Amy, Amy, Amy.

I remember turning Tears Dry On Their Own up so loud the speakers almost broke in the old ford ka I used to traipse around in. Back to Black – we only said goodbye in words, I died a hundred times – a phrase I understood from my first one night stand. I knew what she was talking about – I don’t want to be with you, I don’t need you, but this is more than words – let’s respect each other and what happened here. Can you let me have that? I want to see this a new way.


I went to see Amy this week.


There’s something about Amy’s assumed strength that is galling in ALL THAT footage. Her loneliness was excused, her drug habit her own problem to pull herself out of, she’s gobby and witty and she can handle herself. So she CAN handle herself. What if she couldn’t? What if the loneliness and the need for a overruling strength was too much. The push pull with her husband, family and drugs definitely says that. It’s clear her girlfriends from school adored her and fought hard to rescue her.


I see why the family are upset by how they come across – I can’t imagine how they couldn’t be. But they come across ok. Dealing with a soul that strong isn’t straight forward, we are taught to respect strength and let it soldier on. My strength was batted back into a box – or you’re labeled as gobby, try hard, forward, bossy, alpha. It’s different for men. It is – we’re still taught to be scared of a strong women. Amy had strength in spades. That sings through the whole 90 minutes. An unfaltering honesty and magic that only the most brilliant people can pull off at seventeen.


When life hurts – and it does for us all in so many ways – when life is skipping from giddying highs to pathetic lows – when we don’t have a schedule that repeats repeats repeats, a structure, but rather when we know our friends are waiting at a distance to mop us up, we feel invincible. I’ve lost friendships to drugs. You just wait it out. Some you get back, some you can’t repair.


It’s very difficult not to be cynical about Amy. Or presume there’s a dark art in peeling back so much and showing so much very personal footage. A young woman off her face, out of her mind on crack and smack - downing Jack Daniels like JD have said there are only four barrels left and they need drinking today. But we all have our vices and our dark moments – we post only the good online. We aren’t supposed to share those dark moments with wit or honesty and a wry smile as we’re only supposed to be performing the right kind of role.


We’re not supposed to grow up behind a lens. We all do now, but we self-curate. Amy didn’t have the curate option. The force stronger than her in her life was the mob waiting for her, her management’s bank balance, her voice, her fierceness, her strength was also her most dangerous vice as everyone presumed she was ok.


I spoke to an ex-paparazzi friend of mine about the film this weekend. He said ‘we stopped sending people to Amy, or selling Amy pix, the scrum was so big they weren’t exclusives and only worth £50’ – he was genuinely saddened by the whole thing.


It’s tough being a strong woman. It’s tough being a woman. It’s tough being in a world where all anything counts for is money. I would love to hear what Amy was going to write next, we all would. But I think as a log of her tenacity and talent, Amy goes a long way to sharing what she had achieved in too few years. And I’m pretty sure she would fucking hate it. Which makes me smile. RIP lil’ lady.



The title of this blog is a reference to a Frank album track, Amy, Amy, Amy.

Being a bad feminist

Being a bad feminist.

Writing those four words made me smile. I was scared of feminism when I was turning 20 – and had no excuse as I was on a uni course where we talked about everything and studied cultural movements and literary theory over beers and curly fries.

I think I probably did say ‘I don’t need feminism’ – not realizing that I was the most bolshie ‘women can do shit too’ defender I’d ever met. But it’s tough being someone who doesn’t take no for an answer, who when she fails just dusts herself down and goes ‘ach well, something cooler will come out of this’, someone who’s not afraid to accept failure but as equally uninterested in being told how to do anything. It just happens I am a guuuurl and I fudging love it. It has meant I’m obstinate about feminism and presume everyone has that experience.

I once said to my wisest feminist friends Lauren and Hana ‘I’m not scared of sexual harassment as I’ll just run/kick and I don’t want to live in fear’ and they explained to me it’s not as simple as that. Ok ok. Of course it’s not. Finally I feel like I’m part of a dialogue where my white, self-starting, we’re gonna just do this attitude is brilliant but doesn’t define my feminism. I recognise I am extremely lucky, my job involves liking people and theatre and talking about things and these are my three boldest natural attributes. I’m lucky I worked out what I want to be at this stage in my life. I’m also lucky no men want to be theatre publicists – am I right ladies?

I have gained a terrifying propensity to see what I want and run at it – from work through to play – but again I realize this isn’t how every woman’s experience is or can be without some kind of seismic change.

