Look At Me What You Made Me Do

I drove a few places this week and nothing pleases me more than dancing at the wheel of a reasonably priced car. At 17 I was so into Radio One we would actually pull over to dance to In The Mix during Dance Anthems. My mix tapes were also legendary. Who hasn’t hollered White Stripes out the window at a pal in a nice bit of suburbia? FIND ME THAT PERSON. This week, I had a wee run in with R1 driving round in the sunshine.

Geri Halliwell’s 1999 album Schizophonic (no, not messing with you) third best known single was arguably My Chico Latino - both sounding like and looking like Geri writhing around on a boat, was in her words, a tribute to her mother’s Spanish heritage. Apart from being muchos lolz, the song, a inoffensive play with cultural pop-propriation, taught a whole generation of school kids a couple of lines of Spanish ahead of upcoming Spanish Aural tests in their GCSE’s. (I cried with frustration in mine, surprised much?)

Also - Geri famously buried herself at the start of her solo career, popping her wee self in a coffin - in the video to Look At Me. Declaring in every interview on Saturday daytime TV in the UK that Ginger Spice was dead. And generally hammering the message home - ALL THAT BEEF IS BEHIND ME.

Cue 2017, pop is now so cyclical its spin cycle has broken the temperature gauge on the washing machine.  Everything is set to cool. (SORRY). Taylor, who we’ve tried as good feminists to back as she’s a woman bossing it at the top of the industry, just shat out an unapologetic bumface of a song in Look What You Made Me Do. I have just watched the video for research - no comment - but the basic problem is she’s recycling Geri Halliwell. (There are literally a gazillion other problems, pop to Vulture for some of them)

Similarly Reggaetón Lento - Lil’ Mix’s new remix of the Latin American La Banda winning boy band, haunts me back to my sweet lavida - BAILAR! Arguably likely to be third best known single (I mean, nothing’s getting on Power is it, even with it’s ‘YO WOMIN GET DOWN FOR THE BOYS’ accidental chorus), when fused with Lil Mix it’s a confusing mix of Spanish phrase book fun times and joyous declarations of 'BOOM' and 'Eh?'.

I’m not sure how we should feel about Geri’s ghost storming the charts again. Does this teach our little pop fans that they can re-invent themselves or that they should never apologise? Does it teach them Spanish or that any all girl pop-band can only do a single with a man’s voice giving it approval? I mean, Geri didn’t let no Spanish blokes sing on her record, she just lay on them.

I think I’ve kinda lost a thread with this one… maybe the lesson is 31 year olds shouldn’t listen to Radio 1.

VEEP V Festival Life (and some Robyn)

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This fest I’ve been watching VEEP to keep me sane. Odd choice you may think – but it’s basically an office of exhausted people winding each other up and trying not to lose their minds as things all move too quickly. It’s funny. There is no filter. It is exactly like working festivals back to back.

I have just watched 'Midterm' – the episode where Amy gets a call on election night saying her dad has had a suspected stoke. Her reaction is exactly the same as me when my kidney problems started to get serious. She isn’t in the room – I wasn’t in the room. My head constantly racing – when I wasn’t in pain I was managing my time so I could get ahead of the next infection and be able to afford time off to be ill, when I was in pain, I couldn’t work, sleeping and vomiting until tears came out as there was nothing inside me but pain.

I got my diagnosis in October – that my left kidney had likely never worked – and I would have to have it removed. An operation yet to happen because I had already committed to a festival in Oz and in the mean time I bought my first flat.

Writing it down kinda shows me how insane it looks – I think when we find it hard to value ourselves, one – we find it hard to work out what our value is to other people, and two, we lose perspective with work and what’s required of us.

I have gone through two festivals hopscotching illness. This Adelaide Fringe being no exception – I thought I would be fine drinking much, much less, getting sleep, being maybe a little more detached from my artists’ emotional ties to their work. I failed at one of these only – I am always invested emotionally in the shows I work with and I do hope that never changes.  But still, the first week of fringe I experienced stomach cramps so awful I couldn’t walk when they struck, every time I got in a vehicle for a short journey I had to vomit; I was unable to digest food so every time I ate it offered little energy and increased the stomach cramps ten fold.

There’s a Robyn song – ‘Don’t fucking tell me what to do’ – which isn’t about being told what to do, it’s about how too much is killing her. The song vibes with exhaustion and anger. Sometimes in this last year my illness has manifested as ‘don’t fucking tell me what to do’ – whereas you know? I just don’t wanna kill myself. Like Amy – I want that chance to ‘go see my dad in hospital’ – I don’t want to feel guilty for having a few hours off. I want people to trust me that I will get the job done regardless of how I am, and I want to be able to own my imperfections. For Amy in VEEP – taking a colleague to hospital to workshop a speech while she spends time with her dad is dark and very, very funny. For me it was being told to get off my phone in the waiting room for thirty minutes so I could discuss test results. I found the whole thing very, very funny, but at the same time, being Miriam, is killing me.

Ellie Harrison, DJT, post-trust... I just had to write.

This weekend I went to the presentation of work by Ellie Harrison – outlining her work over a year on project ‘The Glasgow Effect’. Yesterday I watched a few minutes of Donald J Trump’s first (!) press conference in six months – and the first since the election result that shocked many.

There is one glaringly obvious factor here – a link between the way Ellie was attacked by the press and on social media – and the way that DJT has achieved the highest political office. One has created a zone of 'untouchability' and the other was all too easy to tear down. Imagine if it was the other way round. One can do nothing wrong - and one can do nothing right. That's just that. An actual fact. Ahem. 

It reminds me of how Jessie J made famous for song 'Not About The Money' (and do it like a dude) - then sold her voice to Virgin Media. It's ALL about the money.

