Flowing bottles of champagne, disco tunes in a club, the kiss at midnight, mingling with relatives whilst nibbling on canapés, hearty renditions of Auld Lang Syne, wrapping-up warm to watch some fireworks, the 10-second countdown: we all have our conceptions of the new year.

It’s the chance to wrap up the festive season in style whilst marking the start of another calendar year, with celebrations talking place all over the world.

Personally I’ve never understood all the fuss. The idea of standing outside in the freezing cold to watch a mediocre fireworks display or cramming into a noisy, sweaty club with a bunch of strangers, shouting along to a glorified countdown to simply mark the start of another day baffles me.

Forcing myself to stay awake to watch the London’s New Year’s Eve fireworks on the TV has always felt rather anti-climactic and depressing. I usually end up staring at my Christmas tree, the harsh chimes of Big Ben reminding me that the cosy December celebrations will soon be a distant memory.

In fact, the words ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ make my skin crawl, eyes roll and heart palpitate simultaneously.

I don’t know how many people are able to greet the new year with such positivity. To me January signals the start of blisteringly freezing and miserable weather, endless reminders to be a ‘new you’ and the start of the monotonous work-life grind we feel obliged to commit to.

And if I see another fitness, gym or weight loss advert I am going to scream into the abyss.

That’s why, rather than marking ‘the new year’, I want to mark ‘a year’.

Rather than buying into the sickeningly manipulating mindset that I need to change just because the number one has been added onto 2024, I just want to carry on living, being proud of being able get through one day at a time.

So there will be no ‘new me’ and no resolutions.

Instead of cheering in 2025, you will find me finishing the pack of mince pies and the left over cheeseboard.

Happy New Year!

The post Happy (New) Year! first appeared on The Life of Riley.

The sound of your alarm awakens you from your slumber, jolting you back into a dreary reality. Today is the day you attend the wedding you’ve been invited to.

You don’t know exactly why you’ve been invited; you met the groom at a three-day conference trip at a dilapidated hotel in Brighton. He claims that you are one of his good friends but all you remember was getting a bit tipsy with him at the company’s cheese and wine night. He’s a bit unbearable if you’re honest but he insisted that you attend his special day.

You make the four hour drive up to the venue, crammed into a suffocating suit, with a gardenia placed in its lapel (an instruction from the bride herself), intended to symbolise the ever-blossoming love between the happy couple. You notice that it’s beginning to wilt.

Due to a pile up on the motorway, you barely make it to the ceremony in time and are forced to sit at the back of the chapel, already beginning to overheat in your suit due to the blaring sun. The choice of venue came as a bit of a surprise; you thought the groom was an atheist. It does look pretty though. The place is absolutely packed, with guests enthusiastically greeting each other with elaborately saccharine grins; thank goodness you don’t know any of them.

As the bride makes her way to the ceremony, you notice a gruff looking man swigging something from a hip flask. The mothers are wearing hats that look like nursery art projects on acid and are already crying into their handkerchiefs. The plethora of bridesmaids are all begrudgingly wearing matching summer dresses with bushy polyester tulle that looks like a kitschy reinvigoration of the 1980s (not in a good way). The groomsmen all decided to colour co-ordinate in lime green suits and sunglasses. They all smugly think they look effortlessly cool but instead look more like a low-rate version of the Blues Brothers.

The deafening chords of the ‘Bridal Chorus’ begin to play, making everyone rush to their seats. The bride enters, wearing what looks as though Vera Wang attempted to remake Princess Diana’s famous wedding dress. The page boy almost stumbles over the train. You hide a snigger; maybe there will be some amusement today after all.

During the service, the Vicar somehow manages to turn the couple’s first meeting along the hard shoulder of the M6 toll into a thirty-minute story about fate, the father of the bride reads the prologue of Romeo and Juliet and the hymn selection includes a choral rendition of Justin Bieber’s ‘Baby’ and Ellie Goulding’s ‘Love Me Like You Do’. The vows and gaudy rings are finally exchanged and the couple is showered with some kitschy cherub shaped confetti. You speed off to the reception, already dreading the social interaction you will have to partake in. Hopefully it will be bearable; the invite did state that it would be held at a highly reputable establishment.

One hour later, you are in the back room of a Brewer’s Fayre sitting next to Great Aunt Mildred, who is already beginning to get a bit frisky after consuming a few too many G&Ts. Meanwhile, Gary, who fixed the grouting in the happy couple’s bathroom at a discounted rate, is trying to talk to you about the poor plastering work on the ceiling. You consider necking back some of the champagne but then remember you have to drive.

You nibble away on questionable vegan cocktail sausages and mini quiches as the speeches are made. You force out some canned laughter as the best man tells a story about the groom stealing a mannequin from Primark after consuming 5 litres of WKD, painfully smile your way through the couple’s first dance to Ed Sheeran’s ‘Thinking Out Loud’ and wish you’d bought ear plugs when the Mamma Mia megamix begins to play and all of the guests suddenly believe they belong on the West End. After ‘Mr. Brightside’ almost makes you rip out your ears, you thank the newlyweds, begrudgingly accept a slice of stale looking wedding cake and make your way back home.

As you are stuck in another traffic jam, a torrential downpour of rain begins. Foreshadowing perhaps? One can only hope.

If the previous description didn’t make it clear, the idea of a wedding fills me with an existential level of dread and terror. It’s a whole day (or sometimes even multiple days) of enforced celebration where you have to listen to cringe-filled speeches, declarations of love, dance to unbearably loud music compiled by a self-professed ‘professional’ DJ and munch your way through a menu consisting of rubbery chicken wrapped in bacon and a lukewarm chocolate brownie. To make matters worse you have to do all of this whilst being surrounded by total strangers and family members you can’t stand, who get apoplectically drunk and inevitably stir up some deep-seated family drama that you somehow get roped into.

I just don’t get the appeal. Why make such a big deal about an event that causes so much stress and anxiety? Why spend such an eye watering fortune on a day that rather than making you believe in love, makes you wish that perhaps it never existed at all?

If I (ever) get married this is how the ceremony will pan out: sign the piece of paper at the registry office, eat the ham and cheese sandwiches, distribute the slices of Colin the Caterpillar and cups of tea (or coffee) and say goodbye. I wouldn’t ask for any gifts or charitable donations, the guests will already be going through enough.

Quite frankly, the only wedding I would ever enjoy attending is Alice and Hugo’s from The Vicar of Dibley. I mean, Teletubbies as bridesmaids? Yes, please!

So, given my pessimistic view towards the seeming romance of weddings, I was somewhat baffled and downright perplexed when I received an invite to a fake one. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Considering that my friends and I have just finished a theatre degree, we are in desperate need of some drama in our lives, and nothing is perhaps more elaborately theatrical and melodramatic than a staged wedding.

