Monday, 29 July 2013

It's a bumper crop

I've had a bumper crop recently.

A real smorgasbord.

A veritable joyfest.

This one really, really wanted to know what I thought of his profile. Like, a LOT.


And this one wanted me to change my profile picture. So reasonable. And so polite. A winner.


Whereas this one thinks I'm shy, because that's the only possible reason I didn't reply:


I looked at his profile. Because that's what you do when you get a message. They can see that you've looked but usually - you know, with normal, reasonable human beings if you don't reply they just take that as a no. Yes, it's harsh. But it's online dating. It's the way it works.

This guy saw that I'd looked and then sent this, complete with cheeky emoticon and kiss.


And then there's this guy who is interested in my, er, dark and kinky side. Which he has extrapolated from the ridiculous and loaded questions OKC asks you. And then he has noticed that I like Russian literature. So he came up with this:


I mean, obviously, as he's always been meaning to read some Tolstoy it naturally follows that I would want to, um, how does he put it, "go at it like a couple of wild animals."

Yeah, sounds totally reasonable.

Sunday, 28 July 2013

"Yes, I am female..."

You know those quotes or sayings that certain types of people share on Facebook, along with a: "lol, so tru"?

I fucking hate them.

I hate the cancer ones and the ones with 'sad' stories and the ones that are meant to be inspiring or uplifting but are just generally a hackneyed quote from a random superimposed over a picture.

But I hate the ones about being a woman the most.

Look at this for a prime example:


What is this inane fucking drivel? And why do I see people sharing and liking this grotesque shite?

Apparently, according to this, a woman is someone who is too stupid, needy, passive aggressive, a victim and a doormat. And is proud to be all of this. This is presented as if these traits are something women should aspire to.

Here's another one:


Patronising patriarchal BULLSHIT. Wear whatever the fuck you want. Your job in life as a woman is not to package yourself in the 'correct' way to attract your 'prince charming'. Apoplectic with rage this makes me. Even worse is that this is part of that slut shaming thing, that horrible controlling crap that is spouted by women and men to make women uncomfortable with their choices. Fuck OFF. And since when is a woman a 'gift' for some dude to 'unwrap'. What is this?

And then there are these ones:


Still peddling the idea that is central to nearly every romantic comedy out there. A woman should expect to be hurt by a man and will, naturally, continue loving schmucky mcschmukerson because she has a vagina and is therefore incapable of rational thought. And boys, well, they just treat women like shit because they love them. They just can't help it. Because they're from Mars. They just can't help themselves. All boys hurt the girls they love and all girls love the ones that hurt them.

Fuck the fuck off. Seriously. Take this hackneyed, outdated, mysoginistic, misandric SHIT and stick it up your arse. Whoever you are who bothered to put this toss together.

Oh, and this one? Whoever put this one together I do wish I could put my fist in your face.


No. No. NO. That is not the definition of a 'strong woman'. What is with this insistence that women apparently spend most of their time crying and 'needing to hide their tears'?

The worst thing - the very worst thing - about these trite bullshitty quotes is that they are meant to be showing strong women. People sharing them seem to think they are being all 'girl power', while at the same time perpetuating the fucking baseless nonsense that our current media appears to have about men and women.

Rather than women becoming the equal of men, there is a definite push toward the more 50s version of the male/female dynamic. Women are born to cry and men are born to make them cry. How about no. How about PEOPLE can be horrible to each other? How about some men are in shit relationships where their girlfriend makes THEM cry every night? How about some women walk away? How about some women fight back? How about some women don't want to 'hide their tears behind a smile' to be considered strong? How about some women don't want to be seen as giggling, imbecilic morons who can't open a door properly? How about some women don't think all men are evil meanies and nor do they think that there is a fucking prince charming waiting (as long as they dress correctly of course).