On my flight to Australia for work as/for a company I’d set up (madness) I sat next to a Jordanian 29 year old. Born in the same year as me, on the other side of the world there sit two wee newborn girls. She was now a UN escort for refugees with legal and diplomacy degrees in bundles, fluent in four languages, travelling the world for work on a weekly basis, responsible for the future of people’s LIVES and yet she’s not allowed to have a boyfriend. She watches her friends get married so they can do it and have a partner and then watches that partner sleep around and take his wife for granted while she’s trapped – as ‘women don’t end marriages’. This is madness.

Here’s me, strident British feminist having just ended a relationship with a perfectly wonderful man as we knew we didn’t want the same things, feeling my heartbreak keenly but knowing we’d given it the best chance and that we were making a mutually aware CHOICE. AND THEN – I hear first hand my co-passenger isn’t even allowed to have that chance to try it out.

When I arrived in Adelaide I met the Hot Brown Honeys who I have the extraordinary privilege of working with. They stick a hot poker of ‘fuck yous’ into the feminist debate. All women of colour, they take stereotypes and expectations and toy with them until all lies shredded on the floor of a wooden tent. I love them. I love the anger and the messiness and the skill and the laughs and the tears and, I just love it all. And there is this moment, this chill that runs through one in that tent, a chill that makes the grin spread itself back across my face. A moment that says, now is over, change is coming, and it’s everyone’s job in everyone’s world to be a equalitist and fight for it.  

International Woman’s Day 2015

“If I didn't define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive.” Audre Lorde

International Woman’s Day 2016.

“2016? Wow. Are we still doing this?” Erm. Me.

We need to keep meddling and fighting and arguing and being bad feminists. Word.

Those are my chimney tops.

-->

We got the email on November 28^th. It quite simply stated the owner would be taking over the property in 2015 and we needed to be out by 22 January 2015. I remember exactly where I was standing down to what I was wearing, black dress, black mottled leopard print tights and my smart camel and black felt jacket which has lapels like Cheryl Cole circa 2013.

All those years. If I could slot in a reference to London 2012 I would cover all the big events that had happened from the base that was my home most securely and definitely of anywhere I’d ever lived since 1997.

I moved into my Deanhaugh Street flat with Laura in March 2012. The week of my birthday. We had looked at the ad for the flat online in the pub below, in the window seat, not realising the bay windows of that pub, Hectors, swung round to meet what would be our front door for two years and mine for another after that.

I didn’t know then it was going to be the first place where I really felt like I belonged, to become my office when I quit my sensible day job and set up a company; a party flat, fitting sixteen people into a kitchen that on a grumpy Tuesday night didn’t seem to have room for two; the place I got into cycling; the place that meant I afford to buy a nice duvet; the place I got round to putting my own framed pictures up on the wall. Laura’s huge tapestry from India pinned up in the huge hall immediately lent warmth and colour. The place I could have a cupboard of all my cosmetics in the bathroom and twelve different moisturizers I never used. It didn’t matter what the flat was filled with as it was mine.

I loved the flat mostly as it was so strange. Long and thin, freezing cold, top top floor and a level above all the other high-street tenements so it felt like one was in the set for chim-chiminy from Mary Poppins. I owned those chimney tops. No one else had that view. From the back rooms, a glimpse at a far off Edinburgh Castle and skittles and layers of houses and flats rising up and up into the city centre, also the side of the flat that caught the sunrise. The front end of the flat, sitting room and the big bedroom looking out onto the busy high street caught the sunset. This meaning twice a day one end of the flat was bathed in the warm, pink light of magic hour and the other end was bathed in the pinky reflection of the sun waxing or waning.

The front end of the flat lent the best people watching of anywhere I’ve ever been let alone lived. If you like watching people – live on a high street or on a street that reaches long into the distance – this flat had both. I remember when friends came to stay when at 2am one night a couple of the staff from the pub below left work and he – out on the street – declared his love for her. We craned our necks out of the window in silence to listen. I got in a lot of trouble for making a noise that may have alerted them to our eavesdropping. I have watched people dancing home with headphones in at 9pm on a Friday after after-work drinks, I have watched men locked out of their flats by flatmates, partners, parents wandering listlessly drunk round in circles before turning round and going back to try their luck at the intercom.

That flat watched the Yes campaign gaining speed. I sat in my front room with the windows open on the evening of the referendum soaking up the carnival of tooting horns and exuberant chatter. Yes’s and No’s sprinkling the windows of the flats and flats and flats stretching down the road.

