Deadly Bird Flu: The Gosling Strain

"But I read driving gloves were due a comeback..."

Right, so I was meant to write a piece about Jon Stewart and 10 O’Clock Live, but I can’t. I can’t concentrate on such piffling things when I have much bigger things to worry about. Such as the fact I only discovered Ryan Gosling existed about two weeks ago.

Watching the movie Drive has ruined my life. I have turned into a Gosling addict. I play the soundtrack constantly. I wonder if I look enough like Carey Mulligan to be an alternative to her if I’m ever stuck in a lift looking moonily at my fellow traveller. I wonder what it’s like to be that toothpick. It’s turning my brain into a pile of goose droppings. GOSLING DROPPINGS.

And the really disturbing thing about this realisation is it’s not just me. I’ve done a straw poll of all the women I work with, and at the mere mention of the broody pashmagnet, eyes misted over, legs went wibbly and coherent speech from normally intelligent, strong women turned into a competition to shout how much they would rub their face against his (considerably toned) abdominal area. It’s like that movie Outbreak. But with less ebola monkeys and more lovesick swoon-brawds.

Here are The Things That Have Contributed to the Gosling Factor.

1. He plays quiet, damaged, romantic characters. I think we have all managed to completely move beyond the fourth wall now and assign these qualities to the bloke himself. Who knows if he’s just an amazing actor? What do you mean these are “roles”? What do you mean that’s not his real jacket? All these things are now irrelevant. We only see him as the characters in Drive, Blue Valentine, et al, where he loves that girl so much he embarks on a (delete as applicable) - violent/self destructive, crime spree/drinking spree, whilst fitting in a bit of kicking in crims faces/kicking in his wife’s boss’s face  -  ALL FOR THE LOVE OF A GOOD WOMAN.

2. He also plays cocky and arrogant very well. See Crazy Stupid Love. WHAT a movie. WHAT Vintage Gosling. But the Gosling factor in that film that really kicks is his womaniser's redemption – he realises that his gigolo-ing ways, whilst entertaining for him (and us) are leaving him empty. Then he meets “the one” (somewhat miscast in this film as an actress who is NOT ME) and changes his misogynistic ways: ALL FOR THE LOVE OF A GOOD WOMAN.

3. He rarely speaks about his relationships in public; the mention of anything to do with his personal life sees him verbally sprinting towards the door. This is why he doesn’t do US TV talk shows, or much press at all for that matter. The only TV appearance he’s really done recently was an episode of Ellen, where he bought the entire audience of the show onesies, then proceeding to complete the interview, onesied up,  riding an exercise bike (no, me neither). I posted this clip on Facebook yesterday and by the end of the day it had gone viral throughout my female friends. But I did find this one quote, about his previous relationship with Rachel McAdams, which I think is basically the only time he’s ever said much about his ladyfriends:

“I mean, God bless “The Notebook”, it introduced me to one of the great loves of my life. But, people do Rachel and me a disservice by assuming we were anything like the people in that movie. Rachel and my love story is a hell of a lot more romantic than that.”

There is nothing any of us can say at this point, mainly because any female within a fifty mile radius of someone hearing that has just fallen to the ground, twitching, not unlike that Radiohead filmclip. All the real Gosling wants is the love of a good woman, too. The sheer scale of this is too much for any of us to take.

The major problem with this sort of worldwide, complete fixation on the fact that the Gosling Is Everyone’s Number One is the Pied Piper effect. If this bloke turns out to actually be working for the Republican Party, or selling additive-ridden snacks guaranteeing obesity and type 2 diabetes in 4 easy steps to disabled children, there’s a reasonable chance that the women of the world – the sensible, emotionally grounded, brains of this whole operation – will turn a blind eye in case he lets us chew his toothpick. I mean, let’s face it, we all collectively sighed watching him snog the face off Carey Mulligan in the lift before stamping the jaw out of a bad guy’s face. With this kind of blinkered viewing, he could be drowning a puppy in one hand, and whilst using the other hand to cock his finger suggestively in a “come hither, my wench” manner and 80% of us wouldn’t see the puppy.

As a friend of mine said yesterday whilst discussing the Gosling appeal issue, “with great power comes great responsibility” so don’t let me down boyo – you keep making the good movies and supporting Darfur and we’re sweet. But you start showing any signs of affiliation with the Tea Party, and I’m sounding the klaxon on you; you delicious man-fox, you.

NB. If Mr Gosling would like to discuss this piece personally with me, I am available to fly out to the States at his convenience.

TRWBT Ad Break - The Rise of the Invisible Woman

So last night, it was a bit of a pain to get home. There was a match on at the stadium I live by, and the tube line I take was pretty busy as a result. I had to wait on the platform of Hyde Park Corner whilst a couple of packed trains went past, before one I could cram on arrived.

I had managed to position myself right at where I could see a door would be stationed, and as the train pulled up stepped forward to board. Then out of nowhere, I feel a shove from my right, and look round to see a tall, well-dressed girl literally push me to one side to get on the train ahead of me.

