Oh good grief.
Hi folks, it’s only me, back online and ruining your day after a six month sabbatical. And let me just ratify that this is not because I have run out of things to say. Quite the opposite in fact - I have so much to say and no way to word it.
I became an assistant at one of the coolest social finance organisations in the UK and with that came a whole heap of early starts, bad dress choices and fouler public outbursts than before.
When I was faced with the prospect of working in London, last year I thought “Corr yeah, what a great chance this will be to not dress like your Dad’s Aunt Enid, to reinvent yourself as the girl that didn’t puke her internals up at a works function, to be organised and serene" and while I’m picturing this in my head, I’m somehow much, much thinner with hair like Nicole Scherzinger.
Sadly, I’m basically the same person, for example - I was at a launch party for a new fund and I walk up to two of our Board members, and after I run out if things to say, I politely ask them if they are enjoying the crisps? What the fuck. Even I wasn’t enjoying the crisps.
In the end I decided to go and talk to the guy doing the coats in the cloakroom, it just seemed like a much safer option, he was cool – his name was Cameron, he was doing business studies at university, we connected on LinkedIn - it was all very exec, so much synergy (what does synergy even mean?) By reinventing myself, I mean wearing a leather skirt. I was aiming for Kim Kardashian, I ended up looking like a grotty barstool.
The other day someone shoved me really hard on the underground. I got so mad that I clotheslined this person from behind and yelled the word CUNT at about 4560 decibels; I swear there were people at Deptford Bridge that heard me shout. Using old school wrestling moves was hardly the serene I was going for, but inside I was chanting one - nil, one - nil -like it was a triumph for commuters everywhere, but from the outside I looked like a deranged person that hangs out in TK Maxx, buying things and returning them the next day. I was also pretty scared this person would follow me on to the tube, and confront me. And I imagined that to be worse than the time I got hand sanitizer on a man’s suit trousers, and had to sit next to him from St Pancras to Stockwell, I felt bad but the damage had been done and obviously telling him it would dry clear, like spunk didn’t help the situation.
I had to get a cab share one morning, because the Victoria line was down. Cab share is a great idea, if you’re not in a hurry and don’t mind being in very tight proximity to four total strangers, I know that’s what it like at 08:15am when you’re catching the underground, but in a taxi it’s awkward, it’s like you feel obliged to make pleasantries.
Being able to bear it no longer, I cut through the silence with my lead tongue “well, we have enough people to start a pop group” - not even a hint of a snigger crossed the faces of my fellow passengers on their way to SW.

There’s a Cadbury caramel egg in my pocket, a moral and dietary dilemma right there. Thanks for reading.

Oh good grief.

Hi folks, it’s only me, back online and ruining your day after a six month sabbatical. And let me just ratify that this is not because I have run out of things to say. Quite the opposite in fact - I have so much to say and no way to word it.

I became an assistant at one of the coolest social finance organisations in the UK and with that came a whole heap of early starts, bad dress choices and fouler public outbursts than before.

When I was faced with the prospect of working in London, last year I thought “Corr yeah, what a great chance this will be to not dress like your Dad’s Aunt Enid, to reinvent yourself as the girl that didn’t puke her internals up at a works function, to be organised and serene" and while I’m picturing this in my head, I’m somehow much, much thinner with hair like Nicole Scherzinger.

Sadly, I’m basically the same person, for example - I was at a launch party for a new fund and I walk up to two of our Board members, and after I run out if things to say, I politely ask them if they are enjoying the crisps? What the fuck. Even I wasn’t enjoying the crisps.

In the end I decided to go and talk to the guy doing the coats in the cloakroom, it just seemed like a much safer option, he was cool – his name was Cameron, he was doing business studies at university, we connected on LinkedIn - it was all very exec, so much synergy (what does synergy even mean?) By reinventing myself, I mean wearing a leather skirt. I was aiming for Kim Kardashian, I ended up looking like a grotty barstool.

