Twat, and even twattier

Can we just talk about the casual sexism on Big Brother for a second?

Though the Big Brother producers and British media may have once been justifiably harsh on those who’ve used offensive language on the reality TV show in the past, they seem to be inexplicably skirting over the issue when it comes to the incredibly sexist and homophobic comments made by the current ‘stars’ of the series.  On three – one, two, LET’S ALL SLUT SHAAAAMMEEEEEEEEE!!!

Twat, and even twattier
These two need to star in an asshole-off.

I mean sure, I might not usually be the first to admit I watch Big Brother most evenings (it’s basically the equivalent to telling people you sometimes go on the DailyMail’s celebrity section when you need to give your brain a massive rest at work) but screw it. It’s raining, I’m cold, and sometimes a girl just wants to watch a C-list 90s popstar get it on with an actress who once punched Lindsay Lohan in the face. You know what they say , all’s fair in wintertime in England.

It's fudging freezing, alright?
It’s fudging freezing, alright?

Anyway, suffice to say, a week or so in and I’m UNASHAMEDLY hooked. Which is why I may have got even more pissed off than those who don’t watch the show when I saw Saturday nights episode, which showed N’Dubz’s Dappy finally open his PR-deathtrap of a mouth to lay into Luisa for supporting sexual equality and challenging out-dated ideas regarding different expectations of men and women.

I think you shouldn’t say that a man can sleep with 5 women and he’s cool, and a woman can sleep with five men and she’s a slut,” business owner and runner up of The Apprentice, Luisa Zissman, comments.

That’s true though!” Dappy exclaims, before bizarrely going on to argue that “this is 2013 babe” – which it’s not, you cretin- and backing up his original comments: “If a woman sleeps with 5 men in one night… she’s disgusting!”

Proceeding to follow her around the house, slut-shaming like a mother-freaking pro and demanding to know her ‘number’, Dappy shouts that Luisa’s daughter should be ashamed of her for what he judges to be her sexual promiscuity. Using her well-known liberated sexual attitude as a loaded weapon against her, Dappy resolutely went on the attack, labelling Luisa ‘loose’ and ‘stuck-up’ for standing up for herself.

How on earth a man who once attempted to rock this look can proceed to judge anyone is far beyond me, friends
How on earth a man who once attempted to rock this look can proceed to judge anyone is far beyond me, friends.

But hey, why only stop at Dappy when we can go to other men; older, just as wise (?) media figures who have helped pass these kind of ideas down the sexist history, one boring and offensive joke at a time? That’s right folks, along with some Dappy time, the team at Channel 5 has also been kind enough to give us a daily dose of the sexist, homophobic and racist asshat that happens to be Jim Davidson!

I've included this photo incase you weren't grossed out by him before...
I’ve included this photo incase you weren’t grossed out by Davidson before. You’re welcome.

After being axed from previous reality shows for other offensive comments (Jesus, money must be tight), Davidson has also predictably joined the tirade against Zissman, who herself argued in Monday’s episode that Davidson disliked her purely because he was frightened of powerful, strong-minded and independent women who can hold their own.

A-fucking-men, sister.
Bitch would run a mile if he ever met The Queen.

What I just don’t get is this – flippant and horribly racist comments that have been made by contestants on shows like this are quite-rightly universally attacked by the world’s media, whereas constant misogyny  is labelled and treated as a mere ‘difference of opinion’ between two contestants by producers (see the YouTube description of the argument). Where is the backlash against Dappy? Where is his comeuppance? All people give a shit about is watching him humanised in a damn nappy.

I wish I was the horse than kicked this cretin
I wish I was the horse that kicked this fool.

(Though the whole ‘Dappy is Happy in a Nappy’ thing was pretty inspired, slow-clap to y’all in the creative department, Channel 5!)

The American Psycho applauds you, media big wigs.

As well as that, when Evander Holyfield (the one missing a chunk of his ear that was spat out during a fight with Mike Tyson, making him cool amongst roughly 92% of the world) commented early on in the show that being a homosexual was something one could ‘choose’, he got a mere slap on the wrist.

Holyfield told bisexual Luisa: “If you were born and your leg was turned this way – what would you do? You go to the doctor and get it fixed back, right?” Before going on to say “It is a choice… Come on, how can you not say you ain’t gay unless you’re sleeping with the opposite sex?” 

I meaaaaaaaaan. Sure. Right. Yeah. NO. How was Holyfield not criticised more for these incredibly casual and flippant comments, which slipped out in what appeared to be a very comfortable fashion? A few articles were written about the comments, and producers warned him about his language, which he has now apologised for, but by christ, the man left the house to an overwhelmingly positive chorus of cheers from the British public, who liked him again because he grooved to a Will Smith song a couple of days after his homophobic slurs.

I want that t-shirt
I do like that t-shirt though.

