#parentwordsforsex

I love the sorts of conversations you're having in public, and you know that other people are listening and are clearly laughing along.

I had one of these sorts of conversations last Saturday night in a lift. Don't ask me why but for some reason I found myself turning to my friend and asking her about her parents words for sex. I have no idea where the conversation sprang from, but it happened, and frankly, it was hilarious. It has also grown into something so much bigger it's caused me to write this post.

So, parents words for sex. Or, as I've desperately been trying to get trending on twitter #parentswordsforsex

It's my theory that all parents have them, use them and are advocates of them. My parents may be more repressed than the average bunch and it's possible I've a distorted warped view of the world having been packed off to boarding school as a child with my only nourishment being laughing cow sandwiches. However, I'm confident that there are other parents out there, and indeed, other children who were brought up on papayas and herrings who also endured the murky period of time of strange code, euphemism and frankly downright confusion some of the time.

So far we have:

Bonking - a classic, I'm fairly sure this is standard practice used up and down the country. Expectant mothers are probably taught it in ante natal classes. You know when you're trying to think about all that breathing you were taught and "how to find your happy place" I bet all that bullshit leaves you in the heat of the moment and you find yourself thinking of words you can use as euphemisms for sex to your child so they'll be so put off it they will never ever go through what you are doing.

Rumpy Pumpy. Disturbing, frankly, the kind of word a pervvy uncle uses after one too many sloe gins and after everyone has finished having a good laugh at the Dorset Knobs your mother has just produced to go with the cheese. Also, correct pronunciation needs lots of 'R's. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrumpy pumpy. Shudder.

HOW'S YOUR FATHER. My personal favourite. Feels like the kind of word I might use if I was discussing sex in Waitrose. Which I do, frequently, y'know, FOR KICKS. In all seriousness though, comedy gold. I'm going to reintroduce this. Admittedly I have literally nothing in common with "the kids" but if I was a member of their team or gang, I'd be all over saying how's your father.

After this, it basically descended into: how many different words for having sex can you name. The list was fairly extensive and used all the obvious ones like shagging etc. However, as it went on and on and the more obscure words used started to appear we did somehow manage to stumble upon one which, is actually a very strong contender for how's your father as the all time greatest euphemism for having sex, ever.

Peter up the Pantry.

Special thanks to Green Wing for that gem, and of course, a huge shout out to Dr Alan Statham. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BwryAppHAHg

(disclaimer: I couldn't actually find the clip of him saying "Peter up the pantry" I just think this is hilarious.

Leveson: the secret story

A little behind the times with this post, the media has now moved on from the Leveson enquiry and is consumed with mocking Nick Clegg, weeping about Jeremy Hunt and, if you're the Daily Mail, exposing the dangers of fake tan.

I've been meaning to write a blog about this for a while. I will leave my actual opinions and comment for badly articulated ranting sessions in the pub though and take this opportunity to expose a little known fact about the news of the world which, shockingly has been utterly and ruthlessly ignored by the press. Not just by the press in fact, but also by the internet at large. The internet, of which 99% is dedicated to fucking CATS, because evidently there really is nothing better to talk about.

So brace yourselves, this is big.

My dad was hacked by the News of the World.

I know. It's huge.

Actually, it's not, as I'm not even entirely sure they actually fully hacked in, but there was a definite attempt. Also it makes a more interesting story.

Just to give you some background info on my Dad in case anyone starts presuming he's some secret agent or  a cousin of the queen who no one talks about. He's really not. He's an accountant, who lives in South Northamptonshire who likes reading. I'm obviously incredibly biased towards him given I'm his daughter and all, but he really is brill. However, regardless of how wonderful I think he is and and all, I really can't imagine why he would ever EVER be hacked into. So this got me thinking about the possible range of voicemails which they might have had the pleasure and thrill of listening to, and the related headlining stories that would also be broken.

