Sunday, 12 February 2017

Please, tell me how many people you’ve slept with so I can make incorrect assumptions about your values.

People (aka me) say that we live in a time where we we have more sexual freedom; but, as long as we’re still judging each other on the basis of how many sexual encounters we’ve had, we’re no better than those utter imbeciles who shunned women for being pregnant out of wedlock.

It might seem like I’m exaggerating for ‘dramatic’ effect (and I am), yet the sentiment of what I’m saying is completely accurate(ish).

If I wanted to, and I don’t, I could spend a few minutes trying to calculate all of my sexual encounters, and I could probably give you a pretty accurate figure. Although there’s likely to be the odd one or two I’ve forgotten about. And there are definitely some names I’ve forgotten. Yes, that might say something about my character (#narcissist), but ultimately, I think forgetting someone’s name says a lot about what that relationship meant to be eight years ago, and what it means to be today.

And that’s the point, isn’t it? Who I slept with nearly ten years ago doesn’t reflect who I am now. Yes, I might have learnt a lesson from ‘Roller Coaster Guy’ (lesson being that if you shag a stranger, who you literally met on the streets, all you’re likely to end up with is motion sickness and an unexpected trip to the clinic, again). But I never think about him (until now, obvs). Nor do I wish it hadn’t happened. It means nothing to me. And 9.7 seconds, at best, of poor decision making shouldn't impact your opinion of me. 

Ideally, I would have loved the disney romance, where you find ‘the one’ at the sweet, and rather convenient, age of 16. But that’s not how my life worked out. In fact, since I started making sweet sweet love (and hate), I’ve spent more time alone than I have with a partner. So yes, my ‘number’ is likely to be a lot higher than someone who is incapable of being single. And that’s more than okay.

It’s more than okay because I like sex. Actually, when it’s great, I love sex. So why should I stop myself from enjoying one of life’s greatest pleasures? Because some blinkered areshole might find out that I’m into double digits and call me a whore? I don’t think so.

Let’s look at the facts (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before, but I have an A Level in maths #kindofabigdeal #makingALevelsrelevantforonce).

Say you were single for a year. Say you were still desperate for a romantic companion, but you also believed in the backwards ‘you can only have sex after a month of knowing each other’ rule. And say that, after sex, you realised you hated that person’s entire being and immediately sacked them off, you could potentially have sex with 12 different men or women (or both) during that year.

So let’s say you lose your virginity at the ‘respectable’ age of 16, but the ‘love of your life’ ends up dumping you (suspicious timing, but it always happens). Since then, let’s say you’re 25 now, you’ve been unable to hold down a relationship that lasts longer than a month. If that was the case, you could still stick to your backwards ‘you can only have sex after a month of knowing each other’ rule, and still manage to successfully sleep with 108 different people.

Yes, that’s right. Even if you’re not a ‘whore with loose legs and looser morals’, you can still get yourself into triple figures quite easily.

(When I say easily, I’m assuming you’re a master of tindering and capable of charming every single person you date.)

Does it mean you’re a terrible person? Of course it fucking doesn’t.

Even if you’ve slept with over a thousand people. Even if you slept with more people than Russell Brand did back in his fun(ny) days. As long as everyone was of legal age, as long as it was consensual (insert apparently slanderous, yet 100% accurate, ‘joke’ about Trump here), and as long as you wrap it up before you slap it up, it doesn’t matter how many people you shag.

Fair enough, some people might use sex as a coping mechanism, and those people might need help. But there are plenty of people who want the joy of sex, without having to go for brunch or hold hands in public, and that’s totally their prerogative.

At the end of the day, I would much rather be surrounded by ‘whores with loose legs and looser morals’ than judgemental pricks who are incapable of seeing beyond their limiting opinions.

On the other hand, I completely respect people who have made the decision to a live a life of abstinence, unless they’re married. I might not understand it, but as long as they have made that choice out of personal preference, rather than judgement, I will always be in awe of their self-control.  
Ultimately, whether you’re having it or not, sex should always be your choice. And, as long as you’re happy, it doesn’t matter if you’ve only ever slept with one person, or if you woke up this morning to a naked stranger, who you’ve subsequently, and rather dubiously, nicknamed ‘Beefy’.

Basically, the moral of this rant is: fuck anyone who makes you feel ashamed of your sexual history. You do you, and anyone else you fancy.