But whatever, his comments still make him an asshole homophobe who is now for some reason adored by the British public.

What Big Brother and the media’s resounding lack of criticism about these male contestants comments are basically trying to teach the British public is that one form of bigotry is less important than another. Oh, and that women are sluts. Duh!


What sucks (to a lesser extent than worldwide sexism) is that Luisa probably will be voted out of the house before Davidson, purely because she is loud, argumentative and ultimately can rub people up the wrong way, whatever their gender.

Mike Tyson who?

One day I hope we can learn to embrace, rather than get annoyed by, strong, powerful and open-minded women who couldn’t give  a shit what people think of them, and didn’t champion homophobes, sexists and grumpy men instead.

The morning of January 2nd: destroyer of dreams, ruiner of lives

nopeIs there anything worse than going back to work after seven+ days spent doing sweet f-all, smothered in cheese in the privacy of your childhood room whilst you pass in and out of consciousness, cuddling a dust ridden, 20-year old toy that has lost both an arm, eye and tail in its time? On this day, in this current state and mood and in this workplace, I argue that no, there is most certainly not.

A supporter and sufferer of the increasingly popular state of being (I want to say disease but I’m pretty sure that’s something I can’t back up) that is the dreaded ‘Quarter Life Crisis’, aka the time in your life you suddenly, with minimal-to-no preparation, are spat out in the the world as a fully-fledged adult, cold, naked, alone (maybe not the last three) and realise quite how drastically limited your options as a grad in the ‘real world‘ are, I have probably written on this quite frankly self-centered topic far too much already, but fuck it, it’s a new year, which means I have a clean slate again. HIGH FIVE ME AT WILL.

So, what did your first mornings back at work look like? Mine roughly translated as so:

12am: Eye’s open, stretched wide in horror at the realisation that tomorrow’s events will actually be happening. No more home cooked, piping-hot meals, no more waking up at 3pm, no more free cheese. No. More. Daytime. Christmas. Movies.

At least no one was man-handling me, I guess
Realisation is a terrible thing

1am: Panic has only served to increase in the past 60 minutes – can’t get images of melted brie and the fact I’ve been going to bed at 4.30am every day of the Christmas holidays out of my head. Escape reality with an episode of Dawson’s Creek – created solely to stop young people from ever thinking again.

My hair looks like this at the moment actually - trying to grow my fringe out, you know how it is.
My hair looks like this at the moment actually – trying to grow my fringe out, you know how it is

1.43am: Better luck next time Dawson – my body is still stiff with fear at thoughts of the underground during rush hour – put on second episode of Dawson.

Pacey Witter; the owner of my heart (and probably yours too, if you watched it)
Pacey Witter – the owner of my heart and saviour of Joey’s world. Sigh

2.30am: Feeling more calm, yet strangely energetic. Realise slice of old pizza and 16 chunks of dairy milk wasn’t probably the best idea at 11 in the evening. Find marshmallows in the cupboard; consume til packet is finished.

I ate a few more than this
I ate a few more than this

3 – 5am: Regret marshmallows.

Such strong regret I turned into a male sculpture made of stone. Let that be a lesson to you
Such strong regret I turned into a male sculpture made of stone. Let that be a lesson to you

7.30am: AWAKEN with pain in both body and mind, and also soul. Croak at housemate, who can only mutter “what are we doing with our lives?” whilst wearing an expressionless expression. Silently agree.

8.20am: Shoe falls off whilst on the walk to the underground; promptly step into muddy puddle of evil, which main contain shite. Man laughs at me, whilst another asks ‘how I’m doing sexy’. Not well, kind sir, not well at all.

9am: At work. Cry internally for 9 hours.

I did get to have cheese at lunch though, so at least one of my fears wasn’t actualised.

President? President of my HEART
President? President of my HEART

Hope your days were just as selfishly tragic. If they weren’t and you are actually happy to be back at work, I am flabbergasted and congratulate you for having a mindset I fear I will never achieve. Happy New Year!

Why Russell Brand is right, despite his lack of a plan


Most of you may have probably caught the 10 minute Newsnight interview that has gone viral recently, featured Britain’s most beloved expert shagger and speaker, Russell Brand, and a rather unkept Jeremy Paxman, whose beard wasn’t pulled off with quite so much bravado.

Just short enough to retain our waning attention, the video featured the two debating the state of our political system, which Brand described as only being in place to serve a minute section of people, as he called for the country to instead pursue alternate infrastructure or ideals as a result of this disparity. The interview is passionate, powerful, and should be seen as a positive thing for those left-wingers whose own Marxist or socialist beliefs continue to be laughed off by the masses, the wrong shape for the current political mould.

