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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! πŸ˜‰

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.)


EDIT: I hadn’t showered or caffeinated before this post – this is why it is epically pissy.

I realise I didn’t put any ranting on here yesterday… so brace yourselves…

I am having an “I don’t care about my degree” week (YET again) so all of that can go back to hell. I emailed two teachers, one on a pretty important subject; neither of them have responded at all, so YAY FOR SUPPORT.

My camera is shit, I must get a new one, except I don’t really use it very much.

My iPod battery died, my brother replaced it, now the headphone jack has fucked itself so music comes out of only one earphone. FUCK IT TO HELL. I ordered a Nano because a) iPhones are gimmicky pieces of shit and I already have a phone and b) I just want to have music in both ears again but don’t want to pay a fucktonne of money. But nooooo, Play were all like “YOUR CARDHOLDER ADDRESS DOES NOT MATCH YOUR BILLING ADDRESS NO iPOD FOR YOU :|” …SO? So they cancelled the order and I believe I’m just going to wait because fuck it.

I got back from home on Monday; bags were heavy, people were walking at fucking snails’ paces in front of me – particularly this short fat thing who couldn’t decided which side of the pavement to waddle on. Jesus. Someone touched my bag with what felt like great intent from behind and they got glared at. Even if they weren’t trying to get to my purse, they were too close to me. There are about five people who I am really comfortable with having right by me, this twat was not one of them. So this happened, and then there was a moment when the whole width of the pavement was taken up with slow fuckers, and I was trying to get by when this twat with Big Issues HELD ONE BY MY FACE. DON’T try it again, you cunt, or I shall chew your arm off, beginning at your sternum.

My laptop keeps freezing – or at least, it did yesterday, it seems (touch wood) to be all right today.

There are some people who I am quite sure I’d like to never see again. Fuck you.

Also I hate being twenty, between now and thirty is generally the decade society expects you to chain yourself to a guy and surrender your womb to parasites, woo and yay. The way I see it, you’re either trapped in a job you hate, grateful for one day off, or drifiting in an existence of total pointlessness, grateful for a day when you are required to do something. We’ll see what happens when I finish university. We shall see.

Um… SEAGULL tonight! I am genuinely excited, and it is the one thing I care about right at this second.

First off – THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to everyone who made the painful transition from 19 to 20 awesome; I had cake, chocolate, cake, gin, jelly, cards, hugs, cake, cake, cake. I basically lived on cake yesterday, it’s the kind of life I believe I’d like to lead forever. So… thank you thank you thank you.


I got brandy (masquerading as tea) spat on me, cake thrown at me, Veronica being a tart in my general direction, Emilie getting all cutely embarassed because I said we loved her… it was delicious. I hope she tours again sharpish, because her performances are second to none.

My chest is covered with red glitter because I have spent the day courting my skirt and fixing up the panels that happen to be covered with… well, red glitter. So my breasts are superstars and my room is dusted with sparkles.

I have also been making rat ears.

Well, all right, I made one rat ear and got bored.

I have one rat ear, behold its corpulent velvet loveliness. It’s huge because I’m a theatrical attention seeker

Why am I making rat ears, then?

WELL, on Friday I’m going to see EMILIE FREAKING AUTUMN which is, you know, cool.

She is one of the only musicians I actually obsess over, as opposed to being mildly inclined towards. You will have guessed this from the number of times I’ve stuck her songs on here. The above song is fucking hilarious. (The otherΒ  artists are the Dresden Dolls, Fiona Apple and Alice Cooper, just so’s you know.) And a little bit of Google-fu will tell you that she’s obsessed with rats and plague and whatever so a bit of costume is needed. I ordered a corset with red and white ribbons on (swoon) and I will spangle and ratify and be a dirty fangirl.

SPEAKING OF DIRTY FANGIRLS, I now have a bag with the Mad Hatter on. To join, you know, the bag with Jack Sparrow on, and the hoodie with Edward Scissorhands on. Mwahaha.

