Can talk about hairy nipples?
I’m exaggerating, actually A hair on A nipple.
I’ll start from the beginning, normally I don’t see the point of shaving legs in the colder months. After all that’s what trousers are for right? If you’re married, your husband shouldn’t be picky about what you look like naked in case you enact the ‘til death do us part’ of the contract. Anyway, if he knew how much waxing products/services cost he’ll wholeheartedly support keepin’ it real for the sake of the household finances. ‘Your bikini line will have to wait love, the TV licence is due’.
However I was thinking of wearing a dress in public, so I was in the bathroom applying the magic shower cream which makes hair disappear when I started contemplating whether it would be really cool to use a piping bag to write a message in my leg hair. It would be really powerful. Imagine a feminist message written in leg hair.
I’m totally doing this. ‘Screw the’ on the left shin, ‘patriarchy’ on the right. That’s when I noticed a black hair emerging out of my nippular region.
Shocked I grab a pair of scissors and trim the offending hair.
- Q) What’s worse than nipple hair?
- A) Nipple stubble.
Now I’m going to spend ages trying to grab the damn thing with a pair of tweezers. Rubbish tweezers too, I’m too cheap to by decent ones, I might as well be using chopsticks.
I try using chopsticks, at least if I’m caught doing this I can pretend that I’m just retrieving a noodle, I mean everyone eats Chinese food in the bathroom right? You know, there are worse things than nipple hair, like when I realised I have hair growing out of the mole on my face, that’s right readers, ON MY MOTHER LOVIN’ FACE.
I asked my friends why they didn’t tell me that I had hair growing out of the mole on my face. The replies were unsatisfactory: ‘Because you might have cursed me’ (cowardly), ‘Because I was focusing on my mother’s funeral at the time’ (selfish), ‘I was distracted by the chopsticks sticking out your bra’ (inattentive), and ‘You have mirrors right?’ (fair point).
Thing is that when I look into mirrors, I don’t really look, you know? I’m a busy person, so I just write my death threat in red lipstick and leave. I don’t examine my face in any detail. Unless I’ve sustained a facial injury, then I can’t help but look. In fact I take pictures and share them with all my friends and their acquaintances. My FB album looks like the story board for the Elephant Man.
I digress. I feel that now that it has hair, my mole should really be up graded to ‘wart’ and therefore I have earned the title ‘crone’ My new status makes me feel more comfortable about the nipple hair, I’m not an ugly old woman, I’m an excellent crone. Perspective – see?
Back to the nipple hair…Distracted, I go into the shower too soon and simply wash off the magic leg hair cream and the hair is still there. Great, my unwanted hair is impervious to chemical attack. In fact by exposing it to low-level chemicals without killing it, I have possibly made it stronger. Now my legs and armpits will turn green when I’m angry. Also they are still hairy.
This is not fair. I just wanted to shave my legs, but not only did I fail to do that, I’ve discovered two extra follicle sources. I went into the shower normal(ish), I have emerged as Captain Caveman.
- Godfrey Bloom (this bloke)
…is quitting Ukip because it’s too politically correct. That may sound like an odd thing to say, but this is the fella who uses phrases like ‘bongo bongo land’ and calls women ‘sluts’. Saying odd things is really Mr Bloom’s ‘thing’ and apparently even Ukip have its limits.
Tell you what Mr Bloom join the Tories.
They don’t give a shit.
Yes, that it the Prime Minister pictured with some ‘blacked up’ Morris dancers.
To be fair to the Morris dancers the black-face thing is an old tradition to do with obscuring their identity, rather than the horrendously racist thing it initially looks like. –Still, I’d suggest it’s one of those little traditions you probably want to knock on the head now, ok guys? Like all those people who go on about swastikas being an ancient Celtic good luck symbol, or this guy…
Sometimes you just have to accept, times have changed.
To be fair to the PM, if someone asks for a selfie, it must be tricky to say, ‘No way, you look like a bunch of bigot clowns, but can I still rely on your vote?’ and on the plus side, at least now the prime minister has one picture where he looks the least like a bigot clown.
I also like the little touch of carrying the toddler. Like a human shield against hatred. Nice try Dave, but this it still pretty far from being an Athena poster.