How about this from a woman who wrote in the first half of the 19th century. A woman who fought for the right to write in her own name. A woman who pushed against the sphere she was born for. A woman, who along with her extraordinary sisters, did more for advancing the perception of women as intellectuals than almost anyone else of her time (if one considers the longevity and enduring popularity of their works). Charlotte Bronte wrote this in 1847, in Jane Eyre's voice:

“It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, to absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.” 

Why is that I have to look to the past to find a message of strength? Why do I have to look back to Plath and Woolf and the Brontes and Steinem? Where are the messages now? In the voices of young women in 2013? Women who are living IN the future, yet are expected apparently to go backwards?






Saturday, 27 July 2013

What are you supposed to be? A lion tamer?

I watched Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom earlier. It's one of my all time favourite films ever. This is partly to do with the film itself and partly to do with one of the strongest memories I have from my childhood.

I have no idea why this should have stuck with me in so much detail, but I remember the night dad rented Temple of Doom. We basically got a video recorder as soon as you possibly could in our house. It was rented at first for my birthday party one year (I would have been about 8 I think) and I was the toast of the class. For the entire duration of the film they watched at my house. And then they went back to being mildly mean.

I was not a popular kid. I did not like school at all. It seemed to me to be a really boring way to spend your time. Particularly when you always had to wait for the slowest kid in the class to cotton on to whatever you were learning, rendering it painfully slow and therefore sucking all the joy out of it. And so you were basically a prisoner with a bunch of kids for 7 hours a day. Every day. Sort of like an office job. But for no money. And it's really hard to get fired.

This may be part of the reason Temple of Doom sticks in my head. Dad rented it on a Friday. I remember my relief and joy that I didn't have to set foot in that place for two whole days. And Dad had rented a film. And he bought us fish and chips. And a Cadbury's Creme Egg. Yes, this is the level of detail I remember. I also remember being perfectly happy at that moment.

And so we watched the film. After we'd watched it I remember my brother and I and a friend of my brother's acting it out. I had to be Short Round because I was nine. Pretty unfair really. But whatever. I loved it. Even back then I had already seen the Star Wars trilogy and Raiders and I knew that Harrison Ford was a hottie. Even when I was nine. The seeds of my crush were sown, just not in so much of a sexy way, more a romantic way.

I remember wanting to be Willie and have him reel me in with his whip for a kiss. I mean, I still do obviously. But it most definitely wouldn't stop there these days.

And of course over the years I have rewatched Temple of Doom many times. But it was only recently that I watched it and really thought about how, well, racist it is. And, well, misogynistic. The only women in the entire film are Willy (and from a grown woman's perspective, fuck me, is she annoying. And whiny. And shrill. And vacuous. And useless. And my god, what would Indy ever see in her apart from tits and ass??) and the mothers of the missing children, who basically wring their hands and wail incoherently.

Indy (an American) saves the day, along with the British Army who show up at the end to presumably reinforce the Empire needing to sort out the ridiculous savages with their silly myths and cults.

And Short Round? So, Indiana Jones, a 40ish year old university professor, just picked up some random kid from somewhere and decided to travel the world with him having adventures, rather than, I dunno, get him an education?? Really?

But then it seems to be shot in an over the top, 40s style, Bollywoodesque slapstick violence way, so I can only assume all of this was intentional to create the atmosphere of a boy's own adventure type film. A bit of reading up on it shows that many of the Indian characters were played by pretty major Bollywood stars, and it seems everyone must have been in on the gags.

And it does work for this. The chemistry between the ditzy female lead and Indy just about works, particularly where they fight and bicker, and never quite touch each other in the comedy missed seduction scene. This is also a common trope in Bollywood romances, by all accounts, so it all fits in.

As a kid I was completely swept away by the ludicrous plot. I was terrified when the Thugee cult guy sank his fingers into the dude and ripped out his heart. I was on the edge of my seat when Indy was turned bad and so happy when he came back. I was thrilled by the monkey brains and disgusting snake within snake thing that apparently was the dish of the day back then.

