he's had executive roles on The Sunday Times, The Independent and The Independent on Sunday and writes for the Daily Mail. He also worked on Today with Colin Myler. His contact book includes His Majesty Paxman. Enough said.

Despite his busy schedule, Mike visited us northern monkeys at the beginning of every week and did all he could to help with advice he's picked up over the years, writing tips and what was, for me, a reminder of what I'm in this for: to get to London as soon as possible and hit the big time.

Hearing Mike's stories of insane news rooms and the buzz of the capital made me keep going during hard times when I felt like packing it in and getting a part-time job as a dinnerlady instead. Who said the best things are ever the easiest?

This blog post would not be complete without a tribute to Pat Brand, our shorthand teacher. She is a nag. She is relentless. She is wonderful.

I passed my 100 words a minute exam almost exactly five months to the day that I started the course because Pat was, and I say this with the greatest respect and gratitude, a slave driver, setting us ridiculous amounts of homework and publicly humiliating anyone who didn't do it.

I don't care that she worked us ridiculously hard - we weren't there to socialise. In fact, one of her party lines is "Come on, you're not here to enjoy yourselves." Although surprisingly, once she had beaten us into submission, we did have a laugh and a joke with her. She's ace.

Here are my tributes to my coursemates. Guys, it's been emotional. I've enjoyed working with you all and will genuinely miss your company. Thanks for putting up with me during production - I know I can be an over-emotional diva sometimes, but you all coped marvellously. I wish you every success in the future. Keep in touch!

In alphabetical order:

Aidan Hanratty

A perfectionist with a constantly enquiring, analytical mind. Whoever came up with the saying 'The Devil is in the detail' must have had Aidan in mind - he'll correct anyone on anything. Extremely knowledgeable about his music (does his own mixes) and a whizz on computers. He's helped me with IT related matters many a time, for which I'm very grateful. Cheers Chief.

Alison Stacey

I knew I loved this girl when she dressed up as a skeleton - and pulled it off. She works hard and plays hard - it's always fun to see what post-weekend injuries she'll roll in with on Monday morning (the latest involved falling into a bush, for which she had two tribal scratches to show). Came up with some cracking exclusives on The Courant, and will definitely go far in the national press. She also let me stay at her place during placement, which was jolly nice of her.

Alma Stewart-Burgess

Possibly the only person on the course who can make me laugh so much I run the risk of crying and/or incontinence. Alma is not only, in my opinion, one of the best journalists in the class (put her down in a strange town, she'll have five stories an hour later) but a comedienne and holistic therapist, which makes her fascinating company. She's done the course with two kiddywinkles at home - god knows how, I've struggled and I only have myself to look after. I really respect her for that and thoroughly enjoyed working with her on placement at the Lancashire Evening Post.

Beth Taylor

One of my closest friends on the course, I will miss Beth very much. Pretty much from day one we've been good pals, dissecting the events of the day on the walk to the train station and, more recently, spending many hours in contented silence revising. She's a bloody good mate, always there when you need her, and, I am delighted to say, the first in the class to get a job! So pleased for her - very much deserved. Stay in touch, douche bag. x

Callum D'Souza

Callum has dealt very well with being the only Southern Fairy (he hails from Southampton) among us clog wearing lot. It's a wonder he can understand what any of us are ever saying! A tenacious, determined journalist, I'm sure he'll get where he deserves to be.

Chris Terris-Taylor

So laid back, he's almost horizontal. Not much ruffles Chris's feathers, and he made a welcome contrast in the newsroom to mine and Alma's manic energy. A genuinely nice guy who will talk to anyone about anything. Into his gangsta rap - which I'm not, but I was grateful for your advice about that profile on Eminem back in October! Good luck in whatever you do.

Dave Mercer

The best editor you could hope for, Dave will always be remembered as a 'chilled out entertainer'. He ran The Courant with military precison, but somehow managed to more or less keep us all on an even keel, guiding us through tough times, deadlines that seemed impossible and giving us motivational talks just when we needed them. He did all this without ever being annoying (something I would never have managed). He worked damn hard too, staying until 4am some nights when we'd long gone. Much appreciated, Mercenary.