It’s easy to apply the phrase ‘that’s unlikely’ or this is 'unbelievable' but then again, I think if the 21^st century has proved anything it’s that shit happens which many are not banking on. In a post-truth – I prefer ‘post-TRUST’ world, there’s going to be much more of this.

We can start by regaining our trust. YES some people will take advantage but many won’t. Case in point Ellie Harrison, let’s stop presuming this is poverty porn or a patronising pursuit of vanity in a poor person’s world – at worst it's a failed experiment. Dissect? YES. tear down? God no.

I think it's fair to say in the current climate we are wrong to ask someone who's living on under 20k FOR ANY REASON to check their privilege. Look at who governs us before we toy with ANY kind if idea of privilege in this example – because in the grand scheme of things... it's nae relevant.

We must stop saying things, any happenings, are unbelievable. As they are entirely believable. And happening. Face things head on, make jokes about them, draw them into your pals' consciousness. Meet people for tea/drinks/a walk in the park and talk about stuff face to face. Soundbites on fb are not enough. Invite people into your home and see it as a shared space – where comment and opinion comes at no cost.  

Another thing DJT seeks to promote and EH press reports push is clever people are dickheads and intelligence, expertise and knowledge are just out to get everyone else. Be proud of your knowledge. Own it. Verify it yes. But don’t shy away from it. There is nothing wrong with knowing stuff – knowing history gives context that may reassure the person next to you OR open their eyes to a simplification they had taken as truth.  

Tell people how much you earn – honestly – and own it. You’ve most likely worked hard for it. If it’s not much, let your mate who earns ten grand more to buy your drink, if you discover you earn more than your friends – give some money to charity. I’m serious. If you can't be honest about it, maybe there's a problem there.

We must own ourselves, our identity and not get wrapped up in tearing everything down. OR get too wrapped up in our selves. Solipsism and narcissism will take us down. Be aware of this. Don’t argue with the person who voted leave when you were remain – or avoid conversation with the remainer if you voted leave – ask them ‘why?’ And listen when they answer.

See art – hate it – love it – discuss it. Be the one person in the room who doesn’t know the performer on stage. Be the one person in the room who’s never seen Ballet/Live Art/Art House Cinema/Heavy Metal before. There is free stuff. Find it – take a two hour lunch break (you waste an hour a day online) and go find something. A shit museum off the 70s. A new sandwich shop, a graveyard. Look UP when you’re on the street and smile at people you pass.

That’s me for now. GL team.

In the words of Kylie - So Now Goodbye...

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This may be one of the last blogs I write on Vamoosh. I feel like the time of pondering, typos and some insanely accidental made up grammar is gone.  I also feel it’s time to write with purpose, see if I can make a wee contribution. So maybe... this is goodbye.

There is a silence around this blog, like it’s too honest and I don’t quite realise I’m doing it. (I do.) I wonder if all women who write with a confessional tone have had this experience. Or maybe, it’s cos, as the title says, my blogs are a bit shit. So the next step is to step outside Miriam a little further, and write on a theme, better, with an editor, to try and net out the pondweed. You’ll never guess what that theme is (you can.)

I feel it’s relevant to tell you why I’m ready to shift-up a gear. Today marks the end of a huge campaign my PR company was running for an arena show, 30,000 tickets to sell over three nights. It was a huge change for me in terms of numbers, but in terms of PR just a few different tricks and maneuvers; and it feels significant.  At the same time I have been hired by a client to do far too much work for a borderline insulting fee. And it’s been really difficult to manage. I should have said no – I know I should have. I know NOW. But it’s made me realise how much the onus is on me to make decisions that suit my worth – and my work’s worth. Alongside this I’ve been reading (obsessively) the opinions and work of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie who has stepped out with extraordinary wit and intelligence to make a difference to how women see and place themselves. I feel inspired to take a deep breath, pool my powers and head on up to the next level. DING DING.

I have really enjoyed expunging the odd thing on this platform. A few blogs have had lovely warm reactions, which has been amazing – and I feel no disappointment about the ones that haven’t. You only learn by putting yourself out there. I like long explanations of little things, and I know this can be a problem when one is reading stream-of-consciousness. Don't expect a huge shift – SOZ – just more chatter, moments from my wee life and maybe a little more background on how we got here. So for now I’ll say thank you so much for reading. I hope to see you on the flip side. 

PJ Harvey, John Donne on National Poetry Day

PJ Harvey read this in a break in her extraordinarily powerful Glastonbury Festival set this summer. When I feel listless, dispirited and terrified by what's happening, maybe it's best to seek solace in the fact that humans have been utter morons before. Let's hope there is enough wisdom between us to rescue ourselves from too huge a fuck up this time round. On and for National Poetry Day... and my sanity.

No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thy friend's

Or of thine own were:

Any man's death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind,

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

John Donne 1624 (in the voice of PJ Harvey June 2016)

Yes Peggy. Did you hear about this trendy new series Mad Men?

Ever since I’ve been able to recognise the affect pleasing others has, making people smile yay! that’s been my go to shtick. Not in any kind of fox like cunning way, that’s just how I behave. When I don’t pull things off I do a joke and then think about it for days and days and days. A regret machine. It’s never been a conscious thing, from when I was a wee girl, not a tiny arch manipulator - just eager to get it right.

The reason I’m good at my job is I can run with ideas and ask questions, matchmake things I’ve seen, things I may see, things I know instinctively work or will work. Like Colour Me Beautiful, but not the 80s and not clothes and makeup portioned in seasons. This festival season, I reverted to ticking  boxes, thinking to myself ‘but this is how some people work, in an office, hammering out emails, making phonecalls, GO GO GO’ - and it’s not how I usually work.