As an adult I cannot stop staring at Harrison Ford. His face. His sweat. His torso. The way he talks. The way he runs. Why is there only one of this guy? They should have cloned him when they had the chance. He is everything I find attractive in a guy. He's all sturdy and angry and moody and, oh dear, I need a lie down. I could probably just watch him standing in a room by himself, to be fair. Quite extraordinary.

I kind of miss watching films like I did as a kid though, where misogyny, implied racism and ludicrous dialogue neither registered nor mattered. Temple of Doom will always be a favourite. Because just by watching it I get to feel like I'm nine years old again. Sitting on the sofa at home with my Dad on a Friday night, eating fish and chips and being perfectly and totally happy.

Thursday, 25 July 2013

Like moths to a turquoise flame...

Recently I bought a couple of new dresses. It was a move borne from desperation and no decent summer wardrobe. Who knew it was going to be randomly summer-like this summer? 

One of them is turquoise. This is very much a colour I do not ordinarily wear. Ordinarily I wear black. And sometimes grey. Occasionally black and grey. But they didn't have my size in normal colours so I bought turquoise. I mean, it's summer. No one's looking at me anyway with the amount of tits and ass on display round these here parts.

I had absolutely no idea on the effect it would have on the octogenarians of York. Had I known I would have dressed from top to toe in turquoise every single day. It brings such joy. 

Or maybe they're all drunk. 

This morning I was traversing one of our beautiful bridges when an old man swayed in my general direction and appeared to be saying something. He kept repeating a word. It sounded like "spazzing". He was an ancient man dressed in the summer wardrobe of ancient men everywhere and seemed very happy with life. 

I went closer and it turned out he didn't say anything about spazzes. What he said was: "You going jazzing in that dress? Are you? Eh? Eh?"

I really really hope he meant: "Are you going to dance to jazz like the ladies of the 20s because of your lovely dress mayhap?" and that it wasn't anything horrible. 

I'm pretty sure it wasn't. 

I choose to believe it wasn't. 

And then on the way back from Waitrose this evening I was stopped by an ancient lady by the City Walls. She was walking an equally ancient looking dog. He was covered in the wartiness that old dogs are sometimes covered in. I thought he looked about 25. He was only 12 and very, very sweet. As was she. 

Turns out she stopped me just to tell me that she thought my dress was beautiful and that she liked it very much. We then chatted about her dog: "He's such good company" and she commended me on my shopping bags (bags for life, natch) and I went on my way. 

It was nice. And I am now going only wear turquoise so I can befriend the old people of York. Like a well dressed Pied Piper of Hamlin without the kiddie fetish. 

Tuesday, 23 July 2013

Oh, baby, baby...

So, a woman had a baby the other day.

A perfectly healthy, rich woman with access to all the best medical care possible, gave birth to a healthy baby.

This means absolutely nothing in the real world. She joined the other 360,000 women having babies every single day around the world. But because she was knocked up by a member of one of the most archaically out of place institutions remaining, it means that we're supposed to care.

Some people - and I'm assuming these are the same mentally disturbed people who wailed their way around the streets when Di shuffled off her mortal coil - have apparently been camping outside the hospital where Kate squeezed the princeling out. What in fuck is that about? That's beyond disturbed. They were there two weeks before Kate even set foot in the place, just in case they missed the magical moment of, er, staring at the doors to said hospital. Did they think they'd be invited in to cut the cord and have a little watch or something?

I can't even imagine how the train of thought that would lead to such a bizarre action would even go.

"Are you busy for the next two weeks?"

"Well, not really. You know."

"Fancy sitting outside a building for two weeks?"

"Why?"

"So we won't miss it."

"What?"

"The magical birth of the people's baby. The blessed moment where Kate Middleton heaves a screaming infant from the royal-by-marriage vag."

"But we won't see anything. We'll just be outside. You could just watch the 24 hour rolling news coverage of the doorway instead of actually standing outside it."

"You MONSTER."

Something like that probably. I don't know. I have never met anyone who would even contemplate this sort of thing. But, you know, whatever floats your boat. Whatever makes your life worth living is good by me. If it's projecting your hopes and dreams onto people who were elevated purely by an accident of birth, then fair fucks to you.

