Something that never ceases to irritate and bemuse me (two states of mind which, as regular readers will know, I am particularly familiar with) is fashion. It really is an utter bunch of arse when you look at it isn’t it?
Obviously, most of us follow clothing trends to some degree. I don’t go walking around in a hessian sack with a pineapple on top of my head for example. I wear clothes that are in keeping with the times and which I like for two main reasons: I think they suit me and they are reasonably comfortable.
Not because someone has decided something is must have and SO this season.
And this is where fashion gets ridiculous – you probably could very easily find some emaciated model trudging the catwalk in a hessian sack, and I’m damned sure I’ve seen fruit adorning the heads of catwalk models more than once.
What’s more, a true fashion victim would wear said hessian sacks, were a TopShop version for under 60 quid to become available.
And then every other bloody person would start wearing them. I’m not talking general trends here, like long scarves, cropped trousers or skinny jeans. I’m talking instantly recognisable items that suddenly render a sizeable portion of the population sheep-like clones. And which the cast of Hollyoaks will definitely be wearing.
Cases in point:
Faux fur coats
Those woolly hats with animal ears
Last winter I must have seen these items, mainly on students and ‘young professionals’, at least five times a day, if not more.
It’s just faintly embarrassing to be seen wearing the same ‘must-have’ item as every other person in the street, surely?
I haven’t got a funny ending to this blog post.
Well it’s been a while, but like Take That and genital warts, I’m back.
A lot has happened since I last blogged. I am now living with an actual real live (brilliant) man, which means I can no longer moan about being single and nearly 30. Don’t despair though, I can still moan about nearly being 30. And everything else.
So to ease you gently back into my funpacked world of moaning and whingeing, we’ll start with chuggers. AKA charity muggers.
Oh how I detest them.
For those not familiar, I’m referring to the creatures that lurk in the middle of high streets ready to pounce on you with their clipboards, false smiles and personalities that could variously be described as ‘wacky’, ‘zany’ and ‘crazy’. All words that make me want to gouge my own eyes out with a rusty spoon and then feed said eyes to the irritating little arsewipes.
Think I’m being harsh? Let me explain why you’re wrong. One: I’m right. And B: do not be fooled into believing for one second that these people give two tiny shits about cancer sufferers, wounded animals, abandoned clothes pegs or whatever charity it is they’re trying to ensnare you into via the medium of direct debit.
They might happen to care, but it would be completely coincidental.
And this is what makes their smug, self-satisfied, over familiar manner all the more galling. I know they work on commission, they know they work on commission and anyone with a functioning brain cell knows they work on commission. So they can sod off trying to guilt trip me into giving to whatever charity they happen to be working for. If you care that much pal, get another job and then the money that the charity save by not paying your commission can actually, you know, go to charity.
When they try and reel me in by making some grotesquely patronising comment such as ‘hey there trendy hair!’ or ‘hi girls!’ (when I’m with my 60 year old mother, for god’s sake) are they expecting us to giggle girlishly and immediately sign up to give ten pounds a month to the retired dogs’ bowls society for the rest of our lives? Because that’s not what happens. What happens is I swallow back my barf as I politely say no thanks and attempt to walk around them as they get into my personal space with their invasive bodies and their stupidly inane fake smiling faces. Next time I plan to place one hand on their chest and shout NOOO in a very deep and loud voice as I continue walking.
The whole Andy Grey, other football man I’d never previously heard of, debacle of a week or so ago, got me thinking about feminism, the struggle for true equality, and how we’re really not there yet.
And then I got distracted by pore strips. They’re really rubbish. Essentially, pore strips are white bits of paper that you stick on your nose. They make you look like you’ve had a nose job whilst you’re wearing them, and they ‘draw out impurities’. ALLEDGEDLY.
They do in fact seem to have drawn out my impurities, from their former comparatively well-hidden location, to the front of my face. Which wasn’t really the effect I was going for when I purchased this product.
Ahh, the things we do for beauty eh? As a single but highly eligible bachelorette (have I mentioned at any point previously in this blog that I’m still single and fast approaching 30? I doubt it), it’s important to maintain a well groomed appearance at all times, just in case an opportunity presents itself for you to ensnare charm a man when you’re least expecting it.
So, recently, I decided to try out several treatments and products that are a step up from my usual arduous beauty regime, which consists of washing my body and face, rarely washing my hair, moisturising, and putting some mascara on. Oh and concealer under my eyes, now that I have permanent dark circles there because I am OLD.
