Wednesday, 29 October 2014

Do you ever get any nice messages?

Sharing the joy of online dating may make it seem that all I get are 'orrible messages. 

That is not the case at all. 

Sometimes I get messages like this: 

"Hello, my universal queen I just went through your profile, I would like to be a friend, you look so pretty charming like the morning sun"

Or this: 


Saw your profile and thought you seem like a friendly female. I have a high sex drive and wanted to take my chance in meeting up with you for some fun. 


Or this: 


I'm Stephane, I'm not too sure what to think. On one hand I find you very attractive, on the other, very dangerous. One one hand you seem to be a tough cookie, on the other one, you seem to surrender to necessary compromises. 

Well, I guess at our age range, we're usually not virgin on any sense of the term most likely with a set mind on things we will and won't be allowing into our lives. 

I hope I'm thoroughly wing about the tough cookie bit, although..."

Or this: 

"those eyes, that smile can all be very dangerous if also coming with a sensual and passionate woman behind them ;-)"

Or this: 


I just read an essay, oh no it was your profile

I thought I would reply with an equally long message, unfortunately I don't have the time and a connot find how to add dick pic

Please reply if you find this funny

X William"

Or this: 

"I never know a good opener, so here is something different. What is the name of the pointy device used in fencing?"

Or this: 

"I just crave older laides. Plus I don't get much sex due to busy timetable."

Or this: 

"I can make u rich, if you can write book. I have the story. I'm not kidding by the way... If i could put my life story and what happened in it into words... it will transform ur life... "

So, you know, it's not all bad. I am, after all, universal queen. 

Saturday, 25 October 2014

I, er, have a hosiery fetish...

For 20 minutes today I chatted to a lovely chap on OKC. We talked about horror movies, the kind of music we like and how we like our tea.

It seemed to be going well.

I had a good feeling about this one.

And then this happened:

ME: So, what do you do for fun? (after he had asked me what I do for fun and I had responded with the usual: reading, writing, dog stuff blah blah).

HIM: Do you want the vanilla answer?

ME: Oh god, you're going to talk about sex aren't you.

HIM: Are you intrigued?

ME: Not really. I only asked what you do for fun. You know. Bowling maybe? Cinema?

HIM: I, er, have a hosiery fetish.

ME: Bit soon doncha think mate?

HIM: You're so boring.

ME: Sigh.


It's not that he has a fetish. Lordy, don't we all. I mean, I don't. Pure as the driven snow. But really? 20 minutes in? When all you've spoken about so far is horror films and tea?

Even if I had been looking for a quick bang behind the bins or a bit of online how's yer father, it takes a BIT longer than that to warm me up.

Straight from Carrie's good isn't it, yes it is good, I like Stephen King to HEAR ABOUT MY TIGHTS FETISH, is so crass. So teenage. So lacking in finesse and style.

Oh no, sorry, it's not that. It's me. I'm BORRRRRRRRRRRRRRINNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG.

Can meltdowns ever be good?

Every now and again - and, crucially, not always linked to the time of the moon goddess and her spiffing visits - I have a right proper alarming meltdown.

It's a cyclical thing, so maybe it is linked in some way but I don't know, I'm not a doctor. And it doesn't really matter anyway. The whys are sometimes irrelevant, I am slowly learning this lesson. Only taken me 38 years to work out that sometimes, compulsively over-analysing shit is actually pointless, boring, counter productive and a waste of one's precious time.

Last night was such a time. Apropos of nothing in particular, other than the usual crushing anxiety of being alive, I lost the plot a little. Had a howl of existential angst. Basically cried a lot and became incoherent when attempting to explain myself to my cat.

Becoming suddenly entirely overwhelmed by anxiety is terrifying. And even though it's approximately the five millionth time it's happened in my life, it's always wonderfully fresh and new. That terror, dread, staring into the void blackness with the certainty that there's no way out, no one is coming to help and no one can hear you scream.

It's a terribly first world problem, I suspect. As people tediously say on social media, what about the starving people, what about the wars, what about people who are worse off than you? Thing is, you see, thinking about people who are worse off than me doesn't actually help. It doesn't make me think: "I'm alright because I'm not dying right this second or my child hasn't had its limbs blown off or I haven't been shot by a nutter gunman so I'm alright Jack.". It doesn't work that way. All that does is push me further into the rabbit hole of despair because there is so much pain in this world, so much fear, so much horror.

When you look around and you see the people suffering so much, just in your immediate vicinity, and you realise how helpless you are to actually change anything and then that runs into a spiral of crushing despair at the futility of existence and what's the fucking point anyway? Well, that doesn't really do much to lift one out of the pit. Add on the guilt of the 'self indulgence' of becoming this anxious wreck and well, the simplicity of that thought just didn't really work now, did it.