Emma Shahsvar

Is it a hurricane? Is it a foghorn? No. It's Emma Shahsvar and her hundreds of opinions, questions and polemic (complete with Jerry Springer indignant hand gestures). Whatever Emma does, she does it with the force of an outboard motor, powering along until before you know it, she's taken over and is running the show. Her controversial comments have been the source of much entertainment this year, and I think with that amount of vigour, Emma could probably do anything she set her mind to - and still be home in time to feed Winston, her beloved moggy.

Hannah Bargery

Barge, Barge Face, Argy-Bargy - Hannah's taken her fair share of nicknames this year. A couple of the lads have also taken to calling her 'Easter Egg head' - something I've still not quite got my own head round, but regardless, Hannah takes it all in good humour. You won't find a more down-to-earth, friendly, sunny soul - or a more dedicated Everton fan. She also shares my love for River Island clothes, which is always the mark of quality in a person's character. I didn't work with her during production, but my sources tell me she was excellent, and I can believe it.

James Illingworth

James and I have shared many a morning joke as early birds on the stupidly early trains that get in early from Ormskirk and Manchester respectively. James is very calming in a crisis - his deadpan, dry humour always makes me chuckle, and cheers me up about whatever I happen to be wringing my hands over. We've had good natured debates about feminism (he attemped to read The Female Eunuch, but gave up when it went into female anatomy. Persist, James! Germaine has much to teach you.) A great journalist, whether it's local tales about golliwogs (for which he has the copyright) or sport stories. A ruddy lad who I will miss.

Jamie Field

Take a few ill-timed jokes, a scatter-gun approach to subbing and throw in some innuendoes, and you are a step closer to understanding what it is like to work with this legend. Mr Field, I will miss your war stories about hitchhiking to Preston from Chesterfield. A source of wonderment and intrigue to us all. Have fun in Shanghai - via Blackpool Pleasure Beach, you mentalist!

Jenny Foulds

This girl is great at what she does - if only she'd believe it and big herself up more often. She fretted she had no stories for our last edition, then nailed the splash. Confidence, girl! You can and will succeed. Jenny has the patience of a saint, and has calmed me down on many an occasion when I've gone off on a rant. More importantly, she is an excellent listener; something every good journalist needs to be. She's off to bigger and better things in bonny Scotland, and I wish her all the best.

John Henry Robinson

Sarcastic, witty and fantastic at coming up with hilarious headlines. I'm very jealous of John's ability to coast along doing very little, pulling results out of the bag nonetheless. He has a rebellious streak which will stand him in good stead in this job - questioning authority and holding people to account are a big part of what it's all about. I'll never forget your trademark Dennis the Menace hoodie. Think you've worn it every day except possibly when we went to court.

Kev Rawlinson

'Le Kev', so called because of his love for all things Frog, will be on the nationals before you can say Byker Grove. He is possibly the most ambitious person on the course, applying for jobs while most of us were still finishing Easter eggs. A word of advice, though. Don't go to Kev if you want a yes or no answer. This guy can talk! All joking aside, I'm fond of Kev and his rambling explanations, where you forget the original question you asked him. Definitely one to watch - my guess is that he will go far.

Lisa Storey

The 'mother hen' of the class with a wicked sense of humour behind the seemingly quiet reserve. A few glasses of vino and all sorts of wonderfully smutty jokes emerge. An excellent journalist, although I bet if I said that to her she'd go all modest. She's been very kind to me when I've had down days, and I always appreciate her no-nonsense approach to problems. She's not afraid to defend the under-dog, which in a class of unmitigated egos is a rare quality to have.

Matt Monaghan

The Brent Meister General Extraordinaire. He has me in hysterics on the train journeys home (which I've most enjoyed and will dearly miss), as well as being a really good friend when I need advice about professional or personal matters. He does all this with the most waspish, witty sense of humour and I thoroughly enjoy his company. Oh yes, and he's a brilliant journalist. Nosy, persistent and an excellent nose for hard news. He's going to be tremendous wherever he goes.