The increasing apathy felt by young people in this country with regards to politics and the voting systems is a worrying fact, but perhaps again highlights the necessity of the kind of change championed by Brand, who recently took over the latest edition of the New Statesman to discuss various ideas of revolution in all parts of society and culture. The 2013 local elections saw an estimated 32% of 18- to 24-year-olds vote, with the 2010 general election seeing a mere 44% of 18-to-24-year-olds rock up to have their say on the next political heads of our state.

Some are calling for young people to be forced to vote in the next elections, with many ignorantly believing those who simply can’t be arsed shouldn’t have an opinion either way, such is their insufferable laziness. What bullshit. Yes, voting is important, but isn’t in a sign of how fed up people are with the current system that they’d rather get a few more hours snooze time than wake up and contribute a vote that they give not two shits about?


Brand is right; young people are bored. We’re bored of your voting systems and we’re bored of your boring bloody waxwork candidates. Sometimes it’s not even the fault of the individual politicians; once in a while, it seems like a good’un comes along, who can speak of change, talk of hope, and rally up young people like never before, but all too often they disappoint. This is because they simple cannot wiggle out of the political system they have enshrined themselves within without committing political suicide; they must either bend to the will of others and disappoint, or fight and ultimately be led to the exit door.

Some may say those with my attitude are defeatist, pointing to the young politically-savvy kids out there right now, trying to bash down doors of the political system in a bid to ‘make a difference’. I admire their spirit and passion, but unless they’ve got a truck load of cash, an insane amount of spare time and the ability to rebuild Westminster two-handed, I sincerely doubt they will be able to make but an insignificant dent in the powerfully resilient political machine currently in place.


As Generation whatever-you-want-to-label-us-now, we face sky-high rent, the probability of not owning a house until we’re knocking on death’s-door, jobs that take the happiest hours of our youth, and such an overwhelming slug of information delivered to our sleepy eyes every single day that we’re almost unshockable. The Occupy movement did show that there was life left in us yet, but our general apathy continues.

Brand may be the man without a plan, but even his half-baked, romantic ideas of some kind (ANY kind) of revolution and true change to this old, battered, should-be-retired system full of red tape and bureaucracy reminds me of the first time I read Marx and thought: “well, why bloody not?”

Hair today, angry and red a few minutes later post cream-removal

The other day, I turned to my only other female housemate in a bid to gather her support for the latest realisation I’d had, one I thought was deep, life-changing, and potentially something that would be Tweetable.

“I have come to the decision,” I said, waving my arms around to highlight my philosophical nature and high-thoughts while she looked on, dubiously, “That the worst thing about being a woman is hair removal, and all the horrors than come before, mid and post-hair removing activities.”

Now, you must understand that my housemate is very intelligent person, who is interested more in museums and art gallerys than, say, watching the latest episode of The Valleys with us, so she immediately knew I was talking crap, and proved this by very quickly coming up with a lot of other things that are objectively much, much worse than hair-removal. Her speech included examples along the lines of gender inequality, the glass door, the horrific treatment of women during wars, and so on.

“Yes, yes, I know all of this.” I said, brushing her correct argument away in the air with the philosophical hands I was still using, “But really, my God. Sometimes I use hair-removal cream, and I honestly cannot wear anything other than girl boxers for a whole week.”

GIRL BOXERS, you know the ones; those awful pants sported by faux-emo’s circa 2004, to be worn only just above the line of jeans so their slogan (just the very simple: Girl Boxer) would be seen by all parents and potential boy-lovers in a bid to show that we were post-feminist, Buffy-watching girls who could show their very comfortable and large pants and be quite fine with it because we are wearing these on purpose thanks very much. Post emo-phase, we now use them only during a certain time of month, because they are seriously damn comfortable.

On normal people, these don't look sexy.
On normal people, these don’t look sexy.

Anyway, honestly, as a woman who has not yet experienced the what I hear is overwhelming pain of childbirth, what my fellow lady-friends and I have to go through every summer without fail just so as not to freak out people at the pool is horrific. (Though the kind lady who got to work with me the other week did tell me I was very brave. Very brave indeed.)

But this hair issue does not plague us only below the waist. No, we should be so lucky. It plagues us everywhere. Including on our faces. Our FACES. An area that should be hair free unless you sport a penis or have taken a few too many hormone-replacement pills during your older-lady years.

Once, during a maths class when I was about 15, my maths teacher Mr Bright (I have changed his name, lest The Services – whoever they are – read this, cry about how horribly such an innocent girl got treated, and hunt him down) got so sick of me talking, yelling, laughing and being a general a-hole while he was trying to teach, that he decided to put white tape over my mouth which bore the words ‘I MUST NOT TALK’ on it. I thought it was hilarious, because I was getting special treatment thus was to be admired by all other adolescents, but it also gave me an excuse to actually start working because mother of christ I was behind.

At the end of the lesson, Mr Bright triumphantly ripped off the white tape, and said “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it Lucie?”

