Girls, girls and fit guy murderers

I have watched a lot of TV lately as the ROLLING CRESCENDO OF CACOPHONOUS BULLSHIT that is my life continues to force me to heavily strain and decant the very few joys  I am drip fed- first through the anaesthetic muslin of the televisual screen, doused in alcohol, before it hits my weary eyes. Basically all I do is watch TV, sometimes begrudgingly, but often with hungry enthusiasm and here I will return to form as your trusty guide for TV to watch during the common misfortunes we find ourselves in:


When you get really frustrated about having to be a 21 year old non male with a questionable fringe and no one to tuck you in at night, it’s nice to watch all the episodes of “Girls” that you can. It has had my internal monologue increasingly dorky and monotonous but it has really helped me – with something I’m not quite sure what.




Americans are actually a lot lamer than us despite having more money and space and disney and shit, which means some of the scenes I actually found a bit vanilla, but then they sure do make up for it with all the nudity don’t they huh!? I’m only one series in so I’m sure I will grow to love it unconditionally because I’m a pretty predictable 21st century feminist leftie.


When you’re having one of those moments where you’re scared of turning into a woman who’s going to get raped and murdered, Happy Valley is surprisingly reassuring. The finale is next week so I would urge everyone to watch the past 5 eps on BBC iplayer now. Sarah Lancashire is a brilliant brave badass of a woman who I couldn’t want to be MORE if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m not making my way up through the force starting with wearing uniform NO WAY.

(I just Googled her and found out she was entered into Rear of The Year which is the cheapest funniest looking beauty contest.)

But here she is in Happy Valley

TV Lancashire 154888

(I’ve reasoned putting more pictures in might keep people’s attention)

Happy Valley is in fact very gory. Anything set in the north wins immediate points for me because you know the characters are going to have a well developed back story and a good sense of humour. All detectives in the South are a Midsomer’s joke or a fake cockney, as far as I can remember.

Sarah Lancashire plays Catherine Cawood who is forced to re encounter the man who raped her daughter 8 years ago and subsequently killed herself. That storyline would be enough, but Cawood also looks after her 8 year old Grandson who was born as a result of, what we still assume to have been, the rape. It’s many faceted but ultimately you find yourself rooting for Catherine’s end cause, it becomes less about the victim of the kidnapping, although that is horrifying, and more about a need for Catherine to get her revenge.


Happy Valley

That wasn’t just an image to break up the tut of my words, this is the aforementioned rapist and serial murderer Tommy Lee Royce – so fit right. Which leads me onto my next point.


When you want to watch a depraved and psychotic but massively fit murderer at play, and everyone does on a Saturday night, re-watch series 1 of The Fall in anticipation for the new series coming up. Jamie Dornan is gripping *as in grip my waist amiright gals?* as a totally out of order weirdo, playing alongside Gillian Anderson as the female badass detective (from now on to be known as FBD, because I use this in every blog post).


(Jamie Phoarnan)


I am going to have to do some digging around here but I have a theory that with the rise of FBDs we’re now going to start to see more fit sexy male killers. I’m pretty sure in the past they’ve all been nondescript or tramp looking [citation needed] but all of a sudden they are just pure eye candy. I like it because I think it shows the presence of female protagonists and female writers (not in the case of The Fall, but in Happy Valley, written by Sally Wainwright) can see physical attractiveness as a much more interesting useful trait than when a woman is a good looking killer.

If a female villain is attractive it’s a case of ‘oh she’s a vamp rather than an angel- well you can’t judge a book by its cover lol!’ But attractive men don’t actually appear in detective drama that often, the cops are usually troubled and balding and the villains are full blown paedos. This new sexiness makes the character even more sinister in my view, maybe that’s just because we’re unused to seeing chiseled cheekbones, or maybe we find it harder to believe a good looking guy would want to stoop to rape and murder. I think it’s interesting because really no one rapes someone because they can’t get any, people rape people because they are criminals – attractive or otherwise, and it’s about power, and that’s what The Fall displays so perfectly.


Other things I have watched:


The Killing – I watched the entire two series of the American version by mistake and now I’m annoyed at myself, should’ve gone for the Danish.


Fargo – watched the first few episodes and loved this but I did have a horrible feeling I was being thick and missing out on a big chunk of plot or something, will return to it after I’ve given my room a good tidy.