Saturday, 31 December 2016

Hasta la vista, 2016.

If I'm being 102.3% accurate, 2016 was the worst, and best, year of my fairly short, yet utterly ridiculous life (yes, even worse than that time I lived in a shed). Finally, even though I might be 16 years too late, I can sing along to Ronan Keating's 'Life is a Rollercoaster' with genuine feeling.

It's why, unlike 2015, I won't be reviewing the various 'feedback' I've been given throughout the year. You might think I'm being a tad over-dramatic, and you're probably correct, but think about the moment when you're in 'da club', making out with a 'hot chick'; until suddenly, the lights go on and you immediately realise, to your boner-crippling dismay, that the 'hot chick' is a definite product of incest. Well, a work colleague (at best), dubbed that moment a 'Fell' moment (my surname is Fell, and that product of incest is me, apparently). 

Anyway, this 'classic banter' isn't even the tip of last year's ego-stabbing knife, so that's why I won't be sharing any more of 2016's 'feedback' with you. 

However, despite being emotionally crushed again, and again, and again, I learnt a lot throughout last year, and I thought I'd share my lessons* with you.

*I thought 'lessons' would be a much more pleasant way of saying 'devastating reality checks'. 

Lesson 1: If a pond is there in the daylight, it’ll still be there in the dark. 

Yes, I did fall in a pond.

I'd spent the day in my friend's garden, delighting in all things cheese and rum-based, and in this haze of delight, I'd forgotten all of my friend's eloquent 'mind the fucking pond' warnings. When I was saying my goodbyes, which I always drag out because of my desperate need for attention, I walked straight into the pond. 

The embarrassment of this 'impossible to style out' situation was heightened by the fact that I was wearing flares (again, because I'm desperate for attention). For those of you that have somehow managed to live your entire life without getting your jeans wet, water spreads up denim quicker than chlamydia spreads during freshers' week (which is extremely quickly). And with flares, there's a lot of denim. 

This fatal flare-water combo meant that I had to walk through an entire* suburb of Manchester, on my own, with jeans that were carrying more water than Shamu got to swim in (RIP Shamu). It was like I'd confused the band name 'Wet Wet Wet' for a life motto. 

*By entire, I mean approximately 3.45 streets. 

Lesson 2: People pleasing should be the eighth deadliest sin.

Even if you spend your life doing stuff you hate in a desperate bid to make other people happy, those same people are probably still going to sit there and slag you off when you're not around; apparently, bitching is much more socially acceptable than an uncomfortable silence. It's why you might as well be as ridiculous as legally* possible. 

In the immortal words of Taylor Swift, haters gonna hate. 

*I'm only saying ‘legally’ in case my father ever reads this**
**This is a joke***
***This is definitely not a joke. Or is it?

Lesson 3: Your body is the greatest weapon you have.

Other people might say an education is the greatest weapon, or some (here's looking at you, Rodrigo Duterte) might say the greatest weapon anyone can have is the ability to encourage vigilante murder. But I disagree (yes, I have a vagina and an opinion – it happens, sometimes). 

In the beginning of last year, I was the victim of many terror-inducing attacks. My EX-housemate would spend a lot of her spare time successfully scaring me. There was nowhere I could hide, not even the toilet was a safe space. 


Don't get me wrong, I did seek revenge by hiding the remains of a lobster I'd eaten amongst her pillows (#lad), but even that wasn't enough to quash her penchant for scaring me. The only real benefit that came from carting a dead lobster’s shell from London to Manchester was that her room maintained a distinct fishy smell for a fair while, but that could’ve been her general scent. 

Anyway, after a 'discussion' with a friend, I decided to get my own back by terrifying my EX-housemate with my naked body. 


Unsurprisingly, it was a great success: she never terrified me again. Plus, I now live somewhere else for my own safety, and hers. 

Lesson 4: Hang out with people who live without judgement.

This is especially important to me because a) I'm ridiculous, and b) when I was a child, I was forced to march to God's drum every single Sunday morning, so I'll always suffer from Catholic Guilt. 

What's the big deal with Catholic Guilt? Well, whenever I somehow manage to convince myself that I'm actually an okay(ish) human being, Catholic Guilt will rear its ugly arse, and shit over any self-belief I may have.  