After sceptically accepting the invite, I was added to a What’s App group with all of the other guests where we were assigned a role for the day (ranging from the vicar to the weird uncle), all of which came with character descriptions and tasks that we had to try and do during the event. I had basically signed myself up to a big game of improv…OR a big improvised game of Cluedo (just without the murder mystery part).

And how did it pan out exactly? Allow me to set the scene…

Playing the role of the jaded and bitter ex I stood on a grassy knoll, moaning about the ineptitude of the groom and questioning why I had even been invited, as scorching rays of sunshine beamed down. Whilst waiting for the bride to arrive the guests made awkward small talk: the groomsmen nattered away about their stag-do in Bali, the mother of the groom boasted about the fortune she spent for the wedding festivities and Uncle Adam wandered around with a big stick whilst grating carrots and dipping them in hummus. The bridal party arrived fashionably (or rather far too) late, with the bride herself wearing a billowing floral dress, radiating a beauteous glow. As we took our seats, the sister of the bride made her detest for the groom visibly known, criticising him at every opportunity.

During the vows, the lovestruck couple, Nellanthea and Ethan, gushed about their powerful and long-lasting romance, which had begun only two days previously at a Sainsbury’s petrol pump. After singing ‘Lord of the Dance’, selected by Ben the DJ, the couple were pronounced husband and wife and were showered with bubbles (which I will now view as a superior alternative to confetti) and the ceremony, much to the relief of the Vicar, who spent most of the day looking as though they would rather be anywhere else, was over.

After begrudgingly taking pictures, we decided to convene at the pub for a few tipples. Everyone watched fixatedly as Uncle Adam and Aunty Morgana reunited for the first time after their divorce (The breakdown of their marriage began after the creation of a family tree on ancestry.co.uk led to the discovery that they were long lost cousins). After awkwardly slurping our drinks, it was time for the reception.

Decorated with a beautiful banner celebrating the newlyweds, the reception also featured a vast buffet featuring the finest selection of artisan meats, cheeses, breads and salads (hastily purchased by many guests from the Sainsbury’s Local).

As the lethal cocktails (made by an unqualified bartender) took effect and guests were stuffed to the brim with food, we all sat for the speeches. The maid of honour made it halfway through their speech before crying, the best man drunkenly admitted to sexual relations with the groom and the father of the bride launched a diatribe against their new son in law. The celebrations concluded with the cutting of the cake (which had slowly begun to collapse) and dancing to throwback pop hits and a game of Britain’s Got Talent. The reception proved to be a scandalous and salacious affair; akin to the elaborate drama of Bridgerton (just on a student budget).

After thanking the exhausted wedding planners, I slowly sauntered home, a huge grin on my face.

Now before you get ahead of yourself, don’t worry, I still shiver at the thought of a wedding.

But a fake wedding? Now that’s another matter entirely.

By attending a fake wedding, I was able play a game of a make believe, experience the love, dancing and drunkenness of a wedding without spending a penny, travelling a long distance or worrying about being thrust into any long-standing family drama. Rather than spending a day with unbearable strangers and relatives I was able to have a wonderfully beautiful day of chaos whilst being surrounded by the most fantastic group of people I know.

It made me think…

Instead of waiting for our big day to arrive, shelling out a monstrous sum of money for ugly gold leaf embossed invitations, a dreary reception and a stale fruit cake, instead of forcing yourself to benevolently smile at relatives you could feel close to throttling, why don’t we just have a wedding now? Bogged down within the monotonous rut of everyday life, we often don’t allow ourselves to have childish, mindless fun. So wouldn’t it be great if we all just played a big game of make-believe?

The possibilities are endless. What about staging a summer wedding, a Christmas wedding, the next royal wedding or even one themed around Star Wars! Just let your imagination run wild in any way that takes your fancy!

Of course, if the idea of a fake wedding doesn’t arouse any feelings of excitement, you could do something else entirely. From a fake conference, christening, trial, graduation or even your own funeral, the possibilities are endless. (Don’t ask why but I have written my own eulogy, which proved to be a truly rewarding and cathartic experience).

Instead of waiting for life to happen what if we make it happen? I think the world would be a much better place if we just had mindless fun and allowed ourselves to see the simple beauteous joys that can be found in the every day.

So, stage a wedding…what else have you got left to lose?

The post I Attended a Fake Wedding…Here’s Why You Should Too. first appeared on The Life of Riley.

Allow me to paint a picture of how this might play out…

Whilst sitting in the overcrowded, claustrophobic library, sat next to someone noisily munching on the remnants of leftover pizza, your phone buzzes angrily. It’s a message from your friends asking if you want to go to the local club (probably named something ludicrously onomatopoeic such as Fizz, Smash or Wangbazzle) for a night of non-stop partying. Excitedly agreeing, the decision is made to meet at eleven for pres (why we refer to pre-drinks as ‘pres’ I have no idea. Why can’t we just call them pre-drinks, or drinks?). Quickly pushing the threat of looming deadlines aside you make your way back home to pick out an outfit, run a hot shower, shave every surface and douse yourself in multiple fragrances intended to simultaneously evoke the smells of sandalwood, linen and freshly baked maple pecans. Four hours later, you grab a light jacket, check you have your ID and head out to meet your friends at the pub, consuming just enough alcohol so that your head is in a sane state of delirium, making you feel as though anything in the world is possible. After arriving at the club, queuing until your hands and toes are frostbitten, and getting checked by a gruff looking security guard, you finally enter the club. The rest of the night is a dizzyingly beautiful blur, full of dancing, selfies and shots that culminates in a trip to McDonalds where you order a twenty-piece Chicken McNugget Sharebox that you ravenously consume before stumbling into bed.

The next morning, after realising you have slept through your alarm, you jolt out of bed, hastily put on a slapdash outfit and sprint from your halls to your lecture whilst guzzling a Berroca and wolfing down some Belvita to try and nurse your throbbing headache. Making it in the nick of time, you sit in the lecture, trying to figure out what it is exactly that you are studying. As you try to partake in a debate about the existential threat of capitalist society, you receive a text from your friends saying that they can’t wait to do it all over again.

The non-stop life of university is seemingly filled with partying, late nights spent in the library whilst harbouring a caffeine addiction, eating batches of spag bol, stir fry dishes and pesto pasta out of your stained IKEA Tupperware and trying to meet an endless array of deadlines. It’s the place to create memories with your friends and develop a relationship with the person who may be the love of your life.

It sounds fun right?

Well…I couldn’t imagine anything worse. 

