Feminism gone mad!

I would really hate to be a man. Not because of the unattractive genitalia that lights up at the first sign of side boob, (honestly it must need tranquillisers over the summer) but because you never know where you stand. You offer to help a girl carry something heavy and you never know if you are going to be branded a gentlemen or a sexist.

This week women have really pissed me off. I was sent a link on Facebook to someone’s blog in which they branded ‘love actually’ as a sexist movie. This in itself I think can definitely be considered a matter of opinion. The fact that this person then went on to describe the movie if you reversed all the roles as a genius stroke of woman empowerment, made me feel sorry for the opposite gender.

Now let’s be honest, quite often throughout this blog I have pointed out the failings of men but I think we can all agree that in a lot of the stories I’m the one who comes across as an idiot, (if you doubt this I suggest ready posts such as vomitgate and my of course the time I put impulse on my face). I am all for equal opportunities for women. I absolutely believe that it should be a woman’s choice if she wants to have kids or to carry on with her career, and if she does do so she should have as equal chance getting the top job as a man. However I do think a lot of the time we are our own worst enemy. Our expectations of men are very unclear. Under no circumstances are you to comment on Jessica Alba’s breasts, however also if you don’t hold the door open for me I will CUT YOU!!

We have blurred the lines of feminism so much I’m not even sure when I’m supposed to be mad anymore. It’s most upsetting for me as I’m very good at the mad part. The main part that annoyed me this week though was the backwardness of our argument. For example in this ‘love actually’ rant she recommended reversing the roles. If there is a male prime minister hitting on a younger secretary then it’s sexist, however if it’s the other way around then ‘well done girl’. If a man watches ‘Tomb raider’ for the sheer pleasure of Angelina Jolie’s arse in HD then its sexist. If I watch Australia for no other reason than to see Hugh Jackman with his top off then I’m a woman in touch with her sexuality. I honestly have no idea what the hell happened in that movie! How the hell are men supposed to act? How the hell am I supposed to act?

I’ve always considered myself to be an independent woman and also a bit of a feminist. I’m not a proper girly girl and I you won’t ever find me prancing around in a pretty dress waiting for a man to notice me. However I do like being a girl. Maybe I’m lucky coming from a family where men are (despite their faults) pretty gentlemanly. Even The Gay will open the wine and pour it. Is he being sexist by doing so? I don’t think so.

Men and woman are different. Accept it. Yes we should all get equal pay and equal rights. Everybody should no matter of their gender, race or sexual orientation, but don’t try and take away everything that makes us different. I don’t want to be a man. They have the strangest thought processes and they inflict pain on each other for fun. Look at me being sexist!! Is everybody seeing my point now? There are a shit load of things that women can do that men can’t and there are things that men can do that women can’t.

Let’s cut all this women empowerment crap and purposefully trying to prove something by putting cougars and bitches up on pedestals. Let’s not call a woman sleeping with her male secretary a god and a man sleeping with his female one an oppressor. We know in our heart of hearts they’d be lost without us and I bet if you think about it we’d be lost without them. After all we all have a father in some form. Get fucking used to it.                                                                       

"You're too pretty to use on-line dating"

Yes I am sure this is the case. My awesome beauty must also be the cause of why I am still single. Men are just so overwhelmed by my looks that they can’t ever stand it. It would continually make them ask the question ‘why is someone so beautiful with a guy like me’, and no one ever wants to live with that. What a load of fudge.

I’m not going to turn this into a case of me moaning about my own looks, I seriously believe that there is enough of that going on in the world. I find it amazing that we are always demonizing obesity before classing every girl that is below a size 12 anorexic. I will however make several cases in my defence of being ‘too attractive for online dating.

If I was attractive I would expect to be flirted with by hot guys. This has never happened. When I’m out there have been the odd occasions, the odd smiles and drinks. These have all some from one type of man; the fugly ones. Seriously, my ability to be chatted up by the young and the weird is incredible. This obviously does wonders for my self esteem. If we judge ourselves by the people we attract then my face is in no way symmetrical.

Any hope to improve my personal appearance also seems to be against me. I have given up on being fashionable in the beauty department after 2 serious life events.

So I spend money on some lovely velvet soft shower gel. A mix of flower blossoms, this wonderful new invention is supposed to turn into a mouse that will hydrate your body to know end. Let’s not laugh at this, skin is important and there’s nothing more off putting that stroking someone’s arm only to have to wash off flakes from your fingerprints. So I use the shower gel. Ooh tingly. I step out the shower and AHHHH.

Oh my god I'm going to die. My body is covered head to toe in red blotchiness. Will this be permanent? Will people spend time wondering if I was in some terrible accident? Will I have to start a sympathy campaign to make people more aware of the tragic illness of..... shower gelitis?’

Magnolias are apparently nice, they have an apparently good smell and there must be something going on there because everyone paints their houses that colour. I am allergic to magnolias. They’re in fudging everything and one touch of anything that is scented and I look like I got intimate with a wire brush.  Did you know that most waxing kits have flowers in them? It always takes a good few months before they bring out a brand for sensitive skin without all the additions. Again skin is important. Nowadays every hair on the body is expected to be either tidy or gone. It’s actually kind of sick when you think about it. We become a woman and get the forest to prove it only for many men to want it cut down to resemble the days of adolescence. Never ever wax your bikini line, or your legs for that matter. You are ripping hair from your body. Would you rip the hair from your head? No. So why does every single girl try waxing. We know it’s going to be bad, we know that it’s painful and scary and stupid. AND THEY PUT FLOWERS IN IT!! Coloured tights are all the rage and you no longer need them, red is so your colour. Spread eagle was originally a gymnastics move which grew to have sexual connotations before it became a way of preventing leg rubbage whilst you wait for the redness to go down and contemplating spreading the ice cream on your legs instead of putting it in a bowl.

How am I supposed to make a positive step in my dating life if these steps are going to leave me needing medical treatment?

Whilst I will leave it to others to decide on my attractive merits I can unequivocally say that they will at no point improve. 

"We're getting married"

Would you fudging stop it now please. For some reason everyone is really happy. STOP IT. STOP IT NOW.
Within the last month 2 friends have got married, 3 engaged and 1 has had a baby. It's selfish is what it is. No appreciation for the patheticness of other people's lives. Nowadays it's not even something you overhear down the pub, where there is immediate access to to alcohol. Instead you have the hell of Facebook. You glance at your phone and BAM! Here's a reminder that you wasted your life chasing a career because in the end you're all alone in a flat you don't even own. I'm sure some of my friends are reading this right now thinking 'miserable bitch', well you started it you bling-fingered care bears on Prozac. . . Seriously guys congratulations, really happy for you!
If there is one thing worse than the continuous 'feels so strange to say husband' updates it's the baby updates. This terrible disease has even infected Optimus now that she's a mum. Apparently when you have a parasite ripped out of your womb that then becomes your responsibility, you become overly nice. Now little Bumblebee (see what I did there!) is cute but he's changed her. This week she offered to travel all the way to my place to drop off my advent calendar. Gone are the days of insults and ransom demands, sending pictures of small ripped off doors. She's really nice. It's very disconcerting. Then of course was the status update:
Optimus is feeling proud...... bumblebee ate some carrot today.
What the fudge! I eat vegetables and no one praises me. No one updates a status about my consumption of broccoli. Every Christmas I'm forced to eat a brussel sprout, where's my Facebook medal? My mother has Facebook so why is she not proud of my ability to choke down some cabbage whilst wishing it was chocolate. Some mothers even go beyond the food praise and start sharing their child's ability to use the potty. Congratulations you've looked at some shit today! I work with animals my shit reader is way above yours. You want to start a photo competition? I will take you down bitch.
Again they are praising a child's ability to defecate- something I have been doing for many years, I can even wipe my own arse. Stop praising children for mastering basic hygiene. It makes them lazy and by the time they get to me to teach them they expect the same treatment. Let me be clear: I will NOT praise your child for shitting, I've seen monkeys do the same.

"What are you looking for in a man?"

“Intelligence....that’s why I’m still single”.

I get asked this question on average about 7 times a month. Every now and again the truly amusing, sarcastic people will hit back with a response for me: ‘breathing, she can’t afford to be picky’. Whilst I should probably be highly offended it actually makes me like them a little bit more, good work dad, good work.

I have in fact given up on this question after discovering that either a) our ideals are impossible to achieve b) it ends in the genie effect. That effect of be careful what you wish for, it seems whenever someone makes a wish with a genie they realise how ridiculous that wish actually is. It always backfires, bastard genie’s.

