A few years ago I formed what I thought was a friendship. This individual for the purpose of this blog (although I’m sure she will appear again) shall be called Layla. Layla and I met at Freshers Week in my first week of uni. Like everyone else new to the whole university experience I was wandering around the Freshers exhibits avoiding joining this club and that union, uncertain of how I would fit into the whole uni scene. Would I be an anomaly in the navel gazing indie world of higher education or crushed in the stampede of ultra trendy creative types desperate to bag a glamour job on a trendy gossip mag? Then up popped Layla. She introduced herself amongst her barrage of chitter chatter interrogating a small group of us who were sat confused and sorting through reams of promotional flyers. After clearing my head of all her banter I thought 'she's alright'; cool, a fun loving girl up for a laugh and a few nights on the town in between essays.
As days rolled into weeks introductory lectures, booklists and academic bewilderment passed; my surroundings became more familiar and there was my new ‘friend’ beside me as we searched in the library for core texts and photocopied huge chunks of reference books. To stave off the monotony we would chat about Rn’b, laugh at the most un PC jokes and compare our very similar cultural references. But there was always this thing about Layla that put me on my back foot (not a common occurrence I might add). She had this unsettling habit of declaring her ‘hotness’. In any regular old conversation it would just pop out ‘I just look soooo goooood. I’m hot’. At first I thought she was joking and then I realised by the frequency of her declarations and the conviction behind it that she was serious. Now I am not one to take away another’s shine (Ok that’s a lie yes I am on occasion, but not the point here) I just couldn’t see what she had to brag about. A mutual friend of ours actually went so far as to draw a resemblance between Layla and Benny Hill. Yes that Benny Hill! The comedian who slapped the head of the bald old man and chased the bikini clad women. And there is some truth in that likeness. I don't want to seem harsh, I mean wasn’t a total troglodyte but nor was she Helen of Troy, far from it. Yet she had this constant need to proclaim to everyone in earshot her undeniable self perceived hotness. By her account you would have thought that battles had been fought for the sheer right to be in regional proximity to her hotness let alone get close enough to actually bask in its warmth. Unfortunately apart from her word of mouth there was no other measuring tool of her 'temperature'.
On close inspection Layla was in fact somewhat oval shaped, stooped, had a crooked mouth and a bulbous nose. You may think that a cruel conclusion but I never would have come to it had I not been forced to look long and hard at her following her numerous ‘hotness’ declarations. Nor would I have such an unkind opinion had I not got the distinct feeling that many of her declarations were a coded stab at me her ‘friend’. In her exaltations of her ‘hotness’ there was a definite attempt to deny my ‘hotness’. After all she never said ‘we’re looking so hot’ or ‘you look nice’ if we were glammed up to go out. No what she was saying was ‘I’m hot and you’re not’. In fact she was hardly ever complimentary of any other women and never so confident in her own ‘hotness’ to declare any other women even slightly attractive. Any woman who expressed via their attire explicit sexuality, a shorter skirt or with a tad too much cleavage (for her liking) on show, was automatically deemed a tart, slut or whore. In fact this labelling was even thrown at me when one night flirtatiously balancing on my heels whilst stepping on to the escalators at Leicester Square tube station I was asked ‘why are you walking like a slut? Now either my skirt was a little too tight and my heels a bit too high or that night I was just too hot for Layla to handle?
It would be true to say Layla was a confused young woman. Despite declaring her irresistible allure it was never evidenced by any responses from suitors she set her sights on. In fact she had this really bizarre habit of chasing men that contradicted her whole hotness theory. Now by chasing I don’t mean she was overt in showing her interest in men who caught her eye. I mean she literally stalked them around venues; ran them down in workplaces, cornered them in carparks and tracked their exact co-ordinates in London to the second. She travelled by road, rail or on foot if necessary. Like an Exocet missile she locked on to her target and no matter how hard they tried to escape wherever they went she went, whether they required her company or not. On one very remarkable occasion (which I can laugh at now) I was left standing on my own in the middle of a club while she tailed her prey. There was no ‘Girlfriend Code’ in operation that night. Leaving your friend alone while you follow a man around a club was acceptable behaviour in her strategy to promote her ‘hotness’. It’s a good job I like my own company and can dance to cheesy pop hits with the best of ‘em because for the sake of trying to ensnare this dude I was abandoned for the whole damn night.
