Channel Your Inner Kid

Since entering my 30s, I’ve found my desire to paint and draw increase with a passion. Sick of looking at a computer all day, I can’t tell you how good it feels to stop thinking and start doing. Working with my hands has given me a freedom that feels euphoric.

I’ve even started modelling with play-dough, using clay, braiding friendship bracelets and finger painting. I’m loving every second and have even started looking at Arts & Craft courses at local colleges. I dream of gaining a qualification in something like Pottery, Ceramics or Glass Blowing. Quite how I would pursue my skills at home, I don’t know. But I refuse to be put off. It’s not in my nature. At least, it never used to be. I was always admired for my tenacity but then, responsibilities and the weight of life took over and I lost some of my gumption. No more. I want to channel my inner kid and do all the things I enjoy doing.

If someone says ‘No, you can’t do that!’ I’m going to stamp my foot, pout and respond: ‘Why not?’ and then do it anyway. Yes, I have responsibilities. Yes, I shouldn’t be spending any money on my hobbies during the current economic climate. Yes, I should act like a grown up and stick to a corporate career. But… No, I’m not going to do any of that. I’m going to do as I please. I’ve got one life to live and I want it to be in gloriously full colour, as illustrated with paints, chalk, crayons, stained glass and anything else that takes my fancy!

Ladies Aren’t What They Used To Be – Part 2 (Not Suitable For Kids)

Earlier this year, I went to a club night in London which was one of the most eye-popping I’ve attended in the last 12 months. It was an urban themed event with a hip hop edge, where budding MCs freestyle against each other in hopes of winning a cash prize. Not to be outdone, ‘dancers’ round off the night with a booty shaking contest – again driven by the chance to win a sum of cash. Hotpants or G-strings are optional but favoured. Fair enough, each to their own. Shake what your momma gave you if you’re that hard up for cash but… Why flounce the object of the competition (butt shaking) when you lose? One disgruntled entrant was so aghast at being voted off at the end of the first round, she decided to flash her breasts to the entire club. Twice. Her momma must be so proud (see video link below).

Every entrant (MC, booty shaker, DJ) at the event agrees to be filmed for the club night’s YouTube channel, which – judging by the number of video views – must be raking in considerable dough from ad revenue. Furthermore, all spectators are also encouraged to film the events on their mobile phones, after which the footage naturally becomes their own to share online with their friends.

So, this begs the question, why shake what your momma gave you to win a few quid from an event organiser who can potentially make thousands from the videos of your performance? Why not shake your ass or bare your breasts to your own webcam on your own channel and rake in all the dough for yourself?

This is why I say ‘ladies aren’t what they used to be’. First of all, we aren’t being very ladylike in the club or on camera but, secondly –  and, in my view, most importantly- we aren’t being very smart about making money from our own personal brands. Why let someone else benefit? If you want to sell your body on camera, become the Oprah Winfrey of that show! Don’t end up being a spectator at your own party!

 

Why Wearing Spandex Can Be Sexy If You’re A Bloke…

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Let’s face it, every heterosexual girl and every homosexual bloke wants the same thing… a good man who exudes enough chemistry to make you want to rip all your clothes off and sit on his face lap. Add to that a certain charm, bravery and courage, and you’ve suddenly got the perfect guy. Or have you? What if I was to tell you that you need some spandex as well? Confused? Keep reading…

Several years ago, during the course of my work as a PR girl, I came face-to-face with a buff bloke in a red lycra suit, black spankies and a hair-do so quaffed, it wouldn’t move a millimetre in a category five hurricane. I fancied the [shiny] pants off him. Yup, ‘superhero’ Major Victory – his description, not mine – was very delectable indeed. I was so aroused, I spent a full bank holiday weekend locked indoors watching him cavort on the SCI FI channel (as it was then called) in the most bizarre reality TV show – ever. It was the brain child of comic book legend Stan Lee (which explained a lot!).

Suddenly, that old Bonnie Tyler track seemed almost phrophetic: ‘I need a hero / I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night / he’s gotta be strong / and he’s gotta be fast / and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.’ ‘Hell yeah’, I thought. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. Bring on the heroes and let them be super. There’s nothing noncy about a man in tights.’ Unless they haven’t been washed first… but that’s a whole other blog.

If you think about it, a superhero kit is nothing more than a uniform, but with a lot more stretch and colour. It’s like looking at your wife in her kinky Ann Summers get up… she puts it on, she takes on a sexy persona and – pow! – a slut is born. It’s the same principle for men wearing lycra. They put it on, do a few stretches, run round the block and a [super] hero emerges. But are we really ready for them?

Superheroes are bold, brave, selfless, sexy, courageous and morally incorruptible. And covered in spandex. Yet, I thought there was nothing remotely attractive about a Fathers For Justice protester clad in a Batman cossie who dominated the news in the same year I met the luscious ‘Major Victory’. So what if he was scaling a building while police helicopters did a loop-the-loop right by his head? In theory, we should have broken out in a hot flush and started gagging for the guy’s number. Instead, most of us frowned sympathetically and thought no more about it.

Modern society just isn’t ready for any superheroes… If I was standing at the bus stop and a man clad head-to-toe in blue lycra suddenly offered me a ‘lift’ with his miraculous power of flight, what would I do? Threaten to headbutt the deviant freak and tell him to clear off, thinking all the while of how ashamed his mother must be. Perverted loser. Harsh, I know, but in this day and age, we’re surrounded by nutters and weirdos… even if the aforementioned freak turned out to be truthful and suddenly shot up into the sky, I’d still be looking around for David Blaine and a camera crew. Worse still, I might run like an Olympic athlete towards the nearest police station, sounding certifiable with my tales of a flying man in Spandex. And then I’d be the one labelled as ‘Loser’.

Really, the only way it’d be cool to fancy a man in fancy dress is if the media embrace him, build him up into the nation’s saviour and he becomes a celebrity. After all, it’s acceptable to lust after an icon – even one in spandex – without people thinking you’re some twisted cow who needs to get out more. Even his mother suddenly feels proud. He sells his story in a multi-million pound book deal, a film is made about his life, he bags a supermodel girlfriend with more bones jutting out than a mass grave genocide pit and he’s completely unattainable to an average girl like me. Yes! That’s the key. It’s the fantasy that’s alluring, not the reality. I like the idea of being with a superhero. I’m just not sure I’d like the reality. It’s the dream of having someone kind and brave and gifted and über-strong for a lover that triggers the tingling session in my spine and other areas.

By remaining a dream, I’ll never be disappointed. There’s no real-life hero who turns out to be a twat when you meet him. There’s just imagination, hope and desire. You can hear it in Bonnie Tyler’s voice as she wistfully belts out: “Where have all good men gone? / And where are all the gods? / Where’s the street-wise Hercules / To fight the rising odds?” He’s probably around here somewhere, but too scared of aggressive female bloggers to ever make himself known…

Work

Work – it’s the Devil’s tool of destruction / an instigator in Freedom’s abduction /the menace of work is little understood /no-one fathoms that which they should / works makes us servants, shackled for life / with little hope of an end to the strife / months and years in forced servitude / killing your spirit, destroying your mood / life should be lived and joyously good / if only, if only, would that it could.