WHAT'S THE BIG SECRET?

GQ - THE GIFT THAT KEEPS GIVING

2011-12-23T12:09:00.001Z

Get a great blow job every time. Tips, techniques and advice on how to encourage a healthy sexual attitude in your woman. Click the picture to read my latest GQ Sex Column -

Lip service

WHEN LOVE ISN'T ENOUGH

2011-12-19T16:16:00.008Z

A wise man (and amazing photographer) once said to me: "I wonder sometimes just how happy artists, whether writers or photographers, are meant to be. Poets need their pain to write their hearts on paper. Why should you or I be any different? Pain of others or ourselves, is the fodder for what we do. An artist's life is full of tragedy with brief periods of happiness. You want to be a writer? Well, prepare yourself."

It seems I've been preparing myself a little too long for what's about to come out. Until a few months ago, writing used to be a cathartic habit where thoughts would flow from my mixed-up head, arrange themselves inexplicably into something surprisingly coherent and end up on the screen of my laptop, where they'd be lovingly titivated and finally posted for all to see. But then I allowed myself to do something so terrible, that I could barely even live with myself for doing it, let alone writing about it. I left the man I married, the man I promised to spend the rest of my life with; who has supported me through thick and thin, who has without complaint, suffered every one of my emotional crises and who despite everything - loved me for who I am and never tried to change me.

I, on the other hand, tried to change him. With him I had love, security, companionship, everything in common, a place I knew I could always call home - no matter what I did wrong. And perhaps that was the problem. When someone is so passive, you end up trying, in vain, to provoke a reaction that shows passion and fire - because somehow (and this I still don't understand), unconditional love is simply not enough. There's something unsatisfying about being shrouded in complete and forgiving acceptance, that doesn't allow for unpredictability or excitement and makes for an uninspiring relationship, no matter how happy and content you ought to be on paper. After a while, you chip away relentlessly; trying to cajole them in any way possible into becoming the person you want them to be. But as any married person will tell you - people don't change.

Having just written all that, I now realise how ridiculous it sounds. Is the human condition so agonisingly ridiculous, that when we gain everything we aspire to have and find someone who loves us regardless of anything; who we love back, albeit a calm, peculiar kind of love that makes us feel comfortable and safe; we long to throw it away and opt for something risky and exciting with someone we hardly know?

In defence of what seems like my fickle and uncommitting nature, it took someone pretty incredible to prise me from this nine year relationship; despite the fact that it had reached the point of inevitable crumble, thanks to the detrimental and completely unforgivable things I was doing to my husband. Through no fault of his, I was searching for a way to inject the passion into my life that I so desperately needed, naively thinking this would sit comfortably alongside my marriage. When the cracks started to gape and even his accommodating nature started to falter, we were merely co-existing. Living miserably in the same house together, trying to force pleasantries and pretend it would at some point resolve itself, when all it did was get worse. His resentment for my double life, my guilt at the hurt I was causing him and my own resentment for the fact that I couldn't be completely free to do as I wanted without feeling responsible, was forcing us further and further apart - life together was becoming sad and draining and I couldn't see a way to mend what was essentially, never right in the first place. Every time I looked at him, my heart physically ached with sorrow and I was already loathing myself for what I knew I had to do when I met someone else who gave me the passion I needed.

What can you do to make it better?

Before you think I was married to some kind of celestial being whose name might have been Gabriel, he had his flaws. And if I sit and think carefully enough without being distracted by self torment, I can list them all and remember how much they pissed me off and ultimately, contributed to our eventual ruin. But when I'm in destruction mode and everything is my fault, nothing else is apparent but his sparkling halo and sweet nature. I break down often. I haven't yet come to terms with my decision to leave him and in between periods of blissful happiness and contentment in my new relationship, these dark spells of regret and anxiety that constantly loom over us, swoop in and cloak everything in negativity. My new man was patient to begin with, but it's wearing thin and my non-acceptance of a situation that I've created, threatens to ruin yet another relationship.

I try so hard and week by week it gets easier, but in true female style it takes just one, potent, pre-menstrual crisis to wipe out three weeks of plain sailing; and my new man has yet to learn what to do with me when this happens. And then there are the memories - not just the half fabricated ones that live in my head, where fairies danced down the garden path and then I (evil monster) came and took a big, metaphorical shit on a lovely pink rose that was opening up to the sunshine. Not those ones, but the real memories that come with hard evidence. Cards with sweet and silly poems that were written just for me; notes he left me when I was feeling low, because he always knew just what to say; photographs - reminding me of times that regardless of how things came to be, we were happy. What am I meant to do with those? Every time I find one in a boxed up pile of my former life, I go to pieces. I want to stop torturing myself with these things, so do I throw them away? Somehow that seems wrong - like I'm trying to pretend the happiness with him never existed. But as long as they exist and I can look at them, I can't move on.

Memories: here

There seems no other option for moving forward, than to cut myself off from everything that reminds me of my husband. But that in itself saddens me. A friend has told me to box everything up and hide it away in a dark cupboard somewhere, out of my sight and daily contact. Perhaps that's the answer - maybe I can accept and cherish those sentiments and memories once I am over the pain of this and we've both reached full acceptance of the situation.

But is it ever right to cherish a sentiment from another man, when you're meant to have moved on?

GQ - UNWRAPPING AGENT PROVOCATEUR

2011-12-19T09:33:00.010Z

Learn to harness the power of her underwear. Click the picture to read my latest GQ Sex Column -

Maximum frills; maximum thrills

OVERLOOKED

2011-09-24T04:50:00.004+01:00

It's easy to judge others for being shallow, for allowing aesthetics to take precidence over substance and things of true importance; like personality, intelligence, values and ultimately love. But when you're faced with the reality of a situation where your own reactions to imperfection are put to the test, you'll probably be ashamed.

I was at the supermarket today and there's always someone to fancy at the supermarket. Such a mixture of people of all ages, from all walks of life - are buying what they need. (I also happen to be in America at the moment, there seems to be a smaller class divide in the supermarkets here. Forget inviting the chavs to Asda and overpricing Sainsburys so that only the middle class can afford it - everyone comes together for the weekly grocery shop in the states!) As I perused the wines, a man walked past me wearing hospital scrubs. (I'm assuming he was a nurse, not an inpatient escapee.) He was so beautiful. Probably early 30s, short dark hair, a smattering of 5 o clock shadow, brown eyes and gorgeous bone structure, he looked like Matthew Fox. I did the double take thing, watched him walk past in flip flops; he seemed to notice me and I caught his eye for a second before we both looked away. It was the usual mutually appreciative glance, that even when you're only window shopping, is quite a thrill. The fact that he was a nurse just seemed to make him even more attractive to me - I imagined his caring nature, coupled with the look he gave me, of 'I'd definitely know what to do with you, given half the chance'... let's just say I was happy to imagine it.

He's fully pliable... and comes with all the right instruments! Or does he?

He disappeared down another aisle and temporarily I forgot about him (like I said, I'm not on the market - he really was just viewing pleasure). But then a bit later, I was browsing something else and he came towards me and stopped a few feet away, looking at something on the shelf. I found myself captivated again. 'He must know how good looking he is', I thought. 'He probably gets stared at all the time'. I let my eyes wander over his body to take in the rest of him and there it was, as plain as day (I now believe the only reason I'd not noticed it before was because his beautiful face was so distracting) - his left arm was completely deformed. It was at least twelve inches shorter than the other, there was no hand to speak of, but what looked like something that had once started to develop into one and his arm was probably half the width of a normal one and grew narrower towards the end. It literally looked like a small branch from a tree.

I averted my gaze immediately and before I'd even had chance to mentally process a conscious decision about whether or not I still found him attractive, I'm ashamed to say my body had already made the decision for me. The thrill was gone. I didn't have that longing to catch his eye anymore, any fantasies about what I'd like to have done to him simply vanished without notice. It sunk in. I cursed myself for being so superficial. Was it just the shock, I wondered? You just don't expect to see something like that. It's normal to be a little bit - put off, at first... I so badly wanted to prove to myself that this didn't matter and that if I had been 'on the market' and he'd have asked me out, that I would have said yes and that we might have had as enjoyable sex as we would if he had two perfect arms like anyone else. That I wouldn't have cringed if I'd had to touch it and that when we went out, it wouldn't bother me if other people noticed. I had to admit to myself that I couldn't prove any of this or even suggest it to myself. I wanted to so badly, but I couldn't.

I glanced at him again. He was conventionally beautiful in every other respect, there was no doubting that fact. But I couldn't look at him for long anymore; not because I didn't want to, not even because of his arm, but because I was now paranoid that if he saw me looking, he wouldn't think I was admiring him - but that I might be thinking he's a freak! Which I wasn't; the word freak never crossed my mind anyway... at this point I was all too engrossed in trying to fathom my reaction and kicking myself for being so shallow! Why are we so conditioned to only accept and tolerate normality and perfection? We can't achieve it ourselves, abnormalities aside - no-one has a body they're completely happy with. And yet we still can't easily come to terms with something that's more out of the ordinary than usual.

American style shopping bags, not great when you've only got one good arm... (But will you look at that baguette!!)

I'm the last person to ever consciously make someone feel inadequate. As someone who spent most of my school life being bullied, I don't tolerate any kind of humiliation, especially of the aesthetic description. But am I really any better than someone who would single someone out in the street and laugh and point at them? If I can't feel towards someone with a physical deformity, the way I would feel towards anyone else - then aren't I as bad?

Maybe I'm being too hard on myself. It's not that I expect anyone else to feel differently. We're all conditioned the same way, unless we're one of the people who has to live with something that makes them so different. But even if I'm just the same as everyone else, even if it just merely makes me human to be deterred by what's not the fittest, the most attractive or the healthiest - it still makes me ashamed to admit it. Because we should be evolved enough to see past all that, shouldn't we? The fact that I was eyeing him up for so long in the first place, is testament to the fact that I am preoccupied with perfection and anything I deem to be beautiful. I can't decide if it's wrong, or just how we're programmed. But either way, I am not particularly comfortable with it.

AMY WINEHOUSE - A TRIBUTE, OF SORTS

2011-07-24T16:14:00.008+01:00

The untimely if not at all surprising death of Amy Winehouse, has caused predictable mass hysteria and suddenly - everyone, (save a few brave individuals willing to pipe up that they never liked her before so why should they give a shit now) - almost everyone, is Amy's number one fan.

Misunderstood and troubled are the words of the moment, pained, lost - looking for a way out. Well hang the fuck on for a second if you don't mind... because this smacks of contradiction and hypocrisy. It's what never fails to amaze me about the press and the general public. It's fine to ridicule the living - and let's be honest, she was in a shit state. What a joke she was to us. We laughed and jibed as in the more difficult times of her life she stumbled around and was heckled off stage. We waited with bated breath as she did another stint in rehab but were all - 'I told you so' when she caved in to addiction again on the other side. We might well have loved her music and lyrics, you'd have to be lobotomised for it not to resonate somewhere within your emotions. And her voice was simply one of a kind... But forgive me if I make this now unpolitically correct observation - did most people not think she was an idiot when she was alive? Nobody cared about how troubled she was then, or how deep seated the cause of her repeated reliance on drugs was, to get by. Back when she was alive, the general public thought - she's fucking rich and famous. Why does she deserve my sympathy? She's got enough money to sort herself out but she obviously doesn't want to. What a loser.

Then she's found dead in her apartment and instantly elevated to legendary and completely heroic status of idols. A genius, a wasted life, what are we going to do without her?

Well - what did we do with her?

Friends' and co-artists words on the news of her death are touching but questionable. 'She was like a sister to me. My musical soul mate'. Great. Did she mean enough to you, or to any one of her friends who claimed to be like family, that you were prepared to drag her away from the people leading her further into the downward spiral; that you were prepared to do anything, to see her clean herself up? It's easy for me to say this, with no crack and heroin addicts as friends. Hell, even as a public bystander to the whole Winehouse affair, I didn't tweet anything about giving her a break or send her messages of support. Who did stand up for her when she was battling addiction and humiliating herself, her undeniable talent being hidden under the embarrassing effects of drugs and alcohol? Did we laugh or did we take a stand against the pressure and perceived glamour of substance abuse, that all of the most respected artistic geniuses rely on to surpress their hurt? No we didn't. Because we hate the rich and famous. When people are going through it, they're losers. When they're dead - they're finally winners.

Perhaps what grates on me the most, is that we won't even learn from this pathetic about turn of attitude. Because now, what will resonate is that her tragic life was the making of her cult status. So she's dead - but fuck, did she go out with a bang. All pale and emaciated, addled with chemicals that stifled her inimitable ability to perform a song as we all knew she could. But it wasn't her fault. What could she do, what could anyone - do? Without the drugs, she wasn't Amy.

The funny thing is, we hate druggies. They're the 'scum' we step over in the streets, begging for some money for tea, money that 'we know' is really so they can shoot up again. Do we give a shit what creative talent lurks beneath those glazed eyes - talent that given a chance, could touch souls and change lives? Do we give a shit how they came to be so hopeless, do we even care enough to ask what they're feeling, that makes their lives so unbearable and dark?

No we don't. The biggest hypocrites will spit in their faces, tell them to get a life and then spend the weekends snorting lines off a glass coffee table with the rest of their respectable friends, subconsciously trying to numb the sense of complete meaningless that defines their own lives. The only difference being - someone gave them a chance and they think they're living the dream. Here's a thought. Next time you see someone on the street begging for money, a complete low-life who clearly relies more on drugs than your approval, think of Amy. Because it wasn't fame and fortune that turned her into the mess she became. She already had the problems. What fame and fortune brought her was the ease and convenience with which to ease them.

Now, selfishly - all people can do is mourn the loss of the music that brought some comfort into their own lives. But are they really mourning the person? Did they even care about the person? Or are they quick to judge and even quicker to change tack when the very mortality of these tortured souls is brought to light and we realise they were human?

Amy Winehouse, 1983 - 2011. RIP.

DIGITAL LOVE

2011-06-17T18:42:00.015+01:00

All this talk of technology in GQ has got me rather moist! Not just because it allows efficiency and simplicity to prevail (supposedly), but because I’ve imagined, with a healthy amount of optimism, the future of visual arousal. Sex has always found its way into the visual medium; first there were drawings and paintings, next came photographs, cue film and later 3D… next: sweet holograms. With the Japanese committed to creating realistic holographic TV by 2016, it’s not unimaginable how things will develop once the visuals are near perfect. For God’s sake, I can’t be the only one who’s watched Star Trek and questioned why the hell they aren’t creating virtual orgies in the ‘holodeck’. The fact is, it’s a principle based on some already developing technology, that will mean before I die - I might be able to have sex with Batman and it won’t involve a real person in a cheap, spandex all-in-one from the joke shop.

Where can I get a costume like this?!

By the time they’ve perfected holographic projections and found a way to trick us into thinking they’re solid matter (there’s talk of sensory manipulation and ultrasonic waves to create pressure sensations…); prostitutes for one and the pitfalls of using them, will surely be a thing of the past. For one initial, albeit it crippling, investment – all of the sex in the world could be right at your dirty finger tips and the package would come minus contraception, embarrassment and a guilt complex.

Of course, the concept would never replace human to human chemistry, this would merely be an expensive sex toy. But imagine the perks: being able to program a simulation of pure aesthetic perfection and input your favourite sexual routines, then have them played out in order or randomly, to your exact specifications. I can picture it now: one minute I’d be hanging from Bruce’s office window at Wayne Enterprises (badly attempting suicide due to the unrequited nature of my obsession), the next I’m plummeting to the streets of Gotham (the sensations and G force of which, in an ideal world, would also be simulated, don’t laugh!); when suddenly, the caped crusader himself swoops past and saves me, taking me to the top of a nearby skyscraper where he lays me down, rips my knickers off with his teeth and gives me head. Oh God. Cunnilingus and the bat mask. Can I get a moment? There’s a reason those ears are so pointy and firm. They were designed to be held, while he buries his sexy mouth into some poor damsel’s cooch. (Preferably mine.)

It seems obvious to me. How else would you explain the design of this mask?

The other obvious advantage to this enhanced form of virtual reality, is being able to test scenarios out before you debut them on real people. Sure, the computer generated eye candy you’re playing with is going to react exactly as she or she is programmed to – but it would give you, the user, an idea of your own boundaries and the scope to experiment beyond your wildest and most cringe worthy fantasies. Think you might want to have your face bukkaked, but also want your credibility in tact? Enter your bespoke team of non judgmental holographs-cum-Olympic virtual spunk shooters. (Pretend wet wipes optional.)

There are a couple of obvious drawbacks. Firstly, you’ll be so used to borg-style perfection, that sex with someone flawed, involving bad (or even half bad) technique, will become simply unbearable. And of course you’ll be so spoilt for choice with what’s readily on offer, you’ll quickly become bored and sex may be in danger of becoming (God forbid) passé. With nothing off limits, what will remain taboo, apart from the notion that you could still always be doing the unspeakable with a real person? Who cares? It’s a risk I’ll be willing to take. In the mean time for my technology thrills, I’ll stick to using my iPad to watch porn on the tube.