Just to give you a bit of background, my Dad is the type of phone user who only turns it on when he needs to make a call, so voicemails rarely get listened to or noticed. The News of the World probably trawled through a fair few before realising there was literally nothing interesting to glean. Although the reality is, there are probably only two types of voicemail which my dear Dad is ever actually left.

The first: instructions from the mothership. The mothership is a commander, a leader, and having been married for 25+ years, she is aware of just how useless my Dad is at shopping. I have lost count of the number of times he has been dispatched to the supermarket with a shopping list of eggs, milk, coriander, fabric softener and orange juice, only to turn up with eggs, the wrong type of milk, chives, bleach and tropical juice (logic: there was no orange juice but at least this has orange in it).

It is very necessary therefore to leave strict instructions re: what to do in case the strictly listed items aren't there. In a voicemail. Which, chances are, won't get heard. ONE MUST TRY THOUGH.

Imagine:

BREAKING NEWS: Man buys SKIMMED MILK from Waitrose.

I'd buy that.

The other which I suspect they may have had to sit through can be traced back to my brother and I. This headline though would probably have struck a cord with a huge amount of the population. I'm not going to give this any background or explanation, in fact, they probably would have struggled to get a story out of it because really, what else is there to say apart from:

OFFSPRING RINGS PARENT, ASKS FOR MONEY.

Bloody typical.

Do you know what I love?

Well if you've come within 15 feet of me you'll probably be aware that I love Fleetwood Mac, dinosaurs and Roman Emperors. Pretty much in that order.

If you'd come a bit closer, say 2 or 3 feet...you may have heard my other great love blasting out from my headphones. That would be: power ballads.

I freaking love power ballads. I'm talking about true power ballads which make you want to do things like lunge, spontaneously; look meaningfully and distantly into the air; power grab like your life depends on it and of course, the hair toss.

One of the main reasons I love power ballads is just purely for the lack of a requirement of dignity of any kind. I'm not a dignified person. I'm not even going to give examples of this, please just accept it as fact. Which is why power ballads are the perfect thing for someone like me. No one looks dignified whilst singing along passionately to power ballads. Need an example? MEATLOAF.

Power ballads are what I use to drag myself through each day. How would I ever get out of bed if I didn't have a rousing version of Tina Tuner telling me I'm simply the best circulating round and round my head? How would I ever go into work and sit mindlessly typing about things without the occasional blast of Bonnie Tyler. I just wouldn't, it's as simple as that. Power ballads are like my caffeine, my lucozade. MY CRACK. Ok, slight exaggeration maybe.

The other thing I love about PB (yes) is the unity they inspire in others. I'm fairly convinced that it's literally impossible not to love power ballads. If I wasn't so chronically lazy, I'd probably tempted to do some actual bone fide research into that, or like, write a paper or whatever. But realistically, that's never going to happen. What I will tell you is that there are certain situations through which basic human nature sometimes just shine through. Take the London Underground. Regardless of how many hours you are trapped underground, and regardless of how long it's been since you tasted air which wasn't tinged by BO from the businessmans armpit in you face...you will never say a word. And nor will anyone else. Basic human nature kicking in there, it's just instinct. Like breathing in and out.

The same happens when you're in a club and a power ballad comes on. Everyone with a voice will stop whatever they're doing, turn, raise their hands into the air and scream "choooon!!", this will then be followed by huge scenes of celebration as everyone hugs at the prospect of the approaching noise and...well we all know what happens next. Blissful happiness. Euphoria.

One final point. You can have a conversation through power ballads. I once had a genuine e-mail conversation with a friend of mine about a night out we were planning.

X:  it's going to be... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GC5E8ie2pdM
Y: I'm going to have thehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUoDaCH1MJM
X:  After all http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TxGGckAc1rs
Y: And ://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0w5s6V8rQH4
X: we're into the http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyggY_R3jU8
Y: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vo_0UXRY_rY
X:  just http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfUYuIVbFg0
Y: I have http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4QK8RxCAwo that it's gonna be awesome.
X: Power ballads sure are http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkADj0TPrJA

Total eclipse of the heart anyone?

