Monday, 23 July 2012

Goodbye Wizardfaces, Hello Lady Bits!

Yes I’m jumping ship to a new blog. No, you’re not to blame. Me and Wizardfaces love each other very much, but it’s time for us to go our separate ways. Why should you read Lady Bits and Bobs?

1. I’m still going to be writing weekly, and so every Wednesday (and maybe even some days in between) you can get your weekly dose of Heather-ness. Which, true fact, reduces cancer by 0.0001% - maybe.

2. Remember how much you love my vagina post? Of course you loved it, it was hilarious! Well that’s pretty much what LadyBits is, one massive blog filled with vagina posts – who doesn’t want that? NO ONE!

3. I made it look really pretty, and like all pretty girls, if my blog doesn’t get enough attention it will get an eating disorder and die.

4. I’ve changed my twitter username to ladybitsandbobs so you know this is serious stuff.

5. Just... Go read it, okay? Just click the link down below and give it a chance. I know change is scary, believe me, I nearly shit myself when my period came, but change is a natural part of life – just like bleeding from your crotch is.

So what are you wait for? 

Click the link and visit LADY BITS & BOBS!

Tuesday, 17 July 2012

Danny Fields' Polaroids - Art or just icky?

Art is a confusing topic, modern art even more so. Art has been around for so long, and has had so many things done with it; pretty pictures no longer seem valid. You can paint an in detail picture of a landscape – but that’s been done. You can draw a realistic portrait of someone – ten other people have painted that same person.

No if you want to be new, if you want to get people talking, you need to get creative. You need to be daring. And sometimes this can be a little confusing for us non-artists.

Confusing in the sense of, is it okay for me to like this? If I like this piece of art, am I sinning? Do I need to go to a Catholic church and confess? Am I a bad person for viewing this art?

To understand where I’m coming from, I need to direct your attention to Danny Fields. Some of you might know Danny Fields as the long-standing manager of the Ramones. You might know him as the guy who edited the iconic 16 magazine. The guy responsible for signing the Stooges, MC5, and Nico. At the very least, you’ve at least heard the John Lennon quote Fields was responsible for reporting – ‘We’re more famous than Jesus.’

But what you probably didn’t know about Danny, is that in the 1970s, he also enjoyed making porn. As you do.

So when the day was done, and he had gotten his fill of being an iconic figure on the New York punk scene. Danny Fields would go out, get a group of boys and bring them back to his apartment. Once there he would give them some vague directions and take pictures of the boys – and their genitalia.

In his Richardson interview, Fields says:

“They were all prostitutes. Well, prostitutes sounds too glamorous; they were hustlers. I’d pick them up in the street or at prostitute bars, and then one always seemed to bring the others. You’d pay them forty dollars or something, and they’d pretty much do whatever you told them to. This was before AIDS and the internet, so people weren’t so paranoid. A lot of them are dead now, and a lot of them—I never even knew their names.”

This is the back story behind the collection of photographs in this article. And this is what I meant by art being problematic nowadays.

On the one hand, I cannot deny that I find the photographs fascinating. And yet at the same time I’m disgusted.

Is it disgusting because of what the boys are doing? The pictures I’m showing here are the tame versions, others graphically show ass fingering, bondage... poo holding, and other icky stuff.

It could be said that these pictures are disturbing because of what they tell me about myself. They show that I am conventional in my sexuality. That other executions of sex repulse me, and perhaps that shows me to be a little closed minded.

Not all sex is based on love and cuddles, some people have sex purely for the pleasure. And some people experience pleasure in different varieties.

Then of course we have to address the origins of these pictures. Is this art or exploitation? Is this what makes the photos disgusting? These boys are being paid to perform these acts. More than likely the men in the pictures are selling themselves out of experiences with drugs, broken homes, dysfunctional relationships, ect.

Was it wrong for Fields to pay, and therefore fuel, their lifestyle?

By displaying these pictures, is he exploiting their misfortune?

Or are these pictures offering us a glimpse into someone’s life that would have otherwise been over looked. And it does have to be said, that in some of the photos, there appears to be a genuinely look of joy on some of the boys faces. Did they enjoy the experience? Are we judging their way of life too quickly?

In all honesty? Probably not. They probably were deeply troubled youths, and we’ll never really know how the rest of their life’s turned out. Maybe Fields is right, maybe most of them are dead. But do I find the photos exploitative?

Personally no. 

These are shots of just one night in these boys lives. Without Fields, these boys would have continued to do the same thing, only with a different person. And in a way, I find most interest in these photos stemming from a desire to know these people. To know what happened to them. To know if they’re now okay.

Obviously I’ll never get these answers. And the boys will never know that I care about their lives. But for a couple of minutes, these pictures have forced us to question something about ourselves and at the same time, pulled us out of our own problems and question and care about someone else’s.

Though keep in mind I do a literature degree, so I am prone to have my judgement clouded with feelings and pretension. So what do you guys think? Fields’ photographs: Porn? Exploitation? Art? Or just plain icky?

Let me know in the comments.

All the photographs and quotes in this post come from the sex magazine Richardson. I’m not cool enough to read said magazine, so I found all of this on one of my favourite blogs: When you’re done reading my crap, give the original article a read and check out some of the more in detailed pictures. Because I can’t really have up close shots of anuses on a blog with a dragon drawn on the top, can I?

All images by Danny Fields

Wednesday, 11 July 2012

My Favourite T in the Park Performances

Never go to a festival when you're already sick - even if you did pay £200 for the ticket. Because when you get back you'll be a blob of a person. A blob of a human being, who can no longer form a proper blog post, and instead coughs and sneezes on her keyboard.