THE TROUBLE WITH WOMEN

2011-06-04T00:41:00.007+01:00

There are exceptions to every generalisation and there are certainly exceptions to the sweeping generalisation I'm about to make about women and the evil shit they pull when they get their jealous, insecure and scheming little minds together. But if you've ever suffered at the hands of this type of woman (or if you're really unlucky, women) then I won't have to explain myself. You see the kind of women I'm talking about must have such a low opinion of themselves, both physically and mentally (although they probably don't realise the latter) - that they expend every scrap of their energy on sniffing out women who are confident, at ease with themselves and (God fucking forbid) attractive and glamorous, and aim to bring their 'enemy', with unscrupulous yet subtle tactics of sheer spite, down to their own pitiful depths.

We've all met women (and in some cases men) like this. But for some reason, women have the edge. It seems to me, that only women are prepared to go to the lengths they do, in order to try and gain the upper hand over someone. Being a woman myself, it does concern me that there are so many who are willing to tar the entire gender with the bitchy brush - but let me assure you, the day I become like this is the day I'll expect to be strangled by my own hair.

My last job was taking care of marketing and PR for a small company where the head office was staffed entirely by snakes, sorry - women. My main responsibility was acting as a PA to the MD (a thankless task for a miserable, loveless bitch), also putting together editorials, copywriting for adverts and brochures, and perhaps most importantly - managing the company website, which from day one (not my doing, you understand) was riddled with spelling, grammatical and punctuation errors. I didn't even make a dint on that side of things - there wasn't time before I got kicked out.

"What did you do to deserve such a cruel fate, after only 6 weeks?" I hear you ask. I'll let you decide.

I sensed undertones of bitching from certain women right from the start, but that's life. There were the whisperings behind my back and laughing when I left the room, some of which I naively put down to co-incidence, but really I knew it wasn't a co-incidence. What were they laughing at though?! Did I have bird shit in my hair, toilet paper stuck to my shoe or 'whore' written on a post-it note and stuck to my back? No. I soon realised that my problem was simple - ego trips aside, I was too attractive with too many nice things. This occurred to me like an epiphany one day. I pulled up to work on a warm, sunny morning with the top down on my BMW, wearing a big pair of Jackie O shades and a black dress. A few members of staff had been stood chatting until they saw me, then they just stared and started whispering to each other. The dress wasn't anything special, just sleeveless, a high cut neck, belted, tight, 3 inches above the knee. It's what I like to call business-like but flattering. No tights, tanned body, long hair down and (this seemingly being the straw that broke the jealous camel's back...) a beautiful pair of beige open toe high heels, with a big bow on the front.

The whole of that day, women just stared at the lower half of my body like I'd sprouted a third leg or hadn't shaved the other two for 6 months. Despite having heard no compliments on the shoes or anything else, I considered it flattery and thought no more of it, until at 4.45pm, the HR Manager (younger and infinitely more dowdy and clueless than me) took me into the board room. In an unnecessarily OTT display of her authority, she sat me down and told me not to wear the shoes again, or any like it, as the heels damage the parquet wood floor of the Victorian building. A fair point, I conceded, and apologetically (but resentfully) vowed never to wear another stilettoed shoe to work.

Who knew they'd be such trouble makers?!

The following morning, I dutifully arrived a work in a pair of flat ballet pumps. Minutes later, the HR Manager (aka the shoe police) arrived, click-clacking her way across the parquet floor in a pair of stilettos. This was the moment my steady demise began, because from that moment on - it was clear what their problem was and not being the subordinate type, I saw this as a game, a form of amusement in the name of female one-upmanship. So in an act of antagonistic defiance, I began keeping a pair of red stilettos in my car, so that every day, if the HR Manager wore hers, I'd put mine on. This lasted until a Company Director called me to her office to raise the same concern about the floor. At which point, I wasted no time in dragging the HR Manager down with me. However, being aware of still being in a probationary period, I caved in and went shopping for less sex-Goddess heels, that would still give me some posture. Taking advantage of the thicker summery heels that are in fashion and the platform soles that take a bit of pressure off the foot, I bought three new pairs just for work. (Parquet floors are a work of art after all!)

I managed almost a full week of wearing my new shoes in rotation, when I got called into the same Director's office. This time, my shoes were banned on Health and Safety grounds. And while she had me sat there in a lovely coral blouse and a pencil skirt - I was told about a mysterious company policy which appears on none of my contracts or documents, a policy that stipulates no colour should be worn to work. Black, grey and white only were permitted, in what she called 'corporate style', and if skirts or dresses were to be worn, they should always be accompanied by black tights. (Funnily enough, this didn't seem to apply to anyone but me. There were red jumpers, bright tribal print dresses and powder blue blouses all around.) My hackles raised. After fighting my argument on the ridiculousness of their request for well over half an hour, I left the office completely dumbstruck. Was I dreaming this, or was it a hoax - a joke at my expense and after a few days, they'd all shout - 'Not really, we're just winding you up!!' ?

Now at this point I'd like to remind you - there are no men working for this company. Not a single whiff of testosterone (unless you count the women in HR). So I couldn't even blame this pointless attempt at trying to de-sexify me, on them trying to win male attention.

Green with envy

Two days later, I was summoned to the Managing Director's office, to meet with her and the aforementioned Director. The meeting, under the guise of a 'performance review', seemed strangely unplanned and I was lead in, wearing black trousers, a black top, a camel coloured cardigan and some flat shoes - (which in their words, made me look lovely). I sat down, prepared to finally talk about my contribution to the company, which under the shadow of the stir my dress sense had created, had gone completely unnoticed. Alas - there was no mention of work. Oh no. The Managing Director had got wind of what she called, 'the unrest caused among staff members, relating to dress codes'. There had been several complaints and ruffled feathers caused by my chosen outfits (I kid you not) and I was given a verbal and physical dressing down, for my part in the matter. There I sat for a good hour, being told that my unwillingness to conform was being duly noted and that I was completely out of order for pointing out that on the day I was told off for dressing inappropriately in a black pencil dress, the MD had an even shorter red dress on. (With no tights.) I stood my ground as calmly as I could, but the anger and tension building inside me was causing me to shake - I thought I might explode! "What about my work?" I asked. "Is it not even worth a mention? Because that kind of feedback would be more useful to me!"
"We can't fault your work," they told me, without even a flinch or an awkward glance at the floor, at the irony and sheer stupidity of the whole situation. "You're doing a fantastic job." I almost burst out laughing. After realising I'd have no chance of keeping my job unless I kept my mouth firmly shut and agreed to do whatever the fuck they asked, I was allowed to go home at 6.20pm. (I was supposed to finish at 5pm.)

I went home and consumed a bottle of wine to calm my nerves. I was being humiliated, they were trying to rob me of my personality, my individuality, my attractiveness. They wanted me to fade into the background and wouldn't stop hassling me until I did. I'm ashamed to admit that they made me feel this bad, but I cried. A lot. Perhaps out of frustration more than self pity.

The next day, I wore the most beautiful grey pencil dress to work. A few inches above the knee, tight enough to make me wiggle instead of walk, frilled cap sleeves, flattering in every way possible and accessorized with a gorgeous over sized belt and some kitten heels. (Less conspicuous than stilettos, but I didn't give a fuck about the floor anymore.) It was my version of a massive 'fuck you'. I was subject to the usual glares but I rose above it. Before I left that day, I placed a letter on the Managing Director's desk, telling her in the politest way possible, everything I should have said in the last meeting, had I been allowed to get a word in edge ways. I pointed out the obvious victimisation that was going on, the hurt I felt about being forced to be someone I'm not and the insult I also felt, at the fact that they evidently hated me so much with no apparent reason. I appealed, in the sweetest way possible, to her better nature - that she would try and see beyond whatever was pissing her off about the way I look. I agreed to dress down slightly - albeit not down to the frumpy level they were expecting. I asked that they might cause less fuss about my clothes and concentrate a bit more on my work. Finally, I signed off by saying that I'd really love for myself and everyone to be able to put this whole matter behind us and start again, because despite everything, I was (was) enjoying my work.

The next day I was off to attend a hospital appointment for a cancer-related examination, which they forced me to tell them about, before they'd believe I wasn't just having a day's holiday to sun bathe. I went to the hospital feeling guilty for not having made an appointment at the weekend instead, despite having been instructed to attend as a matter of urgency. (I'm not dying, by the way. Thank fuck. Although they'd probably like me to be.) Later that day I received a phone call from the HR Manager (shoe police). No mention of "How did you get on at the hospital?" or "Are you OK?" - all she wanted to tell me was that they'd decided to terminate my contract with immediate effect, due to what she called 'incompatibility and irreconcilable differences'. "Don't come back on Monday," she told me, "We'll pay you a week's notice." Being in a probationary period, there wasn't a single thing I could do.

"You're too hot. You're fired!"

I should add (although it ought to be irrelevant), that in order to get the job in the first place, I made the fatal error of dressing down for the interview. I know how this shit works, I'd have never got the job if I'd dressed up and I knew this, but I wasn't going to be frumpy forever! And why the fuck should I be? I just wasn't prepared for how much I would enrage them by showing them my true colours once they'd taken me on.

I'm never going to apologise for looking after myself, for keeping a great figure, for dressing to accentuate it, for having a fetish for expensive, sexy shoes, for driving a nice car and for not watering all of this down by being a brainless bimbo. I take great pride in my appearance and I work my fucking fingers to the bone to afford everything I have. Nothing stops everyone else from doing the same, expect perhaps for some drive and determination. All I can say now, is give me men any day. I've had it with bitches.

EGO AND STATUS

2011-03-22T00:17:00.007Z

Men don't usually need an excuse to let their egos take over them, so when a man has celebrity status, even as a minor celebrity (and more to the point, when there are too many women willing to suck his cock just because...) then you can imagine how over inflated he becomes. I don't know if this works the same way for women, I try to remain impartial when it comes to gender issues, but personally I don't think I'd ever get far enough over my insecurities to assume that anyone and everyone wants to penetrate me!

I'll tell you a little story...

Not so long ago, in a professional capacity I took my friend to a gig being played by musicians (if you can call them that) with something of a cult status in the industry. They're famous, there's no doubt about that - but more as an act than individuals, and it's doubtful whether they'd be recognised in the street. Anyway, we got invited to the after show party where one member of said 'act' seemed to take a shine to me and asked if we would like to join them backstage for drinks. I hasten to add (and I know readers, you'll find it hard to believe I can be this naive...) I thought nothing of it, other than friendly/professional chat. After all, I genuinely didn't find him attractive!

A drink. Also known as SEX.

At this point and in hindsight I should ask a rhetorical question - why, when someone shows an interest in talking to you, should you automatically assume (with only limited evidence) that they want to fuck you? In my opinion, it would be terribly arrogant to do so! I mean, think about it. Can you imagine bringing this up to set them straight, only to be told the person doesn't even find you attractive?! The shame.

Anyway, I digress. There we were, backstage. With a glass of wine I sat next to said man on a leather sofa and we talked, opposite us my friend sat next to a member of his band, and they talked. We talked mainly about work, in case you're wondering. There were a couple of mentions of us being beautiful, but I chose to ignore that. To the best of my knowledge, I did nothing to lead him to believe I would be stripping off later and all seemed to be well. After half an hour or so, my friend and I then got invited to see their tour bus. A tour bus! Tres excitation! It's worth remembering by the way, that neither me or my friend fraternise with many celebrities, so this was a rare (and somewhat pathetic) treat. The tour bus was plush, as you'd expect. Like a winnebago with tinted windows. Guitars strewn about, an Xbox and a widescreen TV, drinks, more leather sofas... I spent a lot of time deep in thought, planning the decor of my own bus when I get asked to tour Waterstones. Before I knew it, we were being ushered out of the tour bus and into a nearby hotel, because the after show party had been cut short by the venue and the crew were expected. (In hindsight, the signs were apparent, I do realise this; but you realise a lot in hindsight.)

In the hotel lobby whilst waiting for keys to rooms that had been checked into earlier, the man in question seemed to have an obsession with the hotel's jacuzzi and whether or not it would still be open. At this point, bells were ringing but it wasn't as easy as you'd expect, to make my excuses and leave. I'm a writer and I had my own ulterior motives. I was hankering after this guy's little black book of A listers. And he definitely has one. I can handle this, I thought. Play it cool, steer it around. I'll get him so interested in my conversation that he'll think far too much of me to waste the night exchanging bodily fluids!

Moi?!

Upstairs, my friend and I parted company as her new 'friend' led her to his room and I was being led in the opposite direction with you know who. In his room (with no double bed, a minor offering from above) I sat awkwardly on a single bed pushed up against the wall. So awkwardly you might say, that I was trying too hard to not look awkward, which clearly had the opposite effect. I probably looked like I was ripe for a good seeing to. As he came and sat next to me I jumped up and escaped to the loo to consider my options. Do I -

A. Leave now to avoid further trouble?

B. Stay but continue to be coy and either - win by convincing him I'm not his type and befriending him instead, or - risk driving him crazy and eventually being chucked out on the grounds that I'm a cock tease?

C. Fuck him and hope for the best, although knowing full well that if I did this I'd never hear from him again and I'd be branded one of his cheap tour sluts.

Not tonight, dear.

As I surveyed my slightly overgrown bikini line, mis-matching underwear and the simple facts that I didn't fancy him and I have an ego myself, I wandered back out into the bedroom, imagining the best way to execute plan B. It wasn't easy. I had to be next to him and while ever I was next to him, he was trying to kiss me or was licking my neck. (Which I'm ashamed to say felt fucking divine and left me with slightly damp knickers.) I made some jokes about him doing this every night and having a girl in every city, which he calmly denied. Then I told him I was married. To which he answered "What's a bit of harmless fun between adults?" What is it indeed, when you're outrageously attracted to someone, and I was quickly being convinced. Eventually he managed to kiss me properly, mid conversation. His tongue was slow and gentle, then hard and probing, and for a split second I reverted to plan C. Then either God intervened or my brain engaged. I stood up and moved onto the other bed (two singles, remember). "I can't do this, I'm sorry. I didn't expect it to come to this, I know we were getting on but I thought we would just be friends..." (In other words, listen cunt - if you're under the impression I'm that easy, you've taken one too many pills. I call the sexual shots. And I'm no-one's groupie.)

I genuinely expected him to be nice about this, but as it happens, he was anything but.

"You want to be friends? Ok, what the fuck shall we talk about? Hmm? Shall we be best fucking friends?" He spat the words at me with pure venom from across the other side of the room where he'd walked to, pacing and fidgeting with what seemed to be anger waiting to vent. The priceless contacts I wanted slipped from my grasp, I was getting fuck all from him, like he was getting fuck all from me.

"I'm leaving." I said, fumbling to try and get my heels back on quickly, which isn't easy when they're lace up shoe-boots and a size too small. He wasn't planning to let me off that easily...

"I mean for fuck's sake, what the fuck are you doing in my hotel room at 2am, if you aren't going to fuck me?" (Questionable.) "You want to be friends? Grow the fuck up!"

Wow. Despite my shallow intentions, the words cut my own ego sharp and easy, like a knife through butter. He hated me. And all because he wasn't going to get laid. Somehow I got my shoes on and left the room, slamming the door behind me.

Fuck.

I spent the next forty minutes in the street, trying to make contact with my friend and waiting for my husband to pick me up. It wouldn't have been such a long wait, had I not decided to tell him everything on the phone before he even left. (We have a relationship built on honesty and open-mindedness above all else.) I was seething and shivering. It was only a few degrees and I'd left my fucking jacket at the venue. Eventually my friend came walking towards me, being chaperoned by her squeeze of the evening, his coat wrapped snugly around her shoulders, his arm around her waist. Now she hadn't fucked him (whether or not she was willing to is irrelevant -) but he hadn't flipped out like a spoiled brat who'd had his teething ring snatched off him and rammed up his shit covered arse!

I'm still wondering whether I was wholly to blame or whether a more reasonable man might have taken the sexual rejection a little more pleasantly. Either way, the black book still in sight I gave him another chance to accept the hand of friendship with a casually worded facebook message and a backhanded apology the next day. He's yet to reply...

I defy any woman to have handled this better without losing her self respect.

SEX ON FIRE

2011-03-16T15:44:00.004Z

They're not fucking joking when they tell you not to put Veet hair removal cream near your labs. As you can imagine, I don't heed advice very readily. Pah. Labs of steel. They've been through much worse. And so I proceed to spread the Veet cream over my cunny with a vigour only usually afforded to whipped cream and lube. (I like the word cunny. I am pleased that Boardwalk Empire has lovingly brought it into the 21st century.) In a few minutes, I think to myself, I'll have a landing strip worthy of P. Diddy's private jet and the rest will be smoother than Gail Porter's head. So I give it a good fifteen minutes and make myself a brew with no knickers on. It starts to tingle. That just shows it's working! (Yes, this is my genitalia, I should probably give more of a shit but, well... it's only hair removal cream.)

It seems they don't advise using it on the inside bits!

Nothing appeared to be wrong until I put my thong on and left the house. I spent the rest of the day throwing discretion to the wind and trying in vain to pick the stringy fabric from my bits, to alleviate a pain that can only be described as taking rough sandpaper to your most sensitive area. (It's not easy when you're wearing skin tight jeans, to stop your thong from rubbing.) As the day went on it got worse and when I visited the ladies, it was official. My cunny had been given a chemical peel and the remnants of skin were everywhere.

Imagine having this up your crack.

