Sunday, 6 December 2009

Semi-annual rant

Well, I would have put all of this crap in several hundred tweets on Twitter, but I feel a full-on rant is needed to cleanse me of my recent mind-blockages. I'm going to be a pedantic fuck and put everything under neat little headers. We don't all have to be neanderthal about our outpourings now, do we?

Bon Fucking Jovi
Yup. It's happened, as I suspected it might one day. I have fallen out of love with the New Jersey rockers that have shaped so much of my life so far. But after Lost Highway was such a disappointing album they had everything to prove with The Circle. And what did they give us? An album of regurgitated tosh that is ripped off most of their old stuff, clearly just pumped out of the music industry machine, so they can justify making huge amounts of money from a tour where they charge fans extortionate amounts of money to see them from even a huge distance away. Then charge REAL fans (said with tongue firmly in-cheek) a gastronomical amount of money to get close to the fucking sell-outs. Not happy. Crue, you have my heart.

There are NO MORE Christmas songs
Having dragged my exhausted self out of bed this groggy Sunday morning, switched on TV to discover a rundown of 50 best Christmas songs. Now, my favourite festive tune always has been the original Band Aid single, Do They Know It's Christmas?. I'm talking the 1984 version here (it was at number 1 when I was born). This happened to be playing when we switched over. Then imagine my disappointment to see it at numer 27. Nay mind, I thought. There are, after all, a great deal of Christmas songs. However, two tunes later, meaning MORE HIGHLY RATED than this yule classic - Cheeky Girls "Have a Cheeky Christmas". Mortified, horrified, but more importantly, unsurprised at the lack of integrity remaining in the music industry. I for one will be purchasing RATM's Killing In The Name in a bid to push it towards the "coveted" number 1 spot on the big day later this month. Fuck you Simon Cowell, you ruined entertainment.

I've spent a long time building up my vocabulary, and it grows by the day. I like to think that when people meet me and converse with me that they think I am an articulate woman and respect me. But there is something that has superseded this in terms of like, love, desire and respect. Cutesy speaking. First witnessed it on a forum I used to use around a year or so ago. Grown women my age and often older would say things with a z at the end, with the seemingly innocent enough intention of making it sound fluffy. So hugs, became 'hugglez'. (Yes, sorry for overuse of quote marks here, but sorry, I cannot bring myself to say these are real words). Another one that appeared to grow out of control was 'plox' which I recently discovered means please. 'Lulz', 'oh em gee', 'nom' (and its derivatives), 'woot' are examples of the spawn of this horrific phenomenon. The worst thing about it? Men seem to eat it the fuck up! On several occasions I was set upon by males of the aforementioned forum for turning my nose up at a 20-something woman saying "snufflez... plox gimme hugglez, nomming choc would help" or something juvenile like that. Men apparently think it's sweet and endearing. Of course, these girls can swivel on a sixpence with their language use and tell a guy she can "choke on his dik till he screamz" to become purring sex vixens.

Now, before I come off like a jealous hag that I don't get attention like these army of net-cute-speak lasses, I would like to stipulate the reason it fucks me off is because I like a companion to have a good range words, some imagination. Male or female. And as I said, I work hard to make sure that I am always learning new things. Engaging new words that I can then use, on person, and online. I don't buy the "it's easier to type short words" argument. Nope. We all write covering letters on computers these days and do we start "Dear Sirz"? No. We don't. Past caring how I'm perceived for my stance on this, because quite frankly, I am disinclined acquiesce to comment on juvenility.

Ageism/discrimination in general
Two things I would like to say to people I work with/customers I serve. Number ONE. I am nearly 25, this does not make me too old to understand that it's hard being young. Fuck off. Number TWO. My hair colour does not make me fair game for creepy come-ons/satanist accusations. Point and whisper all you like. But I don't walk up to you and ask you if your prostitute mother let her pimp rape you now, do I? Grow some tact.

I really should put an extreme content warning at the start of these things, but being myself and backwards in forward thinking... here it is now.


Until next time.

