Who Wants to be a Voice-Over Artist?

I like to think I take critisism well.

That is, constructive critisism. I don't take rejection badly either; it comes from my being a little conceited...I've learned to discount comments I can live without and continue in a confident manner, the task in hand.

What frustrates me is when I cannot change something, case in question:my natural speaking voice**.

When I was younger, the hardened, "cool" teenagers that I most wanted to impress spoke a certain way, so I followed suit...I went from being "the posh kid with the expensive clothes" to "the kid with the expensive clothes" with just a week's worth of mimicing the accents of nearby Basildon* girls.

Let's face it though, no one fakes anything forever and as I grew up, slowly, back came the plum in my mouth. Not something I have ever since considered a problem. Until Now.

Voice over artists each have their own sounds/mannerisms/accents. I have long been a believer that the Queen's English is not the only voice we should hear on our television sets and radios, favouring a more "relevent" sound for the listener so that they feel they are being spoken to instead of being spoken at.

As with most things, though, political correctness has gone mad. I dread the highlights of the football, because I have no way of knowing what is being said, such is the broadness of the Scottish accent being used by a man whom I can only guess is very knowledgable...I'd truly like to know what he has said!

The only way to get a record deal this year is to have a distinctively "Northern" accent...Leeds, Manchester, Liverpool...if you hail from any of these, and aren't ashamed to sing exactly as you speak, feel free to chuck a demo on the table. (Not a problem with me, I loved the Proclaimers myself...no, really, I did)

So as not to exclude any major denomination of accent; onto the Welsh: the Welsh accent no longer gives people the impression that your life's ambition is to farm sheep for many long hours, deep in the valleys. A colloquial Welsh accent is much sought after in British Television these days. It's quirky. Apparently.

I have nothing against the Welsh. "Himself" (my man) is in fact a fine specimen of a sexy Taff, and Steve Jones, presenter of T4 and Transmission is another very good reason to visit "the West" in vain hope that you might glimpse his manly Welsh self.

Surely with all this diversity, however, there is room in the voice over world for a well spoken Essex girl without a hint of the cockney wannabe about her! I take exception to being told that I might do better to "east end" my accent up a little...the cheek!

Anyway, must dash, toodle pip..over and out daaarlings. Hmmmn.

*for those that dont' know, Basildon being the sort of place that you get beaten up for being "posh"/educated/well spoken***.

**Oddly, however, if I try to sing "Diamonds are a girls best friend", I turn into a very nasal cabaret singer from Hackney ... all that is required is a clapped out old piano and Ethel from Eastenders and we could 'ave a right ole knees up.

*** or pretty/ clever/ not in a velour tracksuit.

All is Well on the Western Front

I just returned from picking my big brother up from Heathrow airport which [still] has inadequate parking, too few arrivals screens and a heady aroma - a mixture of coffee and carpet cleaner (which gave me a headache a record 5 minutes into my hour long wait for Big Bro to get through the custom controls).

I collected him and couldn't take my eyes off him - that's what it's like whe you live thousands of miles from your kin - you soak in every detail when you see them as though it were your last (or first - whatever). He looks really good. No older than last time I saw him; more tanned; plenty relaxed (turns out that was the bourbon on the plane to be honest) and totally wired to be in the UK. It made me wonder, I've gotta tell you, what the hell he thought when he saw his little sister grinning like a mental patient at the arrivals gate...baby on hip, "handbag"* spilling out all over the shiny white floor, hollow eyes from too little sleep and hair two days past it's "wash-by date"; vying for a place near the railing to shout "babe, babe over here babe!"...

How is living in the UK taking it's toll on me so hard that he looks younger than me I ask you?! (he's got seven years on me!).

Last year I was in September drizzle in Perth, WA. Even in the rain, the streets were paved with possibilities. Cut to September, England this year, the rain lifts the stink from the filthy pavements to my nostrils whilst my [curly] hair goes frizzy before I have even unlocked the car.

My aussie work visa can't come soon enough.

* who am I kidding? Handbag? It was a baby sling crammed with nappies, wipes, wallet, keys and enough toys to keep Hamleys in stock for a week (all of this for the walk fron the car to Arrivals).

Sorry Folks

Yesterday was a bad day. A really really bad day. There was red mist (mine); bedroom wrecking and bedtime tantrums (the children's) and pulling hair out (C's Junior School Teacher and probably my parents respectively)...I reverted yesterday to behaviour reminiscent of a strange era of my teenage life, where EVERYTHING was wrong and NONE of it was my fault.

I cried and berated, shouted and flounced around and then stayed up too late. I scowled and was pedantic, sarcastic and utterly horrid. I was, in short a 14 year old version of myself; which, even in the rear view mirror of life, was not a pretty sight the first time around.

To anyone I spoke to yesterday: I apologize.*

*apart from the prick from the bank who saw fit to telephone after 8.30pm at night - more fool you, you won't call here again in a hurry now will you?!