The night had began with a few unplanned drinks in a bar where a quite gorgeous young man, who we had met a couple of times before, casually invited us to join him and a couple of his friends who were moving on to a club nearby. He had shown no particular interest in Layla whatsoever but she and her antenna had obviously picked up the wrong signal. Being in heat can do that to you. Once we entered the club Mr. Hotstuff decided to go on a walkabout with his boys. Layla didn’t get that memo and proceeded to hunt him down in the club when his return was not forthcoming. I’m surprised she wasn’t dizzy by the end of the night because around and around she walked, up and down stairs, to the bar, to the toilet, to the DJ. She must have circled me at least 3 times. I'm certain remembers that club as a velodrome. On one occasion I had to helpfully point her in direction of her intended after he had taken pity on me standing on my own like Betty No Mates and stopped to check if I was alright. Imagine her utter shock and slight dismay when on her fourth circuit she saw me and the object her obsession face to face and engrossed in conversation. In this instance a picture really was worth a thousand words. Her face, upon discovering him standing talking to ME, said it all. I know exactly what she was thinking 'why in the hell is he talking to her and not me, I'm hot'. Moreover she was puzzled as to how my coolness managed to usurp her hotness.
As days rolled into weeks introductory lectures, booklists and academic bewilderment passed; my surroundings became more familiar and there was my new ‘friend’ beside me as we searched in the library for core texts and photocopied huge chunks of reference books. To stave off the monotony we would chat about Rn’b, laugh at the most un PC jokes and compare our very similar cultural references. But there was always this thing about Layla that put me on my back foot (not a common occurrence I might add). She had this unsettling habit of declaring her ‘hotness’. In any regular old conversation it would just pop out ‘I just look soooo goooood. I’m hot’. At first I thought she was joking and then I realised by the frequency of her declarations and the conviction behind it that she was serious. Now I am not one to take away another’s shine (Ok that’s a lie yes I am on occasion, but not the point here) I just couldn’t see what she had to brag about. A mutual friend of ours actually went so far as to draw a resemblance between Layla and Benny Hill. Yes that Benny Hill! The comedian who slapped the head of the bald old man and chased the bikini clad women. And there is some truth in that likeness. I don't want to seem harsh, I mean wasn’t a total troglodyte but nor was she Helen of Troy, far from it. Yet she had this constant need to proclaim to everyone in earshot her undeniable self perceived hotness. By her account you would have thought that battles had been fought for the sheer right to be in regional proximity to her hotness let alone get close enough to actually bask in its warmth. Unfortunately apart from her word of mouth there was no other measuring tool of her 'temperature'.
On close inspection Layla was in fact somewhat oval shaped, stooped, had a crooked mouth and a bulbous nose. You may think that a cruel conclusion but I never would have come to it had I not been forced to look long and hard at her following her numerous ‘hotness’ declarations. Nor would I have such an unkind opinion had I not got the distinct feeling that many of her declarations were a coded stab at me her ‘friend’. In her exaltations of her ‘hotness’ there was a definite attempt to deny my ‘hotness’. After all she never said ‘we’re looking so hot’ or ‘you look nice’ if we were glammed up to go out. No what she was saying was ‘I’m hot and you’re not’. In fact she was hardly ever complimentary of any other women and never so confident in her own ‘hotness’ to declare any other women even slightly attractive. Any woman who expressed via their attire explicit sexuality, a shorter skirt or with a tad too much cleavage (for her liking) on show, was automatically deemed a tart, slut or whore. In fact this labelling was even thrown at me when one night flirtatiously balancing on my heels whilst stepping on to the escalators at Leicester Square tube station I was asked ‘why are you walking like a slut? Now either my skirt was a little too tight and my heels a bit too high or that night I was just too hot for Layla to handle?
It would be true to say Layla was a confused young woman. Despite declaring her irresistible allure it was never evidenced by any responses from suitors she set her sights on. In fact she had this really bizarre habit of chasing men that contradicted her whole hotness theory. Now by chasing I don’t mean she was overt in showing her interest in men who caught her eye. I mean she literally stalked them around venues; ran them down in workplaces, cornered them in carparks and tracked their exact co-ordinates in London to the second. She travelled by road, rail or on foot if necessary. Like an Exocet missile she locked on to her target and no matter how hard they tried to escape wherever they went she went, whether they required her company or not. On one very remarkable occasion (which I can laugh at now) I was left standing on my own in the middle of a club while she tailed her prey. There was no ‘Girlfriend Code’ in operation that night. Leaving your friend alone while you follow a man around a club was acceptable behaviour in her strategy to promote her ‘hotness’. It’s a good job I like my own company and can dance to cheesy pop hits with the best of ‘em because for the sake of trying to ensnare this dude I was abandoned for the whole damn night.