Sunday, 15 November 2009

The kids aren't alright...

So, sex education is to become compulsory after the age of 15. I am aware that this is now old news, but there have been many waves of opinion from various MPs, journalists, TV presenters, teachers etc.

My absolute favourite of these was Mary Wakefield's column in last Saturday's Independent. Now I usually am fairly tolerant of broadsheet columnists because their editors are generally cufflinked facists. But Wakefield has some rather interesting (read stupid) points to make as far as sex education in schools is concerned. I quote:

"Where's the need for sex ed in the 21st-century Britain? There's sex on movie screens, on billboards, in magazines; sex in pop songs trickling down iPod wires straight into auditory cortices of every sentient tot."

Ok, she has a point about sexual content being easily accessed, but that's as far as my agreement goes. With a culture that shifts at the pace ours does, there surely has to be the flexibility in a child's upbringing. It's just a fact of life now that children aren't as innocent as they were. They are exposed to unconventional things much earlier in life with the evolution of the family unit; divorce, same-sex marriages, step siblings. Of course it would be lovely if we could raise our kids as beautiful cherubs right up until they hit adolescence and THEN teach them how to live as an adult, but the truth is that kind of excuse just won't wash today.

I read a very interesting article in the Times, it's a long one so I'll just link it HERE. Dutch kids at the age of 12 display blase attitudes as they talk about anal sex, masturbation and the age of consent. They live in a place where the red light district isn't just a Saturday night cat-call, it's a way of life. So you'd expect there to be far more debauchery among their young, right? Wrong. They have the lowest teen pregnancy rate in Europe, with the average age of a teen losing their virginity being around 17. I don't need to remind ANYONE of the figures for Britain.

And look at the way we do things - parents would rather plonk their kids in front of Eastenders or Coronation St, where we see young actresses often portraying young mothers being glamourised in relevant awards shows with accolades going to the "sexiest soap star". I agree that parents should be wanting to protect their children from certain things, but I find myself right back at my previous point that times have changed, and I cannot stress that enough.

Children are impressionable. If they see an adult become awkward and protective at the mention of anything sexual, they are going to be even more confused about it, far more likely to avoid placing that adult in the same situation again, and god forbid they might actually want to approach a parent with a query about why they see big brother pitching a tent more often in the morning than any other time of day.

Knowledge doesn't mean action. Just because people might know how to fire a gun doesn't mean they're going to sod off and massacre a small town in rural England. Until we can sit down with children and treat them in accordance with the way our lives are led in the 2000's, there is still going to be debate on the soaring figures of teen pregnancies, STIs, and horrified broadsheet journalists' hearts breaking at the lost innocence of childhood.

Grow up, it's only sex.

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

Girls are no longer girls

Anyone who was anywhere near adolescence in the late 1990s will remember the girls pictured to the right. B*witched. One of the many pop acts of the 90s that make me smile whimsically when I see them, or hear them mentioned. While watching some old music videos recently, this one cropped up and it really did just strike me how different girl groups are just 10 years apart.

For example. Girls Aloud. Yeah, it was fairly inevitable that I was going to use them as the benchmark. While pop music isn't really my passion of choice, I do appreciate a good pop song and there's no doubt that Girls Aloud have had more than a few during their stint in the UK music scene. Clearly more of a longevity thing than B*witched. But my pang of sadness was for the lost innocence of girliness. Putting on your jeans, hanging out with friends, singing about tying boys up in treehouses (yes, bad analogy). Look at Girls Aloud.

I don't even need to post a picture of them, they're eponymous with sexiness, seduction and desire as far as a lot of people are concerned. Surrounding their pop careers is the unstable and delectable details of their personal lives, how they stay "skinny" and what footballer is flavour of the week. Magazines fawn over what they are wearing, how skimpy the outfits. I accept that times will evolve. Things change. But I can't get past the obviously sinister undertones of placing so much emphasis on physical appearance.

