30 Oct 2008

Women can burn stuff too!

I am shocked. Today after deseeding my big pumpkin I received a call from my fabulous friend George Willow-Mochasian inviting me to a wonderful old pagan-esquire ceremony in Devon (I know!) that involves throwing tar barrels down a hill. I think fire must be involved somewhere... Anyhow. WOMEN CANNOT PARTICIPATE.

I. Know.

So we're not having any of that are we? I have hatched an acerbically planniscious plan to fool them all. I am strong, I've picked many apples in my time; I have carried sacks on them down the path from Aunt Lilly's orchid into the kitchen. I have made jam, I have made crumble, but damn it- I picked the apples!

I therefore shall be assuming the disguise of a man, I shall perform in the competition, win and then reveal my true identity shaming them all! And just in case you're thinking "She can't do it. She's is too weak. How? Impossible! A little woman against all those strong men?" Well readers I have one word for you: steroids.

You wait, you see I will have them ALL: the steroids and the barrels (maybe some men too)

And don;t worry they're not that dangerous- I got some herbal ones from Holland and Barrett.

So I've got my lovely warm jumper ready from good old Aunt Lilly and some sparklers- but most of all I cannot WAIT to toss some barrels. I will be just like Zena Warrior Princess! Well not really like her (awful third waver) I'd like to stick the (post-) in her feminism: Silly bitch.

Sorry. Anyway, here's the link check it out gals!! Will let you know how it goes...


P.S. I think steroids might cure thrush, that or cranberry juice.

27 Oct 2008

Silly me...


almost forgot the link so you can all see how talented I am.

I am a writer. Here is the proof.

Award Winning Writer, Moi?

Hey chics! Bet you're wondering where I've been? Well I have joined a little something called Facebook. It's all the rage. Look me up and become my friend - there are lots of HILARIOUS photos up there and a very special one of the vagina cake I baked for my friend Germaine's birthday!

It's just me and all my young feminist contacts, hanging out, sharing thoughts and relflections. It seems that some people are a little too old for 'FB' (unlike moi), like my friends Melody Wittgenstein and Jackie from the hospital (who's still in the hospital. She was thick, but I was in dire need of self-gratification), who consider Facebook a childish endeavour. But not I!

ALSO you will never guess what has happened? I, me, Posie bloody Rider has been nominated for a FWSA book prize for the ground breaking set of essays "The Suffragettes- Why?"

It's so exciting and such a great testament to the strength of those incredible women. I hail ye all!

If I win I'm going to take the money to make a film about Mary Wollstonecraft and the artistic realisation of the period using grapefruit. I've been planning it for ages it could be the next big thing (I think...)

Love to you all and get online! Stop being such techno-slugs!

Posie and out.

16 Oct 2008

Gerald, or Why I Hate Men

Do you remember Gerald readers? He was coming round for dinner to eat venison when Paramount called and I…well, I DID NOT cook the very expensive venison.

Gerald is a writer, only well, he’s not a writer because he’s never written any books. In fact the only things Gerald writes are Bob Dylan song lyrics on his bedroom wall when he’s sad.

Usually I would maintain silence, as with most things it speaks louder than words. It is far more dignified, but as you’ve probably guessed by now dignity and me are like chalk and cheese.*

No reader I am no pervert, but in order to write my recent collection of poems ‘Bloodsoaked Tampon et al’ (I have included some in the blog), I needed to do some serious ‘investigating’. I wanted to trace my sexum-ego back to the roots of my sexuality. That is why I embarked upon an affair with the 17 year old Gerald.

We dated for a few months, went to the cinema, Tate Modern, Pizza Hut that kind of thing. Condoms; you know. It only lasted for a few dates and, to be honest I didn’t care much for him, but I did manage to write some of the most breath taking poetry paper has ever known!

SO you can imagine my surprise when I yesterday discovered that Gerald is in fact 26 and works in brand management!

I KNOW. My work is wasted, all those poems are fake; just like him! So, I am now going to break him down to size, to un-craft the craftiness of his deception. And what a deception it was…

Gerald is an extremely tall teenager. In fact I was seduced by his spotless skin. But the truth of the matter is that Gerald is NOT a teenager. I KNOW; this makes him duplicitous.

Gerald would often cut himself, that’s how we met actually; we would meet up in the Sainsbury’s car park in Islington and stab pins into our bellies. But I soon began to realise that Gerald really was a tortured person (he wasn’t doing in the name of ‘character research’ as I was).

