5 things the internet is telling me to do today, that I will not be doing

Hi, everyone, it’s Saturday.

This is a list of things that I, after careful consideration, will NOT be doing today.

  1. Applying contouring makeup.

“Highlighting and contouring are two crafty li’l tricks that you can use to enhance your bone structure and make it look like you’re constantly under the most flattering movie lighting possible. Even if you’re not going to an event, it’s fun to experiment with elements of ~drama~ in your makeup.  Let’s get to it!

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I mean, we all know this isn’t happening today. Or ever. Right?

2. Making miniature Eggs Benedict canapé ‘bites’ out of quails eggs.

“These impressive bites will be the talk of the party!”

Probably not, though, if we’re honest? And if this is the case, then we are really talking about a party I very much do not want to be at.

3. Embracing the hottest summer fashion trends for 2017

Including ruffles, ‘deconstructed shirts’, and all-over floral. “Basically, if you’re not wearing ruffles, you might as well stay indoors.’ says Glamour magazine (incorrectly).IMG_0925.PNG

It seems like, actually, if I AM wearing ruffles, I’ll look like I’m going to a matador-themed night at a gay club, which -sadly -is not on my agenda for today. (Oh and, I’ll save you the trouble of finding out for yourself: the head-to-toe floral looks QUITE ridiculous).

Plus, WTF dudes, it’s not summer yet! Nothing is sadder than a woman shivering at the No.36 bus stop in a ‘deconstructed’ shirt…her sad, soggy pointy sleeves losing a flappy battle against rainy gusts of wind.

Nobody wants to be that woman, right? No! Come on. Throw on some jeans and a cardigan, and stop being a dick.

4. Getting into Crossfit.

OOoh what is Crossfit, I hear literally nobody say?

CrossFit is a strength and conditioning programme that prepares you for anything that life can throw at you. It is also an incredible community of people who support each other, work hard and achieve amazing results….Routine is the enemy, every time you come to a class you will be doing something different that will test you in a way you have never been tested before says my local Crossfit club.

Gosh, wish I could. But this hot croissant with softly melting butter won’t eat itself, sadly,

gotta go

brb

5. Recreating cinema-inspired sex positions to give my guy a thrill

For EG, to evoke Keira Knightley and James McAvoy’s sex scene in Atonement:

“Wear your finest British 1930s attire and head to your in-home library. If your library is closed for dusting or something, have your man press you fully clothed up against the kitchen counter. Hike up your gown, wrap your legs around him, and kiss like you’ve been desperate for him for years.”

Oh, shit, a GOWN you said? I was picturing myself posed seductively against our Ikea bookshelves, doing my come-hither eyes, in some tweed golfing knickerbockers, two-toned shoes and a flat cap…until you ruined it with the whole GOWN thing, jeez.

I guess I won’t bother then.

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Brexit: The Musical

The slightly sing-song cadence and rhythm of Theresa May’s catchphrase when she says these words…

“Brexit…means…Brexit. (Pause) And WE’RE going to make a success of it.” (1.10, this video)

…has been rattling around in my head for a few months. It sounds like she’s about to break into a full-on jazz hands number.

Waiting around in an airport with my partner, sleep deprived, this idea became a quite lengthy synopsis for a very terrible production of ‘Brexit: The Musical’.

Waiting now for this to catch the attention of some big players in the West End and at some point I’m sure the royalties will come pouring in.

Opening scene

Dark, empty bar with just one barman silently cleaning glasses. An old man sits alone in the spotlight at a table, nursing a pint. He wears a tattered shirt, no jacket and a Union Jack tie.

Another old man, better dressed in a posher suit, enters. The spotlight follows him as he slowly approaches the other characters. 

Posh Man: I say, is anyone sitting here? [does double take] Oh. Farage. [pause] It’s been a long time. How…are you?

Farage: Cameron. Well, I’ll be damned. How have you been? Continue reading

Suffering from Post-Brexit brain fever

Here are some lyrics the Killers wrote and then crossed out:

I’ve got Docs, but I’m not a doctor.

I’ve got a neck, but I’m not a necrophiliac.

I’ve got legs, but I’m not a legislator.

I’ve got plums, but I’m not a plumber.

I’ve got mince, but I’m not a minstrel.

I’ve got toes, but I’m not a toaster.

I’ve got soup, but I’m not a supermodel.

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Today I heard Donald Trump described as looking like ‘the guy who would play the president in a porno’.

