How to be beautiful: A Kat McLightning Makeup Tutorial

Ahoy there, I return! Over the past few months, I have gained a lot of secrets, enough even to blackmail several rich and powerful people, so I have been busy. But along my journeys, I have also found out one thing that is for certain: MAKEUP IS EVERYTHING. If you don’t know how to properly to contour and highlight your face, then you fail as a basic human being and I tell you, it is follies like that that will cause you the most trouble in our eminent dystopian society. So I decided to help you all survive the future, gain respect among your peers and have great cheekbones at the same time. That’s right: IT’S THE KAT MCLIGHTNING MAKEUP TUTORIAL.

Whoever said that beauty is on the inside was an idiot. I mean, have you ever seen the inside of a person? It’s disgusting. One time I saw a picture for an art show about people who donated their bodies to have their skin taken off and posed as if they were playing tennis or doing taxes or waiting in a line at a bakery or whatever and I was like “No thank you, Hannibal, I plan on having a traditional viking burial when I die so you can keep your greasy fingers away from my skinned body.”

Trust me, everything here is very important. Learn from it and you too can succeed in your life.

First off, we start with the face with no makeup. As you can tell, a face without any makeup is the most foul thing that will ever exist on this planet, and it is every person’s basic human right to change it as much as possible, until you are accepted by society.

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Look at that face, where are the cheekbones? How will you every know where they are without them being physically highlighted for the world to see?

You have to cover all visible facial skin with a layer of foundation. No original skin should be seen after the foundation is put on. Personally, I like to use cheap, out of date foundation as that gives me the slightly off colour that I am really going for. You know how they say that a house needs a solid foundation? Same goes with your face. That foundation should be solid and strong with enough of it to be able to hold a small building.

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You then have to highlight that face. People are unable to see your face clearly unless you do so. Also this will help you earn respect, as you can draw arrows to your eyes with that highlight. My eyes are up here, you fool. Look, they are clearly marked out. For highlighter, you should use a mixture of PVA glue and glitter*, or something that looks like a fairy vomited. Put that on your cheekbones and on the bridge of your nose, you have to make it look like an airport landing strip at night.

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Now get some bronzer up in here. If you don’t properly contour your face, people will think you are a line pencil drawing and will be confused at why a line pencil drawing is talking to them. Don’t confuse people. Contour. For inspiration, look at topographic maps. Pick the map of the mountain range that you’d like to reflect your look. For this one, I’m inspired by the Appalachians. Also contour your nose. Make sure it is directing the eye to your lips, even though your cheeks are directing the eye to your eyes. You face is confusing and mysterious, that’s why it’s beautiful.

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Now, eyebrows. Your eyebrows are the most crucial part of your entire face, after the eyes, nose, mouth, ears and cheeks. It’s a fact that a person will judge you within 10 seconds based on your eyebrows**. The thicker they are, the most respect you will receive. Around 8% of realty space on your face should be given to the eyebrows.

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The eyes are the window to the soul, but no one should see your soul as it is too brilliant and horrifying for mortals. You need to decorate your eyes, to create a distraction so that people can not fully see into the terror of your soul. Eyeliner is a really fun way to do this, and will also help with your fun and flirty look. I choose liquid eyeliner as it gives a nice effect, while reminding me of the blood of my enemies that I smeared on my face, one terrible afternoon.

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Mascara is also a must.

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Now you’ve got to blend it all in, using a big ole brush. If you don’t blend it fully, then you’ll just look silly, and this is a makeup look that should make you respected and feared. Just rub is all over the place, no one really cares at this point. And yes, you could say “Hey, Kat, why don’t you blend it with a blender? Hahahahaaaaa.” Well, you little jokester, if you keep on with that attitude, I’ll blend your face with a blender.

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Add some lipstick too, as your natural lips are not the same shade of your aforementioned enemies blood and that is a crucial part of the look. Your lips should be bright and dark at the same time, and should be spotted at a distance. Red makes people angry, and this will help you look tough. Also make sure your cupid’s bow is well defined, because it is a fact that an undefined cupid’s bow is the leading cause of high cholesterol**.