The other day someone shoved me really hard on the underground. I got so mad that I clotheslined this person from behind and yelled the word CUNT at about 4560 decibels; I swear there were people at Deptford Bridge that heard me shout. Using old school wrestling moves was hardly the serene I was going for, but inside I was chanting one - nil, one - nil -like it was a triumph for commuters everywhere, but from the outside I looked like a deranged person that hangs out in TK Maxx, buying things and returning them the next day. I was also pretty scared this person would follow me on to the tube, and confront me. And I imagined that to be worse than the time I got hand sanitizer on a man’s suit trousers, and had to sit next to him from St Pancras to Stockwell, I felt bad but the damage had been done and obviously telling him it would dry clear, like spunk didn’t help the situation.

I had to get a cab share one morning, because the Victoria line was down. Cab share is a great idea, if you’re not in a hurry and don’t mind being in very tight proximity to four total strangers, I know that’s what it like at 08:15am when you’re catching the underground, but in a taxi it’s awkward, it’s like you feel obliged to make pleasantries.

Being able to bear it no longer, I cut through the silence with my lead tongue “well, we have enough people to start a pop group” - not even a hint of a snigger crossed the faces of my fellow passengers on their way to SW.

There’s a Cadbury caramel egg in my pocket, a moral and dietary dilemma right there. Thanks for reading.

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I am currently having a shoe crisis. I start my a new job in London next week and I have nothing vaguely sensible to put on my feet. I once and only once made the mistake of wearing high heels to go about my business in London until I got the very thin, unforgiving heel of my Kurt Geiger’s stuck in the escalators, on the way down to the Southbound platforms at Euston, pulling off the heel tip and rendering them un-wearable. I spent the eleven minute journey into Vauxhall cursing myself and trying to stick the heel tip on with some eyelash adhesive I had in my brief case.  
This proving to be utterly useless, I walked about a mile down Kennington Lane to find a Timpsons or shoe repair place, or maybe a hardware store that could No-More-Nails it back together for me. Eventually I found a dry cleaners that listed shoe repair as one of its services. In I strolled, thinking I was saved from a fate worse than having to continuously explain why I had a pair of flip flops on with my smart trouser suit. I walked up to the counter and said to the man “I’m hoping you’ll be able to save my bacon”. Now I should say, this is something we say at my house all the time, as people who live in a mid-rural town, where children go to the same schools as their parents went to, and never leave the town. It only occurred to me that this wasn’t the best thing to say, as guessing from the religious paraphernalia dotted around the shop these lovely dry cleaning, skirt hemming, trouser altering folks were Muslim – making bacon saving a no go. The man said the shoe repairs happened off-site and it wouldn’t be ready in time for my meeting.
I left the shop in a flip flop hurry and felt like I had a nervous sweat coming on, after potentially offending everyone in the shop. This can repeat itself, never.
So here is my predicament, I need some hardwearing, smart, flat shoes that go with all my outfits, maybe something with a sensible rubber sole? Short of a pair of Bootleg shoes from Clarks, I’m a little confused. I have worn high heels for the last three years of my life and now I have to hang them up in the name of safety and commuting.
I like the look of brogues until I see androgyny in play on my vast frame. Androgyny? No. I look like a hod carrier. Why oh why can’t I just get cabs everywhere and keep my heel habit up? Then I remember I’m not Carrie Bradshaw, this is not New York and it’s also not a fiction sit-com that finished airing over nine years ago. Total dick up the arse, what a let-down.

Any suggestions welcome.

I am currently having a shoe crisis. I start my a new job in London next week and I have nothing vaguely sensible to put on my feet. I once and only once made the mistake of wearing high heels to go about my business in London until I got the very thin, unforgiving heel of my Kurt Geiger’s stuck in the escalators, on the way down to the Southbound platforms at Euston, pulling off the heel tip and rendering them un-wearable. I spent the eleven minute journey into Vauxhall cursing myself and trying to stick the heel tip on with some eyelash adhesive I had in my brief case.  