The night we finally emptied the flat out and moved a Subaru of residual crap round to my friends spare room where we are to pitch for the foreseeable – we watched Chris Nolan’s Intersteller. A film about dimensions, relativity and time and space and home – the story centres on a bookshelf in a home that no one can bare to let go of.

In all of the time and space and possibilities, time moves at a speed relative to activity. Those three years in that flat feel like decades. The eight weeks notice dragged and tripped me up, rendering me incapable of picturing a reality beyond not being in my home. It’s not mad to cry and scream and holler at someone taking your security away. It’s fairly mad not to. I feel a pang when I take a tent down that I’ve stayed in for a weekend. I’ll find a new home, that no-one else wants as it’s weird and long or tall or cold or hot or high or bright or similar to the set of a childhood film if I were able to wander out the windows without falling three floors – but for now I reserve the right to wonder how my sitting room is without me chatting on the phone gazing out the window. If my neighbours are wondering why my bike has gone from the hall. Why my evenings aren’t bathed in a pink light – and who’s going to clamber over the rooftops in their mind, tripping over chimney pots and slipping on tiles, gazing into skylights, sneaking at other people’s top floor lives and disturbing birds’ nests.

Maybe I’ll reserve that right just for me.  In my own dimension.

Grayson's Rise and Fall of the Default Man - this is a no suit situation.

I have just read Grayson Perry’s The Rise and Fall of the Default Man. With the picture in my mind of Grayson’s wild dresses that look like a one of those really fancy bouquets with all the different colours of cellophane wrapped round a hot house of flowers - his discussion of ‘suits’ got me thinking.

I have always been fascinated by our personal costumes – why we don’t call our day-to-day outfits ‘costuming’ I have never known. As it all is – whether we wear the same thing every day to try and look, well, the same every day – or whether we mix it up. Here are three hugely broad ways to generalize UK costuming.

1.    An outfit which is easy to apply again and again and explains a purpose – so uniforms really, but these include suits (THE SUIT) through to a specific choice of band t-shirt, jeans and converse trainers.
2.    A particular style of dressing that allows for a range of dress but does have rules. This can be defined by class, an upper class woman thinks her twinset and pearls is original while she can happily fit in, or it can be burlesque-chic – that kinda 50s look with red lips and tattoos. K Middy is a good example of this; she in essence wears the same dress designed for a conservative voter with a slim waist over and over again. (The one style of dressing all the time is K Middy, not burlesque-chic, although, lord would it be a sweet relief if she did move out of dullsville.)
3.    Someone who literally just wears what they want when they want both regardless and in regard to current trends. They just dress. These are the kind of people when you meet them the second and third time you think you’ve met them before but aren’t sure as they are wearing something that totally counters that first meet. These are ALSO the kind of people when you first see them in jeans and then in a dress and hair pulled up to the sky – you may comment – ‘wow – you look great’ as you had already put them in the converse/skinny jean box at the first meeting.

I think I fit into number 3. YES EVERYONE IS ALWAYS SAYING ‘WOW YOU LOOK GREAT’. They’re not, but I do get surprised looks weekly when I’ve scrubbed up.

Grayson talks about suits for about a third of The Rise and Fall of the Default Man – and that’s where I’m getting. Now, luckily, at the bold wee age of 28, I feel 100% comfortable (83% of the time) in my own skin. This has heightened since I quit the ‘day job’ and chose to run my own life, I have left a system – and though in the arts – a system run very much by men in suits.

Never have I been interested in wearing a suit during my professional life. There is ONE exception to this rule, when I was tired of posing in front of paintings for the papers and considered dressing as Janelle Monae to see if they still wanted ‘girl in suit.’ I didn’t do this. I wore jeans and a parka to muse underneath a Louise Bourgeois Spider instead.

I have never worn or owned a trouser suit, a skirt suit, a grey pleaty thing – except perhaps for school uniform. I did have to wear a tight fitted skirt, shirt, tie and waistcoat when I worked in a five star hotel’s champagne bar, but that all backfired when one day the skirt was so tight I poured boiling hot coffee all over the lap of a be-suited man out for a work do.