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AND NOW YOUR LOOK IS FINISHED. Make your hair better than it already is (which is hard for me, cause my hair is amazing) and you are ready for the outside world to look upon your beautiful face and tremble with fear and wonder. Add some fun accessories too, like pretty earrings or a cute pair of brass knuckles. Also it is a must that you always have good light on your face, so bring along a torch and small child to hold the torch at the good angles to enhance your natural beauty. And be confident! It’s all about the confidence, ladies!

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NOW YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. Get the child who is holding your light to also be holding an iPod with speakers, so that Beyoncé’s Flawless will be playing at all times. It is only through these makeup tips that people will take you seriously and you will succeed in life and find happiness and love. Don’t forget that you are naturally beautiful, but this natural beauty can only be achieved through copious amounts of makeup.

Have fun with these top makeup steps, and enjoy your better and more improved life!

-Kat McLightning

*please don’t actually put PVA glue and glitter on your face, that’s silly.

**May not be a fact.

 

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Astronomy Club and Arctic Terns

Good day my friends, happy new year if you have been asleep for the past 12 days and haven’t realised that our calendar has changed. What are people’s resolutions for the year? Mine are to not allow anyone to cross me ever again and get away with it, to claim vengeance on all of the aforementioned fools who crossed me and to paint more.

(Edit made a long time after this: I started writing this, like, so long ago that I can’t even ironically say happy new year. But, I mean, be pleased that I actually finished it. Yes, a long time after, but still. Count your darn blessings.)

Now that it’s a brand new year (well, like, a fortnight into a new year) (edit made a long time after: well, like two months into a new year), I decided to reflect some more on instances in my life, and I decided to tell you all of the tale of astronomy club and the arctic terns.

“Now, hold on a second, Ms. McLightning. Astronomy club? Really? You mean that once a week, you went and talked about space and looked at pictures of nebulae and played games categorising galaxies?”

Yep. And it was super fun. I love astronomy, what can I say? Back in the days of focusing on becoming a theoretical physicist (I spelled both of those words incorrectly when typing this. See how far we’ve come?) I was a very enthusiastic member of my school’s astronomy club. It was going very well, until the time when I was in third year and the ripe old age of 14. By this age, I had presented a project on the lives of galaxies to a science convention, visited NASA in Houston and played the CD-ROM The Nine Worlds Hosted by Patrick Stewart.

But it all changed when they decided to merge my beloved astronomy club with Y.E.L.L.O.W. Club.

Now, what is Y.E.L.L.O.W. Club you ask? Why, my dear ignorant friend, Y.E.L.L.O.W. Club is the club set up by the geography department in my school for the purposes of making people rummage through bins at lunch for scraps of food, making posters that have such slogans as “You should try to recycle your food, because it will kill the world or something” and “Haste to not waste or whatever” and so on and so forth. The Y.E.L.L.O.W. Club stood for Young Environmentalists Love Loving Our World. They also stood for justice, freedom and the right to put too pieces of wood together and say it’s a home for hedgehogs.

The Y.E.L.L.O.W. Club were brought into the serene world of the astronomy club, and made us do what? Study, like, space recycling? Investigate how planting daffodils can effect nebulae? Nope, it was why arctic terns fly to Groomsport sometimes. (Groomsport is a seaside town near where I lived/live/sometimes live in Northern Ireland.) And that was it.

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Arctic Terns are also some type of seagull or something, I don’t know, I didn’t care enough about it to actually remember stuff from it. Except the injustice I felt when I thought about the fact that I actually wanted to study the awe-inspiring cosmos in the stunning, infinite universe.

And so, I had to look at how the birds flew across the world or something stupid. And how they would sometimes stop in Groomsport. One rainy Monday afternoon, in fact, I, along with 15 other intrepid astronomers and people who like to rummage through bins at lunch time had to travel to Groomsport and I (as the always ready to perform person) was filmed talking in my best mock reporter way about the arctic terns and their flight paths and habits. Please know that I really had no knowledge of this so I made it up on the spot, but that is what I do, darling.

In addition to this thrilling field and research trip, we got to participate in such thrilling and definitely scientifically accurate activities as cutting out pre-made templates of arctic terns printed off the internet and putting them on the end of plastic straws so that when you blow into it, they would ‘fly’. Or kind of fall sadly two feet away like a paper airplane that has lost the will to live.

