Photo by Alexander Popov on Unsplash

I recently found myself sat alone on a train platform late at night. It was dark except for the dim, flickering floodlights and the neon backlighting of the empty vending machines. At this time the place was unstaffed. It didn’t resemble my usual experiences of a train station; there was no one around: a desolate wasteland taken by lockdown.

A man sat on the platform opposite me wearing a navy puffer jacket and a red and white bobble hat. He had on stark white trainers but I couldn’t tell the brand or particular style from so far away. The black…


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I’m writing this on the eve of my 28th birthday. A lot has happened since a higher being pulled the trigger on the starting pistol and launched my last lap around the sun. I spent the 2 February last year in bed, eyes sore and breath tight from tears. I was sad and I was exhausted. In the evening I ordered-in Wagamamas and they forgot to pack my bao buns. I cried some more.

This year it’s looking a little different — there may be tears, but they’ll come from a different place, an unusual type of exhaustion that has…


Photo by Robert Thiemann on Unsplash

My generation didn’t grow up with the significance of the Disney ideal of ‘Happily Ever After’, we were already war-torn and bitter. Our mothers wouldn’t buy us the licensed Toy Story Woody dolls that we wanted and we were only allowed Billy Bear ham — processed and the colour of bloated ankles — once a month as a treat. It was before social media cut a key and let itself into our bedrooms, when polyphonic ringtones were the height of sophistication. When the Crazy Frog was the gold standard for comedy.

I was melancholic and weighed down by the angst…


Photo by Siora Photography on Unsplash

Over the last few weeks, I have received a number of message requests from new followers on Instagram. All female, all with faces filtered to the point of absurdity. The mere hint of a pore blurred from their skin, their lips over-lined and their bodies contorted to highlight protruding hip bones or more pronounced cleavage. I’m unconvinced that the majority of these accounts are real — the duplicated copy and near-identical imagery screams ‘BOTS!’. But if this is the case, why are they all reaching out to me? What is it about my profile — the pictures of my cat…


Photo by Tamara Gore on Unsplash

When I was at university, I drunkenly told a new acquaintance that I could recite the script for When Harry Met Sally from beginning to end and was faced with a completely blank expression. We had been talking about our favourite films all night and in amongst a scattering of Kubrick and Tarantino blockbusters, I had released my love of Nora Ephron. She looked down at her shoes and then replied ‘Oh, yeah. You’ve Got Mail is my guilty pleasure’. One final tumbleweed rolled between us and then she walked away. I hardly spoke to her again.

I’m not blaming…


Photo by Ryan Quintal on Unsplash

Last year was not my year. Last year was a year of tears and frustration and torment. Sometimes it felt like I’d really pissed the universe off and it was out to get me by any means necessary. A lot of people I love also fell victim to 2019, so why did I feel personally harassed?

I sought help from my best friends, my sister, my colleagues; I spoke to professionals; I popped diazepam and listened to The Smiths, but I was still unable to act like a ‘normal’ person. I’m ashamed to say that I spent the last half…


Photo by Umberto Cofini on Unsplash

When it comes to opinions, I have thousands of them. Without prompt, I can tell you matter-of-factly that George Harrison was — and still is — categorically the best, and most talented of The Beatles. I will spend hours outlining my reasons behind singling out Modern Love as the most important of David Bowie’s songs. You can fight me on that one. But then there’s the weird middle ground where you can’t completely rule out ideas as either facts or opinions, they just are. For example, Gary Barlow’s solo career was always out to fail, his heart and his hits…


Photo by Mohammad Metri on Unsplash

My friend has a theory that indie rock died sometime in early 2010. It was a quick death without drama — no tears, no black armbands. There wasn’t a sentimental memorial service and no mourners left Converse prints in the dirt at the graveside. It just fizzled out, leaving nothing but electronic covers of soft rock songs in its wake and the deep, semi-permanent red marks of too-tight skinny jeans around our hips.

Our collective consciousness recalls the golden age of punk with fondness even if we didn’t live through it. At fancy dress parties we cover our denim jackets…

Bex Addis

Music nerd. Feminist. Into Fleetwood Mac and cats in a very big way. I write love letters to pop culture.

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