In fact he was almost obsessed with being tortured. This was probably what tricked me into assuming he was a teenager. (Come to think of it I never actually asked Gerald wht he did. I mean I just assumed that with apersonality like THIS he had to be a teenage... Anyway that's not the point!)

To continue...

Gerald would drink too much, take too may drugs and too many liberties with the people he was closest to. He would worship men who had fallen by the wayside, like Bret Easton Ellis and Jason Donovan, but these men were mavericks who managed to craft beautiful art from their suffering. I have a feeling he too thought he was maverick. But, unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.

This is all easily done. Gerald decided to go and live in a warehouse (not the shop, a real factory warehouse, but it was smart and they paid rent and were all Oxbridge educated, how else could I have coped?)

Come on Gerald! Anyone can take drugs and drink more, live in a shop and say bashful things in an askew attempt to be cutting; I personally use a razor. He thought he could achieve great things. But, unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.

You see the thing with torture readers, is that it infers there is some kind of mystery and within mystery lies great, untapped potential. Someone is only tortured because they prevent themselves from reaching their full potential. BUT it turns out Gerald has no real potential at all!
And do you want to know why reader? He would need incredible sensitivity. For a loser is not tortured, a shop assistant is not tortured, poets and artists are tortured. He seemed to assume he was one of the latter (a dreamer JUST LIKE A TEENAGER). But, unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.

He worked at Nickelodeon and had the sensitivity of dead processed fish.

He was astoundingly arrogant without any of the necessary intelligence to back it up. It was pitiful when he never relented in arguments, nor showed any curiosity in areas he didn’t understand, which were an awful lot of areas.

FYI (And when he did learn something from someone of superior mind, he had to dress it up in the framework of ‘having lessons’ like a little baby, so embarrassed he was by encountering a superior brain)

His obsession with seeming clever also materialised in his writing style, scrambling words so that it made no sense in the hope that people would assume their own stupidity had prevented them from understanding. But Gerald there is no excuse for bad grammar!

He would also shout and lot and talk like a chaffinch on heat. He thought that I, Posie le Rider, might fall for it? But unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.


He was destructive and raucous, he demanded my constant attention, like baby (once gain, the duplicity comes in here).

All these things are unconscious of course. Gerald has no idea of them, but I have had too many cognitive therapy sessions not to understand all these signs.

Gerald often thought me unaffectionate and bossy, but I would rather be a demon through and through than sport the gloss of concern as he does.

The one small comfort I take with me is the knowledge that Gerald shall never be the great writer he dreams of being. Do you know why readers? One word: empathy.

A great writer breathes empathy; it’s her life-blood. It brings the world not only into her mind, but into her heart. A great writer needs a great heart filled with the complexities of fears unknown, loves unknown, pains unknown. She needs eyes that see more than people, ears that hear more than sounds and instincts that speak louder than thoughts.

Of course I too had to pretend to be 16. I bought glasses, wore leggings. But you cannot blame me for not being more than honest about my great writing ability. I am INDEED a talented author so I tell you this from experience: first and foremost a writer needs empathy. But unfortunately for Gerald, that just wasn’t the case.

*IN FACT it has always been my Aunt’s opinion that men are generally too small. Therefore it is morally unjustified for women to fight the insatiable anger they feel towards them. Just like chocolate.

14 Oct 2008

Sally, or an Independent Woman Chapter 2

More treats for you! Writing is so theraputic, and important. Particularly when you've had the weekend from HELL like poor Posie! Enjoy!


“I found a really big moth in my wardrobe last night, only I didn’t know what to do with it!” Fran was crying into her skinny latte, “So I just put a big glass over it and watched it flapping around in there all alone…just like me!”

Lunch was nearly over and Sally sat fixated on her new shoes. They were fluffy and pink and far more interesting than Fran.

“And then I thought of David because he always used to catch the moths you see,” Then with panic surfacing in her eyes, struggling against the puddles of realisation she asked, “Whose going to catch the moths now Sally? I’m not! I hate moths!” Fran erupted into hysteria, banging her head against the table, spilling the bowl of balsamic vinegar and olive oil from the beginning of the meal all over her head.

“Calm down, you’re making a scene,” Sally said, trying to subtly mop up the grease.

“But whose going to catch the little moths?” Fran sobbed, “Who will release them into the wild?

“I’m sure David will move back in soon,” she threw down the browned napkin and wanted to give Fran a good slap round the face but decided against it.

“Why is she yapping on about moths?” Sally had no idea. Now it was silent and she would have to say something, again.

