Not Skinny Enough... For Eating Disorder Treatment

 It's been a while. I'll get into why in a later post, but for now I need to get this off my chest. I will be talking about Eating Disorders and Mental Health. It will be very angry, very sweary and very raw; so if you don't feel up to reading about these topics then that's totally okay, I understand 💙 

 I had a phone call from my CPN today, I've not seen her in a while because I've barely left Heaton in the past six weeks. Other than Download Festival - a break I desperately needed - the furthest I've been from home is to see my parents. My CPN is based in Gateshead and is in the process of switching me over to the Newcastle team for the rest of my treatment; Gateshead are frantically trying to reduce their case and patient loads, my guess being because of budget cuts and staff shortages, and Newcastle have better resources for helping patients with Eating Disorders. It sounded like a sweet deal, closer to home and more specialised treatment than just DBT, and they had no waiting lists so I could be transferred straight over. However that phone call shattered any illusions I had about finally getting back into recovery.

 I don't blame my CPN, she was trying to get me more specialised treatment closer to home - exactly what NICE guidelines specify as key criteria for successful recovery - and even now she's writing letters and making more calls to try and change their minds, I'm very grateful for her. I have lived with an Eating Disorder in some form or another since I was 14, beginning after I was sexually assaulted; at some point over the years the bulimia developed into anorexia, though the binging and purging still like to rear their ugly heads from time to time. I consume on average 700-800 calories per day. I have a BMI of 15.8 (though BMI is bullshit criteria anyway). I've lost over 10kg since the beginning of 2018. I have collapsed in public due to sheer exhaustion. My thoughts are clouded, my brain is foggy and my periods have virtually stopped. But according to Newcastle's Mental Health team? I'm "not underweight enough" to receive treatment.

 They always say that asking for help is the hardest step to make when you're trying to recover. I asked for help in 2015, I saw my GP in Gateshead, got onto the waiting list for a psychiatric evaluation and four months later was diagnosed with a personality disorder - because nothing makes you feel more fucked up than being told it's your personality that's the problem. They never explored this, never worked on giving me anything more specific, just sort of went from there and offered me different types of treatment, from one-to-one talking therapy, mindfulness exercises, more DBT - including group therapy. Apparently this was part of the problem for Newcastle, as it wasn't until later into my treatment with Gateshead that I was recognised as having an Eating Disorder, they didn't see it as a long-term problem because of the late diagnosis. 

 They also said I seem "unwilling to accept treatment" too, based on the fact that I dropped out of the DBT group therapy after a few sessions, and refused an appointment with a dietitian. There are glaring issues with this. Firstly, the DBT group was ran by the most patronising woman I have met in my life; she would show me up for asking questions if I didn't understand something - in one session taking the time to say "and for Lizi's benefit, this means..." every time she explained a new topic. How fucking unprofessional is that? Of course I wouldn't want to keep going back if that's what they're offering me as 'treatment'. I didn't realise public humiliation was part of DBT! Also, what fucking genius thought that putting somebody with crippling social anxiety into group therapy with a bunch of strangers would work out? I don't care how many times you claim it's a Safe bastarding Space, I was treated better by drunken perverts when I was doing bar work.

 Secondly, and this is the kicker, what the fuck is a fucking Dietitian going to do for me*? I refused the appointment because believe it or not I know what sort of things I need to be eating to keep my weight up, I know exactly how many meals, how much, what macro and micronutrients I need to be putting in my face to maintain a healthy body. The issue is that I can't. I just fucking can't. The last time I checked, having a piece of paper that says "I'm a food doctor, I know what you need to be eating" doesn't also come with a bonus Magic fucking Wand that will suddenly make me able to eat without wanting to a) throw it all up again or b) tear off my skin because I feel so fucking afraid and disgusting every time I put food in my mouth. I didn't take that appointment because I know exactly what sort of strain the NHS and Mental Health services are under and there are thousands of other people who need that appointment more desperately than I do. 

*note - no offence to any dietitians out there, and you probably do a lot more than tell people what to eat but that's how your job was explained to me and (as you've probably gathered) I'm a stubborn cunt. Just let me be angry for now - or lend me that Magic Wand.

 So that puts me in an awkward position. Either I go back to the start of the queue, wait however long it takes to be seen for an assessment by the Newcastle team, probably involving going through all the bullshit of talking therapies and CBT again - where I was at five years ago - and hope and pray to whatever deity I don't believe in that I'll be able to get help not only for my Eating Disorder but for other aspects of my mental health. Oh yeah, according to Newcastle I seem to be "doing okay/managing" in other aspects of my mental health so I'm not considered at risk or in need of treatment. They totally ignored my CPN telling them about me being sexually assaulted the other month, and that she also believes that my specific personality disorder is BPD. In the words of my friend Annie (total babe) you wouldn't treat any other illness like this, you wouldn't say to a diabetic "okay so we know you're diabetic, but you haven't slipped into a coma recently so we should just wait and see how it goes!". And Eating Disorders aren't just Mental Health conditions, they affect your physical health too. Gateshead services made sure that I had regular physical health checks, everything from my weight, blood pressure, blood tests, ECGs (heart monitory things), how my ED has affected my asthma. I'm not a doctor and I don't have X-ray vision so I can't see the physical harm I'm doing to myself without their help; and as the saying goes it's "out of sight, out of mind" for me. If I'm not monitored then I can easily go straight back to indulging the voices in my head and continue losing weight without knowing what harm I'm doing. 

 That brings me to option number two. As above, I can continue losing weight in a bid to pull myself out of this miserable 10 year slog in an attempt to actually get treatment - or die trying. I'm far from the only person living with an ED who will have considered this as a viable option, in fact I know I'm not - you can read the reality of this trend for yourself. I say trend, it's more of our last resort in some ways.

 I fucking love the NHS. I wouldn't be alive without the bloody thing, for more reasons than I can list without making this longer than it already is. But it makes me sick to my stomach knowing that we have a government that has made so many funding cuts, putting so many lives at risk, that we now have a system only able to treat ailments when they become life-threatening. Treating the symptoms rather than the cause. 

Current Self:
Slightly sunburned, back from holiday,
trying to hold myself together.

 I'm feeling a lot of different things right now and hopeful isn't one of them. Current ED treatment plans seem more like they're treating the symptoms rather than the cause. It vaguely reminds me of the Cat and Mouse system used when the Suffragettes were imprisoned: let them starve, recuperate at home, then haul them back inside once they start being a problem again and force-feed them as the eventual solution; kicking them out again and starting the cycle over again. Without front line services in place, free at the point of use from the NHS, then how can we expect people to recover as well as they can from disordered eating? We can't, plain and simple. So in the spirit of 2018, if we really want to mark the centenary of the Women's Suffrage Movement, then we need to stop using the same methods to treat people living with and suffering with Eating Disorders.



To sort this whole shit-storm out in a productive way, I'm going to my GP in the morning, and hoping this is all a ridiculous miscommunication. I won't be wallowing in this and doing nothing about it. Either way I'll be making something of this anger, even if it's just sharing my experience to add to the list of reasons we need to improve the NHS and stop cutting its fucking budget. Seriously, how can you class anything as overspending if it's being put into a service that literally can stop people from dying?

Street Harassment: the Next Generation (aka Here We Go A-Fucking-Gain)

 Yes it’s that time again folks. Grab a blanket, some snacks and a glass of something strong because it’s that time again… Angrybitch Rant Time! You could say I have it down to an “art”. I’m sorry, that was dreadful, but that’s my only pun for today because this is a pretty serious rant. I’m somewhere between total rage, dumbfoundedness and exasperated; it’s pretty much a stop the world I want to get off sort of situation. I can’t remember which friend shared this picture but it jogged my memory and got me thinking about the topic.