This is what happened with my ‘I want someone slightly older’. I decided to start a relationship with a 30 year old. Now if this was happening now then it wouldn’t really be an ‘older’ guy it would just be a ‘slightly older than me guy’. Either way at 24 I was pleased with myself for having a goal and sticking to it. Then I discovered that when you start dating someone in their 30’s there’s a fucking good reason that they are 30 and single. To make this very clear I do include myself in this statement. Anyone who starts dating me in the future needs to have the skin of a rhino. I’m a mental case, I should know, I spend all my time with me! I can’t stand me! We’re talking about a girl who stung her ass on stinging nettles, spends time actually considering who would make a better lover Batman or James Bond and the reincarnation of genital crabs. So when I consider me in my ..... very mid 20’s I should really have been prepared for a guy in his early 30s. He was a man child. An actual man child. He looked like a man, he drank like a man but it turned out he was a child. As I looked around his other single friends I started to realise something; the 30 year old single man is a man still pretending to be 20 whilst sipping a glass of wine on occasion to look sophisticated. I was hoping for some sort of intelligent conversation, I got an estimation of how much wine you can drink before it ‘just won’t hold up anymore’. After he asked whether ‘thou’ was a real word whilst I was ready Charles Dickens I decided I wanted an intelligent man for my next conquest. I couldn’t find one.  Well that’s not completely true. I went on a couple of dates with a guy who was intelligent but had a bit too much arrogance to go with it. We went for a walk along the beach, across the wet sand where there are lots of little streams flowing back down to the sea. I hoped over each one like a 2 year old child which I’m sure brought a little smile to his face. I jumped over a particularly wide stream and suddenly found myself sinking. One jump and I was up to my knees in quicksand. It was like a cartoon, I resembled Dawn French when she jumped in that puddle. Slightly like a panicked moose who was too heavy to walk across the ice like all the other animals. I did what any sane person would do at this stage. Laughed like a mad man. There he stood staring at the girl he had been convinced to go on a date with up to her knees in muddy sand laughing like a loon, before running into the sea because ‘how else am I supposed to get the crap off my boots’. Upon walking back up to the pontoon he pointed to a sign with a stern, disappointed face that only mothers should own.

‘WARNING: Quick sand, walk with caution at low tide’.

I’ll never forget the look of disgust on his face as I grabbed his arm to rescue myself, like picking a sticky lollipop from a carpet. So older and intelligent didn’t work so what do I do next. I think boobs are the answer. I’m going to date a man with boobs. If I’m going to have failed relationships then at least they should have an element of discovery. I have always wondered what the obsession is with them. I can look down and play with mine all I like but I don’t get anything from it, so I can only assume that they have to be on someone else to get some sort of joy. So I’ll date a man with breasts so I can give them a little jiggle and see what the fascination is. A bit of a motorboat and maybe I’ll have the answer to the question women have long wondered at. 

What your vagina says about you Part 2: "use it or lose it"

This week so far has been pretty awesome. I've been spending time with Gwen: my lesbian lover who is marrying my brother. OK so she's obviously not actually my lover, as we all know I'm scared of caves. Gwen is great though, and it's good for me to actually spend some time being girly.
Her marriage to my brother though is causing me some problems. Not only has it apparently become a family thing to cover all bases when discussing my future; "guest, boyfriend, lesbian", but I also had to book my hotel. I had to endure the perky blonde (I'm assuming) on the other end.
"so that's a double room for 2 adults"
no you bimbo it's for one adult, I'm sad and unattractive but that doesn't mean I can't starfish.
"err yes 2 adults"! Who knows it could happen .... or I can kidnap someone off the street.
The girly stuff of wine and movies did bring up the frightening concept of 'use it or lose it'. A movie mentioned a woman who didn't have sex and her vagina closed up! We investigated this concept and discovered 3 things about vaginas:
The first is Vacne! That's right vaginal acne. Just like the panna-cotta face there is panna-cotta vagina. The hamburger scene where we are all worried it will burst and add extra sauce is replicated with oral sex. Sex feels like humping bubble wrap. The popping sound is fun but it all ends with disappointment and in this case pus. I can't say I ever suffered from Vacne. Whilst my face was spotty my vagina was normal, which got me thinking; can we see these people from the lack of face acne? I used to be jealous of those girls without spots but maybe they were just somewhere unseen.
The second bit of harrowing news is that your vagina gets vinkles. No, that's not a German saying wrinkles, that's vagina wrinkles. It gets old and slack until you're having to warn your ankles when you take your knickers off. When you walk around naked there's a slapping beat to walk to. Men start having to consider if you're not enjoying it because of technique or because their embedded in a deep wrinkle. The clean up would be disgusting.
The final bit of information is the truth; if you don't use it you lose it! If you don't have sex your vagina can actually close! Apparently we are supposed to remind our vagina it has uses other than child birth. What the fudge? What am I supposed to do, start reading it 50 shades of grey? Legs a spread, a mirror to check it's listening? Surely that would just make it sad. This is what we could be doing vagina but your face looks better than mine and whilst you will also wrinkle at least you can't be seen. My vagina must hate me. If I had a better personality and an even better face then it wouldn't look longingly at mother vaginas. They may resemble the elephant man but at least they've been used. It's currently very scared of becoming a Dr Who monster. No mouth but able to communicate with my brain telepathically to tell me what a loser I am.
I may start a new dating site, our motto will be:
'Date; because your vagina needs you'

A quick thought on sex with inanimate objects

I'm seriously concerned for my health. This is because of one man; Hugh Jackman. I watched him take his shirt off, muscles rippling, dark eyes and a stare that says "You'd have the night of your life", and........ nothing. I felt nothing. My stomach remained like a flowerless meadow and my knickers as dry as grass in summer. I have come to accept that men have made a global agreement not to find me attractive, but me not finding them  attractive is just mean.
When animals sense a change in their environment they adapt. Adaptations to a lack of attraction to humans include: bestiality and sex with inanimate objects. I'm not sure I could stand the look on the animals face, and I know too many stories like the guy who was found dead at the bottom of a land slide still inside a chicken. So sex with inanimate objects it is then.
'Oh chest of drawers, I love how you open and close. I want to put all my clothes in you. Oh slam that drawer hard. Harder. Harder....... shit it broke' ... I'm starting to see a flaw in this plan!
I recently watched an episode of 'Snog, marry, avoid' where a girl stated her perfect man was Buzz Lightyear. The response of 'isn't he just 12 inches of plastic toy' just made me think "lucky girl, usually you only get nine". Which brings me to the best possible solution to my problem. It actually fulfils both adaptations and has the proven ability to be superior to men in every way. The Rabbit. To be clear I mean the vibrator rabbit not the cute until you realise it eats its own shit rabbit. It's an inanimate object that just keeps on giving and comes in a pretty range of colours. It makes sense that if you're going to form a sexual relationship with an object then pick he one that's designed for just that.
It actually makes me feel sympathetic the wank sock. Women have been long attended to in our sexual needs and its relatively easy to do. You can form various shapes and devices to fit in it. However a man's penis really needs something to fit into. It's just impractical. Especially as the clean up is so messy. The sophistication of male self pleasure has never gone beyond that of the kleenex tissue. This proves two things 1) men need women more than we need men 2) when the machines rise up I know which side I'm on.
So sex with inanimate objects it is then.
I better stock up on batteries.

"When will I find my own Mr Darcy"

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman of single consequence will want her life to mirror that of Elizabeth and Mr Darcy.
It's the love story that has defined generation after generation. Whilst Jane's immortal words may be slowly replaced by; *snapchat*' waiting with my cock out', even the most belligerent of us wish for romance. However on reflection this may not be the best idea for someone of my behaviour.
The day starts with me trying to force my rolls into my corset. Luckily they are not over baked because just showing my ankle would brand me a prostitute. So my rolls are neatly tucked away like a vacuum pack of six Frankfurters.
Now as many people will know I meet Mr Darcy at a dance where he insults me.
"Er excuse me, not handsome enough to tempt you? First of all handsome? Whilst the dictionary may define it as a general term of beauty, we all know it's a man thing. Therefore I can only assume that you are gay and hate that I am lacking in beard and masculine features. Well fuck you because even if I was a man I wouldn't want to be with a man who looks like he's both appalled by the smell and fighting back vomit as he scrapes shit off his shoe". Stuck up snob.
As the year progresses we spend more time getting to know each other. I remain indignant, after all he is a miserable snob. He insults everyone, hates my shoe diving mother and I swear I saw him staring at Bingley's bum. However he declares that against his better judgement he is in love with me.
Narcissistic bastard. I'm not going to be his beard. OK so he might be straight but the fact that he wants to be with someone who hates him doesn't bode well. There weren't stilletos in those days but there were plenty of riding crops. What a nutter. I can't use my usual lines, if I say I'm a lesbian I'll be publicly flogged and everyone will see my butt freckle.
"So you tell me you love me against your better judgement. Well I am the only one who judges me ..... and also you. I judge you as a nutter so fudge off"
Did they have fudge in Georgian England?
A letter describes his emotions and past actions. Whilst it is completely lacking in comedy I'm gutted to find his writing is better than mine. His name is Fitzwilliam?! Turns out there is some comedy.
Whilst time goes by I reflect on this letter with a single thought in my mind 'did I make a mistake? He is rich'
Unfortunately the diary I published under a false name becomes known as mine. Having made such horrendous comments on sea monsters, discussed lizard men and for fear of vomitgate: the sequel, I am thrown to the funny farm. Let's face it, I'm lucky not to have been arrested for exposure of my nettle stung butt.
However let us remember this is Darcy, he would never forget me. Upon hearing that I have been released to private supervision my heart swells. I run to the carriage wanting to be with my Darcy. I throw myself into the carriage .........
......
.....
*sigh*
"Hello stalker boy"

Wank sock or wank towel?

Unfortunately within the last year most of my male attention has come from one main source; Stalker boy. I don't think he was christened as that but the name depoll has got his file waiting.
There is one way to create a stalker: be nice during a break-up. I have already revealed my fail safe ways to end a relationship, make it brutal and be honest. 'I'm breaking up with you because I would gladly play Russian roulette with a cyanide capsule and an m 'n' m rather than kiss you again'.
When I broke up with stalker boy I was going through a time in my life where I was trying to be a better person...... it didn't last.
Having been away for two weeks the stalker was keen to see me and rapped on my door the minute I got back. At that point my rose tinted glasses suffered their peril. It was possibly the radioactive sheen of his 'too long un-dyed' hair, or the stench of joop aftershave that had been thrown on to cover up the cigarette smell. As we headed into the flat my mind was made up. I started running  through my head:
'your after shower naked dance only accentuates your tiny penis'. Why do men insist on dancing naked, waggling their penis in your face? Is it supposed to be attractive? Wait did stalker boy just pull out a present?!
He brought me shoes. I'm about to break up with a man who had spent a good £80 on shoes. Crap. I better try and be nice.