Vera – Vera’s gone down the pan hole God bless Brenda Blethyn, It’s an hour too long and I’ve just realised she has a fit detective sidekick but he’s actually a bit bland to be actually attractive, just a pretty face. Maybe I have a complex.


Corrie – Corrie is my touch stone.. irritated at the way Tina was pushed off the show so she could marry Mark Wright, should have been Carla who got to do the honours, most looking forward to how Anna’s internal slut shaming goes down, I think she should just tell her husband and stop crying about it.



Girls, girls and fit guy murderers

Why I love calling people Basic Bitches, even though it’s mean.

I’m having difficulty working out my feelings for the term “Basic Bitch”. On the one hand I’m so glad it exists because it describes 70% of the girls I went to school with. It used to be “Who’s he seeing now?” “Oh just some boring girl, seriously I can’t remember what her face looks like, she likes musicals and Winnie the Pooh – she still clips half of her finge back, she wears white cardigans, I think she started her period when she was 18..” etc etc, but now “Some Basic Bitch.” and we no longer have to spend any time thinking about which Basic Bitch it may be. On the other hand though I realise that because most of society’s nurses, childcare professionals, charity workers and primary school teachers are likely to be females and basic, maybe insulting them is a bit tight.

A lot of people think that to be the opposite of basic you have to be going to the right clubs in the right cities and be wearing the right clothes. I defy that because I’m on a train somewhere in the North West of England wearing mostly Primark clothing rather than something out of a smack head’s bin or whatever and I still relish throwing around the “Basic Bitch” term with aplomb. I don’t think it’s something that should be used lightly though, the girls I’ve applied it to so far didn’t make the grade merely by wearing bootleg jeans and totally not getting irony, but it certainly helps. I had to endure years of schooling with the most outrageous basics, they’re boring – yes- but they’re also small minded and they love banding about the term “FAIR ENOUGH”, fucking – fuck off.

I do think it’s a great feminist moment, because it’s actually a bit of a hard time having interests, confidence and enthusiasm as a girl growing up. It’s a much easier ride to just go along with what’s popular, sure our pay off for being culturally aware is just that, but when you’re amongst friends and equals it’s a pretty good feeling to be able to verbally and succinctly shit on the girls who used to look down on you at school for not making those fucking scoobie things or listening to The Pussycat Dolls.

It’s a struggle for me though because ideologically I don’t think anyone should be a cultural snob, I like the Utilitarian idea that “pushpin is as good as poetry”. But thinking about it, I think I hold that idea because of some ingrained arrogance that even if no one believes me, my taste in telly and films and music just is the right one, so there’ no point in being objective about these things anyway. Maybe it’s that our cultural landscape has sort of flat lined, there was a time when English Literature wasn’t deemed an academic subject and viewed in the same sort of way some people view film studies today. Nowadays it’s rare that anyone is undermining the merits of television as an important cultural beacon, we’re all agreed about the format, no one’s saying that we should all be going to the opera instead, it’s just that now we’re getting picky about which programmes we associate ourselves with. Other things we feel at liberty to look down on people for is their inability to grasp social media, the accessories they have in their cars i.e “powered by fairy dust”, the sorts of activities they’re getting up to on their hen night aged 23 and their stuffed toy collection.

Although I was thinking the whole time ‘this girl is such a Basic Bitch’ I did agree with some points of Daisy Buchanan’s article “Why I’m proud to be a Basic Bitch” in the Guardian. It’s true that a competitive race to be the most bohemian has lead to a saturation of trends, and that actually it’s refreshing to just meet a normal girl who likes Friends. I found it irritating working in a trendy coffee shop where we screened art house cinema films on one wall, they were aesthetically pleasing but in all honesty how could anyone rate a film about a red balloon flying up a street as better than Mean Girls?

I think that Daisy might have slightly missed the point though, she tries and sort of fails to take the piss out of an imagined “silent taxidermy disco” – well that’s just ridiculous isn’t it Daisy – and says she’d rather be posting a facebook status about being at “All Bar One drinking bubbly with the girls”. Well I don’t think anyone would rather be ‘sticking tiny wire spectacles on owls’ but I wouldn’t facebook about either of those things because the main trait of a Basic Bitch is assuming other people care about every facet of your daily existence.