I was stunned. I tried to laugh, tried to smile, tried to move my mouth in some way or other, but found that I couldn’t because he had literally just RIPPED OFF ALL THE SKIN FROM ABOVE MY TOP LIP.

And so a tache was born.

This damn tache is the plight of my life every month about once a month, and earlier as I was chatting to my boyfriend and thinking I was being very adorable, he informed me that it was in fact back with a vengeance, and I should probably do something about it. Sound advice, though not something I really wanted to hear at that exact moment.

Anyway, 2 minutes after  slathering weird-smelling, thick cream across my top lip and almost passing over from the fumes, I took off the disgusting stuff to discover that my lip had in fact been eroded away. Like rocks by the sea, but so much worse and so much faster.

I spent the next hour firmly holding wrapped-up ice on my lips and have since been having to cover the atrocious beaming strip with an inch-thick layer of concealer, which really is quite a bad disguise, because all attention is immediately drawn to its gooey-orange hue. It looks odd and I am slightly nervous about work tomorrow.

I seek solace in the fact that I am not alone, because I remember the same thing happening to a German girl at my school called Sammy. She spent a full 3 days of school in the sickbay, and afterwards would always walk around with her head down, in a bid to plead her fringe to grow long enough to cover her whole face.

This is why hair is bad and it makes women sad. I would say you should embrace it, like every other feminist does… but have you ever seen a hairy under-arm? I hate that shit on men and women alike. At least we have winter. Sweet, sweet winter, where everyone’s too cold, grumpy and tired to give a shit about meaningless things like hair.

I for one can’t wait for it.

Every day I get a little angrier that I’m not powerful nor important

I was going to entitle this ‘Everyday I’m angry I’m not a powerful dictator’ but I thought it might come back to bite me in the ass career-wise one day, so I went with this slightly more mellow post.

Anyway, I came here to say that the most exciting thing I did today was buy a Pedagog, or Ped-Egg, or shave-your-feet-you-disgusting-excuse-for-a-female thingy, or whatever they call it. One of those cheese-grater things for your feet that are so utterly disgusting and wonderful at the same time, you know the ones. I showed my yellowing soles to my work friend today and she swiftly sent me in the direction of the foot-care aisle of Boots. I owe her, these hooves are a sight for painful eyes. The second best thing I did today was consume 19823864 calories of sugar at work (Treats Wednesday’s, you never fail us), and the worst thing I did today was step on a woman’s foot as I desperately fled from work, taking her poor sandal off in my hurry, and pissing her off no end.

Whatever, the point is: I’m bored of my current state of being. I’m cross. I’m listening to Satisfaction and agreeing with it, at a non-sexual level. Also, a point about that song, weren’t all girls born around the late 1990’s so proud we knew all the lyrics to that and could impress our dads twofold in our early teens because they think we were into good music, when actually we just know all the lyrics because our beloved Britney? I loved her angry phase.

She's probably got a little satisfaction now she's a multi-millionaire, surely?
She’s probably got a little satisfaction now she’s a multi-millionaire, surely?

SO WHY DON’T YOU CHANGE IT, moaning myrtle you little fool? You may demand. Well. Good point, I may answer. My best friend once told me we should only ever pursue a career in life that we would think was cool when we were about 7, and that’s annoyingly stuck with me every since. It kind of fuels my anger every time I do utterly pointless things at work, like retweet for unknown companies on Twitter, or file pointless documents into forgotten-about filing cabinets in a dusty room. Our 7 year old selves wanted so much more for us, look how we’ve let them down so.

Our 7 year old selves wouldn’t even know what a computer was, they’d think Twitter was a sound birds made, and they’d push for us to be more adventurous, more outrageous with our lives. My 7 year-old self was determined to be a dictator; someone all powerful, but all lovely, who would hand out presents and chocolate to her adoring subjects like an Anti-Joffrey, pro-Margaery type, with less voluptuous cleavage display (or maybe MORE! Boy, tits were out of the question that long ago).

But alas, here I am, buying a grater for my cheese feet and smoking out of boredom, watching all my friends in jobs I would despise doing rake in almost double what I earn a year. Maybe I should’ve just stuck with recruitment after all? Those damn savvy salesmen and women might have had a point.

Anyway, on we go guys. Climbing that (in my case) almost non-existent career ladder, too tired and sick of computer screens after work to trail through the countless job ads which demand, in capital letters, for ‘MONEY HUNGRY GRADS WILLING TO WORK 12-HOUR DAYS’.

Le sigh, we’ll get there in the end, eh. Keep me posted on the dictatorship ads, would you?

An ode to the drunk friend

We’ve all been that person, we’ve all held that persons hair back from their face mid-vom, and we’ve all simultaneously hated and loved that person on a reg throughout a night out. Let us pay homage to that guy, that girl, who’s got you in trouble with the sober people and who you will love to the death because of it.