50 Shades of Grey: The review

So like the rest of the oestrogen populated population I decided to buy into the whole 50 shades of grey phenomenon to see what the fuss was about. I'd heard a variety of different things such as:

Twilight with sex
So much shagging it has caused a baby boom
It is igniting the spark in marriages up and down the country
Self published
Kinky.

What's not to like? I mean, I hate Twilight with a heat hotter than the very pit of hell itself. I've actually banned from watching it in company because I just can't contain my sarcasm/burning hatred and as funny as my comments may be (I think) apparently they can ruin the "experience" for others. I did try and read the books, I once found myself stranded with nothing to read except the blasted thing and despite most of my time being taken up marvelling in the fact that the situation I was in WAS my very own personal hell, I did eventually give it a bash. I'd say I made it about 5 pages in before I found my eyes being drawn to the drying paint on the wall next to me and that was it. It was so much more gripping I just couldn't bring myself to force myself to carry on reading about the trials and tribulations of the most boring character ever created.

You see, Anastasia Steele (fucking idiot extraordinaire) and protagonist of 50 shades of grey isn't boring. Well, actually she is, she is very boring, but what overshadows this characteristic is how overwhelming, blood boiling annoying she is.

Imagine the other most annoying person in the world: The Go Compare Tenor dude (big shout out to Sue Barker for taking him out, ledge). I would happily spend the rest of my life with him, marry him, have little singing children and spend Sundays harassing people who are washing their cars with him, husband and life partner rather than even share a fucking tube carriage with Anastasia Steele.

As far as I was concerned, one of the main selling points of 50 Shades is the sex which from what I'd heard was literally all there was, with the plot essentially being "how much sex can two people have in 400 pages". Imagine my disappointment then when I had to trawl through half of the first book before anything happened. One friend of hers called "Jose" does lunge at her (kudos Jose, who doesn't love a lunge) and she rebuffs him as if he'd just come at her with a syringe of heroin. Poor Jose. That's pretty much the most exciting thing which happens for approx THREE HUNDRED PAGES. The rest of this is filled with different adjectives for "hot". Christian Grey is apparently "frighteningly good looking" you see, so this needs a lot of emphasis. Clearly written on the presumption that the reader is as stupid as the protagonist everything is written convincingly in the style of a moron. Here is an example:

"I decided to get into my car and go for a drive. A car is a mechanical vehicle which can take you to where you need to go faster than walking or a segway. I only ever drive mine at the recommended speed limit of 40mph though. I care about the dolphins and don't want to pollute their water."

This is admittedly, a mild diversion from the text BUT THERE ARE TIME THAT IT FEELS JUST LIKE THAT. i.e torturous. 

Anyway, eventually she meets Christian Grey, who is all tortured and spends vast sections of dialogue stopping mid sentence to gaze off into space and look all intense and thoughtful. It becomes very evident that he is clearly just killing time before he can pounce and shag her again and that "gazing into the distance" is actually just a move so that he can ensure enough time has passed and it is socially acceptable for him to try and jump her.

The very worst experience I've had relating to 50 shades was not actually related to the reading. Rather (shamefully)... it was related to the listening. Yes, I've listened to the audiobook of 50 shades of grey. I hasten to add that I wasn't the one which bought it. One of my good friends (mentioning no names but she's quite the big name...) did, on her father's credit card no less. That's going to be an entertaining morning when her Dad receives that statement. £17.99 spent on Fifty Shades of Grey, the audiobook. ALL SEVENTEEN HOURS OF IT.

Seventeen hours. We had a total of approximately 16 hours of driving in total and I'd say we powered through about 6 hours of it before I literally had to stop the car and say "Turnitoffturnitoffturnitoff -breath- ImgoingtohurtsomeoneifIhavetolistentoanymoreofthis".