All of this, unlike a paper template of an arctic tern on the end of the straw, took flight when we brought it to a student science convention in Belfast. Yes, myself along with two other girls who I kind of knew who were a few years younger than me and had been some of the people who had taken over my beloved astronomy club from the Y.E.L.L.O.W. club like a cuckoo laying its eggs in a poor unsuspecting nest, went to a convention where I am sure had other people presenting topics that somehow actually related to the club or class or whatever they were representing.

And anyway, long story shorten and hyped for dramatic effect, we did not win anything in this convention. I don’t believe too many people were even interested in the flight path of the arctic tern, presented by an astronomy club, especially when beside our table was a table that was giving out free magnets encouraging recycling or something.

So, to summarize my findings in this grand exploration into the life of some birds in a club that is meant to be about studying the cosmos, I learned that arctic terns is not the same as space.

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So, I guess the moral of the story of this is that you can’t put all of your eggs in one basket and if you do and that basket is a nest in Groomsport and you have some teenage girls trying to look at you and the year is 2007, then you’re probably an Arctic Tern.

-Kat McLightning

(And look! I cut off my hair! Ahhh! Yay! Yay me!)

short hair edit

Highlights from a Voyage

Hello friends. I thought I would give you a brief ‘This is my Life’ update. I apologise for lack of posts, but I was doing other things like sleeping when I should be awake and being awake when I should be sleeping. You know, the usual.

Today I went on the vast journey I take occasionally back to the homeland of Northern Ireland. I have taken this journey many a time (see here for a detailed description) and every time it always delivers. Me. To Northern Ireland. And also in the satisfactory, what-on-earth-is-happening way as well, that’s also what I was going for. I thought I would share with you a few things that occurred on today’s journey:

The Bus Driver’s Jokes

On this journey, I have to make my way from Stirling to Glasgow by bus. I could take the train, but nope, not me. I do things differently to all the train lot, I bus it. Cause those wheels on the bus go round and round. All. Day. Long. When waiting in line for the bus, I noticed that the demographic for the CityLink bus from Stirling to Glasgow is primarily rough Glaswegian women in their 60’s, reading The Scottish Sun and Woman’s Own. When we arrived into Glasgow, the bus driver tuned on the microphone and began to give the airplane pilot’s speech of “We’re now approaching Glasgow, the local weather isn’t too bad today, thank you for travelling with us today and have a safe and pleasant onward journey.” but it is said in an incredibly thick Scottish accent so through a few ‘ayes’ and ‘dinnae’s’ into it. He also told us that we were too early getting into Glasgow so what should he do in that event that he’s arriving too early? Maybe just get their early anyway? Hang around outside? Drive slowly? Tell jokes? Yes, that one. He decided to tell us some jokes. And this was the joke he told over the grainy intercom of the CityLink M8 coach:

“An English man, a Scottish man and an Irish man were all going to America to the Olympics, but they did not have tickets, so they weren’t let it. So, the English man picked up a pole and went to the guard and said ‘Smith. England. Pole Vaulting.’ And the let him in. The Scottish man went and picked up a manhole cover and went to the guard and said ‘MacDonald. Scotland. Discus.’ And they let him in. The Irish man went and got some chicken wire and went to the guard and said ‘Murphy. Ireland. Fencing.’ And they didn’t let him in.”

AND THEN THE BUS APPLAUDED.

I was not part of the applause.

Mr Driver went on to tell two more jokes about our hero (?), good ole Irish Murphy! I did not listen to them as I was still trying to understand the applause of the first one. The second jokes was something about Murphy was carrying a fish under his arm and then something something something and then he said “There’s a train coming!”. And the third one was Murphy something something something I can’t remember something about his wife? I don’t know. But that bus filled with the Glaswegian women loved it. They really did.

The Camels

There isn’t too much of a story to this one, but when I was on the second bus from Glasgow to Cairnryan, at one point I saw two camels standing in a field. I felt bad too, since they looked sad and it was frosty outside and they really should be in the desert instead of in Girvan. Which is where these camels had found their lives to lead them. To a field in Girvan. Poor camels.

After Earth

On the boat, they usually show films in this little cinema part they have. Before I have watched half of The Pirates! Band of Misfits and half of Men in Black 3. Today, I decided I’d actually watch the whole film. I like films! I’m doing an entire degree in films! Even in the English part, I have to study Pirates of the Caribbean! (And yes, I am aware of the extreme slacker-ness of this degree. What’s that? You study medicine? Have fun saving lives! You study business? Why, hello Mr CEO! You study law? Then order in the court, big shot! Oh, you study… film and media? Really? Are you gonna be a director or something? You’re not? Oh. Okay then. I see how it is. Have fun working in Pizza Hut for the rest of your life.)