 This is sadly very relevant for me today. Walking back from Asda and I'm confronted by three such creatures with penises, one of them informing me that his mate “wants a sucky-sucky". Of course, like any occasion when you experience street harassment (the fact that so many of you know this feeling personally is also saddening for me) I simultaneously wanted to vomit, punch said person in the face, blow up at them, or drag them by the ear and make them tell their mother what they’d just said to me. But there was something very different about this time around.

 This wasn't a fully grown adult specimen. Three of them must have been about twelve. Twelve. T-w-e-l-v-e. At the most - 12. Normally I'm quite sharp on the comebacks to cat-calling but I was just so stunned, I was more or less speechless. Well, I did tell him that he can sucky-sucky it himself because I can guarantee that nobody else ever will. It was all I could think to say. It seems like a tiny, insignificant thing; an interaction that lasted less than ten seconds (I could’ve said literally that to him but a) only just thought of it now and b) I’d probably give him a complex, it’d be too cruel). But it really got to me, mostly the fact that he is a child, meaning children are still growing up to think this is an appropriate/acceptable thing to say to a total stranger. And it really saddens me, especially when I think about the young girls who are growing up alongside boys like this and will be no doubt exposed to this harassment personally and more frequently.


This is not "boys will be boys" or "kids being kids", it's sexual harassment. It’s not just lads trying to look cool in front of their mates, testing out provoking behavior to push the boundaries and see what they can get away with. It’s a crime, plain and simple. They're not making this up as a new ‘thing’, this isn’t a trend like Snapchat and fidget spinners. It’s learned behaviour.

 “Oh but I always tell my boy to respect women, I don’t know where he’s getting it from!”. Hmm, let’s see… We have women in media, objectified in everything from Certain Tabloids That Will Not Be Named to videogames, to sporting events and yogurt adverts. We have this hegemonic view of beauty standards that all women, whether they fit into this conventional beauty box or not, we’re all held up to this scale that somehow ranks and measures our worth as an overall human being. It’s shit being a woman at times, genuinely.

 And probably the factor that has the most impact on the development of these views. It’s their schoolmates, cousins, community leaders, neighbours, and of course their families. It's easy enough to say "oh, little Tommy's just pushing the boundaries, seeing what adult behaviour he can get away with before being told off" - WELL OF COURSE HE IS CAROL because every time Big Tommy takes him out to the match with his grown-up mates he sees them doing exactly the same thing; hearing how they talk about women, learning how they value women - and let me tell you, they don’t hold us up very highly. We always hear how men totally respect women, like their Mam, their Gran, their sister… But guess what? This attitude isn’t extended to us women they don’t know, firstly because as strangers we’re seen as just...objects really, and secondly because they knew if their said that to their Nan or aunty then she’d clip him round the ear, and his Dad - or any male figure he respects - will reprimand him, tell him we don’t talk that way to women. Yet he’ll be seeing that same male figure gawking at a stranger’s cleavage, or hear him wolf-whistle at a woman walking down the street, or talking about how fit the lady who works at the local pub is.

 It’s not just Little Tommy that’s learning this behaviour either, it’s Little Carol too. Say one day Big Tommy takes her to the match with them, just one time so he can spend some “quality time with his little girl” or “take her of your hands for the day - as a treat to you Carol!”. She is going to be taking in the same things that her brother/assorted male relative is, but what’s worse is that she won’t be seeing it as something that is all in good fun. She’ll be seeing it is something to expect when she grows up. And don’t tell me that Big Tommy will be on his best behaviour in front of his Princess. This time last year a bloke shouted from across the road at me “oi oi love, get your tits out!” WHILE PUSHING HIS DAUGHTER IN HER BUGGY. Some men are just scum like that. Women group up exposed to street harassment thanks to the men in our communities and honestly, a lot of you are probably sound lads but for those with kids/young relatives who do do the occasional cheeky once-over of a woman you don’t know in public: those kids are seeing it from an adult man they probably respect or at least are learning from. So don’t teach them this shit.

 And going back to the old chestnut of the women they’re related to that they respect, how would you feel knowing that your son had said this to a girl or woman that is somebody else’s Mam/sister/cousin/Gran etc? Or if your female relative was the one who was propositioned in the street by a stranger? You’d want to knock the bastard’s teeth out wouldn’t you. A lot of people say they don’t want to pass bad habits onto the kids in their lives, so why keep passing on this one? Why keep teaching that it’s acceptable to say these things and acceptable to have them said to you? Yes, some may be teaching them unintentionally but like kids do with walking, talking and using things like spoons and iPads; they learn by watching you do them. Street harassment and cat-calling aren’t a bad habit though, it’s gender-based sexual harassment; it’s a criminal offence, and really if you do these things you should be thrown in the sea. Simple as.


 So yeah, this was my experience of being propositioned by a child. I still feel sick to my stomach and this feeling will pass, but as I get older it’s harder to shake when all it does is remind me of the fact that there are kids growing up with this learned behaviour and there are kids who are yet to become women who grow up knowing that they will experience harassment like this. Like I’ve mentioned in previous posts I have three amazing nieces, ranging in ages from six months to almost six, and if any of them were to go through this then I don’t care how old or of what gender the harasser is then I am more than happy to kick the shit out of that person.

 And to anybody who’s read through this and thought “I cat-call women all the time and they don’t say things like this. Just take the compliment and shut up.” Firstly, you’re a piece of shit and you need to stop. Secondly, take a moment to think about the kids in your life, especially young girls, and think about a stranger telling them how good her legs would look with their head between them (genuine thing that a white van man once said to me). Because if you keep doing what you’re doing, saying what you’re saying, then you’re feeding into that culture, keeping it going, and creating a society where she will have something like that said to her by a stranger. Think about that and do better than it, you fucking arsehole.

Reawakening... (aka the North East 2018 Feminist Calender)

 Well hello there folks, it's been a while. It looks like there may be some changes ahead. Calamity Kitchen have finaly gotten their own website (bloody freeloaders), Angry Northern Bitch is on Twitter, I've had a proper job job: yes dear readers, I worked at Lush for two months, keep your knickers on. Stormageddon turned four, and SlutWalk 2018 will be taking place in Newcastle.

 Wait... what!?

 Yes, you read that right: after a five year hiatus there will in fact be a SlutWalk Newcastle 2018. SlutWalk Newcastle last held a march in 2013 alongside a wonderful comedy night called Stand Up to Sexism, organised by myself and the incredible Rachel Charlton-Dailey from The Nopebook. Long story short: we had a march with lots of shouty, angry folk with important things to say, it's a lovely protest, and afterwards we held a comedy show with an all women line-up at World Headquarters. Of course, like with any event which focuses on talented women, we had plenty of comments and messages telling us we were sexist for not having men on stage, that we were exclusionary, feminazis etc - despite telling our critics many times that if they were really so worried about genderbalancing in standup comedy then why aren't they protesting other local comedy comedy nights like...every week?

 Oddly enough there were no reports of protests outside of comedy venues about the lack of women on the bill that I heard of, but if there were then I've missed out on some fun. Anyway, it was an amazing night and we raised a good amount of money for Rape Crisis Tyneside and Northumberland. Again, we're hoping to organise an evening event to go with the SlutWalk for those who won't be able to make the march on the daytime. Either way, I'll keep you lovely people up to date. I took part in a Firewalk for RCTN back in March 2017 and fully intend to do so again if they're running another this year. It was so much fun for an amazing cause and the brilliant staff at RCTN were insrumental in giving me the confidence to set up SlutWalk Newcastle to begin with.


 After a fantastic Nasty Women New Year party last weekend we floated around the idea of holding a Colour Walk in Newcastle. We have so many fabulous older ladies in the region that it would be a terrible shame to not celebrate them. Again, as a complimentary event, there are whisperings of a fashion show for those who wouldn't be able to make a daytime affair. We'll be keeping you up to date from here and from Nasty Women North East.

