My Vagina Is Not Your Income

Disclaimer: If you formally employ me, or are a relative, it’s probably best if you don’t read this. It would just embarrass both of us.

People spend quite a lot of time talking about vaginas these days. Lord knows I do. I tried to think about something else to blog about for a change, realised I only know about feminism and lesbians, and gave up. So vaginas it is.

I find it quite alarming how they seem to have developed monetary value within the last twenty years or so. To have a vagina worthy of modern, media standards it has become necessary for women to effectively pay rent. At minimum women are now expected to at least ‘spruce up’ their downstairs, whatever the hell that actually means, and while the cost of razors totted up over a life time may not exactly purchase a house, it could probably buy you quite a few more fancy dinners and tickets to see Westside Story than you would have had otherwise. For the slightly more hardcore who fancy waxing, it becomes vital to fork out roughly once a month to employ someone to hot glue strips of fabric to the single most sensitive area of your body, and then violently rip them off again. Which is painful both physically and financially. For the ones who have signed a contract to the Fancy Genital overlord, vajazzling comes into play. The singular and ancient art of paying someone to stick rhinestones and bits of glitter to a place where there should be fluff thankfully seems to be losing the sudden burst of popularity it had, and personally I think we’re better off for it leaving. If I remember rightly, there were about two weeks in 2011 where everyone turned round and shouted ‘pejazzle’ (vajazzling's male equivalent) at each other, screamed and never, ever mentioned it again.

I still don’t really know what the point is in the ripping and the hot glue and the glitter. Some people seem to think it’s nice for someone you’re having sex with, but if your partner won’t sleep with you unless you have diamonds stuck to your foof, I think you might be sleeping with the wrong people. Frankly they should be grateful that they get to sleep with you at all, without kicking up a fuss about whether or not a grumpy beautician has tidied up for them first.

Speaking of Lady Ga-gardens, Lady Gaga apparently stripped off in London’s G-A-Y club last week. Some gay men witnessed her bottom. It was big news. Just like the time every female celebrity ever got into a car at a funny angle while wearing a skirt, or wore something chiffon based under bad lighting. Do you know when I last read an article about a bloke accidently showing a bit too much skin? Never, that’s when. No one gets paid for writing about men having a touch too much champagne before getting into a cab badly. No man has ever thought “Jesus, I possess pubic hair, something both men and women have had since the dawn of time. I should probably RIP IT OUT ON THE OFF CHANCE SOMEONE UNEXPECTEDLY TRIES TO HAVE SEX WITH ME IN A VERY BRIGHTLY LIT ROOM.” We have developed a culture where we pay people make sure our vaginas look good enough, on the off chance someone else is being paid to write about it. You might as well keep a small till in your knickers, just in case.

Unless you like doing all that, which is fine. If you want to, please be my guest. But just ask yourself first if you’re doing it because you like having genitalia that doubles up as a handy disco ball, or because you’ve just been told you should like it by someone else. If it’s the latter, I suggest you either ignore them or have a very lengthy chat. If it’s the former, please come to parties with me. At the end of the day, vaginas were meant to push out screaming humans, and give birth (ooh, satire). Do whatever you like with yours but make sure you do it for you and not to attract sexual partners with the brains of magpies.

Cheers. 

Talking Mostly To Myself (No, Really)

I just watched Easy A. It was pretty good, I recommend it if you haven't seen it. No, just so we're clear I'm not here to confess all the people I haven't slept with. This isn't so much a public blog as a personal one. I know it's been quite quiet lately. I have some ideas that I want to work on, but I've got a bit of a mental block. I don't know why. I had a bot of a lull over summer where everything got really quiet, and I sort of faded slightly. It was weirdly static. I thought things would be better now, and it's improving but slowly. I have a job. I signed my first employment contact, which was fun bus also, y'know, mind numbingly terrifying. I like my job. The people are nice and they taught me how to use a coffee machine. A proper one. With fancy buttons and levers and stuff. I feel a little bit like a scientist. I carried a tray of champagne glasses and didn't drop any. I'm still having driving lessons. I'm still awful, but the clutch has stopped making funny noises, and I remember to indicate so I think I'm improving. I'm still doing English lessons, which are still amazing and I may or may not be writing this as an attempt warm up for the last leg of an essay. I spend a lot of time on busses.