ONE HOUR LATER

YES. I broke up with someone in a grown up, adult manner. I expressed my feelings clearly without resorting to insult and it all went smoothly. BEEP BEEP.

*Changed your mind yet?*
oh crap!

ONE WEEK LATER

*Still not changed your mind yet?*
Why would I have changed my mind, why? You lick teeth when you kiss. It's gross. If you want to taste my teeth put Macleans with your chips.

ONE MONTH LATER

*I ran out of the deodorant I used to leave at your place, such a sad start to the day :(*
I can not express how pathetic that text is. You have come an office joke. Whenever we run out of something we say "such a sad start to the day".

SIX WEEKS LATER

*Hey how are you? I miss you*
Well I don't miss you. I do not miss having to endure the conversation with your mates where you compared having a wank towel to a wank sock.

ANOTHER TWO MONTHS LATER

*Hey was thinking of stopping by. Why don't we meet up and have a coffee. Miss you really bad*
I really don't miss discovering the sock under your bed.

EIGHT FUCKING MONTHS AFTER THE BREAK UP

*How about that coffee*
No you stalker boy, you admitted to having a wank in a traffic jam because 'there was nothing better to do'.
** dear stalker boy, Im not going to  this politely because you have pushed me over the edge. Leave me alone and spend your time considering the fact that women lie and size DOES matter**
That sorts that then.........
To be continued.

Insomnia

Well I must apologise for my lack of communication. It's not that nothing has been happening it's just that I have been suffering with one of the worst disorders; insomnia.
There's nothing more likely to make you less articulate than lack of sleep. For months I  struggled to get more than three hours shut eye. I have spent long periods of time walking around like a vegetarian zombie. Zero munching on humans but lots of groaning and slow shuffling walks. Even when I am ridiculously tired the minute my head hits the pillow my brain starts to talk to me. Like so:
"Hi"
"Hi brain"
"I see you've finally dragged yourself away from the wine and meal for one and got into bed"
"Yep nice and comfy"
"well, about that meal for one..."
"I'd much rather sleep"
"It's just a little pathetic don't you think?"
"yes it is, maybe a little sleep would make it better"
"Oh I don't think so. Did you see that advert for elite singles? Oh of course you did the giggle centre went into overdrive"
"hehehehe"
"yes very amusing. Well I was thinking that it wouldn't work for you anyway because there is nothing elite about you"
"..... I'm going to sleep now"
"You have no money"
"I have a jar of pennies"
"All your clothes are knock-offs or primark"
"It's the only place that accepts my jar of pennies"
"Maybe it's the career you've chosen"
"ok I'll quit tomorrow morning, goodnight"
"The problem is, not being in any way elite your chances of getting a well paid job are pretty slim"
"I'll just become a prostitute then"
"Don't be silly you can't even give it away, who's going to pay?"
"I hate you brain"
"I saw that. That hammer is for scary wardrobe clowns only"
"Then I suggest you let me sleep"
"ok"




"Do you think the front room needs a mirror?"


After weeks of these conversations I did what any sane person would do; I borrowed my friends highly powerful sleeping pills.
Friends sympathise when you can't sleep. Best friends knock you out for ten ours.

"I can't be with you right now but I don't want you to be with anyone else"

"Err yes, because my happiness is bad. A smile should never again touch my lips as it would burn. Burn like the love we desire but can never have". Oh wait what I meant to say was; "Fudge off you twunt". If a man doesn't want me then I reserve the right to shamelessly offer it around, like the special offer chocolate they put next to tills to tempt shoppers. I'm not sure if women have ever uttered this phrase, which is a surprise because we are generally selfish. We are responsible for the 'I'm tired' excuse and poison letters to Hugh Jackmans wife. I have no idea who she is but I hate her!
This phrase was recently uttered to a good friend of mine. I am pleased to share she handled it spectacularly making the guy mentally age 10 years in one conversation - he's now 13. It is a typical toddler response, 'I'm not playing with this toy right now but no one else can'. Apparently these men have never progressed beyond toddler mentality. Now I would like to make it clear that I am in no way a mature adult. Even though I am approaching 30 rather than 20 I still smile every time I say the word giggle.... or apparently type it! Try it, say giggle. Smiles all round. However I can twist this into an endearing character trait. 'Don't play with my toys' is never endearing. When approached with this behaviour you have to consider your options and give an appropriate response. Let's clear up the absolutely worst response: Understanding and waiting for him. This is unacceptable on every level. This is because of the direct translation of the above sentence. The translation is as follows; 'currently I can sleep with whoever I like and have no responsibility to anyone. However I also get the bonus of having you for emotional support and physical gratification when I'm bored. If you get with someone else I wont have that option. Lets not mess with the system.' A long translation I know but pretty accurate. Allowing them to continue this behaviour only enforces it. Eventually you become the woman locking the cats in the dining room, quickly Febreeze-ing the bedsheets as you desperately try to prevent your red lipstick seeping into your lip wrinkles, whilst he tells his wife he's working late. Whilst this stands at one end of the spectrum I prefer the opposite end where we get to physical violence. I believe stuffing his testicles with clothes pins until it looks like a hedgehog is a sure way to teach him about selfless monogamy. I'm sure there is a middle ground somewhere but it's 50/50 as to whether it's going to work out. For every guy that comes to his senses there is another who shrugs and continues to finger drunk chavs in McDonald's on a Saturday night.
I have experienced this phrase myself. Upon hearing it muttered to me OVER THE PHONE! my first thought was 'coward', my second was 'hedgehog testicles'. Despite this he kept in touch with texts telling me how amazing I was. Tell me something I don't know, wait if I'm so amazing......... Lets not go there.
What to do, what to do? This requires an act of defiance. Something bold. Something almost dangerous, heroic one might say. Battling sea monsters is heroic! Yes I took on the sea monster again. I sat at the till with a special offer sticker stuck to my head and prepared for battle. As I lay out like a slutty starfish I considered my special offer till chocolate response. It was a high risk factor, not only from the perspective of drowning in sea spray but also the other mans response. I got quite the response from both men.
Now I'm not condoning my actions, (although admittedly it had high rewards) but what I will say is this. When a toddler wont let anyone play with his toys you tell him it's unacceptable behaviour and allow others to play with his toys so he can learn better behaviour. Really I was just perfecting my parenting skills.

"Let's watch Paranormal Activity"

The single girls DVD habits are unlike any other time of her life. There are films sat in my collection which were brought and only watched when in a relationship. There are just some things that aren't made for a single girl living on her own. It’s just too depressing.

You never want to watch anything too epic. Whilst District 9 is one of my favourite movies it’s very rarely watched. It’s too epic. Any epic movie makes your life seem that much more pathetic and pointless. There’s some poor bastard trying to save the world whilst overcoming a set of emotional and physical obstacles, whilst I'm overcoming emotional and physical obstacles to reach the last chocolate bar at the back of the cupboard.

Single girls in general are associated with movies such as Bridget Jones and the Wedding Planner. This only goes to show what sadist we really are. It’s abuse really. Shiny circles of hell. Whilst we can all watch movie after movie trying to relate to these characters and being sucked into the unrealistic dream that eventually some man will come and love us, it’s all lies. Of course Jennifer Lopez ends up happy; she’s got a stomach that resembles my wall. Even Bridget Jones had big tits to see her through. The Vicar of Dibley always makes me happy. It fulfils the comedy quota whilst not throwing so much love in my face as to make me want to choke on my own fist. It also ends with Richard Armitage which just makes me so happy. How Geraldine feels about this whole dragon thing I don’t know.

Whilst Chick Flicks are the basis of any single girls DVD collection there are three movies that remain on my DVD player for continuous watching. Hot Fuzz, Die Hard and Bad boys 2; minimal romance and lots of violence. That’s the real way to get through single life. Keep watching men shoot each other with guns that never seem to run out of ammo, and the bad guys are always a terrible shot. Maybe if they had better recruitment programmes they would get away with it more often. Even the minimal romance is a comfort. Whilst Bruce Willis does fight to get his wife back, which incidentally she doesn’t deserve, we all know it’s doomed. Yes, well done you made a career but somehow you couldn’t find a job close to your family? You moved your children away from their father knowing that his job would prevent him from following. Doomed marriage. Of course in the second film he does move but it was never going to work. You can’t keep a man like John McClane on a leash, he’s all man and if he did settle his life I would not be able to continue my viewing pleasure!

There is one type of movie that you should never watch if you are single; Horror Films. There is a giant problem with living on your own...........everything movies! I was happily bored with the first hour of Paranormal activity and then of course I went home. My flat has never made so many noises. Then of course there was the clown incident. I don’t like clowns. IT still haunts me. Then in the middle of the night there was a noise in my wardrobe. I looked across the room checking that the door was still closed, expecting a hand to slide into view. Nothing. I closed my eyes. Something moved in the wardrobe. Breathe Kayleigh Breathe. ‘It’s probably just a shirt falling’. I closed my eyes. Something large moved in the wardrobe. There was no denying it, there was someone hiding in my wardrobe. I stared at the door imagining them flinging open to reveal the evil clown that had come to kill me. I had to make a decision. Do I just lay here and die or do I fight........and die? I leapt out of bed and switched on my light. I grabbed my hammer, threw open the wardrobe doors to see............ my stuck on hooks had peeled off under the weight of my dressing gown sliding down the door. It was only once my heart rate had returned to normal that I realised I really could have taken on the evil clown. I’m sure a screaming naked girl with a hammer would have at least startled him.