I always thought there was something a bit ‘off’ about that Hitler bloke.
David Cameron has decided something must be done about ‘coasting’ schools in affluent areas which are doing ok, but should be doing better. Clearly the PM (who is currently looking for a school for his daughter in an affluent middle class area), sees this as a massive problem. He’s not said much about problems like this:
But then his kids are not likely to go to those schools, so who cares? No, those middle-class schools where the kids have shoes and no-one gets stabbed, they desperately need our help.
3. Hey, guys stop murdering your mums. Write poetry or something instead (not that I’m condoning poetry).
MacDonald’s try an interesting ‘Our food is not quite as disgusting as you think it is’ campaign.
‘Hey, that the pink slime stuff has nothing to do with us… (ahem) any more. And sure, technically we use the same chemicals in our buns as you’d find in a yoga mat, but it’s not like it’s a used yoga mat, that’d be gross.
They also admit to using anti-foaming agent in their chicken nuggets and using beef treated with hormones, but I won’t dwell in this stuff because a) we all know the rumours about MacDonald’s and I don’t need to repeat them because, b) they might hound me down and sue my ass off.
I actually kind of admire MacDonald’s for (finally) coming clean about what’s in their food. Now I wonder how many of us will admit that we don’t care, because frankly it is tasty and cheap and we’ll eat anything if you slather on enough mayonnaise. Also we’d basically feed our kids rat nuggets as long as you stick a plastic toy in the box so we get 5 minutes peace
Farts are still pretty much the funniest thing ever. FACT.
Prison is horrible. But perhaps not quite as bad a being shot to death in a bathroom? #justsayin’
We all know how hard it is to arrange a party, but the broadcasters arranging the televised debates seem to be screwing up royally.
ITV: Dave and Ed are in obvs, what about Dave’s partner Nick?
BBC: Might be a bit awkward now they’re splitting up?
Channel 4: That boorish tosser Farage seems to have wangled himself an invitation thanks to Clacton so I suppose he’ll have to be there.
BBC: Great, can Jeremy Clarkson come too?
Channel 4: No, but if we’re inviting Farage, shouldn’t Nathalie Bennett of the Green party have a place?
SKY: Oh, give it a rest hippies. Let one chick in and they’ll all be wanting a say.
Channel 5: I have literally no idea what we’re talking about.
I’ve had my hair cut, and it’s kind of big deal, because a) I massively overestimate my importance, it’s what makes me so damn adorable, b) I had a LOADS taken off c) I go to the hair dressers about as often as I have major surgery. I prefer the surgery tbh.
In my opinion there is a bit of a tendency in the health and beauty industry to exaggerate the need for regular visits. If I regularly postpone smear tests, skipping a few trips to the salon isn’t going to bother me. Split ends don’t cause cancer (hairdresser looks at me as if to say, ‘but do they though?’)
I don’t think I’ve ever had a facial where the therapist hasn’t told me I should be having more facials despite my only having the one face. Now that they’re not free anymore, dentists do this sales stuff too. Last time I went my dentist said my teeth worked fine, but they weren’t white enough. I asked him when did dentistry get all racist? Sorry Mr Dentist, but if I was going to ‘un-yellow’ bits of me, I’d start with my liver. Then my dentist asked me if I drink red wine, I said, thanks, but this Rosé is fine, and he said that’s the mouth rinse, and you’re supposed to spit it out. Pretentious wanker.
It’s the opticians I feel sorry for. There’s not much they can say to you really, once you’ve done the eye test, and your sight is fine, that’s pretty much it. They can’t really add, ‘Would you like a quick eyeball polish? Or ‘we recommend that you try blinking more and wherever possible incorporate NOT JABBING YOURSELF IN THE EYE into your daily routine.’
Any way I was inspired to go the hairdressers by a friend of mine, who’d just had her long hair cut to a gorgeous bob. She’d even donated her lopped off locks to a charity which makes wigs for little girls who’ve lost their hair undergoing chemotherapy. I was going to do the same, but on second thoughts I really wouldn’t wish my split-ends on some poor bald girl. She’s got enough problems without a wig of badly dyed blonde hair making her look more chav than an extra from Eastenders.
