Unlucky 13

The story to have elicited the most euphemistic phrases from the paper in a good few weeks has be the hilarious story of the boy of 13 who knocked up his girlfriend. People have taken this as a symbol of a ‘Broken Britain.’ And I for one could not agree more. A 15 year old girl going out with a 13 year old boy? What has the world come to? At fifteen I would rather have been seen dead than dating someone younger than me.

So this wee young lad has been described alternately as “very young looking” and “who is 13 but looks more like 8” and even “barely four feet tall.” All marvelous euphemisms for the fact that no-one can quite believe that he managed to get a girl pregnant. As looking at the lad, he for all the world looks like his balls haven’t quite dropped yet.

It is also rather disturbing that they have called it Maisie – as they may well still watch the eponymous mouse orientated programme.

All Hail

I believe that there are three types of women in life.

1) The type of girl (and she really will always will be called a girl) that men instinctively want to protect. You know the sort – they are usually small, petite and for some reason always bloody brunette. Made to be ‘someone’s girlfriend’ they appear almost incomplete without a man by their side to make sure that life never really gets that stressful for them. One of life’s small yappy type dogs.

2) The one that you marry. While this may initially be a frustrating group to fall in, as often men will take one look at you and have a massive commitment freak out before even one word has been exchanged. This is ultimately a very smug category to occupy. When men start hitting the age where they think that they should actually do something about settling down – you really are quids in, and a proposal a week is probably about standard at this time.

3) The one that you just want to screw. Depending on your mindset, this is either the most fun or the most depressing one of the three. And I would guess that – fitting into this category myself – your mindset changes as often as the wind and it mostly just depends on how horny you are.

I suppose that this could be the modern day equivalent of the maid, the mother and the crone. And they do even bear some resemblance. The first is fragile and often naïve, the second loyal and loveable and the last scary and alone.

Something wicked this way comes…

The mean streets of South Ken

Readers – wish me luck – for tonight I am off to the Valentine’s night at Boujis. This is not just a pretentious London club – this is a valentines night in a pretentious London club. [I have always wanted a sex shop to come out with the slogan – ‘This is not just a porn house – this is an S&M porn house’ – or something else hilarious and to that effect.]

It is of course free for women all evening – naturally. One does not go to these sorts of clubs to pay for ones own drinks. Pang tastes so much better when it's free darling.

However, one does have to put up with the men. Highly bred, and low mannered that they are. One does also have to put up with their almost constant attempts to try and sleep with you. Funny as ineptitude is, there did come a point a few weeks ago when one particular young man tried to chat me up twice in one hour – using the same line. It became less amusing at this point, and I seriously considered becoming a lesbian for a good half an hour.

You never know – with Prince Harry newly single…. I might even get the opportunity to get ineptly chatted up by a member of the royal family. Perhaps I should be mildly racists quite loudly just in case it gets me noticed?

My Bloody Valentine

I have been getting a large number of increasingly frantic requests from journalists looking for 'credit crunch Valentine's buys.' The reason why I image that they are getting increasingly more desperate is that there isn't really anything under a tenner that you could buy your loved one for the most romantic day of the year, that wouldn't result in getting a big slap and a sulking partner because everyone else in the office had been sent a big fuck-off bouquet of flowers and jewelry.

I have therefore come up with a few suggestions that I think will help out all those in need.

Blokes - you are always going to have your classic - knob wrapped in a ribbon. Ribbon these days is relatively cheap, but a quick word of warning not to go for any start colours that may clash with your skin tine, or anything with sparkles. I would suggest a quick pre-purchase check, but I have asked Peter Jones and apparently they frown upon partial nudity in their shops.

Girls - say it with me 'Nothing says I love you like a blowjob.' Alternatively give your boyfriend the gift of certainty, and become 100% sure that you could not get pregnant by having a bit of cheeky bum sex. 

Look out for these handy tips in no publications. My helpful suggestions have been met with stoney silence from all corners. 

Good golly miss molly

I am sure that you have seen all the news/ heard all the news/ witnessed the news as it marches past your offices in disgust of the news – of Carol Thatcher and Gollywog-gate.

What I really really want all this to be about, is an ingenious marketing gimmick from Robinsons, to bring back their ‘Golden Shred’ marmalade. Think about how many pictures of it you have seen recently…
Persuasive as an idea I think.

When I was younger I took great joy in collecting all the little tokens from the side of their jam pots, and have a number of little gollywog badges that I treasured, and still have somewhere in a box of ‘stuff’ that was valued when young. Perhaps this is what Robinsons are again trying to achieve. Whatever the connotations behind the image – it is iconic. Think Che Guevara on a T-shirt. Worn by almost every student ever, and often by those with no real concept of why or what he did with his life in any great detail. The same goes for all those who have Chairman Mao stamped paraphernalia. This man killed many millions of his own people – but hell, he looks great on a lunch-box.

Rant and rail against it if you will, but the image of a gollywog is now iconic, and should Robinsons have wanted to remind people of their brand one of the best ways to ensure maximum coverage could well have been to create news around an iconic image widely associated with their products.
Risky – but still a great idea guys.

We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt.

I feel I cannot but write something about the snow over the past few days. If the journalists of every major national newspaper can think that it is worth a few lines, then who am I to say any different. Well – I do secretly think that –
‘Shock – Britain has weather’
is not really news as such. However, spending your day trying to persuade journalists to write about what you want them to write about you do learn a thing or two about what they believe the British public will want to read about. Which is often -sadly - what the British public really will want to read about.

I am sort of at a loss for anything original to say – aren’t we all. Yes – it took me a long time to get to work, yes I was bitter that two of my housemates stayed at home and played in the snow, and yes it did start to look horrible about half an hour after it had landed, and living just of Mile End I think I saw the worst of what it could look like!!

Perhaps all I can think to write about is the fact that there is no news. Only ‘olds’ as Mr Pratchett would have it. It is no shock that the trains didn’t work. People were always going to build little men/ women out of it with often hilarious resemblances to either celebs or genitalia. Yes – it is very cold. Gosh – was it really not this cold for a few years? And someone slightly famous was always going to do something slightly silly – so hats off to David Cameron for getting in there so quickly with his ‘man of the people’ snowball fight.

I would go and die of dyspepsia, but it would be so cliché the very thought fills me with despair. It is said that to appreciate the beauty of a snowflake, one must stand in the cold. To this is say - bugger that for a lark, and remain inside with my paper and my cynicism.