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.

Wednesday, 27 June 2012

Britain’s binge drinking: It’s not about age but about culture

Last Sunday I made the snap decision that for dinner I was going to cook a nice bowl of lentils and chorizo. On the surface this doesn’t pose an issue. The lentils I had at home, all I would need from the shop would be chorizo, chopped tomatoes, and a small bottle of... RED WINE!

And what I bought really was a small bottle of red wine – a borrowers sized bottle of Sainbury’s own brand merlot. Yet I got ID for this tiny bottle of merlot. A bottle that had such insignificant amounts of alcohol inside, that a toddler would have struggled to get drunk on it – although don’t take my word on that because toddlers and alcohol is a bad mix, unlike vodka and cranberry which is an excellent mix (#tangent).

Luckily for my food snobby taste buds, I had some ID on me yet I recall a time when I was not so lucky. I had been seventeen and I had wanted to cook a nice chicken cacciatore, which unluckily for me, involved getting hold of some white wine – AN ILLIGAL SUBSTANCE FOR SOMEONE OF MY AGE! Why not just go without the wine? I hear you cry.

Because wine is to cooking as to what good foreplay is to sex, in that without it the experience is just boring and a little bit painful.

Now at the time I couldn’t buy the wine, so I had to get a grown up to pick it up for me. So it became one of those situations that you see in the movies, where the under aged person is huddled outside in the cold, waiting for the 18 year old to appear with the magical substance known as booze.

Now I bet good money, that from the outside, this transaction of money for booze looked a little sad. I bet most people would assume that I was going to take that wine down to the park and get hammered with my friends in the woods. They would not have guessed that I actually used that wine to make a fucking tasty dish of chicken cacciatore.

And this is the problem I have with British culture – or more specially, its culture of drinking.

Because there is this persistent idea that alcohol is good for getting drunk on, and nothing else. Not for taste, not for cooking, not sampling or vintage – for binge drinking, getting pissed, or at the very least, getting tipsy enough to flirt with the opposite sex on.

This is chicken cacciatore, infinitely more appealing than white lightening 

Very few European countries take the same stance that we brits do.  Wine is not seen as something to be downed, or mixed with lemonade and guzzled, but as a way to complement meals and flavours. I can’t help but think that if more kids were introduced to alcohol in this context, fewer would be inclined to run off behind some bushes and drink synthetic cider in the rain.

Just think of all those food classes you took in high school, and all those fairy cakes you made and then threw in the bin as soon as class was finished. Wouldn’t it have been a better use of our time, and the teachers, to get us viewing the dynamics of flavour in a better light? Maybe by making a nice risotto, or a beef and ale pie.

Every year the restrictions on alcohol get tighter and tighter. There’s challenge 21, challenge 25, bar raids, undercover police – I once worked at a bar, and was told, that if I was caught serving someone under the age of 18, even if I was unaware of the fact, I would get a criminal record and a £1000+ fine. And are these restrictions solving anything?


Because the problem isn’t the availability of alcohol, it’s our own mentality.  We humans are a tenacious bunch, and if we want something, chances are we’ll get it. And so, if at 16, you want to wankered behind a bike shed, chances are you’ll find a way to do it.

Maybe if what we wanted was a decent tasting risotto, and a complementary pinot grigio – binge drinking in Britain wouldn’t be such a problem.

And I wouldn’t need to take my passport with me every time I wanted to make a red wine reduction.

Wednesday, 6 June 2012

Adult Limbo: also known as being a student

University is an odd place; it acts a limbo between our teenaged lives and our adult ones. On the one hand, many of us at university live independent lives. We go where we want to go, do what we want to do – get drunk and bring strangers back into our bedroom. All fabulous.

Yet at the same time, we’re either getting supplemented by either a student load, bursaries, or our parents. We’ve moved off the tricycle, onto the big kid bicycle, yet we still have stabilizers to stop us from falling flat on our faces. We’re semi-adults, which is the correct definition of a student.

