Tuesday, February 10, 2009



Coming up to a year since I last posted anything. Huh.

Hard to get started again. Feels all awkward.

Anyway, since I am so awesome at them, here’s a book review.

Wetlands- Charlotte Roche

So, everyone must have heard of this book by now and everyone must know that it is supposed to be totally disgusting and stuff. And it is disgusting, exclusively. There is nothing else to it.
I am not a big fan of the word ‘feminist’. I especially do not like being called one by silly twenty-year-old boys who think that any girl who doesn’t agree with and/or giggle at everything they say is ‘a feminist’. Having any opinions at all if you are a female makes you a feminist. Apparently.
I suppose I’ve become a bit more interested in feminist issues lately, though, like cosmetic surgery and dieting and all that jazz. And also, to an extent (I am not going crazy over this or anything), feminine hygiene and women shaving all the hair off their bodies.
I’ve got issues with shaving because I think it is all about sexualizing children and that. The more I think about it, the more disturbing it is- how women try to make themselves look younger and younger and younger. Maybe I’ll write about that another day. But I probably won’t.


I read a review of Wetlands in The Guardian a while ago and promptly ordered it from Amazon. How could I not? As an aspiring writer and a young woman I felt like I HAD to read it. And I am sort of glad that I did, because now I can tell everyone that it is rubbish. And I love telling people that things are rubbish.

It is pretty explicit throughout. Not just sexually, it is disgusting in general. A few times when I was reading it on the tube I am sure that I said “errrrrr” out loud. I read a bit to my boyfriend. He started off mildly intrigued but after a page was crying “stop it, stop reading, stop it!”.
I’ve read controversial for the sake of it books before and was never very impressed. That’s why I’ve given up on Chuck Palaniuk- he used to be so brilliant but then became all about the shock value (Apparently people were vomiting/fainting at the reading of his short story Guts, like they were at Wetlands but in my opinion Guts is far, far worse).

My main problem with Wetlands is this- it’s just not very well written. I am pretty sure that I could have written it and that is never sign of a good book. Of course, there’s the chance that stuff was lost in translation but I doubt it.

Reading it, you can almost hear Charlotte Roche going “hmm I’ve run out of bodily fluids to write about… oh, snot! Yes!”
“What could she stick up her vage now? The handle of a razor! Yes!”

From what I can tell, reading interviews and that, Charlotte Roche thinks that women will be more shocked by the book than men. I am sorry to disappoint her. Sure, it was often gross but nothing special. It won’t stay with me, the way Helen Walsh’s Brass or Chuck Palaniuk’s Choke has. Maybe some women would be shocked, women who haven’t read anything like it before or ever considered their own bodies.

I’d heard that the book has a lot of feminist ideas and it kind of almost does but then contradicts them. I can’t be bothered to go into this much further. I’ll be out of my depth.

All in all, I think that it is a pretty anti-feminist novel. Charlotte Roche boasts about men being turned on by it, and I get the feeling that she wrote it for men. Like, to impress them or something. There is little there that would appeal to most women. But it’s not even porn. It is just disgusting. And badly written. With annoying characters that nobody could relate to because they are so false. And a stupid plot. And no heart. Just loads of shit and smegma.


In other news:

-Despite my 'interest in feminist issues like cosmetic surgery and dieting' I am doing WeightWatchers. It is pretty uncool of me. I have become a point counting bore. But losing eight pounds in two weeks? WINNER, I WIN, WHAT WAS I THINKING LIVING LIKE THAT FOR SO MANY YEARS? THAT WAS NO LIFE! I AM ON MY WAY TO TRUE HAPPINESS, FINALLY!!! WHEN I AM THINNER PEOPLE WILL LIKE ME MORE AND I WILL BE MORE SUCCESSFUL IN EVERY WAY! HURRAH! Srsly- I am aware of how shit I am being and that I have broken all my rules but... whatever.