Don't get me wrong, it was entertaining at least - mainly I'd say because we were mocking ruthlessly throughout but the woman reading it did not have a voice which inspired you to keep reading. If anything, the fact that we powered through so much of this monotonous droning detritus is actually a credit to us. Well done team! What actually finished me off in the end was the e-mails. Anastasia and Mr Grey e-mail. Which in itself is impressive given that she is so dense I honestly wonder how she can string two words together let alone spell and compose sentences. Anyway, intelligent enough both of them may be to able to write e-mails and the such like, but neither of them have been able to master basic e-mailing.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but my e-mails tend to be something similar to the following:

From: Anna Horsley
To: Friend A
Subject: Friday night

Hello Friend A,
Free for drinks on Friday night?
H

From: Friend A
To: Anna Horsley
Subject: RE: Friday night

Yes I am.


From: Anna Horsley
To: Friend A
Subject: Re: Re: Friday night
Great!
H

Admittedly it's pretty boring. Yes, I know, Jesus not all of us are "trendy and hip". But it's better than this:

From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Safe arrival?
To: Christian grey

Dear Sir,
Please let me know that you have arrived blah blah blah

From: Christian Grey
Subject: Sorry
To: Anastasia Steele

(paraphrasing) Yes I have arrived sorry for not letting you know. I am a bad, bad man. yak yak yak etc

From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: The Situation
To: Christian grey

From: Christian Grey
Subject: Pleading the Fifth
To: Anastasia Steele

From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Pleading insanity
To: Christian grey

I could write an entire BOOK about how stupid an annoying it is to change the fucking subject of each e-mail. What is the point? Surely they'll figure out the bloody subject by reading the e-mail?! What is wrong with hitting reply like everyone else using e-mail on the planet? I nearly drove off the road at various points I was so cross at this.

I have somehow ended up with the other 2 books of this bloody trilogy. I just don't think I will ever muster the energy to read it, I genuinely feel like every page kills more of my already preciously limited brain cells. If I run out of paint to watch dry though - rest assured... you'll hear my thoughts about it.

Signing off,
H

Bridget's Cousin

I’ve titled this post “Bridget’s cousin” because I identify so much with the great Bridget Jones. I’m like Bridget Jones…only with less than half the success rate in everything I do. Maybe it’s down to my flirting…allow me to elaborate. I'm not good at flirting. I'm not a 'flirt'. I've never, ever purred seductively or whispered huskily. I've read a ton of trashy novels which have only helped to cement this opinion. Whilst fictional India may well be able to seduce fictional Ivan in a vowel like heaven with a bat of her eyelids, I cannot. Believe me, I've tried. I've tried...and I've failed.

Such is the extent of my inability to flirt that it reaches past the usual median of face to face conversation and wrecks my chances even when attempts are made through indirect communication. I am of course referring to texting and text flirting.

I've recently been engaging (or attempting to engage is probably a more accurate description) in some light-hearted “text flirting”. I'm officially crap at it, it's really not one of my talents and I'll be the first to admit it. I've recently looked back through some of my past outpourings and can't think of an occasion where I've cringed more. 

Yes, I know, everyone is terrible when they booze and text. No one is safe from humiliating themselves when alcohol is involved. I just seem to take it to a whole new level. Whilst recently engaging with some mild flirtation I somehow managed to deftly move the conversation away from anything remotely promising...and focus it upon politics. Then in a typically cack-handed attempt to bring it back around to something slightly more promising...ended a text with something along the lines of "anyway, I'm going to be voting Green next time! I like Green! My eyes are green...haha!"

I’m just going to allow this to sink in before I say…

WHAT. WHAT. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME???? That's just a statement of FACT. It's like I'm filling in a driving license or applying for an identity card. That's the best I can do? How was the poor bastard even supposed to respond to that? "Green eyes turn me on etc etc" No. Because I'd think he was a freak and would never text him again. He clearly thought I was borderline insane as well, as wisely he didn't reply. Another one bites the dust. 