The film they were showing today was the modern classic After Earth starring Will and Jaden Smith, directed by M. Night Shyamalan, who is the Kubrick of our time, if Kubrick made disappointing, weird and boring films. Which he might have, depending on who you speak to. On the boat going the other way, they were showing Pacific Rim, which is a film I actually do want to see, but nope, not today! Today I’m going to watch father-son angst amid such wooden acting that I was wondering if the forest could get an acting credit. (HEYOO. There’s my film and media degree right there.) The plot of After Earth is that once upon a time a series of news footage of fires and floods happened and everyone had to abandon Earth and live on a far away land of green screen lives the human race and they have to fight aliens who can smell fear, even though those aliens were actually on that planet first and I don’t get why they couldn’t have just been like “That’s cool guys, we’ll go somewhere else. There’s literally an entire universe out there.”, but I guess it’s a metaphor for colonisation and destruction of culture, but I don’t know why I’m focusing on that, since that part of the plot line took up five minutes of screen time. Will Smith can’t feel fear, which causes him to look frustrated and completive at the same time in poses of angry thinking when action was happening. Will and Jaden crash on a planet that’s dangerous and oh wait it’s earth. And Jaden has to go out and get something and he’s scared and Will has to guide him because he broke his legs and stuff and then I got really bored and left and went on my laptop since there was free wifi. So that was my experience with After Earth.

Extra: The Wall of my Room

So I came home to find that my room has now decreased in size by 4 inches since they (and by ‘they’ I mean the upper powers. The powers that be.) moved my wall in about 4 inches. I don’t know why. I’m sure I’ll be told at some point. Oh well.

And now I am home and I’ll be here for two days before leaving again and doing the whole journey again. Why did I go on such a long journey to be home for such a short period of time? Because I wanted to. And also Doctor Who Special is on, and I’m watching that with my dad. And also an early Thanksgiving dinner is being had. And also I wanted to see my cat. I think it was probably mainly to do with my cat.

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(I know there isn’t photos and stuff to go with this, but I’m writing this at 1.50am and I can’t be bothered to start putting together pictures. Just make up the images in your mind! You can do it! I believe in you!

Tales of Horror: University Edition

Ahoy there! ‘Tis I, Kat McLightning. What have I been doing recently, you wonder? Well, my companions in this vast and little world of ours, I’ve been doing my thing, going about the place, having fun. You know, the usual. There are things I am allowed to talk about that I’ve done, such as that time I came in first place in a drinking contest, where the chosen beverage was pomegranate green tea and the contest was for the person to drink the tea in a dignified manner, while having a pleasant conversation with a stranger and I was the only person entered in the competition, but it was still nice to win. I won lots of secrets. Lots and lots of secrets. There are also the other things that I’ve done that I’m not allowed to talk about. Terrible, beautiful things.

Also, I’ve returned back to university, to learn about the real world by avoiding it and living in my little shack up in the hills with my many cats and my buzzard, whom I like to call Li’l Pookie. Li’l Pookie and myself have some grand adventures, such as that time we bought a yoghurt machine and that other time we had to avenge his father’s death. Oh, Li’l Pookie. What would the world be like without you?

When I’m not living the life up in the hills, I occasionally descend down to the university and grace them all with my presence. I have found several horrifying things that occur in the world of the university, which I shall list a few here in:

Kat McLightning’s Tales of Horror: University Edition 

(I know that I could easily go for “Ohh STI’s and drinking!” but I’m not, because that’s boring. These are true horrors that I’ve personally experienced.)