 So yeah, kind of short and sweet (like me!), with all the good news though you've got plenty of fun to look forward to. Much Love!

Angry Bitch x

International Day of the Girl: #FreedomForGirls

(To get the full cheesy effect of this post, please open this YouTube link in another tab)

 So I've been away for a bit, mental health playing up, other crap, blah blah and so on. Life gets in the way of my ramblings, sad as it is. But today is a happy day, a brilliant day in fact. It's a day to celebrate the young women of the future and making a better world for them. Now I know it's a little past midnight (sue me, I never claimed to be punctual) but the message is still the same: the reason I do the shit I do is for the future of today's girls.

 This is kind of a full-circle story. When I was little I was a rather socially awkward child. Big surprise, neurotic blogger who is open about mental health issues and crappy things from childhood - what a surprise! But sit down and shut up. I met Devon when I was in nursery school, so somewhere between being two and three. We didn't exactly hit it off, we each knew who the other was but I was more into playing pretend by myself. It wasn't until we got to primary school that we started playing together, more because the teachers were so fed up with us tormenting each other - stealing pencils, throwing rubbers at each other - that they forced us to play together. Twenty one years later and it's far from a being 'forced together' relationship but more of a 'I don't know what I'd do without you' one. Though I'd still happily play worm rescue with her. We grew up together sharing some of our best memories and our most traumatic ones, examaple being I remember her Mam taking us to the circus and on the way back seeing a car on fire, crashed into a fence and thinking 'shit...I don't know how I'd cope with this if I wasn't with her'. 

 New Years Eve 2002, it's hilarious to look back on now. My family were round at her's, I got my first taste of alcohol (fizzy peach Archers, I can't remember the exact name of the drink but it was very much diluted with lemonade), and a fun countdown to the new year, surrounded by friends and family. Then as soon as it hit midnight we let of party poppers, went outside to light fireworks, came back inside to watch the rest of the festivities on the telly... and soon as Basil Brush said 'boom boom!' the power goes out. The adults try to be rational while ridiculously drunk, we panic like all kids would because it's dark and scary. Adults think 'it's fine, we'll light some candles and they'll just think it's part of the new years fun'. As the clumsy-as-ever lass that I am, I knock one of the candles over and almost set fire to her Mam's settee. My brother gets scared and throws up all over the glitter from the party poppers (as pretty as you can imagine). Mothers go into Super Mam mode and sort us all out, get us to bed and calm us down, clean up and get settled. The next morning me and Devon are watching reruns of friends in her bed (she had a bunkbed, it was so cool!) and we hear shouting from downstairs. We go down to investigate and it turns out that, even though the power had went out, the telly switched on as soon as it came back - so my parents were woken up by another appearance from Basil Brush. It's one of my most enduring New Years memories and it makes me laugh just thinking about it.

 Being a chubby queer goth as a teenager, it wasn't exactly fun doing things like... going outside, talking to people, laughing at things. But this lady was my rock, to this day she still is. We both grew up with brothers so it was nice having somebody who was just like a sister but without all of the clothes stealing, hair pulling and fighting over who's turn it was to pick the TV channel. I still miss her mother every day, when I heard the news it hit me as hard as if it had been one of my own parents. Nevertheless, she persisted. She went on to get a top -level linguistics degree, while also raising her first daughter. This lady is a fucking Viking. She has supported me through breakups, my parents arguing, all sorts of family and relationship troubles and I wouldn't swap her for love nor money. Hell, if we were a person they would be old enough to drink in the US.

 In the past few years the feminist movement has made amazing progress. Yes, we're far from total equality, far from it. But for now I'm hopeful. We saw the SlutWalk movement beginning in 2011, the resurgence of student feminist groups, Nasty Women* in 2016 and now! The reason I'm so passionate about the feminist movement today isn't for the changes it can make for me. The way I see it, I'm happy to carry on fighting, shouting, marching, and screaming is to make sure that my nieces don't have to. Seeing them grow into a society where they don't have to worry about being told they're not pretty enough, they're pretty so they can't be clever, policing of their style of dress and relationships; I've been there and am still going through it, I just pray to Sylvia Pankhurst (or the atheist alternative of praying) every day that I'll make enough change in my lifetime so that they won't have to experience that shittiness. 

 Devon has two wonderful,, wonderful daughters and my brother and sister-out-law have one too. These three little girls are why I do what I do, so much because of what their mothers have done for me. So this is a slightly belated #WonderfulWomenWednesday and celebration of #InternationalDayOfTheGirl. This lady is one of the most amazing ones I know and has given birth to two more of them - how lucky am I!?

 *For those of you who have liking for Nasty Women, did you know that Newcastle will be playing host to the first ever international Nasty Women conference!! If you would like to attend and/or take part then please purchase tickets here, or for other questions please email us at northeastnastywomen@gmail.com. <3

We Need to Talk About... How we talk about Feminism

 I'm normally reluctant to say it but I'm quite intelligent, more than I give myself credit for. I've been to university, I can discuss political and gender theory in-depth, and I could very probably argue my way out of a locked room. Or into one, depending who I'm arguing with. But I'm not always perceived that way. Something to do with the bright hair, tattoos and face full of piercings I think, but more likely to do with the way I talk. As a teenager I had a bad stutter and it still likes to make itself known now and then, so I had to adapt the way I speak in order to actually communicate - often in short, precise sentences. And you know what? I don't regret the way I speak, it's efficient, it gets the point across, and I feel it makes me more approachable. At the same time though I do get nervous when it comes to longer words and more complex sentences, because it's so hard to stop stuttering once you've been tripped up by something you're unfamiliar with.

When I first talk to somebody new about feminism I both love it and hate it. I love it because, well, why wouldn't I? I've just met an awesome new person. But at the same time I dread how they'll talk about it sometimes; they'll begin talking and I won't know if we're talking about the latest legislation affecting women's rights or the menu of a funky new fusion restaurant they've been to. Luckily this isn't always the case and I've met some utterly amazing feminist folks who are comfortable enough with their own views that they don't feel the need to describe something in ten ‘academic' terms when they can use six regular ones to make the same point. I was talking about it with a lovely feminist friend of this type a few weeks ago. Her first language isn't English and we recalled how we'd both be sat there in meetings and be thinking “...what?”. Yes, most of the time we'd understand the point that was made, but when it came to replying there were some times I was being looked at as though I'd just opened my mouth and dribbled down my shirt. I'd hear whispers and giggles, on one occasion having my point repeated back to the rest of the group using academic language, as if making my interpretation sound better and more understandable to them. It was embarrassing as hell and I don't think I went to another meeting for a long time after that. I felt shown up in a space that I had thought was meant to be safe and accepting.

And what infuriates me the most is when I see articles or hear talks about Intersectional Feminism using such jumped-up, alienating terms. This is by no means me having a go at academics and people who use this type of language, but I've got a lot of pent up frustration here. I believe that it has its uses and its place, but that place - for me - shouldn't be in a group that is meant to be accessible to everyone. Newly elected Labour MP Laura Pidcock made this point very well in her Maiden speech in parliament, somebody had to say it and I'm glad she was the one who did, she's bloody brilliant. By alienating people through use of language, we basically say to those who can't ‘keep up’ that their views don't matter, that they don't have a place in these discussions - when often they're the ones with the most to say and the most need to be heard. We shouldn't be laughed at or berated for not sounding ‘clever enough’. During my time at uni I had the ironic joy of being told that my draft of an essay on class, language, and access to education didn't sound academic enough. I was struggling to meet the word count because while I'd made my points precisely and clearly, they didn't sound ‘right' in an academic piece. I'm sorry, but bollocks to that.