A friend of mine recently told me that when she was once engaging in the dizzy all consuming passion of romance, it was before mobile phones had yet to be invented...so her and her boyfriend were reduced to sending impassioned and seductive messages to each ones respective pager.

Does anyone remember pagers? I had one for a while, fuck knows why. The only messages I'd ever get were from my mum saying things like "You left your pencil case at home. LOL". (NB LOL in this instance I interpreted as "Lots of love" rather than, "you left your pencil case at home, lol fool." At least I hope my mother wasn't laughing at me, I'm not sure how savvy she is when it comes to "TXT SPK".

Anyway with pagers, you had to call up an operator, aka another human being and effectively dictate your message to them. They would then read it back to you, you'd grunt and it would be off into the electronic ether. CAN YOU IMAGINE, effectively calling up a total stranger and having to be all "Hello, yes, I'd like to send a page please...Ummm, I totally love you babez and wish you were here lol" or whatever the usual drivel is. Jesus I'm so glad I never endured anything like that. I hardly ever used my pager, I used to get my kicks from calling up the speaking clock and swearing at it before hanging up as fast as I could. They were pretty crazy days, I'll tell you. Maybe I should stick to communicating with the talking clock in future. At least there are limited chances of me humiliating myself? I can just foresee the chat:

"So whatcha up to tonight..?"

"The time now is 14:00 hours"

"Filthy"

Time to buy a cat. 

Seriously though...

So I rarely blog about anything serious, or venture any form of opinion which veers too far away from vague enough to go unnoticed (on this blog).

However, today I am making an exception to the rule.

My motivations for venturing into such wild and unchartered territory have been prompted because of a significant shift in my political standpoint. I recently tore up and defiled my membership card to the Tory party and have written a letter in response to their request for renewal expressing my opinions, and I wanted to share them on this blog.

This will be frustratingly inarticualte, confused and reassuringly vague. If you don't like it, I suggest clicking on your back browser. VIVA FREE SPEECH.

So, my motivations for this shift are as follows:

Well the straw(s) which broke the camels back were the proposed charity tax (see http://giveitbackgeorge.org/) and that the government is threatening to read our e-mails. That really pissed me off. Freedom of speech and the right to privacy are incredibly important to me (stemmed from my time spent working at a freedom of expression organisation Index on Censorship). And these basic principles and freedoms are also core ideologies of Liberalism and Conservatism. I always think of myself as more of a Libertarian than a Conservative, so this threat to freedom did not sit well to me. It's also a case of barefaced hypocrisy on behalf of the Coalition, going against both of their ideologies.


The Charity Tax is just another example of a poor budget. A budget which hasn't been thought through and has shown not a glimmer of consideration for actual people living in Britain. I find the so-called 'Granny Tax' a shameful scapegoating of older generations and the charity tax is just unbelievable.What's even more frustrating is just the arrogance to totally ignore the outcrys of so many organisations and philanthropists. Speaking of badly thought though and terribly executed brings me onto the cuts.

Now, initially I didn't overly disagree with the cuts, I agreed that they needed to happen and that it was going to be brutal. What I don't agree with is how quickly and deeply they have been made. I have witnessed the charity sector be frankly savaged by the cuts, and I can't support that. Don't talk to me about Big Society when the government is evidently doing everything it can to leave this Big Society wheezing, crippled, in a field facing the wrong direction.

My ranting has predominantly been inspired by the backlash from the terrible results in the local election. I doubt anyone was particularly surprised, apart from maybe the Penguin in Scotland to have received more votes than the Lib Dem candidate. But what I've been left feeling, surprising though it may be is thank god for the Lib Dems. Yes, they have been repeatedly publicly humiliated and personally I wonder if they'll even get enough votes to warrant being a party when the next election comes...BUT the thought of them not being there, frankly, terrifies me. I don't think they're given enough credit for what they're doing behind the scenes, ie hauling the Tories back to somewhere vaguely respectable this side of being "downright fascist". As an (ex) card carrying member of the Tory party, I shouldn't be left feeling so deeply concerned by the prospect of a single-party governemnt. But the damage which has already been done, not to mention the backbench backlash following the local elections has only confirmed my fears.