 

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Fresher’s Flu

What happens when you take several thousand 17-22 year olds and shove them in one place, making them live in tiny rooms where they have to fend for themselves with their knowledge of being able to put rice in a microwave? And then what happens when you throw parties for them such as ‘FRESHERS FOAM PARTY’, where you take lots of these people, put them in a room and douse them in off-brand Fairy Liquid from a foam cannon that, if swabbed and a bacteria sample was grown in a petri dish, would give any scientist a lot to work with? Then add the fact that these people probably haven’t been around too many people for the two months previous to this, except for that one person who went to Italy for the summer and brought back a sickness that will spread across the campus like a rumor in an all girls school? Do you know what happens? THEY GET SICK. EVERYONE GETS SICK. Including your own Kat McLightning, who is not impervious to the diseased students of the university, even though she tries her best to avoid all contact with them in her lair in the hills. When you notice it, you then can’t but help notice it everywhere: the coughing, the sniffling, the low murmur of complaining about how much cheap cold and flu medicine they’ve taken. Maybe in a few weeks time, the entire university population will have contracted it, either turning everyone into pseudo-zombies, or you know, causing everyone to be a bit sick and then get over it.

 

The pretentious crowd

The Pretentious Crowd

You see them, hiding away in coffee shops and in the corner of a philosophy lecture. They are in the pub, drinking wine, waiting for the quiz to start, but they aren’t going to play. They’re only going to loudly answer the questions and scoff at the categories chosen (“Sports? Really? Try something more original, please.”) They’re not hipsters, exactly, but they read a lot of Kerouac and Kafka at one point and now won’t shut-up about it. They took one semester of politics, causing them to believe that they are now able to sit up late at night and discuss the political state of Finland. Most of them took gap years, but gap years to places like South-East Asia and Guatemala. You hear them utter phrases like “Oh, I just popped over to Hong Kong while my Visa was getting sorted.” and “I had a completely out-of-body experience when I was backpacking across the Australian outback and I met a camper van of these hippies and we just, aw man, we just, like, smoked and danced and it was insane, you don’t even know.”.

They think they know everything and want nothing more than to prove this. They look down on you when you say you like the watching Catfish:The TV Show (even though it’s amazing) and they roll their eyes when you say you quite enjoy The Big Bang Theory. They study Film or Global Cinema and compare every assigned movie to Goodfellas or describe it was being “The Peruvian Reservoir Dogs.” They live for the day when they meet someone who hasn’t watched Breathless. Their knowledge of music makes your knowledge feel very inferior, as they do not use Spotify, they do not use iTunes, they don’t even use Soundcloud. They only listen to very specific sub-sub-genres that they recorded on their iPhone from a cassette tape.

The worst thing is, is that you’ll get to know one of them in a different setting and find they aren’t that bad. Hey, they do have a good knowledge of films and maybe that song they recommended isn’t so bad. Actually, it’s kind of good. And that’s when you realise: You dislike them because you are them. You can be just a pretentious about Michel Gondry’s early work as any one of them. But they still are super annoying.

 

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The Email Subscriber

We’ve all been there. You are just walking in the street and get stopped to hear about sad puppies and orphans. You’re at a convention or festival and you pause to look at a stall about a new water filter system that will save a hundred million lives. You’re entering a competition to win a year’s supply of porridge in what could be one of the most depressing prizes (actually, the most depressing prize is probably Diphtheria or an existential crisis). And every time, what do they want? Approval? Yes, I suppose. And your email address. That too.

At University, the equivalent of this is the Clubs and Societies Fair, where all of the clubs and societies try their hardest to convince students to spend their Wednesday night not alone watching Netflix (which I consider to be a very nice Wednesday night) but with them and others, celebrating their common interest. Now there are some societies that I approve of, like The Official Kat McLightning Fan Club, which I may or may not be the president, vice-president and secretary of, but there are some societies and clubs out there that I, for some reason, signed up for the emailing list and now completely regret doing so. This may or may not include one certain society that I subscribed to the emailing list for, went to one meeting because the other thing I wanted to go to wasn’t on, and ended up listening to someone who may or may not have been a 9/11 conspiracy theorist, giving a presentation on his 9/11 conspiracy theories. I did not go back. But oh boy, I’m still on the emailing list! Though through the newsletters they send out I was able to hear about a very patronising trip to Belfast to see how war-torn the city is and talk about how sad the political state of the country is in, all while still referring to it being in Ireland.

I signed up to these email lists in my first year, but this year during the clubs and societies fair, I was considering going back to these clubs and asking for my email to be taken off, but I didn’t because I don’t know if they actually would and I thought it would be quite rude. Instead, I’ll stay on the email list and just complain about it here. That’s fair, I think.