Later that day after several applications of Johnson's Baby Lotion, my husband, having caught sight of my new coiff ("I like your cunny's new hair do!", the word is really growing in popularity...), suffered the beginnings of a hard-on, that in my mind, was definitely not to be relieved, unless by his own hand or my mouth. Feeling generous and myself slightly turned on by the Jenna Jameson look I was modelling, I stripped him off and licked the tip of his cock until it sparkled with saliva and pre-cum. Then I took it, achingly stiff, into my mouth; sucking it hard, up and down, occasionally taking over with my hand so I could move onto his balls (which he regularly and so thoughtfully de-fluffs for my pleasure... should I tell him about Veet??) ...all the while granting him an unprecedented view of my new 'hair do' as I straddled him backwards, teasing myself with the close proximity of his face. The sight must have overwhelmed him because before I knew it, I was on my back being slammed into, whether my newly peeled cunny approved or not. When you're that turned on, a bit of pain is quickly over-powered by a deep relief when you finally get filled up and pounded really hard, in exactly the right spot.

Cumming in to land...

As it stands, I have the cunny of a 16 year old again! So as I push 30, my vagina looks virginal. Things always work out for the best... It is however, a cruel fact of life that we're not destined to have great sex without a whole lot of effort. This is where most marriages go wrong. Sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to keep things moving. And I mean whatever it takes. Veet's not even the tip of the iceberg...

Aeroplane picture courtesy of Allan Tegers Bodyscapes - http://www.bodyscapes.com/

CUT TO SHREDS

2011-03-11T22:27:00.033Z

Writing is THE most frustrating of creative practices. Not the writing itself, you understand - because when you can truly write, when you care about your work and other people can appreciate and enjoy your ability and fiercely individual style, it's cathartic, uplifting and fulfilling. Each finely edited piece of work is something that is so deeply considered, so painfully extracted that it's like a piece of your soul. Take this blog for example. As much as writing comes easily to me, I take on average four to five hours to perfect, re-edit and format each blog entry until I'm happy for it to be read. Because unlike most other bloggers, I do this properly. I don't just mindlessly spew out my day's events in a torrent of badly punctuated, non structured musings and expect people not to be bored senseless within the first paragraph. Instead, I consider this part of my portfolio and as such it deserves the same care and attention I give to all my work. (In fact more so most of the time, because this blog is going to remain the way I intended.)

Any creative work is sacred to its creator. Ask a musician how they feel about their compositions or an artist what their paintings mean to them and you'll begin to understand. Yet unlike pieces of visual art which are accepted and loved in their finished form as declared by the creator, writing is a craft that people feel they can fuck about with, because some twat always knows how it would be better put. Well FUCK YOU editors, sub-editors and well meaning colleagues, who ought to consider their own professional inadequacies before looking for the most trivial of mine. Aside from spelling errors, bad grammar and incorrect punctuation (none of which feature in my work unless it's a typo due to consuming cream liqueur whilst writing), there is no reason why if someone thinks my work is good enough to feature in their publication in the first place, they should then presume to know what I meant to say, but for some reason - (known only to the dick head that is trying to re-word it) didn't.

Give me strength.

If you can't find a technical flaw in my work, leave it the fuck alone and write something yourself, if you think you're so shit hot.

Touche.

I must at this point, refer to a rant of legendary status, by Giles Coren.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jul/23/mediamonkey

The pure venom in this letter almost threatens to splatter you in the face if you get to close to the screen. And duly so. I can't express it any better and simply adore the C word.

I complained to my editor today, about one of my interview features that's barely recognisable in its published form, with an embarrassingly cringey title, everything re-arranged, the last two paragraphs sliced off altogether, no ending to speak of, all my little quips stripped out and worst of all, my name still at the top. It's as sterile as the needle full of diazepam I'd like to inject into my arm right now. Here's the profoundly indifferent response I received -

You have to get used to that when you write stuff. (That ‘stuff’ of 800 words you’ve just hacked apart took me four hours to construct, that’s after I spent a day researching and conducting the interview.)

Whether it’s for us or national magazines. (Please, I'm about to laugh...)

You might not agree with it but we know what we’re doing. I’ve been doing this for 16 years. After I’ve tweaked it, it’s seen by the Features Editor who may make changes, then the sub-editor. (Is it any wonder it doesn't look anything like my work when it comes out from your office, having been gang raped by three red pens?)

Then it’s checked again. (What the fuck is this, MI6?)

Sub-editors do the headlines. (Badly!)

Feature interviews tend to end with a quote – it’s a style thing. (Does that mean you look for the quote nearest the end of the piece and then slice off everything that follows, because you're too fucking lazy to re-construct the mess you've just made?)

If you want to stop doing it, fair enough – but even I get copy changed that I don’t agree with. And I’m ace. (No, you're really not. But in any case it's nice to know you're grateful for my efforts and show such concern.)

My tantrums aside, trying to get an editor to understand the stupidity of his/her actions proves to be more pointless than educating Liz Jones. Equally laughable and barely worth the internet server space it takes up, is a bleating reply to Giles Coren's letter, from some disgruntled Times subbies.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jul/29/sundaytimes.pressandpublishing?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487

As Hilda Ogden and Vera Duckworth so convincingly point out, sub-editing is a noble and thankless profession, apparently so because The Times have no standards which they ask contributors to fulfill. It seems they let any twat write for them, hence the need for a sub-editor who so nobly has to re-arrange their work into some readable form. Here's the thing - why is this 'badly structured, poorly spelt, appallingly punctuated, lazily researched' bullshit they speak of, ever submitted to or accepted by The Times in the first place?

Liz Jones. Either she gives head to the Mail editors, or they're as stupid as she is.

This leads me to my next point, adding the vilest insult to injury of car crash proportions. I'm being completely taken advantage of, because I (who can string a decent sentence together and don't need my spelling corrected or my brain lobotomised, as the lady above does...) have never been paid a penny for my work. Yes, it's true. Because I don't have a famous Daddy and Piers Morgan isn't my fuck buddy (but for the record, I wouldn't say no...) - I have spent the best part of four years writing for various publications who like to think of themselves as charities. They're local newspapers who rake in money from advertising, pay a few reporters, editors and admin staff and then allow all the poor, disillusioned wannabes to write them valuable features and columns for nothing but an email of thanks, if the editor can spare the time.

Me. "What's that you say? It would be better if I put whose name at the top?"

I'm not going to pretend I get nothing out of these opportunities to write. I get to build my portfolio, that collection of published work, invaluable to all new writers. Only I'm not new anymore. I'm an established writing graduate, with inimitable style, whose portfolio is busting at the seams and who's getting to the end of her fuse with national papers who 'don't know me' and local rags who 'don't pay me'. Does my unfaltering determination not speak for itself? I'd have given up by now if I didn't think I was born to do this. In any case, what fucking good is the aforementioned portfolio, when it's actually the portfolio of sub-editors? (And a shockingly bad one, at that.)

FACE IT GIRLS: WE'LL NEVER BE EVEN

2011-01-03T17:28:00.051Z

Women. We're a confused bunch, torn between trying to assert ourselves as equal to, sometimes even above men and being so fucking turned on by being sexually lusted after, that it often hurts and the only remedy is to get laid like a blow up doll. True feminists would say these two ideals are a perfect juxtaposition. I'd say we're getting more and more like men by the day. The very fact that we can be comfortable with being dominant and submissive depending on how we feel and that it doesn't have to mean anything, signifies our arrival at the place of 'no label', the place where we can just be; without excuse. It's been a luxury afforded to men since evolution began. And now we're free to experiment and enjoy sex merely for the sake of it, we don't have to be categorised, we don't have to explain ourselves. If we want to be held down and fucked mercilessly senseless one day, then tie a man up and sit on his face for hours the next, we can do that. Hell, we can treat and be treated any way possible, as long as it's consensual and no-one gets hurt against their will. That could have been the end of this blog entry, if everything were really on that much of an even keel. Alas, there is a small problem. One which still divides men and women in the bedroom, one which given an unnecessarily prolonged life thanks to mindless, unoriginal and badly directed porn; just won't go away. It looks like this -

Men: I know you don't understand women, but do you actually think we enjoy this?

What man, in their right mind, thinks that it turns a woman on, to shoot his slimy, stringy load all over the face that she kindly made up to perfection, so that he would find her attractive in the first place? It seems my own husband did, until I educated him. It's just bad fucking manners! I mean for the love of God, just imagine trying to get that shit out of your eyelashes!!

Let's break this down. Why would a man even feel the need to cum on a woman's face? And make no mistake - it's not like cumming on any other part of the body. The tits - fine. The arse - sexy. But the face is the one part of the body that should remain sacred, totally equal to that of your partner's. The face is the personality, it's how we communicate, where we see, where we breathe - it's the focal point of a human being. Why would he want to desecrate it with his semen as he stands over her, lording it like a fireman with his hose, trying to put out the flickering flame of independence she's finally proud to own? It seems pretty obvious to me; that above all else it's a sign of ownership, if only for the short time he's doing her. A bit like a tom cat pissing up a hedge or my male rabbit, pissing up my leg - but these are animals, they have underdeveloped brains no bigger than the average testicle and no other way of being able to communicate! Can't men make do with an engagement ring or if that's too much to ask, simply stealing your knickers? A cum facial is also what I like to call a sexual V sign. A 'fuck you, bitch, I'm done here and you're nothing to me', as he wipes his cock on the curtain, zips his flies back up, steps over you and reaches for the door, leaving you to try and regain your eyesight. Now, I like rough sex and I like playing the dirty slut sometimes, I like power play and I'm happy to be someone's whore, because in a weird inexplicable way I feel empowered by it, but the thin line between dominance and complete insult and disrespect is one that many men, in their small minded way, never quite seem to grasp.

Male dominance when it works and when it's hot. So sexy...

Though I'm often accused of being a lipstick feminist, I'm also a wholehearted believer and accepter of what men and women find attractive about each other - men are strong, powerful, physically assertive; women are soft, caring, tactile and nurturing. These are indisputable and unchangeable differences which we have come to accept, begrudgingly in some cases. But I love it. It's like yin and yang. Men and women have superiority in very different ways, but who comes out on top in the bedroom? Well I had this conversation with a friend and we agreed that the physical makeup of men and women holds the answer. To put it crudely, a man has a big protruding thing which becomes user friendly at will, with which to poke into a hole, dare I go so far as to say, a void - until he is satisfied. We women, bearer of the void, are at an immediate disadvantage - we can be raped for a start. These physiological facts are just something we have to come to terms with because the situation's never going to change and to be honest, it's best not to dwell on it if you're even remotely liable to bouts of feminist rage and feelings of inferiority. On the whole, it doesn't appear to be an issue - women and men bond very well, they're physically and emotionally compatible in the bedroom, they're both geared up to experience equal amounts of pleasure, often from mutual activities like penetration; but then men have to go and spoil things by upsetting what we hoped (naively) was a power balance. 'I'm going to ruin you' is the phrase of choice for the misled alpha male, trying his damnedest to turn his woman on. And if he's the type to say things like that, you can guarantee that he's just booked you an appointment for a protein face masque that's going to take some serious scrubbing to remove.

"I say darling, one has had a rather splendid idea!"

I asked quite a few men about the whole 'cum facial' scenario. The general consensus was that indeed, it's a man's favourite bedroom showpiece. Why? 'Because it's dirty', was the reply every single time. As they were unable to be more specific, I was left to wonder - what does this mean? In my mind, dirty is synonymous with lack of respect, of treating a woman like a shag bag, not a human being who has the same desires for pleasure. And if there's one thing men are good at, it's being in denial and carrying on regardless. 'I wouldn't do it if my wife/girlfriend didn't like it', I hear them bleat, like I should award them for their generosity in even contemplating what their wife/girlfriend wants! I wonder how many of them have actually asked; and of the ones who have, I wonder whether their other halves do genuinely enjoy it or are just too spineless to tell the truth and don't want to appear frigid. Women are renowned for being passive about sex - anything to please the man. Well - not on my watch! Girls, for fucks sake, do yourselves a favour.

I'm going to put it out there for all womankind - the only time I'd ever get my face spunked on, is if I was abducted by a necrophiliac. When the idea has been put to me in the past, (I say idea, it was more me being informed of what's about to happen) the man's fateful words were usually met with first pity at his unoriginal and clearly faltering attempts at trying to be macho, then: complete contempt. Let's be honest, he might as well tell you he's going to take a big, steaming shit on your face and will then rub it in with his shoe on his way out the door. Yes, it's that much of an insult. To add insult to injury, I quizzed my male interview subjects on the following scenario, to see how they'd react when the balance is redressed, as one female friend put it: "Let's say you'd just cum on your woman's face and she leaned in to kiss you, getting some of your cum on your face and on your mouth. How would you react, would this bother you?" Well, I might as well have asked them if it's OK to do them really hard up the arse, with a 12 inch, pink-diamond encrusted dildo, bearing the Barbie logo. Standard remarks included 'Gross', 'Creeped out', 'Are you serious?! I don't want my jizz on my face!'. I wonder if even now, when reading this in context, their hypocrisy is sinking in.

I personally am not repulsed by my own bodily fluids. And if I were, I wouldn't be arrogant enough to assume someone else wants them all over their boat race! I could quite happily writhe around all over a man's face, kiss him afterwards and if he wanted, I would even lick it all off - because A. I'm not a hypocrite and B. I don't secrete Bostik! I've tried many times to think of the female equivalent for this degrading and domineering habit. The best and most similar that I can come up with, displaying the same lack of respect, is straddling his face until he nearly suffocates. But assuming he lives, even that lacks the same finality, the parting gift of 'Thanks, now deal with all the white slime that's about to stick your eyelids together'. If only we could projectile deposit our periods, believe you me, I'd have that down to a fine art! Maybe Mary Wollstonecraft was right all along: the ultimate threat to a man's power is a woman who is more intelligent than him! Well don't be surprised if we come to that obvious conclusion, when you come out with such laughable lines as 'I'm going to cum all over your face' or 'I'm going to ruin you!' Physical ruin, (on a woman not equipped with the right shoes) you might be capable of. But in the long run, our manipulative minds will still be in tact, whereas yours, if the woman has done her job properly - will be scarred for life. And projectile cum shooting isn't going to help you.

Now go forth and have some respect!

Thanks to my interview subjects. I'm sorry I have to disagree with a lot of the men I spoke to! No hard feelings boys, I still love you. ;)

Thank you to John Seaman, talented photographer and my friend, responsible for the gorgeous photo of the red head and her stud. For more info on his work, please visit - www.modelmayhem.com/484036 or http://www.ablackswan.com/

APOSTROPHE CATASTROPHE!

2010-10-10T13:10:00.048+01:00

OK, everyone who spent their English lessons asleep (or flunked school completely), listen the fuck up! I'm getting increasingly annoyed at the amount of people who can't fathom the correct usage of the APOSTROPHE. It grates on me so much, I actually have to sit on my hands sometimes when on Facebook, to stop myself abruptly correcting someone, because they haven't got the foggiest clue where one goes and so they just put one any fucking where!! STOP. NOW.

To be honest, I'd rather people didn't use them at all if they don't know what they're for. To use an extreme example, it's like using a vibrator to whisk an egg or a saucepan to put on your thick head when it's raining. Generally in life, if you don't understand something, you either avoid it altogether, or make some attempt to educate yourself! Can we agree on that much? No-one can expect to be taken seriously or respected in a professional capacity if they can't even punctuate. So now I've got the shouting off my chest, I'll explain how it actually works.

The basic, everyday usage is not that complicated. (Not to undermine the poor apostrophe - it can get very complicated with certain compound nouns and plural possessives - but I'm going to keep it simple (and smutty) for beginners and those with a low boredom threshold.)

Now, let's begin. (Let's is an abbreviation of let us. Get it? That's a start, at least.)

LESSON ONE

The first use of the apostrophe is to signify possession, whereby we would place an apostrophe before the S. For example -

- The hooker's fake tits and slutty expression

- Coleen's blissful ignorance

- Wayne's lack of any common sense or discretion

Comprendez? (That means understand, in French.)

"Excuse me Miss, I don't understand!"

"It's OK Rooney, you're excused. Just go and fetch the ball."

When we make more than one of something or a group of people, like friends, into a possessive noun, we would place the apostrophe after the S. For example -

- His friends' wives thought it was rather amusing.

(Confusion sometimes arises when a word is used which is already plural. For example - if we were to say 'the woman's stupid husband', that's fairly straight forward. But, if we were talking about all of the England WAGS, we would say 'the women's stupid husbands.' In this case, unlike with 'friends', the apostrophe is placed before the S, because the word is already plural, before the S is placed.)

Are you still awake at the back??

LESSON TWO

Now, the second use of the apostrophe is when we omit letters to join together and shorten words. We put an apostrophe in place of the missing letters.

So, to shorten 'Even though he is ugly, we would definitely still give him one', we can say -

- 'Even though he's ugly, we'd definitely still give him one'.

Or to shorten 'I hate WAGS, they are a bunch of common gold-diggers with their perfect tits and fake hair', we can say -

- 'I hate WAGS, they're a bunch of common gold-diggers, with their perfect tits and fake hair'.

PLEASE NOTE - the difference in the last example, between they're and their. Do I need to go into this?! Oh, for the love of God...