It's come to my attention for approximately the 79th time during the last couple of years that my reactions to newsworthy events, particularly involving the Windsors, is considered 'miserable'. I fear I am somewhat of a party pooper. I don't know why I can't get excited at the silver jubilee/wedding/conception/birth bullshit of these people. I don't know why it just feels so icky to have our usually relatively sanguine unbiased media (and here I am talking about the BBC, not the tabloids) practically prostrating themselves on the altar of sycophancy, such is their cringeworthy gushing. I don't know why I feel uncomfortable with the fact that creepy Cameron has been able to use everything from the Jubilee to this baby to deflect the horrors that are being committed on our rights, on our future, by his government. I don't know why I just can't feel anything other than a vague embarrassment and a shifty pity for the entire media circus that follows these people around.

They seem like perfectly nice people, for overly privileged, spoiled types. I'm sure William and Kate are a delight at dinner parties. Harry looks like he must be a decent ride. And Charles presumably can't help his ears.

Rolling news coverage for an entire day showing footage of a fucking door to a hospital is just embarrassing. Companies flogging their tat with a weak tie in to the birth on social media is pathetic. People being 'proud' of something that has had exactly nothing to do with them and upon which they have had zero influence is weird.

Back in the day waiting for a royal birth meant something. Like whether you'd wake up Catholic or Protestant. Or whether the King would kill his missus. Or whether there would be a civil war. Shit like that. A male birth would mean dancing in the streets, mass bonfires and fountain running with claret. It meant that the future was secure under the particular dynasty you were born into, which meant less chance of civil war. These were Important Things.

Whatisname Windsor will most likely grow up to be yet another playboy of the western world, with expensive taste and a predilection for dating Suri Cruise. He'll be a celebrity. Yet another fucking celebrity.

So while it's dandy and nice that Kate didn't die in childbirth or anything, please don't confuse this media circus with any reason for us to deem ourselves 'proud' or 'lucky' or 'blessed'. It's just biology. And the rich will continue to get richer as we watch everything that used to be good about our country wither and die under a a regime that cares NOTHING for the common man.



Saturday, 20 July 2013

Every journey starts with a single step...

Someone said that. Was it Jesus? It sounds like it might be something he'd have said. Or maybe Gandhi. Anyway, someone like that said something similar to that once. And I have just had to pretty much chant it to myself as I took myself on my first 'run' for a long, long time.

Once upon a time, before I moved to York and my life went extremely bizarre, I used to run pretty often. Never very far, but I liked it. It made me thinner and happier and just generally in a better mood. And then I moved to this city and I freaked out for a bit. Turns out starting a new job, living in a new place, knowing no one is pretty tricky.

A few months on and it's still up and down and somehow the running just takes a back seat to the whole getting fired and panicking about money and moving house and yada yada yada.

And then my health implodes and I keep putting off exercise until 'I get better'. I have now realised this isn't going to happen. What I need to do is manage my condition like an adult and stop waiting for some halcyon day when my ovaries stop trying to sabotage everything that is good in the world. I know if I run it will help the pain - it's proven to reduce oestrogen (or increase it - can't remember, I think I have too much rather than not enough. I don't know. I'm not a doctor. And my doctor was apparently barely a doctor either. Anyway.) and will help with endometriosis. Only problem is when the pain is too much to even think about walking you really don't fancy running.

So, as with most other things, it's all in the timing. I'm in a good part of my cycle, I'm in a good mood (just one more week of work left before I begin my career as a novelist/hobo) and it's so hot that I woke up at 5.45am. Perfect.

I went out and walked for a bit. You know, to warm up. Then I started jogging... ahhh, I remember this, this nice feeling, the nature, the breathing, the concentrated thinking, the rhythmic in and out, the meditative thinking... oh shit, what's happening? My lungs are EXPLODING. Yeah, I'd basically forgotten how hard it is to restart running. It feels like going right back to the beginning, and I guess it is. It's been a while after all.