Luckily, I've managed to make friends that love me, despite my incessant stupidity. And even when I'm hella upset (because I've done something stupid, again) and it's gone 1am, my friends will still tell me to come to their place of work (a bar, not a brothel)*. And even though they'll have a literal job to do, they'll still try and mend my broken ego, and they'll even let me listen to as much Hall & Oates as I like (which is a lot). And even when they finally tell me off, which they always do, they'll do it with affection. And then, finally, they'll make me go home, and I love them for it.

*I've only had to do this once, or twice, or three times. I think. Maybe more, maybe less. The year is quite blurry. 

Lesson 5: Partake more in 'La Passeggiata'. 

That's Italian for 'evening stroll', I think. 

If I'm being honest, I don't actually have an anecdote about this; I just wanted to show off my (limited) knowledge of Italian. 

Lesson 6: Candles don't taste as good as they smell.

Long story short: I spent a good twenty minutes of my birthday flossing blue wax out of my teeth after my 'friends' offered me £15 to eat my own birthday candle. It was a definite low point for me, so I'm not really sure as to why I'm sharing it with the internet (mainly because no one really reads this). 

I've also just remembered that my 'friends' still owe me that £15...pricks. 

Lesson 7: Monogamy isn't dead, but it's really fucking rare.

My moral compass might be slightly warped, but even I know that if someone can only snog you in the shadows of a department store, then something's wrong.

This year, I’ve been exposed to more cheating than an episode of EastEnders. And, even if you’re trying to convince yourself (to soothe your Catholic Guilt) that it’s not a big deal, it is. It’s a really fucking big deal. And, if we're being brutally honest, you need to make like Michael Jackson, and moonwalk out of that situation. 


Lesson 8: Bras support torture, not your tits.

No, this isn't a 'burn your bra', neo-feminist statement (and if it was, that'd be cool too): I mean this literally. Last month, I stopped wearing 'proper' bras, and it was the best decision I've ever made (by best, I mean 'only good'). 

Seriously, I haven't felt this liberated since my friends and I ran through Cheltenham* naked. And honestly, who cares if now whenever I move, anyone in the surrounding area is at risk of being hit by my 'bags of sand' - that, my friend, is real freedom. That, my friend, is the real American Dream (and I should know – I’ve been to America more than once). 

*This is a slight exaggeration - we might've only ran to the end of my road, which was a quiet, residential cul-de-sac. In fact, we didn't even make it to the end of the road. When the fresh-air sniper came and shot us with a sober bullet, we panicked, ran home, and put all of our clothes back on, immediately.

Lesson 10: Not everyone likes Cyndi Lauper. 

This has taken me some time to get over (like a mouse trying to mount an elephant, if you will), but it's a harsh truth that I've learnt to accept. No matter how many times you force someone (my housemate) to listen to Cyndi's pop genius, some people (my housemate) are incapable of accepting that girls just wanna have fun. 

Lesson 11: Money will be alright in the end.

Yes, this is mainly a lie I tell myself as I apply for a(nother) credit card, but I genuinely believe it's true (as long as you're willing to put the extra graft in / you have a rich, long-lost relative that dies unexpectedly and leaves all of his/her inheritance to you, for some inexplicable reason). 

Lesson 12: Don't send your parents dark, nihilistic 'jokes'.

Seriously, don't do it. Your parents won't understand your 'jokes' and they will immediately set up a not-so-subtle suicide watch on your behalf, which is terrible when you're not actually suicidal. 

Lesson 13: Think before you 'all-staff'.

Sending an all-staff email, which begins with ‘ONLY FUCK COLD FOOD’ (yes, it was in capitals) isn't the best way to secure a job you're definitely lucky to have. But it does mean you're more than likely to get the best award at the Christmas party. 

Yep, I'm my work's 'HR Ticking Time Bomb', and I couldn't be prouder. 

Lesson 14: Love is cool. 

I grew up resenting the idea of love because I've seen how bitter it can make people, and how it has a terrible habit of ruining people's lives, but I've realised to be a true hedonist (which I obviously am), pleasure is the goal. And love is the biggest pleasure, even if it ruins your life.

Don't get me wrong, I will never EVER post anything on social media along the lines of 'bae did good', unless I'm being MASSIVELY ironic. But, I would much rather have a life of failed loves than a loveless life. #realtalk 

Lesson 15: I'm bored of lessons.

Here's to putting all of the terrible shit* that happened in 2016 behind me (#bebetternotbitter), and here's to a much better 2017.

