Category: Blather


1. I have an itchy trigger finger and it’s pointing my PayPal directly at a leather corset. NO. BAD GIRL. NO MORE BUYING *THINGS*.

2. My eyeliner sharpener has completely vanished and my eyes look really big, blank and sad. Basically I look like a vacant ghost-lady. Not fun.

3. I have this strong urge to turn my hair vivid wine-red. Ohh if bleach wasn’t so cruel to curls – !


Headlong, outta control

My new iPod arrived! RIP Siegfried, you were loyal for five years, and then you died a slow, painful death. Osric – prettier, skinnier, shinier – will take your place at my breast. So long, farewell.

I JUST SAW We Will Rock You. It was quite fucking awesome. Don’t know what all the critics expected when they first reviewed it and panned it, it wasn’t trying to be clever. It’s just fucking hilarious/cheerful/awesome. FEEEEEEEELGOOD, if you will.

I’m quite tired and I’m blogging this in the bathroom and I need to sleep, so more later 😀






(I’ve eaten my weight in sugar this weekend, just call me Augustus Gloop.)


or so I’ve just decided.




So there’s this Almost Alice tie-in album for Burton’s AiW and most of it is meh to average. Special mention goes to the atrocity that is Kerli’s song, Tea Party, which tries to make sexually-loaded lyrics clever and cute and still acceptable in what is essentially a teen CD. The video is packed full of aristos laden with lace and feathers and looking very Emilie Autumn, which is never, ever a bad thing, but when this Gaga lookalike starts inviting you to “pour me out,” it gets a bit shit. Kids over fourteen will be all, “HA this is fucking hilarious”; kids under fourteen will have their ears muffled by their parents.

Shinedown’s Her Name Is Alice is a bit of all right: it takes me back to my early teen affairs with Nickelback and the rest of the soundalike gravelly-voiced rawk bands. The song is pretty awesome, though.

BUT. Oh yes, “BUT,” ladies and loons, there is one hidden gem.

May I present to you Robert fucking Smith, covering Disney’s Very Good Advice, in the weirdest,  most scrumptiously whimsical fashion you could possibly imagine:

Happy place has been reached for this evening, a-thank you.

Warning: Contains adult languages and themes, shameless parody and cuntishness.

Because I am wonderful and highly educated, being at Oxbridge (CAMBRIDGE) and all, my favourite men in the world are the thick ones who will not figure out that I am slagging them and their plebian sexual abilities off in this little blog, even when it becomes national news for some unfathomable reason. (Perhaps the miners and their urchins like to read about the goldleafed lady parts of brilliant belles such as yours truly; I do not know or care, because I am highly educated and must worry about my studies which are more important than yours and, of course, my reputation as a vixen with a poor sense of humour and the inability to keep schtum about my silly little sex life.)

I met one of my favourite men in the world at a social gathering common only to one half of Oxbridge, that being CAMBRIDGE, or “Bridgey” as its glorious scholars, like me, enjoy calling it over our pretentious conversations about being Better Than You. These social gatherings are quite exclusive, and you must be given what is known as “Daddy’s allowance” to be invited. But enough about my lifestyle, I can see you want to know about how I contracted the Aids. Pray stick with me, peasants, the time to fap is nigh.

He was a little paunchy, and a massive twat to go with it: I could not let this great love monster escape my opportunistic clutches. As he guffawed heartily about the girth of his scholarly phallus, I knew he would be the one: the ignorant thrusting machine who would service my upper-class cunny and remain moronically in the dark, even though I would write accurately of his physical appearance, vocal exchanges and exact geographical location on the night we made sweet silver-spooning love and even when my racy erotica is heavily publicised by masturbating journalists.

“Hello,” he said, as I collided into him, reeking of desperation. I tapped my wine glass three times to satisfy my OCD. (Did I not mention that before?! Foolish me! Well, I have it and it makes me appear really interesting and not at all idiotically unknowledgeable about the condition and what it actually does to its actual sufferers.)

He smiled a crooked yellowed overbite and I gushed. Every British man reading this is so predictable and unable to defend themselves against my beautiful sexism that they will naturally assume that I am talking about them, so I will not bother to disguise him beyond telling you all that he is 6′ 1″ and named Algernon.

He pulled me into his flabby grip and breathed hot winey breath all over my blessed face. This reaffirmed my notion that this was indeed the one I would write about to all my vicariously-fapping readers and we adjourned to a room. I am not sure which room it was – a drawing room, an observatory, a Turkish bath – but I know that I was bent backwards over a large gilded globe, which made it easier for me to read the spines of everything by Chaucer upside-down whilst being rogered. Painful, but romantic.

The sex was lovely but I’ll leave that to your imaginations after fucking around creating a huge build-up. Anti-climax? Oh non, my nether regions beg to differ! 😉

I’d adore it if I could tell you something intelligent, but I simply cannot engage my throbbingly huge brain. Slutty outfits are calling to me – I can’t let this nice little attention-seeker run dry now, can I?! Love and terrible “sexual puns” always!

If you haven’t read the Sex at Oxbridge blog, do so. It’s gratingly unfunny, unfair and arrogant. This is not a cunt-punt to any Oxbridge student: just this one who makes them all look like tossers, which I know for a fact they are not. (Largely.)

The Pretty Man

i. not handsome, exactly, not what you might call universally appealing
ii. has fucking beautiful hair
iii. and usually a very lovely shapely nose
iv. and gorgeous eyes
v. and would make an extremely lovely young lady

Prime example:

Know what I really hate?


All butter bastards.

Screwed Up

So this conversation I was having with my mother last night went:

“And she was raped, apparently, when she was younger, which could be why she’s so screwed up.”
“Yeah… what screwed you up, then?”

The only mother who could *possibly* beat mine to the “Mum of the Year” award is Sirius Black’s. 8D

To counter all this talk of Curtain Boy, I bring you:

You don’t mention Sirius to Snape, or he pulls his Face of Repulsion and hurts you.
Heeeee… Snape. :3

A potent discovery

I’ve realised (ONLY NOW) that I WHIIIINGE on here like a giant baby for most of the time: I apologise. I swear that these entries will be full of happiness and rainbows and details of my daily escapades where they are sufficiently interesting and/or hilarious.

You also need to know that David Starkey is my new hero.

Advice for the Historical Fiction Author Who Desires to Include Condoms in a Sex Scene (yes, that’s actually what it’s called.)

– uploaded because I found it on as a Related Video, it was uploaded on my birthday, she was one of my favourite people/idols as a child and I’m in that sort of mood for various reasons. Also Disney Villainy needs no excuse.

– Today I found out about a porn star whose stage name is John E. Depth. I laughed very much.

– The correct way to say “bless you” in Spanish after someone sneezes is to say “Jesus y Maria (pronounced “Haysoos ee Maria”) – literally, “Jesus and Mary”. Just thought I’d share for funsies.

EMILIEEEEEEEEEE. I has concert tickets for next year :3

– Salvador Dali liked Alice Cooper. I’m in very good company.

They are adorable.