The carriage was not busy enough to warrant the usual rush hour every-man-for-themselves slalom run. This girl had, apparently, just decided that she was going to get on this train before me, and take that last seat, as if she was basically entitled to it.

Once she had sat down, I caught her do the one thing the sisterhood should be above by now: the look-you-up-and-down and eyebrow-raise-then-look-away. A more judgmental person would describe it as a sneer. I looked down at myself; I looked okay. I was just wearing an overcoat, jeans and a pair of trainers. My hair was a bit shit; it was flying everywhere because of the weather, and to be fair, I was attempting to restrain it with an elastic band I found on the floor. But there weren't holes in my top; I didn't have food down my front (a rarity).  What was wrong with this? But then I looked up and compared my outfit to hers, which was an expensive-looking, on-trend, tailored, Grazia-inspired type of affair and I got it. This lady thought I looked a bit crap.

I was furious. And I was furious not because this girl and pushed in front of me (quite literally), or taken the last seat; these things happen on the Underground every day. It’s a fact of life you get used to after about ten minutes of living in London that elbows and crafty positioning are the only way you’re getting to work if there are delays on the line. But there weren’t, and we were the only two people getting on this carriage. The reason that I was teetering on the edge of doing a Michael Douglas in Falling Down is that she had just cemented what I had suspected for the last few months; the rise of the Invisible Woman is on the incline, and that women are inflicting some of the worst damage on their counterparts.

Women, you will either know exactly what I’m talking about, or have no idea. You either are one, or you’re not. The Invisible Women are everywhere now; there have been a number of articles in the last year or so trying to pinpoint the exact age that "previously" vivacious, beautiful, and dare I say supple women become Invisible to the, ahem, more relevant members of society. On 11^th February last year, the Daily Mail decided it was 50. Less that six months later, the same publication revised their figure to 46. I don’t like these odds. As a 31 year old woman, I am being constantly reminded that my time as a useful, attractive member of society is not only waning, but rapidly being readjusted to ensure that by the time I’m 33 I resemble nothing more than a dried up old prune with a rug over her knees, barking at her houseful of cats. I'M FUCKING ALLERGIC TO CATS.

Or is it more of a size issue thing? I’m so bored of the size debate, basically because there IS no answer. It’s completely fucked up that women are told they have to be thin to count, but that’s the way society is now, and it’s not going to change. When I put on a lot of weight due to some medication I had to take – so I didn’t die – I remember very clearly running into someone who hadn’t seen me since I was a much thinner version of myself. Her first words? “Oh but it’s such a shame, after you lost all that weight.” The shame being that I had been put on a medication to stop me DYING FROM A WASTING DISEASE. Yeah. I often find that preventing death can be quite a disappointing outcome, especially if you gain a couple of dress sizes.

However glib as I might be about this, it hurt. Of course it hurt – no one is immune to the pressure of trying to obtain this perfect version of themselves. And we spend hours and days, buying the latest clothes, restocking the most effective spackle-filler for our wrinkes, sucking our stomachs in and punishing ourselves for breathing in case any additional calories are absorbed through the air, because we all think we need to be better. Because those around us all seem to be so well turned-out, or that bit thinner, or with that extra bit of whatever that turns heads, that we sit around making constant comparisons to things we can’t be. We can’t be them not because they’re better, but because they’re not us.

I used to be extremely concerned about my appearance. I would spend literally hours trying to pick out what to wear. But I don’t do that any more, really. I’m not sure why; I think it’s a variety of reasons. I need to be comfortable and warm; I don’t dig a lot of the fashion around; I hate shopping. They all contribute a little bit. And I’m completely fine with what I wear. I have my own, if slightly boring, style, and I’m really not bothered about looking a bit plainer, or less dressy, than those I work with. But when I experience a bit of the Invisible Woman treatment, as I did yesterday, it makes me really angry. And a bit sad. Ladies, really, I think we can do better, don’t you?

I ended up sat directly across from my self-appointed fashion assessor for the rest of the tube journey home. I also spent quite a lot of time trying to catch her eye – I really don’t know why, I don’t know what I expected – but she stared vacantly above my head for the whole of our trip. Realising I was probably not going to have a major confrontation on a tube full of Arsenal supporters about why she should read more Caitlin Moran, I got up to leave and quickly glanced at the two ladies sat either side of her as I walked past.

I don’t know how I had missed it – I expect I was too wrapped up in a little ball of self-righteous rage for the entire journey home – but all three of the women sat next to each other were wearing the same scarves. Two in the exact same colour, and all three in the identical pattern. As I fought my way off the train packed with sweaty, beery men I suddenly felt an awful lot better about my jeans and my trainers. I know I’d rather be comfy and plain rather than look the same as everyone else, especially if it means I can forsake heels. So thanks, pushy bird; you actually made me feel a bit less Invisible and a little more Relevant. But for Christ’s sake, learn some fucking manners.