They say the camera adds ten pounds. In televisual terms the camera must add thousands of pounds in sexual currency. For instance there exists living, breathing people out there who find Michael McIntyre attractive. MICHAEL MCINTYRE for fucksake, a man with all the sexual allure and charisma of a cold calling salesman picking his nose. He looks like a man perpetually enjoying a thorough rectal examination. If he served you in Asda you wouldn’t linger long enough to catch his faint whiff of desperation.But put him on the tellybox and he is somehow drenched in sexy lust vibes.
Also, Benedict Cumberbatch – a man who, in his own words looks like an “otter which is vaguely attractive” - admits to being bewildered by the sudden sex symbol status he has achieved. I agree with him and yet if I were to meet him I would lick him all over as though he could jizz vintage brandy. Because Sherlock, right? Jesus.
Put me on the telly please. I haven’t got some for ages. I’m not attractive – on a good day I look like Charlotte Church coming round from an anaesthetic – but I could do with the allure which the gogglebox seems to provide. Problem is I’m not sure I could do with inevitable fall out which my ‘AU natural’ appearance would generate. Any public appearance by me would be blanketed by a general murmur of disappointment as my big moon face loomed into view. I would catch mutterings of “She’s much fatter in real life” and “Nah mate, nah” as I walked past.
My sparkling telly generated charisma would evaporate on contact with the public and I would stammer my way through scripted answers, the smile frozen on my fizzog until I looked like a cryogenic Joker.
“How does it feel to be in Hounslow Shopping Centre?” the interviewer would ask me as the pissed off public melted away from my appearance both public and personal.
“How does it feel to have your new clothing range out?” And I’d look at the acres of stretched neon lycra and acrylic of my bodycon dress – my actual flesh and bone body subjected to so much scrutiny I’d Spanxed and barricaded all my flesh behind steel undergarms – and the flammable chiffon of my fucking sweatshop made creations and I would try not to cry. Then someone would shove their phone in my face for a picture only the angle would be all wrong and they wouldn’t add the right filters and I’d look like a colossal prick and they’d put it on Twitter and I’d have to block the noise of the masses from my feed because I DON’T LIKE ANY CRITICISM EXCEPT MY OWN SO FUCK YOU FAME I DON’T EVEN WANT YOU ANYWAY.
I like collective nouns. Who doesn’t, right? A flamboyance of flamingoes. A charm of goldfinches. A murder of crows. A wank of actors.
It occured to me that come my seventies I am going to be one of those women who have to be lifted by crane via the roof of my house because it is so full of junk and trinkets. Small children will come and point and laugh at me as I am hoisted into the air, still trying to grab hold of my wedgewood teapot shaped like a fucking pig or something. Teens will take pictures on their phones which – it being the future and all – will be instruments the size of a pinhead and capable of nuclear deployment. Some reporter will take a sleazy ‘upskirt’ shot as I dangle over his head, and the headline in the Sunday Sport the next day will be ‘LOOK AT THIS MINGE’.
I’ll have filled my utility room with stuffed animals and bad taxidermy and the firemen trying to get through it will have to use axes to break down the doors.
In short, MY LIFE WILL BE AWESOMER.
As such, the collective noun for charity shop items bought and stored is a HYPERBOLE OF JUNK. Here is some more. Look at it. Look at it. LOOK.
Who’s this sinister motherfucker? Those brown eyes say ‘puppy’, the face says ‘I will eat your soul while you sleep’.
Tactile, sexy Mug = 50penctons
Original erogenous Flask = £1.0000000
Oil Painting Erection = £2pounds
It’s a candle featuring the original and still the best Mary I can think of. (Sorry all other Marys. Maybe you’re doing something wrong? Have you considered immaculate conception and the bearing of the Son of God? Thought not. That’s why you’re not the greatest Mary. You need to up your Mary game don’t you? Lazy, aren’t you? LAZY)
Mexican candle for Drink and Drug Addiction (says so on back) £1!
Vintage fabric which I have made into a curtain in my kitchen to cover the hole beneath the worktop as it invokes lustful thoughts in the hearts and minds of decent men and also because I stuck my washing machine in there. £1ne poind.