My head starts to resemble some kind of hideous depiction of hell - screaming souls and pain and horror everywhere. Think  Goya. Think Munch. Think Bacon. This is the inside of my head. Perhaps without the papal overtones:

All of this was just while sitting in front of Children in Need's Great British Sewing Bee, by the way. I wasn't in any kind of danger. At that moment no one was needing anything from me. No one was hassling me. No one was hurting me. Also I wasn't supping the liquid morphine I like to have as an aperitif. Stone cold sober panic flip out.

Nothing is working. All my plans are pointless. Everything I'm trying to achieve is useless. There's no good, no hope, no joy in this world. There's nothing. Just nothing. We're all just rattling around, using up our allocated number of breaths, filling our lives with drivel so we have something to do between the cradle and the grave. I'm 38. I'm alone. I'm possessionless. I'm somehow no more advanced than I was when I was 16. I'm screaming into a void.

And then. And this is something that happens every time. I feel calmer. I feel purged. A plan starts to form. I realise why I'm doing what I'm doing. I look at where I am and I think, hang on a goshdarn minute, maybe this is where I'm supposed to be. Maybe this is OK. I'm alive. I'm healthy (physically, ish, obviously not mentally). I have a few people who care about me. I have creative outlets that I can indulge. Things are just not that bad, guy. Lighten the fuck up, man. Breathe.

Open your eyes. Look around. And the fog starts to clear and the black starts to recede and I feel, well, OK again. Like some black sticky goo has been cleaned out of my brain.

And I've done no damage, I hope. My cat is used to it. I think he just tunes it out by now.

Being a human being is very very weird.

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Let's talk about Renee Zellweger's face

So much is going on at the moment. And most of it is bad. Everywhere I look there are friends in pain, people suffering, animals missing, murderers getting away with it, people dying... and I can't seem to make a dent in helping anyone with anything at all.

A small glance at the news today has reminded me of the futility of hoping for any kind of actual justice - I have the angriest, rantiest fire in my belly about Pistorious and the laughable sentence he has been handed. But I see no point in writing it. I can't change anything. It's futile rage. And it's going round and round and round in my head.

Instead, I'm going to dive into denial of all actual emotions and important stuff and talk about Renee Zellweger's face.

This face.

A passing glance at this picture and I would have thought that it was perhaps Kim Basinger on a good day (also a victim of bizarre face shifting). 

But it's Renee Zellwegger, man. She of the pout and squinty eyes. She of the blond-y American-y skinny look that has worked for her so far. 

I've never been a particular fan of the lady. She was a dreadful - and I mean dreadful - Bridget Jones. There was a time in the mid 90s, you see, where Bridget Jones was funny and fresh and new. And it could have been a good film. But it wasn't, in the end.

I'm not sure I can remember her in anything else. I mean, I know I've seen her in stuff. Ooh! Empire Records! She was good in that. But she has a simpering kind of beauty that I couldn't really get into. Not that she's there to be beautiful, of course, she is entitled to look how she wishes without needing to please randoms like me.

But I wouldn't half like to find out what's going on in her noggin. What made her purposefully turn herself from this:

To this: 

OK, OK, you might think it's not fair to compare a picture from the late 90s and now, obviously a lot of time has passed. But this isn't actually about ageing or saying she looks shit older. It's nothing to do with that at all.

Here she was just last year:

Suspiciously shiny faced she may be. Chicken armed she may be. Sinewy she may be, but she is also recognisably her. Her face is most definitely Renee Zellweger shaped.

Not any more it ain't.

She's 45 years old. But somehow now looks like a 90 year old wearing her own death mask. She's literally changed her face shape. Pumping loads of chemicals into her forehead and lifting her eyes up has given her a bizarre doll like stare and a really odd hairline that looks so freaking unnatural it disturbs me.

Is it a kind of sickness? Do women who do this hate themselves so much that the only way they can face the fact that they aren't 20 is to mutilate themselves? What does she think when she looks in the mirror? Is it a good outcome for her, I wonder? She looks happy enough. I think that's a smile. It's possible she's had her face shaped into a rictus grin though, lest anyone ever see her looking anything other than blankly happy.

Maybe she likes it, and as I say, I ain't no Daily Mail. Everyone, man, women and child have the right and my best wishes to look however they wish. Wear whatever they want. I don't give a shit. It's not about her face anyway. It's not that I think her new face is horrible. It's not. It's just completely fricking different. And there's something profoundly depressing about hating your own face that much.

Perhaps it's addictive. Perhaps when you've had one little bit of botox you're hooked immediately. Maybe it's not botox. Maybe it's heroin.