I don’t know who said it, but I like it, and am therefore making a note of it.

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Here in Britain, we’ve been experiencing a huge influx of slugs and snails (Screw you, Brussels bureaucrats- thank the heavens we’ve now put a stop to the insanity and taken back control!)

My partner and I have been trying to defend our garden, but each morning we go out and the veggies and clematis and other vulnerable plants have just been decimated. Sometimes it’s literally just a twig that’s left, surrounded by slime, as if to taunt us. It made pure hatred boil up in our hearts. (No, I don’t think that’s too melodramatic a phrase.)

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Am I a ‘Cool Girl’?

Evolution From an Unexpected Source

By now you may be familiar with the ‘Cool Girl’ speech from the hit book and Hollywood Blockbuster, Gone Girl:

“Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend…

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14 headlines you’ll never see at Cosmo

Get Crafty! Teach Yourself Eugenics

Ten Easy Tips To Recreate Hillary Clinton’s Look! (You Don’t Have To Break Glass Ceilings to Break Out The Pants Suits!)

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Men Spill: What They’re REALLY Thinking When They’re Following You Down A Dark Alley, Carrying A Knife

It’s Winter, It’s Time for Smoky Eyes (Like You Needed Any Fucking Encouragement From Us)

“I Plumbed My Way To A Diamond Ring!” DIY Tips From Cosmo Readers That Will Hook Your Man

Ten Catholic Missionaries Tell Us Their Favourite Sex Position (Nope… It’s Not What You Think!)

5 Ways To Make Your Eyebrows Look Insane

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Get Him Hot And Horny With Rhetorical Devices!

  • One Girl Spills All About Her Hot Litotes Experience: “He Was Not Fully Unerect”
  • Is Bathos Really An Anti-Climax? We Grill Our Resident Cosmo Men!
  • Quiz: What Does Your Irony Style Say About You? (MMM! Can You Say…Sar-gasm?)!

Are My Vaginal Lips Normal? (Yes, Technically, But They Look A Bit Weird To Us)

Real Life: “I Did A Poo On Canterbury High Street’

Are Multiple Orgasms A Myth? We Put It To The Test With Ten UK MPs!

Primer: How To Identify It- And How To Avoid It

Pretend To Be A Wizard Using Mascara (Why Not? It’s A Wand!)

Beyonce’s Political Stances: We Ask Her The Tough Questions (Yes- Including VPL)!

Note: my partner Dan gets due credit here for the Catholic missionaries.

 

My top 5 nightmares, ranked in order of how much of a dick my brain is for creating them

Recently, I awoke my partner in the dead of night by making a high-pitched noise, over and over directly into his ear. I was woken myself by his startled voice. “What’s wrong?! Stop it!”

What I was doing, was trying to scream, in my dream. It turns out that when you’re asleep, and in your dream you’re trying hard to scream but not making any noise except a weird high yowling noise and you can’t seem to form words- try as you might- for your information, what’s happening in real life is you are weebly-warbling like an insane baby owl.

In my defense, I was having a nightmare and was just screaming myself awake, in an attempt to get out of a trap constructed by my own brain. Nightmares, one of the drawbacks of being a sentient human.

Figure 1 shows the classic ‘screaming yourself awake’ tactic of escaping nightmares.

Here are my top 5 nightmares in order, where 1 is “unnecessarily awful” and 5  is “yeeeeeeep why the hell was that necessary brain why why why are you such a bellend now I have to put my light on and read a chapter of Winnie the Pooh”.

1. Velociraptor outside bedroom door (aged 10-12)

Standard “I went to see Jurassic Park” brain clusterfuck.

2. Wandering through darkened hallways with silent man in bowler hat lurking in shadows and general sense of threat and foreboding, before something awful happens like I’m grabbed around the ankles by skeletal hands (starting about age 15 when I used to read a lot of detective and ghost stories)

Sometimes this one starts off perfectly nicely and then turns into this. Screw you, brain.

3. Evil, blond glamorous witch woman holds me down and slices my breasts and lips off with a sharp knife, or sometimes cuts my guts open, after chasing me through my house or school or something (aged mid-twenties)

Come on. Seriously?

4. The Friendly Quinkins (aged between 5 and 10)

I grew up in Australia. The Quinkins are creatures from Aboriginal dreamtime myth, made famous in picture books which were available in my school library. The Quinkins, so legend goes, live in the trees and rocks, of the outback. There are three kinds of Quinkin. One group steals children- I think they eat them, but anyway, they aren’t nice. The other group are supposed to be friendly and helpful to people, and help protect the children, if I recall. There’s one big giant Quinkin, Turramulli, that’s basically a bloodthirsty ogre stalking the land.