Philippa West

I could definitely learn a thing or two from Philippa. She is confident, assertive and talented, but goes about her business unconcerned with what anyone else says or does with an air of self-assuredness that is far more effective than my stormy Mediterranean outbursts. A journalist who will not give up until she finds her next story, Philippa worked really hard for The Courant and was a valuable member of the team as someone we knew would just 'get on with it.'

Tom Collins

I boast the title of 'Tom Collins Expert' when it comes to this man, as I had to write a profile about him in the first week of the course. If only I knew then what I know now! A real team player, he put in some killer shifts as Chief Sub on The Courant. And he accompanied me to speed dating, something he wanted to do about as much as I would play football. Still, he did it, and was the perfect gentleman. Didn't we have a laugh in that dive of a casino? He cracks me up with his dismissive comments regarding my girly frivolities - a typical Yorkshire man with a deadpan sense of humour that I will miss.

Victoria Clayton

Victoria is one cool customer. I've never once seen her flapping or panicking - she just seems to coast through a day at a time without worrying too much. I would love to know how this is done, as it would do wonders for my blood pressure. Victoria has many different sides and voices, which make her an intriguing, humourous presence in the newsroom. I see her wearing fabulous cashmere suits and writing artistic reviews for The Observer.

ENDS

Love and the marriage hearse

An opaque reference to William Blake's poem 'London' in the title, in case some of you were wondering. (I hope you were - it's a great poem).

I know some of you are married. My folks are married. Maybe I'll get married. But I'm starting to wonder why.

It strikes me that love affairs, infatuations, dalliances, physical attractions - whatever other terms the urban dictionary has introduced to refer to 21st century relationship politics - are predictable only in their unpredictabilities.

It's a strange mixture of chemicals, circumstances and often alcoholic or hallucinogenic drugs that first attract you to someone. Similarly, what is it that repels you from certain people? A nasal twang, a thin top lip, particularly pungent body odour, a tendency to talk only about oneself most selfishly and a tad pompously - some of the top turn offs, wouldn't you agree, ma' sisters?

But when you meet the One (well, you'd give him one), it all makes sense. He smells of lavender and lemons. He is gorgeous. He is interesting, and INTERESTED in you. He is clever, but not boringly so. He is funny, but doesn't mind that you are funny too. He's ideally about 35, over all his little lad hangups. If we're talking wish lists, he is an Ulsterman working in the media. Perfect. You got the job.

And this is where the problem starts. Before the boundaries are imposed on your relationship by the two of you, it's great. The excitement of uncertainty. The phone rings, you feel sick with nerves and giddiness. He takes you out (a vague memory - I seem to remember enjoying that kind of thing, but lately I've been skipping the small talk). You enjoy his company, and don't drift off when he starts talking. At you.

Slowly, frighteningly, the humdrum sets in. Before you know it, you're doing his washing with yours and making those frightful lists in your head...'What shall we do for tea tonight?' - what sends me under with this question is that you NEVER STOP ASKING IT! At least on your own you can eat something random like a pot noodle panini and no questions are asked.

Where did the fun go? All of a sudden, the things you found quirky and exciting are getting on your nerves - it's become part of the ordinary. I don't see how any relationship can escape this dilemma, and it scares me.

Yes indeed, the beauty of love is its mutability. It answers to no-one, except perhaps illogic and nonsense. Everyone's addicted to the first six months for this reason. The constant ups and downs and the wonderfully tolerable feeling of being 'out of control' are a tonic. The effects of falling in love have even been clinically linked to that of cocaine.

Marriage would, you would think, be the pinnacle of this. It's a public declaration of your love and commitment to each other. And a silent promise to confine love and all its nonsense, surprises and spontaneity to a rectangular box, neatly labelled 'The Mundane'.

Most couples settle into a comfortable life. It's inevitable that routines, baby names and favourite holiday destinations are the result of spending a lot of time together.

However. What does your romantic love life no favours is predictability and routine. The ironic thing is, marriage, children and 'security' represent the very things that quash eroticism and excitement - they rein these things in, impose boundaries and make spontaneity a thing of the past.