And yes, this was completely puerile and pointless wasn't it? You're welcome.

Saturday, 18 October 2014

Does size matter?

I have a date on Tuesday night.

I was vaguely looking forward to it. It's a guy who lives locally. That's a pretty rare find in Royston Vasey. He seems pretty OK. Not bad looking. Acceptably amusing.

We chatted.

And then he asked me.

He asked me if I'm fat.

He didn't come right out and ask me, of course. He squidged it in to a conversation about height. So, you're not fat are you hahaha, cos I don't want a fatty.


You've seen my pictures, I said. And I describe myself as 'average'. I don't claim to be skinny, slim or sylph like. I say I'm average. Because I am. Fucking average.

Yeah, but. This girl, right. He went out with this girl who described herself as 'athletic' on her profile and she was, dun, dun, duuuuuuuuuun overweight. So he's just 'being honest'.

Well, no. You're not just being honest you douchenugget. You have now put me hugely on the defensive because I, like a lot of women, am uber-sensitive about my weight, constantly aware I am not skinny, constantly worried about my level of attractiveness, and actually, right now, on a diet that consists of 800 calories a day.

So what I don't want or need before meeting someone for the first time is to ALREADY be on the defensive about my looks. It just so happens that my last two serious relationships became very, er, based around my weight. I have always been too fat for the guy I've been with. Always. And that shit gets wearing, man.

But instead of waiting until we meet to see whether he finds me attractive he wants me to tell him right now whether I am going to fulfil his idea of attractiveness.

I asked him whether he ever worries whether a girl in a date scenario will fancy him. He said no. He doesn't worry about that. He just worries about whether she's thin enough and pretty enough and everything else. He's just 'being honest'.

Thing is though, we all have preferences. I have a thing for shoulders. I like shoulders. But I wouldn't ask someone before I meet him whether his shoulders are nice and manly. Or whether his dick is nice and big. Because, y'know, it's my preference. And maybe when I meet him and he doesn't have those obvious attributes I'll find some other reason to like him. Maybe his personality would attract me. But if I set it up beforehand and make him feel like shit about something then it's unlikely to happen at all is it?

So yeah, size matters. It really does matter. Fuck it.

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

Finnigan's wake

Let's talk about Judy Finnigan.

She has a face like a melted wellie and a wig like Barbie's cast offs all smushed up into a lump that sits atop her orange head. Like Goldie Hawn having gone through a blender. Like Miss Piggy's future nightmares. Like Zelda from Terrahawks on a good day. Look:

She has been on telly forever and ever. I used to skive school when I was about 10 and there she was. On the telly with that wet tit she has for a husband. The one who was caught nicking loads of champagne from Asda once. I think they should have just let him take it, he obviously needs to be roaring pissed to put up with the crazy he married.

She's always got the shakes. You know the kind of shakes that could denote some kind of illness a la the lovely and fragrant Michael J Fox, but as they've been going on at the same level since about 1902, it seems they're most likely the DTs.

The DTs, for the unitiated, are the delirium tremens. They mean she is a piss 'ead. A 'functioning' alcoholic. If functioning is an adequate adjective to describe the meandering nonsense that passes for 'presenting' when she is in front of our screens. Whenever I saw that programme that she was on with that man she just sort of gabbled out the autocue and looked like she was going to cry.

For decades, nay centuries, Judy and Rich were the King and Queen of Daytime TV. An accolade with as much glory as that Arse of the Year award that old soap stars always win. Rear of the Year is it? People like Kerry Katona win it. I think they must have a very very loose idea of what constitutes a great arse. Katona is not a looker, let's face it. Last time she scrubbed up well was approximately 27 years ago and approximately 32 kids ago.

But then they disappeared. Judy and Rich I mean. Who knows where they went? Down the Spar to get lots of cider I think. Briefly I recall their daughter becoming 'famous' in manner of that kid what came from George Best's loins. Ahhh, whats his name? The one with no hair but was considered studly around about the time the tabloids were telling us Jodie Marsh was fit. You know. Callum! That's it, Callum Best.

Their daughter may have been on Strictly, I think. Something like that. Maybe Celebrity Shag Island. Or the jungle one maybe.

Anyway, the reason for my reminiscing over Judy of the horrendous jackets and the facially challenged wrinkles, is that she is back on 'our' screens in Loose Women. Now, I watch a lot of shit, I'm the first to admit. I watch Australian Masterchef. AUSTRALIAN. It's terrible. But even I have never watched an episode of Loose Women.

And this episode wouldn't have come to my attention had Judy not done a boo boo. A wrong 'un. She did an error. She was talking about a footballer called Ched Evans. Ched. Ched Evans. CHED. Ched raped a 19 year old woman two years ago. He was in Rhyl at the time. He was tried, convicted and jailed for five years. As is our country's wont, he isn't serving the five years (that would be madness, a rapist serving proper time? Get out of here), he's actually being released imminently.