The night had began with a few unplanned drinks in a bar where a quite gorgeous young man, who we had met a couple of times before, casually invited us to join him and a couple of his friends who were moving on to a club nearby. He had shown no particular interest in Layla whatsoever but she and her antenna had obviously picked up the wrong signal. Being in heat can do that to you. Once we entered the club Mr. Hotstuff decided to go on a walkabout with his boys. Layla didn’t get that memo and proceeded to hunt him down in the club when his return was not forthcoming. I’m surprised she wasn’t dizzy by the end of the night because around and around she walked, up and down stairs, to the bar, to the toilet, to the DJ. She must have circled me at least 3 times. I'm certain remembers that club as a velodrome. On one occasion I had to helpfully point her in direction of her intended after he had taken pity on me standing on my own like Betty No Mates and stopped to check if I was alright. Imagine her utter shock and slight dismay when on her fourth circuit she saw me and the object her obsession face to face and engrossed in conversation. In this instance a picture really was worth a thousand words. Her face, upon discovering him standing talking to ME, said it all. I know exactly what she was thinking 'why in the hell is he talking to her and not me, I'm hot'. Moreover she was puzzled as to how my coolness managed to usurp her hotness.
In my limited conversation with Mr. Hotstuff (as much as you can have in a loud club) he did include a brief enquiry as to where my friend had disappeared to. He found it a bit strange that she had left me to go walkabout on her own for so long. I wasn’t vindictive enough to tell him the real reason but knowing what I do now I probably should have done. Suffice to say that in my presence none of her similar attempts were successful enough to justify her high opinion of herself. While she touted her mega watt heat the men she turned her spotlight on never seemed quite as hot on her as she was on herself. The perils of overenthusiastic self promotion.
Upon re-evaluation I realise that Layla was in fact a life lesson. Self deluded she may have been, true friend she was not, a ‘how not to guide’ she definately was. We should be all take a bit of Layla and be aware of and comfortable with how ‘hot’ we are despite the prevailing norms of beauty, bodies and desire. It should never be at the expense of others. If you’re hot, you’re hot. No challenges, no need to preach to the converted or to degrade other people. If your belief is firm you should be unshakable from your perch up there above us mere lukewarm mortals. Her example also taught me that beauty really is in the eyes of the beholder. In reality my evaluation of her looks was probably more about her attitude than her physical appearance, after all her many hook ups are obviously swayed by the promotional junket and find her package attractive even if just for a short time.
I have always believed rightly or wrongly that self praise is no recommendation and Layla was an embodiment of this. By my very nature I am not one to blow my own trumpet, it takes far too much energy for those of us to whom this type of self aggrandisement comes unnaturally. When I have been forced to saunter down the self promotion highway in any arena it has at once felt uncomfortable and exhilarating. I mean you just put yourself out there for face to face rejection. It’s not as if it is someone or something else you’re selling; you are the ‘product’ for want of a better word. There is no boost like it when you get someone to ‘purchase’ your wares it is the external self valuation that you shouldn’t need but it helps the super ego, ego and the id anyway. Nevertheless I am self aware enough to know that my discomfort in self promoting comes from a fear of rejection and is probably one of my biggest hindrances. After all if you don’t believe in yourself who else will. But there is a limit, a point at which you are trying to convince yourself rather than inform other people of your merits. Done the in the ‘right’ way promoting a positive view of yourself is one of the most useful and underestimated art forms in the modern world. Like most other forms of art it is one I wish I excelled in. For now I have to satisfy myself with the knowledge that should I wholly and solely commit myself to the task I could do it and would (I hope) have some real attributes to promote rather just repeatedly telling everyone in earshot ‘I’m soooooo Hot!’.
No friends were harmed during the writing of this blog and despite my Icarus like voyage, flying way too close to a supreme source of extreme 'hotness,' I still have my wings.