Feminism has existed long before the term ever did. Every time women working in factories fought for equal pay, women in communities fought for their safety and bodily autonomy, and for our access to education. In deeds rather than words. Don't patronise us, just be considerate, and don't bloody giggle at us! That's just rude.

Street Harassment: A Short But Sweet Insight

So in the past twelve days I have been catcalled or otherwise harassed on the street I live on. Given that it's the main street of Heaton, you can account for more footfall, more people passing through etc, therefore more wankers passing through but in less than a fortnight I'm starting to feel less safe in my own community. I have called Heaton my home for almost five years now and I'm not going to let dickheads make me feel unsafe on my own streets.

The first, believe it or not, was a bloke pushing a pram telling me to get my tits out. Given that his kid was of toddling and talking age I can just imagine their child going back to nursery next week, the staff asking if he enjoyed the holidays and him going "yes...get your tits out!". Some top-notch parenting there.

 The second was last Friday, the day after I'd truly earned my Darwin Award by stabbing myself in the leg while loading the dishwasher. So limping, full of stitches and painkillers, and generally feeling sorry for myself, I had a wander up to Boots for some more dressings and ibuprofen. I stopped in at a few charity shops on the way - notably the Newcastle Dog and Cat Shelter shop on Chillingham Road, awesome prices, nice stuff and they do wonderful work - and I found some lovely bits and pieces, three dresses and a top for a tenner! So feeling nice and perky, I was walking home and I'm stopped by three knobheads in a shitty corsa. The guy in the passenger seat goes with the ever original "oi oi sexy!", and when I tell him to go fuck himself him and his mates thought they'd be big and clever and go "oooOOOoooOohh!" in that patronising way, you know the one I mean. And because these geniuses are stuck at the traffic lights, what's a girl to do? So I went and kicked the bastards car. It was just sat there being all shiny and provocative with three idiots inside! Who could resist!?

 Today was a double-whammy. I was walking home from the shop and some prick thinks he's big and clever and makes kissy noises at me; and when I turn to do a double take he grabs his crotch. Mate, given that your hands looked smaller than Trump's, I wouldn't go comparing them to your dick as a scale, they'll just make you think it's big.

 Then tonight I was out doing some Pokémon hunting, there was a Bayleef at the corner shop! And some bloke going into the chippy asks me "how much?" with one of those sickening eyebrow-wriggles and a smirk you just want to remove from his face with sandpaper.  I was wearing my pimp coat (big, fluffy leopard print one that I love), polka-dot playsuit, over-the-knee-socks, and Docs. But why should it matter what I was wearing? So, unable to think of a witty comeback on the spot and having finished my cigarette, I throw the end at him. Consider it up-cycling - of him, not the tab end. He went from being human garbage to an ash tray with a pulse.

 It might seem like an overreaction but... I don't give a shit. I'm sick of the men who think this behavior is okay. When I told Paul when I got home he said "if I ever thought speaking to lasses like that was okay then my Mam would knock my block off." And so she should! In fact I would love to see a reality TV programme where men have to read out the shitty things they say to women they don't know to their mothers. Then the mothers are given a score out of ten for how well they kick the shit out of their sons. Hey, it's more educational than Keeping up with the Kardashians.

 And for any whiny "ugh, stop complaining and get a life" folk out there, this is my life. And the lived experience of almost every other woman I've ever met ever. And they need to learn to not be shitty.

 So when I was discussing this with my lovely friend Becky at the weekend we came up with a brilliant idea: stickers. Industrial strength stickers. To put on the vehicles or general person of men who think it's big and clever to catcall. Stickers so sticky that they'll have to pay for it to be removed professionally or wreck whatever it was stuck to by peeling it off. It can be their penance and punishment for being so shitty to women. Big, fuck-off sticky stickers that say "I'm a misogynist, do not approach!". Yeah...

So yes, this ended up a little longer than intended but I can't think of another title. And I'm sick of shitty men.

TL,DR: men, stop being shitty.

Not a Bitch to be messed with 😘

How I Celebrated International Women's Day: a Day of Body Positivity

 International Women's Day is by and large my favourite international day of all. Screw Christmas, New Year's, even Halloween, IWD is my favourite day of the year. I have thankfully, as of yet, not heard a single "what about International Men's Day?" or "Women are equal now, we don't need it anymore" this year (follow the link for more info on this shocking injustice). I firmly believe that anybody who tries to make these arguments should be fired. Not from their jobs but from a canon. In the wake of my last post about the folk trying to cause a shitstorm that never happened over Emma Watson's supposedly scandalous topless photoshoot, I've been thinking about ways in which I celebrate my own body. It's not exactly a secret that my body and I have a rocky relationship at best. I berate it, pump it full of chemicals, push it to the extremes without nourishing it properly; and it rewards me by getting ill and breaking down at the worst possible times. Sort of a mutually assured destruction thing.

 But I'm slowly learning to treat myself better and focus more on my body's accomplishments than the perceived shortcomings. And one way I've been doing this? A wonderful way, which has given me so much confidence, and enabled me to do things I never thought myself capable of doing...?

 I'm talking about Burlesque of course!! Now let me tell you the story of a wonderful lady called Pandora Foxx... (also, be prepared for some weird third person shit).


 Pandora wasn't always her name, for a while she used to go by Millie. Before that she never had a name, she was biding her time, waiting for her time to shine. Her alter ego, Lizi, had always been quite shy and for a long time wouldn't say boo to a goose. For any of you who know Lizi this must be hard to imagine; the Lizi you know now is gobby, seems self-assured, and will happily kick the arse of any man who dares to catcall her. But until she became political, started speaking in front of people and organising marches she wouldn't say anything. Maybe it was all about having something to say, who knows?

 Five years ago, Lizi's Mam took her to a birthday party for the wonderful Freelance Dance studio where she had been taking bellydance classes. Surrounded by cupcakes, lovely ladies, and watching some wonderful performances, it was a great night. One of those performances happened to be a pole dance demonstration. She was transfixed. The longstanding stereotype of pole dancing was one of sleazy men throwing money at women grinding on poles. Not anymore. Seeing such a confident and capable woman, demonstrating her strength and grace to an awesome Def Leppard soundtrack had Lizi captivated. She wanted to be such a confident and capable woman. And so she did.

 Admittedly, being only 17 at the time, she needed a letter of permission from her Mammy so she could take part in classes. Had she been two years or more younger, you can imagine the sensation the likes of the Daily HateMail would have made out of a "woman writes permission letter for daughter to learn stripping" type story. But that's so far from the truth. While it did make her feel incredibly confident and sexy, learning pole under the keen eye of the amazing Ellouise Hempstead gave her such a boost in self-confidence. Not in a "oh, I look so sexy" sort of way, but "I have friction burn on my wrists, my shoulders hurt, and I'm sweating like a bitch and need sugar... What a Goddess I am!!" way.


 It was during this time of learning pole classes where Lizi met Kristi.

 Ellouise ran a drop-in pole class on Sundays for women of all levels of pole ability, an hour dedicated to refining our techniques, strengthening our moves, and generally having a fantastic time. During her time at college Lizi would live for these Sunday pole sessions, something to break up the week-to-week stress, where she could chat with funny, confident, and outgoing women in a wonderful space where they could refine their skills. During one of these sessions Lizi met a wonderful woman by the name of Kristi. With piercings; tattoos; flowing, gorgeous red hair; and a cheeky smile that could bring anybody to their knees. She and Ellouise had chatted a little about burlesque during the class and Lizi, being the curious bear she is, couldn't help but overhear that Kristi was running classes. As they were sharing a pole during the lesson Lizi tried to make some small talk about burlesque but couldn't quite muster the courage to make a coherent with such an awe-inspiring woman. Weeks later, when she saw in the Freelance Dance Facebook group that Kristi was running burlesque 101 classes, Lizi jumped at the chance!! And hasn't looked back since.

