If I was never a fat girl I'd never have grown up to be me.....

I had an epiphany on the bus on Friday.

Buses are good for this. They're very emotional things, buses. After I broke up with my (now) ex boyfriend I cried for a good six months every time I got on a bus. Maybe it was the forward motion. I used to get my best ideas on the loo, now I get them on buses. (Insert joke about motion here).

So I was feeling genuinely disgusted with myself. The heat's come out to play, bringing with it the gorgeous skinny population of London and I, having discarded the gym in favour of sitting down, sewing and eating tumultuous amounts of cake, feel like the only fat girl in London.

Now as a feminist I'm not supposed to care about this, right? I scream every day about body image, about how women and men are being pushed towards an ideal when they should learn to love themselves, right? Well of course, and this is a deeply held belief of mine. But part of the reason it's such a deeply held belief of mine is that I know firsthand exactly how shitty low self esteem and negative body image can feel because I've been there. Many, many times.

As I reached my late twenties I have finally learned to accept and love myself, partly through feminism and education, partly through the love of a great bunch of very supportive friends and family, partly through a Mae West box set and definitely partly through having what we like to call in the trade a sense of humour.

But I still have the occasional blip. Who doesn't? I eat when I'm hungry, I also eat when I'm bored, or happy, or miserable, or pushing the boundaries I set for myself. I am a virtual stranger to moderation, and this takes its toll.

So I was sitting on the bus and I felt like a small continent, and the skinny pretty, and obviously much happier than me population of London were dancing around me, like nymphs in A Midsummer Night's Dream when I had a revelation.

I wouldn't be me, if I wasn't a fat girl.

PLEASE NOTE - the below explanation refers only to my situation. I am not saying that all pretty people would be as easily distracted as I would have been, had I conformed a little more. Beautiful people aren't excluded from being intelligent, poetic and wonderful. Whatever size you are, however you look, your motivation will be different. It's just that I am a deeply lazy person.....

If I wasn't a fat girl:

1. One of the boys I obsessed about may have paid attention, and I wouldn't have spent the time I spent with my best friends that bonded us forever and made us sisters for life. Every time I got stood up (it happened often), one of them was there to ensure that we had a far better night then I could have ever had with anyone else.

2. I would have spent all my time snogging (FACT) and wouldn't have got any work done. I might not have gone to the university I went to and wouldn't have had a million incredible experiences (plus the academic stuff).

3. I wouldn't have felt the need to develop a sense of humour. Do you think Cheryl Cole has a sense of humour? She hits toilet attendants FFS. (N.B I did hear a rumour that Posh Spice has a wicked sense of humour, I really hope that this is true. I hope that the cameras switch off and Posh Spice kicks off her scary heels and asks David to pull her finger.)

4. I would never have been a fat greebo at school. Skinny greebos just aren't proper greebos.

5. I have never had to worry that someone is just going out with me for my body. It's DEFINITELY my mind that they're into.

6. I would never, annoyed at the lack of larger sizes in shops, have learned to make my own clothes, and I might never have owned matching red and pink polka dot dresses. Oh the shame!

7. I would have just bought everything I wore in Primark - just like so many other people.

8. I certainly wouldn't have stayed at home and practised the flute - so now I can play in lovely psyche folk bands with wonderful and interesting people.

9. I would have played the romantic lead in the school plays (like I secretly wanted to) instead of the interesting characters. I certainly wouldn't have played Widow Twankee in my Junior School production of Aladdin, which was clearly the performing highlight of my life (just ask my mum, she'll confirm this!)

10. I'd have never slammed (bite the ends off, dip one end into tea, slurp tea through and heaven awaits you) four caramel Rocky bars in a row that time - AND SEEN GOD. Or fit 18 YES 18 malteasers in my mouth in one go at that party.

11. I wouldn't be me. And luckily, due to all sorts of hard work by all sorts of people, I like being me.

I had to get this off my chest as I'm worrying about the video. For those of you who haven't read the script it's all about an eating competition. The general idea is that a woman triumphs through winning an eating contest. I want to to say something about the other types of roles that women can play in society. That we don't just triumph by being pretty, or standing around in our underwear. That we can be quirky and strange and want things that are uniquely ours. I wanted to directly attack the triumph of skinny and the fear of obesity. Obvious stuff but I don't think it gets said enough through the medium of music videos!!!

But I suppose I started to freak out because eating is such an emotional thing. I don't want the vid to look like an advert for bulimia or disordered binge eating. I want it to be a triumph, not another tragedy. Maybe this explanation will help me find what I'm trying to say.