As I approach the end of my three years at university, I have no shame in saying that I have experienced the antithesis of the student lifestyle. Whilst others may love the wild experience of clubbing, I consider it to be a manifestation of the deepest pits of hell. In reality a ‘night out on the town’ results in you being up until the early hours of the morning and queuing in the freezing cold as a gruff bouncer aggressively pats you down. The supposedly ‘amazing’ club has a mind-numbingly sticky floor, pulsating lighting and a selection of music played so ear-splittingly loud that it feels as though your internal organs have been sucked out of your body. Throughout the night you have to listen to ‘Disco Dave’ attempting to hype up the crowd, feel gyrating bodies grind up against you, pay an extortionate amount of money for a lethal cocktail served in an oblong shaped glass, navigate your way around piles of sick only to undoubtedly end the night looking after your friend who never knows their limits and ends up crying over their ex. Quite frankly, I find the whole experience exhausting; I just don’t see the fun in all of it.

Granted, I have only had about two experiences of clubbing.

But trust me…it was two times too many.

As a result, at university I have adopted my what I call ‘granny persona’. When I adopt my ‘granny persona’, the idea of eating a microwave meal for one whilst watching re-runs on UK Gold or a YouTube deep dive about the Disney channel pop star pipeline is a great night that gets me titillated with excitement. Quite simply, the thought of a steaming cup of coffee and a huge slab of chocolate cake is a day well spent.

I know this may seem sad, but it’s managed to get me through the chaotically brilliant yet simultaneous nightmare that is university. Sometimes I think that we are all under the pressure to try and have perfect experiences in life, to follow the same paths that so many expect us to have. Yet I found that trying to go out clubbing and drinking filled me with a sheer sense of panic. Embracing my ‘granny persona’, has allowed me to look after myself more and do what’s right for me rather than forcing myself to knock back a mountain of Jägerbombs. Equally, I’m not implying that all students should suddenly reject the typical university lifestyle; its an important part of the student experience, a right of passage. In fact, sometimes my attitude has shut me out from meeting new people and experiencing new things, making me feel lonely and isolated. In hindsight I should have had a balance, switching between my granny persona and student lifestyle to reap the benefits of both.

So, why am I telling you all of this? Well, I think we should all embrace our ‘granny persona’ once in a while, recognising the simple pleasures of afternoon tea, being in bed by ten with a hot water bottle, a good cozy murder mystery and maybe even a nightcap to help us doze off. It’s certainly allowed me to find the beauty within the simplest moments of everyday life. I know I’m crazy, but give it a go…you never know what you might find.

The post University and my Granny Persona first appeared on The Life of Riley.

Welcome to the first in a series that I am calling ‘Hidden Gems’. In reading these articles I hope that I can draw your attention to pieces of entertainment that I think may have slipped under the radar or are worthy of more respect and adoration in the wider cultural sphere.

The focus of this hidden gem is the 1999 cult classic Drop Dead Gorgeous. Written by Lona Williams and directed by Micheal Patrick Jann the movie is a satirical black comedy mockumentary about the fictional ‘Sarah Rose Cosmetics American Teen Princess Beauty Pageant’ in Mount Rose, Minnesota as it celebrates its fiftieth anniversary. The ‘documentary’ follows the pageant process, its participants, and the townsfolk who have played a role in and helped run it over the years. The main focus of the film is pageant contestant Amber Atkins (Kristen Dunst), who works at the local crematorium applying makeup to the recently deceased and who spends her days dreaming of becoming a news reporter, just like her idol, Diane Sawyer. However, Amber’s hopes of winning are disrupted by Gladys Leeman (Kirstie Alley), a past ‘American Teen Princess’ and current host of the pageant who will stop at nothing to help her daughter, Becky (Denise Richards), be crowned the winner.

So why am I imploring you to watch a movie about a beauty pageant?

Well, firstly it is side-splittingly entertaining, with a ridiculous plot that features explosions, murder, a ladder dance sequence, food poisoning by shellfish, tap dancing and a rendition of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ featuring Jesus. The characters also include jaded and bitter ex-beauty pageant winners, Adam West, a crazed dance teacher, a perverted judge, a recovering anorexic and an alcoholic mother who spends most of the movie with a beer can fused to her hand. Whilst this hardly sounds funny or light-hearted, it is within the sheer morbidity of Drop Dead Gorgeous that lies its greatest strength.

As you laugh away at the ever increasingly ridiculous plot and characters, with another mound of popcorn kernels halfway to your mouth, you pause and ask, ‘Did I really just laugh at that?’, taking a moment to question your own morality and values. Undergoing an existential crisis whilst watching a comedy may not appear to be entertaining, but this is the brilliance of satire and is why Drop Dead Gorgeous works so well: it jolts us into reality, moving us away from the confines of entertainment and placing a mirror up to our own society, exposing its deep-seated issues. It forces us to bear witness to uncomfortable, harsh truths that we can so easily dismiss, especially in the era of smartphones where we can silence the most pressing stories with the tap of a button.

Despite premiering 25 years ago, Drop Dead Gorgeous remains profoundly relevant, broaching upon subjects such as teen pregnancy, healthcare, drug use, gun violence and class systems. However, I think that its most powerful critique comes from the beauty pageant around which the plot of the film revolves. At surface level, the movie is funny by very virtue of the way that it mocks the stupidity and vanity of beauty pageants and those who partake in them. What isn’t fun about laughing at people who are willing to kill each other to win a plastic tiara? After all, it is a competition format that is still widely present today. Yet Drop Dead Gorgeous goes beyond mocking the elaborate pomp and circumstance of beauty pageants and picks apart what lies at their core: a competition in which contestants are turned into commodities and judged on their appearance, encouraged to defeat anyone who lies in their way to achieve victory. In Drop Dead Gorgeous, this victory takes the form of a recycled plastic crown, sash, bouquet of flowers and a measly financial scholarship that will barely cover the cost of an airplane ticket. Moreover, the financial scholarship prize is donated by the father of the winner, a dig towards the corruption within 1990s society, and being emblematic of the unequal systems of power and inequality that are still rife today. The movie speaks to the desperate lengths that we all go to achieve a sense of victory, a sense of validation in the eyes of a society that is stacked up against so many.

This is perhaps why the movie received little fanfare when it was released. A box office bomb, the movie was critically derided, perhaps due to its mockery of American society and critique of cultural values being something that audiences and critics could not stomach or come to terms with. Years later, as we have all become more effective in drawing attention to the important issues that society faces, the movie has found a cult following and a new appreciation for its bleak, satirical humour.

Considering the fine line that the movie walks, it would have been easy for it to fail spectacularly, yet it is thanks to its witty writing that it succeeds. It also features an incredible cast of actors, including the likes of Kirsten Dunst, Allison Janney, Denise Richards, Kirstie Alley and Amy Adams (in her film debut), who all deliver hysterical performances that feature just the right level of melodrama needed for a satirical comedy. Moreover, its mockumentary style (a format later popularised by shows such as The Office) exposes the inherent artificiality of beauty pageants. It creates a sense of quasi-realism, as you are aware that you are watching something so clearly constructed, yet as characters address the camera, the events of the movie seem plausible, almost real, allowing the moments of satire to land like a gut punch. There is also an inherent campness to the film that exacerbates its most ridiculous moments that grounds it in a sense of reality and humanity. In many ways Drop Dead Gorgeous was ahead of its time, in its format, writing and social commentary.