 After thirteen shows, several solo routines, and thousands of laughs since... She couldn't be happier. And during this time the wonderful persona that we know as Pandora was born. With Lizi having a passion for Greek mythology, and a whole host of crappy mental health, Lizi couldn't think of a better name: something to describe the depth of her psychosis, how far it spirals down and how closely this affliction is guarded, leading to the whole "Pandora's Box" allegory. As for the Foxx... It rhymes with Box and she is one Foxxy lady!

 Pandora's onstage antics have given Lizi an unrivaled amount of confidence. Being eased from doing a bra peel (taking off your bra) in a dance studio with four other women as part of a dance course, to eventually having the nerve to take off that bra on a stage, in front of strangers, to a song you have chosen... It's really fucking scary!! Given the fact that during her first solo routine, Pandora (known as Millie at the time) realised that the belt that was part of her costume had gotten stuck on the chair she was using in her routine. In the first 30 seconds of the compare's introduction she would have been more than happy to run off stage, with that chair attached to her by the belt like some sort of weird metal tortoise shell. But if Kristi had taught her anything about burlesque, and in fact life, it was this:

 "If you don't feel like a tit when you're doing it, then you're not doing it right."

Back to first person here, I honestly don't know if I'd be the plucky and strong woman that I am without Kristi's teaching, Ellouise's discipline, or the strength of the many incredible women I've shared a stage within the past four years. Honestly, every woman I've met through burlesque have given me something inspirational to add to my life: body positivity (Whatsername the Rocket Queen), being brave in the face of trauma (Bunny Boudoir), if you aren't enjoying yourself then what's the point? (Felicia Flutterby), and take care of yourself and go at your own pace (Hannah Hendrix).

 It's a very powerful feeling, just standing in front of a mirror after coming off stage and knowing that you've done something incredible. Something that's gotten a crowd to cheer and yearn for more. On days when you wake up and feel like (for lack of a better word) utter, utter shite. Those days when you don't want to get out of bed. The days you don't want to take your meds. The days you don't want to see *people* or have anything to do with another human being. The days that all you want to do is lie in bed, watch a crappy film, and drink wine. These days can be both crappy and beautiful at the same time. Or even if you don't have the strength to reach for the laptop and a DVD, or your phone to call a friend, you're still surviving.

 IWD has become somewhat bittersweet for me. The past three years I have went to my friend's memorial tree, sat there and written her a letter, leaving it in a little hole at the base of the tree. This year I couldn't manage a visit and while I was so determined to hate myself for failing to keep our appointment I knew for a fact that it's something she would totally understand. She wouldn't have held it against it that I spent the time that I would have spent visiting her in my bed, crying my eyes out, wondering why I can't get my shit together. It was something she was very familiar with. And I know that she knows I spent the day thinking of her, gazing at my tattoo and wishing she were still here. Anyway, I digress...

 These are just some of the innumerable women who have inspired me and given me strength, I honestly don't know who I would be without The Blue Belles and House of Trixie Blue. They've given me so much and my life wouldn't be the same without them. I know that that's a phrase that gets thrown about a lot but these women are often the difference between me spending a day not leaving the house, or one leaving and coming home in a better mood than I could imagine. So I want to use March 9th as an International Women's Day "Boxing Day" where I spend the time thinking of all the women that made me the person I am today. And I can't love you all enough.

Strength and Solidarity, Sisters <3

Emma Watson Topless Picture Scandal!?! ...Calm the Fuck Down

 So I read on the Independent today that people are kicking off about Emma Watson's allegedly topless pictures in Vanity Fair. Apparently this is sparking feminist debate. Surely as a Harry Potter fan and a feminist I should be drawing up an angry placard and protesting outside of her house about now, right!? But really... What's the big deal? Let me break this down:

 Firstly, countless female celebrities have posed topless for some publication or another, and when has the media ever prompted us as feminists to take up our pitchforks (or broomsticks, your choice)  to go and be annoyed at them? None that I can recall. 

 It is precisely the tabloid type newspapers now that are telling us we should be angry at Watson - read: The S*n and the Daily HateMail - that when she was still a teenage posted news stories about alleged topless pictures that turned out to be photoshopped. I really hope that they can see their own hypocrisy in this. Then again, right-wing tabloids admitting they're wrong... I don't think they have a font size small enough for that yet. The Scum for example ran a piece many years ago which was a countdown to her 16th birthday and therefore legal, so their editorial team could perv over her in print without public outcry. At the same time however, it is the same publications which are crying "child star turned harlot!!". So... In other words you're quite happy to sexualise her as a child, but when it comes to her trying to express her sexuality as an adult woman you're outraged? Am I right? Yeah... Just a little fucked up. 

 Secondly it's that whole rhetoric that because she was a child star for one generation she should therefore find one thing and stick to it, for news purposes. In this case she has chosen to be a feminist, so she can't appear in any sort of 'sexual' way in the media. Who are they to say that the two are mutually exclusive? Hell, I'm a fierce-as-fuck-feminist who does burlesque on a weekly basis (a post on this is to come!), and who is the Daily Fail to say I can't shake my tits on stage and still be a feminist? While they were so excited for the countdown for her to be legal, they are the same ones now chastising her for being "too adult". Sooo... They were happy to sexualise her when she was a child, but are outraged and try to infantilise her as an adult? I'm not the only one who thinks that's a little fucked up, am I?

 And finally, yes, out of curiosity I looked up the pictures. What can I say? BUT! If you look at the rest of the photos from the shoot then you'll realise that it's a transitional piece; mimicking basically what I said above: her transition from child star to leading woman. A child to a woman. Celebrating it not in the way that scummy tabloids chose to but in her own way, using her body as a canvas in the process. Plus! Once again in that photo shoot I spotted a topless man twice! Where is the outrage over this dude who was probably a kid once, posing for a picture without a vest on? Disgraceful!! If MRAs want something to complain about then here it is: why is nobody protesting about that poor man being photographed topless, the objectification of men, showing more nipple, won't somebody think of the children!? 

 Yes, this is exactly how the tabloids complaining about these pictures sound to me, and hopefully you. So to sum up: nice tits, Granger, you look lush*; and please find another scapegoat tabloids. Maybe research into everybody who has ever voiced a role in a Disney film to see what they have ever done to maybe corrupt the kiddies.

*I hope all of you will realise that I mean this in an entirely Geordie and friendships of women way mean. I do not mean 'nice tits' in an objectifying way, bit in a "lady, I love you so much and you look like a Goddess" way. As she played the role of somebody so significant to my formative years I feel a rather close bond with Emma, and like to think that in some way - as a fellow badass woman she may be some sort of friend**.

** Yes, yes, okay; I sound like a creepy stalker. What I mean is that I didn't have many friends as child so I made friends with my books. Happy now!? Jeez, you guys are dickeads.

Smashing the Patriarchy... But I want to keep this bit

 Yo readers, it's been a while. To follow up from my last post, where I was lying in my bath at 3 in the morning convinced I was dying because of medication withdrawal... As you probably guessed I didn't die - hooray! - yes, I'm glad too. But it was a pretty horrible experience. Tonight I'm starting a similar medication instead of that one, so understandably I'm a little anxious. So I thought I'd wrack my brains for something I'd wanted to write about ages ago to take my mind off of the anxiety. Anyway, here goes.

 Long-time readers will know that this started out as a wedding blog, My Big Fat Feminist Wedding. As a throwback to this blog's roots then, I thought I'd share a ridiculous, sappy piece because - fuck everything else - it's something to keep me distracted.