Of course, the problem with this semi-adulthood, is that it is transient. Eventually the loans run out, our parents retire, and our degrees come to an end. Which leaves many of us in a precarious position – just what are we supposed to do with ourselves? If live was an instruction manual, I imagine it would go something like this:

If only life was so easy? I imagine if this was the instruction manual, many students would be calling the help desk, demanding what to do if they are unable to complete step C because of the recession. Or step D because the person they were supposed to marry just ran away with an accountant on the second floor. Or step G because they just went to the fertility clinic and found out their uterus is a hostile environment for sperm and only have an 11% chance of ever conceiving.

Because life isn’t a SIMs game, where we set a life time achievement goal and use cheat codes to get there a little faster. We cannot set ourselves up for goals and check them off like a to-do list. There is no certainty in life, just as there’s no guarantee that when you remove the stabilizers from a bike, that you won’t crash or fall off somewhere along the way.

Though anyone will know, as a kid, if you’ve never experienced falling off your bike before, the idea of it happening to yourself can be pretty daunting. The same applies to being an adult. As I’ve just finished my exams, my second year at university draws to an end. In a year’s time adulthood will be knocking at my door, and in the mean time, I get a sneak preview of my worries in the form of my mother, who likes to write emails saying: “What’s the plan? Where are you going to move? What career are you going into? Do you know what you want to BE yet?”

And you know what? I’m scared. Scared of falling off my bike, scared of failing as an adult.

I don’t know what I want to be, and by that logic, I am therefore nothing. Or rather, I feel like nothing[1]

Life sometimes, feels that it is set up in a way that makes you believe the instruction manual I wrote earlier, exists. That we should be heading towards certain goals, certain lifestyle decisions. Now I’ve already stated that this isn’t true, and yet here I am, contradicting myself, by telling you that even I feel that it is true. And the problem is, this imaginary check list of achievements, which hangs over our heads – my head – doesn’t tell you how to go about checking off these accomplishments.

So what is the point in this blog post Heather?

This is the part where I would like to impart some sort of advice to you, the readers. Say something really profound and comforting to all of you who are reading this and experiences the same problems as I am. Maybe something along the lines of – hey buddy, don’t worry about tomorrow, live for today and... something, something, inner self, something, something, have confidence and BELIEVE in... something...

But, as someone, who is still set in the student-limbo of adulthood, I’m afraid I cannot advise on what I have yet to experience. All I can do is relate to you my fears, letting you know, that if you too share my doubts for the future, you are not alone. We are all stuck on a hill, on our bikes, just about to ride off into the sun set, yet not quite ready to whiz down the incline. 

Instead we hover, our stabilizers rusty and just about to come off, and watch – watch as people graduate, get jobs, and fly down the hill to a place we can’t be certain of. All the while thinking: Will I be next? What if I fail? And thank fuck I don’t graduate for another year.

[1] Or is it that SOCIETY MAKES ME FEEL LIKE NOTHING?! (Sorry, doing English literature exams does this to your world perceptive).

Wednesday, 30 May 2012

Panda porn and the art of forcing an attraction

One day, me and my friends are having a lovely outing to a park. The sun is shining, it’s warm, children are laughing in the background, middle-class people throw balls for their dogs. It is perhaps one of the nicest days of the year so far.

I turn to my flat mate, contented smile on my face and say: “Do you know there’s porn for pandas?”


“It’s pretty amazing actually – not like the quality, though I sure they don’t skip out on production values, I mean, like why they use panda porn.”


“Apparently pandas aren’t all that different from us. When they’re choosing a mate they have to be physically and mentally attracted to the other panda. Only were we have a pool of about a billion people, they only have a couple of thousand potential panda fuck buddies around – which is super sad when you think about it.”


“That’s why they use the porn, to force an attraction – get them all horny and stuff. Kinda like I was after I split up with my last boyfriend and was so horny I was willing to sleep with anyone, do you remember that?”


“Well anyway, I just thought it was a pretty interesting concept. The whole forcing yourself to like someone thing. What do you think?”

“I think we should go home now.”

Once my friend had successfully ditched me, under the pretence she was just going to the shop for ice cream, I started to wonder more and more about our panda brethren. The Guardian reports, that despite the romantic tendencies of pandas for ‘soul mates’ and finding another panda they can ‘really connect with’, the breeders of one Chinese breeding centre have a near 100% success rate with getting pandas horny enough to settle for just about any old slut.