- Their (belonging to them)

- There (as in 'there it is')

- They're (short for 'they are')

This is elementary! I don't care if you're dyslexic or just stupid - you have a fucking memory don't you??

INCORRECT AND TOTALLY MIND-BOGGLINGLY RIDICULOUS USE OF THE APOSTROPHE

Seriously, WHY?

We do NOT need an apostrophe to indicate that a word is plural (that is, that there is more than one of something) unless we are also indicating possession. For example, the following is WRONG!

'Did you see the photo's of Britney getting out of the car with no pant's on and her flap's hanging out?'

and so is this -

- 'Oops, I have burnt my vagina because I picked up my GHD's instead of my plug-in vibe'

Give me strength...

(Letter abbreviations and numbers do NOT require an apostrophe to be made plural. You might feel slightly disturbed at the thought of placing an S somewhere without an apostrophe, especially after a number, but you need to get over it because you're wrong! And ironically, you probably thought you were being clever. Haha. In your stupid dreams.)

Quite what possesses people to add an apostrophe, to signify there is more than one of something, or any time there's an S involved, I have NO idea. If you do this, next time you do - ask yourself, 'what purpose does that apostrophe serve, other than making me look like a complete twat?'

If you can't work it out, it's most probably because you are a complete twat.

Can you spot the mistake now? If not, you have nothing to smile about.

Now, go forth into the world and PUNCTUATE PROPERLY.

THE ELUSIVE ORGASM

2010-10-01T15:40:00.015+01:00

Women's magazines will have you believing that an orgasm shouldn't be the primary goal when you have sex. So, when your orgasm goes AWOL (and everyone suffers this from time to time), we should merely rejoice in the sacred journey to.... well, the land of no orgasm. I will quote my favourite fictional character Samantha Jones - that is such a crock of shit. Sex without climax is like December without the 25th. All that fuss and effort and hard fucking work - and you don't even get to open your presents and squeal with delight at the treat that comes out of nowhere! Now, before we go any further, it's not all bad. Like December, sex provides some fun along the way, but - (assuming a vaginal orgasm is the urban myth everyone knows it to be) it just leads to a massive amount of frustration when it doesn't culminate in anything. There you are, your legs wrapped around some hot guy, his big hard cock feels great inside you, if you're lucky it might even make contact with your G spot for at least some of the time - and you're trying, you're really God damn well trying... it feels fucking amazing, because nothing compares to being fucked really hard - but to make it perfect, YOU NEED TO COME! So later on, you'll try and go it alone. You're not even going to waste your time with such primitive instruments that resemble a cock. You'll be trying to hit the spot with the real deal - a rampant rabbit. And that rarely disappoints, but when even that does, you know you're really in the shit.

In case you hadn't noticed, it's giving you the V sign

It gets worse. For those normal women among us, who insist on coming first (because let's be honest, if you haven't come before him, you can kiss goodbye to ever coming at all...), you might have even been in the position where a man is eating your pussy like his life depended on it. Making eye contact with you every so often, in such eager anticipation is he that you climax, he's trying things that would challenge an octopus. The more you both want it to happen, the less achievable it seems to be, until he's practically blue-faced and half dead and you're lying on your back in a state of extreme irritation, cursing the usually excitable clitoris that seems to have gone into a coma and wondering if it will ever be revived.

Yes please

The female libido and ability to orgasm is so finely tuned to the mind and underlying factors, that sometimes, when you most expect to be able to come, you simply can't. You can guarantee it will be when you're in the situation you assumed would most turn you on. Perhaps it's the classic case of anticlimax, perhaps it's the forbidden nature of what you're doing that creates a mental block, perhaps it's simply the fact that you want to come so badly, you're just trying too hard - one thing's for sure, if your brain has an issue with the situation for whatever reason, it's not going to get you there. In my experience, forget fantasies, the best orgasms happen when you let go of thought 100%. When you're in the most safe and comfortable situation possible, alone or with someone, not being judged and not worrying about how you'll come across to another person and whether or not they'll like or approve of you and your bedroom antics and concentrating purely on the sensations - this is prime mindblowing territory. That said, I'd like to hope it's pretty amazing if you can get there when all the odds are against you and your over-analytical brain... when you're doing something really fucking bad, when your Mum definitely wouldn't approve - even if she's Ann Summers and when it feels so wrong that it can only be right. It's no wonder that in moderation, drugs and alcohol seem to allow for such amazing sex. If you can get the balance right between stone cold sober and wasted (ie - inhibitionless and ripe for the time of your life) and you don't have to drive home with your shamed head in your hands, you're onto a clear winner.

TO FEEL OR NOT TO FEEL

2010-08-02T14:19:00.016+01:00

I used to have a friend, a self righteous and arrogant little bastard he was, who thought he knew everything. And one day, when I dared to mention the deep, prolonged and sometimes totally spontaneous spells of depression I can go into, he spoke the words that anyone who's ever suffered genuine depression or a depressive mental illness of any kind, will prickle at the very whisper of - 'Depression doesn't exist, it's all in the mind. Everyone gets fed up and that's all it is, some people just feel sorry for themselves. Get over it.'

CUNT.

For as long as I can remember, I've had these crippling cycles of feeling completely worthless and incapable of achieving anything, where everything appears negative, I can barely move, my energy levels plummet and I honestly feel like I'd rather be dead than alive. There are times when it's all I can do to get dressed in the morning and force myself through a day of work, to come home and spend most of the evening in tears over something I can't even explain. I'm snappy, irritable, nasty, hysterical, tired, ugly and always guilt ridden for the people who have to be around me. Nothing appeases me, as much as I want it to. And right there is the sign that it's not something I am enjoying. I'm not brooding for some masochistic pleasure, I don't enjoy resenting the day I was born and I don't feel good about making everyone else's life a misery. In fact, hating myself for not being able to control these spells, serves as further fuel for a never ending cycle that is sometimes so consuming and powerful, I can hardly breathe.

Get yourself some waterproof, love...

'Go on pills!' The doctor says. 'Don't go on pills!' My Mum says.
After breaking down in the doctor's room, I say that I have hit rock bottom and am willing to try anything to make this life more bearable. So six months ago, after failed psychotherapy, I succumbed to the pills and took them for three months. What a time in my life that was. Initially, I felt nothing. (All good, the doc said. This means they're not having a placebo effect!) After two or three weeks, I started to feel an almost serene calmness washing over me. This didn't last very long and I can only put it down to the fact that it was such a drastic change from my previous mood swings. The calmness quickly gave way to an even plateau, neither positive nor negative, whereby I hardly even felt at all. I could have been some purposeless android, with no reaction to anything other than indifference. I didn't care about anything. I had gone from crying almost every day, to not even being able to squeeze a tear out over The Green Mile. I was merely existing, although on the positive side, I was sleeping all night, which had become a rarity. It probably came as a welcome break for my husband, who had a well earned respite from my ups and downs, but sadly for him it soon became apparent that I had lost interest in sex as well as everything else. We were going for weeks without so much as a kiss and I didn't care. I wouldn't have cared if I'd never had sex again. I developed the weirdest twitches and involuntary spasms, it sounds funny now, but it wasn't funny when I kept randomly biting my own tongue. Then the pains started. First in my legs, then in my arms and shoulders - muscle cramps that meant at times I could hardly walk or pull back the bed covers. I spent two weeks in agony, taking painkillers, wondering how I had pulled all these muscles, until I eventually saw the doctor and he told me it was a side effect of the medication. Under his instructions I weaned myself off them and I started to feel again. I regained my glorious self gradually and it seemed blissful at first. It felt therapeutic to cry, amazing to have an orgasm, satisfying to lose my temper. Then the cycle began again and I'm back where I was before.

The doctor is still waiting for me to go back for a new type of medication but I am not exactly banging his door down. Frankly, I'm scared of losing myself again. I can't decide what's worse, feeling like I want to die, or not caring whether I live or die. I do know that when I'm myself, I am capable of reaching the very pinnacle of euphoria, all be it for a short time. I have bouts of imagination and inspiration that have resulted in some of the things I am proudest of. But when I start to go down, these achievements mean jack shit. As far as I am concerned, I am useless and not even worth the oxygen that I breathe. And when I suffer, everyone else suffers with me.

Writing is one of the hardest things to do when I go into a downward spiral, it's an emotionally draining thing at the best of times. Often, I just don't have what it takes in my heart to make it seem sincere, and without sincerity, what's the point?

Thankfully I have a lot of friends who understand me. They suffer as well and I value their honesty and acceptance of me. No-one who's normal likes a weirdo, a mental case, a crazy, a pill popper, a psycho or at the very least a miserable bitch or bastard. But we love each other and if there's nothing else we understand it's that we don't choose to be like this.

For MB, CD, JH, IP, ML, KM and SM x

BOUND AND GAGGED

2010-06-04T17:21:00.007+01:00

What was meant to be a liberating habit, has ceased to exist at all just lately. (No, not masturbating, updating my blog!) Since it is no longer anonymous as most of the people I know read it, I have fallen into the trap I was trying to avoid, of having to censor myself. Not so much for me or to save my own dignity, but more that of other people who I care about and who generally have more self respect when it comes to airing their dirty laundry. So, just as I was starting to get a fairly regular following, I had to go silent. And I'm feeling the pain. I have this over whelming urge to just blurt stuff out, either by talking to people or by writing. Somehow it makes me feel better about myself, it's like a verbal purging of my inner demons, those bastards that eat away from the inside unless you find a way to let them out.

Make a sound and I'll slit your fucking throat, bitch...

Thus, my musings have become confined to my sweeter, more naive little sister - the column in the paper. I'm going to have to find a way to reconcile with my blog because I miss it and it misses me and together we have a lot of fun. But where's the fun in holding back? The fun you'd have reading this, if I were to really let rip...

I'm trying to get to the root of what I'm scared of and I believe it's that I can't control how people judge me. And they would judge me. And the very worst case scenario? My Mother would find out. And after saying ten hail Marys, throwing Holy water on me and watching me sizzle and burn as she drags me to the nearest Priest for absolution, she would then proceed to judge me as well. We all judge each other. It's an inevitable trait that comes with being human and morally accountable. (We especially judge our own children, because we feel responsible for the person they turn out to be.) How do we come about our judgment call? We figure, if I wouldn't do it, neither should they.

Therefore, the only way to avoid being subject to someones opinions about you, is to shut the fuck up.

Now, if I can manage to think of something else to talk about...

BECAUSE SHE'S WORTH IT. ISN'T SHE?? UNCUT VERSION

2010-04-21T23:45:00.005+01:00

If reports are to be believed, Cheryl ‘Angel of the North’ Cole, will bag £1.7 million if she agrees to take part in the next series of the X Factor, thanks to a huge pay rise. Her presence on the show is vital, according to insiders and her boss, Simon Cowell. As far as I can tell, she is basically paid to be a role model for the young and misled working class who idolise her - for what, I don’t know, and as a result of that pathetic infatuation, which is also shared by an alarming percentage of adults - they tune in to watch Simon Cowell’s live pop star factory on a Saturday night. I ask once again - what’s so special about Cheryl? Perhaps it’s because she managed to drag herself out of the council estate she used to live in and became rich, famous and desperately sought after for, well - not very much at all. She's stunning, I'll give her that. But there are plenty of stunning pop stars out there. If there’s anything she could justifiably pioneer, it’s taking advantage of the ridiculous, mindless society we live in that puts anyone on a pedestal, regardless of what they’ve achieved in life. Call me jealous and bitter if you want. I can’t argue that I’m slightly jealous of her wealth and the apparent ease at which she makes everyone adore her, but seriously – I wouldn’t be too proud of myself if I were her and I come from a working class family myself.

'Our Chez'

I have tried for a long time to understand what everyone sees in her, but I can’t seem to get past the fact that her success is largely down to luck and the fact that much of the population shares her mentality. It’s this she owes her success to, not forgetting an incredible PR agent and a bloody good dentist. If someone’s idea of a role model is a working class girl who won a place in a tacky girl band, beat a toilet attendant up over some chupa-chups (lollipops), had to do community service for her crime and then went on to have some thorns tattooed around her thigh, marry a footballer, veneer her teeth and extend her hair until she became known as the prettiest girl in showbiz, whilst occasionally singing live, very badly – then fine. If everyone can just admit that, I’ll get over it and move somewhere that still values people for their talents and achievements, somewhere where the general population still has some taste. Because as far as I’m concerned, she’s down there with other useless tabloid fodder like the deceased Jade Goody and Katie ‘Jordan’ Price, who the population can’t seem to get enough of.

We used to have role models we could be proud of, we used to idolise people who actually deserved the accolades and publicity thrown their way - Lady Diana used much of her life and fame to help others and Mother Teresa was a living Saint. I’m not suggesting that you have to be a missionary to make the front page or devote your whole life to charity and adopt a mansion full of foreign orphans before you can be admired (I’m not even sure that works for Madonna and Angelina) but you’ve got to be more than be a living mannequin with built in waterworks and such phrases as ‘I thoroughly enjoyed that’, ‘you’re my little pop star’ and now - ‘because you’re worth it.’ The L’Oreal deal is bad enough, they’re paying her to tell us it’s their shampoo that makes her hair huge, not £10,000 worth of extensions. But now Cheryl’s on the cover of Vogue! I used to adore that magazine for the snobbish, high-end glossy it was. Now it’s cashing in, like everyone else, on the public fascination for ‘chav done good’.

Most telling are the comments I hear from certain men about ‘our Chez’, as she is affectionately known by her fans. I can’t repeat them here, [this was for the Topper, I think you all know full well I'd put it on my blog!] but it’s always things they’d like to do to her. There’s usually a ring involved but it’s not on her finger and sometimes it’s not even consensual. In some ways I feel sorry for her. She’ll never be known for her ability to empower women, let alone her ability to sing, write songs, conduct business deals, front charities... Sadly for her, she’s famed for her face, her attire of a Saturday night as she sits primly next to Simon Cowell, her rocky marriage to Ashley Cole and her seemingly innocent way of provoking men to want to violate her. Her unprecedented popularity is a disturbing sign of the times.

HOT FUZZ

2010-03-03T00:54:00.025Z

It's high time I lowered the tone again and after a rather lengthy Facebook discussion with a certain friend of mine today, the subject of hair removal was brought up. Make that pube removal. (Because few people have an issue with the hair on their heads!) Said friend was questioning the etiquette of male hair down under. Since I could never do justice to his genius phrasing, I am going to quote him directly -

"Is it gay or too vain? Does it grow back less coarse? Will it be 'fluffy bum' with regrowth, after a year of waxing? I don't want to be on that slab one day and a fit coroner go eeewwwwhhh!! And would it be cost effective against 27 wipes as opposed to max 2 wipes?"

A complicated and sticky subject with many concerns and I must say, it's nice for a man to be thinking about it in this much detail for a change. Think it's easy to have smooth, fuzz free rude bits?! Do you??! I will attempt to address these issues one by one as they all deserve my full attention and a friend in need is for sure, a friend indeed...

Is it gay or too vain? Well, that depends on your motivation for going hair free. If it's easy access you're after and good aim for your chocolate starfish, then yes it's gay. If it's because you don't like the thought of your partner staring into your hair infested crack as you're engaged in a soixante neuf, then yes, it's vain. One other possibility is that you might be showing some consideration for your partners aversion to hair balls, particularly if your waxing extends to the scrotal area and you're partial to a bit of tea bagging!

Does it grow back less coarse? Will it be 'fluffy bum' with regrowth, after a year of waxing? No, it does not grow back less coarse. As anyone who has ever tweezed their eyebrows or shaved their legs will know, it grows back with a wiry vengeance. Unless you're one of the unlucky few for whom it barely grows back at all, because each poor hair is trapped under the skin and can only make an appearance in the guise of an angry spot. Don't be surprised if the itching is so bad, you get accused of having crabs.

You've been warned...

I don't want to be on that slab one day and have a fit coroner go eeewwwwhhh!!! I'm not that clued up on post-mortem code of practise, but I'm going to assume that unless they suspect you've been bummed to death, they won't turn you on your side and have a gawp between your bum cheeks. But if they do, it's true, they might prefer the sight of a neatly groomed crevice. That said, we are talking corpses here. And if the coroner is even remotely attracted to you in your, erm, stiff state... the last thing I'd be worrying about if I were your ghost staring down from the ceiling, would be the state of my bum hole. Furthermore, is there such a thing as a fit coroner?!

Would it be cost effective against 27 wipes, as opposed to max 2 wipes? It's no secret that hair harbours all manner of particles. Remember Roald Dahl's story, The Twits? Mr Twit's beard was a haven of food, clinging mercilessly to the hairs surrounding the hole in his face. If stuff on the way in gets caught up, it's got to work the other way around! I can validate this claim further. My dog, a wire-haired miniature sausage dog, has the 'scruffy rear end = caught up poo crumbs' problem and I have to sort it out with nail scissors on a regular basis. I'm not sure toilet paper would resolve this problem, rather than make it a whole lot worse and spread it about! With this in mind, toilet paper can do its job a whole lot better if it's wiping against a smooth surface. You may be able to economise right down to one sheet if you invest in a quality 3 ply quilted and some veet.