I think I'm going to make some changes accordingly. Watch this space.

xxxxx

Phew

I've done it!   Here's the draft. If you fancy a read then you're more than welcome. Please feel free to leave comments below. I may or may not ignore them xxxx

1. INT - BEDROOM - MORNING:                                  
                                                                      
Close up: Our HEROINE’S face, surrounded by murk as she’s    
lying down. Her eyes are wide open and her face is blank.    
She closes her eyes in a wince and covers her face with her  
hands.                                                      
                                                                      
  We pull back slightly to reveal the two filthy pillows that  
 she’s lying on. One is propped behind her head, the other    
lies next to her, a photograph in a broken frame lies on top
of it.                                                      
                                                                      
She rolls over onto her side and stares longingly at the    
photo.                                                      
                                                                      
                                                                      
 2. CLOSE UP - PHOTO:                                        
                                                                      
The photo shows two people, our HEROINE and her BOYFRIEND.    The HEROINE is holding a large trophy and grinning excitedly at the camera, chocolate covering her face. BOYFRIEND is staring at her lovingly. They have their arms wrapped around each other.                      
3. INT - BEDROOM - MORNING:                                  
She looks longingly towards the door.                        
                                                                      
4. INT - KITCHEN - MORNING:                                                        A squalid kitchen, grimy and somewhat abandoned. Dressed in  
 a dressing gown and novelty slippers our heroine walks over  
to the refrigerator.                                        
                                                                      
She opens the fridge and it casts an eery light in the grubby room. She looks inside.                              
                                                                      
 5. INT - FRIDGE:                                            
 Light falls on the interior of the open fridge. It is a turgid sight. An uncompromising white light throws the green speckles and unknown orange looking substances into the forefront. The fridge is almost empty, flanked only by half  a tin of something mouldy, an exploding green pot of low fat cottage cheese and a rusty looking can of diet soda. She  sadly shuts the fridge door without taking anything.                                                               
6. INT - KITCHEN - MORNING:                                  
 Our HEROINE steps away from the fridge, disappointed.        
                                                                                                                 7. EXT - STREET - DAY:                                      
A lonely, dirty and bleak street, topped with grey skies and litter strewn around the floor. Our HEROINE trudges sadly down the road, holding  a wilting carrier bag.                                        
                                                                      
 She comes to a poster taped to a nearby lamp post, grainy and photocopied, barely legible. She stops short and stares at it.                                                  
8. CLOSE UP - POSTER:                                        
Tattered at the edges, the poster reads: "Are you Queen of the eats?" "Come and prove yourself."          
                                                                                                                 9. EXT -  STREET - DAY:
 She stands staring at the poster. The carrier bag drops from
her hand - spreading its meagre content of a wilted looking carrot and a child’s yoghurt on the floor.                  
                                                                      
Two people walk past, chattering happily, they look at the poster and then towards our HEROINE, who shrinks under their gaze. The pair nudge each other and walk away giggling. Our HEROINE gazes down to her navel and pulls the waistband of her baggy trousers out, revealing a space where a stomach used to be.                                        Determinedly wiping tears away she reaches out and plucks the poster from the lamp post, quickly folding it in two and walking away.                                                
The bag and spilled groceries stay where they are.                                                                               
11. INT - BEDROOM - EARLY MORNING:                          
 A close up of an old digital alarm clock reads 6:00, a hand slams on top of it, whacking the snooze button.                                                                               
12. INT - FRIDGE - DAY:                                      
 Fridge door opens. Hand reaches in and takes out the red milk, extra light cheese products and replaces them with a  huge block of cheese, trifle, blue milk, more cheese and a massive block of lard.                      

13. COOKING MONTAGE:                                        
Onions are chopped. Peppers are chopped. Eggs are cracked    
into a bowl. Butter is melted in a frying pan. Onions thrown in. Mushrooms thrown in. Eggs thrown in. cheese grated on top.                                                        
14. INT - KITCHEN - DAY:                                    
 Our HEROINE sits at the table, a giant sized omelette in  front of her, she takes a couple of deep and very serious breaths, then, with a fierce look of concentration on her face, she tucks in. Fast and ferociously.                    
15. EATING MONTAGE:                                          
1. Our HEROINE lies on the floor in front of a chair, on the chair is a pile of sushi. She is in the sit up position. She performs sit ups and every time she comes to the top she eats a piece of the sushi.                                  
 2. Our HEROINE is in the press up position, a bowl of roast potatoes in front of her. Every time she goes down into the press up position she eats a potato.                        
                                                                      
 3. Our HEROINE is performing squats - after completing each squat she downs a bite of pizza.                            
                                                                      
4. Our HEROINE eats four cream crackers in a row without drinking any water.                                          
                                                                      
5. our HEROINE eats two jam doughnuts in a row without licking her lips.                                            
                                                                      
6. She stands by the blender in the kitchen and resolutely pours milk into the blender, followed by a dollop of ice cream. She then throws three cream eggs in a row into the blender and presses the button. After blending she takes a  long swig.                                                  
                                                                      
MONTAGE ENDS                                                
16. INT - KITCHEN - DAY:                                    
Our HEROINE lies in amongst debris on her kitchen floor. She is panting and out of breath, her face is covered in crumbs.  Surrounding her are pizza boxes, vegetable peelings and food wrappers. She looks extremely ill and has one hand on her  stomach. A huge grin spreads across her face.                                
        
17. EXT - VENUE - NIGHT:                                    
We follow our HEROINE down a dark and overgrown path. She heads towards a dim light. Reaching the light she walks through a door and into the venue.                            