I'm not sure we're programmed to be monogamous. But marriage is a useful institution to the economy, and supposedly acts as a moral safeguard - 'forsaking all others' and all that. Hmmm. I know at least half a dozen people who have broken their vows, and could probably think of a lot more.

We'd all do well to learn that 'security' in relationships is non-existent. The only stability about human feelings is that they change all the time.

Therefore: I propose to remain a Flibbertygibbet for a good while longer. I'm not ready to confine all that intoxication on the ride of an emotional rollercoaster to a trip to Sainsbury's in a clapped out Fiesta. These be the wild times ;-)

Why I can't forgive people who smell

Sorry. But unless you get down to Tesco quick sharp and buy some Sure, I can't associate with you.

I'd like to start off by saying this is not a discriminatory post against people who have a genuine problem. Uncontrollable glands or whatever. If there's nothing you can do about the fact that you sweat a lot, then I feel sorry for you - it's not your fault. It must be really embarrassing to have a problem like that and I'm certainly not holding it against you.

What I am talking about is the pong that hits me, very often on public transport, sometimes in a supermarket or even in a club. The smell fills my nostril and I immediately grimace, whirling round to glare at you. Thanks for just ruining my day!

Smells are very important to me, and I'm sure they are to a lot of people. They can hold and trigger so many powerful memories, and they have a powerful hold on our consciousness. I might not remember every guy's name, but take me to Boots and I'll give you a chronology of my love life from the age of 14 at the aftershave counter.

If I smell Angel by Thierry Mugler, it reminds me of when I was 14, just starting out, blossoming (some would say) into yet another teenage girl in love.

If I smell pipe tobacco and spaghetti bolognese, it smells of home. In fact, anything with garlic (my mum cooks a lot of Italian food) reminds me of security and childhood.

Hairspray takes me back to the hundreds of dance competitions and shows I took part in when I was growing up. Coffee and kebabs make me think of uni - messy nights out and hungovers I luxuriated in the morning after.

But STALE BODY ODOUR? I'm in hell.

I'm furious at anyone who offends my olfactory senses. I take it personally to the core. I make the effort every day to allow ten minutes for a shower (and one at night if I've been working out or dancing). Everyone else should. I have a wash basket. I fill it with clothes. When it's full, I put it in the washing machine with lashings of lavender fabric softener. And the whole thing starts again. But it's something you have to do regularly.

Some people in this world seem to think that washing at birthdays and Christmas is enough. And again, I'm not persecuting those who genuinely have problems getting to a wash basin (the homeless, for example).

But people who have a roof over their heads and access to clean running water have no excuse. A bar of soap costs very little, recession or not. Even if you have to stand there shivering while you strip wash, by God do it! Don't think you'll skip till next week - or longer.

Because it stinks. Quite literally. We're all human. Everyone sweats. I sweat very easily, and often have sweaty palms whether I'm nervous or not (I'm hoping to pass this off as a rather charming idiosyncrasy). If you've just had a coffee, cigarette or eaten something a bit whiffy then of course, there will be evidence in the way you smell.

I'm not saying let's be obsessive about it. A few germs and bacteria (within reason) never did anyone any harm. I am determined not to be one of those mums when I have kids that doesn't let them play in the soil and swallow the occasional mouthful. My mum let us and we're (arguably) OK. But that's not really what I'm talking about.

If you're an adult and you start the day clean, but then sweat a little, carry some deodrant in your bag. Quick spritz during the day, then clothes go in the wash at home.

But judging by some of the delightful wafts I've been getting the last few weeks, a lot of people don't think like that. They seem to leave their clothes for weeks, months on end - and washing their bodies is also kept to a minimum.

WHY???

I've been sweaty in my life. Who hasn't? But after a few hours of feeling like that, I can't wait to get in the shower and get rid of a day's dirt and grime. We've all worked with the Office Stink Bomb. No-one wants to sit with them or talk to them, and you wonder how the hell they hold down a mutually fulfilling sexual relationship. UGH!

If the person I am describing is you, get down to the shops. They've got some ridiculously cheap offers on shower gel and deodrant. Then maybe we can talk.

Beauty from the outside in

This evening I'm thinking about beauty.