NB: I am all for male hair removal in any region where oral activity may be a possibility. May this be your guide. It's not gay, it's not vain, it's just polite. If you don't want your Mrs to be hiding a shag pile between her pins for you to cough up after a few seconds of lapping, then you're going to have to set an example. This is the 21st century, we reserve the right to go on strike.

This post is dedicated to my friend ML. Much love! You always make me smile. X

THE DAWN OF THE ALPHA COUPLE

2010-02-03T16:16:00.003Z

I believe that men and women are slowly beginning to evolve into like minded beings that can think and act beyond typical stereotypes. If we have to live together, how long can we be at mental loggerheads and be complete opposites, as it's often assumed we are?

The concept of alpha beings is ancient, it still exists in wolf communities and yet in our changing human world, we continue to adhere to its impossible standards. I'd like to think we're slightly more sophisticated than a pack of slobbering dogs and I'm the first person to admit a complete lack of appreciation for (and even a mild hatred, in some cases) of the typical, neanderthal-brained 'alpha' male. Today, in his extreme state, he is the breadwinner, but also a beer guzzling fanatic of competitive team sports (usually football), often derogatory to women, prone to aggression with misled fashion sense and a belief that biceps bigger than his head make him attractive. (Try to get him to wear a suit outside of his workplace if he's not a builder, or on an occasion other than his own wedding, and he will probably use these biceps, even on a woman.) And I dare you to tell him he'd look good in pink. I did say this was his extreme state. (Perhaps what I'm describing is actually a chav. And perhaps the concept of 'alpha male' is akin to being a chav these days. I would go as far as saying that this issue is class and education related. A colleague of my husband's saw him reading the fashion pages of GQ recently and thought it was a gay magazine. Enough said. (He wears the company issue nylon suits, and it's not compulsory to do so.)

What do they really think it achieves??

On the other hand, it would be only fair to describe the typical beta female. She is bland, accommodating of all kinds of shit, has too many kids, stops wearing makeup because she 'hasn't got time', drinks Rosé wine by the case and has no career to speak of. (But is adamant that her job bringing up the family is just as fulfilling.) If she's genuinely happy, then I'm happy for her. Honest.

If she is not actually happy, there is clearly another way. Educated people are making the transition from what used to be considered the accepted and advocated norm, to something more refined and a lot more complex. We live in a world where brains get men further than brawn and where women want more mental fulfilment than childbearing alone can give them. The new alpha male is one who has enough confidence not to be threatened by a strong woman with goals outside of the home and she too of course, has alpha qualities. If the alpha male has learned to kerb his jealousy and aggression and stop assuming he needs to provide everything from his sperm to the daily bread, he will quickly begin to understand that he can have a fulfilling relationship with someone he has something in common with. He can even share the role of child raising! You'd have a hard job convincing a depressing number of men that this is the way forward, so stuck are they in the past and their perception of gender roles.

The vice of the young housewife

A 2007 Times article by Kate Mulvey surmises that what we women need to do to solve this problem, is to continue to provide for ourselves and get what we want out of life, but seek a 'beta male' to complement this lifestyle choice. Coming to terms with role reversal is the key, she asserts. I beg to differ, rather strongly. Why should a man surrender his right to his alpha qualities to give way to the female? It's the very thing we are complaining about as women, so aren't we being a little hypocritical?! She writes -

"We all witnessed the implosion of the 1980s power couple. As women flexed their shoulder pads, all you got were stressed couples who were battling for the same role and trying to find a slot in their diaries for dinner."

I'd say that was because neither of them valued their marriage as much as their career. Perhaps if they both let up slightly, in equal quantities, they'd have time for each other. I fail to see why the 'finding time' bit has to be completely one sided, whilst the other disgruntled person is at home eagerly waiting for them to announce a two hour opening. We're beings of equal intellect, how can we continue to expect to treat each other with such inequality?

In the words of my own neo-alpha male when asked what women should do, he said "Women should stand their ground and only settle for men who are willing to take them and their intelligence and careers on board and eventually, the concept of the selfish alpha male would die out altogether. Underachieving women with no goals are boring and dull. What would you have to talk about?" True as it may be, typical alpha males see their marriage as a more of a convenience than a partnership. They don't want to talk to their women, confide in them or ask for their advice, they just want to be fed, fucked, have a live in ego masseuse, someone to bear more of their alpha male babies and someone to hang on their arm looking meek and respectable, when they have to go to corporate parties.

I'd like to think this scenario is a rapidly diminishing one. In the same way that I can't help myself getting slightly damp when I see a handsome, polished, suited-up business man who knows how to carry himself and isn't afraid of a scattering of designer stubble and a pink shirt with double cuffs, I'd like to think he could get equally turned on by me in power dress mode wearing six inch heels, even if I started to recite Dostoevsky. And if I wasn't married and we were to hit the sack, after fucking him senseless - I'd probably be asleep before him.

http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/relationships/article2602592.ece

THE ART OF AESTHETICS

2010-01-25T18:54:00.001Z

The window of my office at work faces a high end furniture shop and the owner is privileged enough to drive his wrinkled, old, bespectacled self around in a Jaguar XK Coupe. Ok, that may have been a bit harsh, but I'm dreadfully jealous. He parks it right in front of the shop window, on the pavement and I stare lustfully at it in a kind of trance, every time I get up for a coffee. It's just divine; all fluid lines, muscular, aggressive yet slinky and curvy enough to have a beguiling hint of feminine allure. It's pure aesthetica on wheels and I defy anyone to walk by without taking a second or third look. (Or slavering all over the bonnet.) Remember the Jaguar marketing campaign, simply featuring the word gorgeous? Who can argue? They knew what they had created and God loves them for it. Before any one who thinks superficiality is a sin starts to complain and suggest that I am speaking out of turn by bringing God into this, I have a point to make and by the end, I think you're going to agree with me.

Somebody get me a tissue...

The way I look at it, most of us are born with an innate sense of aesthetic appreciation, the things which we appreciate are carefully crafted and nothing short of an art form. In some people this appreciation becomes more refined, in others it goes to the dogs. I won't pretend to know why, it's as individual and subjective as someones personality or their taste in music. Some people just fail to get excited about the way things or themselves look. Take the way people dress. Some people know, without being told, exactly how to accentuate their best features and make a positive impression, that states 'I'm in control, I look good and I'm not ashamed of it.' Other people would rather die than give out those kinds of vibes, they'll wear things that allow them to blend in with the masses and try to look plain. Worse still, there are those who do stand out, but for all the wrong reasons. (That said, I'm all for individualism, and if it weren't for those with tragic dress sense, I'd have to try even harder to look good.) Please be aware - this attitude does NOT make me a bad person. Far left wing, earthy types with no makeup on and long, bobbly cardigans will have you believe that you're the scum of the universe for your materialistic ways and your looks-ist tendencies. But please also be aware that I am not referring to natural good looks. This isn't about what you're born with, I'm not that deluded. It's about what you do with it. Men are at an immediate disadvantage, if they're good looking they're good looking, if they're not, there isn't much improvement to be made without a good cosmetic surgeon. But if you are a woman, you might well look like a dog chewing a wasp first thing in the morning, but more than likely, you've got a decent blank canvas (that's a face where everything is in just about the right position) and once you've slathered a few layers of creative war paint on it, you look positively attractive! This is the cleverest form of art known to the average person. Forget Michelangelo and even the man who designed the XK -if you're a plain woman with the knack of making yourself beautiful, you're an artist to be reckoned with.

See, we're all working towards one goal in life, humans, animals, plants - we're all striving to make things as beautiful and striking as possible. It's no accident that we happen to enjoy looking at something beautiful and that nature provides this beauty in abundance. Butterflies, birds, flowers, a sunset - why shouldn't we take a leaf out of nature's book and follow suit? We have to live in this world, why can't we make it and ourselves as nice to look at as possible? Why have some of us become so complacent and downright dowdy?! And I really can't get over the smugness of these people. Humans have psychologically over-evolved to the point where they think aesthetics are last in a long list of things to care about and if anyone feels differently, they are labelled as shallow. Give us superficial types a break - we are merely acting on our natural instincts! In actual fact, that makes us less self absorbed than the people who have to question it and draw a negative conclusion. I never hear people complain about Roman architecture, suggesting that it was all a waste of time and money and might as well have been something more functional like a cheap, brown, council building designed in the seventies.

"Stupid fool - just who does he think he is?!"

And another thing - can someone please inform those people whose jobs involve saving the environment, that their valiant efforts don't have to sacrifice style. (Make sure that whoever designed the Toyota Prius can hear. It's like a piece of lego.) I want to help the environment and I'm the first to admit that my new boyfriend (the Jaguar XK across the road) has a gluttonous 5 litre V8 engine, but until they start making eco-cars with that visual wow factor, they're never going to convert the high end market sector. I would have thought a simpleton could grasp that fact! Let's just embrace beauty shall we? In ourselves, in the home, on the road. Because we can. And we most definitely should.
* A gorgeous advert: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4UBRm23qPhI

TEACHERS CAN'T HANDLE KIDS, KIDS CAN'T HANDLE HANDEL

2010-01-21T17:04:00.000Z

Almost everyday, I hear a piece of local news that makes me laugh out loud at both its triviality and/or stupidity. Sometimes however, these news items can make me feel quite sad at the pathetic state society finds itself in of late. Take this little pearler for example, that I heard earlier in the week...

'A Derby school is reducing its pupils' bad behaviour by up to 60%, forcing them to listen to classical music in detention sessions of up to two hours.'

Now, call me old fashioned and perhaps a bit peculiar for my age and background (coming from a working class family), but if they'd have introduced this 'nasty punishment' when I was at school, I would have verbally abused my PE teacher every week, because I love classical music. I started learning the piano at the age of five, go to classical concerts and operas, frequently switch over to Classic FM when I can no longer stand the mindless shite that pours out of Chris Moyles' unrefined mouth, and not because I want to listen to anyone else talking me to sleep, but because I want to listen to real music. Yes, music - that ancient and long forgotten phenomenon that involved real people playing real instruments or singing and not being able to rely on autotune.

What irritates me the most about this headmaster's brainwave to try and keep his kids in line, is that it gives them the message that classical music is something boring that should be avoided and something that is quite clearly being ridiculed! One rather slow journalist for the Daily Mail writes of the story - "It is not clear if the music calms the students down or if the prospect of listening to it acts as a deterrent." Well what the hell do you think, Einstein?? It's going to take something more than Moonlight Sonata to calm down the kids of today. I'd be more inclined to try horse tranquilisers. In the same article, a student provides clarification for the moronic statement - "Last year was a nightmare. Mr Walker's music is a real killer." Sad, but not surprising and if it keeps the kids out of the opera house, I don't give a shit if they hate it - I don't like kids any more than they like Tchaikovsky, so the least we have in common the better, as far as I'm concerned! If I (during a complete lapse in judgment) were going to use this as a punishment, I would turn Zadok the Priest up so fucking loud, that I'd permanently deafen the little shits. Of course I never would come up with such a stupid idea in the first place and I'm angry at this prat of a head teacher who did. He made an unspeakably poor decision to use something that we should be encouraging kids to appreciate, as a punishment. Classical music formed the beginnings of what we call modern music, but just think for a second how much more sophisticated it is in terms of composition. Collectively, it's one of the greatest inspirations and achievements in human history. If they don't like it, don't bother to force it down their throats, leave it to the cultural elite. But definitely don't validate their misguided opinions about it!

Soon to be re-branded as 'Control Your Delinquents, vol. 1'

I am left wondering where he and other teachers will draw the line with these unconventional punishments. Will they start dragging antisocial pupils to the National Gallery to make them stare blankly at Monets for a few hours or maybe they'll venture further afield, taking them on field trips, to Paris perhaps, so they can fall asleep in the Notre Dame and then be taken home, whilst promising never to misbehave again? What will this really achieve in the long run? Peace, quiet and an easy life for teachers and headteachers and for the rest of the world? A classless, cultureless generation of young people, set to destroy the legacy of anything that has ever been of artistic merit. Did this fool who is supposed to set an example to kids, think this far ahead? I doubt it, or if he did, he is so broken spirited by the teaching profession today, that he no longer gives a shit. It would have the likes of Handel turning in his grave, that's for sure.

I rarely take things this seriously on my blog, but it's making a mockery of our artistic history, something that people who have fallen victim to this ignorant and pleb-like society, have no concept of whatsoever. I mean for God's sake, if we gave teenage lads a copy of Katherine Jenkins' album to try and convert them, all they would do is rip out the picture of her, wank over it a few times and then throw it away with the CD. If we want to instill some decent standards into our kids again, why don't we revert back to old fashioned methods of punishment, instantaneous things that scared kids enough so as not to step out of line and stopped then speaking to teachers like they're a piece of shit? When my Dad was at at school, he and his classmates were made to spend half an hour kneeling on dried peas if they misbehaved. I think this is a fantastic idea! It's hardly hardcore enough for wet-blanket human rights activists to get all teary-eyed over and it definitely doesn't do any lasting harm or cause bruising or injury; but I bet it's bloody uncomfortable and painful enough to stop kids dead in their tracks. (Well it would be if you could guarantee the kids are going to do as you say. Enforcing anything in schools these days must be akin to persuading Hugh Hefner to donate his wizened old cock to medical science.)

A powerful deterrent - who knew?!

I am hesitant to get into the whole 'Oh my word, the youth of today...' argument, because I am after all, only twenty six years old and I don't harbour that much hatred for them, if they make some attempt to use what they're being taught in schools to better themselves and stop spitting on the pavements. But when they're left at the hands of head teachers like the aforementioned, that blog might be coming up sooner than you think. Until then, I'm going to complain to anyone who will listen, 'Oh my word, the headteachers of today...' and hope that someone else agrees with how retarded his attempts at discipline are!

IN THE BEDROOM, SIZE MATTERS

2010-01-15T23:52:00.000Z

I know what I said two blogs ago, but this time I'm not referring to instruments of pleasure. Well I could be, it depends how inclined you are to love sleeping - my favourite pastime after eating, buying heels, wearing heels and having sex in heels. (In that order.) This time I'm going to dissect the importance of beds, more specifically, how big we want, no, need them to be. A friend of mine has just told me that he's taken delivery of a new mattress - king size, naturally. I am jealous. I believe strongly in having space at night. As lovely as it is to know there's someone next to you, it's not very nice when they scratch you with their toenails, make weird noises in your ear or do those crazy 'almost asleep' jerks, as if they've just seen Pete Burns stood over them naked, which then scares you half to fucking death, because they have their legs intertwined with yours or an arm draped over you. Cuddling up and spooning in bed is all very cute in principle, but when sleep starts to kick in, it's up there in the overrated stakes with sex first thing in the morning and G-spot orgasms.

That'll only work 'til he starts snorting in her ear

I wasn't always this cynical. I remember fondly the days of courtship, when we were squashed up together in his single bed - I was always against the wall (those were the days before I had claustrophobia induced panic attacks) and I loved being that close to him, it felt sexy. But something happens to you when you grow up and get married. You become a miserable cunt and you don't want anything touching you whilst you're trying to sleep, except for the duvet. (Which rarely does, if you sleep with a duvet fiend like me.) I have this trick when it's cold, of lying on my side, back to my husband and I hold the covers onto me really tightly. Then when they're all in place and I've got a good grip, I roll over onto my front and I'm cocooned in this mummified state of bedtime bliss, while he's shivering his balls off with a tiny piece of the sheet over him.

Having a standard sized bed, mainly due to the spacial confinements of the mouse hole we live in, we only get to experience the sheer decadence of over-sized beds when we go to posh hotels. (Which isn't as often as I'd like!) On one occasion, it was a four poster in an old hunting lodge. (I'd packed my handcuffs, so you can imagine the fun that was had that night. But what was even better was lying back afterwards, being able to sprawl out and still be a good few inches away from each other, allowing us precious 'me' time, just to soak up the fading, post-coital shudders and go all drowsy. (I don't know if I'm unusual, but after sex I don't usually want to be all touchy feely. I just want him to piss off and let me sleep. I also said in my last blog that I'm the most unmaternal woman you could meet. Do you think I'm a man trapped in a woman's body?!)

He'll be sleeping in this, if those toenails come anywhere near me

In my opinion, marriage isn't so much about the tactile interaction as people will have you believe. I write this blog because I want to tell the truth and the truth is, as soon as the pure lust period wears off in a relationship (give it a couple of months) you actually have to co-exist. Sex becomes something you do as often as you want to, but in between that, you need to give each other room to breathe. That most definitely includes the time you spend in bed. So just get the biggest bed your room and budget will allow - it's an investment in contentment! If you need to use your mobile phones to talk to each other, you've got it about right. Now, just think of the all the throwing each other about that can be done and then the peaceful dozing afterwards...

N.B. This blog entry is dedicated to my friend and new blog follower, the one with the new mattress ;)

YOU AND ME BABY AIN'T NOTHING BUT MAMMALS...