A recent Friday night out I shared with a hilarious wine-guzzling friend of mine resulted in near-chaos, as we both almost got my boyfriend sacked from his job after a night out with his work colleagues and clients. It all started with my being let out of work early on a Friday, never a good idea, as it added a whole extra hour onto vodka-consumption time, aka pre-lashing, aka chaos-inducing evening drinks.

It all started off so well. Off we went, into the night, dropping our possessions across the road as we searched in vain for our taxi man, a guy my friend, Wales born and bred, then dubbed ‘Drive’ after we finally came across his blinkers. I mean, not even Driver, or Mr taxi-man (my own usual patronising name I offer the poor people who have to cart my friends and I across London whilst being subjected to our none-too-subtle attempts to hide the cranberry-voddie mixture), but Drive. Whatever, he seemed to like it. On we drove.

After skipping the ridiculously long queue of substance sniffers that waited outside in the rain of the club, we threw ourselves forward and hugged every bouncer who came into our sorry contact. Suddenly, we saw my boyfriend! Screaming, crying, vodka flowing freely in our veins, I saw the panic in his eyes as we jumped him like mad women who had discovered a marathon line after a sweat-producing last sprint. He then proceeded to usher us into a room, another room, and finally… into the room filled only by the main headlining DJ that night, and his sober entourage. Suffice to say, already my boyfriends job was in jeopardy. We leapt upon all, hugging, embracing and dribbling on these music professionals who had only one thing on their mind: get rid of the drunken girls. The Russian DJ my friend was yelling at to ‘COME CARDIFF, COME DJ IN CARDIFF MATE’ looked positively stricken, as he hurriedly posed for photos with us before the others practically picked us up and expelled us into another VIP room. Worst move ever; there was way more vodka to choose from in the next rooms.

Suffice to say, whilst I was meeting the pole dancers and talking to them about power relations (I like to think I was talking about this, I probably just poked their boobs and said ‘WHOA, MEGA JEL’ or something as highly intelligent as that), my friend was well and truly getting on it. We whirled around the place, meeting gay Spanish dancers, new-found best friend-bouncers, and club music loving teens, having a great old time of it, really. My boyfriend briefly tried to take my friend aside, ‘for a chat’, but you try reasoning with a Welsh girl full of booze and joy, she wasn’t having any of it. And I love her for that.

‘Telling off’ your friends is the worst thing, and having people look down on them and you is even more horrible. When you’re at a club, full of boozers and music-enthusiasts, the only way to get into it, is to get on it. I’m proud of my friend and I for ignoring the stuck-up glares (when we noticed them through our blurry vision) and although I’m not condoning excessive drinking, or drinking at all really, we had a great time that night. Sober or not, making the most out of a situation is always the best thing to do, even if your hangover disagrees with you the next day. Plus, we had the balls to ask for pictures with the DJ, and the sour-faced sober crouts didn’t. So who’s the winner really, eh?


Ab Fab endorses us
Ab Fab endorses us

A quarter life crisis rears its ugly head

There are a lot of people in the world who I admire; I admire those who are selfless, those who dedicate their lives to helping other people, and those who excel in their chosen field of expertise. Mainly, however, I admire those people who know what they want to do, and do it. Here I’m not talking about people who make restaurant bookings for lunch, I’m talking about people who really, truly, devote themselves to one career path, and make decisions that begin new opportunities and new relationships. These are people who close certain doors to instead pursue the ones that are bigger, brighter, and more suited to them, and do it all calmly, whilst in control.

For those of you who have miraculously followed this blog from the beginning, you may know that I began it as a distraction from that awful process we all have to go through, the job application process. After applying for jobs I wasn’t sure about, with companies I hadn’t heard of, my hope was waning and my ‘Girls’-depicted longing for a path, and/or further education, was growing at a terrifyingly rapid pace. I was a graduate, and like the 98.99% of graduates out there: I was lost.

After learning for most of our lives, being given the tools to unpick theories, puzzles and arguments, the once smug undergraduate becomes the lost, confused, older graduate who chooses to hide under duvets, watching series after series of American television programme, over trying to take control of their future.

Such graduates are thus victims of graduate recruitment programmes, the schemes that offer us glory, money, fame, if only we take 4 hours to fill out forms that leave us soul-less, before they send us the rejection email.

Said graduates who experience said soullessness then also, by default, become victims of false hope. We are extended lifelines, sometimes, by jobs that offer us little, for half of the glory, money and fame we initially strived for, and we grab them with fierce, baby-hands, because we are told that ‘this is life’. This is as good as it gets, and we cannot achieve the top before waging through the initial sh*t first. So we accept these roles, because we wish to escape the watchful, worried beady eyes of the parent Big Brother, and we hate to admit we also want to post one of those magical, like-inundated status’ about finally getting a ‘REAL, BIG PERSONS JOB!!!’