I take the attitude that there is a ceiling to what I can really achieve with this hair and beauty thing. I could spend a small fortune chemically manipulating my hair and skin so they look consistently immaculate, but there’s no getting around the fact that my head looks like something God came up with when he was arseing about on his etch-a-sketch. If I was sensible I’d shave my head, but then I’d be cold and the cancer kids are hogging all the wigs, so I think I’ll stick to hats.
1. Only play if you want to.
I know that the idea of fancy dress can be an emotive issue. In the political hotbed of the school playground, it can split parents like no other issue, other than perhaps who’s the fittest Cbeebies presenter. I’m afraid I must admit straight away that I am decidedly pro dress-up day. As soon as I find out the theme, I’m clapping my hands with joy and planning a trip to Hobbycraft. Around 50% of the time I then I forget about the whole thing until the night before and bodge something together while a bit drunk, when attaching sparklers to a seven-year-old’s boots is a sodding genius idea.
Sometimes I manage to pull off a good outfit, I fondly recall my Gruffalo of World Book Day 2012, and sometimes I have an epic fail, such as last year’s Dalek, which resulted in the teacher ‘wanting a quick word’ with me at pick up time. Basically, If you have put in the time and effort to make a decent outfit, it’s ok to be proud of it, just don’t get too cocky, because next year it could be you covering your kid in labels because no one can work out who the hell they’re meant to be, or forgetting altogether. Like the kid I saw on Roald Dahl Day, who was dressed in normal clothes, but had a printout of a book cover cellotaped to his back. Weirdly he didn’t seem to mind not wearing a complicated and uncomfortable outfit all day. Perhaps it’s because dress-up is fun, but ultimately no one cares, and we all have busy lives.
2. It’s not a competition, except for when it totally is.
I know that a lot of the reason some people don’t like dress-up day, or cake bakes or project homework, is that they can introduce an element of competition between parents which is often seen as divisive and unfair. As someone who has never won anything in my life without resorting to cheating or blackmail or kidnapping the judge’s family, I quite like the jokey-competition of a load of slightly-deranged (mostly) mums high on the fumes of craft-glue, ignoring the cries of their petrified children as they mutter ‘more sequins’. For someone who works part-time from home and looks after small children the rest of the time, I enjoy the opportunity to do something a bit silly. I don’t expect everyone to do it, and I know no-one is giving out bonus parenting points for making instead of buying this stuff, but I’m not ashamed of the fact that last night I spent 2 hours making insects out of pipecleaners and I look forward to having my mates take the piss out of me for it. So there.
3. Enthusiasm counts for a lot.
I’m not the crafty-type to be honest. In fact, I’m not really any good at anything which requires presentation skills. My handwriting looks like something a cat’s coughed up and my dress sense looks like I’ve smothered myself in pritt stick and rolled about in Kate Bush’s jumble. I’ve tried to embrace my inner Nigella in the kitchen, but it turns out that in the tenth circle of hell, those guilty of having a Pinterest account are forced to stare at my poorly decorated cupcakes for all eternity; watched over by Mary Berry who laughs as their eyes bleed and they cry out for mercy and a piping bag. But I generally have a go at these things, and I genuinely love seeing overly-ambitious homemade efforts on the playground. Today I spotted a kid as Mike TV from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, who was actually inside a cardboard box TV. Simply marvellous.
4. Stick to the brief
I fully support the argument that graphic novels is a vastly underrated genre and should be recognised as worthy for Booker Prize entry. However I’m still not sure you can really justify sending your kid to school as Batman on World Book Day. Loads of people do, and I know that I’ve done it in the past myself. My son insisted that he could allowed to go as a Transformer because he has a Transformer book, dismissing my insistence that a book of a film, doesn’t really count. To which he argued that surely the ethos of World Book Day was all about inspiring children to read books and that it was not a time for arbitrary distinctions of high and low art. I accepted his point, but countered that, the he was himself undermining the spirit of World Book Day by using a loophole to bring cartoons into a day which was supposed to promote literature. That’s when he reminded me that he was six and wanted to wear his Bumblebee outfit he got for Christmas and if I had a problem with that perhaps I should consider getting a life. I relented, but I cut him out of my will for spoiling World Book Day for me and in forty years he’ll learn a valuable lesson about respecting his elders. Anyway, a few years ago I recall one mum making an incredible costume which must have taken her hours and all the kids loved it, -seriously it was amazing- but it was a character from a Pixar film, and all I could hear was the parents whispering ‘It’s not a book though is it?’