18. INT - VENUE - NIGHT:                                    
The venue is dark and cramped, swathed in shadows. A large table sits in the middle, laden high with a huge bowl of  porridge. Two contestants sit at the table, both women. CONTESTANT ONE looks slightly ill.

At the head of the table sits NEMESIS - a mountain of a woman with a mean face and an eye patch.                                                  
                                                                      
Someone gives the signal and both women start downing bowls of porridge. NEMESIS does so with a particular venom,  devouring the food in seconds and wiping her face with callous disregard for human life.                            
                                                                      
CONTESTANT ONE - clearly cannot take it any more and keels  over sideways clutching her stomach.                        
                                                                      
NEMESIS laughs callously and waves her arms triumphantly.    
She bares her teeth and the crowd go wild.                  
                                                                      
Our HEROINE steps forward and takes the chair from CONTESTANT ONE - awkwardly shifting her prostrate body out  
of the way first.                                            
                                                                      
CU - NEMESIS’ eyes                                          
                                                                      
CU - HEROINE’s eyes                                          
                                                                      
NEMESIS bares her teeth. HEROINE does not respond, her face  
a picture of concentration.                                  
                                                                      
Their bowls are filled with porridge and the games begin    
again. They furiously start downing the stuff, NEMESIS with  
callous anger, HEROINE stoically.                            
                                                                      
We see the faces of the people in the crowd as they watch,  intensity in their barred teeth and red eyes. They pass cash  around and scream out their support or anger.                
                                                                       
They gobble away with intensity brewing until all the
porridge is gone.                                            
                                                                      
NEMESIS looks towards the ORGANISER, a wily woman, who shrugs, panicking.  
                                                                      
NEMESIS angrily throws her bowl to the floor and the crowd
go wild.                                                    
                                                                      
ORGANISER places a bowl full of Mars Bars on the table. They
begin eating for a painstaking few moments.                  
                                                                      
NEMESIS’ face is expressive, anger, pain and eventually
exhaustion coupled with deep determination.                  
                                                                      
Our HEROINE remains resolutely calm. Chewing quickly and    
evenly.                                                      
                                                                      
NEMESIS falters and the crowd pull back in anticipation.    
                                                                      
HEROINE takes another stoic bite.                            
                                                                      
In a fit of anger NEMESIS leaps over the table and, in slow motion, pokes HEROINE in the stomach with an angry, podgy finger.                                                      
                                                                      
Stricken, our HEROINE falters, her face crumples up with
pain. She gulps once, twice and recoils in horror.          
                                                                      
The crowd look on. Painful disappointment shining in their eyes. They are urging her to go on.....                      
                                                                      
HEROINE looks up, half doubled over, tears in her eyes. She
falls forward and then looks up, surprised as......          
                                                                      
BOYFRIEND walks in. He pushes his way through the crowd and  
runs in toward her. Their eyes meet. He smiles, She smiles.  
                                                                      
With a tremendous feat of effort HEROINE stands tall and
doggedly reaches for a final Mars Bar. The crowd go wild,
leaping into the air as she eats it. BOYFRIEND joins them,  punching the air triumphantly.                              
                                                                      
NEMESIS’ eyes roll back in her head and she keels over
sideways.                                                    
                                                                      
Our HEROINE triumphantly runs to BOYFRIEND and they embrace.
The crowd surge. She is handed a new trophy. We freeze frame
as she is handed a new trophy which she holds proudly aloft,
BOYFRIEND looking lovingly at her.                          

FADE TO BLACK

Comments please?!!!

Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhhhh

You know two blogs ago when I vaguely mentioned that there might be a down side to screenwriting?


Greetings friends from the bottom of the well.


So I sat down last night with the good intention of writing something perfect, knowing that time is short and I need to get a wriggle on in order to complete this task and not look like a gigantic loser who is shunned, even during elections by politicians.


Instead I watched the leaders debate and Tweeted about hating David Cameron, then I ate a massive sandwich, then I deep conditioned my hair, filed my nails and wore a facemask, then I put away my washing (something I NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER do unless I'm supposed to be doing something else), then I watched an hour of a Bollywood film (3 Idiots - half good half rubbish, it's nice to see men who cry in films, but then the whole everyone crying thing gets a bit dull and I just want a good old song and dance routine,) following all that crap I had a bath and started to FREAK OUT.