I have a rule when out jogging - basically never walk where other people can see you. So even if my lungs are actually exploding in my chest, if I'm passing people I have to run or jog. You know, so complete strangers who don't give a shit think I'm fitter than I am. It's important. And this does count for the inordinate amount of people who are drinking Strongbow by the Ouse at 6am on a Saturday morning. Are they still out from the night before? Did they get up at dawn for a nice, early morning can of horrible cider? What, in short, gives?

Still, they were polite enough. Only stared a bit and I think one of them may have laughed.

I actually thought running at this time would help me avoid the sun glaring into my eyes and annoying me. Turns out 6am  is too late for that kind of malarkey in this new world where we have actual summers. I think I would have to get up at least an hour earlier for that.

So I ran/jogged/walked all of 3km. Pathetic, right? Except that it's not. Because it's a start. And, as Jesus/Gandhi said: you got to start somewhere.

I'm paraphrasing.

Wednesday, 17 July 2013

Summer loving...

Summer in the UK is just weird isn't it? Isn't it? I'm pretty sure in other countries, where summer just happens, we must seem like utter freaks with our almost hysterically dramatic reaction to the totally natural change in weather.

It's July and it's around 30 degrees max. That's pretty normal for most of Europe. That's what summer is. But it's so strange. We emerge from our homes, blinking and startled in the light, like naked mole rats exposed to the sunshine for the first time. Like we've come out of a nuclear winter into a brave new world.

The sun. It burns. That thing in the sky. It makes you hot! Like really hot. And smelly. It makes many people very, very smelly. And sweaty. And pink. Stumbling round like peeled prawns covered in tattoos and Lycra.

Fatty greets me every morning with an expression of bewildered bliss. He doesn't walk around the house so much as ooze. An undulating mass of black fur with big, big eyes. He was so lethargic the other day that he let me schnarfle his belly for actual minutes without his customary expression of utter disgust followed by deliberately turning his back on me. My adoration for Fatman annoys Fatman it seems.

My dreams are restless as I wake up in a pool of confused sweat every night. Why can't I breathe? Why is it so hot? And then I remember, it's summer.

When I sit at the bus stop in the morning (8am and already in the early 20s - can you imagine? Yes, I know it happens every year but I like to pretend that I have never seen the like. It perpetuates the myth that this will be the hottestyearsince1976 (TM)) I like to categorise people based on their summer attire.

So far this is what I have:


  • The ones who can't wait to stripUsually, but not always men. Whip off their shirts at every opportunity, starting in early March in the (mistaken) belief that their bodies are just so damn fine that people (girls) are salivating for the chance to look at their torso (that kind of concave skinniness that young boys seem to think resembles some kind of proof of athleticism - it doesn't. Or, alternatively a proud beer belly drooping in the midday glare), often resplendent with misspelled tattoos and patches of sunburn. Sometimes you see the female equivalent, perhaps wearing a tiny bikini top as she does the weekly shop. Tribal symbol tattoos from the 90s abound, along with Beckham style 'mysterious words in a foreign language that may or may not make sense' type tattoos and the deep, early season tan of the unemployed. Often accessorised with Red Stripe, Monster and/or weed. These days often spotted with an e-cig. Progress.
  • The ones who are slightly too self conscious to find summer comfortable
    May or may not be slightly overweight. Either way, there ain't no way their legs are coming out. Or their upper arms, butt cheek or cleavage. Employ a lot of Lycra if women and black clothes if men. T-shirts never, ever come off and they would clearly rather drown in sweat than inflict their pasty body on anyone else. Not happy with summer in general as they know they should be enjoying it but their inability to squeeze into hotpants puts the kibosh on it somewhat. 
  • The I don't give a shit I'm wearing shorts ones
    Definitely overweight - often very, very overweight - and couldn't give a flying fuck. They're going to wear hotpants cos it's hot, motherfucker. And yeah, there may be rolls hanging out and an unwholesome amount of flesh on show but so what? If male and in a club 'moshing' will often take their shirt off and throw their moobs around like they just don't care. As an observer, I'm torn between admiration and discomfiture. On the one hand, yeah, you go girl etc. On the other, I actually just don't want to see your ass cheeks. 
  • The ones who are born for this weather
    You know those ones who just seem to spring from nowhere as soon as the sun shines, complete with full body natural looking tan, sun streaked hair, perfectly painted toenails and a laid back but excellent summer wardrobe? Where do they come from? How do they know? Maybe they skulk inside for the rest of the year preparing. Waxing, exfoliating, buffing and shining themselves to summer perfection. They never sweat and they never get sunburn. They're just perfectly beach ready. ALL THE TIME. Naturally look amazing in hotpants and avoid looking slutty or try hard. 
  • The I don't give a shit it's summer I'm old ones
    Old people are cold blooded or something. I haven't looked it up but am pretty sure there is a direct correlation between ageing and ability to withstand heat. That's why when you see an old (and I mean in their 80s old) woman in mid-summer chances are she's wearing full tweed regalia plus hat and not even breaking a sweat. 
  • The hot pants plus Uggs ones
    Just... don't. 
Best go. I need to go and lie in an ice bath or 10 minutes. See, here's the thing. Even though I know I'm supposed to be skipping through the meadows JOYOUS at the heat and sun and summer and that, I'm just... not. It's nice to sit in the sun for a bit, sure. But y'know. It doesn't rock my world. It doesn't make my heart sing with joy. In short, I don't really care. Maybe it'd be different if I could actually rock hotpants...




Saturday, 13 July 2013

A New Hope

I have just awakened. It is 5.30am on a Saturday morning. I was woken by a dream involving me being a candidate on The Apprentice (yet another example of how my subconscious appears to truly hate me. Everyone knows that all candidates on The Apprentice are absolute cocknuggets). Anyway, I had just reappropriated Zammo's catchphrase from Grange Hill, "Just say no!" and turned it into "Just say yes!" when I became stressed and woke up.

This is all completely superfluous to this entry, but I had to get it out as it was bothering me. 

So now it is 5.42am on a Saturday morning and what with it being hot as Hades obviously I can't go back to sleep. So here we are. Hi. 

Having been treated rather like a disposable sanitary item by the NHS during this last jaunt of operation joy, I went to see a private consultant the other day. This involved travelling to somewhere between Halifax and Huddersfield, which was new and different. It also involved being made a sandwich specially by a lovely lady while I was waiting, because this is a private hospital where treating you as a human being happens automatically. 

Onwards. 

The consultant just happened to be absolutely gorgeous in an older man with intelligence way. I wasn't sure how I felt about this due to the nature of my illness. It's not the most attractive. But then I remembered that a) he's married and b) I was being mental and told him all. 

And then this happened. He offered me not one, but TWO treatment plans involving actual drugs and things that might help me. He said that he didn't want to operate on me unnecessarily (are you listening consultant at York Hospital? You're not MEANT to just open people up and then not do anything and close them up again so you can tick your fucking box) and that these treatments are worth trying first. 

These are treatments that my consultant at York could have given me at any time. You know, if she felt inclined. She didn't, obviously. She felt inclined to be a massive cunt. 

And then. 

And then he said: "You can continue to see me on the NHS you know."

So he transferred me from his private list to his NHS list and I will see him in three months after the treatment has had time to take effect (or not as the case may be). 

Hall-e-fucking-lujah. 

I'm not sure, but I think this is how it's meant to go. 

My faith in the NHS, although very very fragile, is slowly repairing. Amazing the difference one guy can make isn't it?

Monday, 8 July 2013

I'm sorry, they're sorry, we're all sorry...

You may have seen this amazing advert recently. And if you haven't you should. It's lovely. Easily one of my favourite commercials ever.