This proving to be utterly useless, I walked about a mile down Kennington Lane to find a Timpsons or shoe repair place, or maybe a hardware store that could No-More-Nails it back together for me. Eventually I found a dry cleaners that listed shoe repair as one of its services. In I strolled, thinking I was saved from a fate worse than having to continuously explain why I had a pair of flip flops on with my smart trouser suit. I walked up to the counter and said to the man “I’m hoping you’ll be able to save my bacon”. Now I should say, this is something we say at my house all the time, as people who live in a mid-rural town, where children go to the same schools as their parents went to, and never leave the town. It only occurred to me that this wasn’t the best thing to say, as guessing from the religious paraphernalia dotted around the shop these lovely dry cleaning, skirt hemming, trouser altering folks were Muslim – making bacon saving a no go. The man said the shoe repairs happened off-site and it wouldn’t be ready in time for my meeting.

I left the shop in a flip flop hurry and felt like I had a nervous sweat coming on, after potentially offending everyone in the shop. This can repeat itself, never.

So here is my predicament, I need some hardwearing, smart, flat shoes that go with all my outfits, maybe something with a sensible rubber sole? Short of a pair of Bootleg shoes from Clarks, I’m a little confused. I have worn high heels for the last three years of my life and now I have to hang them up in the name of safety and commuting.

I like the look of brogues until I see androgyny in play on my vast frame. Androgyny? No. I look like a hod carrier. Why oh why can’t I just get cabs everywhere and keep my heel habit up? Then I remember I’m not Carrie Bradshaw, this is not New York and it’s also not a fiction sit-com that finished airing over nine years ago. Total dick up the arse, what a let-down.

Any suggestions welcome.

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Running some errands on my local high street, I counted two sexist dealings. One with a fat bus driver and another from a school boy, who doesn’t even look as if he’d have pubes yet.
 Really? How have you not gotten the message by now? In broad daylight, huge, overt, ugly, ugly amounts of sexism. This needs to stop, it’s embarrassing. Standard comments like “corr look at ‘er” and “bloody ‘ell look at that” THAT not even HER – whether I’m to take these in a negative or positive light, I really don’t know. I honestly  didn’t think my appearance would cause such a stir this morning when I put on my charity shop Kookai dress (who remembers Kookai? Ah), chose my Pied a Terre ankle boots  and neglected to brush my hair.  And you can’t argue that because I had my big old ham legs out, to above the knee that I was dressed provocatively, it’s about a million degrees outside. So now, not only is it necessary that I dress for my office surroundings in this Pompeiiesque heat, it’s also necessary that I cover  anything that could be contextualised as remotely sexual. Well you can fuck, fuck, fuck off if you think I’ll be wearing one of those awful fat girl peasant skirts.
You ballsacks on legs should be wholly disappointed in your misogynistic selves, women don’t like being yelled at in the street. I don’t want you drawing attention to me or my ham legs, they are none of your damn business  - And if this is your attempt at flirting, something isn’t right. Just a quick pointer, women aren’t turned on by men hanging out of Arriva Optare 2010 model buses, with a letch on. We don’t sit at our desks rubbing our legs together thinking about your quite frankly revolting attitudes, polyester trouser wank stains and poste middle-aged paunch. Nor do we feel flattered by your modern day mating call. You make we want to puke all over your face!
The thing I find most troubling is the young boy. After all he is a boy, a child and yet he embodies all that is wrong with the patriarchy and society. Maybe his father is a fat bus driver? This isn’t Borough Market, you can’t go around making comments on the appearance of women as if they are matured lumps of stilton or creamy blocks of Manchego. I DON’T CARE IF YOU LIKE THE LOOK OF MY RIND, YOU FUCK.
I only nipped out for some Epsom Salts and a measure of Velcro, came back with a full on rage.

Running some errands on my local high street, I counted two sexist dealings. One with a fat bus driver and another from a school boy, who doesn’t even look as if he’d have pubes yet.

 Really? How have you not gotten the message by now? In broad daylight, huge, overt, ugly, ugly amounts of sexism. This needs to stop, it’s embarrassing. Standard comments like “corr look at ‘er” and “bloody ‘ell look at that” THAT not even HER – whether I’m to take these in a negative or positive light, I really don’t know. I honestly  didn’t think my appearance would cause such a stir this morning when I put on my charity shop Kookai dress (who remembers Kookai? Ah), chose my Pied a Terre ankle boots  and neglected to brush my hair.  And you can’t argue that because I had my big old ham legs out, to above the knee that I was dressed provocatively, it’s about a million degrees outside. So now, not only is it necessary that I dress for my office surroundings in this Pompeiiesque heat, it’s also necessary that I cover  anything that could be contextualised as remotely sexual. Well you can fuck, fuck, fuck off if you think I’ll be wearing one of those awful fat girl peasant skirts.