2010-01-13T23:23:00.000Z

I stumbled across an article that got me doing some serious thinking yesterday. To start off with - here's a question I don't even have to predict an answer to. Would it ever be right to feel sexual pleasure at the hands (or more specifically the mouth) of a child? A resounding and deafening NO, of course. And I concur. And yet that very thing seems to be happening (albeit inadvertently) to a surprising number of normal and unsuspecting women who choose to breastfeed. (I say choose, because despite propaganda being forced down our throats - that anything less is positively cruel and bound to affect children's' health and well being, (which is largely unfounded hearsay) it is still a matter of choice and one that women should be entitled to make, free of guilt.) Speaking of guilt, this is the very thing that women affected by what is termed 'erotic lactation', are battling, not helped by an inclination to stay silent about the whole embarrassing thing. As someone who already finds the idea of breastfeeding a bit cringe inducing, I was eager to try and understand what the big deal about this is. I think any issues surrounding it speak volumes about our sexual nature and where we have arrived in the evolutionary process, as human beings.

Cute, no?

When I said before that these women are unsuspecting, the general consensus seems to be that they definitely are. Although how so, I'm not sure. They are unsuspecting of this shockingly pleasurable reaction to a warm mouth sucking on their nipple and feel utterly horrified - well I have to admit before I go any further - it doesn't take a scientist to work out that it might be a possibility. Nipples are the second most erogenous area on the female body and the stimulation of breasts and nipples by a sexual partner (orally or manually) is probably most couples' favourite form of foreplay. No surprise then, that some brave women have admitted to experiencing an orgasm whilst breastfeeding their baby. As much as they didn't want it to happen, it seems the pleasure sensations can be too much to bear. (Similar admissions have been made by victims of violent rape, they definitely didn't enjoy being raped, but they still had an orgasm from the sensations. I can't even imagine the mental anguish that would ensue here.) Women who 'get off' during breastfeeding have reported feelings of horror and disgust at themselves as a result and even an aversion to further breastfeeding. In my opinion, the problem seems to have three major issues:

1. Breasts are erogenous

2. Breasts nourish babies

3. Breasts have become a sexual symbol

It seems to me that if number 3 were taken out of the equation, we wouldn't have such a problem. Perhaps the genius of nature is such that breastfeeding is meant to feel pleasurable, orgasmic even, to encourage women to persevere with it. Yet, when all we can think about is page 3 of the Sun, silicone implants and how best to boost our cleavage so that men can fantasise over it, the whole subject becomes a lot more dubious. (Allow me to be brutally frank -one minute your partner could be rubbing his penis between your breasts and the next your baby suckling from them - it does make it seem a little warped. Let's hope a babywipe was involved somewhere in between!) After doing a bit of digging on the subject, I was shocked to learn the scale of the fetish concerning breastfeeding. It takes a lot to shock me, but I was left aghast and completely freaked out. I came across videos of men breastfeeding from their partners, lesbians breastfeeding each other, a woman squirting her breast milk into a bowl to make pancakes and even a woman squeezing some into a cup of tea! It all got more and more disturbing by the second. (All of this, I hasten to add, being done with the usual 'porn slut' expression and a bit of moaning thrown in for good measure.) I can't help but imagine the looks on the faces of smug, pro-breastfeeding 'earth mamas', if they were made to face up to these images. But in this sexually twisted and almost completely hedonistic society we live in, could they really be surprised??

Breastfeeding? Sexy? You decide...

We have over-sexualised breasts to the point where any kind of pleasure we derive from them being touched, seems too sexual and too dirty to be experienced through something as innocent as feeding your baby. So now we've fucked up our natural purpose and instincts, how are we actually supposed to process these mind-boggling and guilt inducing mixed messages that we receive from society and from our own bodies?! There should be no reason why breastfeeding should induce guilt or be deemed inappropriate, in public for example. But the facts are the facts and all the issues I've described above constitute the basic reason why we, as the general public, have become uncomfortable seeing a woman breastfeeding, let alone why women themselves are admitting to feeling a bit 'weird' about the whole thing.

I thought about the subject in even more detail and in actual fact, everything relating to having and raising a child naturally, relates to sex or parts of our body we use to 'get off' and maybe it's not so genius after all. The moment of conception, giving birth - who really wants to imagine having made a passage through their Mother's private parts, having your poor, newborn face pushed up against her unspeakables?! For a human being with a fully functioning consciousness, this is almost too gross to imagine! There is a species that features on Star Trek called the Ocampa. They are humanoid in every respect except for the fact that their young develop inside a kind of sac on their back, where the baby is then born from. This would be genius! Reproductive organs, totally independent of anything used to gain pure, unadulterated pleasure. Think of all the embarrassing trips to the gynaecologist it would save, not to mention not having to spread your legs open in front of a stranger to give birth. I've decided that God is actually having a laugh and the joke is definitely on us. Our bodies are stupid! No wonder women are in a state of confusion about something like breastfeeding! I'm probably the most unmaternal woman you could meet and I for one, struggle to make a link between breasts, sex and bonding with a baby. And I certainly don't like it when someone flops out a huge, milk engorged boob for her greedy little baby to devour, right in front of my very eyes. That happened recently, when I visited an old school friend of mine who had a baby. Mid conversation, with no warning or 'excuse me' or anything, out came this massive breast and I just didn't know where else to look!! And if it's true that breastfeeding can induce orgasms, then I definitely didn't want to be in the same room!

There are times when you really have to question a person's motives. Everything is relative to the society we live in, so how than this be thought of as healthy?!

I read a lot of articles about this subject today and the thing that I find most ironic is that the people who advocate breastfeeding the most, the middle-class, mumsy types who push their 'natural' ideals onto every single woman with a baby - these women - are the ones who most criticise and look down upon women who dare to speak up about this taboo of breastfeeding feeling sexually pleasurable. In one thread, they were branding them as twisted sickos and perverts. Well, they're either frigid or lying. (I think the first one is more plausible if what they look like is anything to go by. Although they procreate at an alarming rate, so perhaps not?!) The only way to make some sense out of the situation and stop worrying about it, would be to embrace this unspoken pleasure and for society to accept it as being the norm. But somehow I doubt that is going to happen. Instead women like to call it 'a beautiful bonding experience, divine, heartwarming, makes you melt'. Yes, and the rest. Since we aren't going to regress back to primates any time soon and just treat boobs like the foodbags they were meant to be, can I suggest we stock up on SMA and leave the boobs to the men? The whole thing has freaked me out enough to know that it's what I'll be doing, if I ever decide I'm going to make a reasonable mother. We've made our psychologically fucked-up bed, we have no choice but to lie in it or carry on as if we're totally in control and just feel all weird about it below the surface. Either way, it's a shame. I genuinely think we'd be happier as primates!

THE MOST PASSIONATE LOVERS ARE THE MEN WITH BIG HOSES

2010-01-04T23:38:00.002Z

Not my words, but those of some (probably Chinese) bloke who plants badly worded shit in my junk inbox every day at around 3am. It was one of a thousand emails I've had over the last few months and it's not about sexy firefighters, it's about trying to tempt me to have a penis enlargement. I pressed delete without much further thought, especially since I don't have a penis, but then later that evening I was reminded of it and quite honestly, I'm now confused. The first reminder was when I was making the dinner, a salad to be precise. Whenever I get a new cucumber out of the fridge, my husband likes to hold it in front of him and pretend to do me up the arse like some 'freak of cosmetic surgery' porn star. (It can be amusing, providing he doesn't catch me off guard. And it's still in its wrapping in case any of you are invited round for a salad any time soon.) Men have this fascination with having a big cock, the way women agonise over the size of their boobs, although a man's concern is slightly more understandable, because titty-fucks aside, a penis has a direct functional use in the pleasure stakes. Now whilst it's fairly important to have a reasonably sized cock, having one any bigger than 8 inches when hard, is, well... pointless. Because unless your partner's vagina/anal passage (I like to be gay friendly and open minded) is as cavernous and long as the Dartford Tunnel, then you're gonna be in for an evening of wincing, requests of a different position and maybe even a slap in the smug face, if you really push it.

Salad will never taste the same again.

Later that same evening, I was that squirming person. Because my husband thinks he's 'lucky' enough to have a 9 inch tool with which to pound me into next week. Don't get me wrong. It feels incredible sometimes, but only in certain positions and only when he doesn't use it all, but sometimes he gets over-excited and practically skewers me. Now let's break this right down to the facts. Vibrators: if you own one bigger than 8 inches, how much of it goes inside of you? I'm guessing you're holding onto a good 2-3 inches with your hand. And if it's the ultimate 'female body friendly' rampant rabbit you own, the rabbit ears (clit stimulator, for those who are unfamiliar) reach half way down the shaft, allowing only 4 inches to 'go tunnelling'. The other thing about self pleasure tools is - you angle them exactly right. You don't have to tactfully explain to a piece of plastic, that it's fucking hurting you, you just adjust the position. Inconvenient really, that a cock is attached to a man, who has little clue how to best use it.

I feel it's about time women spoke up and quashed the bullshit about bigger cocks = better sex. Here are a few facts that I would imagine apply across the board:

1. It can easily be too big. Guys, get this notion out of your neanderthal skulls, that the bigger your spear, the better the prize.

2. Width is as important as length. If yours is shorter than average but also wider than average, you may still be onto a winner.

3. Believe this cliche because it's true - it's not how big it is that matters, but what you do with it.

4. If all else fails and you're battling with a true cocktail sausage, then I'm guessing you still have a face. For the love of God, let her sit on it - that's what it's there for.

The Gherkin. Another member of the Cucumber family. Please... you first!!

There will be a few people in complete disagreement with me. Let me take this opportunity to say that I've never faced the challenge of a truly tiny penis. No-one wants to experience throwing a sausage down an alley or a pin into space and I have no doubt it might be very frustrating, but it's got to be better than having to limp and suffer internal bruising for the next week. And if you are a man suffering this 'small' problem, arm yourself with a job lot of dildos, different shapes, sizes and textures. If you're using them correctly, I guarantee you won't get any complaints. And that's got to be better than having some Chinese sadist mess with your manhood.

EYE OF THE TIGER

2010-01-01T10:52:00.001Z

As you know, I wonder lots of things. But lately I have mostly been wondering - why is it that we waste so much of our time, fucking about with shit - that in the grand scheme of things is getting us nowhere? (Interpret that in whichever way you feel most enlightened by.) I can't stand new years resolutions, they're a list of things we hate about ourselves, that rarely get any better no matter how many times we write them down. But if there's one thing I swear I'm going to stop doing this year, it's wasting my time, energy and feelings on SHIT.

Here's enlightenment for you, if you're brave enough to accept it. Rarely do people actually click. Yet why do we insist, in this world full of billions of unique human beings, in carving out fake, meaningless relationships with certain people in our immediate vicinity, that we hardly have anything in common with and gain no depth of satisfaction from being around? It almost always ends up in resentment and confusion. Why don't we stop pretending and put that wasted energy into relationships that are actually worthwhile?

I've decided that 2010 is going to be the year of no regrets. It's also the year of the Tiger. According to the Chinese Zodiac, the tiger is a sign of courage. "This fearless and fiery fighter is revered by the ancient Chinese as the sign that wards off the three main disasters of a household: fire, thieves and ghosts."

Pigs in tigers' clothing. A Royal Bengal tigress in Thailand, raising orphaned piglets. Who said tigers couldn't be compassionate and caring as well?

Fire, thieves and ghosts. They could be metaphors for all the crap we have to deal with, but the one that concerns me the most is ghosts. Memories, regrets, dead relationships, past relationships, guilt complexes - these are all ghosts that plague your whole life if you're not strong enough to cast them out. I used to be a hoarder, physically and emotionally. My wardrobe was a bulging mess, full of clothes and shoes that were last in fashion in the late 90s. Stuff I kept and hung on to, just in case. And it was all stuff that got in my way, made me irritable every time I went in my wardrobe and more importantly, stopped me from being able to access the good stuff. The stuff that made me feel good, that felt right, that belonged in my wardrobe. Now, I have a clear out whenever it feels needed. And sometimes, just sometimes, I think about shoes I have thrown out and realise that they may be in fashion again. And maybe, just maybe, I'll find them gathering dust, hanging around my local charity shop, waiting for someone else to come along and give them a home. If it feels right, then I might take them back into my life. If it feels wrong, then I'll just walk away and have no regrets. Because life, my friends, is just too fucking short.

These bad boys are staying in my wardrobe.

Incidentally, I was not born in the year of the tiger, I was born in the year of the humble and honest pig. But as we already know, pigs can learn from tigers. Happy new year people. Make it decisive, make it matter, make it honest and make it real. And as long as you act for the right reasons and with as much integrity as you can muster, then never, ever care about what people think about you afterwards. They aren't walking in your tiger print shoes, sister. Own it.

ALL THE SINGLE LADIES

2009-12-28T12:09:00.002Z

I had an epiphany a couple of days ago, that made me stop wishing (on the odd occasion) that I'm still single. Let's just remind ourselves that whatever situation in life we find ourselves in, it never favourably compares to what we don't have anymore. That is, until we venture into the worst possible example of what we don't have anymore, and would actually rather be dead than have it again. This one I'm going to have to explain from the beginning, as embarrassing as it is.

I'm not immune to acting like a complete philistine at times and I'm afraid I became a victim of the publicity and money making scam that is X factor this year. I became a particular devotee of Danyl Johnson - bisexual, very tasty teacher. (The fantasies are endless!) Anyway, a local club were hosting all of the X factor finalists individually on Saturday nights, so I thought it would be a good idea to go and see Danyl on Boxing day. (It gets worse, I paid for meet and greet tickets.) No-one would accompany me, so I made my poor husband come with me. Now it all sounds reasonable enough. Cheesy, but nothing to be too worried about. The alarm bells should have started ringing when I found out he wasn't on until midnight, and they should have been completely deafening me, if I'd bothered to find out where the club was. So we drove into town, all glam and respectable, and when we turned the corner to see the entrance of the place I immediately knew it was a mistake. There were four bouncers on the door and they were turning drunks away by the dozen. I wouldn't walk up the narrow, roped off area leading to the door, until an entourage of five piss heads came back out first, shouting slurred obscenities at the doormen and trying to grab onto each other for support. Reassuring, you might think, that they were turning away these people. We were almost inside (I was just being scanned for knives and guns) when one of the disgruntled drunks decided to try and take on one of the bouncers. I probably looked quite worried, but on the inside I was howling with smug laughter. Three bouncers took him out into the road and wrestled him to the ground, leaving him lying in a puddle of filthy slush, about to fall foul to an oncoming taxi. I looked at my husband who was trying to avoid eye contact with anyone and dragged him into this hovel.

Once inside, hands stamped, wrists tagged, we ventured further in to assess the rest of the inmates. I resisted the urge to ask for a Cosmopolitan at the bar (there was not a bottle of Cointreau in sight) and settled instead for a Malibu and Coke in a plastic cup. We stood in a quiet corner, waiting for the DJ to announce that we could go upstairs and meet this poor, unsuspecting X Factor reject and in the time that followed, I made a vow never to venture into another nightclub again. There was not a girl in that place without at least three tattoos on display, rolls of bare fat hanging out under tops three sizes too small and enough eyeliner to supply Kiss for a world tour. Or a man for that matter, who I would fuck - even if he turned out to be Jimmy Choo himself. I looked in one direction, there was an unconscious-looking girl bending over the metal railings that fenced in the stage, appearing to be bummed by an even uglier version of 50 Cent stood behind her, who was grabbing on to her hips and thrusting like a dog. In the other direction (uncomfortably close to us) there was girl with fat, pork sausage legs in a tiny denim mini and a strained-at the-seams sequined top, dry humping her retarded looking boyfriend's leg. (Now listen, I'm NOT sizist, but for the love of God, dress for your shape and wear some fucking knickers, you whore. It was like a giant cockle growing hair and probably didn't smell much better.)

By this point I was fighting the gag reflex. Never can I remember seeing the light so clearly when I was single and going out every week. And I am sorry to say, that I did go to some shit holes. I was usually dragged to them by friends with low chav sensitivity. I remember being pushed up against a wall, it being dripping wet with condensation of peoples breath and sweat, the floor sticky with a tar like substance of filth, spilled drinks, cigarette ash and puke, feeling as if I were going to puke myself, and it wasn't ever from the drink. I remember standing back and trying to take in the surroundings, it was like a cattle market, women branded with slag tags doing some mating ritual on the dance floor in an attempt to attract men, which usually involved gyrating, with their legs wide apart in a short skirt, feeling themselves up and down. And if all else failed, getting off with one of their equally sluttish female friends. As bad as it was, I, like every other girl my age conditioned to think that having this kind of 'buzzing and drink fuelled' social life was the best way to meet your soul mate, continued to put myself through this hell, every week. Until I finally found a boyfriend who thought the whole thing was as disgusting as I did. Interestingly we met from the comfort of our own tastefully furnished and cosy homes, with a cup of tea, on a social networking site like Facebook. I don't think I could ever have settled into a meaningful relationship with someone who had bought me a smirnoff ice, dragged me onto a dancefloor, poked his tongue down my throat and his fingers into my knickers and then expected me to have a civilised dinner with him at a chinese buffet the next week, to 'see if we're compatible'. Call me old fashioned, but this is all wrong. I know as much as the next person, that when lust takes over, there's nothing more satisfying than a spontaneous fuck. But can you really, honestly expect to find a serious partner when this weekly ritual of self-humiliation is your only means of meeting people?! Sadly, given the class, inbreeding and intelligence levels of the patrons of this particular haunt, it's all they know. There are, thankfully, much classier places to have a cocktail of a Saturday night and in the knowledge that wild horses would never drag me to this shit hole again, I could only turn my thoughts to X factor's poor Danyl, who was about have a full scale assault launched on him, by these foul women.