I truly admire the people who know exactly what they want to do, whether it’s in the field of music, art, journalism, law, or within that horrific, generalised bubble of ‘media relations’. I have spoken to friends who describe tears in bathtubs because of the stress of making decisions, those who admit having chosen a masters simply because they were fortunate enough to be able to elongate their decision over the future for one more, precious year, and those who shamelessly announce, between drunken giggles, that they don’t care what they do, as long as they can continue to live ‘the London life’.

I envy you, you who have specific career-aspirations, you who are happy with the choices you have made, you who dedicate yourselves to a path and don’t look back. My only fear about doing the same is that one day, 20 years from now, I will look back and regret the things I have done, and the things I didn’t have the balls to do. So for now, I’m going to continue to look, to search, and to decide. So that when I’m 42, the only thing I will be able to do when I look back at my decisions, will be to smile.


A Drunken Devonian in London

Ah, hello friends, family, loved ones, people who read this blog anyway despite frowning upon it (hi mum).

It sure has been a while. Sorry I’ve been inexcusably crap at writing recently, I’ve discovered that I don’t really cope that well living a normal-person life with normal-person hours, I get tired and mopey and grumbly and insult people far more than normal, and all I want to do when I get home is watch crap reality TV and bitch about everyone under the sun to my poor, long-suffering boyfriend/punchbag.

Anyway LUCKILY ENOUGH I have recently become a victim of that old classic illness inFLUenza and am recovering in bed, so quite frankly have little else to do other than whine and flop about like a drunken mermaid out of water…and blog.

So what’s been happening I hear you CRY (chill out, it’s only a blog). Well, I have recently become a victim of CRIME. A terrible, drunken victim of crime. I shall tell you the tale and ask you not to judge, for we have all (a nice policeman told me), had such an experience.

Once upon a go…last Friday, I tottered out of a very unnecessarily expensive club that was lit up with far too many colours than my retinas could bare, stumbled down a street in search of a saviour, and literally fell into the closest taxi I could find.

AH! I thought, Could this be him…my fat, middle-eastern, car-owning saviour who will gallop me away from this awful south-london alcohol-fuelled circus and- “TAKE ME HOME” I ordered the smiling man, ‘MAKE HASTE, TO NORTH LONDON WE MUST GO”.

At least, that’s what I thought I said. And that’s what I thought he was like. Infact, said wonderful cab in fact actually contained a grubby, thieving and quite frankly pretty inapro-pro taxi driver, who bared his teeth on sight of my battered feet and drunken slur and opened the door widely.

The long and the short of the journey that I can barely…slightly…remember from said glaring club to my North London warehouse that ended badly for myself and wonderfully for him, was not that great, really. He who pocketed almost £300 of my hard-earned overdraft without letting me know, he who pretended to go for a wee but instead nicked my debit card and royally screwed me over (money wise, don’t worry).

After finally arriving near my house, penniless (although my drunken mind hadn’t quite registered this yet), clutching one-size-too-small shoes in hand and smeared in a horrific amount of fake tan, I then had to face the nemesis that a few unfortunate Londoners have to bare: an alleyway fondly nicknamed ‘Rape Alley’ that connects the warehouse community where I live to the rest of the world. After hurtling my body through the alleyway, running like an awful blonde bat out of hell, passing vomit and various other curious-looking piles of mammal-excrement, I literally, physically threw myself at the doors of my warehouse, calling out my boyfriends name in woe and bemoaning the glass in my feet and drunken pain in my belly.

No answer.

I mean, baring in mind the fact that I live with about 13 other people, and there is a conjoining warehouse next to us containing another 14 people, this is basically just a really sh*t and annoying situation to find oneself in. I then decided it’d be a fantastic and innovative idea to brave the outside stairs connected to the buildings… A very dangerous and not-recommended place for a drunken girl making wild and sudden movements to go, this was never going to be a good idea. After a brief spell spent considering jumping INTO one of the windows (the inside plants would surely break my fall), I remembered that ad featuring the drunk-superman-who-dies from yesteryear, drew a quick intake of breath, and flew back down the stairs to discover further entry-points to the comfort and warmth that lay within.

My decision settled on wailing like a banshee outside and throwing my whole body at the fire exit of our warehouse for a solid 10 minutes. A useful tactic that genuinely does seem to work, two of my panicked housemates soon answered my fearsome wails broomsticks in hands, and came to my rescue. From then, my memory is a complete blank. An awful, white, long old blank that apparently consisted of me running around, laughing manically, crying and losing everything in my hands, and ended with a horrific migraine the next morning.

The moral of this story is nothing more than don’t do this. Do not do what I did. Do not. Just no. Don’t. My mother is on hand to offer advice and wise words about the lives of young girls, bad situations and evil men etc, so if you’re looking for that, just hit the woman up, she’d love it.