I’m onto season five of Mad Men (it’s this documentary about how when you wear a suit and have a willy you can do whatever you like and if you’re a lady you need to be a regular genius to be allowed to do more than pop a roast in the oven). In S5 of Mad Men Peggy gets frustrated that people won’t take her ideas seriously, as they don’t know what they want. It’s also layered with a million other issues around her being a women in a position of responsibility in a male male male workplace-worldplace. She looks around herself (working the longest hours of anyone in the office) and is constantly delivering but also expecting more from herself and those around her.

My job is ideas, and selling ideas, both how I can talk about a show or someone's creation - often deeply personal, and then fairly represent them - as if they were doing the talking themselves. On balance, like Peggy never is able to, I should look back and see how it is - I’m here in this position able to make mistakes, get frustrated, fire off at difficult situations - because I am here and I’ve worked hard for it. I am not perfect. But it’s tough. Cos like Peggy the onus is on me to continue proving myself, time and time again. As that’s how it goes.

We may work like Olympians but exhaustion ain't no competition

When I was in the first few years of high school physics I remember learning about how when electricity is conducted down loads of different avenues it always remains the same voltage. So instead of the (uh logical duh) option of electricity splitting in amount when it is routed down two wires from one source, both wires carry the same amount. I say this, as a bit of an analogy for how the arts works.

The mainstay of my work, and my company, for the last three years has been festivals. Arts festivals, work spanning venues and artists, producers and shows.

When you take on one project at a Fringe, you smash yourself into it with every ounce of yourself. When you take on two, that energy is not split but doubled. Same for 5, 10, 20 strings to your bow. Each requires the same energy as if it were just one project.

Watching Olympians perform I understand that feeling of pushing a little harder, that moment at the end of a sprint where you find energy and power that you didn’t know you had in you. And I am one of hundreds of people at this festival who entirely understand that feeling; dismiss it, and push on through.

There are two problems with this level of commitment to a job. One, is fatigue, and two is competition about the visible level of commitment to the role. Who worked hardest; who had the fewest days off; who is stuck in one place for the most hours; who is taking the most risk. I’m usually much more of a party girl than this year, but possible fatigue induced illness has rendered me slightly off kilter and where I would find that 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th wind I find myself retreating, with my laptop, to double and triple check things over a cup of tea and some vitamin supplements.

There is something about the way we apply ourselves so vigorously to every task with the same energy, expectation and precision that we feel everything keenly, like the princess on her pea. Every layer of stress and self-expectation piled up, always aware of that wee bump right through all the layers.

I don't want to compete over exhaustion. That's plain bonkers. When we talk about this crazy-ass storm we've thrown ourselves into, I want a smile and a 'I know, we're idiots, bumz right', not a riff-off over who's the most burnt out. #martyr

Trying not to get sucked into it is key to me this time round. But it’s hard. I’m not at 100% and it’s breaking my heart. Although, I guess I get points for managing to make myself ill before the festival even started? Non? Promise, it’s not a competition.

We may work like Olympians but exhaustion ain't no competition

When I was in the first few years of high school physics I remember learning about how when electricity is conducted down loads of different avenues it always remains the same voltage. So instead of the (uh logical duh) option of electricity splitting in amount when it is routed down two wires from one source, both wires carry the same amount. I say this, as a bit of an analogy for how us in the arts work. (I also am not Brian Cox, but the idea of things never decreasing in power as they split off is a almost perfect analogy for festival work.)

The mainstay of my work, and my company, for the last three years has been festivals. Arts festivals, work spanning venues and artists, producers and shows.

When you take on one project at a Fringe, you smash yourself into it with every ounce of yourself. When you take on two, that energy is not split but doubled. Same for 5, 10, 20 strings to your bow. Each requires the same energy as if it were just one project.

Watching Olympians perform I understand that feeling of pushing a little harder, that moment at the end of a sprint where you find energy and power that you didn’t know you had in you. And I am one of hundreds of people at this festival who entirely understand that feeling; dismiss it, and push on through.

There are two problems with this level of commitment to a job. One, is fatigue, and two is competition about the visible level of commitment to the role. Who worked hardest; who had the fewest days off; who is stuck in one place for the most hours; who is taking the most risk. I’m usually much more of a party girl than this year, but possible fatigue induced illness has rendered me slightly off kilter and where I would find that 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th wind I find myself retreating, with my laptop, to double and triple check things over a cup of tea and some vitamin supplements.

There is something about the way we apply ourselves so vigorously to every task with the same energy, expectation and precision that we feel everything keenly, like the princess on her pea. Every layer of stress and self-expectation piled up, always aware of that wee bump right through all the layers.

I don't want to compete over exhaustion. That's plain bonkers. When we talk about this crazy-ass storm we've thrown ourselves into, I want a smile and a 'I know, we're idiots, bumz right', not a riff-off over who's the most burnt out. #martyr

Trying not to get sucked into it is key to me this time round. But it’s hard. I’m not at 100% and it’s breaking my heart. Although, I guess I get points for managing to make myself ill before the festival even started? Non? Promise, it’s not a competition.

What you looking at? A thought filled fortnight.

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I’ve been full of words for two weeks now. Ok. I’m always full of words but currently they bubble over. I zone out thinking about what’s next, ideas and discussions with people on completely mundane topics trigger ideas that swirl and consume me. My face glazes over as I travel to another place with my thoughts.

I woke up on June 24 to the disaster movie troupe ‘The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom has resigned…’. My body turned to lead as I knew what it meant. I cried out involuntarily. In the weeks leading to this and after we’ve seen a sad smorgasbord of the best and worst of people on both sides of a polarising argument. I don’t really want to add to that. There’s enough out there. But I feel poised, ready, angry, fired up, calm, focused and ready to work on something. So where to start… let’s take a gooooood look around.