IMHO, being a basic bitch isn’t a question of tastes and hobbies, it’s an attitude of colouring in the lines of life that I find so infuriating, it’s following the crowd, but not the lines that a so called hipster would delineate – it’s their everyday conservatism to be found in conversation, not just  appearance.  They’re annoying and thick, but safe and nice. They’re the sort of girl all my exes and future exes will end up with, and that’s ultimately why I’m so keen on the term.

Noisey posted a handy guide for Basic Bitches at Coachella this year and it was met with a few negative comments. Guys shit on each other all the time for being a “douchebag” or a “bro”, I think it’s absolutely fine that girls get to be a little mean because they have the wit and wherewithal to do so, I think the problem is that some people still think girls aren’t allowed to mean to each other, because being a feminist is all about being “sisters”. No, being a feminist is about being a person, being tolerant and nice is what being a “tolerant nice person” is about and that’s not mutually exclusive to feminism. I like to live by the mantra “do it – it’ll be funny” anyway and I will till I die.

Calling another girl a Basic Bitch is a bit of a self congratulatory pat on the back, but don’t rest on your laurels girls, I bet I’ve been called a Basic Bitch by someone and I bet the Bitches I class as basic think they’re the shit too and are looking down on girls somehow even more basic than them, it’s a bitch eat bitch world.

I just see the Basic Bitch tag line as a useful way of identifying what type of bitch has done one of my friends wrong when we’re having a conversation about them. In the case of nodding along with the Coachella guide article and similar offerings, all the basic bitches who are offended by that, just remember that as with any lingering hatred of a particular clique – it’s something I do because ultimately I have to make myself feel better in some way for being lonely and bitter as a result of living in a small town and not succumbing to being one of you.




Why I love calling people Basic Bitches, even though it’s mean.

Love is a knackered Ikea kitchen

I wrote this last year and didn’t like it very much but on reflection it’s quite nice so here yar:

We had to move house a few years ago because my step-dad did the dirty on my mum but insisted on keeping our seven bedroom house, four of us moved into a cramped three bedroom house, then my older brother moved in while I was at uni. I had the kitchen and he had the garage. That’s just a little bit about me.

The kitchen was small but decent with nice white Ikea tops. A few years later and I’ve been upgraded to the garage. The nice white kitchen units have seen better days though.

I keep thinking of cheesy metaphors for love and relationships that are making me cringe but I can’t get them out of my head and this one seems most fitting.

The top kitchen drawer must do about 500 lengths a day being pulled in and out, housing the big 3 in the cutlery stakes, obviously I’m talking fork, knife and spoon. Think there are a couple of erroneous implements in there too.

In the past few weeks the front panel of the drawer had come completely loose, but as a family we’re all the type of people to just keep on hammering it anyway; slamming it with gusto to punctuate a story, rattling it around still mystified by the ever changing order of fork, knife, spoon.

It really was completely useless by about a week ago, it made our kitchen’s face look like Shane McGowan’s.

One day I came home and the drawer had been glued back on, my mum had fixed it but decided to move everything out into some lesser known drawer on the right I was bound to forget the exact whereabouts of. It’s strange that, it was fixed now but she told me just the thought of it pissed her off so much she’s removed any need to go back in there, I sort of sympathised.

Except every time I go to grab a knife I urgently grab at the same old drawer, and there’s nothing there – I usually do an exasperated growl and stamp my silly feet.

 I know full well there’s nothing there, but of course my reflexes won’t catch up with my brain until I retrain it. Even if the old drawer’s fixed now it was once broken and we gave up on it. I’ll probably keep going back to the same old drawer for a long time, but I don’t think I’ll ever find what I’m looking for.

Love is a knackered Ikea kitchen

my weekend of organised fun – Secret Cinema Club do The Grand Budapest Hotel

I hate organised fun and that’s why I could never go to student union events at university or join in at holiday camps as a child. I don’t really like organised anything, as Bukowski once said “unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don’t do it.” You have to be a special kind of person to coerce me into anything because what’s burning your gut most likely isn’t burning mine.

For some reason though I bought a £50 ticket to go to the Secret Cinema Club and watch Wes Anderson’s new film The Grand Budapest Hotel. I think I saw a facebook group and was lured in by the concept, you don’t know the exact location until you get there, you go in fancy dress akin to the theme of the film and you’re supposed to be immersed into the world of the film by actors. I like Wes Anderson just enough to be have been taken in by the magical possibilities that awaited me.