I myself have pledged not to get drunk again until after Christmas, for my body, bank balance and brain cells would not be able to handle another Evil-Taxi-Man-Locked-Out-of-House-Forgotten-Everything night. We all have them, but we don’t all love them, so let me be a warning to you and your overdrafts, next time, an evening like that might just have an even worse conclusion.

Courtney Love or me last week? You decide.

Best Friends Forever?

Friendship is something that links one stranger to another by chance, situation or something unexplainable. But does it ever really last forever, or do those BFFL promises we make in the childhood, teen and adult stages of our life always dissolve with age?

WEEELL it’s all relative I guess. The answer depends on the people, it depends where each friend is in life in that particular moment and it depends on whether or not you are good at forgiving because, sooner or later, one party will fuck up and bring that sacred connection into question and ruin, and it’s up to the other to weigh up and decide: is it really worth it?

We’ve all messed up in our lives, done things and said things we shouldn’t have, to the detriment of our reputations and own self-respect. I myself am definitely guilty of this; I’ve rocked so many friendships I could practically be a guru on it. But the thing is, whenever I mess up and truly blame myself, I always try to apologise. Because you can be a bull in a friendship china shop, but you can still try and help out after, bump around the mess but try your best to brush up the mess, put it in the bin and say: let’s just f*cking refurbish, cause in the end, we’ve still got something here, and it could even be profitable (pushed that metaphor too far, didn’t I).

Most of us are blessed with countless friends from numerous stages in our lives; there are those stable family friends we’ve grown up with, the people we were plodded next to when babies and remain the strongest memories of where we’re from, who were were, and who we’ve become. In my experience, these friendships have tended to be, perhaps out of habit or something deeper, the ones who often stand the test of time.

Then there are the friends we make at pivotal moments in our existence, kids from school, college, travelling experiences, university, work and so on. These are the friendships that can become challenged at every corner; by teenage angst, by boyfriend/girlfriend/best friend melodrama, by the events that will naturally threaten the bonds already formed. Within whichever chosen clique you find yourself, you seek out true friendship, and if you’re lucky enough, you will find it. My best friendship group, the ones who have been there for me as I’ve developed from a man-hating, cheating, volcano of a teenager into a lesser-version-of-all-three pretend adult, are a group who formed in childhood but remain in adulthood, and in their time have betrayed, fallen out, bitched but have always forgiven, and have always loved.

Other friendships I ain’t been so lucky with, but you know what, it’s fine. Every single friendship we ever have, every single person we ever meet, really, effects us and the person we are and will become through the years. I am grateful for the lovers, intimate friends, enemies and h8rz I have had dealings with in the past, because all relationships you ever share with people help contribute to who you are, what you end up thinking, and how you deal with others in the future. Whether it’s because people despise you, or because they adore you, to affect someone and evoke some emotion is a powerful thing.

As you get older, you realise that love lost can be a sad but relieving thing. To end a friendship, cut a person out if you will, does take guts. But to talk, to forgive and to patch up takes the most guts of all. You just have to know that it’s truly worth it.

If people simply ain’t worth your time, if they bring you down, make you act like a lesser version of yourself, then God damn whatcha doing listening to me? Cut that bitch out of your LIFE. But if they are worth it, if the laughs you’ve had and tears you’ve spilt and experiences you’ve lived together are worth all the rocky patches, then stop playing with fire and sort your shit out. My new personal promise is to listen to my own advice and try to stop taking people for granted, so wish me luck!

PREACH OVER. You may now be seated. Go hug someone, I know I’m gonna.

My best friend Jane and I used to have these (best tween girl phase ever?). She is still awesome and we looked badass in them, no lie.

America part deux; THERE’S MORE TO IT THAN JUST CALIFORNIA?! Well hot damn.

I’m not sure why I’ve used French in the title here, in fact I’m not sure why I’ve titled it as so seeing as I’ve not actually written a blog entry entitled ‘part one’ or une (or un, WHATEVER, get off my case) before, but I thought I’d just go with it seeing as it is really a carry on from the last entry, which I spent praising my twanging mates ‘til the cows came home… or you exited the screen, vomiting at my often patronising and motherly tone instead.

The last blog was pretty quick to proverbially, shall we say, ‘bum’ America and the experiences I had there whilst in my second year of university. Written during a hormonal, crimson-tidal-wave-surfing/plunging spell of the month, I have been quick to praise our across the pond, yanky-doodle friends. Of course, an exploration of the more questionable times should be undertaken, for general scientific validity but mainly to balance out my freakish-sounding obsession of our powerful neighbours.