Oopsy daisy!!

We were given permission by the DJ to queue up outside the VIP area, where we would allowed in one by one, to meet him. (What is a VIP in a place like this? A small time crack dealer?) I waited patiently, being shoved and squashed, drinks being spilled all over my shoes, my saint of a husband next to me, being used as something for the aforementioned dry humping couple to, well, dry hump against. I was so close to walking out, I really didn't give a shit about Danyl Johnson anymore. The fact that I was stood in this place, fighting off these repulsive people, was proof enough of what bad company I was in, wanting to come and see someone from the X factor. (Remember the half-dead girl being bummed by an even uglier version of 50 Cent? She by this point, was lying motionless, in the middle of the dance floor, being stepped over by people, including uglier version of 50 Cent.) Eventually I was led upstairs to meet Danyl. I felt it my duty to -

A. Warn him of what was waiting for him downstairs

B. Point out that I would never usually frequent such dives

He laughed, kissed me on the cheek and told me I was too pretty. What does this mean? Too pretty to be in this shit hole, too pretty to be queueing to meet someone who isn't even famous yet or just too pretty in general?! (Note to self: There is no such thing as too pretty, so don't get complacent.) I pointed out that he'd probably said that to every girl, but before he could answer, I was ushered out of the room to make way for the next idiot.

We hung around long enough to see him perform three songs, but the sound quality was so poor and the screaming of intoxicated women was so loud, it was literally pointless. We escaped while everyone else was trying to jump the fence onto the stage and let me tell you, fresh air has never smelled so good. I looked at my husband, thought of all the nights I'd watched Sex and the City, wishing I could have a piece of the fun, exciting, single social scene again. And then thought again. The nightlife might be something close to exciting and sophisticated in Manhattan. But I don't live in Manhattan. I live in Nottingham.

EVERYBODY HURTS (DON'T THEY?!)

2009-12-22T19:38:00.000Z

At 2pm today, I had my hair extensions taken out. Mundane enough, you might think. It being new to me, I too didn't expect anything out of the ordinary. Stupid woman!! I felt like a captive secret agent, being tortured for information with a comb. 'How lame can this person be?' I hear you ask. Fairly lame, admittedly. But you try having three month old knots of dissolved glue and hair, the size of broad beans right at the root of your hair - tugged out by an impatient hairdresser while you beg for mercy, soaking a shiny new copy of Vogue through with your pathetic baby tears.

'You clearly have a low pain threshold," was the haughty and uncompassionate remark I received from the annoyingly sexy (and straight, straight I tell you!!) male hairdresser. "Do you have any children?" he went on. How I longed to say 'Yes, I gave birth to quintuplets on all fours in a natural birthing pool, with nothing but chamomile tea to drink and a twig to bite on'. That would have shut the smug bastard up. He didn't even give me chance to reply, my expression must have answered for me. "I'm not sure you'll cope with childbirth." There's nothing like instilling some maternal confidence into a young woman. Although in his defence, he's almost certainly right. Throughout my horrifying time in that chair, I squeaked often (trying to stifle a full-on scream), got all watery eyed and had to stop him at regular intervals for a breather, with him subtly reminding me - "The only other way around this is a shaved head." Whilst Sinead O'Connor looks positively cute and pixie-like with a 'number 1' all over, me thinks I would look slightly less feminine. Thus I was left with no other choice than to stand this gruelling two hour session.

Erm... no.

The lady next to me either had a scalp of steel or she was on morphine. I felt quite inferior as her head was yanked about, bobbing like a nodding dog's, not even the beginnings of a wince on her face. I felt the need to defend myself, suggesting to the hairdresser that I may have more nerve endings than the average person. To which he just laughed out loud. Physically, I've always been very 'mardy'. (Which is a vernacular term from these parts, that means a pathetic, sulking wuss.) My Mum could never rip plasters off my knees without me screaming the roof off, my Dad could never get me to allow him to remove splinters from my hand, I tried to wax my legs once and pulled off half of the first strip, melting the rest off with a hairdryer and admitting defeat. And when I had a tattoo, the guy drew the first line and I burst into tears, told him I didn't want the rest and tried to get dressed, but he refused to send me home with a single line across my back, so I spent the rest of the ten minutes bent over a chair, looking and behaving exactly as if I was in labour. (I also pass out every time I have a blood test.)

Blood tests and labour... both inevitable if you wish to procreate. How will I ever survive pregnancy and childbirth? I'll be a nervous wreck. My husband comforts me with sweet lines like '...you've just got more sensitive feelings than most people, honey.' This could be true. Or I could just be pathetic. Weirdly, who's to ever know? My nerves may transmit twice the pain signals as the average person's, yet I'm doomed to a life of ridicule as a wimp who 'can't hack it.' Strangely I am braver than most people in a lot of other ways. I've had my photograph taken with a tarantula on my face, gone from black hair to platinum blonde in two days with DIY bleach, jumped in at the deep end with a new business of my own, of which I had no previous experience at all... with things like this, I just plough ahead, not even realising I should be worried. But point a needle at me or tell me it's going to hurt me physically in any way at all and you can't see me for dust.

I demand some medical research to be done in the area of nerve transmission and pain thresholds! If it turns out that I have some freakish abnormality whereby I feel ten times more than the next lucky person, then I want an official certificate to prove it, which I will thrust in the face of every unsympathetic hairdresser and possibly (if I'm stupid enough) midwife. If it turns out I'm just a good old wimp, I'll stick to raising sausage dogs.

__________________________________________________

NOTE TO SELF: A single occasion, displaying immense bravery and strength in the face of pain and discomfort beyond all measure, should remind you, you stupid cow, that you're not all that pathetic. Don't you remember the time you had all four wisdom teeth out at once, two of which were completely impacted and covered by gum, under local anaesthetic? You spent almost two hours in the dentist's chair, had seven injections, nearly choked on your own blood more than twice, had your surrounding bone drilled, your teeth dug out, your gums stitched up and have the offending molars in a specimen jar to prove it was all real. (One of which - the most stubborn, is a freak tooth with 3 roots!!) And you didn't even cry.

NOTE FROM SELF, BACK TO SELF: No I do not remember, but I rung my Mum and she remembers. She must have drugged me. She also says that I refused to go under general anaesthetic in case I never woke up again.

THE BITCH IS BACK

2009-12-21T11:29:00.000Z

It's been a while. A shamefully long time in fact. Just as I was getting all enthusiastic and devoted to my little league of four followers, I went all silent on them! Forgive me. You wouldn't think I'm as breakable as I have proved myself to be over the last two months. (It really is two whole months since I felt emotionally stable enough to let my fingers roam freely over the keyboard of my laptop, without them going into some self-hatred fuelled tale of woe or worse still, my e-suicide note. Ok, never the latter. I don't have the balls to kill myself.) Anyway, I digress. At the risk of this sounding like a tale of woe after all, I would like to take this opportunity to explain to anyone who is interested enough to read this, that I do have a heart and it isn't a swinging brick. There'll be some of you who knew this all along. But increasingly, I am finding that people who should have known me (who I thought did know me...) have found licence from some misguided impression that I am emotionally invincible, to take a big, fat, steaming shit on me. And then run off, laughing. (Returning, under a temporary attack of guilt to make some lame attempt at a reconciliation, only to never speak to me again anyway!)

Now, I am never guilt free in these situations and as the old saying goes, there is no smoke without fire. But this one particular fire was started by accident. Let's call it a wild bush fire. It was lit inadvertently and in the dry, brittle expanse of a floundering friendship, it spread like a raging inferno. I tried to put it out but it just seemed to get worse. I had made a mistake (I'd rather call it a bad decision) that proved impossible to rectify or escape from, without causing bad feeling towards me. And once that scrub was burning, the little beasts that came rushing out, trying to escape the flames but actually spreading them even further, came as an extra shock to both parties, who didn't even realise they existed. I'm talking about niggles, irritations, bones of contention, secret annoyances and deep rooted issues that have long been stifled under fake hugs, cups of coffee, presents every birthday and Christmas and one long and challenging creative project.

Now they say never mix business and pleasure, perhaps they are right. In this case, as far as I was concerned, the pleasure was more important. It seems for her, it was always about the business. In actual fact I blame myself for being so needy and clingy. But if you aren't going to take what seems like a real friendship seriously, then why bother with it at all? The feeling of having wasted my time, energy and feelings over the last few years on an unreciprocated relationship with someone who had no real intention of ever knowing me as a genuine human being, is not easy to get over. It cut me right to the bone and I am sorry to say, I became a paranoid wreck. You could have filled a reservoir with the amount of tears I cried. I can't tell you now whether they were tears of sorrow at losing and having unintentionally hurt a friend, tears of shock at never having had a friend in the first place or tears of shame and remorse at having been so stupid as to open myself up to it all. In truth, it was all of these on different days.

All you can ever do is learn from a bad situation. But what I'm supposed to take from it is still unclear to me. Do I stop speaking my mind, try to steer my ascorbic sense of humour in a more sympathetic direction, be more self aware when in the company of others, especially people I am not familiar with? Abso-fucking-lutely NOT. To quote Mrs. Thatcher, (a bosom buddy in the straight talking stakes,) 'the lady is not for turning.'

Pearl Drops, in case you were wondering.

You'd think that after five years of knowing someone and spending a hell of a lot of time with them, you would know them pretty damn well. You would know when they're joking, know when they're hurting, know when they're being their usual, ironic, self deprecating and droll self. As a result of the last few weeks, I am still a very paranoid person, with more insecurities than I've ever had before. And I am sorry when I upset anyone, but now, I am trying to be sorry for them, not for my behaviour. It's all a front and if you can't tell that, you're not looking closely enough. I have come to the long overdue conclusion that life is too bloody short to be worrying all the time and checking that everyone around me is ok. It's a big, bad, ugly world we live in, in case you didn't know. Deal with it and either 'get me' or fuck the fuck off and stop wasting my time.

I know there's something different about me lately, because before I would have been able to write that last line without so much as a backward glance. Now I'm wondering... too upfront? For now, I'm leaving it there, in type, for everyone (all four of you) to see. I'm on the mend and I'm hoping I will be back to full strength in a few lifetimes. Grapes welcome.

DEALINGS WITH A PORN BROKER

2009-09-30T22:29:00.000+01:00

Most things in this life are subject to rules of etiquette. Eating, driving, speaking, hell - even shopping!! (It is blatantly not acceptable to ram people out of the way with your trolley when they stop right in front of you, in the middle of the aisle at Sainsburys! Instead, you must politely say 'excuse me', usually several times, progressively louder, because the stupid twat is most likely to be deaf and stupid.) So, we have established there are behavioural guidelines for most things, by which it is advisable to conduct yourself. That's all fine and dandy.

But what about the forbidden, unspoken things? The things that no-one likes to talk about? (Well - that men do, but that most women (present company excluded) blankly refuse to?! The thing I am specifically referring to here, is porn. That naughty pleasure, enjoyed by men quite openly (unless their wife is religious, a terrible prude or both...) and by some women, in secret. Does anyone really know of any rules of etiquette, that should be applied to this most disgraceful subject?!

If there are rules about porn, I'll tell you about how recently, I'm certain I single-handedly broke them all. I borrowed some. From a male friend. A male friend at work. This one was, at the time, more of an acquaintance. Since then however, we have even shared Gin and Tonic at his!! And no, that's not cockney rhyming slang for something unspeakable. It was actually a beverage and a totally platonic chat.

Now, back to the interesting stuff. Said 'Titillating Material of a Sexual Nature' (because even I hate using the word porn over and over again) from here on in, referred to as TMSN, was being discussed and passed about about with such normality and coolness among the men, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if I showed a passing interest. (Let me mention now, that the TMSN in question was organised and presented in a most respectable manner, all categorised and ordered in list and number format, stored compactly and neatly (and fairly discreetly) in a large, lockable box. (Discreet, apart from the fact that it has the words 'GENTLEMENS' across the front.) This collection encompasses over 200 DVDs. It's vast, to say the least.

Now I'm going to be honest about this, because that's what this blog is about. I do enjoy TMSN from time to time, and I know for a fact that as a woman, I'm not alone. Fairly rare, but not alone! To begin with, when I feigned interest in this huge box of hedonism, I was merely curious as to the reaction I would get. Once I realised that it didn't seem to be much of a big deal, it seemed quite reasonable to take the box home. I mean, it would have been rude to refuse, right?! (And think of all the internet-porn spyware invasions it would save!) I then became, very suddenly, a modern and empowered woman! (The words of the men, not me.) I returned to my desk with a smug smile as the TMSN's owner (like my very own minion) diligently followed me with the box (it's heavy) and obediently put it under my desk.
In the moments that followed, two thoughts presided in my head -

1. What is going to happen when this gets out and what will people think of me? I'll be branded a slut!

2. This is second hand and I dread to think of the germs lurking on those smeared discs.

I dealt with the latter using latex gloves and some antibacterial wipes. But number one continued to plague me. My husband finds my liberated ways quite hilarious. (And what kind of man is going to complain when his wife is waiting for him at the door, wearing her sexiest underwear, brandishing a job lot of porn?!) I asked him what other men were likely to think about it. That I'm a go-er in the bedroom, was his answer.

In the days that followed, a few more men at work seemed to have learned about my little habit. (What a surprise.) But instead of trying to embarrass me (which would have been futile!) they seem to talk to me differently. There is a definite sense of them treating me as more of an equal, like I'm one of them and almost (I hesitate to say it because I might be imagining it) - like I've joined some kind of fraternity! I do get knowing little smirks and remarks like 'how are you getting on with it?' as if I've only just discovered the cheap thrill that is some perma-tanned blonde being humped to within an inch of her shameless life. But aside from that, it all seems perfectly normal. Too normal, in fact!! And I just have to dissect it, as I do everything.

Whenever I browse through the box, all I can think of is - how many other people have done the same thing, picked out a disc (possibly the same one as me) put in on, had sex or made themselves come, and then put it back in the box (probably without washing their hands in between)? It seems a little bit wrong, to be sharing something so personal - but clearly, men are no strangers to this brotherly favour!! Where do they draw the line? What other gratifying material do they pass around?!

A quick spray of Mr. Muscle and she's good to go, mate!

Are we (and I mean women) too squeamish about all this? I mean, we all have sex. We all get off. And if it's a hygiene issue, is it really any worse than using a public toilet?? (This, coming from a person who has to squat over the seat and won't touch anything without using toilet tissue.) It's typical of me however, to be analysing it in a totally different light to most people. Any women I've already mentioned this to, can't even get over the fact that I would watch porn in the first place, let alone what I do with it once I get it home!! Some common (and rather laughable) remarks are -

"How can you?!" (Erm... easily....)

"I won't allow it in my house." (More fool you)

"He doesn't have any. He knows if I ever found any, I'd kill him!" (Delusional)

"Don't you find it embarrassing?" (Yes, I feel so humiliated for that rich porn star with the perfect labia and the 9 inch cock in her. In other words, no. Can I be her tonight?!)

"It's wrong!" (No, you're wrong!)

Please. One friend of mine was in the vicinity when the whole porn-borrowing discussion began, and she swiftly left the scene with a very red face. Yet it's highly amusing to note that she stayed within earshot, so as not to miss anything 'juicy'. Face it ladies - you're dying to liberate yourselves, to be able to enjoy a good, hedonistic session of self-love, whilst delighting in the fact that some overpaid slut and her 'dirk diggler' screen partner, are brave enough to get their overworked bits out for the camera and engage in some good hard, fucking. It's really not that scary, honestly. Stop taking sex so seriously! Your fellas and your libidos will thank me for it. It's good to be bad, so if those rules we spoke about do exist - break them!

If you're still not convinced, remember this - I can borrow porn from men and they still call me posh. Enough said. I love being a horny posh bird, you should try it sometime.

* Please do not leave comments about the moral/feminist implications of porn. I couldn't give a fuck right now, and if/when I do - I'll write about it!

IN THE NAME OF FEMININITY... EAT SOMETHING!

2009-09-20T00:25:00.003+01:00

Forgive me non-existent reader, it's been over a week since my last confession. I knew it wouldn’t be long before this blog got put on the back burner. I was so full of enthusiasm for updating it every day, but it’s so much effort!! You might think differently, but as someone with OCD for many things, including accuracy and perfection in my writing, it takes a good hour and a half to complete every blog entry (and a few amendments once it’s already been posted…) Which makes all this incredibly pointless and depressing if no-one even reads it! It takes me fifteen minutes to find a suitably well edited and good quality picture to put with my blog! A couple of days ago I went to the cinema with a friend and bought some pick n mix. I picked four of every variety and tried to colour co-ordinate them. (They were mostly shades of red and pink with a few white ones thrown it to make it all look very pretty in the bag.)

Is there something wrong with me?!

Yes, I do believe so!