My nightmares were never about the scary Quinkins. Instead, as I walked through the dried grass of my own garden, friendly Quinkins, the Timara, suddenly reached out from behind trees and touched me with their bony arms. I would turn to see their insect-blank white eyes and pinhead-faces gazing at me. I would freak the hell out and wake up panting with terror.

Although my brain is definitely a dick for presenting me with this turd of a night-time experience, its also, IMO, not entirely my idiot brain’s fault.

 

The Timara (good quinkins) dance as the Imjim (children stealer quinkins) watch

 

Note to children’s book illustrators and also Aboriginal dreamtime cave painting artists on whose work I imagine their illustrations are based: FRIENDLY MYTHICAL CREATURES SHOULD LOOK FRIENDLY, NOT LIKE HORRIFIC SKELETAL ALIENS THAT YOU CAN IMAGINE CHUCKLING QUIETLY WHILE YOU SWIVEL IN FRONT OF THEM IMPALED ON A SPIKE


5. General sense of death closing its grip around me, in the form of approaching serial killer (basically since hitting 30)

One of these little beauties is what brought on 3am crazy yowling.

They differ in setting- sometimes I’m in a house or hotel- but are always in essence the same.

I am walking through a silent underpass, concreted and industrial. There is a train track overhead but no trains in sight. I have come to find something, or someone, or to get away from a busy crowd. The world is peaceful and quiet.

Suddenly a thump in the dust. A body of a man has landed at my feet, from somewhere above. From where I stand, I can see his jaw and his closed eye clearly, his body leaning towards me. He is grey, with tinges of green on his skin, and has clearly been dead some time. As I look around for help, I notice that there are bodies everywhere, tucked into gutters or leaning on walls, just quietly. Nothing is moving. I know that they have all died from the same threat. I know it’s coming to get me. I know that in the crowd I just left behind, there’s people that can help, but they might not come fast enough.

I look up and silhouetted in the light at the other side of the underpass is a dark figure. It’s not coming for me yet, but it will. I begin to scream, because I know that screaming will wake me up and I can escape.

My point: why the actual FUCK is that necessary, brain?

I know I’m going to die, thank you soooo much. You don’t need to constantly pop up and remind me of it like Adobe Acrobat trying to get me to install software updates.

If you could JUST POSSIBLY spend a LITTLE BIT more time on the ‘Jake Gyllenhaal’s naked back and shoulder muscles rippling as he towels dry after a shower’ aspect of dream-making, and a LITTLE LESS time manufacturing hellish visions and unspeakable feelings of terror, to try and make me have an actual wheezing heart attack in bed, I think we’d all be a LOT happier, don’t you?

Jesus.

Thanks for the creme egg, Red Sandy: sex clubs, reviewed

Note: NSFW, or people who are bothered by discussion of kinky sex practices. (Other people’s,  not mine!)

 

Those of you who read my blog will know that I occasionally enjoy browsing through online reviews for supermarkets left by Bristolians with not a lot better to do (see here and here).

I’ve recently taken a slightly new direction in time-wasting. It started when I realised that one of Bristol’s notorious local sex clubs, The Office, has plenty of reviews left for it on dedicated swingers’ message boards. This then led me down an internet rabbit hole.

Since, as I discovered, sex clubs are expensive, people don’t want to pay to get into a dud one. (A dud sex club is apparently one where loads of old fat guys stand around, drinking Stella and crowding round one sagging plastic-sheeted bed watching one presumably discombobulated-but-enthusiastic couple politely ignore them from the missionary position). So online reviews of sex clubs are both comprehensive and detailed across the country, as people try and work out what they should do with their weekends.

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The Office sex club, Bristol. Turns out not to be well reviewed, despite the ambitiously in-your-face decor

This all makes me very happy. It turns out that with a bottle of red wine on hand, I can get lost in reading sex club reviews for, well, a bit too long. There’s just something about the banal precision of the way people describe all the facilities, coupled with the arresting details of people’s presumably hot and sticky nights of glitter-covered group sex on revolving beds, that I find both diverting and inspirational. To think that I spend my evenings out drinking G&Ts and talking about whether George Ferguson screwed up by introducing resident’s parking zones.

So, welcome to the world of online sex club reviews. I’ll give you a tour.

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