British Comedy

Goodbye Europe. I always loved being inside you.

Since Thursday’s vote I’ve been a whirlwind of emotions.

Mainly disbelief and embarrassment.

I didn’t vote for Cameron and can’t say I’m sorry to see him go. But I was able to put my personal feelings aside to vote for something I believed in. A unified Europe.

Unlike some voters, who decided the thinking part was optional and eenie meenie minie moed our way out of a Union I was proud to be a part of.

Democracy has never looked like more of a farce. Especially when you listen to the motivation behind some of those Brexit votes.

 

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Oh Sunny, how do you not understand how a vote works?

 

Now as someone who knows a few Brexit voters, I can say not everyone is a xenophobe, ignorant about the EU, or the voting process.

Some were the children of immigrants and even so wanted to vote out. Not because they hate foreigners, not because they thought their eggs would be better from British chickens, and not because they expected mass deportations.

Some did it because they saw no future in the EU and genuinely believed the move could be better for the country. And they had their right to exercise that belief through their vote.

Whether you like it or not, that’s what democracy entails.

However the reasons below are a pretty compelling argument for an IQ test before you get a vote:

  • You didn’t think your vote would count.
  • You got gypped out of five euros last time you went to Disneyland Paris.
  • You hate watching the Euro Championship.
  • We never fucking get any points in Eurovision.
  • You magically want to see the country restored to all white pre- war Britain before you kick the bucket.
  • You think we are now going to become like Alcatraz and no one will be able to get in or out.
  • You believe thousands of immigrants and migrant workers will be frog marched out of the country and you will be given a pile of cash.

The backlash of videos, memes, tweets and updates have been hilarious. If you don’t laugh you’re bound to cry. More so when some of the dumbest points being made are given so earnestly. Full of confidence. Completely devoid of any doubts.

As one smiling lass put it:

“Britain’s on the map now!”

Yes, my moronic compatriot. That’s what mattered. Visibility.

There has to be a sitcom in all of this.

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Biological Duty

Having a womb isn’t a good enough reason to have kids

I once dated a guy who informed me it was my biological duty to have children.

Yes. He said that.

Think of my uterus, if you would, as a bread maker that came with my ‘kitchen’.

The kitchen is great, but wouldn’t it be more of a kitchen if there was a rising heap of dough in that breadmaker? Wouldn’t that bread make me happier in the long run?

I mean you can’t have a breadmaker and not use it.

How am I still meeting people in this century who have this take on females and procreation?

I was never someone whose womb wrenched when she held a child, nor have I longed to feel life grow inside me. I’ve always been happy to hand a baby back, and get a burrito.

I’ve had the occasional flash panic, and stood in front of the freezer section in Sainsbury’s, frantically texting friends about embryo storage, whilst cooling my ovaries. But it was no bigger a panic than the undercut/no undercut dilemma of 2014.

I love the little humans.

Not because I have a uterus, but because I find them amazing. The incessant questioning, stubbornness, creativity and boundless energy is something I’m on board with.

We get on well.

As a result, I’m often told to have some of my own. Funny, because I’m also told I’m great with pets, but that ‘A puppy is for life, not just for Christmas’ campaign really did a job on folks. That’s something I should consider carefully.

I’m at that age where all my friends have had, or are having children. Some as I type. I am often told there is nothing like the joy of motherhood. That it’s the best thing I’ll ever do.

I think a more realistic description is that motherhood is a completely different kind of experience from those I have had to date. No one is making it look like ‘the best thing’ when they are wrestling a pound of ‘pick n mix’ out of a screaming child’s hand, handling a flooded bathroom, or being bitten.

My trip to Vegas measures up better.

That being said, the love my friends have for their children is contagious. Their relationships are rewarding. The way their children love them is moving. Good people are being raised in the world and it’s a beautiful thing to see.

But from a distance.

For me.

For now.

 

D-sensitised

I think I am 95% desensitised to penis.

When I was younger and I used to worry that my enjoyment of uber violent films meant that I could find myself in a Die Hard style scenario, and would simply sellotape a pen knife to my back and throw myself into the mix without batting an eyelid.

It was a theory that was somewhat proven when I got held up at gunpoint a few years back.

I refused to give the gunman my bag without some kind of negotiation. My companions had either cleverly shoved their mobile phones into their knickers, or peremptorily handed over their bags, while I rued the day I decided to wear a dress and no underwear, whilst clutching onto my shopping.

The gunman told me not to be an idiot. But why change the habit of a lifetime?

“Because he could have shot you.” The police officer sternly informed me, surprisingly unimpressed by the fact I managed to save my purchases.

I was pretty sure the gun was fake. I’d seen plenty of guns. On screen. The officer kindly unholstered his gun and asked me if it had looked like that. Hmm, his looked fake too.

Whoops.

Penis has become guns for me.

And it’s all thanks to online flashers.

The threat of the 80s flasher, accessorised in a  filthy mac, bumbling his way towards you, then whipping open his coat and waggling his willy at you, has now been brought into the digital age.

The sexual ambush that I have been subjected to on dating apps though amusing, is also quite disturbing. When did it become acceptable to send someone an unsolicited picture of your genitals? Or even worse, a video of you vigorously abusing said genitals?

The idea that you have ‘earned’ viewing rights to the horniness you unwittingly inspired is not as flattering as the sender thinks it is.