 While I was younger I didn't always picture myself getting married, I was pretty torn on the issue. Long story short, I am getting married, and I couldn't be happier. But after I got engaged I started thinking what in the 21st century could be considered 'classic' traditions; not always observed but still mentioned and/or joked about. Like the groom throwing the bride's garter etc. Three years ago I posted about the petition to get the mother's name on marriage certificates. And while it's yet to come into action it's another detail which shows us that marriage is an innately patriarchal institution. But we can always change this. My plan is for my mother to walk me down the aisle along with my father, not because they own me or I'm 'their property' to give away but because hell, they did a damn good job bringing me up and they should be allowed to show off what a good job they did to friends and family (if I do say so myself). Plus I'm a little iffy in front of lots of people so it'll be nice to have some buffers. 

 Getting to the point, one thing I've been asked a fair bit about. Several people have said "oh, you're a raging feminist type, you'll never do this". Then they've always been surprised when I've said it's something I've wanted to keep. 

 I want to have a dance with my Daddybear at my wedding.

 Yep, it doesn't sound totally ridiculous written down. But some people have questioned me for it. It's it prioritising him over your Mam? Patriarchy, blah blah? He's too short for you to dance with! 

 Let me answer those in reverse: I'll bring shoes especially for it, his height is however an endless source of amusement. Patriarchy... Not exactly, not if I'm choosing to do it. And as I know my mother so well I know that she can be quite shy, and me dragging her up in front of hundreds of people, all looking at her, could be pretty nightmarish for her. Dad on the other hand... Well, he's the one that I got the "I don't give a fuck" gene from. Plus, given the fact that I'm the one who proposed to my husband-to-be, he's having two best women, and I have a bridesbee, we're not exactly sticking to the gender norms.

 I've always had a good relationship with my Dad. Sure, we had the typical teenageer-parent troubles, lots of shouting and screaming, "you're a dick, you're a dick" "you're grounded" etc. But at the same time he nurtured my love of good music, good books, and history. Without him doing this, as well as not hiding politics from me, I doubt I'd be as tuned-in as I am; or at least I probably would be doing a Sociology degree. And given how gregarious and outgoing he is I don't think he's pass up an opportunity to show me up in front of friends and family!! And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Bitch in the Kitch: Cooking Therapy and Self-Love

 Welcome back! After another (though slightly shorter than last time) hiatus I'm back to the bloggersphere, I did warn you folks! As has been mentioned in previous posts my mental health hasn't been great but it's certainly on the up at the minute. It's a bit like a seesaw, normally with the kid on one end having rocks in their pockets. At the minute though I think both kids have stopped and are just chilling, chatting and eating cake on there - with the odd wobble up or down. Anyway, glad to be back.

 Some of you probably already know that I'm quite a big foodie, I love everything from cooking it to eating it. And this might come as quite a surprise, but it's actually a common thing for those of us with/in recovery from eating disorders/distress to enjoy making food for various reasons; be it feeling we have control over food, control over our bodies through that, and/or loving ourselves and nourishing ourselves in the recovery process. I find that there's something therapeutic about following a recipe and making something delicious. I love the structure of recipes, almost in a way of being given instructions, otherwise I can get a bit panicky and edgy; recovery is a long (again) seesaw-y process and I'm still at the stage of needing to know EXACTLY how much and of what I'm putting into food. The kitchen has always felt like a safe haven for me. It's where I first learned the joy of making things with my hands, making play doh with my Mam, and baking and cooking as a child, the feeling of eaten something I'd created (yes, I may have had a few nibbles on the play doh...). It's where I'd first drink with my friend and her Mam in their kitchen, enjoying Saturday nights as a teenager giggling over wine and discussing the world ahead of us. It's where I feel I do my best for my partner; I may have my shortcomings but I'll always say I'm a damn good cook and being able to feed people I love brings me a lot of happiness, leaving me feeling whole and refreshed.

 While looking for something yummy to cook for myself and Paulobear I found myself on Cooking On A Bootstrap, the website of the incredible Mx. Jack Monroe featuring delicious recipes interspersed with political and social justice activism, I'm such a huge fan of them!!  Their writing is so poetic and relatable, and at the same time so accessible and non-threatening. Admission time: I've grown up always being told what a clever girl I am, yet at the same time I feel like a total, total fraud because I struggle with a lot of words; not the spellings or pronunciations of them but the meanings. I often end up feeling embarrassed in conversations when unknown words come up, so I'll either keep my head down and keep quiet, or feel like a muppet and ask what it means while thinking they must think I'm ridiculous. Or secret option number three: slyly Google a word, worry I look ignorant for looking at my phone instead of paying attention, then continue to berate and shame myself for not knowing the word. Getting back to the topic at hand though!

 I came across a delicious looking recipe today that I will be making for tea tonight, and not only do I have all the ingredients to hand (including fresh kale from my Grandma and Granddad's garden!!) it was so beautifully written that I just had to share it with you folks. Very aptly titled Self-Love Stew one part particularly stood out to me:

"The stirring is key. It is soothing. It is mindless, not mindful. Sod mindful. My mind is full enough. It is a minefield. Tonight I want to stir some stuff and stare at my hands or into nothing."

 It isn't written as a traditional recipe but it's more or less a much better alternative (for me personally, and most likely others of you out there) to guided meditation. I'm so fed up with being told I need to be more mindful, I find the whole concept difficult to grasp and apply to myself, so such advice on mindfulness and exercises to become 'mindful' etc stress me beyond what I already had been. It creates a feeling that I'm failing at mental health recovery, that I'm even rubbish at trying to get better. 

 Looking at cooking and eating as a way of showing care to myself and others has also been an incredibly helpful tool in my mental health and more specifically eating distress recovery, rather than food being a way to control and punish myself. And while I now and then get the odd stupid comment along the lines of "hahaha, you're a rubbish feminist! Being in a kitchen and looking after a man hahaha *tips fedora*" I find it to be the exact opposite. Using it as a tool to look after myself and making myself a better person to be around, I've never felt like a better feminist.

 A huge thank you to Jack Monroe for their wonderful recipe and their general being wonderful-ness, you are an incredible human being!!

 Much love, this Bitch is off to the Kitch! xx

Look What My Clever Friend Made!! Facebook Chats With Women (with sneak preview)

Morning all! (Well, it was morning when I started writing this post.) Thank you so much for the feedback on Facebook to yesterday's post, it was really interesting and refreshing to hear all of the mixed opinions and thoughts from men/masculine identified folk on how they'd feel about getting flowers. Overwhelmingly a lot would love to, though some would prefer potted plants or food (I can't help but agree on the food front); I'll be doing a more detailed follow up post to it next week but this morning I thought I would give a special shout-out to my amazing, amazing bridesmaid Clara.

 I met Clara back in 2011 when I was speaking at a meeting for Newcastle Uni's Feminist Society, their first meeting of the semester. I'd organised the first Newcastle SlutWalk in June of that year (many thanks to Clara Shield of Little Big Butterfly for the video, one of my early feminist mentors!) and being only 16 at the time of organising the march and 17 when speaking at the meeting, I'm not ashamed to admit that I was a little intimidated - not by the people but the situation. Being so young I felt a bit insecure about my views and didn't feel as 'qualified' to speak about feminism as women who were older than me. I know now that I had no reason to be nervous or insecure but when you spend your childhood always second-guessing yourself and, as a woman, socialised to not feel so assertive about your opinions then it becomes a natural thing to do. Needless to say they were wonderful and welcoming, I met so many fantastic people through the FemSoc but Clara especially.