In pop. Beyonce.

Well. Where to start. Let’s talk about her ASS on the BIG ASS screen at her BIG ASS concert in Glasgow. Beyonce’s full frontal address of the male gaze is nothing short of superb. Bonce makes it very clear in Lemonade it's about her looking out not YOU looking on. So her arse? Hers to do WTF she likes with. And she reaches a hell loada people with a message few others could. Plus – who doesn’t like walking to work smiling pondering smashing shit with a baseball bat in full couture.

Behind my wry smile. My Pals.

All I see is familiar faces. Nice huh. My personally configured echo chambers on fb and twitter reflected one very clear thing post June 23… and although I know we speak to one another with similar view points, we can support each other going out with those views and have each other’s backs. Speak UP TEAM.

In art. My Artists.

I do what I do cos I love the work. This year – watch out for Angela Wand at Gilded Balloon, Rachael Clerke at Summerhall, GODDAM HAWT Hot Brown Honey at Assembly Roxy, Nassim Soleimanpour at Summerhall, Figs In Wigs at Pleasance – and the reason I group these performers together is no comment on them above other shows – but a feeling, a sense of creativity born out of struggle, a situation where we’ve been told we cannot be. But here we freaking are BEING.

Maybe what I want to say about the last few weeks is the individual is a powerful thing, and though easily manipulated and polarised, we have to hope also there is always room for CHANGE, always room to flip that switch, always room to remember that the person standing alongside is a GODDAM HUMAN TOO.

Say this: All I ask – let me be, let me be me, ass, brain, hair, fake-Scot, embarrassed English, proud Brit, proud European, proud and full of beans to be alive enough of the time. If we each lead a fight for that…. Maybe we have a starting point. Looking out, what do you want to see ahead of you? Fuck dem people looking back. Screw their inward obsession. That’s their gaze. And what matters is they can see you standing proud and strong right in front of them.

We almost had it all - but hey, that's what we go to school for.

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Did I mention I turned 30? I didn’t think I had. The thing with milestones is all your schoolmates hit them too, (let’s not mention the 'milestone moments' of six 2016 weddings or babies) but the age thing – we all get there at the same point. Last week my school friend Rae hit 30, and like every moment we look back and assess, with misty eyes and longing, it’s for Rae and I driving through Tunbridge Wells at 3am playing Busted as loud as my dad’s ford fiesta speakers would go. I’ll tell you – that's still loud enough to be embarrassing. 

I was going to now write a bit with Busted lyrics. But realised that was mental. So I popped some Adele on and gazed out the window for a minute or two. (Also mental.)

GOD – she ain’t a happy bunny huh? I mean, we’ve all been burnt love. But then again – Adele has made millions, selling more records than people who know what records ARE could actually buy. But you know, what’s wrong with a woman making so much out of a bad situation? I can’t tell you how much I’ve said yes to, how much has changed since my heart was broken. Since my breastbone was sliced down the centre from my neck to my belly button, my ribs broken out the way, and my vital organ pulled out and smashed through a mincer… (one of those old-fashioned ones that you work by hand for those asking.) Then the stringy mess roughly plopped back in and just left to heal – people around me variously and generously propping me up at those moments it failed me again.

But you know? Even if that level of pain is grossly underrated in the way it can change your life, ironically, for better, or worse, for richer, for poorer. I’d not change it now.

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When I was 18 storming across a town I hated with a girl I loved, I knew those were moments that I would never forget.

Like Busted – and many, many angst ridden youths – for so long I have wondered where I fit. SO, it’s time. Allow me to channel a little of pop’s optimism. Hey – I could get with an air hostess if I wanted to. So. Imma sand down the edges, soften that glare and listen out. No more sighing over my scars – the only way they will heal is if I open myself up to someone else getting in there.

All I want really is to fall in love again. Cute huh. So maybe that’s what I should go to school for.

Parental guidance. Mimsplicit lyrics.

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So. Here’s the thing. This blog has never been about sex. I’m nae Carrie Bradshaw - and honestly, when I read any salacious sex bloggy stuff (not often) I’m aware of how well you have to write to smash out that shiz.

I’ve been single for a year and four months - there have been blogs about dates - and my interpretation of the semiotics of gender as a single straight female. But here are some of the things I have experienced in my nighttime adventures, and I hope I offend none of you but continue to make you chuckle and cringe.

In ten.

1. Yes you do need to wear a condom.

2. There is a fine line between you creeping and flattering when you can remember things about me that I don’t remember myself.

3. If you’re ‘seeing someone’ I do not want to sleep with you.

4. Don’t take jokes I do about other men / my body as an affront. I am allowed to do this. You’re not really allowed though - don’t do jokes about other women.

5. If you’ve read my blog maybe don’t try get off with me. I do not want my blog to be referenced while we’re getting it on.

(6. If you are one of the following men you can read my blog and then make out with / marry me : Jon Snow (worrying huh), Marlon Brando in the past,  Karl Drogo - any Dothraki men, Adam Driver, Adam Driver, Adam Driver... I'm going to stop this now.)

7. Please consider me as a human being, make me tea, accept my tea. Wake me up with cute quips and questions about super powers.

8. Don’t do anything that will make me sad.

9. One night stands don’t make me sad. You lying to me or being weird does.

10. Yes you DO need to wear a condom. It’s polite, boys, to not put me in a situation that could result in a baby shambles - or infection.