I realize that blogging total nonsense from my life is probably really annoying to most people, but it's quite cathartic. Having spent the last three hours reliving the last episode of The Wrong Mans in my pajamas, it's nice to remind myself that I'm not still stuck in the blank phase and I do have stuff to get on with. Quick note to NT - sorry you had to stay in my house during that. It was grim, and I was quietly miserable. I think. I don't really know, every time I'm sad I always assume I'm either PMSy, bored or hungry and have since forgotten what strong emotions really are. I bought some fairy lights for my bed, because I wanted to be a cliche. I rewatched the first series of The Mighty Boosh and remembered what I'd missed. I remembered being being fourteen and dancing with my Dad in a room full of people dressed as Noel Fielding's imagination while Bob Fossil mucked about on stage. It was nice, in an embarrassing, fourteen year old sort of way. Sometimes I forget I was fourteen once, but so does everyone else. Remember you used to be dumb. Remember you're a womble. 

Christ I hope no one reads this. Go watch Easy A, I beg of you.
Sorry I talk about TV so much. I have a media A level. 

What Not To Say In A Driving Lesson

I'm trying to get in the habit of writing a little bit more regularly, so here's a dumb list blog, because I haven't done one in a while. I'm also not bothering to type it up on Word first, so it's back to the good, old fashioned, Az-can't-spell-type-or-use-grammar days. I should also point out that I'm drinking a combo of 'glitter juice' (pomegranate juice with gold glitter, thanks M&S), and vodka. It's a cracking combo, but I am worried that I'm going to turn into liquid music. Or Robots In Disguise. I don't mind which. 

Most of you probably know that I'm learning to drive at the moment. It's going well, although I have put my foot in it a few times. Here's some stuff you shouldn't say in a driving lesson. Not all of them are me; I'll let you guess which ones are direct quotes.

1. "I'm really worried that I'm just going to run someone over. Possibly on purpose." 
2. "Have you ever rolled a car? Do you want to try?" 
3. "What would you do if I drove into that wall?"  
4. "Have you ever done 80mph in  hearse? I have." 
5. "Why's it making that noise? Have I changed gear? Which gear am I in? Oh God, the noise is getting worse. The car hates me, WHY DOES THE CAR HATE ME?!"
6. "What colour was that traffic light?"
7. "The brake is that little lever behind the steering wheel, I would assume."
8. "Well, I've driven a lorry before, but I was drunk that time, so I don't think it counts."
9. "Can you just grab the wheel for me? I need to re-do my eyeliner."
10. "OH SHIT, IT'S THE FUZZ."

Pointed reminder: I did NOT say all of these. I know the brake is that little button on the ceiling.

Joining The Debate Of The Genders

Ah, there’s nothing to beat the promise of a newly opened, blank Work document. Yeah, so it’s been a while, but I was busy. Also lazy. Mostly lazy.  I did get a job though. I haven’t actually started it yet, but I did get one. So that’s something.

For a while, I’ve wanted to take on the age-old question: which hurts more, period pains, or getting kicked in the balls. I will tell you here and now, it is period pains. The question used to be a kick to the balls, or childbirth. Ahahahaha, nice one, patriarchy. I’d like to see a man be kicked in the balls and end up screaming in agony for twelve hours, with a cocktail of drugs and the possibility of having to be cut open while still wide awake. We once asked our old English teacher what it was like to have a caesarean. “Horrible,” She said. “It feels like someone’s opened you up, and scooped out all of your organs, because all of the weight leaves so quickly. I felt empty. And in pain. There was a lot of blood.”

But we know how rubbish giving birth is. We can rant, and yell about it for hours. There have been books written about it, and it gets pretty decent coverage, media wise. We all know the image of a woman propped up in a hospital bed, dripping with sweat, screaming, with her BFF and her mother holding her legs in the air. We don’t talk about period pains. There’s no woman on telly, lying on the floor punching whatever’s nearby, while crying and swearing I the same breath. No book character has ever been forced to not go and punch the baddy because their legs age too much. And I’m pretty sure this is why men idiots people who have never experienced PMS think that it isn’t so bad, and white it off as women being hysterical. As was the case for any woman with a mental illness, until about sixty years ago.* No one ever talks about PMS, because we know that since it will simply happen again in two to three weeks time, we may as well just pop some pain killers and get on with it. However being kicked in the balls happened rarely, and only if you’re acting like an idiot, and therefore deserve it. Or if you play rugby, I suppose. I wouldn’t know, organised sport give me hives.

I was lucky enough to get a group of friends who do talk about period pain. This turned out to be amazingly useful:  one friend tends to throw up and faint around her time of the month. When it came to half seven in the morning, and I was just waking up on the kitchen floor so I could vomit again, I knew it was probably just PMS and there was no need to call an ambulance. When I opened my eyes, I could see the cat sitting next to my face, licking his paws. This is how I will die, I thought. With my cat waiting to eat my flesh. It was a cheerful day, all told.