This lovely lady right here <3

 I stammered and stuttered my way through what I had to say (again, a hangup from childhood) and listened intently to the discussion that followed. At the end of the meeting the young woman sitting next to me, with curly hair and a lovely smile tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I knew somebody from her course - it turned out I did! I'd went on the student walk-outs the previous year with him; we got to chatting and after that frequently ran into each other at meetings and other feminist events, bonding over left-wing politics, DIY feminism and our love of riot grrrl. I think the solidifying moment of our friendship was walking back to Heaton from the Star and Shadow cinema on the day of the infamous MonToon, laughing hysterically despite the rotten weather, with soggy socks and shoes that had been dried out because of the walk there on top of the cinema projector. Fast forward a few years of coffee, wine, more laughter and self-care and Clara landed her dream job working for a publishing company in London. I was thrilled for her but utterly grief-stricken that she was leaving Newcastle. Despite the distance our friendship is as strong as ever and I always look forward to our phone calls and visits.

"Of course we can smash the patriarchy with lipstick, what else would we do with it?"

 This morning Clara surprised myself and our friends Nina and Martine with a sneak preview of a Zine she's been working on to present at...(wait for it)...WEIRDO ZINE FEST! For those of you in London or are able to travel there for the event the details can be found here. It's the first solo project she's finished and sent to print and I was completely blown away by it. An 11 page laugh-riot 'Facebook Chats with Women' looks at the self-deprecation we do as women, doubting what we say and feeling guilty for saying it, exploring the issue in a fantastically funny way and encouraging the validation we give to each other, as well as nudging us to validate our own feelings more often in a funny, friendly and relatable way. All of the quotes are taken from chats with friends and looks at the wonderful things women say to build each other and ourselves up, with a little dash of existential crisis sprinkled in!

 And now for a sneak preview...

Not only is she an awesome human being but she's an incredible artist too.

 So if you're in London on January 31st GET YOURSELF TO WEIRDO ZINE FEST and pick up a copy of Facebook Chats With Women. I can tell you now that you'll have nothing better to do that day.   

 And if you can't wait until then for more of Clara's wonderful witticisms then follow this lovely gem on Twitter @claraheathcock

A Belated Happy 2016...and smashin' those Gender Norms (TL,DR: getting a bloke flowers)

 Happy New Year dear readers! We're only what, two weeks into it so this is quite good timing for me. I've been trying my best to keep busy around the house so for once it's in a fantastic state, I'm rather proud of myself. Depressions and anxiety can really get in the way of keeping your living space tidy, you don't want to get out of bed let alone do anything productive yet at the same time you panic about getting everything done, what people will think of the state of your home, how miserable it's making you being in such an untidy environment...it's a vicious cycle. But since New Year I've felt fantastic, staying on an up-spell for a whole fortnight does come with the panic of "when will I be back to being miserable? oh dear, oh dear", but I'm doing my best not to think that way and just enjoy the positivity. It's the happiest I've felt in about six months.

Clear house, clear head!

 Now, down to business...

 My relationship seems to be the best it's been for a while too, probably to do with me feeling better about myself; I love Paul unbelievably but I'm sure many of you with similar conditions also find it hard to appreciate your partner when you feel awful about yourself, and generally feeling not much fun to be around. So since I've been feeling better about myself I've started putting more work into my relationship. It got me thinking too: What little romantic gestures would really make me smile? Then it hit me.

 I've only gotten flowers twice in my life, once from my Dad and once from Paul after he scared me; we'd just gotten the landline installed and he rang up after he finished work, putting on a creepy Gollum voice. It really freaked me out and I may have cried a little bit, so I rang his mobile in hysterics to tell him about the creepy guy that'd just been on the phone. Bad Paulo! But these were totally unprompted, no scaring involved, and I made a cute little card later in the week which I slipped into his jacket pocket before he left for work the next morning. 

 It can be hard to keep a relationship fresh after nearly five years. You can both get a bit lazy, it's something Paul and I are both guilty of but we're both working to turn that around. We're working on having at least one night a week just for the two of us, sort of a date night. Simplicity is a good starting point too, a hug and a 'how was your day?' to a coffee and a cuddle and small acts that build towards bigger things and keep that bond strong.

 Now, going back to the flowers. Out of interest I thought I'd google "getting a guy flowers", just to see what the current status-quo consensus on it is. Two of the top results were 'What gifts for men are equivalent to flowers for women?' on Reddit and 'Help! What's The Man-Friendly Equivalent of Sending Flowers?' from Glamour.com, containing the quote "Of course you can send guys flowers, but I just feel like they don’t appreciate them the way the ladies do." and a link to a delightful sounding article titled "Want to Know What Blow Jobs and Flowers Have in Common?. To save your poor face from the palming it would get I've read the second article for you: apparently you're not allowed to ask for either. *pause here to make a cuppa and calm down/shout to your partner/housemate/pet about how stupid this is*. 

 Just NO! No on all of those fronts. The look on Paul's face when I gave him the flowers was one of gratitude. Other articles I've looked at seem to say that the only acceptable time to send a man flowers is as a Get Well Soon or other non-romantic gesture, why?? They look nice, they smell nice, they really brighten up a room and draw the eye away from any clutter lying around. If a guy likes flowers why not send them? There's nothing 'feminine' about things that look or smell nice, and even if there was then what's wrong with feminine things!? It doesn't make them weak or soppy, in my eyes if you dismiss and dislike something on the grounds that it's feminine then you really don't have much respect for women.

 And as for asking I don't see what's wrong with that either, I asked Paul if he'd maybe get me flowers sometime and he asked the same from me - reciprocation is necessary in relationships! How else will you know what your partner likes?

 And yes, please apply the above advice to blow jobs too.


UPDATE:

 Just thought I'd include this as proof that I'm not putting words in Paul's mouth ;)

 And I'm very angry at this God bloke at the minute too, he really needs to work on his aim. He can't keep going after every 69 year old until he gets Trump. He better stay the hell away from Tim Curry! RIP Alan Rickman <3

The Labour Party's Patronising-tastic Pink Bus: Politics for Grrrls

 Oooh! I'm so glad Labour have come up with a way to get us lady-types involved in politics. It's so difficult to understand all the big words they use like "continuing austerity" and "keeping tuition fees" but having something shiny and pink to help us decide how to vote. Why wouldn't we vote for something pink and shiny?? My fluffy little brain couldn't handle the thought of anything else.

And if you need any more convincing  ladies, look no further- they even have a kitchen table!! Now we don't have to leave our assigned place to engage in politics!

In other words: are you having a laugh Labour? Fuck off.

 Now, onto the serious part.

 We've all had a good laugh at Labour's  idea to try and engage women in politics (just think, somebody got paid actual money to come up with that idea) but as with ideas like Blair's Babes all it's done is open the party up to ridicule and in the age of social media it's much easier to get involved with that ridicule. Don't get me wrong, historically there's been a bias towards rich white men in politics but when you look at women MPs like Rachel Reeves saying people should only be able to claim jobseekers allowance for up to two years, in a time of few jobs and economic crisis, are they really reflecting our best interests? And those in parliament and council chambers claiming that they're feminists, throwing up their hands and saying "it's such a shame we have to do this" while making cuts to women's refuges and surestart centres - do they reflect our best interests?

 I was going through some things at my parent's the other day (not looking for my old GameBoy at all) I stumbled across my old Labour Party membership card. Before you judge me it was just after the general election before Labour elected their new leader, I took one look at the ballot paper and couldn't believe I'd paid a whole quid for it!! I was a member for three months before cancelling my subs and joining the Socialist Party a few months later. Sure,  we're a small party but I'd rather ally myself with a small organisation than participate in something I didn't agree with that had a chance at power - basically the opposite of the Lib Dems. At that point I'd been involved in a youth project for a new youth centre in the middle of Newcastle, a place where all the city's youth services would be based in one place and give young people a safe place to get together. After two years of hard work we were called into an emergency meeting with the new Labour council where he told us that the funding we had was being returned to Big Lottery. Reason being? They didn't tell us in the meeting but they were in the beginnings of cutting all of the youth services, even before parliament had set their budget. We felt powerless, voiceless and let down. 