We are taught that it's what's on the inside that counts. If you're a good person with golden insides, it doesn't matter what's on the outside. When people get to know you, they learn what sort of person you are, and how you look is merely superficial.

It's a nice philosophy. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the first judgement we made about someone was based on the person inside, rather than the clothes they wore and outside appearance they assumed?

But what this line of thinking fails to take into account is what superficial creatures human beings fundamentally are.

You see somone before you have a chance to get to know them. By that I mean you clap eyes on a person's appearance and there it is - a judgement is made.

It's not necessarily always a bad judgement. But it's there nonetheless, and is not based on what a philanthropist you are, or your high moral standards, or whatever else gives you your golden insides. It's based on how you look.

I think that instead of railing against this, we should just accept that this is how human beings function. And look our best.

When you look good, you feel good. You work better and feel better about yourself. I have learnt this through experience.

While I was travelling in Australia, I slummed it appearance wise, to put it mildly. I gained about two stone in weight and I shaved my head because I was so sick of sweating.

It was so liberating to do this. I'd recommend doing it at least once before you die.

Anyway, it looked OK when I had my slap on and went to town with the eyeliner. However, during the day when I was spotty, sweaty and bloated I basically looked like a convict.

When the hair started to grow back, things rapidly went downhill. The black hair dye grew out and I was reminded that my natural colour is an unremarkable dirty brown. It grew back at different angles, and I quickly started to resemble a scrubbing brush.

My weight soon ballooned and I became more and more fed up with my appearance. I was having a great time travelling. But looking back, feeling rubbish about my appearance changed the way I felt and acted.

I lost a lot of confidence because I just didn't feel pretty or sexy (and let's face it, I didn't look it, either). My boyfriend at the time, Mark, was really supportive and reassured me that I was still attractive to him. But I just felt like someone else. Every time I looked in the mirror, I thought "Ugh. Who is that minger?"

This makes me sound very shallow. But human beings are. The way I looked was making me feel low because I wasn't happy with it.

I was sick of never glamming up, not being able to wear make-up because of the sweltering heat and covering my belly by tying my hoodie round it.

As soon as I got back from my travels, I started eating healthily and working out every day. I dyed my hair black the day we arrived back on UK soil and rejoiced as I smudged kohl pencil round my eyes and smeared my chops in gloss.

God, did I feel better almost straightaway. The impact of my appearance on how I felt about myself was brought home to me when I started work (I temped over the summer in various offices).

There's something about getting up in the morning, having a shower and putting on make-up that sets me up for the day. I feel refreshed and ready to face the world.

It's nothing to do with putting on a 'front'. Well, maybe it is - but it's not a lie about who I am. It's just making myself look the best I can and feeling a whole lot better for it.

Going into the office every day made up, losing weight and in smart clothes, I quickly started to feel more like my old self - confident, bubbly and happy with who I am.

There are some who regard looking good without make-up as the benchmark for whether you are 'genuinely' attractive or not. I think this is tosh. It's nothing to do with how genuine it is - it's how good the final product looks. I wear make-up not because I think I look hideous without it (actually, it depends on the night before) but because I look better with it.

Baudelaire said in one of his essays that rather than making do with what nature gives you, make-up is brilliant for women because it allows you to improve and enhance what you were born with. I couldn't agree more.

I'm not saying you have to wear make-up to look your best. I know lots of women who genuinely prefer the bare-faced look, and wear it very well. But I'm talking about the whole package: what you wear, how your shoes make you walk with a stride in your step and the confidence the whole thing brought together produces.

These days, if I'm working from home, say revising, I always work better if I get up and put a reasonably decent outfit on and, of course, my war paint. If I roll out of bed and work in my pyjamas, I feel grotty and don't work as well. Maybe it's just me. But I think we should all come off it when we say beauty's only skin-deep.

Of course, if you're a horrible person, it becomes clear to others, no matter what you look like. Similarly, if you are simply lovely this also shines through. But my point is this: looking better helps you feel better. And whatever sort of person you are becomes a little better because you have confidence and self-esteem.

I'm off to powder my nose.