Sadly, I don’t think Drop Dead Gorgeous would be made today, as the satirical and comedic risks that it takes probably wouldn’t be viable in the current financial or social landscape. I hope I am proven wrong. I think that the bleak morbidity of satire is one of the few ways in which we can hold a lens up to society and scrutinise those in power, alerting us to the issues that we continue to face. Satire can weaken that which seems insurmountable and threatening all through a simple laugh. Now that truly is the power of comedy.

Of course, I may have read too much into the movie. My brain is most likely still working in overdrive as a result of too many university seminars, causing me to overanalyse every detail of all the entertainment that I consume. Regardless, Drop Dead Gorgeous is thoroughly enjoyable film that laughs at the bitter world of beauty pageants whilst serving up a steaming side dish of political analysis. So stick on Drop Dead Gorgeous, it truly is a hidden gem.

Drop Dead Gorgeous is currently streaming on Amazon Prime.

Works Consulted

Peitzman, Louis. ““Jesus Loves Winners”: How “Drop Dead Gorgeous” Found Cult Success As A Flop.” Buzz Feed, 22 Jul. 2024, www.buzzfeed.com/louispeitzman/drop-dead-gorgeous-15-year-anniversary. Accessed 10 Jun. 2024.

The post Hidden Gems: Drop Dead Gorgeous (Opinion) first appeared on The Life of Riley.

It seems hard to believe that 2024 marks 15 years since Glee first graced its way onto television screens, becoming one of the most chaotic shows to perhaps ever be created.

Set in Lima, Ohio, Glee follows the story of the William McKinley High School glee club, (possibly crudely titled), The New Directions and its members as they compete in show choir championships and navigate the tumultuous world of high school whilst dreaming of achieving superstardom.

Initially this may seem like an extremely odd, zany and wacky premise. A musical comedy about a high school glee club made up of outcasts, jocks and cheerleaders, featuring songs ranging from Broadway classics to the latest pop hits whilst also focusing on the wider lives of the teens and adults? Many TV executives may have scoffed at this idea, asking ‘What sort of teenager would be interested in that?’.  In many ways, Glee shouldn’t have worked. Yet it did, proving all the naysayers wrong and becoming a cultural juggernaut.

Riding the coattails of the hugely successful High School Musical, the first season of Glee was able to offer something new and exciting in the TV landscape, perfectly blending the stereotypes of a teen drama with deft satirical humour, all whilst incorporating ludicrously camp musical numbers that somehow manage to be bothcool and cringey at exactly the same time. Perhaps one of the most exciting aspects of the show was the presence and visibility of LGBTQ+ characters on a primetime TV show, helping to smash barriers and perceptions surrounding queerness.

Upon its premiere in 2009 Glee was met with critical acclaim, receiving incredible viewership and exploding in popularity.  It may be hard to process now, especially to those who have never seen the show but it truly was a phenomenon. During its run, the Glee cast charted 207 songs on the Billboard Hot 100, went on a concert across North America and Europe and its most watched episode pulled in just under 27 million viewers in the United States. Perhaps my memory is tainted with nostalgia but there was a time when it seemed as though everyone was talking about the show and listening to its music.

However, along with a decline in quality, the show’s huge popularity eventually faded. It may be a slight understatement to say that the show went off the rails; if Glee was a metaphorical train, it didn’t merely go off the rails but rather hectically dove straight off a bridge. Once the characters that audiences had grown to know and love left high school, the show made the decision to split in two, following the fan favourite characters as they began their lives in the real world whilst also introducing a new set of high school kids, becoming a weird fusion show that never really knew what it wanted to be. Moreover, the music of the show was no longer having the huge impact that it once did, with music selections ranging from desperate attempts to recreate chart hits all the way to obscure Broadway show numbers that didn’t have the razzamatazz of other musical theatre songs that the show became known for revitalising, popularising for a wider audience. Perhaps the most notable decline in quality for Glee was in the storylines it delivered. Whilst starting off as a clever satire of high school politics, it eventually turned into the high school drama it originally made fun of. There were storylines that attempted to broach issues such as teenage pregnancy, underage drinking, eating disorders, suicide and even an episode that tackled the problem of school shootings. Whilst these issues needed to be discussed, due to the show’s 45-minute timeframe, these topics were only quickly highlighted and along with being placed alongside musical numbers and the overall storyline of the series, they were never given the intense focus they deserved. The result was that these heavy-handed issues were quickly brushed under the carpet in a cheap and sometomes degrading manner; each week it felt as though Glee turned into a PSA, trying to solve issues and wrap them all up in the neatly tied bow of entertainment. The show has rightly been criticised for this, as well as some of its downright horrific plot and character choices. The prime example of the horror of Glee comes from the glee club’s teacher Will Schuester, who is the true villain of the show. Over the run of its six seasons Will places blackmails Finn into joining the glee club by planting marijuana in his locker, suspends another member, Marley, for refusing to wear a bikini and sings Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’, and Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines WITH students. (Mr Schuester’s crimes against humankind are so extensive that it could genuinely be turned into a full-on thesis).

Some storylines also reached a level of insanity that makes you question if a hallucinogenic chemical has worked its way into the local water system. Some of the most ridiculous moments include Finn believing that Jesus appears to him through a grilled cheese sandwich and a gas leak in the choir room causing Blaine to imagine that everyone in the school has turned into a puppet. Other crazy storylines feature purple pianos, students trying to put on The Rocky Horror Picture Show, anaesthetic dream musical numbers, a birth sequence timed to a performance of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, a dinosaur themed prom, a talk show called ‘fondue for two’ and themed episodes that pay tribute to icons such as Madonna, Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Fleetwood Mac, Katy Perry as well as an episode that revolves around twerking. The people who guest starred on the show is also mind boggling, featuring the likes of Kristin Chenoweth, Idina Menzel, John Hamm, Josh Groban, Gwyneth Paltrow, Patti LuPone, Whoopi Goldberg, Neil Patrick Harris, Jeff Goldblum and Sarah Jessica Parker.

The show truly is the most chaotic, messy, confusing piece of entertainment that has perhaps ever graced TV screens. Whilst I could dive even further into the problematic elements of the show and make fun of its most mind-numbingly insane moments, many deep dive videos and articles do this far better. Also, despite its abundance of flaws I must confess that…I love Glee.