So the moral is with dress-up day- as with life- if you’re going to challenge the rules, be flagrant and unapologetic, and no one will think the less of you, but make an effort to create something with love and you will be vilified on a technicality.
I get the sense people have started ‘humouring’ me.
I sometimes walk into a room and forget why I’ve gone in there, even when that room is the bathroom.
I’ve just used hand cream.
I’ve gone from thinking that politicians are bastards to
thinking they should die for their crimes.
I used to not wear make-up because didn’t have time, now I
don’t see the point. This is also true of hair removal, getting dressed and being sober.
Yesterday I got really, really, really angry about a
I calmed my rage by repotting seedlings.
My ‘going out shoes’ have been overtaken by my slippers
My slippers collection has been over taken by my ‘empty jars
that may come in handy’ box.
My ‘empty jars that may come in handy’ box has been over
taken by crippling anxiety when asked a direct question by a stranger.
Sometimes I think I’ll go out for a walk because it’s a nice
But then I don’t because my knee hurts a bit.
I don’t wax anymore because ‘making the skin taught’ requires clamping devices and now I don’t have any bulldog clips to use for work.
I used to worry that the kids would wet themselves while we were out. Now I worry I will.
Most of the time when I’m talking to people I am mentally creating a new cheese/biscuit based snack. As I write this, I’m coming up with advertising slogans. Actually this might not have anything to do with getting old. Because people of all ages love the cheesy sweet crunch of a Rich-Brie!©
Look, I know I’m probably not the target demographic, but did anyone else find the Beyoncé/Jay-Z performance at the Grammys a bit weird?
I didn’t watch the show, but the following day I was building up the leftie rage which drives me through the rest of the day by reading the Mail Online. They had their usual, written-in-crayon headline- ‘Sad day when our kids can’t watch the Grammys – Beyoncé slammed by parents.’
In true DM style there was the usual dodgy screen-grab of Beyoncé, with an arse you could rest a pint on, doing a terrible job of sitting on a chair. She wasn’t standing in front of a giant blower like she usually does whenever on stage, which is probably why her hair was wet, instead she was surrounded by smoke and low disco lights, reminiscent of every nightclub in Hull I’ve ever been to.
Wow, sleazy, slutty Beyoncé, with hair that looks she’s dipped her head in chip fat – this is going to be good, I thought as I clicked my way to Youtube. Unfortunately it really wasn’t. It wasn’t sexy it wasn’t hot, it wasn’t even artistically interesting. It was just a bit awkward.
If you haven’t seen it, don’t bother. Basically B slops around on a chair for a bit shouting into a microphone. You can’t make out all the words, but I think she’s talking about being a bit pissed in the kitchen (welcome to my world, love). Then her husband Jay-Z, comes onto stage and they slip into that ‘bloke stands there rapping while woman is next to him rubbing herself like she’s slapping on Vicks’ routine.
I got bored of this type of thing a while ago, I prefer the kind of dancing where people are dancing. A woman gyrating around a stock-still bloke, just reminds me of a pissed middle-aged couple at a wedding,- all a bit Abigail’s Party. I guess it’s perspective. I know the message of the Blurred Lines video is supposed to be ‘Look at us guys, we’re so damn sexy beautiful women want to prance naked around us’. The message I got was ‘Look at us guys, obviously we paid these women a lot of money to do this, please don’t laugh.’
The thing with Beyoncé & Jay-Z’s routine is that they are actually married, so it had a similar effect to when any couple starts going on about their sex lives – awkward. Then she starts calling him ‘Daddy’ and he starts going on about Ike Turner (which I’d like to think was a horrendous slip of the tongue, which Mr Z deeply regrets, because the idea of a man beating his wife to a pulp and slamming her face into a cake isn’t all that sexy actually). Generally the whole thing was an embarrassing case of over-share.