From all this one can’t help but wonder if I’ve had a bad run, or if I have too much sass to benefit from the perks of singledom. i.e - men being nice to me EVER. Ok ok ok they often are. I have had clean sheets and freshly poured gin prepared for me, I’ve had breakfasts and tea made. I’ve had moonlight snog walks home, adventure bike parties, I’ve had boys say such lovely things that I smile so hard I think my face may break. I’ve been told I’m beautiful, enigmatic and compelling. But I also have been popped up on a pedestal - one with a spring base that catapults me so high into the clouds that the fact that I have a heart is beyond forgotten.

I have been fan-boyed. I have had to remove my job from my tinder profile. I have been asked for a job in bed. Not kidding. I have also had the unfortunate problem of not being quite discerning enough when vetoing duvet adventures with people I know, and on several occasions now it has turned out that the excitement at ‘getting with miriam’ (I know right?) outweighs the ‘I have a girlfriend’ or ‘I’m literally just doing this to say to myself I slept with THAT girl’ - GUYS - I’M RIGHT HERE. With all my clothes off. I CAN HEAR YOU. I tell you what, it is weird to have a guy talk about me in the third person to my face. I don’t think I need to elaborate.

Final thought. You can see me just as a body. Or just that hot girl (personal opinion applies, LOLZ amirite). Or untouchably cool (seriously I’ve had that) or you can booty call me to ask for a job - but you’ll never be all the people I love and trust that I surround myself with. You’ll always be just that guy - if you treat me like ‘Just. That. Girl.’ And me and my actual guys and girls will be enjoying my anecdotes and shit blogs for longer than it took you to get a slutwhorewonderwoman like me into bed.

As women FULL STOP. We will have to keep being who we want to be and are.

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One of my dearest friends messaged me the other day on fb, pointing me to a status she’d posted about sometimes feeling ‘bulldozed by men’ – ‘getting frustrated for not being more ‘masculine’'  - and asked for my opinion.

In her reply to my response, considered but scrawled and typo-ridden as I rode to work on the bus – she thanked me for ‘articulating the historical and social context of feminism’ in a way she ‘struggles to'.

My response outlined how if we allow ourselves to change our instinctual reactions to situations based on a gender norm or a environmental push – then we will achieve less than if we push forward (yes push) but with our own agenda and moral code.

I have quite a considered opinion (yes, OPINION,) on what feminism is to me and what it means to be a woman smashing it – earning my own cash and choosing how I earn. Much of that is down to my personality – and a certain bullishness that I have now learnt not to apologise for. My bullishness is not aggressive but is unapologetic problem solving, if there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it, check out the hook while my DJ revolves it. Alongside this, I studied literary theory and am a wild over-thinker so I apply a lot of my own pop psychology and slip into that what I have learned from watching people, and reading about them.  I have confidence in my own thoughts and abilities that if they feel right to me, I roll with them – and you know what? That is traditionally the man’s right – to presume that how he feels is how he can act. That is his right while the women check themselves and slot in alongside.

Ironically, one of the reasons I have been able to get to this place – and see things clearly for myself – is as I can be forthright in the workplace. When emotionally, in relationships with boyfriends, friends, in the dating scene, with my family I can turn to useless, frustrated angry mush. If I allow myself to apply a little of ‘work me’ to a emotional situation, Mary Poppins style, spick spock, no nonsense, no emotion, no gossip, because I’m tired, unwell or just plain exhausted from fireworking energy 24/7 – I can get in trouble. Sometimes the response to my no-nonsense is presumed disinterest or my frustration is seen as unwarranted aggression.

I think the key thing I wanted to say to PSB – producer, business person, dancer, marketer, digital magician, a fiercely intelligent, beautiful, warm, funny, dirty, eyelashed-legend – was that whatever our background, reading, social and political awareness and knowledge of feminism or lack there of – as women full stop, we will have to keep being who we want to be and are. And whilst thanking all those that have helped us get to a point where our response is more likely to be rolling our eyes and gasping in frustration; than crying in the toilet at a hand thrust up our skirt – we still have a right to be frustrated and a right to express that whenever the fudge we like.

Having hairy legs basically makes you a mermaid. Discuss.

I’m on a hen do. This morning I showed some of the girls my hairy legs at breakfast. I shave sometimes, but I was impressed with the growth in the last two weeks and kinda proud of my wild wee legs so I’ve kept growing.

They laughed as I described swimming with hairy legs, ‘it’s like swimming through seaweed, your hair undulates back and forth from the follicle as you kick out your legs’ - it feels fun. Maybe that’s what it’s like to have fish scales rippling in the water as one propels their body forward.

I also mentioned when a guy spots you have hairy legs, at any level of undress, and how they do not give a damn. Maybe they then know you give less of a shit too, it’s empowering. By simply having hair in a place we’re told not to – you become a rebel. Erm – team - it does just grow there. I mean, it’s literally there - but nice to have a wild smile thinking about rebellion for doing the total sum of sweet F A.

The hair debate is funny.
I’ve been so paranoid about hair growing where it shouldn’t I’ve had it ripped out;
I’ve bled trying to manage ingrown hairs;
I’ve had arguments with boyfriends about my bikini line and how it’s MINE whether it’s clear to land or jungle style.
I’ve had ALL my pubic hair removed. It. Is. Weird.
I’ve not bothered to have it ALL removed. That’s considered weird.

I like hair. I like hairy boys. Hubba hubba.  But we’re not supposed to like hairy girls – apart from the hair on our heads, which has to look like a lace front day after bloody day. Having strong, dark hair growing on my legs, to me, accents my strength, it makes me feel like I’m something other than a body. It’s warmth, it increases the sensation on my legs – I can FEEL more.

Maybe ripping out all this hair is just supposed to stop us feeling anything? Apart from pain at the point of removal. Well. I want to feel EVERYTHING.