Close your legs you whores. Taken from

And I suppose the reason I find this so interesting, is that, even without the pressure of keeping the human race going, do we not find ourselves, now and again, trying to force an attraction?

I remember a time when I was 16 and I was just coming out of my ‘baby sumo’ phase, as my mum traumatically referred to it. I had still yet to fully work out how to put make up on. My hair was frizzy 80% of the time, most of my clothes were from Primark and I had still yet to find a bra that fitted (4 years on and I’m still looking). But out of all of these concerns, one rose above the rest: When was I going to get a boyfriend? Would I ever get a boyfriend? And where the fuck was he?

At the time, two of my friends had boyfriends. To me it seemed like they were part of this exclusive club. Any teenage girl knows all about the ‘boyfriend club’ and how cool it seems from the outside. A club built on naive fantasy, where those on the outside, imagined it to be nothing but spontaneous gifts, meaningful conversations, sighing, and LOADS OF SNOGGING!

But the only problem with the boyfriend club was that you needed to first GET a boyfriend, which at 16 seemed like the impossible. Or at least for me it did.

Until Greg[2] came along.

As I mentioned, two of my friends had boyfriends. One of these friends was SUPER COOL and had an older boyfriend – WITH A MOTERCYCLE MOTHERFUCKER! This super cool boyfriend also had a friend, called Greg who too was older and also had a motorcycle. This meant in teenage girl world, he was, like, super cool, and like, a total dream boat.
Only... he would have been, if he was attractive. Which he wasn’t... he was also pretty thick, not really doing much with his life, and, looking back, probably pretty desperate, considering he wanted to go out with someone still doing her GCSEs.

But still, at the time, this man was my best shot. I HAD to be attracted to him. I thought, if coolness was like tesco club card points, I would have a £50 cashback voucher with this boy!
And so I tried many things to inspire attraction. Nothing pornographic like the pandas do, but you know, general looking – mostly looking in fact. I think I thought that if I just stared at him long enough, I could trick my brain into thinking he looked like Brad Pit.

Then I went out with my friend, her boyfriend, and Greg on a little motorcycle outing. Surely by feeling the wind on my face and looking FIT AS in leather would help inspire some feelings of lust?

Sadly, this failed to inspire anything other than a sore ass and a realization that bikes are stupid, because who, really, gives up the comfort of a car for death on wheels? Plus leathers for bikes aren’t sexy, they make you look fat and like a man. And I’m sure I had a builder’s bum all the way up the M1.

So what did I learn from this experience?

I suppose a moral message would be that, we are not pandas. We do not need to force ourselves into relationships, into an attraction because of some perceived threat of loneliness or ‘perks’ (such as endless snogging). There are 6.8 billion human beings on Earth, unlike pandas that only have 2000, so our chances of finding our ‘soul mate’ is a damn sight higher than those teddy bear fuckers.

Also, even though I didn’t end up with Greg, a friend of mine soon picked him up. And the level of smugness I felt from her getting my sloppy seconds, and mastering the art of forced-attraction, was definitely worth all the masturbation I had to suffer through for the rest of my life as a 16 year old.

[2] Not his real name because I post this stuff on Facebook, though really, changing his name is probably pointless because most people on facebook will know who I’m referring to – but the gesture is there. 

Wednesday, 23 May 2012

My Reaction to 'The Great Gatsby Trailer'

When I hear the title ‘The Great Gatsby’, several things come to mind. The first is my A-Level literature teacher – Eileen Cheers. Eileen was an old woman, pushing on retirement, with the most perfect reading voice I have ever heard. She read the book out softly, in a husky whisper. It made you feel sleepy, relaxed – it took you back to your Grandmother reading you stories just before bedtime.

The new Great Gatsby trailer however, is anything but a relaxed affair. This is Moulin Rouge having a love child with your bookcase, all to the soundtrack of Jay Z and Kanye West. Not surprising when you consider Baz Luhrmann is the director to this new adaptation. While other directors have gone for smooth jazz and subtle glances, Mr. Luhrmann has done a 21st Century translation. He gives us decadence, hip hop, debauchery - Leonardo De Caprio's face.  