So today, this blog post is brought to you by a cop out of youtube videos and a couple of captions. Because I think my laptop just short circuited from all the snot.


I was almost tempted to just post Ben Howard five times and call it a list, but great journalism means not dry humping Ben Howard's leg 24/7. So all I will say is that at the front of that massive crowd, is me crying like a baby making wolf noises, while crying out 'WHY AREN'T I HAVING A THREESOME WITH YOU AND YOUR GUITAR BEN HOWARD?!'

Yes,  this probably did make my boyfriend uncomfortable.

2. Bombay Bicycle Club

Everyone goes on and on about how great these guys are live, and it's really annoying how right everyone was.

This performance holds a special place in my heart because half way through their set my face was up on the big screen. Great music and having my vanity stroked equals a good performance all around.

3. Amy McDonald

Funny story, I actually wanted to go Two Door Cinema Club at this time but standing on my own at the NME stage was too scary. Instead I hid away in the safety of the King Tut tent where this lady happened to be playing. And it was awesome.

For an hour and half I actually thought I was Scottish. I even sang with the accent.

4. Snow Patrol

Until you've sang in time with thousands of other people, you've never lived. Literally everyone at that festival sang a long, I'm pretty sure Scotland itself was singing a long. And it felt really special, I got a girly tingle in my uterus and everything.

5. Alabama Shakes

When you see Alabama Shakes come onto stage, and you've never seen them before, it can be a little surprising. You see Brittney Howard and the last thing you think is 'rock star'. But then she plays the guitar and she makes that instrument her bitch, and then she sings and makes your ears her bitch, and you realise - holy fuck, everyone with the last name Howard is amazing.

Which just proves that unless I marry Ben Howard, and become Mrs. Howard, I won't be a complete person. Fact.

Obviously there were other amazing performances at the festival, but these ones really stuck out for me. If I could find a decent video of J Cole, I would probably put that up there too. American Rappers - they just go for it, you know? But hey, if any of you guys made it down to T in the Park, or watched the BBC broadcast, let me know in the comments who was your favourite act?

Unless you want to say Nicki Minaj, because that shit you keep to yourself. 

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Blonde and Back Again: A Blogger's Tale

There comes a time in every bloggers life when it comes to his or hers self imposed ‘blog deadline’ and they hit ‘the wall’. The wall being that mystical force that makes your entire body reject the idea of writing a blog post.

Today I have hit that wall.

It comes from a result of having 4 hours of sleep, my period (yes, I’m sharing that with you, get over it), and the task of packing my shit up for the T in the Park festival looming over me – no I haven’t done it yet, get off my back already! It also stems from a week that has been so ripe with blog post material that my brain has simply collapsed under the weight of it all. It’s not a writer’s block but a writer’s avalanche.

First there’s the festival thing, which I’m pretty sure has some blog potential, even now in its pre-festival stage. All over the blog world there’s people taking pictures of their pre-planned festival outfits. Their festival make-up ideas. Their festival hair ideas – shit like that.
But unless you want to see a picture of my wellington boots, I don’t think my festival preparation is really blog worthy.

Then of course there’s been my exam results.  But unless you want to see pictures of a full bottle of vodka become an empty bottle – and my tear stained keyboard, I don’t think you’ll be interested.

Plus I don’t fancy being sued for slander by my university, by calling the person who marked my exam something offensive – like ‘YOU’RE A MASSIVE WANKER’ or ‘GO CRAWL BACK INTO YOUR MOTHER’S CUNT YOU TWAT!’

So that leaves only one topic left, my hair. I like this topic a lot better than the others because it allows me to indulge in the age old blog tradition of replacing words with pictures. Why make witty commentary when I can show you, step by step, through the powers of instagram, how I went blonde and shit myself, before quickly forking out £75 to go back to the original colour.

So enjoy!

First was stripping my hair. This was a lot less fun than the term 'stripping' initially  promised. The basic premise is that I sit with some smelly lotion on my head for an hour, while wrapped in cling film. In many way, this could be a scene from a very PG rated bondage film. 

Also, you should brace yourself for a couple more awkward faces from me. I find that if I distort my face enough, it tricks you into thinking I'm photogenic - though probably not.

Here's my hair after the stripping - my hair is naked, it's hair pornography. Stop looking you pervert. 

What's with the bush baby sized eyes? If any of you have sat with bleach on your hair, you'll know that the experience and be somewhat... uncomfortable. Sadly, this is the part of the story where things start to go a bit wrong. Wrong  in the sense the people doing my hair underestimated how much bleach was needed, so instead of all of my hair being bleach white, about 3/4 of the job was done. 

After bleaching we slapped on some blonde dye picked up from a chemist, and this was the final result. Now I have to be honest here, this photo is deceptive. The colour looks okay in this shot, but let me assure you that it was not okay. It was yellow. A ginger yellow, like something out of the simpsons. 

Not only that, this yellow gingery hair did not suit my skin tone and made me look... well, ill. And my eyebrows... let's just say, next to the blonde, it looked lie someone had drawn them one with a black marker pen. All that was missing was a twirly mustache.

24 hours after my hair was transformed, I ran into every hairdressers I could find and begged them to fix the mess. Luckily I found one who could, and who agreed to do it for me the very next day. So, £75 later, my hair has been restored back to the colour I started off with. 

Only shorter.  

 So what have I learned from this little hair related disaster? One, that hairdressers charge a lot of fucking money. And two, don't flatter yourself into thinking you can get anything other than a Lisa Simpson hair colour without a professionals help. And lastly, I'm clearly not very good at this whole 'letting the pictures speak for you and sacking off words for pretty pictures' bullshit that other bloggers are so clearly good at. I've rambled on like a twat more than usual. 

Maybe my examiners had a point about my communication skills.