Thursday, 16 June 2011

And another thing......

Yes I haven't blogged in ages. Let's call it a mental block. Or possibly an explosion of having too many damn ideas and dismissing any kind of exercise in cutting them down to one, followable idea as self help bollocks.

I've made a decision dear friends. I am going to focus on one thing and one thing alone. I'm going to write it in little bits, live, right here on this blog. Will it - I hear you cry, allow me to stop faffing around and finally reach my goal of taking over the world, making it a better place, for you and for me and the entire human race? Well probably not, as I'm also planning a wedding and trying to learn the saxophone, but hey, a girl can dream.

I'm also responding to both Phil and Alex T who asked when I was going to blog again. (Sob) I love you guys.

So I'm going to go away and plan something - in the meantime, I feel a little rant coming on. Here we go:

1. The Royal Wedding 
Woopy doo. Some rich, inbred idiots got married. They spent a lot of money. But that's okay because she's SOOOOO down to earth. In fact she's SOOOO fucking down to earth that her parents are millionaires and she went to St Andrews University - where all the down to earth people go. It's like Suffolk College isn't it, you can do a GNVQ in Leisure and Tourism, you can leave there and go on the dole like the other graduates.

But it's okay because it's EVERY girl's dream. Seriously ladies - it's sooooo true. All we've ever wanted to do was marry a prince. I know it's all I've ever wanted to do. Every evening, lying in bed after my dad had sang me "I'm the man the very fat man who waters the workers beer" I would dream about Prince Phillip being related to me. I would dream about being pursued by the Daily Express and for every day to be judged entirely by what I was wearing as I visited a middle school in Hertfordshire to politely nod at a pile of strangers. I would dream about my status in life being dictated by who I was married to, not what I had learned or who I was. Yes world - ALL WOMEN WANT TO DO IS BECOME PRINCESSES. They do get given a flying horse when they become them don't they?

Not to mention the fact that we've now got a very neat distraction from the government fucking over the most vulnerable members of our society. Forget the cuts kids - look at the shiny inbreds.

2. Pippa Middleton's arse 
Why  is it necessary to live in a society where the Rear of the Year exists? Why? WHY????? I want one actual justification for this blatant objectification, patronising sleaze fest set up for Daily Telegraph readers to rub their fat little knees and watch the sweat drip from their shiny tory heads onto their grubby evening wear in the private members clubs. Otherwise the puppy is going to get it.

3. Talk Sport
As much as I love my future husband, his incessant listening to of TalkSport is making me develop an ulcer. Why is it okay for a national media outlet to hate women quite so openly? Not only were they gleefully there to immediately offer jobs to Andy Gray and Richard Keys after their celebration of the language of rapists, but they give all kinds of time to a lovely wife beater in the name of punditry (Collimore anyone?)
Yesterday their discussion of women's issued centred around the blaming of feminism for men not being able to be chivalrous anymore. Now call me easily distracted - but my feminist views tend to focus more on the low rate of rape convictions, the horrible pay gap, body image, rape culture and workplace discrimination - so there isn't much room for me to get angry about people opening doors for me. I quite like people opening doors for me, and in return I open doors for them as well. Unless they work for Talk Sport, in which case I would open the door and then let it slam right into their smug, shitty little faces.

I feel better now.


  1. Yay! Bloggage! And I'm partially responsible!

    But I feel obliged to point out that Carol Vorderman won rear of the year (I refuse to capitalise it), not Pippa Middleton. Please don't ask how I know this, but I do.

  2. Ha ha, creepy knee rubby Phil Evans!

  3. I was on the judging panel