Future me will be cryogenically frozen for the sole purpose of coming back in a thousand years when all travel has been reduced to sending a hologram of yourself on holiday and I will dig out this old suitcase and point to the label on it thus and bore on and on and on about how times have changed like a withered old windbag while my great, great, great grandchildren make wanker signs behind my back and ask people why I smell.
If you’re ever asked the question – as I often am – “how do you be a mum and stay cool with your faced paced ‘life’ ‘style’?” I simply point at my MomBag© and that tells them everything they need to know.
Mom-Hop© is for all us Moms out there who are just a little tired of being stuck in our little boxes – you know, the box with ‘Just A MOM’ written on it – and put back on the shelf. Time to show them a dynamic, new you. Time to show them that your music taste is just as eclectic as theirs – from Coldplay to U2, Paul Simon to Nickelback. And you want style? We’ve got MomBags© of it!
You’ll see us in supermarkets carrying all the ‘kit’ a Mom-Hopper needs – NOTEBOOK, PEN, GLASSES, TISSUES, MUESLI BAR, HRT – and suddenly…WHOA! What’s this? Is that Mom ‘beat’ ‘boxing’ ? She sure is! Time to drop a MOM-BOMB!!
You see Mom-Hop© isn’t just a musical attitude. It’s a way of life. I might wear a polo shirt under my neckerchief but I can rhyme ‘statins’ with ‘potato gratins’ just about any time I please!
You don’t want me on your team. I can’t throw a punch or a ball. I can’t kick, scratch, slap. My hands are too clammy for a Chinese burn.
I run like I’m being attacked by bees. I dance like Missy Elliott covered in itching powder.
I’m a pacifist and I cry when I’m in pain. And polite? You betcha. Humble to the point of being craven. I’m writing this at five to nine on a Friday night. I’m DULL. I’m Wings playing in a deserted nightclub, Rothmans and a Diamond White. No class.
By some miracle I am 2 years sober. More than that. It’s been 818 days since I last had a drink or a smoke. That’s 19,632 hours I’ve spent with the stark regard of my own sobriety. It’s frightening. It’s like sitting in a room with mirrored walls closing in on you. Hi, I’m Daisy Pearce!
For realsies I’m not going to wang on about it. If you know about drink problems you’ll already know that cutting it out is the easy part. It’s living sober that is the killer. So much clarity! So MUCH FUCKING TIME.
It astounded me how much free time I had once I stopped being pissed up on booze or hungover off of booze. So much. I started ‘doing’ yoga. I have become so adept at contortion that my life should, by all rights, be one long sizzling dick-fest. So I ‘do’ yoga. I also ‘do’ meditation and I ‘do’ mindfulness. I walk, wank and write. Still I’ve got time on my hands. Fuck. Alcohol is the great eater of hours and now I’m tying knots in the days. Learn French? Non. Cook? Don’t mind if I don’t. Eat. I can caine a pound of halloumi in less time than it takes you to say, “Thats the second one you’ve had today.” I have a lovely round broad face thanks to my cheese love. A big round face like the moon rising over the edge of the cheeseboard. I love cheese.
So, I’m sober. This is what happens. Moon-faced and incoherent. Thanks a lot lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely booze.
Interpretive Dance is like Kryptonite to me. All that bodily expression and urgent sincerity make me want to hurl myself into the fucking sun. I’m so British. It’s like a disease.
So imagine my bafflement when I found a flyer for a local group called The Naked Truth Dance. Imagine me reeling around, clutching my hand to my forehead bouncing from lamppost to lamppost like Benny Hill in a pinball machine. Imagine the dawning bafflement on my face when I read the words – “Dance out your deepest secrets in your most primitive form”.
Talk about striking fire into my heart. It’s like a blade of ice. Jesus Christ. I’m sweating just thinking about it.
The only time I’ve come close to something like this was when I was eating yoghurt in my pants and I started retching. And in case any of my exes are reading this then yes, I’ve still got it. Still got it. PLAYA.