I genuinely despise the fact that the first thing the backbenchers call upon Cameron to start backing down upon is gay rights and gay marriage. It's just beyond my comprehension. Britain should be leading the way in terms of equal rights - given how appalling some of the oppressions in other parts of Europe are, the back benchers shouldn't have the clout to beat progress back with a (literal and metaphorical) right hook.

Finally, the sleaze. The sleaze and u-turns have plagued this government from the very beginning. Andy Coulson, Jeremy Hunt, cosy dinners with the Murdochs and Rebecca Brooks...it just goes on and on. The results of the Leveson enquiry will make more gripping reading. Maybe Cameron will eventually get around to having a "little chat" with Jeremy Hunt. Something along the lines of "Sorry Jerrers, times up old boy". I'm keeping my fingers firmly crossed on this one.

So, there you have it. I know I haven't comprehensively explained myself but I hope that it resonates that there have just been too many issues for me to deal with. Next blog will be cheerier, I hope.

Signing off,
H

Tube life

A very good friend of mine is totally unabashed regarding whatever she's reading at the moment and where she's reading it. Such as the tube for example. She has even been known to read what has been described (in her own words) as "vampire porn". From what I've gathered about this so called, "vampire porn", you don't have to be glancing over her shoulder to gather that it's of an erotic nature...apparently the cover makes that pretty clear from the off.

I have a deep respect for this type of brazen tube reading. I've recently been reading 'The Story of O', which I've heard mutterings about for years and yet had no real idea of what it was about (I'd guessed, sex, from the ways people would get a look and would then shuffle slightly at the mention). I hadn't anticipated quite how kinky it would be though. It was however, written and published in the 1950s, so has that slightly dated feel to it and although the content is, filthy, it is also slightly clouded in woolly language. I was battling through it the other day and using my Sherlock-like mind had deduced that O was up to something...but it took me until about a 25 lines later to realise what exactly she was doing. There's no such thing as "cutting to the chase" in this story.

Anyway so I was blushing my way through this on the tube which is where I predominantly do all my reading, and was suddenly gripped by one of those painfully clear moments of self-awareness. I could practically -hear- the drunk old man sitting next to me starting to breathe more heavily as he took in the content from over my tensed up shoulder. What does one do in these sorts of situations? I suppose, a normal person would just carry on as if nothing was happening. I think this blog has done enough to destroy my reputation as a normal person (please see my post about classical themed tourettes if in any doubt) so naturally I reacted in my usual way. I.e I tensed up so much that if the train had suddenly come to stop there is a good risk that I would have shattered; I also pretended that I had randomly become partially sighted, so had to hold the book as close to my face without simultaneously drawing attention to the front cover (whihc is black apart from the text: The Story of O, the erotic cult classic). It wasn't comfortable and I ended up getting off a stop early and walking home in the rain.

However, on the other end of the spectrum, the tube is also a fantastic way to show off to total strangers who you will never see again that you read really clever books. This leads me onto the kindle. Now, I really like my kindle. I spilt an entire and I mean entire cup of tea on it the other day and it's fine! Impressive! However, to me, the kindle is a double edged sword. I read an article the other day about how women (predominantly) are loving Kindles as behind it they can hide their modesty as they read twilight based porn in public places etc etc. Super. But what if you're reading War and Peace and you want everyone to know? I've read War and Peace. IT'S REALLY LONG. I want some credit for that.

Anyway, a slightly disjointed post. Maybe don't read it on the tube? I've written the word "porn" at least 4 times. Just a suggestion.

Signing off,
H