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited, and a little bit scared. Excited in the sense, the trailer has built this up to be an exciting affair. I’ll be going into the cinema expecting scantily glad women scissoring in large martini glasses. And scared because that’s what I might actually get. Scared that in among the bling and the show girls, the soft, heart aching life story of Gatsby will be lost under boob glitter.  

Hopefully my fears won’t come true. I sheepishly admit to squealing a little when the eyes of T.J. Eckleburg. That faithful bit of imagery that has helped me, and countless other A Level students get by in an exam. And then of course there is Carey Muligan, perhaps my favourite actress of the moment.

If there is anyone that can portray subtle heartbreak it is she. Where Grazia admit to having doubts of whether Carey could pull off the role of Daisy, I have always had an unwavering faith in her ability to pull off this iconic role. As I watch her films, I’ve noticed more and more, what it is that makes her my personal favourite.
It’s her ability to make the audience love her.

While other, more conventionally ‘sexy’ actresses walk onto the screen and ooze sex appeal. Carey steps into a film, merely stares into the camera, whispers one or two lines and POOF we’re in love. In Drive, when she lay in the hallway, staring up at Ryan Gosling we could feel that tug on our hearts. She is not merely an object to be lusted after, as so many actresses are, but a fragile little bird that we want hold in our hands but can’t for fear we might crush her.

Instead, like the eyes of T.J. Eckleburg we are forced to watch her. And watch this space for the release in Christmas 2012. 

So I went on a little date with Public Speaking - heard of him?

Me and public speaking have a dysfunctional relationship. Sort of like Carrie and Mr. Big only more... abstract.

For a long time I’ve known about public speaking, a lot of my friends told me he was a really nice guy. Someone you could really get into the flow with. Some people have even been on dates with him, using him as a platform to get their ideas and abilities across to great success.

In my head, I imagined myself and public speaking would get on like a house on fire. So I set up a date for the two of us. I decided to run for a committee position for the student radio. That’s four candidates, two positions, and a two and a half minute speech. 

What could be easier?

Walking home from university, I fantasised about how great my time with public speaking would be. Maybe I would open up with a joke (in my head people would laugh), maybe I would walk around on stage a bit (really own that shit, you know?), or maybe I would make a really in-group remark and make people believe I’m part of the ‘gang’. But more importantly than all that I would be concise, clear, calm, and convincing.

I’d literally scream: I’M THE WOMAN FOR THE JOB!

Only not actually scream it because that’s socially awkward, and not at all what people with great public speaking abilities do. No, I would scream it subtly. With my face and words, or some shit like that. 

With a face like this, how could anyone resist? #sexy
Of course, those of you who may know me, might have guessed that this fantasy was indeed just that – a fantasy. Because like all great dates, that in your head work like a dream and end up with you curled up in bed the next morning with a Chris Hemsworth look-alike, and then in reality have you sneaking out the window in the ladies toilet because he looks more like Chris Moyles – my date with public speaking crashed and burned. Except with thirty odd people all staring at you, it’s a lot harder to make a cheeky window escape.

It’s hard to pinpoint where my date with Public Speaking went wrong. If public speaking was a person, or more specifically a man, he would be one of the buffest most charismatic men – ever. And I imagine he would also be a bit of a dick head. One of those people who would pretend to compliment you, but would in fact be calling you a twat.

Or maybe I’m just taking my own metaphor too seriously.

Look at this guy, he's obviously great at public speaking and obviously a twat. The woman in the front row well wants to bang him.  Image stolen from here.

Maybe I should start again, and give you all a play by play of what actually happened when I tried my hand at public speaking. For a start, I truly believed I would be good at it. When it comes to interviews, I rock those bitches. I somehow managed to convince the store I work in now that I was an outdoorsy person, when really I’m more likely to surf the web as a form of exercise instead of actually surfing. But hey, a students got to do, what a students got to do, to pay those bills.

However, my TERRIFIC ability to bullshit was sort of made void when I realised that EVERYONE had an amazing ability to bullshit. Not only that, they could do it to thirty people at once, as opposed to me who had only done it to two people at a time (I like the ability to stare people down, kinda like the snake in Jungle Book). And on top of all of this, most of the people there were friends with most of the people there. As opposed to me who had a pseudo lesbian relationship with my friend Izy and a semi friendship with someone off the committee that was based off him MAKING ME LOOK GOOD.

