Monthly Archives: September 2012

I’m not going to bother going out for a while…now X Factor’s started there’s probably very little hope in me squeezing my limbs into a bodycon dress to totter round a Jaeger-soaked dancefloor. Plus, I fake tan…and come winter, there’s a very high chance I won’t get to the chosen nightclub without looking like I’ve got a bad case of leprosy thanks to an impromptu downpour. Lastly, men are becoming a gargantuan pain in the cock.

For those of you who are already eyerolling at the fact I’m writing yet another post about men…BIG sorry about that. Just to confirm, I’m 24, single and go out in London…the subject’s bound to crop up occasionally. If you don’t think you’re going to enjoy it, I’m pretty sure Dave’s running back-to-back episodes of Wheeler Dealers so that might be more up your alley. If you can put up with it…then great, read on;

1) Men get ‘handsy’…

Very, very often…you’ll be standing with your pals…probably chatting about period clots, kittens or the fact Germany isn’t in Africa ohmygodlikeIdidntknowthatbabezI’msuchanidiotLOL! and you’ll feel ten stumpy sausages of flesh lightly grasp your bumcheeks, closely followed by the slide of a groin and teamed with the sweet whispering of an “excuse me babe”. Now…to my knowledge, my friends and I aren’t even close to being the size of that massive rock Jesus rolled away from the cave he emerged out of, so we probably don’t need to be moved. It’s really funny actually…a few years ago, just after we got strong enough to hold our own heads up, we learnt how to do this thing where we move our feet! You might have heard of it…it’s called walking. And if you just said the “excuse me babe” bit, we could probably step aside and let you pass. No cock over arsecheeks rubbing required! Who knows, maybe next year we’ll learn how to drive properly.

When this little gem isn’t cropping up, you might get treated to the bum-grab or as I recently experienced…the vagina-grab. Both of these make me want to scrub a bloke’s gooch with a wire brush, but sadly I don’t tend to have room in my handbag to take one of those out with me, so I make do with a deathstare and a polite “f*ck off”. This, however, can throw up a few problems. React badly to a grope in a nightclub and be prepared to have the guy in question and his pals label you as drama or stuck up. Puts you right off your dutty wine let me tell you.

2) Confidence over cocky.

I love a confident man. Confident to the point of being misunderstood as arrogant, but with a genuinely good heart. Sadly…a lot of the men I’ve met recently have taken confident to mean ‘cocky prick’ and jizzed all over it. Last weekend for instance, my friends and I were approached by a group of men at an afterparty who looked like they did anal with the word smug. I got stuck with a guy who turned out to be a graduate from the Piers Morgan School of Being An Utter Skidmark…he owned property in Marylebone and liked to click his fingers a lot. The following conversation happened;

Graduate: “So, whaddyoudo priddylady?

Me: “I’m an online assistant and freelance writer.”

Graduate: “M’yeah. Brilliant. Listen, live in the city?”

Me: “Just outsi….”

F.W.P.T: “M’yeah, listen. Stick with me and you could live in the city. How about that?”

Cor, REALLY MISTER? Yes please! I’ve longed for the day I could sack off my terrible life to be picked up by a man like you. My only other option was lying in the entrance to South Kensington tube station with my legs open and a ‘TAKE ME’ sign so I’m glad you saved me the hassle.

In a bid to escape that monstrosity, we moved on to a nightclub. A few friends were there, lovely crowd…or so we thought. While chatting to some blokes who were sharing a table with some other individuals, we placed our drinks down. On said table. After a while the decision was made to venture outside so we picked our glasses up and left…to the tune of “Yeah go on, take the drinks WE paid for and fuck off”. Now…I never expect a guy to pay for my drinks, nor do I make a habit of hanging around tables so I can wank over bottles of Grey Goose. My friends and I all work and when we decide to go out, it’s because we can afford to make sure we don’t end the night dehydrated with a mouth like a desert cat’s arsehole so this suggestion really made me angry. And because I’m a shy sap and hadn’t had gin, I decided to tweet about it while an angry Hollie Bishop (you may have seen our Twitter conversations) bounded over to call him a word that sounded something like ‘runt.’ Couldn’t quite make it out, music was loud.

3) Gossip.

As mentioned in previous blogs, men love a scathing chit-chat about girls. Especially girls that aren’t flannels, who know when to use ‘too’ and ‘to’ and who can tell the difference between Robert Mugabe and Nelson Mandela (I met a girl that couldn’t once. I killed her). I know this because I’ve got a fair few close male friends and I know the contours of their conquests’ vaginas like the back of my hand. I know which girl tasted like yeast, I know which girl had tits like sad balloons, I know which girl’s vagina made a noise like a startled mouse yawn. The words ‘slut’, ‘slag’ and ‘whore’ get banded around like nobody’s business, yet when the girl in question turns up…the blokes couldn’t be nicer. Without getting too personal, I’m well aware my friends and I have our own merry band of gossipers. I know this because they’re rubbish at it. Sadly, in this day and age there are all too many men who like to fabricate stories with their friends and then hang off your every word while you’re out, probably in the vain hope you’ll let them spunk over your back after a few Carlsbergs. This doesn’t particularly bother me, in fact…I’m getting to the point where I make my tweets even less feminine and even more blunt because why not? It’s nice to give them something to do work with.