There was a woman on twitter a few days ago, talking about the fact that she used to get nosebleeds at the same time as cramps. As well as smacking of poor biological wiring, it’s also not something generally caused by being kicked in the balls. Count yourselves lucky, dammit.

I think recently, however, we have got better at talking about the sheer, driving agony of PMS. And I hope we carry on. It may be a sore subject, but as with the state of the economy and Miley Cyrus’s career, it’s better if we talk about it. Last year while on holiday, I found myself face down on the sofa, physically unable to move from the pain. And my step brother made the noble decision to remain in the same room and talk to me. Which was nice, and also surprising. Which is why my little nugget of advice for now is to all those with a uterus: talk about it, have a cry but ultimately don’t let it stop you from being fierce. To all those without a uterus: be sympathetic without being patronising, and don’t act in a way that results in foot to genital contact. Idiots.

Sorry for the over-zealous use of italics. That’s a lie; I’m not sorry at all.

*Fun story – my great-great-Grandmother had eight children and an abusive husband. This led to her having mild depression, something that could be treated with bed rest and a divorce. Instead, she was locking in an asylum and accused of being mad, simply because she was unhappy with her home life. In the end, from what we know from her medical records, she died of influenza after she’d been there for several years, time which she spent crying and begging to go home, until she did eventually go mad. Moral of the story: women know when shit’s going down, and accusing them of lying/being hysterical/attention seeking LEADS TO BAD THINGS.

I’ll see ya’ll soon. I’ve got a lot of stuff left to shout about.

                                                                                                                                                     

Chancellor Of The Exchequer? I Hardly Know Her!

I think it’s very, very important to make fun of politicians. Very important. In the age of the career politician, they seem to have become this slightly inhuman creature, wriggling their fingers and cackling together in corners.  They come either at Mr Burns, from The Simpsons, or kids in the playground, having a squabble.  “Yes, I know the economy has gone to shit, BUT LABOR STARTED IT.” And when you look at it that way, it’s really hard to not make fun of them. I don’t think we really acknowledge just how much power these men (yes, men. In the UK the ratio of male to female politicians is alarming, but that’s another story for another time) is utterly terrifying. They can have power over our jobs, our houses, who we can marry, if we’re allowed to leave or re-enter the country. I recently finished reading ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’, by Margret Atwood. I had to hide under my bed for most of it. If you haven’t read it, I suggest you do, and then I suggest you cry.

I like making fun of politicians. It briefly brings some of the power back to us. George Osborne may take benefits away from the disabled, but ahahahaha, he looks like a confused six year old. I want to do that thing where you pinch his cheeks and wibble his face. I have nick-named him Puppy, much to the annoyance of my family – who like watching the news in the evening.

Recently the news came out that Nick Clegg would like to carry on the coalition after the next election. Of course he would, he’d miss cuddle time with David Cameron. 

I’m not even going to start on Ed Balls. I’ll let you fill in your own jokes there.

Receiving A Level Results

As you may or may not know, today was A Level results day. Most people who I know are very happy with their results - and congratulations to them. And to you, if everything's gone wonderfully to plan and you're  a happy bunny.

However, please remember that exam results DO NOT PROVE YOUR WORTH AS A HUMAN BEING. At the end of the day it's a small black letter on a piece of paper, allowing you access to universities and Tory leadership. Not everything that is good or useful is measured at exams - and anyone who tells you otherwise is either a conservative dictator or not very good in bed. 

If you didn't get what you wanted, please remember it's not the end of the world. You have time to redo any exams you want, or take new ones entirely  Or you might get a job and find that you actually really like it a lot, and decide not to go to uni and experiment vaguely with your sexuality,  but instead open a dog grooming parlor and marry a Shirley Bassey  look-a-like.

You are worth more than some letters on a piece of paper. Unless you did have your eye on Tory leadership, in which case you may have to rethink a few things. 

100th Post and Delving Into New Media

THIS IS MY 100TH BLOG POST.
Well done me, pat on the back, champagne all round. 

I've spent quite a while wondering what I should actually write for my 100th post, and then I decided not to write anything, and instead took a leaf out of Lauren's book and took up video blogging.

Don't worry, there will be an actual post up soon. But for now, enjoy.