…BUT YOU KNOW WHAT, THAT WOULD BE BORING. So instead I’m going to talk about some embarrassing sh*t that happened to my ginger mate and I once we’d weaned ourselves off the tasty tit that was California and began venture around some of the other states our good Obama offered. Like a couple of pale, high-waist-denim-short-rocking Columbi searching for a merry time, a few dumb but attractive male compadres and some cheap ol’ whiskey, we yearned for the ensuing few weeks almost as much as our wallets feared them. Our adventures saw torrents of vomit released, countless confusing dialogues with locals had, and many, many airplanes ridden whilst absolutely, monumentally pissed.

After waving tearful farewells to our respective American families and casting long, lingering looks outside at the blistering California sun, we made our way inside the airport (pastures new) like a couple of over-excited, irritatingly-loud school children, hungry for adventure, American men and a pretty decent tan, though not in that order. Once we’d unloaded our bags, we happened upon a massive horse. A stallion it was, rocking about the terminal entrances, casual and cool as a horsey cucumber. To this day, I’m not quite sure what the true purpose of that horse was; we knew it was being filmed, and had a slack-jawed, ginger Texan looking man perched nervously upon it (we could tell, ‘cause only Texan’s where cow-boy hats. I mean, that’s just scientific fact). Either way, we understand that if the first 3 minutes into our trip brought us famous horses in airports, we were definitely going to be in for a good time.

Our first flight took us to AUSTIN-BLOODY-FANTASTIC-TEXAS aka one of the most brilliant places in the world ever. Our loud, booming voices often meant the local Austonians (cool word hey? Made it up didn’t I) would approach us whilst we were aimlessly walking around with maps jutted out in front of us, bumping into things. Due to extensive prior warnings before embarking on the trip by one DILF who goes by the name Liam Neeson, at first we were naturally terrified by the bearded foreigners who definitely did not speak English, thinking they were the typical rapists, murderers and/or paedophiles that roam both the papers and our nightmares so much nowadays (despite being 22, I am still terrified a paedophile is going to abduct me any moment – I physically cower away from white vans).

Alas, luckily for us, they tended to be always lovely, sometimes mildly insane, locals who were always keen to give us helpful advice. Our best night  in fact consisted of meeting a couple of waiters who, after waiting patiently for us to count out dimes and cents and all other monopoly money, took us out, paid for our drinks, juke box songs and competitive pool matches and took us to a shop where we bought the singular items of clothing we had decided to go to Texas for: the Cowboy Hat. Glorious and floppy, we wore those hats to death and didn’t take them off until they fell apart still tangled to our greasy, sun-frazzled locks. Mine ended up unravelling after I drunkenly stood on the cord and tripped over it but I think my friend’s may still be intact somewhere, the Hat that Never Gave Up and our physical momento of the Texan Adventure that was.

Chicago (or ‘The City of Angels’ as I mistakenly called it whilst opening my arms widely so as to embrace the new culture whilst my friend shook her head at me, very slowly) was our next stop. Our previous nights’ excitement that had consisted of the HAT night, 45 failed skype calls to my ex boyfriend and me ignoring my friend who was vomiting in the shower as we waited for a taxi had naturally tired us cosmopolitan jet-setters out. Said sleepiness/overhungness was thankfully aired out and made instantly better by falling promptly asleep on a chair in the lobby when we reached our next hostel. Annoyance set in after waking up to discover my iPod had been swiped by some light-fingered traveller, possibly the same one who would later commit the atrocious act of stealing our left over deep-pan, Chicago pizza, which we exploded like volcanoes at. Immediately eating all other pizza in the hostel kitchens, we slapped illegible, drunken sticky notes consisting of obscene and misspelt swear words all over any surfaces we could possibly find, flipping off the security camera and thinking how hilarious and eloquent we could be, even when off our tits.

While Miami brought us sun, men and some distant cousins that I may or may not have illegally smooched (don’t judge me- I’m from the countryside remember), D.C. then offered sweat, a lot of exhausted sitting down and the falling out of my recently acquired lip piercing whilst half-way through chewing a burger (for the better, really). New York was a tiny city full of miscellaneous splendour, cockroaches and Actors with horrendous English accents, and offered us Brooklyn, my new favourite ‘I want to live here when I grow up’ city.

Each of the states we visited were like new, different countries full of their own personal promises and offerings; California in and of itself is bigger than England and the sheer opportunities that both individual states and collective America have to offer is beyond understanding. Sure, US foreign policy might not be top notch, and yes, it’s bloody easy to criticise much of their often backwards and republican population, who are, for example, ‘pro life’ yet would get behind a war that many neither comprehend not care about (because CNN tells them to). But you know what, whatever. The people we were fortunate enough to meet throughout the year had trudged across many roads and came from all walks of life, and the majority were gracious, kind and generous whenever we met them or (rarely) came into trouble. You can criticise the ‘American Dream’ and ‘American way of life’ in many respects, but God damn, to hell with Paris, Liam Neeson’s Daughter, you should’ve just stuck to road tripping the hell out of your own country.

Yeah, we really did look this lame.