I’m not for a second suggesting all men are like this. I know some absolutely bloody brilliant blokes. Intelligent ones, not so intelligent ones, ones that make me laugh, ones that meet me with a coffee before I’d even asked and ones that actually know me properly. This post mainly came about because the last few nights out have left me exasperated at the behaviour of the people I’ve met and well aware that I’m frequenting the wrong sort of bars. I like people who just want to have fun on a night out, maybe a bit of decent conversation, and a kebab. I’d quite frankly rather drag my clit along a pavement than waste any more time on the men I keep having the displeasure of meeting week in, week out…so I’ll be giving it a miss for a while. Just as a final recap though…thanks for the Facebook poke and private messages asking to take me and my friends out. We’ll all bear it in mind next time we hear you’ve called us ‘go-ers’.

(Just realised Halloween’s coming up. I’ll definitely be out).

For the love of sh*t footballers, Leon Knight’s a gem isn’t he? You’ve got to hand it to him…for someone who uses up 93% of his braincell activity typing the word ‘LOL’, coming up with #slagalertpics (or #sap as it’s also known) must have nearly driven him to have a stroke. For those of you who aren’t aware of the concept, this is what happens;

Guy looks through his phone to find a photo he’s once been sent of a girl in underwear/naked.

Tweets it to Leon.

Leon then ‘outs’ them to his Twitter followers…usually with a hilarious caption such as ‘whos this slut LOL’

Lastly; if a girl fancies emailing Leon with a grovelling message and a suitable explanation as to why she was so bloody disgusting, then he might be a darling and let her off.

Here….I’m just going to list a few arguments against #sap and sexual inequality, attempt to not rant myself to death and keep wishing on nearby ladybirds and eyelashes that Leon Knight gets his bollocks dunked in nitric acid.

Firstly….anyone who hasn’t either sent or received a ‘rude’ photo is one of a gnat’s cock size majority. I’m not in the slightest bit nervous to admit I’ve done it, it falls under the category of ‘fun’ and Leon, along with his merry band of plebs might want to give it a go. Personally I don’t think you should dish them out willy nilly…you don’t want to be saved to everyone’s sim card…but the odd underwear shot here and there doesn’t mean you’ve got the class of Kerry Katona on a coke binge in a Yates’ bar. The thing that bewilders me the most, is the gargantuan level of hypocrisy that comes with such photos. There are tonnes of women on Twitter who actually have to take up valuable characters in their bio stressing they don’t want cock photos sent via DM because of the amount of men who presume we do. And despite the hideousness of receiving an unwanted snap of a throbbing chelm, you don’t see any of us setting up a Twitter vendetta. Essentially what we’re talking about here, is just a body…of which we’re constantly made to feel embarrassed about, and of which those complaining would be quite happy to stick their arm up like a farmer and a birthing cow.

Nowadays, women have got the right to vote…we can wear trousers…and grow a moustache if we don’t wax for a while. However, write about wanking, sex and certain parts of the anatomy on Twitter and BY JOVE you’re judged. The amount of people who’ve met and informed me they ‘presumed I was a go-er’ or ‘filth’ and would be ‘a little bit louder’ is ridiculous. The fact I can type a tweet that isn’t “just gonna watch Dear John with my cat in my fluffy slippers LMFAO’ doesn’t mean I run around Central London fisting myself into oblivion with a pint of Stella, it just means I’m not a bimbo. I still have social skills…I wouldn’t launch into a chinwag with a pensioner about bukkake (aside from my nan, she LOVES buckkake.) It also doesn’t mean I’ve got a ‘male sense of humour’ because, prepare yourself, some of you humans what got willies aren’t all that funny either.

Men. If you wouldn’t mind…just picture this. You’re single and ready to mingle. BUT, and this is important…you must follow all these rules. Go on dates by all means, but don’t put out. Maybe give yourself a five date rule. However…while sticking to that, don’t be a complete cold fish…maybe give your ladyfriend an indication to what fun she’ll soon be having by paying a visit downstairs with your mouth otherwise she’ll think you’re a massive snore. That said, prepare yourself for all her friends knowing once you’ve done it. All of them. Because…you didn’t think she’d keep quiet about it did you? SILLY! In fact, you might only be texting and she’ll have already told her friends. Actually, not just her friends…all the girls she plays netball with too…which is super fun, because when you go to parties, everyone can ask you about it! Yay! Once that’s all over and done with…you’re allowed to finally take the plunge and get your willy wet. For her to then decide, nah…she’s not feeling it. That’s fine…you can move on…but not too soon…otherwise everyone will find out. And this, THIS is where you really have to concentrate. The average number of people you’re allowed to be able to sleep with in your lifetime is eight. EIGHT. So, single from 18 – 25? Tough, space ’em out…or face a lifetime of everyone thinking your cock resembles a slug in a condom. You’ll be as alluring as a kidney infection.

Doesn’t sound like something you’d be interested in? Yeah, nor us. Which is a big ol’ bag of shame because it’s exactly what we have to deal with.

Ladies. Say what you want on Twitter…especially if you’re single. Don’t hold back because you think a bloke might be put off. We’ll just all meet up in, say, 7 years and buy a barn in France where we’ll house a lot of stray dogs, eat guacamole and have permanently hairy legs. Secondly, please let it be known, should I ever have the misfortune of bumping into Leon Knight I’d take a dump in his eye faster than he loses followers. Thirdly, and most importantly, keep sending naked photos. Because the female form exists to be celebrated and there are some men out there who aren’t out to ruin your life and might actually appreciate them. I just suggest you stick to these two rules;

– Don’t take a photo of your squashed frog (think about it).

– Don’t include your face.