I know that when I have strolled into meetings in a holey grey jumper over a ballet style black strappy top and a waist high, thigh high patterned orange skirt – I knew I wasn’t dressed as everyone else. My opinion may not at first have been so valuable for the Default Man and his suits – and that my lively disposition (it’s so Jane Austin no? NAUGHTY LYDIA,) may not initially have endeared me as grey and black could've sans orange and eyeliner – but I was always clean and smart and I was never going to dress that part. I had turned up to the interview for said job in bottle-green boots and a navy dress with a white trim that could only be described as circus-cum-sailor-chic. I also had badly damaged bottle blonde hair.

When I met the Queen and Prince Phillip backed into me at a visit to my work, I wore a black polkadot knee length dress from brick lane, hair spray, eyeliner and bright turquoise heels that I’d grabbed for £7 in Miss Selfridge four years previous. The Queen didn’t ask me to leave for not wearing a suit, nor did the special ops guys I was chatting to as we showed press photographers (all requested to wear suits) around.

I sometimes feel lucky to inhabit my world where I don’t need to, and refuse to dress in a ‘predictable unfussy, feminised version of the male look,’ but hopefully the more meetings and train carriages I sit in working – the less it will matter – and the more people will join me, dressing in WILD variations of some style day-to-day.

Yesterday, on the train down to London, in clashing red ALARM rimmel lipstick and a fluorescent pink jumper from H&M (teamed with skinny jeans and converse) messy hair and stationed between a battalion of men in suits traveling to London for work - ME TOO GUYS, ME TOO – the man next to me offered to get my case down. Now, as a dickhead (not a feminist, as a dickhead, refusing politeness isn’t a feminist action) normally I would say no, but he was in a good spot to grab my bag so I thanked him, and he passed it to me. ‘Woah, that’s light for a mumble mumble…’ I grinned, knowing I had heard what he said, ‘light for a what?’ I questioned. ‘Light for a female’s bag’ he replied. I won’t tell you what I said, I’m sure you can imagine, but I did smile and I did think to myself – ‘well, yes, running my own company and tottering to London for work does open me up to a whole world of really light weight costumes – and not a suit in sight.’

This Referedum is 100% Pure Pop (and songs from the shows)

Never has a place felt more electric. In a matter of hours more of Scotland will head down to the polls than ever have before to cast their vote, make their voice heard, lend a vow and make history.

Never have my dips and delves into my pop back catalogue been so illustrative of the political climate as every song spins a new story on the bloody independence referendum. Not content with making my coffee high a whirlwind of panic about what to do – pop music changes its mind as quickly as I can draw on too much eyeliner and sing along. The romance, the trauma, the tremor of change, the darkness of heartbreak, the joy of new love, the moments between, the sweaty exchange of naughtiness afterwards, our winning popstars and musical mavericks have been writing songs about the referendum for decades. Here are my pick of the Top Seven.

Let’s kick off with a 2002 classic. (No. ONE)

Chill out, what you yellin' for?
Lay back, it's all been done before

SORRY. I wasn’t yelling Avril. I was listening to the excited and invigorating conversations echoing out of Perth, Aberdeen, Glasgow, Ullapool and Edinburgh and seeing how the rest of the world responds. You know someone in AMERICA did a thing on a tele show? Uh huuuuh. Mad ey.

Why do you have to go and make things so complicated?
I see the way you're acting like you're somebody else
Gets me frustrated
Life's like this
You, you fall and you crawl and you break
And you take what you get and you turn it into honesty

Seems you’re a little confused Avs. At least things are nae ironic for you.

Something has changed within me (No. TWO)
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules of someone else's game
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes and leap!

This poetry is lent to us while we are listening to the musical soundtrack from the lauded ‘oh what did happen before Oz to make that witch green?’ Wicked. I think Elphaba has some sound advise for possible ‘YES’ voters.

I'm through accepting limits
'Cause someone says they're so
Some things I cannot change but 'til I try, I'll never know!
Too long I've been afraid of losing love I guess I've lost
Well, if that's love it comes at much too high a cost!

EXCLAMATION MARK. Huh. What a drama.

There’s also a load about looking to the Western sky… so you can either look to the Western SKYE or the NORTHERN sky. Up to you really.

STAY WHERE? (No. THREE)

Alright dudes in the white coats of glory. Endlessly 90s. Endlessly relevant for Davey Camerooooon and his dudes. Also – without being glib – for those that genuinely love Scotland but want to see what this wild rebellion can do to change things without going solo – there are some lovely sentiments.

Baby if you've got to go away
Don't think I can take the pain
Won't you stay another day
Oh, don't leave me alone like this

Don't you know we've come too far now
Just to go and try to throw it all away??????????????????