Everything I Touch Is Homoerotic Subtext - Even Top Gear

I am not ashamed to say that I have always loved Top Gear. My family will very happily settle in front of the telly whenever it's on, slowly falling asleep during any bits that are actually about cars, and then instantly perking up whenever an adventure is started. I'm pretty sure we're not the only one's like this. I don't know a single person who watches Top Gear for the cars. I know about three people who know what the words 'traction', 'horsepower' and 'torque' mean in context, and I'm not one of them. However, I know about a million billion people (roughly) who can cheerfully jump start a conversation with "Remember when Clarkson crossed the channel in a flat bed truck? Ahh, I thought they were gonners that time."

Despite the general Top Gear-y love most people in England seem to share, almost every conversation about the show goes one of two ways. A) "I liked the time they raced a train through France." or B) "Clarkson's a prick, and they're just a group of offensive old men dicking* about." The second one seems to come up rather a lot these days, usually on Radio 4 - or more accurately The News Quiz, a show so daringly middle class it makes me laugh and wince at the same time. And fair enough, there's a possibility that James May and Richard Hammond do actually know what it's like living in the actual world, but the majority of the time anything either of them may have to say is drowned out by the dulcet tones of Clarkson, spouting rubbish about anyone who has a vagina, a copy of the Guardian, a different skin tone, appearance or opinion to him. 

However, after a while, and a fair bit of squinting, it does slowly become apparent that Clarkson may be a troll - spouting total and utter nonsense just to get a rise out of anyone and anything he can. But once you've squinted at him for that long, it becomes quite hard to stop. And then you squint some more, and it suddenly becomes remarkably clear that Top Gear is possibly the most remarkably homoerotic program that can be put on in front of a UKIP supporter without them noticing.  

At the end of the day, it boils down to being a show about three grown men giggling together in sheds. The go on holiday together, and buy each other presents. They drive around lovely scenery together, and if placed in one car  they usually end up in each others laps. Most of the show is seeing how many times they can say the word 'penis' without getting told off by the BBC, and if The Stig (a man not allowed to talk, move of his own accord or take off his dark mask) isn't a little but kinky, I don't know what is. 

When the show first started, it was an actual car show. Viewers wanted to know about motoring, how good the new VW was, and how quickly can that chap from Mock The Week go around a race track. Not so much any more. Where the three boys used to bicker about anything going, and be needlessly cruel, the majority of the joy from Top Gear now comes from watching them cheekily grin at each other when they make silly little jokes, or nudge each other when they get something wrong, and over react to the full extent of the script. 

So you go Top Gear. I'm proud of you. Over the years you've managed to tone down Clarkson, make James May cool, and slowly drip feed the gayest friendship after Holmes and Watson to some of the most hardcore right-wingers in the UK. I'm proud.

Point made.

*According to my spell check, 'dicking' isn't a word. I don't care spell check, it's three am and I just had to silently make a sandwich in  dark room. I'll improvise with my swearing if I want to.

How To Politics.

Fun fact: I can vote. This is both excellent and also alarming. Excellent because it means I live in a democratic society (cool) and that I have a (small) say in how my country is run (also cool). It's alarming because until about two years ago I had less than no idea about what a politic was (not a typo for once). But then I decided to try and understand whatever the hell is going on, and now I can make a half decent joke about Vince Cable, and know when to make sad sounding noises when someone's talking about NHS reform. Here is a handy guide:

1. Get a newspaper. I don't care which one, also the Daily Mail isn't doing you any favors. The Guardian, Independent and Telegraph all work well. Now read it. Read all the bits that have long words and percentage symbols in. Read all the bits next to photos of nervous cabinet members and angry nurses/teachers/builders. Then read it again. Read it until you can accurately guess the meanings of the long words from the context. 
2. Watch BBC news. Get some cake and a cup of tea, put the news on and watch it until you're so cross you have to get more cake. Repeat until there is no cake left, or your waistline is three times that size it was when you stared.
3. Open two browser tabs. In one, pull up a photo of a politician. I recommend starting with Boris Johnson because he's easiest. In the second tab, pull up a photo of your worst fear. It could be a spider, or a big height, or your grandmothers idea of lunch. Whatever works best for you. Now look at Boris for ten seconds. Now look at your worst fear for ten seconds. Repeat until the sight of Boris strikes a cold, icy blade of fear into your heart. Do the same for David Cameron, Nick Clegg, ect. ect. When you run out of politicians, google some more.
4. Realize the key to understanding politics is repetition. Remember you're lazy, and give up. However by this point at least some of it should have sunk in a little bit. 

Best of luck.

No.

Who was the vainest person in all history?

Catherine of Arrogant.

You're welcome.