-It is my year anniversary with my boyfriend on Friday. It is very exciting. I am throwing myself into planning it. Because, like, I've never, you know, like, liked anyone as much as I like him and I'm really happy and stuff. And also I am pretty bored and it is something to do.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Busy Doing Nothing

I'll start posting again soon, probably.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

The Tears of A Cow

I am a cow and I live in a zoo. People are not interested in me. They are interested in the monkeys and the penguins. They are also interested in the elephants and giraffes. They are not interested in me. I am just a cow and no one cares.
They don’t even bother putting me in a cage. All I have is a two foot high fence. The fence is what makes me an attraction. If I didn’t have the fence I’d just be a cow on some grass. The fence is there to suggest I am not just a cow- I am an exotic zoo animal. But the fence is fooling no one.
People do not crowd around my enclosure. They don’t take photographs of me. Everyone has seen a cow before. Occasionally someone will say “There’s a cow over there” but then they walk off.
I don’t know why I am even here. I suppose they didn’t have enough animals and I am just making up the numbers.
Often people are angered by my presence. “Why is there a cow here? We can see cows anytime. How endangered are they? Where are the fucking cheetahs?”. I swish my tail and pretend not to hear.
People boo me. They say “boo!” and laugh because it sounds like “moo”. They think they are being witty but they are not.
Sometimes they throw things. Cans, pebbles. At my head.
I have vowed to myself that the next time some joker throws a can at my head or boos me I will kill them. I’ll charge at the fence and tear it down. I’ll stamp on them and all their ugly little friends- killing them dead. How boring will I be then? How run of the mill, how unremarkable, how ordinary, how mundane? If it’s danger they want I’ll bring it. I’ll bring it and they’ll be really fucking sorry.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

What She Will Do When He Returns

She will eat him when he returns.
First she will eat his toes and feet. Then she will eat his ankles, calves and knees. And then she will eat the rest of him. She will eat every single piece of him because she is very hungry. This is her plan.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Under The Bridge

From now on he will live under the bridge.
He will sleep on a bed of cardboard and pigeon feathers.
He will eat rats and glass.
There was a time when he slept on a mattress and ate rice.
But his mattress and rice days are over. From now on he will live under the bridge.
And he will be King of The Bridge.

Late one night, a week into his new life as King of The Bridge, he wakes up to find A Girl standing over him and looking at him.

A Girl is under the bridge because she was walking along the river and happened upon the bridge.

Who are you?
I am A Girl. Who are you?
I am King of The Bridge
Where’s your crown?
It’s over there
Why isn’t it on your head?
Because it was itching me
It doesn’t look much like a crown
Maybe I will rape you
I haven’t decided yet. I probably will though.
If I try to run away now will you catch me and kill me?
How will you kill me?
I will drown you in the river. I will push your face into the water until you stop moving and then I will have sex with your corpse
Why is there so much blood coming out of your mouth?
I ate some bottles earlier and they were quite sharp
Do you live under the bridge?
Maybe I will come and live here with you
You could be Queen of The Bridge
I would like that
I would like that too. I’ll fashion you a crown out of these rat tails and bottle caps

And they live under the bridge together until they both die horrible, painful, slow deaths.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

I Wrote Something

I wrote something last night. I wrote this:

My Grandma's Houses

My grandma’s house is a bungalow. It is very small and it doesn’t have a garden.
She used to live in a big house. Well, quite big. It had an upstairs. She had two sofas and a garden and a second bedroom for when we stayed the night. She had a big dining table and a hallway.
She was so upset when she had to sell the old house. And she must still be upset because she hates it when you talk about it. If you talk about something that happened there, like:

“Remember that weekend when I was a fortune teller and Peter was my assistant? And I wore your dressing gown and clip on earrings? And we set up that stall in the front garden and put the big umbrella up and I used that paperweight as a crystal ball? And I read Maggie from next door’s palm and she gave me a five pound note and you said I had to share it with Peter and I said I wouldn’t and he ripped it in half and I threw the paperweight at him and knocked him out and he had to go to hospital?”
“Remember when me and Peter painted a mural on the old bedroom wall? And because Peter spilt paint all over the carpet you said we couldn’t go swimming and I punched him in the face and gave him a black eye? And school sent a social worker round to Auntie Julie’s because they thought he was the victim of child abuse?”

She will just pretend she didn’t hear you.

She moved eleven months ago. To a completely different village. It’s actually closer to us by eight minutes which means the bus ride now takes only 24 minutes. But I would rather it still took 32 minutes because the old house had loads of good hiding places for hide and seek. There are no good hiding places in the new house unless you consider these places good hiding places:
-The bath
-The backyard
-Under the bed
-Behind a door
-On the street

I do not consider them good hiding places. I consider them RUBBISH hiding places.