So I tried the pore strips, which made me look spottier. I also did a face mask, which was fun because it made me look like I was in the Black and White Minstrels (but white-ed up instead of blacked up) and smelt of strawberries.
On top of this I subjected myself to a range of other forms of grooming and preening which I won’t go into, because… well, it would be weird.
The question is. Was it all worth it? Do these things actually make a scrap of difference to how you look or do they just make you feel like they make a difference? Is the only difference they really make that they minimally boost your confidence, making you come across as a more ‘attractive’ person?
Probably the latter.
And hey, it’s pretty fun to pamper and preen like a proper girl every so often. But I do wonder about the amount of money some gals (and guys I’m sure) spend regularly on an array of beauty treatments that, no offence ladies, make a minute amount of difference to the way they look.
Nail art, hair extensions, spray tans, eyebrow shaping, teeth whitening – as a one-off I get it, but as a regular thing…
One, how can you be arsed? Two, wouldn’t you rather spend your cash on, you know, doing things? Three, it aint going to make that much difference to your looks. You’ll still be you (unless you have facial surgery) just a less well-off, more looks-conscious version of you.
Because once you start tweaking and changing, I reckon you just want to carry on and find it impossible not to notice more ‘flaws’ and things you could change and ‘improve’ upon.
If anyone’s not seen Channel 4’s Beauty and the Beast, I recommend it. It’s Channel 4’s usual bordering-on-the-exploitative-but-highly-watchable-reality-TV fare and puts together very vain (for which we can read ‘self-conscious’ and actually very sweet, in the case of the first Beauty at least) people with people who have severe facial deformities/scarring and so on.
In the first episode, the Beauty in question makes a breakthrough and dares to bare, leaving the house without her false eyelashes on, but still with full make up and hair extensions of course.
Thing is, her excessive concern for make up and beautifying was all down to trying to distract attention from her really rather ginormous boobs, which men, from smart business types to homeless alcoholics, felt it was more than acceptable to openly leer at and comment on. Her make up and hair was basically saying “talk to my face you ignorant, sexist TWATS”.
And the ironic thing is, a multitude of women out there would consider or have considered paying thousands of pounds and undergoing surgery under general anaesthetic just to have slightly bigger boobs.
Like I said, we’re not quite there yet and sometimes it is hard to be a woman. But I think it’s just hard to be a person, regardless of gender, in this looks-obsessed, materialistic society, that makes you think things are important when they really are of no significance whatsoever.
Right, I’m off to be a hermit and live in a bear cave somewhere.
Nine days into the New Year and it already feels like Christmas was an age ago. It also feels like I’ve not been paid for an excruciatingly long time, and yet there are still two and a bit weeks to go until the next pay day. Getting paid early for xmas is great n all, but not so great once you realise you’ve spent all your cash on booze, food and cheap hoes (for the garden, obv) before the 24th of December and there’s still a MONTH to go until the next pay day.
Still, I’d imagine it’s what Jesus would’ve wanted.
As well as Jesus, someone else extremely important celebrated their birthday in December. That’s right – me. They don’t call me the modern day Messiah for nothing! (They don’t call me it at all. They’re idiots.)
So now I’ve entered into my final year of my twenties. Whoop de freaking whoop.
This time next year I’ll be 30. And what do I have to show for my life so far? Not a lot. All around me people are settling down with partners, getting engaged, having babies, buying houses. All the stuff that you’ve got all the time in the world to do, until you look in the mirror and realise that you’re no longer a teenager and that ticking isn’t your watch, because you don’t own a watch, it’s your biological clock screaming “Hurry the SHIT up or you’re going to die alone with a withered womb, smelling of cat wee and desperation.”
My clock is a cruel mistress.
So then you start to wonder, have I been too rash in the past? Should I have given people more of a chance and relationships more of a go?
Just because someone’s attempts to be funny make you want to vomit violently at the sheer cringe-inducing un-funniness of it all, doesn’t mean you couldn’t learn to live with it, does it…? Just because someone’s so selfish, lazy, pretentious, boring, or a winning combo of all of the above, that you basically learn to detest everything about them and couldn’t possibly see yourself producing offspring with such a human being, doesn’t mean that you can’t make a bit of an effort so that you’re not left alone, surrounded by cat poo (to go with the aforementioned cat wee - can’t have one without the other), does it…? Just because it gets to the point where someone touching you makes you visibly cringe and leaves you wanting to scrub your skin with a wire brush and bleach, doesn’t mean you can’t just stick with it and perhaps opt for artificial insemination, does it…? And just because someone has a shrine in your honour and a tattoo of your face on their torso, well, it doesn’t mean that they’re anything other than a bit ‘keen’, does it…?