I have no shame in admitting that I am a GLEEK, through and through. Many who know me have rolled their eyes an immeasurable number of times as I have fangirled over the show, imploring anyone to watch its beauteous sense of chaos as I proudly exclaim that I listen to numerous Glee themed podcasts (yes…I really do).

Whilst it may be easy to make fun of this, I cannot stress how instrumental the show was in my upbringing and in my exploration of queerness as it was just beginning to slowly bloom.

My Mum can perhaps be blamed for causing my obsession with the show. As I had loved High School Musical, when she heard about the positive word of mouth around the show, I remember picking up the first season boxset in ASDA and going home to watch the first few episodes. Disaster struck however when my Mum decided I was still too young to witness some of the more mature themes of the show. So, I waited patiently until I turned 12, the age decreed old enough to watch the show by the British Board of Film Classification, sticking on the first season boxset, the bright yellow packaging of which had begun to fade, committing an act of what I considered to be a quasi-rebellion by watching a show that had previously been denied to me by my parents. From as soon as I put on the first episode, I consumed the remaining available seasons with a feverish excitement, bowled over by the elaborate musical numbers and brilliant characters on screen. I downloaded the music, dancing along to the songs on my iPod, much to the behest of my peers at school, and considered it to be one my favourite shows. Sadly, as the Glee’s popularity faded and criticisms began to appear, my love of the show turned into a guilty pleasure, causing it to be pushed into the deepest depths of my memory.

When lockdown hit in 2020 and Glee arrived onto streaming platforms, I decided to numb my mind by revisiting the show, quickly binging all 121 episodes across its six seasons…and I am so glad that I did.

Firstly, I do want to stress that, despite its flaws, the show is an incredible piece of television. It is wacky, bold, stuffed to the brim with talent and tells some truly engaging stories. It deftly blends the tropes of a high school drama with a dark, macabre sense of satire that broaches many of the issues that we continue to face within society. It does all of this whilst producing some truly outstanding musical numbers. Whether it’s Darren Criss’s swoon worthy acapella rendition of ‘Teenage Dream’, or the jaw dropping mashup of Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’ and ‘Rumour Has It’; the music SLAPS. During its run, Glee featured over 700 musical performances. Regardless of what you may think of the show, this remarkable achievement should not go unrecognised.

It was during my rewatch that I began to retrospectively realise how the show was able to have such a profound impact on me. Behind all of its ridiculous storylines, Glee is ultimately a simple story about a group of underdogs who smash the barriers put in their way and eventually come out on top, proving wrong everyone who underestimated them. Throughout its seasons, the audience witness an eclectic group of insanely talented people realising their dreams, sending the message that anything was possible. It bought together the jocks, cheerleaders and outcasts, showing how everyone can get along no matter our differences. For me, the show was the first time I truly felt as though a sense of difference was celebrated on screen; I was able to see queerness embraced, characters of all shapes and sizes and abilities shining onstage. Ultimately the show sent a message of hope, telling audiences that no matter who you were, what you looked like, who you loved or whatever your background, that you were worthy of love and capable of achieving your dreams.

For my 12-year-old self, still confused about their queerness, feeling alone and sometimes ashamed of how different I felt, this show made me feel accepted. It taught me that I didn’t have to apologise for the who I was and sent me the message that I could love and accept myself just the way that I was.

Even though it is immensely cheesy, when I hear the opening notes of ‘Don’t Stop Believin’ (THE GLEE CAST VERSION!), tears begin to flood my eyes and a sense of optimistic hope is always able to pour into my heart. That simple message the song sends always helps me to remember how a show about a silly high school glee club was able to make me feel less alone, to make me proud of who I was.  And for that reason, I’ll never stop believin’.

The post Glee: Why I’ll Never Stop Believin’ (Opinion) first appeared on The Life of Riley.

After the culmination of the Harry Potter and Twilight series and following the success of The Hunger Games in 2012, it seemed that movie studios everywhere were clamouring to produce the next big franchise that could placate the minds of pubescent teens across the world. The early 2010s were full of book to movie adaptations, ranging from The Maze Runner, Ender’s Game, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, The Fault in Our Stars, The Mortal Instruments, I Am Number Four, The 5^th Wave and countless more that it would take an eternity to list. 

There is many a video essay online that delves into this YA book-to-movie phenomenon that are highly engaging, nostalgic and humorous. Yet I am here to talk about one series that that particularly enraptured my attention: Divergent. 

Based on the popular YA novel of the same name by Veronica Roth, it follows the story of Beatrice Prior, living in a futuristic Chicago where society has divided itself into five factions, based on different traits: Erudite (intelligence), Candor (honesty), Abnegation (selflessness), Amity (kindness) and Dauntless (bravery). 

On one day every year, all sixteen-year-olds take part in a choosing ceremony, deciding which faction they will live in for the remainder of their lives. To help them determine their choices, they undergo an aptitude test. Following her test, Beatrice finds out that she is…(take a bated breath)…DIVERGENT. Those who are Divergent don’t fit into any of the faction systems and are deemed to be a threat to society. Following this revelation, Beatrice decides to leave her old faction behind and join Dauntless, changing her name to Tris and embarking on an intense initiation process where she meets the mysterious and enigmatic man known only as Four. 

However, just as Tris starts to settle into her new faction, she uncovers a sinister plan by forces seeking to declare war on society, putting her and everyone she loves in danger.

What follows is a typical young adult tale filled with action, adventure, romance, and corrupt governments and blah, blah, blah…I’m sure you get the picture. 

Many have criticised Divergent and the YA dystopian genre for its desperate attempts to ride the wave of the success of The Hunger Games, which is often regarded as the superior series, and I don’t disagree. Many teenage book-to-movie adaptations failed to reach the soaring heights of The Hunger Games, often feeling lifeless, dull, just desperate cash grabs by conglomerate movie studios.

However, whilst I loved The Hunger Games, my huge obsession came in the form of Divergent. When I say I was obsessed…I was OBSESSED. 

I avidly read all of the books, buying multiple copies to get the covers that I liked. When I finished the final book, I don’t remember pain quite like it, crying a seemingly never-ending stream of tears. I hung posters in my bedroom, bought the illustrated movie companions, drew pictures, had screensavers on my computer, took tests to see which faction that I belonged in, watched fan edits; I even considered buying a necklace with a quote from the book. When I first went to see the movie, I also managed to pick up an empty popcorn bucket with a poster of the movie emblazoned onto it, not a tin, but a cardboard popcorn bucket, which was placed on the desk in my room for far too many years until all the colours had drained from it into a faded monochrome. I also remember that the part of my summer holiday that I was most excited for that year was the flight, purely because I would be able to watch the movie again. 