For example, Cheryl Cole's solo debut on the X Factor was nothing short of vocally weak. She sounded out of her depth, and I get the feeling that most X Factor winners would blow her out of the water. But she was hailed as a success, the leading line being "Cheryl looked hot..." or some other derivative of the stupidly tiny outfit she was wearing clinging to her rail-thin frame.

When B*witched performed on Top of the Pops, or SMTV live, yeah it was cheesy. But it was music. Four girls singing (or, ahem, miming) while jumping around having a bloody good time. But yes... now it's about the show. If you can mime, while looking smoking in a latex one piece, then you're practically halfway there. Doesn't help with halfwits like Simon Cowell being a fickle tart.

I know I sound like a fat, bitter and jealous woman. I have to say that the only thing I am jealous of is the bank account that these waifs come home to. I'm a normal sized woman (size 10 thank you very much) and I'm not bitter that I didn't chase fame.

On second thoughts I can breathe fire through my nostrils....

Sunday, 6 September 2009

Feministic Tendencies

I've a line that I would like to draw, blur it, then throw it away. That would be the one between being a strong-willed woman with fighting spirit, and being a bitch.

I witnessed an incident in an old job (that shall remain nameless) whereby a junior member of staff was pulled up on a few minor mistakes, and during this exchange, the female superior asked if there were any personal reasons that she should know about that might be affecting the junior's performance.

Speaking with the girl later, she remarked "How DARE she ask that, what a bitch!". At the time I agreed. But in hindsight, I believe that this was probably quite a diplomatic way of approaching a member of staff that had made numerous mistakes, no matter how small. There are several occasions where I have wished for such an approach from authority. But then, would I also take the standpoint my former colleague had?

In essence, this really is just another rant about how hard women have to fight in the world to be taken seriously, but then this fight must be reigned in at the right moments, lest we be labelled bitches. I for one can't stand having to be pigeon-holed - but it happens. And I work hard to try and make sure that I achieve a balance of polite, shrewd and ambitious, but friendly, approachable and intelligent, but not arrogant. It's hard. But there's something I have learned in the past year or so... I can't keep working THAT hard.

Who am I kidding. I'll slap a whimsical but hardened smile on, pull on some smart (but not arrogantly priced) shoes.

Ain't life fucking grand when you have tits.

Friday, 4 September 2009

Riding High

Finally got myself a horse to ride out the recession - a job. It's only part time, and it's not my career choice, but it's something I have done before, and something I am passionate about. I now work a the flagship HMV store in London's Oxford Circus. It's always crazy busy, and there's a lot of people that work there. Not to mention the sheer size of the store. But I'll get there. I've got a far stronger mind than my body could ever be.

It did make me think about the recession, and just how bleak it is behind closed doors. My favourite shop on Oxford St was always Borders. I could genuinely lose a couple hours in there, perusing the shelves, reading chapters as a taster, having a coffee, learning things from random reference books. Now it's gone. Apparently it's been in trouble for some time, suffering the undercurrent of the supermarket chains, undercutting them on prices. Which I think is so desperately sad. Supermarkets meet their supply demands from external suppliers that I don't think are affiliated with publishing houses, now, I'm not sure how accurate that is, but if it is, then publishers are losing money. Or at least not making as much as they used to.

I don't know what I'd do if publishers started going out of business.

I know that the futureheads of the world might start moaning that I should get with the times... it's all about ebooks. Reading stuff online. Hm. I can't get on board with that I'm afraid. Of course, bringing reading to a new audience is never going to be a bad thing. But I just cannot deny myself the pure pleasure of finding a book I've been itching to read, buying it, getting home, and turning those all-important first few pages. That feeling of having the labour of the author there, in front of you - in physical form.

I just hope that like some industries, the publishing industry can come out the other side of this dull time with something to smile about. Sure, it looks really shitty at the moment. But I am confident that I am not alone in wanting it to survive more than most industries.

Thursday, 27 August 2009

Teaching us to think dirty

Everybody's talking about.