There are too many distractions in the world.


I'm thinking of politically re-aligning completely, not Labour, Lib Dem or Green, I'm joining the Luddites. I'm all for shutting off the internet and closing down phone lines. I need to kill twitter and facebook and hotmail, I want to burn all my books and instruments, and ....washing. I'm not sure how the Luddites find each other. Do they hang out in trees? Maybe I could become Amish. How do you go about that? I've seen Witness and King Pin. Does that help?


Even then I'd probably still be able to distract myself from writing, there's always doodling, or daydreaming, or inspirationally putting up giant houses to the twinkling sounds of keyboard music.


Can I have my brain removed temporarily? Could I just leave the bit that wants to write music video scripts? That wants to do it all the time. Every day, every minute - just create and create and create?? Without building a resentment for toast, television, the internet, other people, products, pets and anything that isn't what I'm supposed to be doing?


Can I be a luddite and continue writing a blog? Would I have to carve it into trees or possibly in lipstick on mirrors in pub toilets?


Now I remember this feeling. I remember, halfway through the writing of my first novel, that I started to crave prison, or hospital, maybe a broken leg or a mystery, painless illness that keeps me in a secluded and boring hospital ward where I'll be FORCED TO BLOODY WRITE.


Will someone come and break my leg?
(Please don't come and break my leg.)


Sigh. xxxxx

In the name of procrastination I'm coming out....

Dear Sirs,


I would like to bring it to your immediate attention that I am current supposed to be writing the screenplay for the music video that I have to make this month. Whilst allegedly performing such an action several things have come to mind that are a) far more important and b) far more exciting than actually sitting down and doing the one thing I'm supposed to be doing.


No it's not the second pre election debate that's happening tonight. Although I have, of course, been enthused to the point of explosion by BBC News 24's riveting coverage of the door to the hall in which the debates are happening later on - coupled with bemused members of staff walking through it and a really pissed off looking journalist whittering to camera about what colour the ties might be this evening.


Nor am I writing to rant about the two billboards that I pass on the way to work each day, the first advertising clothing and featuring a woman so emaciated that I want to run into the poster (in the style of Aha's Take On Me video) in order to wrap a blanket around the poor soul and hand her a large brownie, or the poster advertising dirty shampoo for filthy flaky scalped perverts featuring, yours and my favourite, the saucy nurse (I'm sure we'll find a record number of applications to study nursing as a result)


Or EVEN the fact that while we sleep soundly in our beds tonight Nick Clegg is apparently going to steal all of the babies in Christendom and feed them to illegal immigrants, along with our jobs, our women, our swans and any books that we were in the middle of, that were just getting to the good bit and we'll never remember to buy again.


No dear sirs, it is none of the above. I, instead, have become fixated by the contents of my iTunes.


It may have come to the attention of some of the readers of this blog that I am something of a music lover. I may also appear to have certain viewpoints that I might occasionally champion, perhaps at times of extreme drunkenness, perhaps about jazz, or prog, or rubbish Camden pseudo indie played by twelve year old berks with rubbish hair and bad jeans. Perhaps these outburst may be coupled with shouting, jeering laughter and the words "your arse". Maybe even the assertion that my views are entirely correct ALL THE TIME.


Well for all of you who might have found yourselves at the other end of my infinite wisdom, here is a small reprieve. I looked at the "most played" tracks list on my ipod the other day to find the following list. Here it is:




5. Doctors Orders by Carol Douglas
4. Winding Road by Bonnie Sommerville
3. chick Habit by April March
2. Never Ever by All Saints
1. Paparazzi by Lady Gaga


I'm standing by numbers 5 to 3. Carol Douglas is a disco queen, Sommerville's song is slushy and slightly embarrassing and Chick Habit damn well rocks. However, I am here to confess to you all today that I am, apparently, a pop bitch. I have now come out.


I trust no one will ever mention this again.


Yours Sincerely, 
Ms Tommy Lassoo

Creativity, if this were top trumps you'd be the winning card by miles.

That girl thinks she's the queen of the neighbourhood. I've got news for you. She is! Bikini Kill


I love screenwriting.


I really love it.


It's like waking up on Christmas day and being hugged by kittens whilst eating chocolate and listening to Sunday Morning by The Velvet Underground. (N.b when it's going badly it's like waking up with a hangover, going to a funeral and having to eat a mayonnaise sandwich whilst listening to R Kelly - but I'm not at that point right now so let's just pretend it doesn't exist.)


I love screenwriting so much that I quit my MA in screenwriting because a talk by the producer of, well let's just say some really bad British films (don't ever look into his eyes, he'll eat your soul) who would have demanded the Pulp Fiction be linear, Citizen Cane have more tits in it or Blue to have a fight scene, made me realise that I couldn't continue to favour such a shitty industry that cheapened such a poetic art (not laziness, really, that's why I dropped out of the previous MA.)