 

And so, I’ll return to my hillside lair with the cats and Li’l Pookie and look down upon the university and its students both literally and figuratively. I’ll spend my nights eating potatoes and sewing little puppet versions of people I know, to trick them into thinking that I’m into Voodoo now, but I’m not. I’m doing it to act out conversations I want to have with people. It’s very cathartic, really. And creepy. Very creepy.

 

-Kat McLightning

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And hey, this is my first new proper post on this new blog. It’s basically the same as the tumblr, but I’ll be putting more things on here and I’ve got a bit more freedom to do even more awesome stuff.

 

Also, did you know I have a radio show? You didn’t?! Then listen to it! You did?! Then listen to it! It’s on Friday mornings from 9-11am (or thereabouts.) GMT. You can listen to it on www.air3radio.com. You can also listen to the previous episode on http://www.air3radio.com/3od/183-3od-friday.html. It’s called Kat McLightning’s Show of Wonder and I’ll think you’ll like it. It’s this blog, but on the radio.

The Wonderful World of Kat McLightning

Welcome! Hello! How are you? Thank you ever so much for visiting me in this vast, dark place that is the internet.

My name is Kat McLightning. And I have a lot of adventures. And I like to document them. Previously I had been documenting them on http://katmclightning.tumblr.com/, but I’ve decided to document them here too.

In addition to writing about my marvellous adventures, I will also write about some things I like and that I think you might like too. And who knows what else? All I know is that I’ll be writing about my favourite topic: myself.

So we’ll just find out how this all goes together. I hope you enjoy this. I hope I can make you laugh, or at least exhale air through your nose a little faster than normal, while reading this blog.

Things are about to get insane.

McLightning is about to strike.

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-Kat McLightning

Homes Under the Hammer – A Kat McLightning Review

Yesterday for the first time in my life, I watched the daytime program of choice for parents of sick children who don’t want to watch another episode of Phineas and Ferb, night-shift workers who want something on in the background as they reevaluate their life choices and retired solicitors who sit, smoking pipes, drinking whisky and laughing at the plight of poor people: Homes Under the Hammer. My previous knowledge of Homes Under the Hammer is that it’s a TV show that isn’t LocationLocationLocation, A Place in the Sun – Home or Away, or Grand Designs as those others all run on a much larger budget and have hosts like Kirsty Allsop, judging the poor soul who actually doesn’t want to spend £450,000 on a two bedroom flat with wonderful views of the back of an M&S in Surrey. And goodness help them if they dare to say that they’d be happy with a new kitchen from Ikea. No, Homes Under the Hammer is the one on before Bargain Hunt.

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Since I only watched half an episode of it, I have been able to gather a clear and coherent idea of the entire layout of the program. It begins with opening titles that haven’t been updated since 2000, giving the program an unintended nostalgic feel for a time that no-one should be nostalgic for. What do you miss about 2000? The hopefulness that existed in the hearts of those who miraculously survived Y2K? The gelled hair of every boy and girl, the sound of S Club 7, who were still in the throws of S Club 7 Miami? Or L.A.? Or Bristol? (I’m sure they had a show in one of these places in 2000.)

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The Homes that are Under the eponymous Hammer are former crack dens located in the backend of some city who’s last B&M Bargain closed down last year causing their High Street to be a wasteland filled with the empty shells of cafes and New Looks. The host of the show attempts to sell the the sad, sad houses which look like they have recently been hit by a tornado of depression and cigarette butts. We’re not buying it, buddy. Both literally and figuratively, buddy.

He steps over the stained turned-over chair into the kitchen that resembles the kitchens of Chernobyl, as if something terrible happened here a long time ago and now nature has been trying to reclaim it. Also, no-one should be really living there in the next 20,000 years until the radiation, from what should have been a space heater, breaks down.“It has a lot of potential.” The host tells us, knowing in his own heart that he could have been hosting The Chase on ITV if he hadn’t slept in on the morning of the audition.