Lately I have tried to chill out and take things as they come. I've even taken to running (every morning and sometimes in the afternoon) to try and let out some of my pent up energy. (Ok - to lose the inch of flab that hangs so unattractively over my jeans.) Speaking of which, I got some new jeans at the weekend - I was perturbed to discover that I can't even get a size 10 pair of skinnies past my calves, let alone past my arse! I had to settle for a size 12 which I yanked so tightly to zip up, I practically exploded out of them when I undid the button again. I bought them anyway - being egged on by my new fitness regime, in the back of my mind. At the moment they still cut off the blood supply between my upper and lower body, but I'm learning to live with it. The really alarming moment for me came when I took some leggings into the changing room. I went with a size 12 (thanks to my experience with the jeans) and lo and behold I dragged them up my body and over my thighs! And that's where they stopped. Without snapping the waist band, they wouldn't have gone around my hips for love nor money. In fact, I can honestly say they looked to have been made for an 11 year old, pre-pubescent girl!! I double checked the label in case I had picked up something that belonged in the children's section, but sadly not.

Are those... legs?!

Forgive me for going into the whole 'size zero' debate (as I'm as image conscious as the next person and no-one wants to be fat), but I thought we were beginning to be over the Ethiopian trend. I thought it was no longer cool to look like a piece of bamboo with sucked in cheeks and eyes like marbles in a pint glass. Thank you fashion retailers, but I am NOT a size 14 (which is the size I eventually had to get in those fucking leggings) - I am a healthy and slim size 10/12 and those sizes should still fit me! (Before you ask, I am not deluded. I weighed myself and I have not put on any weight.) Now if Marilyn Monroe were still here (God rest her beautiful soul), she wouldn't be the size 14 she was supposed to be. Oh no. She'd have to shop at Evans!!

I just asked my husband his opinion on the waif-er thin brigade. I wanted to understand it from a male perspective. Are they attractive?

No, was the answer.

Why? Because they don't look feminine. Girls should be curvy and soft. Slim - but curvy.

So there you have it. Femininity is probably the reason men also like big boobs, but I won't go into that debate again. All you need to know for now is that my stomach is currently threatening to stick out more than my chest. Not helped by the 2 burgers and extra chips that are waiting for me. That running works up an appetite!! Now, if you'll excuse me...

It's called a B U R G E R...

THE MARITAL WHORE

2009-09-19T22:31:00.000+01:00

What does a woman stop at to get what she wants? Well, when certain opportunities present themselves, it's hard to resist! For instance, when you've seen a particularly gorgeous handbag that you can't afford and your husband asks for a sexual favour, a freebie, at that... well, you do the maths. Yes - it's true. I gave a blow job in exchange for a handbag. I wondered at the time of negotiations (during which my husband laughed in an exasperated and unbelieving manner...) if it makes me some kind of mild prostitute. The truth of the matter is, I had no objections to the request. it's not even like I don't enjoy it sometimes. But he was so desperate, I couldn't resist (excuse me...) milking the situation in my favour. I held out for a bag and some shoes but it seems he wasn't quite that desperate.

Come on, who wouldn't?!

Quite by co-incidence, I was watching a documentary tonight about this man who makes his entire living by fulfilling the sexual desires of older, considerably richer women. He's basically a gigolo but instead of receiving payment in cash, he gets to maintain a lavish lifestyle, paid for by his 'clients'. Holidays, cars, watches, exclusive gym membership...etc... Naturally I was shouting at the TV calling him all the names under the sun. Until 'someone' pointed out my hypocrisy to me. I maintained that my little bargain was merely a one-off. It's not like when we got married, he pushed a ring with the key for a Lamborghini hanging from it onto my finger, to coax me into saying 'I do'. (Worse luck...)

Anyway, I seem to remember caving in to similar 'deals' but in his case the prize was something typical of him, like his favourite dinner. Not as expensive, but more effort involved on my part than just handing over my flexible, plastic friend! (No, not that one - are you mad?!) I've decided it's perfectly acceptable and a sign of a good marriage in my opinion - it's called compromise! I could however, get into a very bad habit and make material demands for his every sexual wish. It's tempting, but it would work both ways. I might be armed with gorgeous bags, shoes and jewellery but I'd also be permanently chained to the cooker churning out culinary delights. Perhaps it will just have to be an occasional tool to get what I want.

For now, every time that little handbag gets to join us on a night out, I'm guessing the husband won't complain about the memory of how I obtained it! It's win win for everyone.

STORM IN A 'B' CUP

2009-09-17T17:43:00.001+01:00

This morning I was regaled with tales of my work colleague’s experience, as she shopped for bras yesterday. Dull, you might think – but in my mind it opened up a whole cavern of questions, issues and memories relating to breast size. Make a brew and let’s go from the start….

Said colleague made a little trip to M&S to be measured up for her new mammary hoists. Now, she’s a slim and petite lady with a nice rack (a healthy D cup by my estimations) – in short, she’s got a damn good figure. (She doesn’t make the most of it, but that’s a whole new topic…) So there she is, being scrutinised by a wizened old lady with a tape measure, as she spills out the front of a black and pink polka dot, balconette bra. (Quite pointless when your husband is away for months and you refuse to even undo a couple of buttons on your blouse, to showcase it to someone else. She won’t be told though…) For any of you, who like me, aren’t familiar with the bra measuring concept, here’s an explanation. We know a bra size is made up of a number and a letter. 36C for example. (I’m being concise, for any men who are reading.) The number is the inch measurement around your back, taken just under the boobs. (That’s just under where they actually join the body, if your poor boobs happen to droop to your knees.) Then (and here’s the truly ridiculous bit) your cup size (the letter) is determined by the inch measurement also around your back, but with the tape measure across the fullest part of your breast. (Again, hard to ascertain, if your boobs touch the floor.)

Stand clear, it's coming off...

That sounds simple enough, but it’s hardly foolproof. I pointed out to my colleague, that if she measures a D with her very small frame and narrow back, then I would surely measure more, regardless of how our breast size compares, as I am decidedly much wider than her. Therefore, where does being measured in this way, leave a very large bodied lady, with small boobs? With a bra that just about does up at the back, but gapes right open on her boobs, doing absolutely nothing to even hide them, let alone support them! Thus I can safely assume that bust size measuring is in fact, bull shit. The other day, I put on a D cup bra in La Senza (don’t ask me why, please…) and to my complete amazement it fit me! (there could have been more spillage, but I’m not going to be greedy…)Yet I also have B cups in my drawer, that once I have them on, could fit another two tits in them, at least!

The last time I properly went underwear shopping, was quite frankly hilarious. Let’s be brutally honest ladies. For the most part, underwear is solely functional. If you’re planning a hot date or wearing something semi transparent, then I couldn’t agree more - underwear plays a key part in the overall effect. But if it’s hidden away under layers of clothes, only to be discovered on the off chance that you bump into a very horny George Clooney in the lift on your lunch break, then I know what I’d rather spend my money on. Yes, I’m a ‘shoe’ woman. Like thousands of others, I spend hours deliberating over a pricey pair of heels. After all, they’re constantly on show and a good pair does wonders for the self confidence! (And it's not considered frigid to keep them on during sex.) But I decided it was about time I did the ‘underwear’ thing, so reluctantly, I ventured into a sexy lingerie shop, in search of something a little more tempting than some of the shameful, fraying, discoloured undies littering my drawer at the time. (Or the ‘oh-so-comfy’ red and green ones, with ladybirds and suchlike ‘cute’ things adorning them, for that matter. In the words of my husband when I purchased them from the Topshop sale - “You’re not actually going to wear those are you?”) Enough said. So there I found myself, sifting through rails of £40 bras and £30 thongs. I picked up a striking pink set in size 36FF and it looked like a 10 berth semi-detached tent. I rifled through to my size and held it up. It resembled a double sleeping bag for a couple of chubby hamsters.

I ended up with arms full of matching sets in every colour and design imaginable and made my way to the fitting room. This is where the fun started. You see, for anyone smaller than a large C cup, a bra can be an instrument of psychological torture. They're so tailored towards fat tits, that on women with a neat handful, like the bras marketed at 12 year old girls - they serve no physical purpose other than to make the wearer believe they are big, womanly and sexy, and prepare them to be one of the grown ups with those big soft 'breastfeeding' boobies they so admire. For a good percentage of women, unless they opt for grapefruit style tits in the form of silicone bags, they are doomed to continue waiting for this moment ‘til they either get pregnant or die. The sooner underwear manufacturers realise this, start making proper shaped bras for all breast sizes and stop producing cups that (unbeknown to you) concave for the rest of the day if you lean on something, or gape away from your body if you slump, so that the tall man who walks by, can see every thing you have to offer - the better.

However often I hear that men don’t mind smaller breasts, or that old chestnut of my Mother’s - “More than a handful’s a waste, darling!” - with the relentless media hype still surrounding big tits, it can be hard to believe. Find me a man who will happily choose an A cup over a D on two equally attractive women (pre-bra removal) and I might also start believing that he also doesn’t mind having a cock the size of an acorn. Breasts are after all, a symbol of femininity and maternity and if we're to believe the theory of attraction based on reproduction, then apparently there's nothing sexy about the A & B cup brigade. But you're all wrong! Yes we can wear backless tops without our nipples making friends with our waistbands and yes we can even run for the bus without knocking ourselves out - but do the benefits really end there? No they don't. When I have sex, my man can find my nipples without a hoist. When I have sex on top, I can have my nipples sucked by simply leaning forward - there's no need to pick them up first. And when I have sex doggy style, my nipples don't chafe on the sheets/floor/grass/car bonnet. But perhaps most importantly - when I wear a bra, it's less of a hoist/crane/satin scaffold threatening to reveal something very saggy within, but more of a teasing wrapper, begging to be peeled off so the contents can be devoured. Because when he takes my bra off, my babies are pert as fuck. ;)

Anyway, I digress (and get a bit damp) - after trying on a number of ill fitting lacy numbers, I decided upon a reasonably decent-fitting floral set in pink and lilac satin. As I was calmly trying to reposition my own bra, I was disturbed. “Is everything OK in the left hand changing room?” the amply bosomed assistant cooed. Upon looking at my watch, it appeared I had been criticising the sight of my perfectly formed boobs in various would-be disguises, for over half an hour. “Yes, I’m fine thanks!”- I shouted, as I tried to yank up my skinny fit jeans and balance on a pair of 6 inch, peep toed skyscrapers, hanging onto the curtain for safety.

It only remains for me to say - underwear designers of the world - for fuck's sake, do more research on slim, proportionate women and the shape of their bodies. And ladies - if you have got big boobs, by all means – do show them off. But please, before you do - find a good hoist! And don’t rely on the old lady in M&S.

IN FOR A PENNY, IN FOR A POUND...

2009-09-16T17:19:00.000+01:00

I can't deny that last night I lay in bed wondering if it's actually a good idea to open the door to my life in this very outspoken way. "What the hell?" is the conclusion I came to, before drifting into slightly troubled sleep and nightmares about being witch hunted by the Catholic church for being a complete strumpet and having a marriage annulment forced on me. Despite that, I woke up with slightly more clarity about why I'm doing this and I'm not worried enough to stop. What's the point in writing about 'life' if you're going to avoid certain things?! I'd rather discuss the things that everyone else avoids. The other stuff is over-discussed anyway.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned...

People's reactions got me thinking actually. Something I've noticed ever since Sex and the City first aired (I refer to it a lot, because as sugar-coated as it is, it's still a big influence...) is that some of its biggest fans are incredibly prude and totally incapable of conversing about anything sex-related. And yet, there they are (just imagine them...) sat on their sofas, glued to the TV, watching four New York women behave more promiscuously than most two pence whores and listening to such lunch-time dialogue as "I'm dating a guy with the funkiest tasting spunk." (Courtesy of show stealer, Samantha Jones.) What, I am wondering, is going through these viewer's savoury minds at this point?! They can't be totally averse to these delicate subjects, otherwise they'd turn over to the cookery channel. Are they perhaps, living out their inner desires and need to be outspoken and frank, through these TV characters, but pretending, when in the company of anyone else, that they find it all gratuitous filth? I still can't make my mind up about it. Even after asking one such prude friend and SATC fan how these two facts go hand in hand, there seemed no answer to be had. She just giggled and changed the subject! (Bizarre fact - my Mother-in-law watches it too. If you knew her, you'd understand why this is so bizarre...)

I don't get it. I mean let's face the facts - it's stuff we all have to deal with. It's nothing we don't know about, it's just stuff that we can't discuss. And even in these so called days of female sexual liberation, rampant rabbits and 'happy endings' after a visit to the masseur, (just some thing I've heard..!) there are still so many things that people can't tackle head on. Like? Well these are the things that make us human beings feel inferior. Or negatively comparable to our peers. Forget talking about sex toys, career over motherhood, sexual positions, second and third marriages - they're all things that we can show off about, stuff we don't mind people knowing, things that make us feel empowered. But the things that make us cringe or feel stupid or feel as if we have (in the words of my favourite comedian, Michael McIntyre, 'malfunctioned') - those are the things we can't bear to be honest about. Well guess what? We all malfunction! We're all just blundering idiots, with too much pride and no clue what each other considers to be normal - but instead of comparing notes or talking, we get agitated and convince ourselves that we're missing a trick.

Well I can assure you, we're not. So let the fun begin! Read it or avoid it, I'm having fun already...

THE SEVEN MONTH ITCH

2009-09-15T20:22:00.002+01:00

It's going to take a while for me to get into the habit of this daily blogging thing. It's a case of 'you think about it, then you think you can't actually be bothered to go to all the trouble of logging on, thinking, typing, editing etc...' you get the picture. It's very similar to my approach to my sex life just recently. It seems like a good idea, and God knows I fancy some when I see people at it on the TV, or read about it in magazines (the biggest bullshitters, for the record)... but somehow, it always seems such an effort and so not like it used to be.

Let's get right into the nitty gritty here and delve into something that even SATC failed to recognise and no-one is ever honest about. If it's going to be sex worth remembering, it will usually require some form of preparation, like - a shower, picking an outfit or underwear, enough time spent on hair and makeup so that you actually feel reasonably attractive (because if you don't, you'll spend the whole fuck feeling guilty for making your partner get down and dirty with a minger... let me assure you, nothing zaps your own libido quicker than feeling unattractive) and don't forget, you'll also need at least 45 minutes to spare. Now, my theory on people who claim to have an explosive sex life with a long term partner is this - they're either

A. lying, or
B. still lying.

It just seems like something of a past life, lived with more abandon and the desperate need to please someone and possibly find a mate for life. Fucking, during these times of relationship apathy, is merely a fantasy of what luckier and enviably single people get up to, with whoeverthefuck they please.

Of course, if you speak to them (and I'm not so lost in marital misery that I can't remember hating being single...) they will tell you otherwise. They'll tell you that they long to settle down and be looked after and not have to endure the whole rigmarole of dating. ERM.... REALITY CHECK! They'll be eating those very words when they find themselves attached to one person.

Carrie Bradshaw - poor love. At least her man keeps her hanging long enough to keep her interested!

Here's the impossible situation we as reasonable human beings find ourselves in. We are lonely and long for companionship for the most part and the only way to ease that is by co-habiting and or committing. BUT in doing so, we are also (subconsciously) robbing ourselves of the two states of mind that drive us in the direction of an amazing sex life. Those things?

1. WANTING TO IMPRESS

2. THE UNKNOWN

As soon as a single person settles down (or worse still, gets married) they no longer face either of the above. They don't need to impress and they damn well know where their next shag is coming from and who it will be with. The other problem is that faithful people are reasonable enough NOT to carry on shagging elsewhere. So where does that leave 'average, faithful, married couple'? It leaves them happy to have a loving companion but desperate for some of that sex you only have with someone you hardly know! And let me be the first to tell you singletons, if no-one's ever been frank with you about marriage. "IT DOESN'T HAPPEN AGAIN!" And don't let anyone try and convince you that this apathy doesn't set in for years and years. TRUST ME - it sets in as soon as you decide you've found 'the one'! Get the excitement of the wedding out of the way and what are you left with? A glorified flatmate with whom you occasionally have sleepy sex.

Now before you come to the conclusion that Jo Brand is writing this, or that I am some other bitter and ugly hag with knickers drier than Gandhi's sandal, or that I am a greedy, commitment-phobe nymphomaniac, I must assure you - I am still (despite all of the above) happy to be married and very much in love with my very handsome husband. (And quite capable of reaching the big O every time.) But never was I told the truth about what happens to your ability to have truly wild and electric sex. And believe me - there's not a God damn thing you can do about it! Porn, vibrators, oysters, champagne... nice and perhaps a bit different, but whatever you do, it's still going to be with the last person you'll ever get it on with. And there lies the disappointment, which will occur sooner or later. Let's hope there is enough to hold young relationships together, besides the physical stuff. Thank God I'm not a quitter. I may even report back shortly, with tales of how to make the most of sex and marriage...

SPEECH THERAPY

2009-09-15T19:40:00.000+01:00

Not sure why I feel the need to regale anyone who wants to read, with tales of my life, my feelings and the weird and complicated way my mind reacts to them. But even if no-one ever reads it, those things that no-one talks about (and the more mundane...) are always more easily understood and accepted when put into writing.

Hence I give you - 'What's the big secret?' No holds barred thought stream. If it enters my mind, I will try and dissect it. Because if there's one thing that frustrates me in life, it's when po-faced people can't talk about the things that bother them most, the personal things that although they may be embarrassed about, would be a hell of a lot better discussed so we can all laugh and point and then realise - "Oh yeah. Me too..."

And there's always the fact that I ought to do something with the writing degree I spent years slaving over...