Suffice to say that task 2 is going rather well so far. I've finished the first draft of the screenplay, it's probably a cross between Rocky, The Running Man and The Karate Kid, but with Mars Bars. Watch this space.


In the meantime, to celebrate all things that are lovely and great (can you tell I had a marvellous and creative weekend?!) here are a couple more inspirational music videos.





This is superb. Although, watching it now it makes me realise that I might have hideously ripped it off with my screenplay! I love the American sports genre - it's so easy to play with, it's such a simple format and it's so cheeseball emotive. This video captures it perfectly, Spike Jonze captures a great range of characters really simply. Although, that said, it did take seeing them five times to realise that I don't really like the Chemical Brothers! Oh well, got there in the end. I also agree with the comment on Youtube "I don't see why they used Sofia Coppola when it was clear that another woman did all the stunts." 


Okay one more:





Oldie but a goodie. One note - Pearl Jam, prompted by this song, wrote an impromptu number called "Bee girl" which they still drag out at live gigs. Great song although it does show that Eddie Vedder may be lacking a sense of irony (lyrics "bee girl, you're gonna die, you don't wanna be famous, you wanna be shy") - something which I'll have to iron out once we're married.


This is all.
xxxx

Pull yourself together woman....

I'm not a princess. I should have said.
If I was a princess I'd be pointless. Or dead.
Tommy Lassoo


I know I know, i'm quoting myself again. It is partly due to hideous mental blocks when trying to pick song lyrics to start blogs off, but it's also because the first two lines perfectly illustrate what I'm about to go on about.


Anyway, enough of that.
A few things have popped up in the news this week that have made me think a bit more about what my next task is going to be. My favourite Sun headline since World's fattest man lives in Ipswich (a fat man, a serial killer and Nick Kershaw, I'm so proud of my home town) turned up yesterday in the shape of "Paedo Bikinis" (If I die having never been in a band called Tommy Lassoo and the Paedo Bikinis then my life has been worth nothing! Nothing I say.)


I don't think that anyone is shocked that padded bras for children exist. They're but a step up from tiny heels and kiddy make-up, Barbie and Britney, but it's always good to be able to point out the bold faced hypocrisy of the shitty press. Page 1 - paedo bikinis - ban this filth. Page 3. Jo, 21 from Leicester, because of course it's okay once they hit eighteen for Sun reading bastards to oggle them. They're adults by then and would never have been led to this by a childhood of being raised to think that posing with your top off is somehow a worthy career.


Nice! Thanks for that handy dose of morality from The Sun. We'll all be sure not to touch any children now.


Next - Britney Spears has released un-airbrushed pictures of herself to show the contrast between the officially released and airbrushed versions. On a personal note I'd like to say go Britney go. I've never really been able to hate Britney Spears, not the way I hate Cheryl Cole anyway (pointless pointless racist shit) - maybe it's because she looks like my friend Bunny, or because her first single was written by the guy who wrote Poison (the Alice Cooper song). Or maybe because, like many child stars, she probably didn't know what she was letting herself in for. Tabloids are bastards and I choose Britney over Now Magazine any day.


Saying that - I'm sure that the PR hasn't done her any harm whatsoever. We've all seen the worst of every angle of that star and aside from her next show being Public Cervix Announcement I think we've pretty much seen every state of Britney, so what has she got to lose?


I am concerned, however, that once more this is spectacle dressed up as empowerment. More and more shitty women's magazines are offering photoshoots of celebrities without make-up, it's a thing that's going on at the moment, and rather than this being empowering I think that this is just another elitist rouse. Now the pressure is on women not only to look good in make up but to look good without as well, and of course, if they can't have make-up then they'll just have surgery. Air brushed or not airbrushed women are still being held up in picture form in front of society and judged as objects, without a single mention of people aspiring to do anything other than look a certain way. Britney's still posing provocatively in a barely there outfit with a vacant look. Yawn.


Which brings me to the third thing - I read this story on the Mail Online today. I know I know, but I had to go there for work.


Teenager who was bullied for being 'fat and ugly' has last laugh as she reaches final in modelling contest


Yes kids, the last laugh. Apparently the 16 year old in question won the final of Miss Real Curves. So there you have it. If people bully you for your weight then don't be anorexic - just enter a competition where old perves can oggle your curves instead of your ribs. Presumably she'd have been allowed to wear some sort of bikini though - to help her get her own back, you understand.


All clear?
Good.