Of COURSE everybody is talking about it, you can't turn a metaphorical corner without having it thrust under your nose. Sex, obviously. According to those in the know (magazines, apparently) everybody is doing it. Again, duh. It's enjoyable right? It's something everybody should indulge in.

Despite this free and open-minded society we live in, I can't help but feel a bit stifled. By one area in particular. Advisory articles. How to be sexy. How to feel sexy. How to make him think he feels sexy. How to tell the world you feel sexy when you don't feel sexy through the use of sexy body language. We appear to have crafted a world that is so fascinated by sexuality that there is the need to paint by numbers when it comes to exploration. This to me, seems insane. Whatever happened to just turning down the lights and having an evening with your lover, where you talk about things that get you going, thus leading to consensual, adult fun. Instead there is this need to enact "position of the week" which just seems a little contrived to me. Can just picture it..

"Ok, I'm ready... let's try that new thing"
"What, NOW?"
"Yes, now, I'm nearly finished"
"Oh... well... ok, your left leg needs to be that side.."
"Hang on."
"Sorry, hold on..."
"That's it, stop there"
"I can't hold that!"
"I think I sprained something.."

I'm probably being over dramatic of course, but perhaps I am just too deeply involved in living my life with fetish undertones. The power of suggestion, and experimentation. Which I am all for, remember.

I just resent being told by a Sexpert (that's a valid job title now, though lord knows what the BTEC certificate might say) that I should be doing things a certain way, or trying certain things to other people's specifications.

I just want to have sex for christ sake, not perform genital acrobatics.

With that in mind, I'd like to point anyone who may read this to my favourite publication for open-minded attitudes towards sex. Of course there is the odd "Sex by numbers" thing, but the forum is well worth checking out.

And remember to stay safe. If he takes down his pants and it's green, it's fair to say you don't want it inside you.

Tuesday, 25 August 2009

In the beginning... Rubber and Latex.

Today, I want to talk about rubber clothing. Take a look at the picture on the left (credits to THIS is the dress I am currently hankering after most, above all other clothing. Yet, to point this out to people in my close circle of friends, the response is generally "oh my gosh!" or "oh.. that's different". Which is fine, really. Variation of taste is a concept that I can grasp fine. To be honest, I never used to think rubber or latex was for evening wear, so to speak. I thought that it belonged behind closed doors with your partner. With friends. At themed parties for close-knit groups. I can't pinpoint the exact time in my life where my mind relaxed and saw that I wanted to wear these things ALL the time.

There is one particular event I can think of that epitomises this most, and so reaching the crux, the nitty gritty of my first blog here.

Torture Garden. Arguably the world's best known fetish night. Around the world, on selected nights, popular nightclubs become luxurious boudoirs, in which open minded, sexually thinking adults can play, explore and generally follow their desires. My first Torture Garden experience involved a great deal of nerves, anticipation and excitement. Dressing somewhat modestly by fetish terms, I waited to go in with a good friend of mine, who was a great deal more relaxed about the whole thing. The moment we were in though, any doubts I could have rambled about melted away with a gentle breath of decadent sexuality. Bodies, all shapes and sizes, clad in a mindfucking array of clothing, meshing together as sumptuous music carried along the dingy corridors.

As the night frolicked into twilight hours, there was a realisation that shuddered blissfully up my spine. When a person cast their eyes up and down you, they were not passing judgement, not by any means. They were enjoying you. Hundreds of pairs of eyes hungrily devouring you, as a visual entity. And my god, when I realised this I felt amazing. And it's a feeling that is very addictive let me tell you. When you wear a rubber outfit at a fetish night, you become a sexually awakened person, one that feels every burning pair of eyes that bores into their curves, their bones, their mind.

Long story short, I want every insecure person to try going to a fetish night. To slip into an item of rubber or latex and just let the night flow into morning. It's not for everyone, and some people might never choose to go again, which of course is fine. But for each of those people, there just could be someone that has ignited a burning desire for exploration and feels the addiction that sweeps into their very core when they realise that wearing latex, makes you, to others, a sexually confident, beautiful and proud human.

Mmm.. sexy.