Camp as you like

"at night, Katy Perry is replaced by a normal woman"

“It’s horrible what people do when they think that no-one’s looking. It’s perverted” says Lisa. She is talking about the circus elephant who was beaten with a metal bar by its trainer. I can’t stop thinking about what I get up to, alone, with baited breath, in the witching hours. Actually, I am usually hauling my slug like body out of bed the few feet it takes to reach our en suite toilet for a wee. And then back to bed to squeeze my legs down the bed past the dog’s slumbering mass. Perverted, huh.

Lisa’s fact of the week: “It’s terrible what used to happen to prostitutes. They’d get diseases that made their faces turn black and bits drop off. It didn’t stop the men calling though”.


I just heard a serial killer’s poem on the news:

“Poor old Melissa

Chopped her up in bits”

Apparently John Sweeney used to get stoned off his gourd and write poetry and paint pictures all about maiming his lovers. He called himself “a manimal – twisted, confused, and very dysfunctional”

“A search of premises connected to him yielded two sawn-off shotguns, a Luger pistol, a bamboo garrotte and a hoard of more than 300 vividly violent drawings and poems depicting bloody attacks on female victims and police.

One drawing entitled The Scalp Hunter showed a female skull hanging from a belt and an axe. A poem written on the back of a scratchcard read: “Poor old Melissa, chopped her up in bits, food to feed the fish, Amsterdam was the pits.” Removing correction fluid from a drawing, police revealed a gravestone with “RIP Melissa Halstod born 12th December 56. Died – “.

So what are we to make of the creative output of monsters? Hitler’s watercolours (and Prince Charles’s come to think of it); Charles Manson’s songs; Fred West’s tea cosies?

We can’t help thinking ‘the hand that did this did that‘ and imagining all kinds of bad shit. Vicarious living, that’s called. It’s what we do because life is too safe and controlled. We are bored of our creature comforts: secretly we want to pull the stuffing out of our leather sofas so the unfinished wood snarls at our thighs, we want to smash the TV and stick our shaky fists into the smouldering box. Well, I do anyway.

If that sounds like fun, may I recommend the Black Bloc, a jolly society for bored young people who want to smash the shops that decline their credit cards.

"Down with colourful clothing"

Lisa had a dream that Devo could talk. She said “Devo, what are you thinking?”

He cocked his head to one side and mimicked her back “Devo, what are you thinking?” in a freaky ‘I am your superior’ bitchy voice. She woke up with a cold sweat.

What would stick insects sound like if they could talk? Exactly like Woody Allen, I bet.

"Run for your lives!"

This 5 a day thing is getting me down. I’m so far behind, I will never catch up. It’s like failing a school test every day for the rest of your life. It eats away at my esteem. I feel like a fruit fool, a legume loser.

I am now on a diet. This means I eat fruit and watch my calories and you can find me looking miserably at cakes, and blanking chocolate bars as if I never knew them.

Low moments in my self image no. 1:

When Esther’s parents said I remind them of Frank in Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em. Here he is:

"Ooh Betty"

On top of this, my tutor suggested the other week that I look into ‘camp’.


I should have said “I do- Every time I look in the mirror, darling” and swished my minimal hair. I’m in good company…



Bloody Students

Valentines Day


Valentine Buns of Love

“Because you’re gorgeous…” Esther sings as we climb into bed.

I smile at the compliment.

“Not you” she snaps, “I was talking to Goldie”

She gets in beside me and hacks at a spot on her thigh until the artificial sun SAD light dims too much to see.

Happy Valentines.

I get more love off Goldie and Linda. Sometimes I pretend I’m having an orgy by stroking them both at the same time and snogging their faces. Now that’s some heavy petting.

Has the world gone mad? At the Metro Elle Style Awards this week, Cheryl Cole was given the Best Music Award, and Emma ‘Hermione’ Watson was presented the Style Icon prize…by Vivienne Westwood! What on God’s black earth is going on? The high Queen of punk endorsing the low princess of LARP fantasy? Elle, you sick fucks.


Emma: "Grandma" Viv: "Foetus"

Have women won the war, or have men just let them? I am sat on the 88 next to a young man in white trainers and a quilted jacket with the collar turned up, listening to N-Dubz (probably). A stylish blonde woman (one half of ASBO A GO GO in fact) gets on and stands near us. After a short while of internal cog whirring, the boy jumps up and says to the girl “Can’t have you standing up, can we?” Rhetorically, I presume.

(“No we can’t, can we” is not what he wants to hear, because it takes the power away from the him martyring themselves. Some blushing and eyelash fluttering is what’s asked for. She half complies)

She comes and sits down next to me, and he stands where she was, looking around to see if anyone noticed. What do you want, fucking applause?

Is this a rare act of chivalry by the ASBO generation or is it plain trad chauvinism? Was it a masonic ASBO clan thing?

Esther always says that if a man opens a door for her, she refuses to go in because he’s only doing it coz she’s ‘a woman’. Although she has been called sir a few times.

I hate when you’re walking behind someone and they feel obliged to open every door for you. I try to make each ‘Thankyou’ sound different, so it’s not too dull for them. There are many variations: Cheers, Thanks, Thankyou, Ta, grunt, silent nod.


"Doctor Doctor, I can't stop wearing shorts and flip flops"

There is a custom in Sheffield for thanking the grumpy-ass bus driver when you get off the bus. As I file off, I always want to say it differently to the people in front. Most of them are chavvy students, and they come out with a right load of macho/condescending bullshit like ‘thanks boss’, ‘cheers mate’, ‘nice one geezer’ like a bunch of cockney rejects. The driver usually feels obliged to return the favour and acknowledge each praise.

Sometimes I take this as a test of masculinity- if he says ‘thanks’ to the blokey ‘how’s your father’ students, and not to me, that is because he is disgusted by my flagrant effeminacy and shudders as I pass. This is what I tell myself.

There are a few seats left on this bus, but the students that get on next decide instead to stand at the front of the bus, blocking the aisle for other people getting on. Idiots. When I was a student, I used to feel mortally offended when locals muttered ‘bloody students’ as we passed. They’re just jealous, I’d reason.

Now I am completely on their side: I’m righteously jealous and tetchy as hell.

Bloody students, prancing about, having fun, walking around in flip flops in winter, high on life, or to put it another way:



"You're just jealous of my joie de vivre, you small-cocked stuck up blogger"