Which allows me to segue nicely to my task for the month. And you'd thought I'd forgotten didn't you? Well I'm going to be sticking to the theme of female objectification for another month, just because I love ranting about it. I was inspired to the next task when attending my local Fitness First gym. I know it's weird for a self confessed lazy girl but I actually really like the gym. I love plugging myself into a machine and feeling better half an hour later. And I love the gym I go to - the people there are lovely, the instructors and the cleaners and the people on the desk. There's an amazing, safe and friendly atmosphere that is spoiled by one thing and one thing alone.


Have a look at this (WARNING - HIDEOUS SEXISM ALERT):





or this:





Or this....





There are about a million of these videos, loads of them are made by Ministry of Sound and all of them make me blood spittingly angry. I wouldn't listen to this shit excuse for music if I wasn't in a public place and I certainly wouldn't watch this exploitative cheap porn if it wasn't shoved in front of my face but it is. I'm angry that this is what passes for music videos but I'm more angry that I have to watch this when I'm in my local Fitness First. I have no means of escape. This is apparently acceptable within society. I feel like Mary Whitehouse saying this but these videos are really offensive. Mostly naked women prostrating themselves at the feet of fully clothed men. Women being nothing more than meat. It actually makes me feel sick to watch them - they're basically moving lads mags.


So - I'm going for the opposite.
I'm making my own music video. I'm summing up all of the skills that a BA(hons) in Drama and Screen studies from about ten years ago have given me and I'm making my own music video. It's going to rock, it's going to be empowering and lovely and a shit load better than any of the spew that Ministry of Sound shits out.


Who's with me?


I need a song, I need actors, I need to try and get a tax rebate from the inland revenue in a timely fashion so I can buy a video camera and not end up in debtors gaol (a very Dickensian ending) and I need ..... well, to stop typing and get thinking.


In the meantime I'm off to France for a weekend to play lots of lovely music, eat some cheese and come up with a story board.


I'll leave you with the opposite of Ministry of Sound - watch these, they will heal your soul.


love love love xxxxxxxx














p.s pictures of the clothing from last month's challenge are on their way - I've lined up a photographer (thanks Rox) we just need to find a day when we're both free! Watch this space xxxx


p.p.s thanks for the video suggestions on Facebook - anyone else can post other examples of good bad videos below. Go on - you know you want to.

It's supposed to be the opposite of hate!

Okay so my last post was pretty angry - and I'm supposed to be working to counteract the hatred that permeates the world. Blah blah bloody blah. 


Which is, of course the point, and, unfortunately, the name of this blog. 


Pesky blog. making me stick to my original point - that was clearly made when I was having an unfeasibly good day that people in London NEVER have. I must have been on drugs or suffering from a hormonal imbalance or been listening to The Lemonheads in a lovely meadow or something. 


Anyway - having horribly contradicted The Opposite of Hate by being mean about whatsername getting her boobs out for autism instead of doing something artistic and lovely to offset it (apart from a five minute fake photoshop jobbie of my head attached to a plus size model - who I'd contradicted the blog the week before by being mean about too but I'm going to ignore for now), which still makes me feel slightly unwell when I look at it)) - I'm going to make one final t-shirt in honour of Polly Tommney. 


I'm going to let you, the public - all nine of you, decide on what the t-shirt will say. I was thinking of posting it to her but I think that would just be mean and bullying and I really don't advocate that sort o' thing, no matter how grumpy I get. So whoever makes the best comment below can have it instead. 


The suggestions I have: 
1. Tit power. 
2. I showed my bra on billboards and all I got was this rubbish t-shirt
3. Keep staring bucko - I'm changing government policy. 


Please suggest more. Unless we go with number one we're going to need one hell of a massive t-shirt. 


In the continued spirit of contrition to you, my adoring public (of nine people) I'm going to double make up for my anger this week. I've managed to cure another public piece of hate that's been in the news this week. 


You might have read about Frankie Boyle - the comedian, who was Tweeted about somewhat unfavourably having decided that making stupid and bullying jokes perpetuating the sort of stereotypes about people with Down Syndrome that are discounted by anyone with a brain or an ounce of soul, compassion or love as soon as they leave the playground, to an audience that included the mother of a child with Down Syndrome. What a twat - you might be thinking. 
Well think again dear people - I've spoken to Frankie Boyle and managed to secure a public apology for his behaviour. Take it away Frankie: 

Hi. I'm the comedian Frankie Boyle. You might know me from the BBC show Mock the Week. 


Yes, that's the one, the one with the macho posturing. 
What do you mean you don't watch it? 

What not even when Rory Bremner's on it and they try to shoe horn in some of his amazing impressions? Hey Rory - do your Michael Caine. 


Fabulous. 

Anyway, I've said some twatty things in my time, like the time I said that accomplished athlete had a face like a spoon. I can't help it though. I'm just not funny like Bill Hicks - and he had Debbie Gibson and George Bush to be mean about. 


But I've gone too far this time. I'm sorry. 
It's because everyone hated me at school.

And I have a tiny penis. 