As the subsequent movies were released, my enthusiasm for the series began to fade. The second and third movies (forgive the pun) diverged so far from the source material that the characters began to become unrecognisable to me and I found myself laughing at how awful the adaptation had become. The series sadly died a long, drawn-out death, becoming yet another fatality of the teenage dystopian trend that the world had begun to get tired of.

Yet I have never forgotten my love for the series, always cherishing the joy that it gave me in my early teenage years. I was jolted back to that period when I realised earlier this year that 2024 marks the 10-year anniversary of the movie adaptation of Divergent. I found myself compelled to revisit the series, reading the first book and watching the movie to mark the occasion, to figure out what it was exactly that made me fall head over heels for it in the first place. And I am so glad that I did. 

I am not going to pretend that Divergent is an underrated masterpiece, because it isn’t. The plot is somewhat simple in its construction, arguably being a tad threadbare and following many of the typical story beats of a YA novel in which the protagonist has to grapple with the corrupt government in a post-apocalyptic, dystopian society. Whilst the premise and worldbuilding is compelling, by the conclusion of the series a lot of questions are left unanswered, and some plot threads feel rushed in their conclusion. It also has the ‘eye-rollingly’ typical, brooding male love interest with a chiselled jawline who harbours some form of mysterious, dark past. Both the book and the movie are also a tad melodramatic, with some fabulously cheesy lines that simultaneously make me cringe and giggle. The movie also has the common problem of most of the actors being far older than the characters they are playing, which can often make a lot of the teenage actions they make look somewhat silly and immature. It’s arguably just a simple YA novel and movie. It could be branded as ‘The Hunger Games with tattoos.’ 

But I don’t care, revisiting the series has bought me a sense of unabashed joy. 

I devoured the first book with a feverish hunger. Yes, it may not be necessarily revolutionary, but it is immensely readable and accessible. The characters are relatable and interesting, drawing you into the world they are living in. The plot may be simple, but it’s fast paced, keeping you on the edge of your toes.  Just as I did when I first read the book, I found myself staying up until the early hours of the night in order to finish it. 

As book to movie adaptations go, Divergent is among the best, never straying far from the source material, hitting most of the important story points, capturing the essence of the novel whilst also elevating it to the blockbuster heights that it needs to reach. The fear landscape scenes in particular are translated well, if not better, in my opinion than the book. The actors also manage to capture the likeness of the characters despite their older age and whilst not being a groundbreaking movie, its simply well-made and doesn’t treat the audience too idiotically. The soundtrack also SLAPS, who doesn’t love Ellie Goulding sighing swoon fully over sweeping shots of a downtrodden Chicago? 

Let’s just not talk about the other movies…its too painful.

Wrapped up within this excitement, I realised that the reason I resonated so strongly with Divergent was because of its simple message about bravery and standing up for what you believe in. Of course, this is a message found in many YA adaptations.  

The YA genre is often made fun of for the common trope of a strong protagonist overcoming the hostile government that is trying to supress them, with many scorning teens for simply enjoying a simple story of good vs evil. This mockery of the genre has always irked me. Teenage years are filled with a sense of angst, anxiety, confusion and frustration, hovering on a wobbly tightrope where you are expected to act grown up, plan out your life yet are still often treated as a child, having to follow a set of rigid rules that can often feel suffocating.  So, it’s no wonder that stories of teens overcoming an evil group of adults, whilst battling a love triangle, resonate with teens. The YA genre of novels and movies allowed teenagers to escape the grim reality of growing up, to imagine a world in which boundaries could be broken and evil regimes toppled. The fandoms that spawned from the novels and movies also created communities where friendships were forged and creativity flourished in the forms of artwork and fanfiction. 

Revisiting Divergent, I simply realised that it allowed me to have a place to escape to, where I could imagine myself living my own life, having a sense of control when the real world felt so chaotic yet simultaneously restrained. 

I first read Divergent at a point of an immense change in my life. I had just started boarding school, moving away from home for the first time, away from my friends, starting harder schoolwork and grappling with my queer identity whilst being surrounded by a boyish masculinity that was terrifying to me. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, too ‘girly’ for the boys and too ‘boyish’ for the girls; I felt alone, confused and isolated. 

Reading Divergent was a shining beacon of hope for me at the time.  It’s celebration of divergence, of refusing to adhere to a rigid faction system, resonated with my queer little heart, telling me that it was okay to be myself, that, like Tris, I will find my place within the world someday.  Whilst this may seem like a simple message, it was everything that I needed to hear. It gave me confidence, courage and hope. Just as Tris gets a tattoo of three ravens to remind her of her family and how far she has come, Divergent worked its way into my heart, acting as a guiding companion in the darkest of times.

My revisit of Divergent has come at the point where I feel a similar sense of confusion, worry and isolation.  As I wrap up my final year at University, I have no idea at what the future may hold and am about to move away from my friends, a place I have also grown to call home. 

So hearing Four tell Tris that

“Becoming fearless isn’t the point, it’s learning how to control your fear and how to be free from it, that’s the point”

(Roth 239)

has had just as much impact on me now as it did 10 years ago

I am reminding myself that whatever is out there may seem scary but that I can learn how to deal with it, and make my way through, even if its one step at a time.

Whilst Divergent isn’t a revolutionary piece of fiction, this revisit has shown how much it still means to me and continue to resonate today. Perhaps we should all connect to our teenage selves again. As isolating a period as it was, as frightening as it felt, I found my way through, there was a resilience within that little old me that powered through, and it’s something I know I still have within me as I embark on my next journey. 

So revisit the good old YA dystopias of the 2010s…you never know what you might find.

Works Cited

Roth, Veronica. Divergent. Harper Collins Children’s Books, 2011.

The post A Retrospective Reflection of Divergent (Opinion) first appeared on The Life of Riley.

What followed was a feverish release of childish excitement as they squealed with joy, taking pictures with the 3D poster stand, with one shouting ‘Yo man, I can’t wait to see this movie, I’m so excited!’ 

At the time, I was baffled, unable to comprehend how these young adults could be excited for a ‘kid’s movie’ but now, looking back, I realised that they were most likely the same age as I was when the original Toy Story was released, the first generation to have grown up with the characters. No wonder they were excited for what, at the time, was billed as the culmination of one of the greatest movie trilogies of all time. It was their chance to say goodbye to characters that had been with them through their whole life, providing them with a sense of solace and comfort. 

After seeing the recently released trailer for Despicable Me 4, I realised the Despicable Me movies hold a similar bearing for me. 

Before anyone freaks out, let me be clear, I am by no means suggesting that the Illumination franchise is as good as the Toy Story movies. I acknowledge that they are wildly uneven in quality and lack the sense of sophistication of the Pixar movies. Yet it’s the same nostalgia that those leather jacket guys had for Toy Story that I have for the story about an evil supervillain, with banana loving, yellow ‘minions’, who learns to become and Dad and has his heart is healed by three young orphans. 