Probs best to ignore the stuff about ‘I touch your face while you are sleeping’ as it’s a bit creepy and I don’t like the idea of future UK PM Boris Johnson sneaking into my house and doing just that. Though I’m sure Ed Miliband has muttered ‘Though it's all for you that, I do seem to be wrong.’

These duo-banging love-sharing coke-downing dudes have a little to say on the matter. If only to advice voters to ‘open your eyes and LOOK at the day.’ Trust me, all I bloody do is look at the day and indulge myself in a level of panic I've never politically experienced before, bearing in mind I was really freaking scared of David Cameron becoming PM.

Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone. (No. FOUR)
Why not think about times to come,
And not about the things that you've done,
If your life was bad to you,
Just think what tomorrow will do.
Don't stop, thinking about tomorrow,
Don't stop, it'll soon be here,
It'll be, better than before,
Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone.

Slightly sinister there. I never meant any harm to you but wooooops I may just have discharged that gun.

Ok ok ok ok this is just freaky. A film about sisters who discover they love each other more than the MEN IN THEIR LIVES? Tell me about it. Frozen's Let It Go storms in at No. FIVE.

It’s tricky to really realize this as there’s been a bit of a UK-wide heatwave this week, so there’s nae chance of snow even in the Cairngorms

The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen.
A kingdom of isolation and it looks like I'm the queen.
The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside.

Let it go, let it go!
Can't hold it back any more.
Let it go, let it go!
Turn away and slam the door.
I don't care what they're going to say.
Let the storm rage on.
The cold never bothered me anyway.

It's funny how some distance, makes everything seem small.
And the fears that once controlled me, can't get to me at all
It's time to see what I can do, to test the limits and break through.
No right, no wrong, no rules for me.
I'm free!

And we continue with a little meta (and much repetition.)

Let the storm rage on! The cold never bothered me anyway...

It gets really cold in the winter. Erm. Salmond, whatcha gonna do about that? JUST ASKING.

The sun'll come out, tomorrow (NO. SIX)
So you gotta hang on 'til tomorrow
Come what may. Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya, tomorrow
You're ONLY a day away.

Lord above. No sleep ‘til Brooklyn huh? (NO. SEVEN) Night y'all.

Ten Observations on Abstinence from Alcohol.

Ten Observations on Abstinence from Alcohol.

I am nearing the end of dry January. I’m not really a fan of dry January as a term, or a thing, but now I have experienced it I do understand why it is called what it is. It’s so called as then there’s an end date. 

10. Nothing tastes like alcohol. You can have a lemonade, a really posh one from Waitrose or Sainsbury’s or the Co-op but it just tastes like lemons and sugar. 

9. On the reverse, taste-wise, a glass of wine poured reverentially into a glass, smelt, swirled and sipped, soaks every tastebud like it belongs. Apple juice does not do this, it twangs on some forcefully and then leaves a sweet taste. I like my aftertastes to burn. Or so I now know.

8. Time. Every hour is 60 minutes long and every minute 60 seconds. There is no relaxing of this rule when sober. 

7. My shoulders are up by my ears. Stress is not relived in the traditional way. How now to relieve it?

6. The Wind In The Willows effect. There is a chapter towards the end of Wind In The Willows when Ratty and Mole walk out of the Wild Wood and through a human town. It’s Christmas and families, people, humans generally are gathered indoors. The endless dark of the winter months means the glow is from within, never from without. I am on the outside looking in. I am Ratty, or Mole. 

5. I still can’t get out of bed. Everyone talks about a lightness suddenly aiding their step, the abstinence aid. I have not experienced this. 

4. You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone. Well, I think I did. I was really ready for a break from booze. I have learned to love drinking for the taste, the chat, the mood heightener and deepener. On New Year’s Eve I was so fed up of the stuff that I had to think practically about what I could drink so I would enjoy it, nothing too sweet, nothing too heavy. This was not much fun, and neither do I miss the days where anything went, 'yeah I'll have a glass of Perry' (translate: bottle of Lambrini.) I like that I have learned to enjoy stuff I can and cannot afford and that I could happily share my iota of knowledge about wine and beer with anyone that cares to listen. (Hence the mention of an unoaked chardonnay, not being a ponce, the stuff tends to have a smell of old socks. I quite like that.)