“Now Fran,” she tried to look serious by putting the palms of her hands together as if in prayer, “That woman is too old to have children. Now, all men want is food and children. They are all just like David Beckham- extremely simple. He’ll be home soon, you’ll see.”

Fran smiled and a little bit of olive oil trickled down her face.

Sally quickly added “I didn’t mean David Beckham was coming home of course, I meant the other David. Imagine: you with David Beckham!” Sally burst into a fit of laughter and starting beating her fist on the table. She had cracked a fine joke and would have given herself a pat on the back if she hadn’t been wearing such a bulbous gillet that day.

When the laughing was finally at an end, Sally dried her eyes and Fran pushed away her food. She was looking thin and Sally was jealous. “When was the last time you ate?” she asked, “You haven’t touched you’re nicoise salad.”

“David always said that it was bad to eat tuna,” she replied. “Now that he’s gone, well I thought I was strong enough to eat it but…I’m just not!” The tears came crashing back down onto the tablecloth and Sally seized the opportunity to start talking about herself.

“It’s my anniversary today. Aren’t you going to wish me a happy anniversary?”

“Hap-py anni-vers-ary Sally,” Fran sniffed.

“Well done. Now that wasn’t too hard was it? Kindness doesn’t cost you know, pleasantries don’t charge.”

Fran tied back the hair from her face and blew her nose. Deep black lines encircled her eyes and she had never been paler. She had to pull herself together; her life was less important than Sally’s. “How are you going to celebrate?” she muttered.

“He’s taking me to Le Gavroche!” Sally squeaked, “Look at my shoes, oh and look at the anniversary card Jenson made for us, isn’t it cute?”

Sally had taken out a piece of damp toilet paper about 5 ft long and was slowly unravelling it to reveal a series of pictures documenting her romance with Dominic. The scene was drawn badly in felt tip pen and the acidic ink had created large holes across the paper. It was shredded at the corners and slightly yellow.

“He’s been learning about the Bayeux Tapestry at school and thought he’d make one for his mummy and daddy. He’s very creative. Look, he’s drawn an arrow going through my eye here, just like King Harold.”

“Yes,” Fran replied apathetically. She was staring into her coffee.

“Christ Fran, you could at least pretend to be interested!” But Fran just kept staring at the lukewarm latte or the sugar bowl or the toothpicks or the handbag, at anything except the thing Sally was trying to show her. “Why isn’t she looking at the thing I’m trying to show her?” Sally thought to herself.

She decided to grab her friend’s attention by raising her voice, as if she were talking to a disabled person, “I said I think Jenson has a real talent for art, that he could even make a career out of it, that or history. Fran, hello?”

Silence. Fran was so selfish like that! Why did it always have to be about her? The two had met at Interior Design College in the early nineties. Fran studied curtains and Sally was taking a diploma in cushions. People said they got on like a house on fire; a popular irony because house fires were particularly bad for interior designers. Yet Sally always got the impression that Fran thought herself superior and would frequently claim that curtains were more important than cushions because they blocked out the light to help people sleep. But what about when you have a bad back? Never thought about that did she?

Fran, who was shaking and rocking forward and backwards, interrupted Sally’s musings. She was tightly twisting a napkin round her thumb until it turned white. Her eyes: vacant. Her cheeks: white. Her smile: vacant. She glared into the cold tuna and whispered; “Fly away little moth…fly away home…” Then looking out of the window she continued; “When a moth flies to a light bulb it thinks its flying to the moon, but it’s not Sally, no, it’s only a tiny light bulb,” she paused, then like the peaceful eeriness before a storm when the gentle wind pushes a child’s swing or spins the wheel on an upturned bicycle, there came the the most almightly racket, “But it never gives up!” Fran shouted, “Always pushing, always reaching upwards to something it can never touch! Poor, stupid, little moth!”

Her head came crashing down on the table once more leaving Sally irritated by her friend’s pointless display of melodrama. All that imagery was so unnecessary and besides this was her story. She quickly downed her cappuccino and when the bill was paid the two women set off down Westbourne Park, popping into Monsoon where Sally bought a glitter pencil and Fran got a new hat. “Why do you still buy that stupid stationary?” asked Fran. “You’re a grown woman Sally Pooper.”

“I know, but they’re just so cute. I still keep a diary you know. I write in it when I can and I only use my special pens.”