*I'm mainly referring to the time I accidentally dyed my hair black, and I was forced to spend most of my summer looking like a terrible Ozzy Osbourne tribute act. 


(But not you, guy who took a literal shit outside of my front door - you can have an average new year, at best.)

Sunday, 30 October 2016

Trick or treat?

No, I'm not talking about my vagina. I'm talking about Halloween costumes. 

It's probably pretty obvious, but I'm quite the basic bitch when autumn comes knocking. I love it when the leaves start to fall. I love pumpkin spiced lattes. And I fucking love Halloween. 

On the flip side, I hate dressing up. No matter what I do (and I've done it all), I always get it wrong. Painfully wrong. 

I know none of you have asked, and I really doubt you care, but here's a list of all the times I've screwed up my favourite time of year. From repulsive flashing to accidental racism, I've made all of the poor costume choices. 

The Traditional One

These are the outfits you've seen a thousand times. It's the witches, the cats, the zombies, and the werewolves. They're the safe haven for all the Tame Tammies and Predictable Pams. But we're all guilty of it.

When I dressed as a cat, I spent a great chunk of my evening crawling around the floor of Grimsby's smoking areas. Fortunately, and surprisingly, I managed not to catch hand herpes, but I did look like I was ready to please any male who walked past me. Not the strongest of looks, but not the worst. 

Somehow, my look declined even further when I decided it'd be a great idea to make out with some guy dressed as The Hulk. Halloween lesson #1: when you're dressed as a cat, and half your face is covered in green paint, every single person knows who you've been violating. Not subtle. Not subtle at all. 

The Slutty One

If you've got a vagina and minimal self-respect, you'll definitely have maximised the 'Halloween is the one day a year when a girl can dress up like a total slut and no other girls can say anything else about it' rule. Personally, I think a girl can dress how she wants, whatever time of year it is. I mean, as long as she's dressing in minimal clothing for herself, and not for some vile stranger who's only after another notch on their disease-riddled bedpost.

Anyway, when I was a fresher, I decided it'd be a bloody brilliant idea (see what I did there) to dress up a zombie nurse. I'd just undertaken the 'my boyfriend and I have just broken up' diet, so I thought I should maximise the fact that I was at least a bagger. (For those of you that don't know (hey Grandad), a bagger is someone who has a good body, but their face is below par: the highest of compliments.) 

This was not a bloody brilliant idea. It was fucking terrible. My dress had a zip that went from cleave to clit, which is extremely dangerous for me. For those of you that haven't seen me in the comfort of my own friends, and several vodkas in, I will just take off all of my clothes. Worryingly, my friends have seen more of my body than any of my unfortunate sexual victims. I'm the stripper no one ever wants, or needs. 

As you can guess, I spent most of this Halloween naked. Thankfully, I was in my own house, so I wasn't forcibly removed from anywhere, but I think people did try and confine me to one room. After a lot of visual violation, I got bored, and put on my Newcastle United shirt (I went through a weird football phase), and started thrusting that at everyone. Eventually, after some physical violation, I passed out. Thank God. 

Before passing out, I'd smeared fake blood all over my hands and jumped on my bed like a child off of any Christmas film. This was also a terrible idea: my ceiling looked like it could've doubled up as Carrie's shower basin. Memories of my questionable behaviour may fade, but fake blood doesn't. RIP First Year Deposit.

The Offensive One

In my defence, this was completely unintentional. Originally, I had gone out as a skeleton. To achieve this look, I decorated my face in all of the black eye shadow. 

For anyone who knows me well, knows that I hate wearing a lot of make up because I rub my face ALL THE TIME. Also, when I'm genuinely in the fun zone, I dance extremely aggressively, which means I get disco sweaty very quickly. This does not bode well for make-up. 

You might already know where this is going. 

A few hours into the night, I'd managed to smear my make-up all over my face. Unfortunately, I was also wearing completely normal clothes. So yes, it did look like I'd gone out as a massive racist. Something I didn't realise, because I dislike spending 93.2% of my night in the bathroom, until a stranger confronted me about my choice of costume. Unsurprisingly, my night didn't last much longer. In hindsight, I definitely could've just washed all my make up off. That would've been a much more logical, and significantly less offensive option. 