"Dating is cheaper for girls"

This was said by The Gay the other day as we chatted about his new life in London. If someone moves to anywhere in the UK apart from London it's not seen as a big deal. As far as I can guess, the perception of an exciting move is directly related to the concentration of high level drug dealers. I use the term 'high level' as there are many towns with a high concentration of chavs who pass around drugs as quickly as they do STI's. They're always ready to make good use of the benefit scheme and can usually be found to make a deal in the local job centre. Just sniff out that reek of Lynx spray and fosters vomit and you can score some weed sliced with oregano pretty easily. London may have many amazing traits but it's also the only place I've been offered cocaine by a guy in a suit in exchange for sex, in a public toilet. What makes it sad it its the only time I've been propositioned by a guy in a suit. Considering this, my move to Somerset is like a trip to Chessington compared to The Gays exploration of Atlantis. I shouldn't complain too much. Whilst there are no theatres, rows of restaurants or suits offering me drugs, I do have a large garden and a pub next door.
As The Gay prepares to house share I start to consider both what he says and my own living conditions. This bring me to the real reason single girls date: We're hungry!
When you live on your own you have to do everything on your own including eat. Ever noticed how food comes in packs of 2 or 4? Bastard food companies. Suddenly your weekly shop becomes a sick reminder of your lack of social accomplishment. That's why the alcohol and ice cream aisle's are at the end. By the time you've made your way through the food induced hallucinations of your dead body being consumed by 500 cats, you need to experiment with vodka floats. Even if we try to battle through this we end up eating the same thing several times a week. Unpacking the shopping takes twice as long as you attempt to separate out the multi-packs into individual freezer bags. You don't have to separate vodka or ice cream, you just take what you want and put it back for when you next have to endure a couple night disguised as a party.
 It's a sick twisted conspiracy. We are all ready to blame the food industry for childhood obesity, when we should be blaming them for the existence of those children as chubby singletons mate in a desperate attempt to feel intimacy. This is because there is only 1 food that caters to single people and that's ready meals. These are the supermarkets attempts to further manipulate their match-making evil scheme making it easy to spy the single folk. We're the ones in the ready meal aisle with that sneaky little fat fold that likes to pop over our jeans and has our belly buttons savouring fresh air every time we reach for something. There are only so many flavours of ready meal. Actually there are only 2; painted wall and painted wall with chilli haphazardly thrown at it. You can eat an ASDA's chicken korma for one and then lick your bedroom wall and feel like you're still eating. Eventually you need a different meal and the best place to get that is outside. So we go on dates. I admit that men have often taken a large part of the bill and what do they get from it? Orgasms. Not theirs or mine but my taste buds. This is why men pay. To give my taste buds a flavour-gasm after months of licking walls. Should I feel ashamed? No. Most men have paid to see a woman have an orgasm and at least my way doesn't require your credit card details. My tongue may be a hopeless prostitute but men enable this behaviour by always paying (even when I do offer to go halves).

Vodka Float:
2 parts vodka
3 parts lemonade
1 scoop of vanilla ice cream
Keep adding vodka until the pain goes away

Over baked rolls and half baked ideas

I would like to make it clear that I was not one of those people complaining during the cold weather. These people can be found in various hospitals after driving their friends insane complaining about the current hot weather. Pick a weather dislike and stick to it. I adore Autumn/Winter. I love crunching up the fallen leaves and I own more scarves that underwear. So you can imagine my response to the unprecedented good weather we have been having. Whilst I love that my plants are blooming and any excuse to sit in a pub garden, I can often be found in-doors with my head in the freezer like a hyperthermic Sylvia Plath. However taking a leaf out of a friends book I decided to use the good weather to my own advantage. It was time to do everything I could to prevent people telling me how pale I look. It's starting to make me unpopular as my brain to mouth filter fails. Responses such as 'Yeah I saw you coming and got scared of being crushed' and comparing people to a scene from Indiana Jones is not a good defence mechanism.
Why can't they bring back the days of the English rose? It's like a twisted Disney clash as the Oompa Loompa's paint the roses orange. Suddenly the orange pencil is in demand when children are asked to draw their families. The temptation to start a chocolate factory is very intense right now.
Anyway to stop myself looking like a character from 'A Christmas Carol' I decided to sit in my garden, thank god its private and put on the bikini. Sat in my garden chair I was quite happy for an hour. Then I looked down. It was like the bread tray at a cheap BBQ; finger roll on top of finger roll heating up in the sun. I'm sure most people have a roll or two when they lounge so I ignored it. Then later I looked in the mirror. It was like that joke about the sunburnt penguin. 4 nice bun tops burnt with the sides still a milky white, where the fat had rolled together. I burnt my baps, and not the ones I'm supposed to have. When you look like a cheesy penguin joke you know you need to do something. If I ever hope to be seen naked again I need to tone up..... and invest in some after sun.
There's just one problem. The best way to tone up; exercise. I am not an exercise person. I have all the intent but no commitment. I go through stages of hope, boredom and eventually failure. I have one of those cheap rowers that is essentially a giant elastic band with handles. I kept that up for a few weeks before deciding that it was evil. Making you all sweaty so your hands slip and you end up physically abusing yourself is not good exercise. It's O.K having a washboard stomach but a purple face is pleasing to no one.
I also did Pilates, now this lasted longer if you count the weeks, but when you consider that I only did it once a week it, was an epic failure. Not being able to afford the gym I opted for the home DVD. This lasted exactly as long as my patience for the irritating instructor. No one should be that happy about exercise. Stupidly smiling at me with her "You're doing a great job", Yeah right, I bet you say that to everyone. She also kept saying things like "return to your centre". Well my living room is more of an 'L' shape so that puts me in a place where I can't really see the TV. Score. Can't see the teacher, can't do the lesson. When she commented that on week 6 you should be able to see some change and presented her perfectly formed Barbie thigh it was clear the DVD would not survive the night. I still find bits of it around the flat with a sadistic smile. I always hope it was like a voodoo doll and the stupid smiley, torture woman felt the pain as I attacked it with the scissors.
I am currently enjoying my cycling. This may eventually help with the roll problem but it creates another one as I go off road and get a flange battering. He may be impressed by my flat stomach but my deformed vagina may cause some serious issues. Like a memory foam mattress it will eventually show the perfect outline of my bike saddle. Maybe I should embellish it with 'THIS WAY ->' to avoid any mid-coital confusion.
So cycling it is.

I just ate 3 chocolate tea cakes.  

"You should consider friends with benefits"

This is usually something heard by people who have a friend with benefits where it hasn't gone wrong yet. Friends with benefits is such a strange idea and most probably started by men. Lets face it, who else would invent an idea where you get sex with no emotional ties? If movies have taught us anything it's that friends with benefits doesn't work. There's always someone who gets hurt. People can't help but get emotional because if you're friends you already have an emotional connection. However I guess the good thing is that you have a 100% chance of a good night, you either meet someone or you go to your friends. This is why slut plugs were invented.
Allow me to explain. The Gay has just learnt how female contraception works. Most pills and mainly the implant increase the mucous layer to create a barrier to prevent sperm getting through. Upon hearing this The Gay reaffirmed his being gay and in absolute disgust coined the phrase 'slut plug'.
Slut plugs: allowing sluts everywhere to contract all the S.T.I's apart from pregnancy.
I have had a couple of what I would call casual relationships, both monogamous but not with the added emotions or the meeting of friends or parents. The best thing about these is that they don't complain when you roll over after sex! It's not that I don't like to hug, it's just that I want to sleep without feeling like I'm being spooned by an octopus. I once had a guy who went quite childish when 'snuggled' in bed (I use his term). I'm sure he thought it was an endearing display of affection, perhaps in the morning after coffee this would be true. However laying there red faced after sex talking like a two year old is just wrong. His hairy chest and childish voice made me feel like I had just violated Elmo and been forced to hold him after.
My short fling with sea-monster, whilst displaying David and Goliath like sex episodes at least had the benefit of creating a good barrier between us. Although I do not recommend waking up in the morning feeling like you're being poked in the back with a police baton, he will create his own space to avoid an unfortunate roll-over situation.
My most recent ex felt as though my rolling away for sleep was in-polite. However I maintain it would be ruder to be talking to his face as I justified the reasons I was with him after the inevitable disappointment. If he had just let me have my alone time I might have come up with a few more reasons. In retrospect his inability to let me go when sleeping was a sign of his inability to let me go when I dumped him. It was like he didn't notice he was single.
It's not that I'm an unaffectionate person, I just like my sleep. This is why I'm never going to make a good friend with benefit. From what I understand it's a 50/50 partnership, I expect him to turn up when needed. However if there's a choice between pleasing them or being happy in bed with chocolate, I'm going with the bed.
Selfish? YES!
I'm generally a generous person but there are 3 things that were never meant to share:
Party Rings (it's a very deceptive name)
Fudge Bars
My bed when I'm tired
Deal with it.