3. Health. I’m not sure my liver knows what’s going on. I definitely am more aware of bits and bobs, but this is frightening. In House they are always hunting the mysterious factor that has caused some mystery debilitation, or Lupus. I worry they will now search for my debilitation and realise that my body requires alcohol to function. Red wine to keep the blood stirring, beer to keep the muscles relaxed, unoaked chardonnay to keep my vision clear, gin to remind me to feel, whisky for a really good debate about nothing. Cider, well, I feel like I could give or take cider having drunk so much apple juice. 

2. I really have no idea what everyone is talking about, this being a good thing. My skin is not any clearer and not all my ailments have magically cured (I don’t really have any ailments but y’know, that’s what clearing out the alcohol is supposed to do.) 

1. We’ve all seen that image of the chicks in a nest, their whole bodies existing to stretch their beak and neck higher over their siblings to get the worm when it flies in from above. That’s my tastebuds. They know something’s missing. I can feel them, jostling and vying for the best position should something glorious tumble past my lips. 

An Open Letter (ish?) to Bridget Christie

I’ve been wondering how to frame my reaction to Bridget Christie’s show A Bic for Her. Bridget mentions in the show if you want to send her an email, you can, but of course then I’d have to ask people for her email and they’d probably say no, so I’m writing this instead, an open letter if you will.

If you’re reading Bridget, many congrats on the Comedy Award nod, lovely to see two nice ladies joining the funny funny funny funny funny funny funny ten men on the list of twelve people.

Bridget’s show is one of the most incredible stand up shows I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen loads of comedians: David O’Doherty, Daniel Kitson, Hannah Gadsby, Susan Calman, David Kay, Tom Bell, Greg Proops, Ellis James, Claudia O’Doherty and Tim Key that make me really really laugh, and lots of others that have raised a chuckle. But last Monday morning, sneaking out of work to queue up and watch Bridget alone, (alone as in I went by myself not alone alone as the queue was really big,) I wasn’t aware what was going to happen. This isn’t a review and this bit is just context. I suppose the idea  is that I’ve seen comedians and laughed at them, and I laughed non-stop through Bridget’s show so it was even more affecting that it was both so funny and bashed away at my conscious like a woman at the door of a men’s-only golf club.

The show was very special for me as I spend a lot of time being nervous, sweaty and explanatorily-annoying about being a feminist.
I’m not in a political movement, I am, I’m not, I am.
I’m not threatened by the patriarchy as I rise above it and don’t let it affect my life. It does, it doesn’t, it does, it doesn’t; or actually maybe it just does as we should all be vocal about it to help those that are unable to be.
I think Caitlin Moran is bang on the money, she’s not, she is, she’s not, she is.
GAH Women’s Hour stop missing the point and asking women in places of power what they’ve had to give up to gain access to the heady heights of sucess, you did, you didn’t, you did you didn’t.

You catch my drift. (If you haven’t caught my drift please give up now OR read on knowing it’s probably not going to get much clearer.)

The brilliant impassioned thing about Bridget Christie’s show, which by the end had brought me close to tears (and although it’s a rousing call, I don’t think her aim is heightened emotions), was that every one of her exhaustions I’ve countered and tried to either ignore or explain away. Ignore or explain away as it’s exhausting to fight all. the. time. One gets so fucking tired of fighting. Saying no, no, no, I don’t feel that’s correct, it’s not fair for you to make that judgement; it’s not right for you to presume anything about me because I’m a woman.

Bridget’s commentary is both so subtle and so clear, her performance so funny and so poignant. The repositioning of Beyonce, she is not a feminist icon, she is role-model. So gut-wrenchingly simple I have no idea how I’ve not managed to put that into words before. How John Inverdale is such a wanker I’m not even going to waste my time wishing him dead…. How much time I have wasted.

Bridget works wonders with the blatant comedy in all the most ridiculous gender prescriptive parts of our society. A pen for girls, yes, because the Bronte’s struggled so hard to write WITH MEN’S PENS. The fact that women were invented ages ago any maybe by now WE SHOULD BE USED TO THEM. The fact that small children can see sexually explicit images of women lathered across newspapers in any old shop EVERY DAY OF THE WEEK. And I’d like to add my own onto this, dear men, when you come into my office, the office to which I have left the door open so you can happily come through for a natter no matter your question, creed or countenance, DO NOT PAW ME OR STROKE MY ARM, I AM NOT A CAT.

This is maybe the point at which I should just say go see Bridget’s take on all this, as every scrap of subtly has been etched out by my womanly hormones that made me use caps lock frequently. Or perhaps there’s a simpler explanation, maybe it’s just because I'm not using a keyboard specially designed for women.