What we didn’t bargain for was that it would be hotter than the sun in central London that day so wearing a fur coat which was all I had planned was the last thing I wanted to do and actually sitting in a beer garden all day was something I wanted more than true love.

We booked to stay in an artist’s apartment being let out very feasibly illegally on one of those websites. It was 15 quid a night for me and my best friend to stay, it had a bed and we could smoke out the window, it was ideal. When we got there though the subletter was nowhere to be seen and wasn’t answering her phone.

So we gave up on humanity and walked to Brick Lane. Long story short she was probably just off her face and not actually evil and we got into the studio eventually, she’d given us the wrong number by a digit but still bothered to put +44 in front of it which I thought everyone knew was unnecessary by now. It was a converted warehouse full of the strangest mix of people; guys who looked like they worked at American Apparel but just didn’t wash their hair that much, people who still thought Noel Fielding was cool and old Asian guys in suits. We met up with a friend and made sangria, went to the packed out makeshift bar downstairs, didn’t go in because they were charging 6 quid, so stood outside humoring some guy in a trilby trying to convince us he was the scriptwriter for Hollyoaks and his mate who failed over and over again at card tricks.

It sounds like a fairly average night and it was but it was a hundred times better than what we unwittingly paid an outrageous amount for the next night at the Secret Cinema Club. The irony was that die hard Wes Anderson fans probably aspire to be drinking out of jam jars at the makeshift bar with the skinny beatniks at the studios, but instead they probably all had very stable jobs and nice houses that aren’t full of people playing the church organ along to dance music somewhere along the hall – until 5 am.

We reluctantly headed out into the sunshine looking like two seventies hookers, hastily borrowed sheer tights and a leather skirt wasn’t the classiest combination. When we got there about a hundred men and women dressed to the nines were queuing around the block in near silence, every time we cackled at something which we do quite often, it rang out embarrassingly loudly.

Everyone looked pretty chuffed with themselves because they’d spent what looked like even more money than the ticket on their peacock feather head dress alone. I didn’t even have a bra on because my strapless one had caused and actual divot  in my skin in the heat of the previous day.

I also couldn’t have needed a piss more, but that’s not really the organiser’s fault, thanks to them though I did have to sit through pretending to be in a coach which was actually just a box with some actors for 5 minutes before I was allowed into the ‘hotel’ to go and have the best piss anyone ever had.

We were once again in a converted warehouse but this time we’d paid 50 smackers for the privilege as opposed to 15. They’d kitted all 3 stories of it out with vintage suitcases and picture frames and basically tried to make it look like the hotel of the film. It was like walking into instagram (#vintage), we couldn’t instagram any of it though because our phones were taken off us on our way in. It must have been a massive task to create the ‘hotel’ but tbh there was still a lot of mdf, the signs showing us around were printed off on white A4, the plates and cutlery we ate with at the restaurant which we had to pay for again were all plastic and we made one of the ‘butlers’ laugh and go totally out of character.

We were also told to bring with us props like pink flowers, an alpine post card or a suitcase full of clothes, I feel really sorry for the people who chose the latter because absolutely no mention was made of these all night and they will have had to carry them around for 5 hours.

I was asked my favourite wine and poem when I applied for the tickets, obviously the former would be ‘Vinasol’ from my local garage because it sounds like Vagisil, but nothing came of this either, I had to pay for what was the only cocktail I could afford because there were no card machines and I didn’t have much cash.

We were subjected to people pretending to be maids and concierges, we joked about asking one of them what he was doing later but thought he’d probably just keep in character and be like WHYY I’M WORKING HERE AT THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL! Yeah seriously though what are you doing let’s bust out of here and go get wrecked.

Some of them put on little skits which were quite funny but we could’ve done with more of that, there were 3 floors after all so it would’ve been possible to miss all of them completely and think you spent FIFTY SMACKERS to go and look at some old stuff in a building, museums are free just saying.