'Punch him in the crotch'

Hating people just seems to come easily to me. I have never been one of those people who will happily strike up a conversation with whatever stranger stands next to me at the bar. I would happily have 'Fuck off' tattooed across my forehead if I wasn't so worried it would be a conversation starter.
There are many people around me who are the type of people to start a conversation with someone who has 'fuck off' tattooed across their forehead. There's my mother who thinks that every booze hound is a fellow friend, and there's my friend who spent a drunken evening giving a homeless guy her phone number. Unlike my mother I would avoid the booze hound for fear he would touch me with his sticky booze hands, and render me over the limit with his breath. The only conversation I would ever have with a homeless person is why they always seem to have a dog? Where do these dogs come from? Considering the dogs condition how have they been able to feed the dog with no money?
This may be a huge factor in why I am still single. I don't want to talk to people. They might not be interesting and worse than that, they might touch me. I'm very happy to hug friends and family, they've stuck with me for years and it's one of the few free ways you can show affection. I do not hug people I have just met. A guy once introduced himself to me with a very gallant kiss on the hand, in my haste to move my hand away I slapped him in the face. These are things that I can probably work on seeing as I have such total self awareness. However as previously stated my complete stubbornness prevents me from making any true changes to my personality.
One thing that will never change is my ability to immediately hate people. This probably would have changed by now if they didn't keep proving me right!
My hatred for certain people is starting to cause serious worry. Either because A) I'm going to start acting on my day dreams,or  B) I'm going to be investigated for sexual harassment.
This guy has never done anything to me personally but I hate him. He has the unfortunate gene that portrays itself as a face that inspires everyone to want to punch it. This gene was no doubt an evolutionary attempt at anger therapy. Cave men were a lot less likely to go on a killing spree if there was just one particular face they could pound on guilt free.
Everything he says sounds condescending and like all annoying work folk he's a kiss ass. He has his tongue so far up our area heads ass he can probably taste the chip fat he uses as hair oil. To get through the day I've been doing 1 of 2 things, which as previously mentioned may get me into trouble. The first is Dexter themed day dreams where I consider each of the office items and calculate the ones I could kill him with and make it look like an accident. I've got up to 5, including a hole punch and a paper clip.
The other reaction is a little voice that screams at me every time he speaks. Whenever he starts a sentence the little screaming voice says 'PUNCH HIM IN THE CROTCH'. Staring at your colleagues crotch is grounds for disciplinary. Explaining that you were just imagining punching it is grounds for dismissal.

Set-ups and lizards: What your friends really think of you

You can always tell what your family and friends really think of you by the people they set you up with. When your in a man drought they will always see fit to comment on how lovely all their guy friends are, however on most occasions they will actually fail to set you up. I have heard about the lives of millions of men and how much we have in common, never to actually meet them. The change in technology has seen this ritual change completely, to be yet another tool in making me hate myself just that little bit more. Now that Facebook has arrived not only can I share my depressing life but also see the men that my family and friends wish me to meet. I never knew they had so many ugly friends. They could outweigh America with all the grease in their hair, or possibly make the poor feel better about being unclothed with the hideous floral shirts they all seem to wear. Yet these are the men that my family and friends think are suitable for me, which leads me to believe that they all think I'm ugly with some sort of greasy flower fetish. It's these occasions that I consider their lack of commitment to setting me up is a good thing, this is furthered by the one successful set-up I have had. This one actually led to a date. Liam was sold to me with a glowing reference; good looking, funny and his ex girlfriend was very attractive so he couldn't look that bad.

LIES ALL LIES. If I squinted he looked a little like Mr Potato Head, get him together with some of the other rejects and we could run a McDonalds. My friends are obviously pathological liars. How did he manage to get such a hot ex girlfriend? Is he rich? He must be rich. 

As I sit eating my meal with the occasional in-put to the conversation there's just a little something that starts to bug me. He licks his lips... A LOT. The meal is delicious, maybe he's just nervous that he'll end up with tomato sauce on his lips. 

Wait he still keep sticking out his tongue. There's no more food.

OH MY GOD HE'S A LIZARD. I'm pretty sure there's an old TV programme where the people are really alien lizards. Didn't they kill everyone as well?

How do I confirm he's a lizard? Why would a lizard want to go on a date with a human? Oh my god am I going to be forced into strange lizard sex before attempting to pass an egg out my vagina? How would that even work? Would I get contractions to push it or would I need to keep pushing on my belly like a bike pump until it popped out? 

He's been talking for a while now whilst I've been imagining a projectile egg. He could be talking about how he's planning to enslave the human race and I wouldn't know. Oh he's still talking about rowing. 

"I never realised it was so complicated, I always though there were only two moves: backwards and forwards" I add with a joking smile. 

Oh no I've offended the lizard, the tongue flicking has intensified. Filter Kayleigh Filter. Scratch that; Drink Kayleigh Drink. 

Wait where has all the wine gone? Pretty sure that's not me. As the second bottle goes I realise it was most definitely him. I can see right into his mouth now, where the obviously tired tongue seems to have lopped to one side like a drunk slug. As his eyes lop around like a chameleon I am slightly please they keep dropping on my cleavage. It's wildly inappropriate but does wonders for your self esteem. 

Oh no. I don't like that look. I was laughing at you not with you lizard. AT YOU. I don't want to projectile eggs like a Vegas hooker with a ping pong ball. I scramble into the taxi with a quick

"bye lizard"

Wait did I just say lizard or Liam? A quick look back at his face as the taxi drives off shows that it was most probably lizard. 

So it appears my friends and family have a rather low opinion of me and have no problem sacrificing me to world dominating lizard men. 

"Your mother is so cool"

My mother asked me how things were doing in the dating department the other day. As much as she has never been an over-possessive, interfering stereotype you see so often in repetitive sit-coms, I think she might be worried. She never usually asks this, unless something is actually happening. She has an uncanny ability to call right when something has happened even if it's something I don't want to share. I can hear nothing for months and then just as I'm walking home dripping with shame and wondering why I went 'there' again, she will call. Even if I don't tell her about my walk of shame I will still feel like she knows. Witch.
My family don't help either. They are incapable of keeping anything to themselves. I once text The Gay that I had a boyfriend but not to tell another living soul. I got a text approximately 2 seconds later from Optimus; 'Hey how are you'. I simply respond 'He's there isn't he?'!
The fact that my mum asked this question added to her saying "When you get a boyfriend OR girlfriend" just last month, makes me wonder if she is seriously worried about me. I imagine she doesn't want to think of her youngest daughter drowning in a pool of her own vomit after a threesome with Ben and Jerry went wrong. She needn't worry, it's more likely to be Jack and Daniel!
I would never want to disappoint her but the thought that I might cause her some sort of small social shame gives me the warm fuzzies. My single status may have the benefit of revenge. Everyone feels their parents are an embarrassment however they get to enjoy the company that misery so often brings. They are often told by their parents that there is no right way to parent. That there is no rule book telling you the rights and wrongs. Well there bloody should be and it should include things like; Don't tell your children about your day at work. They may be nodding their heads but really that's time they will never get back.
My parents rule book would include several things such as: Never feed your children tuna pasta bake. My Dads insistence to cook us this was just depressing, after years of flushing it down the toilet and making last minute arrangements to have dinner at a friends house, at the age of 22 I finally told him we hated it. I've never seen may dad cry but I swear upon hearing this information a tear formed as his tiny culinary heart broke. However the main rule that would be in their book would have to be:
STOP MAKING EVERYONE THINK YOU'RE COOL!!!
I don't get to talk about how embarrassing my parents are because my friends just tell me that they would love to have my parents. When I express my embarrassment after seeing my mother they never believe me. Well my worried mother is NOT cool. I would like to make this clear by explaining one particular event.
We were at a party (happens a lot), a fancy dress party to be exact. Now this is the one area that my parents have done very well. They have driven the family to be experts in fancy dress. From the time my dad dressed me up as Medusa for Halloween, including rattling snakes tail. To my mum producing the giant fungi hat for The Gay, to be the mushroom in Alice in Wonderland. This might sound like a 'bit' part but the flouncing and prancing mushroom stole the show. I was Alice, do they remember? Do they fuck! The worst part is I got him the part. The theme for the party was 'what you wanted to be when you were younger'. I went as a pirate. Let's face it pirates are cool, if they didn't want people to illegally copy DVD's they wouldn't call it piracy. The Gay was a cowboy and I spent a good amount of time writing 'save a horse ride a cowboy' on his shirt. My dad went as a 60's hippy with a long wig covering his bald head. My mother?
She went as God. Dressed all in white with a name tag 'Hello my name is God'. One can't argue with her commitment to the character. If Jesus could turn water into wine then God could make a brewery, and that's exactly how much my mother drank that night. Queue the dance floor. As I jigged around with Barbie and a fireman I turn my head to see my mother
'Hmmm why is mother on the floor?'
The Gay is doubled over in laughter and dad looks on in amused disgust. The shoe that my mother has managed to fall off lies shame-faced on the floor. She fell off her shoe. I'm going to say that again. She fell off her shoe. I fling the shoes in the corner to prevent further damage but my mother is adamant she's fine and gathers them back up with a look that says
'How dare you daughter. These may be the cheapest shoes I own but my drunken mind will not stand for this kind of reckless behaviour towards shoes'
Sigh
"I'm fine" she cries "Leave me alone and get me another drink".
Nice. I try to care. I'll fetch you another drink but I'm using your purse, I'm buying myself one and I'm telling dad on you!
The rest of the evening goes on with my mother getting on her high horse and telling people how they feel.
"You just miss us don't you Kayleigh"
"Not right now I don't"
"Yes you do"
"Really mum I'm enjoying uni"
"NO, YOU MISS US"
What's not to miss! I better change the subject.
"Hows your foot"
"IT'S FINE STOP ASKING"
                                               Next morning
"Where's mum and dad"
"A and E"