You ballsacks on legs should be wholly disappointed in your misogynistic selves, women don’t like being yelled at in the street. I don’t want you drawing attention to me or my ham legs, they are none of your damn business  - And if this is your attempt at flirting, something isn’t right. Just a quick pointer, women aren’t turned on by men hanging out of Arriva Optare 2010 model buses, with a letch on. We don’t sit at our desks rubbing our legs together thinking about your quite frankly revolting attitudes, polyester trouser wank stains and poste middle-aged paunch. Nor do we feel flattered by your modern day mating call. You make we want to puke all over your face!

The thing I find most troubling is the young boy. After all he is a boy, a child and yet he embodies all that is wrong with the patriarchy and society. Maybe his father is a fat bus driver? This isn’t Borough Market, you can’t go around making comments on the appearance of women as if they are matured lumps of stilton or creamy blocks of Manchego. I DON’T CARE IF YOU LIKE THE LOOK OF MY RIND, YOU FUCK.

I only nipped out for some Epsom Salts and a measure of Velcro, came back with a full on rage.

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teenswimmer asked

i just saw your post about completing the open water swim! sorry it's a few week late but ohmygosh, congratulations! it's such an amazing achievement to complete the swim and doubly awesome that it was so charity. congraulations! xx

Thank you! That is so nice of you to say! I can safely state that I have the swimbug, I cannot wait to take on another challenge. The achievement is really like no other and I would seriously encourage everyone to reach for their goggles and give it a go. Xx

When a relationship ends, it can be pretty tough. Especially if it was a long term thing, all those CDs and kitchen utensils that need dividing, and let’s not forget those communal items of clothing, hats and scarves, t-shirts and pyjamas. Urgh, keep them, they’re yours.
Obviously it’s not just about who gets what, it’s fairly heart breaking. Some people feel vertiginous at their new found freedom and go through some sort of personality metamorphism – this usually involves drinking and doing things they otherwise wouldn’t usually do, speaking from experience, I started on a frenzied month long shopping spree, I bought so much unnecessary crap and viscose – to fill the time, space or simply just because I was free of judgment and I could do whatever the hell I wanted.
Some people turn to their friends for a hearty, hiccupy sob and proffer a typically one sided account of events, omitting from the descriptive replay of arguments, the parts where you were screeching like a halting freight train, full of budgerigars, the times you neglected to answer their phone calls and stayed out all night flirting with other people. Don’t even deny it.

Drinking and the division of flannel pants and Xbox controllers aside, what are the rules on friends? I’m talking about “they were my friends before they were yours”. Admittedly I’d be cheesed off in the extreme, if my friends made the effort to stay in touch with anyone I’d gone out with. It’s weird, not to mention disloyal. And it stinks of desperation on your ex’s part, why would they even want to meet up with your friends? To find out about what you’d been up to? To find out if your new girlfriend or boyfriend is sexier than they are? They probably are, but why so curious? Why not just Facebook stalk them while eating a croissant covered in peanut butter and be done with it.

“But they’re a laugh, and they didn’t do anything wrong to me!” I hear you whine. I understand your quandary but really this is no dilemma, unless your mate has just been revealed as a murderous seal pup clubber and charged with robbing the local branch of Timpsons – there is no excuse to be disloyal to your friends. Nip that bitch in the bud and make your excuses, persona non grata, thank you very much. Add these characters to your list of ones to avoid, like the person that has no regard for personal space, Katie Hopkins and Pol Pot (or anyone like him, given that he’s dead).

Bros before hoes, after all.

When a relationship ends, it can be pretty tough. Especially if it was a long term thing, all those CDs and kitchen utensils that need dividing, and let’s not forget those communal items of clothing, hats and scarves, t-shirts and pyjamas. Urgh, keep them, they’re yours.