I don’t know. But I do wonder whether a great deal of people don’t settle for second best once they reach a certain age. Or has everyone suddenly and magically found the happy relationships that they struggled to find before? Do people lower their standards once they reach their 30s, or have they just got bored of playing around?
I’d like to pause time right now so I can still go off and do all the fun things I want and have all the good times I can, without the oppressive cloud of time looming over me every step of the way. That way, I’d have all the time in the world to meet the right person, without having to settle for someone who I’ll end up resenting and who I may decide to slowly poison over several months, watching their health slowly deteriorate, just as the last shards of light slowly deteriorate from my heart, leaving nothing but a small, shrivelled-up, black lump of coal.
HA-PPY NEW YEAR!!
P.S I was going to do that one-blog-post-a-day thing this year, but I didn’t.
Someone said today that I should write for my blog more often, so I thought I’d sit down and start typing and just sort of see what happened. I hadn’t factored in ‘accidentally’ drinking lots of hot mulled wine beforehand however, so who knows how this post will turn out or what the hell it’ll be about…
Think of it as an adventure! But rather than anticipating one of those fun adventures that leave you feeling invigorated and exhilarated, it would probably be better if you thought of it as one of those adventures that leave you feeling empty, cold, and a little bit dead inside.
As well as being inspired by one person flattering my huge and yet frighteningly fragile ego, I decided to blog this snowy evening because my laptop has come back from the laptop doctor, i.e. my mate Dave (everyone’s got a mate Dave, and I’m no exception) and finally appears to work, after months of sporadically turning itself off at the most inopportune of moments, i.e. at the climactic point of a really good bit of po…ttery.
And no one wants to be cut off at the crucial moment in a vase making scene. It’s just cruel.
So yeah, my laptop seems to work again now. The technical diagnosis? Dust. Yes, ‘dust’. (I can only hope this isn’t a euphemism for ‘crap loads of pottery downloads’.)
I’ve got a history of being horrendously shit with my belongings as it happens. A sophisticated lady like you?! (I hear you cry) I literally do NOT believe it. I know, I know. But it is sadly true.
New mobile phone? I’ll throw that in the toilet and then leave the replacement in a bar. iPod? I’ll leave that on a plane on the way to Turkey then put the next one through a warm colour spin. Laptop? I’ll use it as a handy dinner plate and then shove dust into it (apparently).
It’s not just items of a technical nature I have a particular knack with however, I’m also pretty good with clothes. Take my favourite daytime dress, for example, which I ‘lost’ for a good month. I texted my friends, family, friends’ friends and friends’ friends’ pets’ babysitters, all on the off chance I had left said garment somewhere and forgotten.
To no avail!
Unsurprising really, considering it was in my (not at all large) wardrobe the whole time. In my defence though, it had cunningly disguised itself behind a small cardigan.
Well I’m not bloody Columbo am I? Jesus.
These things I do with such startling consistency often make me wonder how I function from day to day. I find myself looking for my mobile phone when I’m ON my mobile phone, for example, with frightening frequency. Something which would be acceptable if I was on the wrong side of my 70s, as opposed to the wrong side of my 20s.
There are a million and one more examples of my apparent inability to function as a real life working human being that I could list, but the mulled wine is kicking in and, quite frankly, that pottery’s not going to watch itself.
Over and out kids, and remember, put something on the end of it.
Hi blog readers,
Apologies for the lack of action on the blogging front for some time. No reason, I’m just a bit rubbish.
I like to imagine you’ve all been sitting at home since I last blogged, constantly hitting refresh on smellmycheese as you weep brown, crumb-filled tears onto your naked chests.
Crumb-filled because you’ve taken to comfort eating Sainsbury’s own Bourbon biscuits (40p for loads) in the absence of a new blog post from me to brighten up your day, and naked because I like to imagine you’re all fit men and, well, how else will I see fit men’s naked chests on a regular basis other than in my MIND? Well, the internet for one. But that’s not the point. Moving on…
Unfortunately, I am only too aware that two of my most avid readers are in fact my mother and my sister. Neither of whom are fit men.
But hey, at least I’ve got an active imagination. And that’s got to count for something in these turbulent economic times. Right?
Speaking of which, money’s a funny old thing, isn’t it? I was involved in a lively debate just the other day regarding a bag costing over half a grand. That’s right. A bag. One of those things you put other things in. For what equates to just under half a month’s salary for most people on an average wage and a month’s rent for many others.