'You can achieve anything with a friend by your side'

I've long since concluded that associate lecturers are the most un-respected and under paid species on the planet. I say species as it is clear that we are considered as different. We will never have the pay of a lecturer or the respect but we will deal with the same shit work and do all the shit they can't be bothered to do. However we are still treated as second class citizens, who must be kept in the building at the risk that if we escaped we would start licking trees and humping buildings like a horny neanderthal out of its time.
I do love my job most days, if nothing else it's amusing. Amusing because if you don't laugh you would cry at the state of our young adults. Even those things we consider young people to be all knowing about, they seem to just fall short of genuine intelligence. For example today I was asked
'Who's Bill Gates'
This was made even more painful but the fact she had a microsoft laptop in front of her. I put on my practised smile and advised
'Why don't you google it? And here's a clue, computers may just play a role in the answer'.
One of my students almost died of embarrassment just a couple of weeks ago. The student had decided that I was the lecturer he was going go come out to. He was pleased with my positive response and I explained that with The Gay it would be very twisted of me to be otherwise. Upon hearing this he asked,
'Is he hot?'
The redness spread across his face as he realised he had just asked his LECTURER whether her BROTHER was hot. Bless. However it can sometimes cross the line into murderous tendencies.
'What's Jane Austen?'
What? WHAT'S Jane Austen? I am not an English lecturer, I just calmly explain and let it go, until...
'Is it dirty? Why would I bother reading something 100 years old when I can read 50 shades?'.
Sod it, no one would question my sanity if I bludgeoned her head in with a copy of Pride and Prejudice, screaming 'SAY HER NAME'.
Despite the aggressive melt downs I have a good job but I have the opportunity to make it better by applying for a full lecturing position. This led me to appreciate my friends more than ever. After having a major freak out and desperately doubting my chances, my friends gave me advice and help and have me feeling a bit more positive. So I have to say a big thank you to my friends, after all they have done a lot for me.
They pushed me home in a trolley after I drank my body weight in tequila and cocktails. They let themselves down a bit when I was dropped down the stairs.
They gave me dating advice;
'Just be yourself. Well not completely yourself. YOU might want to leave some of THAT at home'
This was great advice however it also meant that my date went well. This meant I ended my night having my face sucked at like a fish out of water, by a guy who will be forever be known as 'Nemo'.
They listened to my theories on biscuits and debated the characteristics of jammy dodgers. However this did lead to me almost chocking to death as I tried to eat one when my brain was remembering the conversation.
So basically all the good things my friends have done have resulted in my almost dying of brain damage and suffocation. All except one....
The time we got placenta fingers. Yes we got placenta fingers together. Then placenta face as we scrubbed the placenta off the astroturf. All that in a completely non biscuit way.
Thanks friends!

Death by ginger flapjack

As far as ways to go are concerned 'death by flapjack' would at least make a graveside talking point.
I have had 2 allergic reactions before in my life, which were discovered in the most inappropriate ways. The first is magnolias. How could this be discovered? Being brought the wrong bunch of flowers? An itchy garden party? No. Magnolia shower gel. Head to toe red rash, including the most sensitive areas. Oooh firecrotch the prequel. However after running to my mother this was easily fixed by turning on the cold tap. The second was Elderflower. Elderflower cider. In a pub in London. The cure? Keep drinking cider and try no to snort it through your nose as you join your family in laughing at you.
This time however was severe. I ate a ginger flapjack or as they will now be known: Cosmos bitch slap biscuits. After eating one of these my throat started to swell and constrict. With my throat throbbing and red I threw myself onto my bed thinking I would die and imagining my tombstone:
Here lies Kayleigh- Killed by a ginger flapjack; the only reasons she'll be remembered.
When the cosmos tries to bitch slap you there's only one thing for it: Ice cream. I justified my need to down a gallon of ice cream on my sore throat. Surely the numbing properties were medicinal?
Upon entering the shop I thought for a second I had stepped into a parallel universe. Was this a hot guy in the village shop? True there has been an influx of men due to the new roadworks. These roadwork seem to consist of men moving the pedestrian barriers every few minutes and then standing around for 6 hours. Most of these men appear to be disgusting bald men, who rub their thighs as my students walk past and ignore the voice in their heads that should be screaming jail bait. However here was a hot one, slightly rudely in my way. I mustered up all my vocal strength to say 'excuse me'. I was impressed, my pummelled vocal chords gave me a wonderful husky tone. It was like an M&S advert describing a polite request to move. Wow check me out.
I should have known better, after all this was me and I had just eaten a Cosmos bitch slap biscuit. Upon approaching the counter 'hot man' stood back to let me go first. I was ready with my new husky voice to say thank you,
'Hooouurghhh haaack uulp'
The phlegmy sound of my throat retaliating against it's ginger invasion was the only thing to be heard. Followed by my subsequent need to swallow back down the mass of green fluid to avoid spitting it out in his face. No longer M&S polite request but more a drug addled prostitute hacking up an unwashed penis blow job.
How could he resist?

'There's plenty of fish in the sea'

Unfortunately that's just not true. Apart from the fact that our own sea is being largely depleted through over fishing and tourism, our dating scene is being depleted through our own preferences and striving for perfection. While I stare at the ice-cream tub begging for it to show zero calories so I can look like Jessica Alba, I also spend the time looking longingly at Richard Armitage. No man should look that good dressed as a dwarf (for those of you who don't know, he plays Thorin in Lord of the Rings), (for those of you who don't know who Thorin is, put duct tape across your eyes, you don't deserve to read). The fact that Richard is not turning up on my doorstep isn't my only problem. Let's do the maths!
There's roughly 2 billion people on the planet, around half of them are male. Then we have to consider that I'm only within the UK and unlikely to see another country until my boss has a tumour pushing against her 'be nice' brain nerves. So that's roughly 15 million with about half of them being too old or too young. Of those 7.5 million about a third are gay, or watching Les Mis because they just love the French revolutionary period. Of the remaining 5 million they need to be attracted to me and I need to be attracted to them. Unfortunately my vagina seems to be getting in the way as far as that's concerned.
You see my vagina is racist. (To make it very clear I am NOT racist, and I'm sure many people of all ethnicities will agree with this racist vagina idea). My vagina is racist. I'm sure that there is an evolutionary or even social reason for this but I'm not sexually attracted to any other ethnicity, no matter how wonderful the guy.
My view of Greek men was most definitely destroyed by their attempts to buy me for 2 camels and a Ferrari, when I was 15. My parents might have even taken the deal if they could see the Ferrari upfront. I'm not denying Will Smith, for example is a very attractive man, however my vaginal prejudice is in no doubt a continuing fear of sea monsters. I'm a tiny person, I can understand my vagina fearing such an attack with no protection. The movie teeth has something going for it.
The closest I have ever got is dating a ginger guy! This however was not noticeable right away. The ginger had faked being dark haired with the same miracle that lets me fake not being blonde. However there was a big flaw to his plan. You can fake the upstairs all you like but when your downstairs resembles a rusty brillo pad there's no hiding your natural colour. I also feel like this was a purposeful, sex-driven deception. The change in colour is distracting. If he dyes his hair then when he whips it out you'll be too busy questioning the colour to notice that you can only tell there is something there when he gives it a little shake. Like a T-Rex in Jurassic park, you can only see it when it moves.
Luckily I've been assured that I am not the only one with a racist vagina. Steph assures me that she has a backwards racist vagina. The backwards part being her vagina desperately wanting a skewering from a heavy set raster. Not backwards causing the skewering to require a map and a gynaecologist.
However this does not help me with my 5 million that is slowly depleting. What's worse, even if I settle with an optimistic 2 million, that's a lot of front porches to vomit on!

'You should get a cat'

'You might as well get a whole bunch'! This is what it has come to. My friends recommending the ultimate spinster accessory. What happened to the times when the cat was a symbol of power and sensuality? What about the times when Cleopatra sat lazily stroking her cat with men bowed at her feet? Now it's that crazy cat lady down the road who spends time lazily stroking her cat with men throwing beer cans on her roof.
This is the new perception of a single woman owning a cat. Of course we all think ourselves aware of how the woman feels and what's going on in her lonely head, as she starts talking to her own shadow. However it's the poor cat that I think about. Is a depressed single woman owning a cat actually animal cruelty?
When that little darling arrives at your home everyone is happy, including the cat.
'Wow look a new house. I wanna touch this. Can I scratch this? I'm going to scratch this. Purrrr cuddles'.
All very well, however eventually the cat must become aware of the lack of other humans around and the continuing dependence on the cats attention.
'I'm bored. There aren't many other humans here. Wow this lady's affectionate. Meh it feels good right now.'
Like all relationships there are ups and downs.
'How dare she. How fucking dare she. They were my balls and I should get to decide what happens to them. I'm not talking to her ever again. No I don't care if you stroke my chin you took my balls. I may be purring right now but honestly I'm really pissed at you right now'. 
The real confusion and abuse starts as the surrounding friends start having babies. As she sits there looking through baby pictures all she can do is look lovingly into her cats eyes.
'Where do I come from? I AM a cat right? Yep I am a cat, got a tail and everything. So why does she keep calling me her baby. I'm all grown up now, she thought me grown up enough to take my balls. I'm still bitter about that.' 
Life goes on and in an attempt to not die alone she tried dating.
'She's crying again. She keeps crying. I want to run away but if I sit on her lap she strokes my belly just right. She's depending on me to sit on her lap and I want to. This is so confusing. Is it right to take advantage of her emotional state. Sod it I'm going in'.
Soon she starts to accept that there is only one thing she can depend on and it comes with fur and a tail.
'Ooooh yeah this is the life. She buys me everything. We don't need anyone else in our lives, we're happy just us. Wait that can't be right can it'
'The cat from the family down the road keeps laughing at me. He would laugh so much if he could see that plasticine the kids have stuck to his arse. I like my human. She looks after me. She loves me. I love her. I do I love her she strokes my belly'
'It's starting to get confusing now. She's not going out any more and, and I do't want her to. She called me her fluffy husband today. I panicked but she stroked my belly and brought me a new scratching post so I didn't care too much.'
'I'm her husband. I'm her fluffy husband. And that's ok'
'I don't think I'm a cat any more. How can I be a cat when a human spends this much time with me. How can I be a cat when I spend all my time with the human. I don't go out any more she doesn't like it when I do.'
'I'm so confused. I cant take this any more.'
'Look a car'