I have no fucking idea why I’m so hyper; I’ve only had Diet Cherry Coke, which contains no real sugar. And no calories, so I can overdose and be pleased. On the other hand, I’ve managed to eat eight hot cross buns in two days.

Clockwise from left: Count Festoon, Professor T. Pimlico, Sir Scrofula and Caractacus Jones.

Last night I watched Kubrick’s Lolita… I have nothing to say other than when I get my own house, it will look like Clare Quilty’s.

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:


I found they do Cherry Lucozade in one litre bottles, my iPod Siegfried broke, and DT is now a hat stand for me to trail corset suspender clips from, the good, the bad and the ugly all in one day. Awesome.

Also I feel sick, I’ve eaten too much.


Fiona fucking Apple. I bid you goodnight.

Proper post and that

Never underestimate my sugar cravings: there were fourteen Viscounts, now there are 0 -5 Gingernuts, + 1 mug of sweet strong tea. Dear hormonal craziness, LEAVE. NOW.

Other things I hate include Emma Thompson, certain people’s ex-girlfriends, the EXTREME TIREDNESS that comes with first days of periods, the EXTREME TIREDNESS that comes with bad colds, and the shop round the corner closing at 1pm on Saturdays. It’s like the olden days innit?


All butter bastards.

YAY AVATAR!!!!one!!!!

Let me make the point of this blog post absolutely clear:

Avatar is shit and I am going to have a rant about it.

You have time to stop reading. If you wish to continue, feel free to debate with me or whatever, or shut the fuck up. I shall be happy either way. I also would like to point out that I went into this film knowing nothing other than the fact it had blue people and film reviewers seem to like it a fair bit.

NOW. Let’s be clear on this: the plot of Avatar – henceforth to be referred to as SPoS, which stands for Steaming Pile of Shit – is Pocahontas dipped in facepaint. Not persuaded? How about the whole thing of the big bad guys wanting to mine valuable shit (like the stuff that this film is NOT made of) out from under the bare feet of the free-spirited hippy layabouts with stupid little braids and feathers and crap natives? How are we gonna do it? WITH FIRE.

You could watch Dances With Wolves through a blue sweet wrapper and get the same effect, I promise.

Yeah, OK, it’s pretty and whatever. But I don’t really care what shiny shit you throw at me, SPoS, no amount of sparkly jellyfish things can hide how abysmally thin your wanky plot is. Here’s the bit that infuriates me: the IPNA (look it up if you really seriously have no idea) suffered in the exact same way because of Manifest Destiny. Except they didn’t have flying bird monsters. Or if they did, no one thought to record this fact. But there was no great resurgence from them: they became a minority until they became zoo attractions. Then Stephenie Meyer got hold of one of them and had a bit of a fanwank over him, poor guy. SPoS cheapens the plight and suffering of such native groups and turns it into “IT’S OK GUYS, THESE PEOPLE WITH THEIR LUCKY CONNECTION TO THE CREATURES CAN WIN LIKE.”

OH yeah that too – that deus ex machina of “If I think how much I need help, THE RHINOS WILL FIGHT FOR ME FUCK YEAAAAAH.” That this sort of thing doesn’t happen until the Na’vi are totally desperate makes it both maudlin and way too fucking convenient.

I must thank James “No Imagination” Cameron for making me realise how overused and recycled and SAMEY fantasy elements are.

…Oh like not blinking when facing a Hippogriff?

…OH, like the wand choosing the wizard?

*Epic flying swoopy bit with bird monsters*
*Epic flying swoopy bit with Hippogriff*

Can we not think of ANYTHING new? I admit, that tentacle tail thing the Blue Man Group had going on was promising… until it was used for convenient things. Like controlling that big bird thing that tried to eat them but could be controlled by THE ONE. O FATE YOU ARE SO FICKLE LOLZ!

OH and the length. The length. Ouch.
I’d like to point out that I can sit through a four-hour film and not get bored – when it’s well-made, clever and endlessly entertaining. (See this gem) But 2+ hours of half-assed fantasy crap painted with glitter glue and chocolate sprinkles swiftly becomes tedious. No amount of fizz and sugar could make it better. I tried this self-medication. Repeatedly. My bladder paid but my eyes and my intelligence were paying still harder.