Obviously it’s not just about who gets what, it’s fairly heart breaking. Some people feel vertiginous at their new found freedom and go through some sort of personality metamorphism – this usually involves drinking and doing things they otherwise wouldn’t usually do, speaking from experience, I started on a frenzied month long shopping spree, I bought so much unnecessary crap and viscose – to fill the time, space or simply just because I was free of judgment and I could do whatever the hell I wanted.

Some people turn to their friends for a hearty, hiccupy sob and proffer a typically one sided account of events, omitting from the descriptive replay of arguments, the parts where you were screeching like a halting freight train, full of budgerigars, the times you neglected to answer their phone calls and stayed out all night flirting with other people. Don’t even deny it.

Drinking and the division of flannel pants and Xbox controllers aside, what are the rules on friends? I’m talking about “they were my friends before they were yours”. Admittedly I’d be cheesed off in the extreme, if my friends made the effort to stay in touch with anyone I’d gone out with. It’s weird, not to mention disloyal. And it stinks of desperation on your ex’s part, why would they even want to meet up with your friends? To find out about what you’d been up to? To find out if your new girlfriend or boyfriend is sexier than they are? They probably are, but why so curious? Why not just Facebook stalk them while eating a croissant covered in peanut butter and be done with it.

But they’re a laugh, and they didn’t do anything wrong to me!” I hear you whine. I understand your quandary but really this is no dilemma, unless your mate has just been revealed as a murderous seal pup clubber and charged with robbing the local branch of Timpsons – there is no excuse to be disloyal to your friends. Nip that bitch in the bud and make your excuses, persona non grata, thank you very much. Add these characters to your list of ones to avoid, like the person that has no regard for personal space, Katie Hopkins and Pol Pot (or anyone like him, given that he’s dead).

Bros before hoes, after all.

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Well, I did it. I completed the Great North Swim in 1:32 and, without meaning to sound completely over the top, it’s probably my greatest achievement to date. 
It was the toughest and the most rewarding experience.
 
I am a keen swimmer anyway, but not to the point where I would let it take over my life. And it did take over. I haven’t had my hair professionally coloured in over six months, I had my acrylic nails taken off in December because they were hindering my training and ruining my swimming hats. Now I look like a broad shouldered, scruffy shrub with shrinking breasts, and you know what? None of that matters because I raised over £900  for MIND and conquered every single one of my doubts. 
 
I’ll never be perfect, but I’m determined as shit and maybe this goes to serve as a reminder that if you want something badly enough, you can work towards it and it will happen, maybe anything is possible? 
Even when you are pushing as hard as you can, and it feels like you’re getting nowhere, like trying to push spaghetti up a dogs arse, when you’re going against the wind, current and rain – stay focused, keep pushing, take your time and tell every single Doubting Thomas to piss off.
 
And that’s the gospel according to me, your favourite Office Doris.  

Well, I did it. I completed the Great North Swim in 1:32 and, without meaning to sound completely over the top, it’s probably my greatest achievement to date.

It was the toughest and the most rewarding experience.

 

I am a keen swimmer anyway, but not to the point where I would let it take over my life. And it did take over. I haven’t had my hair professionally coloured in over six months, I had my acrylic nails taken off in December because they were hindering my training and ruining my swimming hats. Now I look like a broad shouldered, scruffy shrub with shrinking breasts, and you know what? None of that matters because I raised over £900  for MIND and conquered every single one of my doubts.

 

I’ll never be perfect, but I’m determined as shit and maybe this goes to serve as a reminder that if you want something badly enough, you can work towards it and it will happen, maybe anything is possible?

Even when you are pushing as hard as you can, and it feels like you’re getting nowhere, like trying to push spaghetti up a dogs arse, when you’re going against the wind, current and rain – stay focused, keep pushing, take your time and tell every single Doubting Thomas to piss off.

 

And that’s the gospel according to me, your favourite Office Doris.  