If this makes me sound like a misanthrope than you’re probably right. I’m not fond of people with their toenails and their opinions and their stupid flapping mouths. I don’t like them coughing and thinking and colouring things in with highlighters like pedestrian apes. Imagine – imagine – them dancing without clothes, telling you their darkest past(est) like a drunk at a party who you can’t get away from, limbs blurring, breathing their halitosis all over you. Like a house of mirrors glimpsed in a heat-haze.
Then it got me thinking. Do I even have any deepest secrets worth dancing out?
Of course I do.
(1) That time I once stole a pen from Argos
(2) That one time I put a bee in a cup and shook it then ran away.
(3) When I used to turn the thermostat up as a kid so it would feel like I was on holiday.
(4) I once broke a cup at work and hid it back in the cupboard without telling anyone
These are my truths. Deal with them, people. Deal with them or I will dance them for you with all my tits out and bush and everything.
I read a list of ‘Thirty Things to Do Before You’re Thirty’ the other day and was disappointed to find that I had only ‘done’ two of them and one of them was turning thirty. Still, the day I take advice about what I should be doing from a magazine is the day I descend into a violent rage so, you know, autonomy.
I can reduce the list of things I am currently doing to a list of three key points:
(1) Buying stuff for cheapsies from charity shops.
(2) Staring out of the window
(3) Wearing socks.
Not even sure that number (3) counts as a thing. Still, here’s some stuff. Keep up, we’ve got a lot to cover. I’ve been lazy for a month or two.
This frame cost thrupence or at least it would have done if thrupence was Victorian talk for three pounds and not a weird word meaning either ‘three pence’ or a coy word for a lady’s sex parts.
L@@K @ this pretty vintage dress I got for a fiver. You can’t really tell from this picture which I have instragrammed the heck out of in order to hide the creases and bloating in my face but it’s lovely. You can probably see my nipples if you look at this picture hard enough. Stop zooming in you disgusting pervert. Let’s move on.
This table isn’t doing itself any favours by being so tricky to photograph. Fucking thing. This is the top of it which as you can see, presuming you have functioning ears and a brain, is painted with birds. It is rad. You’ll just have to take my word for it although seeing as you’re talking to a girl who once sold out her friends for ten B&H you’ll realise how little weight my word carries. Where was I? Table, six quid for cash.
Embroided linen from a charity shop in Devon. You can’t see from this but it was left unfinished by whomever was working on it. It made me sad to think that an old lady may have died before she had the chance to finish it, so I fully intended to finish it for her. Never did. Sorry, ghostly old lady who I have invented.
Curtains, curtains. Lovely big fat beautiful sixties curtains. The sort of thing your nan would have had if she had been a bit of a goer in the sixties, like mine.
Picture frame, three poundlies. This is above my bed because I like to be reminded of dead Mexican feminist artists whenever I am in bed doing bedly things like sleeping, dreaming and being super-sexy like ALL THE TIME.
This old postcard was twenty five pees and was addressed to someone called Ada. ‘Mother is well’ it begins which could be a code or something for a drugs deal or nineteen fifties street talk. We’ll never know (we know)
I like the sound of cowbells and many is the morning I get up, plait my hair and walk around the house dinging this dong and insisting everyone calls me Heidi. I’m still single, if anyone is interested.
I’m done here. Let’s do this again soon.
I love haiku, the ancient Japanese form of poetry, but you wouldn’t know it from these horrors I dreamed up waiting for a train yesterday. Because I realised, as the wind blow litter and rain into my actual face, that if we all pooled the money we as a human race had collectively spent watching either one of the Charlie’s Angels films at the cinema we could have eased the poverty of a large portion of the globe.
But alas. We did not. Because given the choice between feeding one more starving moron and watching Lucy Lui dead eye her way through a stripper routine I know where my bucks are going, baby.
Kicky boom women
Sometimes they are in outfits
Look at my hair, wheee!
This film should be called
“Charlie’s Angel’s : Jesus Wept”
or “Shouty Pain Gang”
Who the hell was Boz?
Did he have a golden cock
which jizzed diamonds?
Here comes Tim Curry!
Is it good he is in this?
Face falls. It’s Bill Murray.
Giggle! Tits! Roundhouse!
Groin shot like you wouldn’t believe
Your dad looks turned on :(