And the hilarious dialogue. Me speak English.

I don’t have anything against fans of the film. I DO have a thing against people who are now obsessing over it as if it’s the greatest piece of filmmaking ever. For future reference, those who I know will ask, I prefer stuff like Lucky McKee’s May. That’s got guts and smarts, so to speak. And it’s genuinely funny. But SPoS is too preachy and long for a kid’s film, and too big and dumb to be an adult movie. James Cameron, your ten years were wasted, please read some books and stop feeling so self-important.


Back here, back into a largely apathetic slump concerning this degree, which can go to hell if it wants to.

I’m supposed to do a Music essay by next week. It’s 2,500 words. I can’t be arsed. Yay for fail.

Um… usual Facebook addiction as always, meaning five hours of refreshing status updates and whatever, and no work or reading gets done.

Tried this Twiet thing (writing everything you eat on Twitter to shame yourself into eating less). I liked the masochistic idea of people I’ve never met asking me what the fuck I think I’m doing eating Monster Munch at 3am, don’t I want to be society’s idea of beauty, blah blah blah. Social experiment, or something. I think it’s left over from too much Secretary. No I’m not giving you the link, it’s stuff like, “Had a sandwich. Thick white bread should prob. be substituted for brown. Hm.”

ANYWAY the women who follow me are actually earnestly dieting and desperately trying to lose weight.



If that’s not incentive enough to stay childless I don’t know what is. (40lbs? That would take me up to 13 1/2st. WHAT.)

But it’s not enough for these cuddly mummies to Tweet/Twat how many flakes of Special K they had this morning, oh no. Every Tweet/Twat that’s not about food is about their kid(s). Every. One. Some of them even blog about their kids, 24/7. They’ve lost their identity and become mirrors to reflect their precious dribbling kids’ every moment. And they’re always so happy. Less than five hours’ sleep and they’re CONSTANTLY CHEERFUL. I’d be killing fluffy animals with a plastic fork by that point.

BUT IT GETS BETTER (worse). I, out of sick curiosity, followed two links. The first turned up a blog about a guy who’s just become a sucker dad. One of his closing sentences says that he wants to cuddle his new bundle of genetics and fat and drool and “watch his Mommy sleep.”

Have you shuddered at the weirdness of that sentiment yet? I wouldn’t even let David Tennant watch me sleep if I knew he was doing it. Go away, you fucking creepy penistrolley.

If you think I’m overreacting, fair enough. I tend to do that. But the second link was worse. The second link led to a Twitter on which a mother was Tweeting about how her baby son was slowly dying. Blow by blow.

I’m not even fucking kidding. I wish I was. I almost cried reading this woman’s shit.

From when he was hospitalised to when his conditioned worsened to when he swelled up due to some dangerous system failure to “He’s dying,” this bitch shared with the world how her baby was suffering for days on end before finally dying. Maybe even worse, she found time to blog about it too. And she had the – I don’t even know what it is – to say, “God knows what he’s doing. God is good.”

If someone filmed a puppy being kicked to death over the course of an hour and stuck it on YouTube they’d be arrested. How is it right for someone to spend their son’s last days INFORMING STRANGERS ABOUT EVERY MEDICAL DEVELOPMENT OVER THE FUCKING INTERNET?! Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, or something. But what the fuck happened to common decency?

I dunno, you might think it’s a good thing that she shared details with the world. Maybe it’ll make people appreciate things more, or something. Go and read it: Look out for the super-special moments when she pimps out her blog. Oh, and be sure to smile whenever she puts a smiley face! ‘Cause there’s light at the end of the tunnel! πŸ˜€ πŸ˜€ πŸ˜€

Fucking people.

EDIT: For anyone who’s still curious after that, the Twiet is fairly pointless: I haven’t eaten Monster Munch at 3am since last summer.