Then the film just sort of happened, we were led into a room with really uncomfortable chairs, my friend was on the last chair in the row so she could see fine but fell asleep 5 minutes in, I couldn’t see a third of the screen because of the man in front of me. It was aesthetically a beautiful film and I know the plot isn’t the main thing with Wes but there was nothing discernibly new happening – prison break out tools concealed in pastry, loveable girl with birth mark, loveable orphaned boy. It was all really kooky, there was even some funny bits where the main guy said ‘fuck’ at opportune moments, but there were so many great actors who just had one line, it was all over really quickly too. I think its just an exercise in vanity for Wes and whatever because he’s earned it. But the whole evening was an exercise in vanity for all of us who’d been stupid enough to pay all that dollar and we hadn’t earned it. I mean what the hell was I thinking, I wish I could tell bored impulsive me from a few months ago to get over myself and just accept that I’m most happy in a cosy pub somewhere up North with my friends. The best bit of the night was when we bought a white Magnum on the way home.

my weekend of organised fun – Secret Cinema Club do The Grand Budapest Hotel

Happy International Women’s Day – be like Boudica.

International Women’s Day is a day that gives men the opportunity to argue about why there is an International Women’s Day. Well tbh you can dedicate a day to anything, we have whole weekends dedicated to eating chocolate eggs why can’t we have a day to think about how great women can be? 

I remember the first time I was obsessed with a woman, it was Queen Boudica, warrior queen of the Iceni tribe. I don’t know how at 7 years old I even knew who she was but I decided the best way to show how much I appreciated her was to draw a life size picture of her in crayon on my brother’s bedroom wall.


(this isn’t the picture by the way)


The first time I was obsessed with a man it was H from Steps.

It’s a shame that H from Steps has probably had more air time than Boudica, she should at least have a 6 part BBC drama dedicated to her, she had blades sticking out of her fucking chariot. 

When I was about 8 I moved on to dinosaurs and had a really disturbing level of knowledge about dinosaurs for an 8 year old, I really wanted to be a paleontologist and it was weird that I could even spell that, this is turning into a cringey humble brag but bare with.

At some point during my upbringing I abandoned any ambition to be a mass murdering warrior queen and I think I can pin point it down to encounters with men in pubs. My dad used to take us to the rugby club every weekend where we’d entertain ourselves with such games as ‘stick your leg down the rusty drain cover’ and ‘catch flies in a pint glass’. At some point during these excursions I think I became aware that I would one day become a woman (these isn’t about to become a horrible tale of abuse, please don’t call the police), up until then I just thought I would become a paleontologist, I didn’t know I’d have a gender ascribed to me.

The timing probably coincided with growing up too, but there was something about the imagery I was finding all around me that made me realise perhaps my life wasn’t going to go the way I wanted it to. It was the copies of The Sun lying around, the cardboard peanut display that revealed a set of tits underneath, a tall man called Skinner who had the most hilariously inappropriate pornographic cartoon t shirts and used to sit in the entrance to the pub like a moustachioed gargoyle. 

This was the scene I imagined when I was trying to think of a reason for why I want page 3 to be removed when it became a topic of discussion again between colleagues. This Rugby Club was like walking into a copy of The Sun.

I’ve talked in this blog before about how much I appreciate the female body as a beautiful thing, but as a young girl I don’t think that’s the impression I got. We’re told that having bare breasts on display is liberating for women kind and it removes the taboo of nudity. That would be fine for me if The Sun was a staple on every old dear’s coffee table but it’s not. 

I don’t think many people do this any more but where the page 3 girl is most often passed around it’s on building sites and in cab offices and bookies and other male dominated areas. It delineates helpfully that you – with your head full of dreams of being a scientist or a police officer or a CEO – are not welcome in that state, you’re welcome to either be ogled or dismissed so stuff your dreams. There are a lot of places like this – for me growing up it was the pubs.

Now that I’m older, a woman you might say, I realise that most people don’t really think like that, they just enjoy the fine female form. I can also go to a pub and not feel intimidated, and have fun without the need for an abandoned sofa in the woods out back, but I bet that happened for me a few years later than it did for my male friends.  

Instead of concentrating in Science lessons I spent all day trying to impress boys. I was a pretty good singer and I can do pretty good impressions and stuff but I never wanted to perform in Drama because I didn’t want the boys to laugh at me. The only subject I eventually took an interest in was English Literature, because I was so distraught and depressed by the time I was 16 that Sylvia Plath seemed like the only person I could relate to. Here I am now and the hormones have worn off and I don’t give a shit about what men think of me, but I can’t remember a damn thing about dinosaurs.