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“I’ve been told that the previous owners had been accustomed to lighting fires in the the bins, but the smoke stains really give character to the house, don’t you think?” he says, as The Prodigy’s ‘Fire Starter’ begins to play. This brings us to one of the strangest aspects of the show. I don’t know who chooses the music, but they do a great job at it. And by great, I mean I have no idea why they do it this way, but behind it there is someone who is very, very pleased with his or herself. After the cast and crew have been checked by a medical professional for any lung damage from the still-smoldering smoke stains located above the futon and everyone has signed the appropriate BBC mandated waivers, the show’s music person listens to everything that has been said and then finds the appropriate music for the topic of conversation. For example, the host will be talking to the person who, for whatever reason actually bought the house in the auction (Oh! That’s the point of the hammer! They go up for auction! Also they have to be renovated, so they literally go under the hammer! I get it! WORD PLAY POINTS FOR YOU, BBC.) and the person might mention that they own a bird, so Nelly Furtado’s ‘Like a Bird’ might play. Or they might say that they are recently divorced and are looking for a new home to call their own as they are entering the new phase of their life and ‘All By Myself’ will play. In the episode I watched yesterday, the only toilet in the four-bedroom hellhole was located on a balcony, so ‘No Where to Go’ played. Do you get it? DO YOU? There is no where to go. And when they say ‘to go’, they mean poop. They have to poop on a balcony. Someone in the tiny editing room of the BBC is extremely pleased with his or herself right now.

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While the aforementioned four bedroom hell – wait, I’m sorry, heckhole was up for auction, it showed a small woman, dressed in pink, bidding for it. In a completely not thrilling sequence of the not-at-all fierce bidding war, it went up to £108,000 (really?), the woman stopped bidding and that was that. But wait – that was not, in fact, that. Now we are introduced to the character of Mary. Mary, being the sneaky little thing she is, went to the auctioneer after the auction and got the house. Mary knew what she wanted, and she got it. Good for you, Mary.

Now we cut to Mary with her husband (whose name I have forgotten, but I’ll call him Roy). They are standing in the dingy heckhole that still has a balcony toilet, being interviewed by the female host of the show. I don’t know her name, but in my head, every female host of every property show is called Kirsty. Roy explains that on the day he was unable to attend the auction, so he allowed Mary to go herself. “Don’t be thinking with your lady brain, Mary. You’re going to be spending a lot of money, do you think you can do that?” He told her before he went off to Essex to find a rare model train that will bring him nearer to completing his collection, that is, if the seller he talked to on the internet keeps his word. “I let Mary go by herself to buy the house.” Roy tells Kirsty.

“YOU LET THIS WOMAN GO BY HERSELF? HOW WERE YOU ABLE TO DO THAT, MARY? HOW COULD YOU BUY A HOUSE WITHOUT YOUR HUSBAND THERE, MARY? THAT’S SO MUCH MONEY, MARY, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?” Kirsty shouts in astonishment to Mary. Now, Mary, stand up for yourself. Flick that bowl cut and say that you didn’t need a man to help you by a house. You can do it, Mary. “Oh, well, I found it difficult to keep up with it all, but I just pretended to look like I knew what I was doing, but I really didn’t. I kept scribbling notes, but I really wasn’t writing anything.” Mary says, not really doing anything to help the situation.“BUT YOU DID IT, MARY!” Kirsty shouts, as women everywhere celebrate Mary who proved that she was able to be in charge of a large amount of money that her husband entrusted to her, without spending it all on dresses and Crabtree & Evelyn soap. Granted, Mary used the same tactic that I personally use every time I’m in a lecture.

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After this, I didn’t watch the end of the program, mainly because it had been paused for a while and then the channel was accidentally changed and we were unable to rewind it, so now Bargain Hunt was on, and we were watching a father-son team buy a figurine of a turtle from 1981 for £67, unknowing that it will sell for -£15 (as in, it is so unwanted that someone gave money to the auctioneer to destroy it. Also, I would love to see an episode of Bargain Hunt where they buy something that is actually haunted and they spend the rest of the show trying to find a priest to exorcise the 1965 green lamp that is beginning to open a hole to the underworld, letting the dark souls flood into the car boot sale where it is taking place, in some sort of Bargain Hunt/Ghost Hunters crossover. Get on it, BBC.)

Anyway, I think I’ll probably watch more Homes Under the Hammer if I find myself at home at that time of day and am unable to reach the remote because I hurt my arms the previous night, fighting people in the dark streets because someone had the audacity to disrespect me and the community of Northern Irish/Texans.

-Kat McLightning

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[I watched episode 54 from series 16. I know that I could have watched it in full on BBC iPlayer, but I didn’t want to taint my memory of the show. Also, she apparently isn’t called Kirsty, she’s Lucy. But she is such a Kirsty, let’s be honest.]

Originally pubslihed on http://katmclightning.tumblr.com/