Now to his credit, he did his best. He tried to sell me to the masses, but it was kind of like trying to flog a three legged cow at the rodeo. Or maybe a shaky dog would be a more fitting description. Of course, when dogs get nervous and start shaking, it’s deemed as cute, even when they piss on the carpet. When a grown woman starts to shake, it’s somewhat less cute, and people aren’t quite as forgiving about the mess on the carpet.

Now people who are bad at public speaking, and I’m guessing there’s a lot of us out there, will understand what I mean when I say it felt like my body was REJECTING the act. My body was so horrified that I was putting myself through the act of speaking in public, that it had what can only be deemed, as in involuntary exorcism[1].

The online dictionary defines an exorcism as ‘the ceremony that seeks to expel an evil spirit from a person or place.’ In this case, the evil spirit was the situation of me trying to convince thirty plus people to like me. And even though I haven’t watched The Exorcist, I have watched enough rock videos to know that I ticked a lot of the boxes.

Let’s start with vomiting – check, or close to checking (I swallowed it).

Babbling profanities and general shit talking – CHECK!

Body contorting in odd positions – Check, and don’t ask.

I’m sure there are others, but I’m trying not to relive the moment as much as possible. So what did I learn from this experience?

I suppose I could say that by merely experiencing the horrors of public speaking[2], I have become a better person. One of those, what doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger, kind of things. But really, the only lesson I really took away from this was:

Next time I’m just going to sleep with the guy counting the votes.

[1] As opposed to those voluntary exorcisms, that everyone’s queuing up for #chattingshit
[2] For those of you who have made it through this massive rant, please reward yourself by going back, rereading this crap and having a shot of booze for every time I use the words ‘public speaking’. That way we can be hammered together – won’t that be beautiful? 

Tuesday, 22 May 2012

Last night I got an email - and I would like to share it with you

Date: Tue, 22 May 2012 00:00:38 +0200
Subject: Hi Heather!
From: [Probably best not to share that]


Just discovered your blog from Slutever!

So in a few words, my name is Pierre, i'm 28, live in France, i like Phoenix, Ratatat, Hot Chip, The Smiths... RIchard Prince, Robert rauschenberg... maybe all this rings a bell? Maybe not - that was just an introduction anyway!

WELL, in any case, my request is probably... surprising? I would like to masturbate for you on Skype. Yes. i know, you might think i'm some kind of sexual offender or whatever? Truth is i'm pretty normal, but i'm bored and i think sex is fun and that masturbating with / for someone i don't know in real life feels pretty damn good! Okay, this was just an narrow minded thing, because the truth is i'd love to have a female friend i could share my deepest and darkest thoughts (sexy of course) and to hear what goes on in a girls mind..... without judgement or disapproval, if you see what i mean?
You read slutever, so i thought you miiiiiight find it fun?

Anyway, enough with me. Sorry to be so... straight to the point, but i hope you'll find this interesting! Feel free to say no of course, in any case i'll still be a reader!
A bientôt? xxx

To: --------------
Subject: RE: Hi Heather!
Date: Mon, 21 May 2012 23:59:35 +0100

Hey Pierre! 

Congratulations! You're the first person to send me 'fanmail'/'mail' off of my blog - so well done! 

I'm going to be honest, it's not the kind of mail I was thinking I would get when I set up my blog. I was kind of going for the 'witty girl' thing when I started it, rather than the 'she's up for a webcam peep show' vibe. Obviously, it's easy to get the two confused. I should probably make it clear right now that I won't be doing the skype thing - or any other masturbation related activity. You see, I read Slutever for the lols, it's really more of a chuckle for me, rather than a place to actually get my rocks off to (I have Ryan Gosling fantasies for that). 


I appreciate that you consider me wank bank material, especially after seeing the photos on my blog, and I'm still chuffed that I have you as a reader. Please keep following the blog and as I reward for being my first fanmail (I'm going to call it fanmail because it makes this all a lot less creepy) I have drawn you a Paint version of me, watching you, have a wank on skype (see attachments). 