Beyoncé and Mr Beyoncé aren’t every couple though are they? They’re beautiful and rich and successful, which is probably why the crowd gave them a standing ovation. Maybe if I’d elevated them to the status of rutting gods, I’d have enjoyed the performance more too. Instead I found myself thinking of them as mere mortals. We’ve all had a shag in the kitchen, sometimes it’s because the bed’s full of kids, sometimes it’s because you haven’t got round to changing the sheets for a while and they’re getting a bit crunchy. Or, as in Beyoncé & Jay-Z’s case, they were too pissed to make it upstairs and- reading between the lines of the lyrics- at least one of them had wet themselves.
It didn’t do anything for me, but then I am a classy bird. I like a bit of mystery and innuendo in my award ceremony routines rather than the gritty reality of a drunken fumble. Is this graphically honest approach to their love life going to inspire them from now on? As we speak is Jay Z trying to think of witty rhymes for fanny fart? Is Beyonce’s next track going to be called ‘Thrush Tennis’ (You give it to me and I give it right back; Yeah baby like a tennis match; now I gotta itch that I just can’t scratch- wow, this stuff is gold).
I’m not sure, but after that performance, things are going to be a bit weird between me and Beyoncé & Jay-Z for a while, and I’m sure as hell not eating anything off that kitchen table of theirs.
I know I’m jumping into this debate a bit late, but last week it was announced that the city of culture for 2017 would be Hull. I lived there for a couple of years towards the end of the 20th century, and I refute the usual sneering from Brian Sewell types who claim that there is no culture outside of London, because they can’t be arsed to buy a railcard.
Hull is a strange place which keeps itself to itself. It is not the life and soul of the party, but while London, is telling anecdotes loudly in the middle of the room, Liverpool is getting a bit emotional in the kitchen and Manchester is making a giant bong in the bathroom (Birmingham hasn’t even been invited), Hull will be quietly hugging their pint and wishing they’d stayed at home.
I’m surprised Hull even went in for the title. It’s not like them to draw attention to themselves. Not shy or timid, it’s just that Hull doesn’t really care what the rest of the country thinks about them. They don’t need the approbation of other cities; they’re not ‘joiners’.
Hull has lots of things about it which make it unique; cream phone boxes; chip salt; the second most bombed city in the blitz; the impressive Humber Bridge, but tends not to go on about stuff like this. Not like Milton Keynes, give them a couple of cement cows and they’ll never let you forget about it. Hull doesn’t even bother pointing out that everyone’s getting its name wrong (Kingston upon Hull).
It’s the adopted home of Phillip Larkin, Stevie Smith was born there as was J Arthur Rank. They have the Hull Truck, The Beautiful South/Housemartins/Fat Boy Slim. Hullensians William Wilberforce abolished slavery and Amy Johnson flew the world.
This isn’t to say that the city is misunderstood, and is actually a playground of artists and poets. It is undeniably as rough as hell too. When I got the bus from the station, the next stop along was for the bus to Bransholme. The queue was half Crimewatch, half X Factor and all chav. Jeremy Kyle could save a fortune in researchers simply by hijacking the no 10 when he’s running low on material. There’s a month worth of shows in every one.
When I was there, there were some, probably apocryphal, stories about a spate of hammer attacks by locals on students. Perhaps their use of tools could be considered an evolutionary development, but probably not. Admittedly I was a student some time ago, but living in Hull then you did feel like something could kick off at any moment. Not in the ‘air of excitement’ sense, moreover that was part of everyday life, your bike gets nicked, your mate gets beaten up, it happens, nothing to make a fuss about. You quickly stop worrying about it.
Owing to its geography Hull is at the end of the line, and it can really feel like that sometimes, especially when you’re hit with the smell of the chocolate factory. You’d have thought a chocolate factory would smell sweet, but it doesn’t. It’s an acrid smell, like the burning hair of an oompa loompa.
Larkin said about Hull, ‘It is a little on the edge of things.’ and it is this stand-offishness which makes me look forward to it being the city of culture 2017. I can imagine Hull inviting visitors, to their museums, tourist attractions and festivals, and when the year is done, saying ‘You can all fuck off now.’ and quietly closing the door.