So there we go kids. The opposite of hate. 
See you on Thursday for the announcement of my next task. 
Woo xxxxxx 

Look at my tits - sorry blog...

"You don't own me. I'm not just one of your many toys"
Lesley Gore 


Dear readers, I have seen the light. I have been shown the way. Yes all this time I've been under the mistaken belief that campaigning should be issue led. How could I have been so naive?

Okay, let me explain what I'm talking about.


This week, some media attention has been focussed on a woman called Polly Tommney, head of a campaigning organisation called The Autism Trust. It seems that the only Ms Tommney, the mother of a child with autism, who she didn't feel was receiving enough government attention, thought to get through to the main political leaders was to take her top off and create a billboard - in the style of the "Hello Boys" wonderbra advert.


According to The Guardian:


"The poster was, she says, simply a ruse to force people not to avert their eyes from the subject of autism, and its success is evident, she argues, in the instant reaction from the politicians she was targeting"


So there you have it kids. The way to promote your cause is to show your tits. Want a new gym for your school? - show your tits. Want to end child poverty? Show your minge. Want to eradicate the slave trade? well you're just going to have to go to David Cameron's house and wave your entire arse in his buttery little face.

I'm glad we've got that cleared up. All that time spent by charities and campaigners trying to explain their causes to people, all those Barnardos ads showing the pain of child cruelty - when all they really needed to do was get Martin Neary, their Chief Exec, oiled up on a podium at the third sector conference, shaking his filthy thang. (Sorry if anyone from Barnardos ends up reading this and feeling like I've just raped their mind. I couldn't think of any other chief execs.)

Now before you pull the "but she's doing it for a good cause" card, let me state that I, by no means, am objecting to a woman fighting for a cause she believes in. Everyone has a right to do that. No one wants to put shit about real real life on telly - the daily Mail isn't going to publish actual facts - and people read the sun for tits, which is why I can understand the thought process behind this shitty poster. Polly Tommney got a reaction instantly, this is a triumph for her.

However, taking your fucking top off to promote your charity is a low low tactic. Autism and a picture of a woman in her bra are not linked.  A woman in her bra is a way of getting her stupid poster into the gutter press. It's a cheap and shitty tactic that plays upon and adds to the commodification of women in our society and I don't think that the ends justify the means in this case.


You know what this ad says to me? It's saying that if all fails, as a woman, you could always just take your top off. You can try talking, you can try shouting, but if they still ignore you, at least you have your body. You'll always have tits and people will want to look at those. Except of course for the women who don't fit that mould, who, unlike Tommney, never worked as a body double, whose campaigns will have to continue to be ignored. Unless, of course, they could just hire another skinny white woman to take their top off - and Bob's your uncle.


I've grown used to the commodification of people's bodies in advertising. That's why I started this blog, part of the reason anyway. I'm sick of looking at smiling women enticing people to buy shit, it's an easy shorthand if you're an advertising schmuck. But I'd like to think that a campaigning organisation would be better than this.


Was I wrong?

Anyway, as a result I've made a new poster advertising my blog. Inspired by Polly Tommney - I hope you love it as much as I did in the five minutes I spent making it in a cheaper, impossible to use, version of photoshop....

This time tomorrow I'll be a millionaire. xxxxx

A few things left....

Ah dear friends we're coming to the end of this task. I can see it, looming before me, the end is nigh. I can't say I'm completely saddened to not be about to do some sewing for a little while - I've definitely reached the decision that less is more when it comes to making garments. 


For one thing, tonight I managed to stick a sewing needle into my tongue. Yes I know I have a piercing there, but anyone who doesn't know the story about how I finally got over my astounding fear of needles to go and get it done can just damn well not find out and keep pretending that there's a chance I might be cool. Everyone else - you can giggle in recognition now. Bah. 


I've also spent the last two weeks living in an odd Lassoo shaped augmented reality in which I can't stop eyeing up other people's clothes. I keep catching myself seeing skirts that would make wicked hats, and tops I want to make into bags. I can't stop myself - I've turned into some sort of DIY sewing pervert. I keep half expecting myself to wake up one fearful night to find that I've pulled some sort of Ed Gein in my sleep, but instead of human flesh I've attacked one of the teens that look like extras in Skins from near my house and made their jeggins into a useful pen holder which I'm flaunting around the neighbourhood. 


Nonetheless, I have still been a productive young thing (okay stretching it with the young bit.) Here at last is the first picture of "I ate Kate Moss" in all its finery (courtesy of Jules, the fiercest woman I know - and I'm a big scary feminist). (That was a compliment Jules) (Please don't hit me!). 

Please ignore the gurning - I had drunk a bottle of wine before this picture was taken. 


Disclaimer - no Kate Mosses were hurt in the making of this t-shirt. Although I stabbed my finger a number of times and also swore loudly - probably in front of children. 