We need all public spaces to be sort of neutralised, so that no little girl ever feels less than their worth, I think regulating images in the press is one step towards that.

But I’m just putting that out there, I’m also really disappointed for not being on a dig in Mexico somewhere with a cool hat on.

So happy international women’s day, let’s praise all the women who managed to do something they actually wanted to do. LIKE CAROLINE QUENTIN. 






Happy International Women’s Day – be like Boudica.

True Detective and giving up milk

Here’s the obligatory self deprecating start to my blog: this blog as TV blogs go has not been very good. I can’t believe the one episode of Midsomer Murders I decided to write about thinking it was a safe bet for dismissal turned out to be the only one the real life grown up TV critics had picked up on. Turns out it was littered with references to The Killing and the other Scandinavian one which I hadn’t picked up on and was actually ‘nordic noir’. I also don’t write it regularly enough because to be honest I tend to fall asleep half way through things and have terrible nightmares as a result, I’ve also had a recurring nightmare about snakes eating crocodiles thanks to that snake that decided to eat a crocodile earlier on in the week.

I haven’t watched some of the most critically acclaimed TV series because I know I need to clear a big section of my life in order to make that commitment, or I might just strike up a deliberately disappointing relationship with someone so that we have to watch box sets together to avoid the crushing, impending, depressing, slow grinding to a halt that is all human relationships.


Mantras only count if they’re on the internet….



That said I recently finished OR SHOULD I SAY SWEDISHED, the Swedish detective drama The Bridge. I love badass female protagonists and this had one of the best ones I’ve seen yet in Saga. I found the finale a bit disappointing as it turned out to be all the environmentalists fault and they didn’t even get any retribution THEY ARE SO ANNOYING. There was a nasty, dark side plot about the incestuous desires of a pathetic little man who plotted worldwide destruction just to make his sister look good, which I thought was more interesting. It was one of many feminist readings that could be extracted from the plot, almost every change in direction was down to the actions of a powerful woman; the female writer, the female EU summit organiser, the female CEO, the female annoying environmentalist, the mental nanny and of course the female detective. All the men seemed to do was play the lover scorned or fancy their sister and go OTT on the mass murder plans. I don’t think this would have been overly noticeable to the average viewer, why should it be, and that goes to show how realistically the characters were portrayed. What I mean to say is thankfully the writers didn’t fall into the trap of having every female character swooning over a man or having constant relationship worries or hair and make up issues a la Liz from dark place. I just realised Alice Lowe who plays Liz is the same woman in Sightseers so she is officially my third favourite actress after Lesley Sharp and Caroline Quentin, result!

On the flip side of the gender coin, let’s call it the tail side huh wink wink, is True Detective in all it’s heavy drinking, chain smoking, facial hair and gratuitous naked babes spectacular glory. so far this series has a potentially double crossing main loveable rogue main character and touches on issues of justice, solitude, retribution and reputation. It also has freaky voodoo shit and a great soundtrack. There really are some cracking boobies in there as well. I would highly recommend it.


Giving up milk  

It’s lent which is another Christian time of year I’m adhering to because it’s tradition. One day when we’re all atheists we’ll still be celebrating Christmas and Easter in the same way smart phones will have pictures of note pads on the note pad function even though by then we will have cut all the trees down and no one will have seen a classic paper note pad in living memory. 

I’m giving up milk because I think I’m allergic to it because it gives me eczema but I actually find it easier to give it up on the basis of a religious festival I don’t even really adhere to than for the good of my own health, such is the depth of my own self destructive wayyysssswoeisme.

I will let you know how this goes but so far I’ve just been even more bitter than usual. 


True Detective and giving up milk

I watched Line of Duty last night because my brother was having a party without me

I think I’ll have to give this some proper thought later on today and write a big post about it, but for now. 



It’s amazing! Because:


Call the Midwife gets chucked to her death from a hospital window!111!!! 


I don’t even dislike the Call the Midwife, although she is a bit of a frigid bitch, haha jokes. But I think it was so entertaining because she was so skinny and she just got hoisted up and lobbed out like a telly! 




This blog is really going downhill. 


I watched Line of Duty last night because my brother was having a party without me