I was eight years old when Despicable Me came out, and I instantly fell in love with it. Practically all kids did at the time; a movie with fart jokes, unicorns, cookie robots, and a plot to steal the moon was sure to win over little minds. It also helped that it rode the wave came of the post Avatar 3D craze, filled with moments where objects flew out of the screen, that my sugar-induced pick ‘n’ mix brain couldn’t get enough of. It was also Illumination’s first and still, in my opinion, best movie, and offered a fresh animation style that differed from the animation giants that had ruled the 2000s: Pixar and DreamWorks. 

When I say the world went mad for the movie, it really went mad for the movie. It wasn’t long before minion mania took over, with the little, yellow maniacs being bedecked onto all sorts of merchandise (I hold a particular fondness for the Minion Haribo and banana flavoured ‘tic-tacs’). It has now spawned two sequels (with an aforementioned fourth movie on the way), as well as two Minion spin-off movies, animated shorts, a countless array of merchandise, video and mobile games and numerous theme park attractions (having ridden ‘Despicable Me: Minion Mayhem’ in Orlando, I can say that this is extremely fun and getting to step into Gru’s house almost made me cry). When you set this conglomerate capitalism aside however, it is simply a charming movie, filled with a sense of whimsical fantastical quasi sci-fi ridiculousness. 

For those of you who are unaware Despicable Me tells the story of Gru, who dreams of becoming the greatest villain of all time by stealing the moon. A fresh new villain named ‘Vector’, who so happens to have stolen the Great Pyramid of Giza, threatens Gru’s dreams, however. So Gru decides to adopt three little girls, Margo, Edith and Agnes, who will inadvertently help him in his villainous ways. It may follow the classic ‘villain turned hero’ trope, yet when it is told as beautifully as this, I can’t help but put this to the side and watch the screen with a sense of unabashed, childish glee. From the slightly cringe, yet iconic 2010s soundtrack, cringe humour and gags, fabulous voice acting from Steve Carrell, Jason Segel and Julie Andrews, and animation that bursts with a sense of liveliness and Eurocentric eccentricity, the film tugs at the inner child. Jason Segel as Vector is wonderfully absurd and ludicrous and deserves a spot in the pantheon of the greatest movie villains of all time. Whilst some may bemoan the presence of the Minions who arguably scream ‘BUY ME’, its hard not to be charmed by their buffoonish charm. 

Behind the mad plot of ‘supervillain’ trying to steal the moon lies a simple message that family can be found in the unlikeness of places, a broken heart can be patched up and that anyone is deserving of love. For me, it’s most guttural power lies from how it speaks incalculably to a sense of childhood loneliness. In a series of flashbacks (across a few of the movies), we see Gru experience forms of rejection, from both his peers and his mother. We see that Gru never felt ‘good’ or ‘worthy enough’ and ever-since has felt that he needs to achieve something spectacular in order to prove his rightful place in society. By virtue of not seeming ‘good’, Gru believes that he can achieve something by being despicable. Yet he realises, with the help of Margo, Edith, Agnes and banana loving minions, that he is good enough, just as he is. 

As someone who often felt a sense of loneliness growing up, the simple message the movie sends that everybody is deserving of love, that it can be found in the unlikeliest of places, still warms the jaded and bitter parts of my childhood and teenage self that I still can’t seem to shake off. Quite simply, it is able to thaw my ‘freeze-rayed’ heart. 

In the days of VHS, people often note that their favourite movies became completely wound down from the number of times that it was re-watched. Despicable Me is that movie for me: I have watched it so many times that I have lost count and on my most recent re-watch with my Mum, she started to become a little fed-up with how many times I was reciting lines. 

It doesn’t matter though, as soon as the opening credits begin with those little yellow freaks, I just disappear. And you better believe that I’ll be in the cinema later this year, waiting to re-live my childhood, all be it for a short while.

The post The Eccentric Whimsy of Despicable Me (Opinion) first appeared on The Life of Riley.

Hahaha…nope, probably not.

If this blog were to be a coffee shop, it wouldn’t be the well-loved chains of the world (Starbucks will always have my heart), or even the hip-new trendy, coffee bar that only serves the highest quality, fresh sourced beans and has the largest selection of nut milks from nuts that you weren’t even aware milk could be produced from. Instead, it would rather be the kind at the end of a high street, in a quaint little village: a little dilapidated, filled with a mismatch of furniture, mediocre coffee and rustic looking cakes. This doesn’t matter though, as that perfectly reflects me: a little bit messy, quirky, odd and filled with all sorts of bits and bobs, trying to live ‘the life of Riley’ but, in reality, stumbling through, one day a time. 

I make this comparison, as this blog is sort of similar to a coffee shop, a place to sit down and have a drink, get on with work, mull over life, or shoot dagger like glances at the person loudly slurping their drink two seats away from you. So…for anyone who has decided to step on in, welcome to ‘The Life of Riley: Musings of a Coffee Addict’, where no amount of caffeine will ever suffice. This blog will house all of my eccentric musings, ranging from thoughts and opinions on pop culture, books, TV, film and perhaps even my reflections on the current news landscape. 

Whatever your interests may be, I hope that you enjoy entering my metaphorical coffee shop and sit down for a latte, espresso, a classic cuppa (or maybe even a cheeky night cap, depending on your persuasion) as you take in all my musings, and perhaps even join in with your own. 

However you end up interacting with this blog, just know that I’m the person in the corner, tapping away on their keyboard, headphones on, trying to solve my problems with yet another latte.

The post Welcome to my Caffeinated Musings first appeared on The Life of Riley.

One may suggest that this is great, surely? Why should we complain when we have so many entertainment options? Yet this is where the problem lies; with the production of so much content, a lot of it feels hastily and lazily produced. Whilst watching Marvel’s Secret Invasion last year I found myself questioning if I had just become a soulless automaton, mindlessly yet willingly shovelling bland TV into my brain. I realised I had become numb to what I was watching, convincing myself that the dribble put in front of me wasn’t that bad, trying to assuage the guilt in shelling out for all of the services I have subscribed to. This wasn’t the only case of shows that personally gutted me recently. The past season of Sex Education felt heartbreakingly desperate, and the expansion of RuPaul’s Drag Race has happened so exponentially that it has slowly killed my enjoyment of a franchise that I loved. 

Of course, it should be acknowledged that streaming is equally phenomenal, creating incredible shows, ranging from Stranger Things to Squid Game and allowing stories to be told that may have never been commissioned by terrestrial TV, all whilst giving us unparalleled access to a library of content from history. 