(‘lace front’ is a reference to lace front wig, a really realistic, beautiful, body maximums wig like the ones Nicole Kidman or RuPaul sport.)

Brooklyn (the film) - adventure is something, and nothing.

I haven’t written about a film, or a play, or a book in ages cos YA BOO it’s all been about me. Aaaaagh boys, or aaaaah work is going too well, or WOAH I got a tattoo (did anyone else ever get a tattoo?)

Obviously priority blogs in the wings are still ‘that thing he said on tinder’ or ‘god I need to delete tinder’ but for now, here’s a little culture ponder.

Brooklyn had a really shit poster so I didn't go see it when it came out. I was wrong not to - it’s a beautiful piece of storytelling. Following Ellis Lacey (the irrefutable Saoirse Ronan) moving to New York from a tiny town in South East Ireland. Now (2010’s) the town has a population of 10,000, then, less. So it’s small. The whole place is painted as a petri dish of gossip and power play – like the day after the office party every day of the year.

The magic of this film is its subtlety and warmth. Ellis has been sponsored to move to New York as her sister recognizes she's set for bigger things and applies for her sponsorship. There is never any shoehorned narrative where she is shown as ‘being clever’ – it’s just a fact. So often when female characters are placed at the centre of a narrative, any intelligence, wit, awareness are blasted at the viewer – not here. She can just be.

To see a female character presented like this means two things to me. One, we can watch women boss it and own screen time apropos of nothing. And two, the lack of aggression in the film towards her failing means we’re now allowed to watch multifaceted women on screen and nominate them for Oscars. By lack of aggression, I refer to her stern manager at her department store in Brooklyn allowing her to take a break when her homesickness is rendering her incapable to work; her sponsor (YAY JIM BROADBENT) signing her up for book keeping classes without a hint of drama at the fact she will be the only woman in the class.

The dilemma and reality of having two homes – one’s heart in two places is explored. She is a natural happy fit for Brooklyn – but the town she was born in now feels available to her as she can see it for what it is. It does help that she spends a fair bit of time with Domhnall Gleeson, hubba hubba, when she’s back at home. We all would. KIDDING. Not kidding.

I have always said home is where I am. I'm a home whore. I could go back to Bristol now and I still get tingles when I walk past places that my wee self spent time in. I could go to Birkenhead (it’s been a while) and I’m sure I’ll get a rush of nostalgia, and things will feel familiar, I could go back to Kent and roll my eyes at the skinny side-eye and awful hair but I know I would be in good company. I could go to Adelaide and walk in the front door of the Porter St Mansion and know I’m home. The thing is, we choose where we want to be, who we want to be with. To watch a girl in the 50s owning that – suffer the loneliness, fear and then look forward is inspiring to me. Watching her endure the earth shattering physical pain of being separated from the people she loves, makes me feel like we should all be a little less scared of what adventure means – and all without getting on a massive boat for weeks and weeks cos we prefer burning dem fossil fuels up high in the sky.

My first tattoo and the house of mirrors...

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This week I got my first tattoo. Infact my wrist is a little sore as I type; she’s about 24 hours old now.

Here’s the thing. It’s difficult daily to own your own body and compete. Being a woman and getting it right is more complicated than a genius Sudoku. Tick this box, don’t touch that box, look this way, oooooh you doin’ that guuurrrl?

The new dating lexicon we’re speaking – you can swipe and destroy or dance round someone you quite like for fear of making the wrong call in front of your peers. We judge constantly. It’s tough. It’s like being stuck in a house of mirrors – how are we ever supposed to know what’s real? It’s bloody exhausting.

I met my tattooist for a drink and we talked about what I wanted. He doesn’t do many first timers – but we hit it off. I also, had this feeling, which I struggle with in new interactions, of not having to be a yes person. When he suggested something I didn’t like – I went for an alternative, when I had an idea he didn’t like – same. We collaborated.

He slotted me in for the following morning – and as I sat talking about 90s indie music surrounded by drawings, patterns and ideas for other people’s tattoos it felt right. I had less anxiety than when I last had to choose between sandwich and salad.

We struggle constantly with how to be in the world. From an ignored text, or a missed date, or the insanity of getting assaulted in the street by a stranger. Exhausted by our family’s ideas for us, tired by the constant darkness in the news, worried about how we change things. We only own one thing – our bodies.

As a new friend, hours earlier a perfect stranger marked my skin permanently with black ink, and listened to me chatting away without judgment, I knew this was one step for me to own my own body. Cos it’s with this body I’m going to make changes for others and achieve everything I feel I need to – so I choose what goes into it, what goes on it – even if I can’t control what other people think of it. 

reads like a four.... #freshink #firstink #tattoo #newtattoo #shizzle #tatts #firsttime #adelaide #australia #happybunny

A photo posted by Miriam (@strawberryplantlive) on Mar 4, 2016 at 6:44pm PST

Sometimes the water isn’t that deep and we smash our face off and all our teeth fall out and our nose is broken.

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Several times this year I have heard how our experience of time changes as you get older. It’s not a figment of our imagination. Once in comparison to my nephew (the little star) and how as he has only a few months behind him the learning and experiences stretch each day out to an exhausting endlessness (not for him, he bloody loves it.) For us… our experience of life slows as the ‘new’ is just less often. I’m pretty sure I don’t fit into this category. I’m like a bloody four year old.

One thing I’ve learned, through physical accidents, from falling off waterfalls, crashing my bike, tripping up stairs (as I’m too excited to be up said stairs) to massive wins; successfully navigating a ten foot fence in five inch heels again and again, not falling off my bike most of the time, is that I like to move at a certain pace. That pace needs to include lots of new scary things to distract me from the reality of being alive. KIDDING. I’m just wired that way. GO GO GO.