Vomitgate: The prequel

Being a bridesmaid is an honour. However it also commits you to spend the day in an outfit that you have not chosen and that breaks one of the first girl rules at any party: Never wear the same dress as someone else. Why does this suddenly become OK with bridesmaids? It also prevents me from wearing a top hat. I look awesome in a top hat! I spend weddings staring at the grooms-men with jealousy as they penguin suit it around the wedding, tipping their hats to whoever they like. I want to tip my hat at random people, I may even do the double guns. It's not lame when you're wearing a top hat.
Last year I was a bridesmaid for my sister. Luckily I got to wear a nice dress and occasionally steal my mums miniature top hat. The only thing I had to deal with was the armpit fat that occurs when you wear strapless. It squishes like a dead slug. It protrudes from your arms like a bald man forcing his head through a plastic bag. I already have 2 breasts, I don't need a miniature pair slipping out the sides of my dress. God damn strapless. However whilst this was the only thing I had to deal with at my sisters wedding, my brothers first wedding was a different story. The vomitgate story.
My brothers first wedding involved baubles, a Jabba-whale and me clinging to a toilet like I had spilt super glue. I was of course glad to be in the wedding but my enthusiasm turned sour upon the sight of the bridesmaid dresses.
I can understand making your own bridesmaid dresses when money is tight. However I will never understand looking at cheap, stiff, gold net curtain and thinking 'That will look so pretty'. No it wont look pretty, what it will do is scratch my thighs, causing me to look like I have crabs that have migrated down my legs.
I can understand that a subtle gold at a Winter/Christmas wedding may look quite good. However I will never understand looking at the plastic baubles in the 99p store and thinking 'That will look so pretty'. No it wont look pretty, what it will do is make me look like a plastic bauble from a 99p store.
As stated these dresses were being made. They were in fact being made but what can only be described as the illegal offspring of when Jabba the Hut attempted bestiality. My brothers soon to be mother-in-law. This made the whole process of being fitted for the dress absolutely terrifying for me. This was almost 8 years ago. I was tiny. Every time she moved I grabbed hold of something quick for fear of dying in post-quake tremors. However I bravely stood upon the stool whilst Jabba-whale wrapped me in plastic bauble material. As I looked down at the material I started to feel very warm. Maybe if I was allergic to it I could wear my jeans instead. Then I started to get the same feeling as I would in a few years on my boyfriends porch. As I explained to Jabba-whale I felt sick she ordered me to stay in place. One look down at the bestiality child, the metallic, crab crawling material reflected on her face and my mouth filled with chunks. I at least made it to the bathroom floor amid screams of 'Don't you dare get vomit on that beautiful dress'. It was a good job that the chunks forcing their way past my throat prevented me from making a witty come back. Vomitgate made it's opening all over the Jabba-whales bathroom floor and the bauble-crab dress. Unfortunately it was fine by the day of the wedding, however I had full blown flu and spent the day looking like a ghost Christmas tree.
So now my brother is getting married again. Emma I make this pledge to you: There will NOT be a vomitgate returned.

'It will happen to you before you know it'

'I am so happy for you, really, really...............really happy.........really'
This is the usual response when a friend/family member tells you they're getting married when you're single. It's not that we're not happy for them, it's just that whilst our face is smiling our ego is setting up a noose whilst drinking its own tears.
Now, I am getting pretty used to my surrounding group getting married and leaving me drowning in chocolate and wondering how beautiful mine, Ben and Jerrys children would be (the answer is VERY, very beautiful). However it still seems to be exhausting. Yes, that's right; exhausting. Have you ever tried to hold a conversation whilst your brain is at war? Whilst my mouth is saying 'I am so happy for you, really, really', my brain is trying to get me to say:
'You? Seriously? Seriously? You're getting married? In high school you used a tissue to blow your nose and then stuffed it in your bra?'
'How the hell did you get a man to fall for you after you proved you could bite your own toe nails?'
I work very hard to make sure that this does not come out of my mouth, although apparently something does come through as I often get the response:
'It will happen to you before you know it'. What a great philosophy to hear while I flick through the cat adoption pages! 'It will happen before you know it'? If I don't know its happening, what exactly is the idea here? One day I will meet a man. This man will keep me half drugged throughout the next few years. Until one day he listens to Beyonce and decides to put a ring on it. Being half drugged I don't even know I'm walking down the aisle until I wake up from my forced high to see a ring on it. Call me crazy but if I'm going to get married I will want to know about it. I've got to make sure that the man isn't a fan of spiderman!
Last week I put on the smiley face again. This time I was genuinely thinking of their happiness for a whole five minutes. Then I used it as a confirmation that an arm hump from an armadillo was the best it was going to get for me. I felt I owed them 5 minutes as it was my brother and amazing friend. This time I at least had an accomplice in the newly single gay. We agreed that we were 'happy........really, really happy.'
'We're both really happy for them...............................bastards'



Epilogue: On the Monday that was my birthday, I got a great present in being asked to be a bridesmaid. However this request gave me a mixture of both happiness and fear.............. Vomitgate: The prequel!

"He's a nice guy"- The tale of the space invader.

If anyone ever say's "He's a nice guy", you know what they really mean is that the guy has absolutely no personality. His completely unassuming personality and the fact that he has shown no incidents of misplaced masculinity, has left his surrounding companions with the impression that he is a 'nice guy'.
I don't like 'nice guys', they're too unpredictable. You never know when their reabsorbed-sperm filled bodies are going to explode, jerking out the pent up testosterone over the surrounding crowd like a swingers concert. It ultimately ends with the 'nice guy' doing something stupid and everyone else feeling like they've just been used like a teenage boys box of Kleenex.
However it seems that me and my friends have been fooled by the 'nice guy' act too. Having not seen a male friend for over 2 years I thought reconnecting with this 'nice guy' would hold no harm. It would also allow at least one of my weekends to be filled with something other than expanding my waist line with chocolate, and calculating the variables that could be used to determine how sad ones life is. Now I would like to make it clear that I have never and will never have any emotional or sexual attraction to this male. Having had a lot of guy friends throughout my life, I did not think it would mean anything different in my later years. I was wrong.
When 'nice guy' arrived I figured it would be just like when I caught up with my friend, Michelle. After almost 13 years apart it was easy talk, a great laugh and a friendship I am glad to have back. 'Nice guy' did not repeat this experience.
 As it was late I thought pizza, a movie and a catch up was in order. There was talk. Then it happened. There's looking at someone when you're talking to them, and then there's staring. 'Nice guy' was attempting to hold eye contact after the sentence was finished for slightly too long. Throughout the evening it pissed on the line of 'I have an absolute interest in what you're saying' and proceeded to journey into the area of 'I'm staring whilst lost in my thoughts of how to contact Fritzl's contractor'. I desperately text Michelle to make sure that someone knew where I was and who may ultimately be the last person to see me alive. I decided it was best to shake this off and continue with the evening, as he was staying for the weekend and I would have to deal with this particular (and disturbing) character flaw. I made sure he understood we would be sleeping in separate rooms and moved on. Unfortunately my sofa is only a 2 person and with his bulk I felt uncomfortably close for the night. However I could put this down to my own character flaw of reserving close proximity to family.
Out the next day things were improved as I placed the pub table between us and pulled on my sunglasses to avoid eye contact. Then it happened. As I got into the taxi he sat right next to me, in the middle seat that's usually reserved for small children, who does that? SPACE INVADER. I immediately looked around for a small white laser that might save my personal space and allow me to no longer feel like I had a large Siamese twin attached to me, that spent its time staring at me, waiting for its testosterone jerk-off event. The close proximity was making the staring so much worse. However I was sat on the wrong side of the car to be able to safely leap from it. Maybe if I tucked and rolled. Which is better death by car or life imprisonments? Hmm.... if he still fed me cheesecake it wouldn't be that different to my single person seclusion. After these thoughts my over active imagination jumped through my DVD collection; Silence of the lambs, The bone collector, Kiss the girls..... I really need some new DVD's.
Upon arriving home to watch another film I formed a plan. I would sit on my bean bag. No small sofa for me. Then it happened. He sat on the floor. I decided that I was obviously going to be turned into a skin suit, whilst my bones were used for a ritual sacrifice  and my poor outdated DVD collection would burn in the resulting blaze. I moved slightly across. Then it happened. He moved over using my bean bag as an arm cushion. SPACE INVADER. I text Steph to be sure that someone will be able to identify my mangled body, as it lay next to a plate showing the remains of my brain and a portion of refried beans.
After covering the whole of my living room floor like a cat and mouse game I concluded that he had to go. Then it happened. He would not leave. Despite several hints that must have been clear, knowing that subtlety is not my strong suit, he still wouldn't leave. I was forced to take drastic action. I pretended to go to work. I made the excuse and actually changed into my work clothes before he got the hint to phone the taxi number I thrust into his hand. I ensured that he was locked in the taxi before returning home, showering, washing all my sheets and making a solemn promise. I will never invite a 'nice guy' to my house again.