We were there on the day grandma moved because we were helping to carry stuff to the van. Everyone was there- mum, Auntie Julie, Uncle Johnny, Liz, Liz’s boyfriend, and Maggie from next door. Although mum and Auntie Julie weren’t really helping because they were just walking round the old house and saying stuff like: “Oh God, remember when I drank loads of absinthe and smashed that window and mum stopped my pocket money for three months so she could afford to have it replaced?”
Me and Peter got to ride in the van with Liz’s boyfriend (because it was his van).
Grandma went in her car with the cushions and duvets and the others just walked there. It was the summer holidays and I had sunburn on my back from building sandcastles for four hours at the beach the day before. Mum had put loads of aftersun on it and my t-shirt was sticking to me.
When we all got to the new house and went inside Peter looked up and said: “The ceiling is so low! And there’s no room! Where am I supposed to hang my punch bag?”. Auntie Julie told Peter off and he started crying so I kicked him and then grandma went out the back and shut the door. We looked out the window and she was crying too.

We have to go to a different bus stop to get there now, too. The first time we went on our own we got on the wrong bus. We ended up by the Safeway in Blaydon and we had to call grandma from their phone to come and pick us up. She wasn’t angry and she let us get McDonalds. I got a Happy Meal and so did Peter. Grandma got an apple pie and it burnt her tongue and she said she was going to sue McDonalds but I don’t think she ever did.

Because the house is so small there is only room for one bed so we have to share- grandma, Peter and me. Actually, we slept like this in the old house anyway- all of us in grandma’s bed, even though there was another bedroom meant for us. It makes it more fun and like a sleepover. Grandma sleeps in the middle because Peter snores and if she sleeps in the middle I can’t reach over to pinch his nose until he wakes up and when he wakes up- head butt him. Grandma snores too but I would never head butt her. Grandma puts her arms around both of us and we sleep like that. Grandma snores so loudly, like a massive beast. But I would never head butt her because she’s my grandma.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Conversation 2

-Have you ever swum in a swimming pool?


-Some people haven’t.

-Everyone has.


-Everyone has.

-What if you lived somewhere where there wasn’t a swimming pool?

-Everywhere has a swimming pool.

-Well, what if you were allergic to chlorine or something?

-Yeah but if you were allergic to chlorine you probably would have swum in a swimming pool at least once and that’s how you’d know you were allergic.

-What if you couldn’t afford to go to the swimming pool? Swimming is expensive.

-You probably would have gone with school.

-Have you ever nearly drowned in a swimming pool?



-Yeah- this horrible girl I went to school with held me under the water and wouldn’t let me up.

-Why didn’t you just kick her?

-I did but she just kicked me back and carried on pushing my head down. She was much bigger than me.

-Why didn’t the lifeguard do anything?

-He did, eventually.

-How long were you under water?

-I don’t know. It probably wasn’t that long but it felt like forever.

-It sounds horrible.

-It was. My nose was running loads and I was crying and the lifeguard had to call my grandma to come and pick me up because my mum was at work.

-That’s embarrassing.

-I never wanted her to pick me up from anywhere because she had all these dogs and when you opened the car door all the dogs would jump out and run off. And the car was really old and falling apart and the doors were all different colours. And my grandma herself was really weird. She was a bit of a hippy- she always wore these patchwork trousers and these sandals made out of rope or something. And she dyed her hair orange. So she barged into the baths, calling my name and all the dogs ran in and the receptionist was going mental and shouting “Get those dogs out of here!” and my grandma came over to me and picked me up like a baby and walked out with me in her arms. Everyone was at the pool that day- everyone.


-Yeah, pretty much. That was on a Friday afternoon. I spent the whole weekend with my head under a pillow, just remembering it and groaning and imagining school on Monday and groaning. I begged mum to let me stay at home but she said no. So I put on my uniform and pretended I was leaving for school but instead I ran to the park and hid in these bushes all day.

-What was it like when you did go back to school?

-It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. A few people said some stuff but after a while everyone just forgot about it.

-Apart from you.