By the way, like many of my stories, I'm not proud of this. Especially as, in my very first week of living in Manchester, I shared this story with an American woman I'd just met (it was kind of relevant to something, I think / hope), and it turned out to be a painfully awkward icebreaker, obviously. The woman's immediate, and rather candid response was 'I think I'd find this funny if I knew you, but I don't, and I don't think it's something you should be telling me.' 

I'm pretty sure her name was Frostella Twatface or Rudella Knobjocky: something pretty warm and welcoming.

The Cult One

I'm not cool enough for this one: my hair is its natural colour, and for a good while I thought Pulp Fiction was the edgiest film. We all make mistakes, right?

The Team One

Last year, the Rugby World Cup was around the same time as Halloween, and my friend thought it'd be a great idea if we all went as dead, English rugby players. It was a good idea. Kind of.  

Although it wasn't so good when we decided to role-play rugby stuff for strong(ish) photos. There was this one thing we did where these guys lifted me up 'cas men who play rugby like to be lifted (I can only assume they all train to S Club's 'Reach'). Anyway, our uber-artsy photoshoot ended rather uncomfortably for me because one of the females didn't like the way her boyfriend was touching my thigh. 

I don't mean to sound like a bitch, again, but she really needed to chill the fuck out. If I wanted to shag her boyfriend, neither of them would've had a say in the matter. (Yeah, this is a rape joke, and a terrible one at that. And yeah, I know it's not alright for guys to make rape jokes. No, I'm not sorry: I'm only bothered about equality when it comes to pay, and being able to tell dick jokes.)

It also wasn't such a strong costume when I ended up on my own in some terrible club, where no one else was in fancy dress. Instead of looking like a dead rugby player, I looked like I was wearing a school PE kit that I'd simply smeared in blood. Basically, it looked like I was proudly celebrating the murder of a school child. Even for me, that's going way too far.

Turns out there really is safety in numbers. 

The Effortless One

This is either for the people who despise dressing up, or think it's lame and predictable, or for the people that, even though shops make Halloween as subtle as a nuclear explosion, forget it's happening. 

I've only been that person once (again, 'cas I'm a basic bitch who loves all this autumnal shit). 

Back when we were in college, my friend and I forgot it was Halloween, so we panic-picked and went as Bin Bag Monsters. It might not have been the most creative thing, but it was cost effective. 

As well as being cheaper than a withered whore, our effortless outfits also proved to be quite useful when we were both vomming all over ourselves, and each other. 

At that time of my life, I thought I was undateable because I was quite chubby, and there was a reason my MySpace name has been Mullet Man. On reflection, it was probably because I spent most Friday nights being sick in a field in Highworth (a depressing town where almost everyone has some sort of substance abuse to try and make their lives a little more interesting). 

The fact that I spent a huge chunk of my time with my face in wet, cold mud is the reason why I know all those preachers are lying when they tell me God loves me. No one could love that kind of horror show. 

The Culturally Relevant One

Given I'm one of the eldest in my family, it seems rather unfair that I was gifted with the dregs of the gene pool. Despite being a 3am kind of girl, my features have at least blessed me with a lot of conversation starters and self-deprecating jokes.  

I'm not fishing for compliments here; I'm just being a realist. Liars tell me I at least look like a female. Honest people are quite happy to tell me how I look Michael McIntyre, Ozzy Osbourne, and the late, but great, Pete Burns. Seriously, I'm being honest: Burnsy is even my lookalike at work.  

So, even though his extremely recent death might have been terrible news, it did make this year's costume choice obvious. Yes, you've guess it: I dressed up as Pete Burns. I know his body isn't even cold yet, but it did get me all of the social media likes (by all, I mean more than one). 

Writing 'dead or alive' on a badge, and crossing out 'alive', probably wasn't the most sensitive way of handling the costume. I probably should be concerned that I thought it was okay to use such a raw, recent death to my advantage. If I'm honest, what I'm really concerned about it the fact I genuinely looked more attractive as a dead transvestite.*

So there you have it: somehow, every single year, I manage to make a social faux pas. I've kind of already run out of ways of making a dick out of myself, and I'm only 25. I have no idea what I'll do next year. Looks like the only option left is for me to dress up as Hitler. If it's good enough for Prince Harry, it's good enough for me; I am a Princess of Grimsby after all. 

Guess it's a good job I've got an entire year to perfect my goose-step. If I'm going to be an offensive, inappropriate douche, I might as well do it properly. 

*Saying 'oh, but he spent loads of money trying to look like' does not make it any better.