Now I’m not casting aspersions on anyone here; people can do what they want with their own money. Whether that’s spending it on things to put other things in, things to put feet in or things to put feet and the things they’re in as well as things to put other things in, in. If you’ve lost me (and I can’t imagine how you could have to be honest) – things to put feet, shoes and bags in = cars and houses.
So yeah, who am I to judge? (Someone who doesn’t have much money, obviously, but that’s beside the point.)
Sometimes these conversations make me wonder if I am a real girl after all. Perhaps I’m a bit like Pinocchio but still all wooden. And instead of a real boy I want to be a real girl (only I don’t; it sounds expensive.)
Evidence for why I may not be a real girl is as follows:
I enjoy getting dressed up to go out as much as the next girl, but I could not imagine spending more than £50 on shoes or a single item of clothing. Not when George at ASDA exists and sells kick arse jeans for £12.50 (seriously, they are my new best discovery and I’m determined to spread the word).
As for a bag – £30 limit (and for that price it better come with a free matching vibrator, or at least a Curly Wurly). It’s going to spend much of its short lived existence, before I lose it, on the floor of a beer garden getting ash flicked on it and beer spilt on it, so there’s pretty much no point in missing out on meals for two months in order to purchase it.
As for beauty treatments, here are my credit crunch-busting alternatives:
Eyebrow threading – I can only imagine this involves shaving your eyebrows off and then threading false ones back INTO YOUR FACE. Buy some tweezers for 99p from Wilkos instead and avoid looking like a Raggy Doll.
Manicures – simply chew your nails down until they bleed a little bit and then paint them yourself with Tippex like you did in school. The white of the correction fluid will mix with the red of your blood to create a lovely baby pink hue - bringing you bang up to date with this season’s ‘back to the cradle’ trend.
Bikini waxing - Use a razor. The rash will fade in time. And if it doesn’t, see below.
Vajazzles (Google it) - Get some Pritt Stick and glitter and get creative at home! You can use the leftovers to add a lovely, personalised touch to this year’s home made Christmas cards.
Facials – stop being vile.
So, there you go. My post turned out to be about money saving tips and distasteful innuendo (although that last bit was to be expected to be fair. I’m nothing if not consistent.). Martin Lewis move over!
If you’ve got any top money saving tips, do feel free to share them. As long as they’re funny and preferably if they’re verging on offensive too.
Ta ta campers. And remember, anti ageing cream will not stop you getting old, but excessive drinking might.
image cred site.sparkle-plenty.com
Good morning readers.
I’ve been to quite a few comedy nights recently. Well, two. But in the space of a week that’s quite a lot.
I got called a lesbian at one of those comedy nights. Because I’ve got short hair.
Two quick points about that:
1. HI FROM THE 1800s. Hair length isn’t necessarily a foolproof method of discerning someone’s sexual orientation. You could try asking them if they’ll sleep with you instead. Go on, go up to the next short haired lady you see and ask her…
2. Why the hell is ‘lesbian’ still seen as an insult? Again, HI FROM THE 1800s.
To be fair, I have no idea what the attitude to gay women was back then. I wasn’t alive (surprisingly) and I can’t be arsed to research it. But I’d imagine they had a right time of it in comedy clubs. Similar to my ‘struggle’ as a not actually gay female in 2010.
We tend to think that we’re a liberal and forward thinking society and even that we’ve gone too far the other way. That political correctness has GONE MAD!!
I’ll let you into a secret: it hasn’t. Illustrated by the fact that it’s still totally acceptable to use lesbian/dyke/gay/poof as an insult. Especially gay. Apparently that’s okay because it now doesn’t mean ‘gay’ gay, it means lame. But why has a term for homosexuality come to mean ‘lame’? Surely we can’t pretend that its origins aren’t relevant at all and therefore it’s all more than a bit wrong?
(Yes, I know it originally meant happy and joyful, hence the title of this post, but I really don’t think that when kids call each other ‘gay’ in the playground, they’re commenting on how happy one another is.)
Anyway, I didn’t find being called a lesbian offensive in the slightest, because I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being attracted to ladies instead of men. I can see the benefits if anything: less body hair, less football, more X Factor, more orgasms.
That’s the thing about sexual orientation though, you don’t really pick it, you just ‘are’. Hence it being a bit odd that we’re still all so obsessed by it and still use it to judge people by.
Just to be clear, my point isn’t that I would never use certain words as insults or that you’re a terrible person if you do. I just think it’s pretty interesting that it’s still widely acceptable to do so in 2010 and that ‘gay’ is still one of the biggest insults levelled at kids in the playground by one another.
What do you think? Acceptable or not?