Watch it here if you haven't already

BEST ADVERT EVER

There's only one thing wrong with it in my mind. The fact that it's for O2. The same O2 that has had me tied in to the wankiest phone contract known to man. It's been 20 months already and it will still cost me something mental like £200 to get out of it early. The crappy HTC handset hasn't worked since about month six of said crappy contract and any attempt to get any kind of help has gone down like a shit in a swimming pool.

I gave up a while ago and just bought a crappy phone that can't even receive picture messages and use that instead.

It's also the same O2 that sold me broadband on a very good deal approximately six weeks before announcing to customers that actually they'd gone and sold it to SKY, so now I have SKY broadband at a higher price.

Basically O2 are a big bag of shite. But they do do a good advert. And they're very attentive on Twitter. Complete with emoticons.




I sort of love the way brands have harnessed the power of social media to effectively go "meh" at their customers in a new and different way.

Sunday, 7 July 2013

When did rape get funny?

Recently I've noticed a certain, er, let's call it a phenomenon. Of male fuckwittage. It seems to be a 'thing' right now to make a lot of rape 'jokes' on social media or just in normal conversation. Or not even jokes, I don't know what you should call them. On OK Cuntpid I have noticed this too.

Not sure if you recall this post Penis Envy but you'll notice that the nice man at the end of it asks me whether I've had ever had sex that isn't forced. Because I didn't want to dirty skype his perverted ass.

And then this guy happened:




And yes, I shouldn't have indulged his fuckknuckle approach but I snapped. We have never spoken. He never sent me that message. If he had I would have told him to fuck off. But he persists in saying we had spoken, complete with sad faces because nothing turns a woman on than emoticons, boys, nothing.

And then, when I call him out, just straight out and tell him why he says that I deserve to get raped. This is some grade a cuntdom in this email. All of it, from the copied and pasted post, the attempted guilt tripping, the lies, oh, and the rape threat.

But that's online dating for you, right? Doesn't happen with people you know. No one you know would joke about rape, right? Wrong as it turns out.

The other day a guy I have met a couple of times around York, one of those not a friend but have many friends in common and, hell, when you're trying to make new friends in a new town you tend to just get on with whoever. An acquaintance if you will. Who decided to make a (what I've come to realise) typically attention and reaction seeking status update. It was something about how he doesn't like Rihanna's new song so no one should and any girl dancing to it deserves to be raped.

Let's ignore for one moment a grown man in his 30s being apparently annoyed enough by popular music to repeatedly post that he thinks people who listen to it are lame. Yes, in his THIRTIES. Not in his teens. Let's just ignore that, cos you know, whatevs. If it makes you feel special to feel like you're the only one who truly 'get's the majesty of particular forms of cockrock, you know, carry on. No one gives a shit.

But don't make a casual 'joke' about rape. Just don't. Naturally, although I know that all he wanted was attention and I was just about to give him plenty, I couldn't help it. I just had to wade in and call him out for being a fucking dick. Which, naturally, led to quite a few posts (by men) telling me to lighten up, it's just his dark sense of humour that I don't get, that he's a really nice guy, yada yada yada.

Nah, mate.

That's not what's happening here. What is happening here is an ignorant dickhead casually condoning violence against all women. That's all women. Including his mother, his girlfriend, his sister. That's what it means when you joke about something like rape. You are adding to a culture that is going backwards with its treatment of women at an intrinsic and dangerous level. YOU are adding to this.

And heaven forbid you, as a woman, should stand up and say something. Because girls, you should
LIGHTEN THE FUCK UP when someone you know makes a casual joke about rape on Facebook. Don't point out what an utter fucking moron he is. It's funnnnnneeee. Isn't it? I mean, what isn't funny about rape after all. It's a legitimate reason to have a laff. Innit?

Casual acceptance of rape is NOT OK. It's NEVER OK. And it doesn't show some kind of deep, intellectual sense of humour that only special people can understand. It makes you an ignorant, worse actually, a wilfully ignorant bystander.

When I did bite back, many people - all men - told me to 'calm down', 'chill out', 'stop taking it so seriously' and a lot of other stuff that was way more offensive. Calm down. That's the response for a woman openly being offended by a rape joke. CALM DOWN YOU WIMMIN. It's FUNNEE.