If someone tried to flash you in public it would be considered indecent to most.  But social media functions like a blanket of anonymity  for flashers to disappear into once someone hits report, block and delete.

There are no real consequences, other than the reduced chances of offenders ever getting to communicate with that person beyond a screen.

I, for one, don’t want to be sent another surreptitious picture of a penis in an “Oh my gosh you’ll never guess what my dick did….’ fashion again.

If I ever see one in real life again, I’m only going to think it’s fake.

 

 

Imperfections

We all deserve a clean slate.

The new year is a big deal for some reason. Successfully orbiting our sun matters to us.  I can’t say I know how difficult, or dangerous it was, but I’m sure it warranted a drink.

Manchester is currently the shining example of how ham we go on a NYE celebration. I have little recollection of my own NYE, but from the accounts of complete strangers who I ran into at the Guinness factory, I was absolutely destroyed.

For those of you that didn’t go full pagan, here’s what you missed out on:

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My own mayhem was not quite the renaissance masterpiece above, but I did my best to try and drown the old year in alcohol.

Maybe it’s the promise of a clean slate with our hangover that pushes some of us over the edge. The need to obliterate the memory cells of whatever it was that made the last year so horrendous. The joy at being surrounded by the people you love the most.

We go out how we have to: Civilised drinks with family and friends, or pinned to the ground by feds.

Either way, we all deserve a fresh start.

With that fresh start come expectations. I mean it has to go better than the last. There has to be progress. I have to be better than I was.

I think I stopped making resolutions in 2003. There were only so many times I could tell myself I was going to be a teetotaling, non-smoking, gym fanatic who read 40 books a year.

I do alright as I am.

I will still get wasted on occasion. I will still have a drunken fag. I will read, but never as much as I could. I will work out, only as much as I need to in order to be able to eat two whole Nando’s chickens on my own.

Obviously there will be change. But it will come at its own pace.

My New Year is all about acceptance.

My resolutions were always about being a better person. Kinder, more tolerant, more forgiving. Or it was about how I could improve my life to fulfil some imaginary standard others would appreciate.

Showing the same kindness, tolerance and understanding for myself never occurred to me.

Moving past my short comings, be it  getting so drunk I fall off a pier, or ignoring my intuition, is something I find hard. My failings are the sun which I have been stuck in orbit around for years.

Rather than trying to evolve into someone perfect, this year will be the year I embrace my dumb ass self for who I am. An alcohol imbibing, wise cracking loud mouth, with an occasionally impressive rack, and a life that often looks a bit like a Manchester high street on New Year’s morning.

Here’s to happiness  and shenanigans in the New Year.

Tinderlude

1655856_10153590962320552_5826856312381107258_n (1)Every-time I think I’m out, I get pulled back in again.

When I first met my ex I told him he should go on Tinder. He’s a good looking guy and was single. I thought he would clean up. I hadn’t thought I’d be dating the guy. I was off to Mexico a month down the road. Plus he had seen another man’s penis on my phone.

Long story short: never show a married friend a dick pic. She will tell her husband. He will make you show it to everyone at breakfast when you are too hungover to quickly sit on your phone.

It’s a miracle our relationship ever got off the ground.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me when he popped up on my Tinder feed after the break up. But I deleted the app off my phone all the same. It was like he could see me.

Dating has always been my go to move when things are going badly in my life. When I say dating I mean Tinder. I have no desire to get to know someone in the hopes of cultivating a relationship. Not when I’m heart broken. Shameless superficial hottie snap, and texts filled with innuendo is all I look for when moving on.
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I had signed up again because I thought I needed to move on swiftly. I needed to remember that other good looking men existed.

The shock of seeing his duck face staring back at me in various poses made me realise I wasn’t ready yet.

Cue Rio: a city where the word Sex is literally everywhere, and everyone is hot and semi-naked. It was a disappointment to find out that Sex- Dom was not a sensual version of the Crystal Maze, but the equivalent of Sat-Sun abbreviation. More of a disappointment was the fact I just wasn’t into anyone and would have had no use for a real sex dome unless I could charge my Kindle there.

My trainer acted like we’d conceded a goal when I told him I had just enjoyed the sights.

“What’s wrong with you?! Get laid woman!”

It had been 4 months. The ‘Get over it’ was coming in thick and heavy.

I decided to give it one last swipe.

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Straight off the bat I gave a cute guy my number. Almost immediately his penis was on my phone, completely unsolicited.

The penis was a shock. But not as much as the fact the guy had been so quick to whip it out that he had forgotten to hide the bald patch he’d disguised in his pics.

He apologised for the penis, but couldn’t explain the hair. I no longer felt compelled to respond to his messages.

That’s when my Tinder game changed. How it happened I don’t know.

Instead of cuing me up some hot sex  I built a small support group for the texting wounded.

Now all my messages seem to be pasta recipes, or stories of dates gone wrong. It’s almost like having a stable of boyfriends, who every now and then suggest a meet up.

I’m finding it hard to say yes though.

I said to one guy it was timing and location. If he wasn’t where I was at the right time then it wasn’t happening.

I may yet go on a date. I leave it to GPS, alcohol and wifi connectivity. But It’s not my priority anymore.

I won’t be deleting the app this time.

How will I know how ‘Strap’ and sex dungeon boy are doing on their quest for love?

Anyway, Dario told me he’d send me a recipe for cannelloni that I want to try this weekend.

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Thanks to #TinderNightmares for this bounty. Mine were too explicit, or too boring to post.