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I’m one Muller rice pudding, two talcum powdered feet and one enormous arm bruise of shame away from total self-annihilation. I mean seriously! If I were to write a letter to my brain, it would probably follow a little like this:
 
“Just a quick one to say that, you are completely useless and you should probably just go back to your bunk bed at your mother’s house and hide under your shitty polyester bed sheets. Your social botheration is the bane of my existence and I hate you.
Much love, 
The rest of you”
 
I should start by telling you that I drank too much Pimms and managed to forward roll off a toilet in a public house – bum out, arm bruised. On the plus, I had no idea I was so flexible, who knew? 
All my shoes have talcum powder in them, from quick post swim changes, and I always forget my socks. I leave powdery white footmarks on the wooden floors; I like to pretend we have a powdery ghost.
And I’m having a bash at fashion blogging – er what? It was my boyfriend’s idea, he seems to think I could do a good job at it, poor chap probably doesn’t realise that I have all the dress sense of a Christmas Day turkey – in as much as, yes, I would love to cover myself in bacon, stuff my cavities with sage and sausage meat and potentially surround myself with small sausages wrapped in more bacon. I don’t think that it will be a “regular” fashion blog, with pretty polished women staring nonchalantly in to the distance, while showcasing Giuseppe Zanotti sandals and beautiful skin.
I started off with a fairly sober outfit, like I was trying, I even ousted all the shots that promote my (I’m guessing hereditary)  bingo wings, but pretty soon it’ll be pictures of me with hangover hair and an inside out Harrington, but for now, enjoy the picture of my angry face.
 
http://fashion.aceofgrades.co.uk/

I’m one Muller rice pudding, two talcum powdered feet and one enormous arm bruise of shame away from total self-annihilation. I mean seriously! If I were to write a letter to my brain, it would probably follow a little like this:

 

“Just a quick one to say that, you are completely useless and you should probably just go back to your bunk bed at your mother’s house and hide under your shitty polyester bed sheets. Your social botheration is the bane of my existence and I hate you.

Much love,

The rest of you”

 

I should start by telling you that I drank too much Pimms and managed to forward roll off a toilet in a public house – bum out, arm bruised. On the plus, I had no idea I was so flexible, who knew?

All my shoes have talcum powder in them, from quick post swim changes, and I always forget my socks. I leave powdery white footmarks on the wooden floors; I like to pretend we have a powdery ghost.

And I’m having a bash at fashion blogging – er what? It was my boyfriend’s idea, he seems to think I could do a good job at it, poor chap probably doesn’t realise that I have all the dress sense of a Christmas Day turkey – in as much as, yes, I would love to cover myself in bacon, stuff my cavities with sage and sausage meat and potentially surround myself with small sausages wrapped in more bacon. I don’t think that it will be a “regular” fashion blog, with pretty polished women staring nonchalantly in to the distance, while showcasing Giuseppe Zanotti sandals and beautiful skin.

I started off with a fairly sober outfit, like I was trying, I even ousted all the shots that promote my (I’m guessing hereditary)  bingo wings, but pretty soon it’ll be pictures of me with hangover hair and an inside out Harrington, but for now, enjoy the picture of my angry face.

 

http://fashion.aceofgrades.co.uk/

 
I have an admission to make. When I was at school there was a horrid girl in my year, let’s call her Shmirsty Shmallen, for the sake of her identity.
She had stripy highlights, that were all the rage in the 00’s, you could tell she’d been over doing it with the flat irons because parts of her hair would stick out at right angles and of course no year 10, state school look would be complete without the staple foundation on the lips (WHY!??) 
 
Nonetheless she was still popular, despite being common as shit and a total cow. She mocked me for wearing Dr Marten shoes, in fairness they don’t rank highly on the femininity scale, but I was about 14, I didn’t want to wear pretty shoes, I wanted to wear army surplus and collect plectrums!
Anyway, after months of her persistent bitchiness and all around cunty behaviour, I saw an opportunity to even out the playing field.
Someone overheard Shmirsty telling a friend that she had a downstairs itching, how very amusing and not at all surprising. Shmirsty, like so many of her peers, was not blessed in the prefrontal cortex department, obviously she had forgotten that you must always keep your fanny clean and if you plan on engaging in extracurricular activities with your male classmates, to always, always put a hat on it. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with a little teenage promiscuity, I suppose if I’d spent a little less time wearing Dr Marten shoes and learning how to play AC/DC on the guitar, I myself might have been subject to an itchy foof.
 