 After that I'll never vote Labour, ever. That meeting demonstrated to me that they don't care about the voices and needs of young people. The first time I voted was in the police commissioner's election. I spoiled my ballot paper.

 We're standing in the general election as part of TUSC, the Trade Unionist and Socialist Coalition, the political child of Bob Crow, the RMT, FBU and other unions and left-wing parties, with Paul standing as the MP candidate for Newcastle East. 2015 is set to see the biggest left of Labour challenge for years, with TUSC standing over 100 parliamentary candidates. There have been plenty of arguments over TUSC splitting the left vote, taking votes away from Labour and the Green Party.

 But while it may still say 'socialist' on the back of Labour's membership cards (my old one anyway) they're anything but. And with the reputation of Brighton's Green controlled council making as many cuts as Labour, Lib Dem or Tory councils there's very little 'left' within it.

 While it can be hard being a woman in left-wing politics I'm glad I've gotten involved to  help make a change. And the women with the Socialist Party aren't just active on women's issues but in everything the party does and are encouraged to do so. The big difference I've found being involved in TUSC and the SP is that the members are in touch with the issues they campaign on, they're the ones affected by these cuts and see the impact of them day-to-day. Hell, I'm proud to be part of something that is engaging women without patronising them and working in their interests, no matter how small the party it's better to stand by our principles than sell out those you're supposed to represent.

A Happy (Extremely Belated) New Year!

 Well hello, hello! It has been some time. Between Christmas, New Year and getting back to uni January has been one hell of a month. I expect there'll have been a torrent of 'my new year's resolution' blog posts since the beginning of this month so I kind of feel like I've missed out on something there; still, even if it's not strictly new year anymore I just started back at uni last week (though have been in and out for students' union things) I feel like I'm gradually coming out of hibernation. 

 I'm not a fan of New Year's Resolutions, just because it's a new year by the calendar means people throw themselves into exhausting gym routines, detox diets (don't even get me started on that shit!) and the rest because, well, it's the done thing in January! They're often drastic and impractical changes that cause more stress than good. The only sure way to make changes that stick is through small adjustments one at a time over a long period of time. Putting such pressure on yourself to change in a short period of time isn't a sustainable solution and when you don't reach the goals you set yourself in the time you want to it can lead to a lot of resentment and beating yourself up - trust me, been there done that!

 I've stuck at the 'resolutions' quite well, though I wouldn't really call them that. The word itself sounds like a big grand gesture type thing, these are just little changes - managing my time better, cooking from scratch more and getting takeaway less (broken by 3am January 1st!), and trying to keep the flat tidy. I have been working my bum off on these starting with getting a diary, it's been lovely having everything in one place and with how bad my memory has been lately it's certainly been a big help. Cooking has been great for keeping me in a routine too, it's therapeutic working my way through making a meal considering long-term anxiety I've had around food, the process is very calming seeing exactly what I'm putting into my mouth and how it's all come together. As a feminist I've carried a lot of guilt around my feelings towards food, feeling it's something I should be over by now, I've got the coping mechanisms so why am I still struggling? and so on. And so many online resources from feminist publications just seem a bit too...softly-softly, unhelpful, not really offering practical help but more "yeah, this is an issue...". Meh. Luckily there's a wonderful group here in Newcastle  which offers a lot of support to women in my position.

 Keeping the flat tidy has been...easy, ish. I'm lying actually, I'm rubbish at it. But I'm making a start, little things like loading the dishwasher and doing the washing on a regular basis rather than when I can no longer see the bedroom floor. We're currently planning spending a Sunday taking EVERYTHING out of there into the living room and having a great big clean-and-chuck-out but haven't had a free day to do so yet. It's on the list though!

 Anyway... for the big news: we've got two years left of wedding planning! Last year was pretty much a write-off and nothing has been checked off the to-do list, it's pretty scary thinking how quick the time has gone since we've gotten engaged and the whole 'impending list of doom' there is to complete within the two years we've got left. But y'know, long engagement, the idea was to take it at a chill pace. The panic will undoubtedly kick in pretty soon and you'll be subjected to a wonderfully stressed post about all the worries, I certainly look forward to it!

 Til then, here is a picture of Stormageddon's lovely little bum:

The Death of Tugce Albayrak

 So it's been almost three months. And with good reason. The day after my last post my uncle died and I have to say it really broke me. He'd been ill for a few week and happened just as things seemed to be looking up for him. I'm still totally broken by it. I had considered afterwards just letting this run into obscurity, leave my blog and start fresh. But I saw this today and after months of recovering it brought a lot back up.

Image - Reuters, source: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-europe-30268653

 I saw the news tonight about the death of Tugce Albayrak.

 A woman in Germany was taken off of life support on her 23rd birthday, having sustained brain damage when intervening after hearing cries from two women being harassed in the toilets of a fast food restaurant. There are a lot of elements at fault here but not the actions of Tugce.

 Probably around a month after my last post I was assaulted under similar circumstances, I was on my way to meet somebody at the airport, a woman I had never met before staying with me for the North East Feminist Gathering weekend in October. It was getting late, I had very little phone battery and was by myself on the basis that I'd meet her there and we'd go back to mine together. I had my headphones in and noticed somebody get onto the Metro and sit near me. He tried to engage me in conversation but being wary of travelling alone I kept my head down and ignored him. After a while I saw him get up and move onto another woman but kept a close eye on him, as she was also travelling alone and seemed just as uncomfortable as I did. She also ignored him so he moved onto others, I kept a close eye, up until he sat down with a young woman who looked no older than 16. At that time I decided I needed to intervene, as he touched her face and her legs and she sat saying nothing, visibly terrified.

 There have been many occasions where I have been in the same position as this young woman and to say it is unpleasant is an understatement. Being surrounded be people who don't look up while your personal space and privacy is invaded and feeling totally isolated at the same time. So I got up and though I could be a diversion, even if I just cause a scene rather than making a profound point it will stop him from touching her. I told her not to touch her, who did he think he was? So, in all of his might, he threw a rolled-up newspaper at me. Very tough. I told him I wasn't scared of him. It was a lie, I was terrified. He got up and shoved me down, smirking and swaying while he stood over me and people just looked. 

 "Why aren't you scared of me? You should be scared of me."  

 It sounds very silly to me, still being scared of this, still getting the shakes every time I get on public transport. I came away with damaged tendons and a bit of fear, that's all; but with the size of this man and his behaviour I genuinely thought he could have killed me. That's what a culture of violence against women does to you. 

 My case is still ongoing but seeing this tonight really shook me. The police were really good to me, the Metro workers were too - after I was worried I'd be in trouble for pressing every emergency stop button on my way as I was chased up the carriage. I believe that when Tugce Albayrak intervened in the incident which she did she didn't think she was doing anything remarkable. Neither did I but I was told afterwards how brave I was by friends, by police, by support workers. I didn't feel brave. I felt scared, I felt silly and I felt like I as making a fuss. And seeing the news about a woman dying for doing something similar just makes me all the more scared. If we don't stand up for other women then who will? But if we're assaulted and killed for doing so then who will want to speak up with those threats hanging over them?

 Male privilege is injuring and killing women, the entitlement some men believe they have to women's bodies, space and attention. It wasn't standing up for women that killed Tugce Albayrak, it was male 'entitlement' and violence against women. It wasn't the act of intervention, it was the act of violence against women which killed Tugce. As a good friend of mine says, after the deaths of women in these circumstances people always say there are 'lessons to be learned', but it seems there is a vast library of these so-called lessons out there but nobody is learning from them.

 Tugce Albayrak may not have believed she was a hero but her actions were heroic. Rest in power, sister xx