What does your vagina say about you?

Men will never understand. Never.
Never has a man been through anything as intimate and medically violating as a smear test. Whilst many women avoid such tests (come on girls these tests save lives), many will at some point find themselves on that plastic bed with their knees uncharacteristically far apart. Whilst a man has nothing to do but slap it out like an uncooked sausage on a bbq, we women have to endure the fact that the person who's head is just visible above our stomach line will see more of our anatomy than we ever will.
Some of these invasive people should be awarded for their skills. As me and Steph discussed today, obese women must represent a whole new kind of danger. A person could be crushed under the fat apron that has prevented many women ever seeing their own vagina. I conclude that it would take at least 4 people to complete the test for someone I know. 1 person at each thigh. 1 to use the forklift to hold the extra stomach back. Finally 1 to administer the test, allowing the vagina to finally take a breath of fresh air. I imagine it's very pale. People who live in dark caves are very pale. The Gollum of the vagina world.
My first time on the plastic bed I pondered the etiquette of such a situation. It would be harsh to make a person feel like they should have brought some braids and start plaiting. It was also probably best not to resemble an Ewok. Although I imagine furry legs would provide a nice warmth around the side of the face while you stare into the abyss.
If the whole position itself wasn't enough to endure, in true personal style my 2 violations were accompanied by moments of embarrassment and quite frankly utter confusion.
As I sat there with my legs a-spread trying to ignore the fact that she was about to put a ducks head up my lady region, I heard the last words that I ever expected to hear:
'You can tell you don't have kids'!
What do I say to that? It's nice to know that of the whole of my anatomy it's my un-stretched vulva that gives the most clear statement that I might as well be barren.
'Errr thanks' was the only response that I could give. Whilst mentally I was smiling that all my assumptions of gunge-like vagina flaps were correct. I don't really mind that my vagina makes it clear I don't have children, however apparently this isn't the only thing it says.
This week I returned once more to the exposed position that only women with heads popping from their bodies should be in. I was pleased to find that it was my good 'no kids for you' friend again. This time my attention was taken away from the duck head to the hard plastic plate scrubber she would apparently be invading my cervix with. Collect cells?! You could scrape out my ovaries with that thing.
'Still single?'
What the fudge?! First of all the only thing we established last time was I don't have children, not that I was single. Secondly ......... I knew I should have spent more time grooming. But no, instead my treacherous vagina winked up through the forest stating 'It's been a while'. I'll never trust my vagina again. I never know what it's saying behind my back.

Lies, lies it's all lies.

Disney made me believe in several things as a child 1) My hair will always be full and beautiful as it flows in the wind. 2) A handsome man will find me and fall deeply in love with me. 3) I can be a mermaid. Who would have thought number 3 would be the most likely for me to achieve. Honestly I have access to a lab and there was that child born in China with a mermaid tail. OK, so that was the fall out of an atom bomb being dropped on their homes, but there's a nuclear power plant up the road so fingers crossed. The handsome man on a horse who falls deeply in love with me is just not going to happen. There is no man who has the grace and masculinity to pull that off in the modern day.
The point of the matter is that man has changed. Over the past decade the ideals of chivalry and gentleman conduct has faded as violently as the suited commuters who trample you for a place on the tube. Never mind being a gentleman or the fact that there will be another train in exactly one minute, anyone in the way might as well be a zombie in a video game.
As the ideals change do does the vanity and icons. Nowadays a man has as many facial products as Jackie Stallone has had pumped into her face. It's not like men haven't had positive icons in their lives. Whilst I was being fooled by un-feminist, perfect haired beauties, for 60 years men have had the suave icon of James Bond. All man and action he was the role model of boys everywhere. Whilst I fully believe that he will die of syphilis  leaving behind a string of illegitimate children, at least he had some charm. However as I stated the James Bond idea is 60 years old. What does the James Bond of today look like? Let me paint you a picture.
'Vodka Martini shaken not stirred'= 'Jagger Bomb, glass out'. Never has a man been seen ordering such a sophisticated drink since the makes of Red Bull figured out how to make their customers really feel like they have wings; Add alcohol to the highly caffeinated bull piss.
Poker God= Candy Crush wizard. Am I the only one who has missed this phenomenon? Suddenly my Facebook is full of peoples scores on a game that has absolutly no masculinity. It's crushing fruit. I could do that in my kitchen with a wooden spoon and a strawberry.
License to Kill= Call of Duty Black Ops. I can't quite remember the exact number of minutes however I'm pretty sure I've lost over 3 decades of my life whilst waiting for a guy to finish his game. It always manages to make me feel wrong. I feel like his baby sitter. I have often baby sat kids, patiently letting them play their video games whilst I flick though a magazine designed to make me feel bad about myself. All well and good but very very wrong when you find yourself comparing your boyfriend to a 12 year old. Whatever you do with the rest of evening is tainted like most 1970's kids TV shows.
So the James Bond of today is a Jager Boomb swigging 12 year old, stuck between squishing fruit or virtually shooting people. If only more boys had followed Batman. No matter how much you destroy his quirks he's still rich!

Why I don't eat Mars Bars; Sex and science.

Within the last week I have been introducing my students to the new subject we will be learning this term: Reproduction. After much discussion on the matter and my students ever lasting ability to make me feel sorry for the future of man kind I have been very reflective on both science and sex.
There are patterns of evolution that will forever boggle my mind. The fact that we have evolved so far as to surpass natural selection both upsets and humiliates me. It is this surpassing of natural selection that has allowed stupid people to live. If natural selection had stayed the course then the whole cast of 'The only way is Essex' would be dead, clearing up one of the 200 channels that exists but no one watches. Why do we need 3 ITV channels?
Although if natural selection were to dominate then we would also loose the genius that is 'Jeremy Kyle'. As previously stated, there is nothing to make your own life look better than to watch chavs who don't own toothpaste swear at each other. However here again I am faced with something that upsets me. Many of these shows circle around D.N.A tests, after some brace-faced ginger slept with the doped-up grease ball and then his 'bottom of the barrel' friend. This can only signify one thing: THEY'RE BREEDING!!!
I could take the direction of how pitiful this makes my life, which is classified by the complete lack of breeding, but my complete self awareness and defiance to do anything about it prevent me.
So they are breeding and slowly the unsustainable population is exploding with tracksuit wearing super-chavs, pitied for their illiteracy and failure to spell 'benefits', whilst draining the pockets of hard working people. The problem is no matter how stupid you are, you always have the ability to breed. In the past natural selection would have killed stupid people before reaching sexual maturity, after their stupidity lead them to believe that mocking a t-rex's tiny hands was a good idea. However now stupid people survive and as much as stupidity has prevented them from obtaining a basic grasp on the English language, it has not prevented them from realising that their 'dingaling' fits in her 'woohoo'.
Man evolved to walk on 2 legs simply for the purpose of sex. Less energy used in the act means more opportunity to repeat the act. However this act used to only occur for the purpose of making children. Oh how I miss the days of pushing the single beds together. My life would be much better off if certain aspects of my parents sex lives has been kept from me. Learning that having sex on a sloped lawn is a bad idea from my mother did not add to my overall outlook on life but only my future therapy costs. However despite the corruption of my own innocence by the warfare that is the avoidance of my parents sex noises, generally teenage sex is seen as the real problem. At least this problem provides some comedy. Whilst my students previous anal sex comments have made me want to vomit they have also within recent weeks made up for this through entertainment. I wondered whether we were that stupid when we were teenagers and the answer is: Yes! Whilst I don't remember asking 'can you get Chlamydia in your eye'? or 'If someone jerks off in a foam party will all the girls get pregnant'?. Or may favourite 'OK so I know all about the sex part, but it's the baby that confuses me. I mean can you have identical twins where one is a boy and one is a girl?' I do remember the various rumours that spread around school during that wonderful time of the year when boys and girls were put in separate classrooms with bananas and condoms. The first form of D.I.Y contraceptive to come out of it was Mars Bar wrappers (and that's the story of how I stopped eating Mars Bars). This contraception was apparently used by several girls within my year and as several of them were pregnant by the end of the term I don't doubt it. How they finished off I'm not sure, the rustling noise would certainly put me off my rhythm. By this point I had not lost my v-plates, not only fearful of the noisy contraception and the real terror of sticky-nougat vagina, but also the advice from my friends and my own crippling mixture of intelligence and stupidity. At the time there were rumours that one girl had bled through the mattress during her hymen breaking experience, this both intrigued and terrified every girl in school.  Then my friend confirmed my fears by describing her first time as 'was all right, hurt like fuck though'. My stupid naivety considered 'hurt like fuck' and bleeding through the mattress. Then my intelligence weighed both these factors and came to the undeniable conclusion that for something that was 'all right', I'd rather wait until my tolerance for pain had surpassed the level of 'The Gay punched me in the arm and it really hurt and I could have died'.
As I write this I find myself having an epiphany. The solution to the teenage sex problem. We should tell them the truth about everything. When I say 'we' I mean their parents. Their parents should explain their own experiences to teach the next generation. I defy anyone to orgasm with the image of their parents rolling bare arsed down a grassy bank- No garden sex for me thanks.