However, I didn’t and I wasn’t, which left the ball nicely in my court to scribble in large letters on the doors of the girls toilets, in the science block “Shmirsty Shmallen has AIDS and it itches”
Oh the naivety!  I was egged on by other people that had fallen victim to her mean taunts, usually the word Sket – very popular lexical choice in 2005.
For someone so lacking intelligence, it didn’t take long for her to see my handiwork and narrow it down to just a couple of suspects. Fortunately for me, she was far more hated throughout the social school cliques than I originally thought. Apparently, even faculty staff didn’t particularly like her (because she had a bilious vag, perhaps?) So I didn’t get in trouble. 
 
I feel like now is the right time to admit that it was me, I was the Bic biro warrior and I’m not sorry. I don’t think it was an early form of Slut Shaming, I think it was a good reminder to keep your daisy clean and to always use STI-proof contraception.
 
End

I have an admission to make. When I was at school there was a horrid girl in my year, let’s call her Shmirsty Shmallen, for the sake of her identity.

She had stripy highlights, that were all the rage in the 00’s, you could tell she’d been over doing it with the flat irons because parts of her hair would stick out at right angles and of course no year 10, state school look would be complete without the staple foundation on the lips (WHY!??)

Nonetheless she was still popular, despite being common as shit and a total cow. She mocked me for wearing Dr Marten shoes, in fairness they don’t rank highly on the femininity scale, but I was about 14, I didn’t want to wear pretty shoes, I wanted to wear army surplus and collect plectrums!

Anyway, after months of her persistent bitchiness and all around cunty behaviour, I saw an opportunity to even out the playing field.

Someone overheard Shmirsty telling a friend that she had a downstairs itching, how very amusing and not at all surprising. Shmirsty, like so many of her peers, was not blessed in the prefrontal cortex department, obviously she had forgotten that you must always keep your fanny clean and if you plan on engaging in extracurricular activities with your male classmates, to always, always put a hat on it. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with a little teenage promiscuity, I suppose if I’d spent a little less time wearing Dr Marten shoes and learning how to play AC/DC on the guitar, I myself might have been subject to an itchy foof.

However, I didn’t and I wasn’t, which left the ball nicely in my court to scribble in large letters on the doors of the girls toilets, in the science block “Shmirsty Shmallen has AIDS and it itches”

Oh the naivety! I was egged on by other people that had fallen victim to her mean taunts, usually the word Sket – very popular lexical choice in 2005.

For someone so lacking intelligence, it didn’t take long for her to see my handiwork and narrow it down to just a couple of suspects. Fortunately for me, she was far more hated throughout the social school cliques than I originally thought. Apparently, even faculty staff didn’t particularly like her (because she had a bilious vag, perhaps?) So I didn’t get in trouble.

I feel like now is the right time to admit that it was me, I was the Bic biro warrior and I’m not sorry. I don’t think it was an early form of Slut Shaming, I think it was a good reminder to keep your daisy clean and to always use STI-proof contraception.

End

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The expression is “think before you speak”, but sometimes it’s more like “check to see if your brain is still functioning”. 
Say anything, the first thing that pops into your mind – contribute! Just to check and see if you have any form of reactive skill left. 
People might not like what comes out of your pie hole, you might not even like what comes out of your mouth but at least it was an authentic, non-pacified piece of you, and let’s face it no one wants to end up in existential bad faith!
 
If people don’t like what you have to say it’s (a because they’re boring, (b because they’re patriarchal pieces of shit or (c because they simply don’t get you – and that is an out and out loss on their part.   

The expression is “think before you speak”, but sometimes it’s more like “check to see if your brain is still functioning”.

Say anything, the first thing that pops into your mind – contribute! Just to check and see if you have any form of reactive skill left.

People might not like what comes out of your pie hole, you might not even like what comes out of your mouth but at least it was an authentic, non-pacified piece of you, and let’s face it no one wants to end up in existential bad faith!

 

If people don’t like what you have to say it’s (a because they’re boring, (b because they’re patriarchal pieces of shit or (c because they simply don’t get you – and that is an out and out loss on their part.   

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