Take accidents in love. Things are more invigorating when you take a risk and jump in face first. Sometimes the water isn’t that deep and we smash our face off and all our teeth fall out and our nose is broken. But sometimes it’s a freeking beautiful natural pool and you have a lovely splash and a swim and feel all alive.

In 2016 I turn 30. All old and that. I’m very excited about being 30. When I was about 25 a very brilliant theatre producer told me to just lie about my age when people weren’t taking me seriously – so I have on and off for the last five years. Now I feel like I can own my age. I wanted to be an adult since I was about eight years old, and here I am with the sage and sass of a seven year old in a dance competition. Winning on my terms. Cutting terrible shapes.

I have no plans to change now… as I storm into the next decade Imma just own it, imagine I got the minnie mouse leotard I always wanted (imagine it fits) smear some lipstick on my teeth and grab those moves with both hands. Let’s dance.

DECK THE HALLS! Drunk or not drunk, no woman is any kind of ‘game’

The Christmas do. A yearly occurrence for most of the employed of the UK – and seemingly a grim time of year for women. YAY!

Pub. Friday. We were not on a Christmas night out. A large group of drunk office workers started to make themselves known. Standing on stools to sing along to the jukebox, falling over each other, dominating the space. Men in suits, women dressed up for a night out. A man at the bar half stood on me, half leant on me. When I asked him not to stand on me, he looked surprised there was a person there at all, and did step off me. He was so drunk he had literally not seen me.

We all got on with our respective nights out. Later, we were all distracted when a woman, in tears, was rooted to her spot by a colleague leaning one arm over her shoulder onto the wall. It was so uncomfortable to watch, he was drunk, sweaty and leery and there was something so wrong about it. Why did he need to take such a domineering stance? One of my friends went over under the guise of going to the toilet, stepped between them and asked if she was ok. She was and thanked my mate; he was annoyed she was ‘interfering’. Back at our seats, two men had now descended on the girl, and she wouldn’t have been able to move without pushing them out her way. We kept her within sight and made it clear if she wasn’t ok she was to let us know. No one else from the same night out noticed.

Eventually, she did try to move, she wanted to get her bag from across the pub. The men restrained her, not with much force, but enough. My turn. I got up and explained I would feel more confortable if this lady was allowed to get her bag. Once she had her bag, I said I would be happy to leave them to their night.

Small things I know. Anyway – it escalated. Several of the men used their unspent testosterone (boke) asking me why I interfered, and trying to start a fight with the guys in our group. We left the pub a short while later feeling like vigilantes having seen the girl in the centre of the prey party go home with a female colleague. The story of the scuffle had already become legend in the men's toilet.

I am not apologising for what happened. Nor will anyone else I was in the pub with. I do consider people might ask ‘why get involved’ – but I know exactly why we did. We were watching what could have been a mate, sister, hells - a work colleague being coerced when vulnerable, and I hope to buggary if the same thing ever happens to me, someone else will be there to give me the opportunity to escape it. 

I wasn’t going to write about this. But then I came across this in the guardian today and it chilled me to the core. The very idea that the men on Saturday night could not see clearly when we intervened that their behavior was unacceptable speaks volumes. Drunk or not drunk, no woman is any kind of ‘game’ and if I see you in public treating her like she is, every fucking time, I’m going to get involved.

I think there’s something stupid about moaning about the inevitability of getting older (I mean, but yes, things get scarier)

I got really annoyed this week at a feminist commentator asking people to stop referencing the fact she heading towards her 30th. She’s younger than me (and Gaga with whom I share a birthday week) and it was the first time someone moaning about turning 30 annoyed me. Cos, ok, each new decade is a right of passage. BUT one: you’re in the public eye people are going to know your age. And two: own it, and don’t say with one breath 'will people stop mentioning I’m 30 it’s not a big deal' and with the next say, 'actually turning 30 is a feminist issue as being 30 is so different for women than for men'. GAH.

I think there’s something stupid about moaning about the inevitability of getting older, boo fucking hoo. I mean yes things get scarier – will I have kids – will I meet someone who is sexually and intellectually fulfilling – will work be ok – why does everything I read in the news break my heart – will everyone realize I’m a fraud – will I get a dog – is it necessary for my periods to reach levels of world ending pain – am I ever going to stop pretending I may one day be a Blue Peter presenter? But hey there are questions all the time about everything. They only get more urgent if we allow them too. There’s a solution to every problem and sometimes it’s the solution we least expect.

And all this with a pinch of the LOL salt – as I’m still not very old at all. But things are changing… some are magic, some are a bag of balls. My cheekbones have appeared, they are now right there on my face not hidden beneath two inches of puppy fat – bones generally seem to be appearing, collarbones, knee bones, hand bones, shin bones. BONES. I am strong. I feel strong and aware of my body, I’m ‘devil may care on my bike’ as a boy told me last week. But I can balance on high things, and do that stand up from being on my toes dirty dance thing, and do a whole gym class without feeling dizzy. I feel like if I wanted to, I could try a cartwheel. (I won't, I'll damage myself. BUT I COULD)

I can recall songs in pub quiz rounds, this is a whole new skill – I have a huge encyclopedia of brain pop but have never been good at recalling it. I am now.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and feel like I’d like to wear a balaclava until the day I die. But more often than not I’m kinda cool with what I see. I joke ‘I only need to lose weight for the people that look at me’ and I mean it, as far as I’m concerned, what I got ain't bad. It does walking and talking and my hair is fucking cool.