Heather x

Wednesday, 16 May 2012

Does The Woman Make The Hair? Or The Hair Make The Woman?

Like many women I have a love, hate relationship with my hair. On the one hand I love my hair. It’s one of my best friends. It keeps my ears warm (or used to, but more on that later), compliments my eyes, and makes me feel... all girly and stuff.

If there’s one thing that helps women define a woman’s femininity, it’s our hair.  In a recent interview with SFX, Gwendoline Christie , the new star of HBO’s Game of Thrones, confines what it meant to chop off her pretty blonde locks.

“When they cut my hair off, the transformation was complete,” she says. “I really, really miss it. When I had it cut I was a good girl on set – I went to my dialogue session and my horse-riding session – then I went to my hotel room, shut the door and sobbed for two hours.”

For Christie, as a six foot three woman, her hair provided her a reassurance of her femininity. It may not be possible for all of us to match up to the small, willowy frames our childhood princesses sported; so we settle for the next best thing – Princess hair. Where would Repunzle be if now if not for her long, following hair? What is Snow White if she doesn’t have her hair black as coal? If there’s one thing that made a Princess a Princess – it was her hair.

However, is Princess hair really do-able, or like the Princesses themselves, is it just a fantasy?

In an ideal world I would have fantastic hair. Long, silky, with just the right amount of volume. I would wake up, run my fingers through it, and leave the house with birds singing around my bouffant mane. When I gave my head a wiggle it would do that thing hair does in adverts, where the sun bounces off it and makes it look like the sun is literally renting a room on top of your head. I would literally be the centre of the solar system. Planets would gravitate around my head – that’s how fantastic my fantasy hair would be.

Is my hair like that? No.

Here's my hair and the lead singer of Dry the River. Notice his hair is longer, also notice how you're (hopefully) not confused who belongs to what gender. 

I have short hair, very short hair. Why? Because in real life, only a select few have Princess hair and one of them is Kate Middleton. The rest of us aren’t capable of having long, silky smooth hair. Our heads just won’t have it. In my case, my hair grew up to my shoulders before having a systematic melt down and leaving split ends all over the place. My hair is also curly, which is a polite term for frizzy. Meaning if I wanted nice hair, I would either have to sit perfectly still for 6 hours and let the bitch dry naturally, or spend an hour burning my face off with strengtheners hot enough to melt steel.

Needless to say, I went with option C and just cut the damn stuff off. And while I would like to say ‘Oh I just felt so liberated, like a Joan of Arc but with hair and stuff’ what I actually felt was sadness. Seeing my hair on the floor I felt exposed, like some kind of shield had been taken away from me. Without hair I had nothing to hide behind. Suddenly I was very conscious of how unisex my pants were, of how they squeeze my hips and gave an ever so slight muffin top. I wanted to put more make up on, change my trainers for high heels – just do something to vindicate my womanhood.

It’s was only later, when I started to lose my preconceived notions of what a woman should look like, that I was able to acknowledge that my hair looked great. For once I wasn’t weighed down by my unmanageable hair. It didn’t six hours to style it, I didn’t feel the need to burn it alive before venturing out in public. And more importantly, I accepted that it suited me.

My eyes looked bigger, it made my cheek bones stand out. Without a mane of hair, I saw that hey, my neck isn’t half bad – it’s long, makes me look like a Jane Austen character.
Now by no means am I suggesting that every woman who reads this blog (hey flatmates) has to go out immediately and cut off all their hair. That would be silly, just look at Kerry Katona. But what I am saying is: don’t be afraid.

If you find yourself on tumblr, doing nothing but stare at pictures of Carey Muligan and moaning ‘God I wish I had hair like that, but it’s just so... short’. Fuck it. Cut it off. Who knows, you might look great – you might look AMAZING! Don’t cling to your princess hair hoping that one day a handsome prince will yank his way up your tresses and affirm your femininity. Newsflash: as women we all have vaginas, long hair or no.

What makes us women, what makes us feminine is what we make it to be. Our identity is unique to us, not to be placed into a category set out for us by fairytale books.

I mean Christ, just think how long Rapunzel has to spend washing that mane. No wonder Disney made her chop it off.