I've also finished three hats - one of which will be flying its way to the lovely Alex Townley as she did point out her overwhelming loyalty to the blog. The other two will be gifted according to who can prove their love most. Non sexually. With diamonds? ? ? 


Today I'm making a t-shirt that says: Angry, Hungry Monkey of Death. I want to give it to the most angelic looking woman I can find. Then it's bags ahoy. 


Before I leave you all with the knowledge of a job well done I'd like to make one more point. Let's take a little sojourn away from sewing for a moment if we may. .... I saw this poster at a bus stop on the way home tonight: 

Now I don't want to come across as someone's curmudgeonly aunt (which I am by the way). I have no problem whatsoever with dull people watching films that feature people who look like dollies and have two surnames for names (if you've ever played the celebrity name game by the way - you know, the one where you have to link loads of names, i.e. Daniel Craig Charles etc etc, then Channing Tatum is a fantastic addition to the star system. Finally we can link Stockard Channing and Tatum O'Neill - now the game will continue forever!)   HOWEVER - doesn't this poster show a terrifying difference in proportions between the two actors? She looks like a sock puppet he made in class and called his girlfriend because he had no friends because he had two surnames for names. 

Is there a reason for this? 

Am I a stature nazi? 

I hope not. 

xxxxxxxxx 

and another thing.....

But I can count the ribs through your t-shirt,

You spend your life doing sit-ups, that must hurt, 

You don't drink or smoke or hang around in bars, 

I know it's easy to be smug, 

But I can find me a stranger to hug, 

And here on the shelf it's closer to the stars. 

Tommy Lassoo 

Something really pissed me off yesterday. I knew I shouldn't have read the article when I saw the headline, but my felt compelled, strangely drawn to the content that lay below.I knew it was a mistake as I read it and  every line down the bile bubbled more and more inside me, yet I kept reading. No friends, this wasn't like the time I accidentally glanced at the letters page in the Daily Express. This was an article from The Observer from a few months ago. The headline was: 

Elle magazine breaks fashion's last taboo: plus-size models on the cover

Oh where to start?

For one thing, fashion's last taboo - I very much think not. 

Let's have a little look at the cover shall we? 

Oh wow. Let's take a moment to celebrate how far we've come. Whoopy whoopy do. We've steamed through fashions last taboo. We've made it mum. Let's close feminism down, we clearly don't need it any more. Look above kids, there's a bunch of vacuous women with dead eyes showing their slightly larger than normal stomachs on the front cover of Elle magazine. 

You mean I didn't need to go to university? I didn't need to read all those pesky books and have all those pesky discussions with those pesky people? Bah. I could have just done a dead eyed stare and stand there in my bra in the name of fashion like all those skinny girls before me. 

Last taboo? Fashion's last taboo? What was the first taboo? Oh I know, having to show more than just skinny white people - so they signed up a few skinny black and asian people. And now, what? twenty years on we're at the last taboo? What about disability? What about reality? What about showing people who aren't dead eyed morons? 

I don't respect fashion. Okay so that might be stating the obvious but I will happily campaign against a system where, to my view, any artistic credibility is completely overruled by the wrongness it perpetuates and it's overwhelming presence in society which promotes sweatshop labour; eating disorders and a string of Primark clones with no sense of who they really are. But you know what really pisses me off? well, let's have a look at exhibit b: 

"Fat mummies sit there in front of the television with their chip 

packets and say skinny models are ugly," Lagerfeld told Focus

 magazine. He said fashion was about "dreams and illusions", 

not reality

Karl Lagerfeld - if you're reading this, which of course you are,

 I want to fight you. I want to eat a grab bag of salt and vinegar

 Walkers and then I'm going to sit on your skinny, orange body and then I'm going to eat you. I'm going to wolf you down like beef jerky and you will taste like creosote and shit. Fine Lagerfeld, perpetuate your dreams and illusions, just don't do it everywhere I fucking look, on every billboard and television show and classroom in the country. Don't make it so I can't pick up a magazine or newspaper without your dreams poking me in the eye. I have dreams too - I dream that a giant lizard is going to rip your leathery skin off and feast upon your screaming bloody body, thing is I don't control all the billboards on Holloway road so I can't shove images of it wherever anyone happens to look. 

I don't hate style - style is an important and wonderful thing. To be able to express yourself through your clothes is a freedom that people only seem to be able to dabble in these days and I think that it's a damn shame. I do hate the fashion industry and the article I read yesterday just hammered home to me exactly why I'm doing what I'm doing. 

I'm not going to change the world. I'm not going to change a thing except for releasing a few horrible clothes items from the hell that they were originally designed for. But at least I'm doing something to counter the all permeating shit that rises from that world. At least I'm doing something. 

Wow I'm off to eat some fig rolls and calm down. xxxx