Older men and younger men flirt with me. LOLZ. Silver foxes and gorgeous twenty year olds with loads of hair. Some men still find me terrifying; these men now make me laugh. Some women find me terrifying; and I want to be friends with them so I try, and don’t worry when I don’t succeed.

Look. Things can be rubbish, really rubbish, but getting annoyed with people for merely recognising AGE as a thing is plain silly. I’m NEARLY 30 and I'm saying ain’t nobody got time for that.

It must be so difficult when you're a sexy young man and your girl is just causing problems by being alive

What do you mean.

A phrase often employed to find out what, exactly, someone is referring to. But more recently a lyric, set to music, performed by a young Canadian laddy who has also taken to getting naked on balconies. Said Canadian has legions of followers on twitter, over 68 million, 73 million on facebook and his fansicles are called Beliebers. So I’m led to belieb.

What do you mean? Catchy huh?

Better make up your mind what do you mean.

The young man in question is struggling to work out what his girlfriend wants. Honestly, this is probably because he’s not making her feel at ease. If you feel comfortable with someone you’re more likely to just come out and say, ‘Oh yes, this is what I mean’. You wouldn't even start with indecision – you’d just be like, ‘oh I’m quite happy with dinner in tonight and Strictly: It Takes Two and then some Netflix. God Jay is good isn’t he’. (And he would recognise Jay is quite good as this is not an area where indecision is ever a factor.) Done.

It must be so difficult when you're a sexy young man and your girl is just causing problems by being alive.

I don’t know if you’re happy or complaining. RING THE ALARM! You can’t tell if she’s happy OR complaining? ARE YOU LOOKING AT HER? Oh god. Don't tell me this is a whatsapp relationship. COMMENCE MESSAGING: Girrrrrl  you are so hot. Girrrrrrl I wanna see you. Bae bae bae. (three hours pass.) OH. I was napping. Sorry. You’re so hot… and it rolls on. The Canadian is so one of those boys that messages nice things and then takes a nap without wrapping up the chat politely.

You want to make a point but keep preaching. Well, maybe if you were patient she would get to her point. You’re all distracted aren’t you? Avoiding eye contact, skirting around the issue, turning away, murmuring and fidgeting. Pulling a hoody over your stupid quiff. Don’t get me started on your clothes young man.

You wanna argue all day and make-a love all night. UH YES. BECAUSE THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING FUN TO DO WITH YOU, YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME ANYWAY. Plus you stop whining when we do it.

K babes, there's room for us to be more straightforward (sexy reverb whisper at 3.05) with our communications. But chicken. Sometimes it starts with you? What do you mean? This inability to be straightforward is not one-sided and frankly you can be a wee monkey, acting up and generally being bloody annoying.

I have taken the bieliberty of applying your phrase in some simple dating situations. Don't say I'm not about equality. Maybe it does have an application after all.... what do you...?

‘I’m sorry I didn't make it over to yours I was having a nap’
What do you mean?

‘I just don’t think we want the same things, but I don’t know what to do about it’
What do you mean?

‘You’re really hot, but I like her too and want to see if it works out with her, it might not and I’ll call you? Ok?’
What DO you mean?

‘SORRY I WAS NAPPING’.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

‘I actually really like you and this is exciting and I think you’re really beautiful and would like to see you again.’
Wait. What? Eh? What do you mean?

A date is basically a series of lubricated lies - so lolz to playing the feminist card.

 

I am fully paid up feminist – and I am a big fan of the term ‘equalitist’ too.

The thing I come back to all the time as a feminist, is seeing it as a means to support other women. I find the fight comes quite naturally to me – I want us all to have the same opportunities as men without having to push for them but the fight is often required to avoid blatant disadvantage. This is still the big split isn’t it? The ingrained advantages that men are just born with and can chose to live by without having to ask for anything different.

I have been writing about what dating is like as I go, navigating my generation's current identity stramash. And then I saw a comment is free, YES ACTUALLY, about dates with male feminists, UH HUH, and once I'd done being annoyed at how stupid it was and the death of journalism... well....

All in all I actually realised I’m a bit shit at dating. I am generally unimpressed by men, oh, and anyone that isn’t a mate. AND I can’t hide what I am thinking from my face. #winning

The thing with guys playing the feminist card on a date, is it’s the same as ANYTHING EVER anyone says when there’s sexual tension or an expectation of sex. It becomes game-play. It’s all about bravado, showing off, the display. Chatting feminism on a date has just become a new kind of peacocking. It doesn’t mean nada. And this is the thing, (staying outside the debate of whether men can actually be feminists) – any political movement we sign up to, can only be demonstrated by our actions and the way we treat the people around us and that we interact with day to day.

The funny things ‘feminist’ men have said to me on dates, on sofas, in bars, beds, shoe-less walks home, line up exactly with the stupid things men who have not declared an interest either way. And I’m sure the stupid things I’ve said to try and get laid match up the other way round. (I DON'T LIKE TO CYCLE ON GRASS... I SAID THAT ONCE. Me either.) I’m sure Swifty is working on a new single about this.

You can read the comment is free thing here. I keep a note of the stupidest things I say on dates, and the oddest things said to me. A date is basically a series of lubricated lies isn’t it? In the same way tinder is kinda msn messenger but you’re not even chatting to people you like.

I am a feminist – and I live by a code that I like to think is about equality, and I get angry every day about how things work verses how they could and should work. But there is one sacred place for lies and putting together sentences you would never dare say with a serious face to anyone you actually trust. And that place is date-land. Let’s not change that. How else am I going to gather stories to entertain all my friends?

Oh and guys, if I smile and flick my hair, I wouldn’t rate it. I’m just trying to get in your pants. See, you play the feminist card; I can play my feminine card. Natch.