This kicked off a discussion. Judy reckons it's totes cool that he's being let out and that he should get his job back because the rape that he did "wasn't violent" and the woman who was raped had had "far too much to drink". I think I know someone else who has had "far too much to drink" eh Judes? But pissed up were we before you went on? Bit nervous? Bit o' Dutch courage needed?

Because unless you were pissed when you said that then you are outright facking mental love.

I wonder how Judy would feel had it been her Chloe who had been pissed up in a hotel and was 'non violently raped' by someone. I wonder if she'd be feeling quite so benevolent then?

It's difficult for women to find the courage to come forward when they're raped. It's a weird culture out there. With so much bizarro pseudo feminist rantings out there that, in my opinion, do nothing but set 'the cause' back, along with the misogyny, fear mongering and culture of online bullying bullshit, it's amazing that this 19 year old took him to court. That he was tried and convicted should be enough for those of us who didn't have access to all the details of the rape (sorry, Judy, the bit where he non violently stuck it in her by accident), and now even after all of that here's people just saying that it wasn't really that bad in the first place. I wonder if Judy would like the victim to apologise to Ched for making a fuss in the first place. I mean, it wasn't even a violent rape and the victim was pissed. Probably wearing a short skirt and all. I mean, come on. That's barely rape. Right Judy?

So yeah. Judy Finnigan, how's about laying down those bottles o' booze eh? See what the world is like when you're not completely raddled, it's affecting your judgement. Lunatic.

Thursday, 9 October 2014

9 1/2 hours

Do you remember that film called 9 1/2 weeks? It as an 80s 'erotic' film starring Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger banging a lot. It is a really terrible film but did have a lot of sex in it. This is similarly terrible but, sadly, has no sex in it at all.  

From Ryde to York took 9.5 fucking HOURS.

How? How is our system so fundamentally fucking broken that this can happen? And how did this joy and privilege cost me around £130?


Is it because I was late? No it is not. Is it because I messed up the times? No it is not. Is it because I didn't have the presence of mind to pre book? No. It is not. 

It is, however, because of a series of unfortunate events precipitated by a bunch of absolute fuckwits. 

We have to work on the basis that everyone is doing their best day to day, don't we? We shouldn't assume that people go out of their way to be incapable of doing their simple jobs? And yet. And yet. Today a member of South West Trains staff at Portsmouth thought he'd take a little guess at some crucial information I needed. I couldn't check it myself because Vodafone do not allow me actual Internet (or mobile service most of the time, even though I pay diligently every month. My phone is just a very expensive thing on which I can listen to audio books and scroll through my fascinating picture collection of sushi, fatty and various bats) and I couldn't use my eyes to look at the boards because they were 'down'.

Trains were being cancelled left, right and centre. Within five minutes the same train was cancelled and reinstated three times (each time on a different platform leaving hoards of people scurrying to and fro across the station). My train was cancelled. I'm pre booked onto a connection. What do I do? I ask Steve the customer service dweeb. I know he's customer service because he's wearing a luminous yellow tabard that says 'customer service' on it. And I know he's a dweeb because he says he will 'go and check' and then spends the next 20 minutes busily avoiding me. 

I ask another customer service dude. He confidently tells me to get on X train where I can pick up a connection no problem. They're every hour. Sure? I say. Yep, totally sure. He says. 

Yeah. He was wrong. 

And I get sent to Banbury. Which is sort of like being sent to Coventry but even shitter. Which is saying something. And then the next train doesn't turn up and I've been travelling for hours and I feel sick and tired. 

I'm reading Meditations by Marcus Aureus at the moment. He would have been all stoic, calm and generous minded. I want to kill everyone armed only with a blunt spoon. of course MA didn't have to travel on South West Trains. It would have turned all his learnings on their head. 

So now I'm somewhere near Birmingham, a mere seven hours since I left the house. And I only have three hours to go. 

If this is the state of our transport system in 2014, just imagine how amazing it's going to be in ten years time. I. Can't. Wait. It will be staffed by stuffed toys in the vague shape of human beings and will feature a magical mystery tour once an hour for those who can afford to sell their organs to pay for it.


Feel my wrath South West Trains, you sorry shower of shite. 

Postscript: Although I did eventually arrive in York and am happily ensconced with friends now, thus making the journey well worth it, my equanimity has been shaken by the fact that my pre booked tickets for my journey back are nonsensical, incorrect and leave me stranded in Reading for three hours. However, I intend to go all Marcus Aurelius on its ass when the time comes.