So why do I still feel so overwhelmed? Despite new series my favourite shows dropping recently, such as Queer Eye, For All Mankind and Big Boys, I’ve simply lacked the incentive to start watching, casually putting them off and telling myself I’ll start them at a later date. (Somehow, I still find myself confused at the end of each day as to how I end up watching a video of someone turning a $10 traybake into a ‘luxury wedding cake’ or Glee for the billionth time!) 

I think the problem with this lies in the very structure of streaming. 

Unlike live TV, streaming is available on practically any portable device. This has removed the necessity to be sat in front of the TV at a specific time; we can now consume all of this content at our own pace, according to our own schedules. Whilst extremely convenient, ultimately, it may have killed the ephemerality of live TV. 

There was a time when watching TV was a tangible act. Even with the record button on Sky, the live nature of TV necessitated that we sit down, whether by ourselves or as a collective. You could sit down, knowing that people were watching at exactly the same time as you, facilitating discussion the next day with friends or family. Whether it was David Tennant’s supposed ‘regeneration’ in the fourth series of Doctor Who, One Direction on The X Factor or Nadiya winning The Great British Bake Off, there was something magical in knowing that the entire nation was watching. Now, we have to avoid social media if we don’t want to be spoiled or hastily try to catch up on episodes whilst being crammed on public transport. 

I am being slightly melodramatic. Terrestrial TV still gets people talking, from The Traitors, to Strictly Come Dancing or the final series of Succession. Regardless, I cannot help but feel that it’s not the same. Sometimes, it feels as though TV has become a burden to keep up with, the consumption of 

content seen as a requirement to remain within the cultural zeitgeist rather than as something to truly enjoy and unwind with at the end of the day. So, we shouldn’t forget how powerful sitting down to watch TV can be. Be it with friends, family, or the world there is something within it that has an unparalleled beauty. I just hope it hasn’t been lost forever. 

Having said that, will I still be streaming something tonight? Yes, yes, I will.

The post The Age of Streaming: Has the Magic Gone from TV? (Opinion) first appeared on The Life of Riley.

Allons-y! Doctor Who’s 60th anniversary with David Tennant, Catherine Tate and the introduction of Ncuti Gatwa as the 15th incarnation of the Doctor is almost upon us! Being a fan since my sweet and naïve youth, I can barely contain my innate sense of ‘whovian’ glee and wonder. 

For those of you who are feeling completely clueless…whose eyes have not witnessed sci-fi excellence…let me explain. 

Doctor Who is about a 900-year-old time-lord from the planet Gallifrey, who flies through time and space in the TARDIS (a blue police box) with his (mostly) human companions whilst saving the universe from evil aliens and monsters that threaten to destroy it. Oh, and I should also mention the Doctor carries a sonic screwdriver! The genius of the show is that the Doctor has two hearts and can therefore ‘regenerate’ into a new body right at the point of seeming death, which has allowed the show to constantly reinvent itself. First broadcast on 23rd November 1963, the show remained on air until 1989 before returning in 2005, cementing its legacy as a televisual touchstone, providing stories of faraway planets, slimy monsters, alien invasions, plastic robots and a metal-robot dog, called K-9. 

The first episode of the show I ever saw, Smith and Jones, was recorded onto a VHS tape by my grandparents, who unknowingly started a borderline unhealthy obsession. The opening title sequence with its swirling mass of colour, the story of a hospital on the moon, with a rhinoceros police force called ‘Judoon’, a blood-sucking ‘plasmavore’ and Martha Jones being whisked away by a dashing young man in a pin-stripe suit in red converse to explore the wonders of the universe (which my unaware self at the time didn’t realise was a subtle queer awakening), had me transfixed. That day I must have almost worn the VHS tape down with how many times I re-watched it. By my third watch through I was already pretending I was the Doctor, with a makeshift Phillips screwdriver, shutting all the doors in the house to protect myself from aliens.

And that was it…from that moment on I was Doctor Who mad. I implored by parents to buy the DVDs of episodes I had missed, waited feverishly for future series, dressed up as the Doctor, played with the action figures, read the books (and the weekly magazine). The 2000s were THE time to be a fan – with exhibitions, concerts and endless spin-offs that led to the creation of a ‘multiverse’. (Doctor Who did Infinity War before the MCU and they did it better. Yes…I really did just write that). I dissected episodes intently with the only other fan I knew at the time (my mum) and can vividly envision going to see the behemoth Toys ‘R’ Us displays of merchandise. I even remember the ‘TARDIS’ and ‘Dalek’ cakes I had for birthdays, themed ‘Frubes’ and tins of ‘wholewheat pasta shapes’. To this day, chords of music from the show can bring tears to my eyes and I am not ashamed to say I have danced to the theme tune…alone…in my bedroom…countless times. 

Beneath all this nostalgia lies my true love for Doctor Who: It simply allowed me to disappear. Whenever the real world felt too scary or overwhelming, I could fly off with the Doctor, to anywhere my imagination would take me. It made me feel less alone, giving me the bravery to stand up to the far more terrifying human monsters that surrounded me. 

The show’s companions became my feminist icons. From Martha Jones to Sarah Jane Smith, these were the women who inspired me, taught me to stand up for what is right and to never back down in the face of the most insurmountable fear. Its subtle LGBTQ+ representation, with the inclusion of an omnisexual time agent showed me that our differences make us valuable, that out in the vastness of the universe, we can be anyone who we want to be, a message my little gay heart carried with me until it was ready to be set free. 

Therefore, it feels slightly odd, as a fan who has stuck with the show, to see so many excited for its return. In recent years interest has waned and viewing figures have fallen. However, the fervour around it all is bringing me right back to those days of childish joy. 

You may ask…’Is any of it bad?’ 

Oh yes…some episodes are true clunkers. It doesn’t matter though. They make me laugh, still transporting me to a place of happiness and joy. At the core of the bad episodes still lies a set of characters, looking to find something better amidst the monotony of life. It is the characters that the fans fall in love with, it is them that make us adore the show despite its occasional inconsistencies. These stories are as quintessentially iconic as the rest of the show, reaching a level of camp that I hope I will be able to achieve in my lifetime. 

Ultimately, Doctor Who is an incredible piece of television or, as the Doctor would say, ‘a big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff’. Like all great sci-fi, it provides an escape. It offers us hope, Jammie Dodgers and Jelly Babies. The idea there is a person, out in the stars, willing to risk their life to save us? In such a gloomy world, what’s wrong with looking out to those stars once in a while? 

If only I could step into that little blue box that’s bigger on the inside… 

To coincide with the 60th anniversary, ‘The Whoniverse’ has launched on iPlayer, featuring 800 episodes of Doctor Who and its spinoffs. 

If any first-timers are interested I recommend starting with the 1st episode of the revival: Rose. This should ease you in. Trust me, ‘you’ll have the trip of a lifetime!’

The post  My Love Letter to Doctor Who (Opinion) first appeared on The Life of Riley.