It's not funny. You're a fucking adult. You shouldn't need this explaining. How can I even start to try and explain why it's not OK to say that a girl deserves to get raped if she listens to a song you don't like? How can I even begin to break down everything that is wrong with that statement - from the fact that you think it's funny, to the fact that you're clearly posting it for attention and you have no interest in the damage you are perpetrating. Yes, you. With your stupid Facebook status. You are a part of a problem that is bigger than you can get your tiny braincell around. But as long as your mates think you're cool on social media, it's all worth it, right?





Tuesday, 2 July 2013

Endless endless puppies

Yeah man. So I've been a whinging bag of piss for a while now, right? It's comical in a way. I am one big ball of futile rage against a system that I can't win against and against fate or whatever the fuck keeps destroying my health. BUT. But.

Steps have been taken. Oh yes they have. One thing I don't do, at least, is fail to change a crappy situation in at least one way. Usually two. And the fact that I walk into another one is neither here nor there. Someday my luck will change. I mean, it just will.

So, what I've done is this. I've quit my full time job. And no, I don't have one to go to. Wait a second - I know that might seem like the world's most retarded decision but it really isn't. I mean, look at Kim Kardashian. She's having a baby with Kanye West for fuck's sake. That's the worst decision ever made by man or beast since time immemorial. Basically, I can't continue working the hours I've been working and retain any semblance of sanity. So I'm doing something about it.

I don't know how I will make money, but will continue freelancing and find some kind of part time job on the side. So that's one thing sort of sorted - more time, less work means less exhaustion and more positive action.

One down.

NHS wise I'm filing a formal complaint with some advice from a  friend who is also a doctor and is being ace. Treatment wise I'm going to see a private consultant next week to advise me on what treatment will actually, I dunno, help me. This has also been with the help of two very good friends who are always ace and have been yet again.

Two down.

Therapy wise I have given up on the NHS who apparently put me on a list about 10 months ago. I have now taken it into my own hands and landed a volunteer gig with the first doggy day care centre in York, which means in about five weeks time at least one day week will be spent COVERED IN PUPPIES AND DOGS. From experience I know that being around animals is more balm to my soul than any amount of actual therapy. It's basically a big play area for dogs. With a separate fenced off play area for puppies and wee dogs who are scared of the rampagingness of all the big dogs yamping around. And their owners will drop them off in the morning and people like me will basically entertain them in whatever way they fancy (cuddles, food, exercise, play... mostly cuddles) and will also take time to lie down in the puppy area and have them crawl all over me every now and again. And then their owners will pick them up at the end of the day and take them home and it'll be like I have like a dozen pet dogs and I don't have to be dogless anymore. And it's about the most exciting thing that's happened to me since my parents decided to get a dog in 1985. I can't freaking WAIT.

Three down.

Social life wise... well, I'm working on it. I'm showing a disturbing lack of ability to socialise at all at the moment which can't be good for me, but then at the same time, is it that bad? If I had a partner it wouldn't even be a thing. Plenty of people I know in long term relationships rarely socialise, it's only because I'm constantly single that I feel a certain pressure to go out all the time, you know, in case I forget how to speak to human beings or anything. Or in case my prince is waiting for me down at that bar that everyone goes to and that I've been to a million times but maybe he is there tonight and I should go in case I miss out on the dream. But I just can't be arsed.

Luckily I have developed a hardcore of mates who are lovely and happy to hang out one on one or two on one and drink tea and talk about stuff. Which is pretty much all I need right now. That and Fatman. Somehow just his face as lolls about the place like a fur-covered baby manatee makes my heart lighter.

So, all in all, things are pretty good considering everything. You know. Could be worse and all that. And especially PUPPIES AND DOGS ALL UP IN MY BUSINESS VERY VERY SOON. I am slightly worried I'll spontaneously combust from the sheer DELIGHT. But what an excellent way to go.