They turned the corner and reached Fran’s shop. Fran had set up her own curtain shop, Curly Curtains, two years ago. People could bring in photographs or pictures and she would print them onto curtains. That afternoon she was printing a photograph of Pat Sharp onto a blind for a downstairs loo.

“Well here’s where I leave you,” she said. “Have a great time tonight.”

“Thanks and you take care now.” Sally turned shook out her beautiful long blonde hair and started strutting down the street, but half way down she stopped and turned; Fran was calling after her. “Sally!” she cried, “I’m not going to let the moth go!”

Sally bit her lip; people were staring. “For god’s sake will you shut up about that bloody moth?”

She quickly ran back down the street to Fran who was glued to the shop doorframe. Sally pushed her inside. “It’s really embarrassing!” she whispered, “just get back inside the shop OK?” Fran started crying again, but Sally really couldn’t be bothered. “I’ll see you soon,” she said and made off down the street.

Desperate not to be recognised Sally held the shopping bag containing her new shoes in front of her face. “How humiliating!” she thought, “I mean what was all that moth nonsense about anyway? I’m Sally Pooper, what do I care about any stupid moths? What does a moth, trapped in a glass, trying to reach a light bulb it has unknowingly mistaken for a moon have to do with me?”

“Ouch!” She had walked straight into a phone box. Rubbing her head she looked up through the glass to see a familiar, yet slightly shocked, face staring right back at her. It was Sylvia Bloomingdale.

2 Oct 2008

Sally, or an Independent Woman: A Fiction

OK readers! so, as promised, here' s my latest offering to my literary mistresses on high! It's a working title. I was thinking 'a womb of her own' but I'm not sure, don't you think it's quite sexist?

It's basically a pastiche of chick lit, a genre I totally subvert in this incredibly probing work.

So, this is the first chapter. Tune in soon for the next!

Sally, or an Independent Woman: A Fiction

Last night I dreamt I was back in Cork, before the famine killed all the little potatoes. I dreamt I was with Gim, my Irish boyfriend. Gim worked down the mines and in the night time we would pick potatoes together. But then the famine came.

It happened on a Sunday when I did start to bleed. But my Irish friends, who did not know what it was to be woman, thought me a witch and cast me out yonder.

But then the famine came. Thinking it be a curse to punish those who had wronged me so, the villagers came after me with pitchforks and sticks of fire. “Kill Shirley! Kill Shirley!” they yelled.

Oh, I was scared without Gim! But he was still down the mines! So with courage in my heart when they found me crouching in ditch, I stood up against the mob!

“Stop you fools!” cried I. “I am Shirley! Yes I bleed! I bleed as did Christ on his most holy of crosses. I give myself up to the mercy of the little baby Jesus, now, in the hour of my need. He shall hear me and all shall be well!”

But nay alas! With their pitchforks high in the air and fire consuming the sky the mob crept nearer and nearer towards me. The heat rose, my heart leapt, the blade hurtled towards my eye and then-

Sally woke up. It was a beautiful day in Notting Hill. The sun was shining and she could hear the gentle hum of city life outside her massive town house. She put out her hand to find that Dominic had already left for work. Dominic. He was in business.

Sally couldn’t stop thinking about her dream, nightmare, even. As a West London physiologist she was quite accustomed to over analysing and occasionally cutting herself. She pondered the meaning of Shirley.

“Irish? Well maybe its about music, or the colour green?” Sally concluded that yes, the dream must certainly symbolise the hope associated with the colour green; the colour of Ireland. Happily contemplating the good fortune her dream might bring the burning smell and hiss of the straightening irons let her know that she had finished doing her hair and after some more time putting on make up she was ready to start the day. Tuesday 23rd September 2007. It went something like this:

Someone else take Jenson to school
Shoe shopping (!)
Lunch with Fran
Book Group
Dinner with Dominic…

Dominic! Could you believe it? Married for 13 years today. The arrival of little Jenson eight years ago made their family complete and now they had a Russian au pair, Александра, they were truly happy. Sally couldn’t resist creeping over to the wardrobe to have a peek at the GORGEOUS Amanda Wakley in her closet. Tonight was going to be so magical, Dominic said he had a surprise for her. What could it be?

But then Sally remembered Fran. Oh Fran, poor Fran. Fran, who had recently discovered that David had been shagging his secretary. To make matters worse the secretary was actually 18 years older than Fran. Not that it really made that much difference, “Fran is pretty ugly”, Sally thought to herself.

Poor Fran. Sally had done everything she could, she had even given her free physiology, but still the pain remained. Fran was a broken woman. It made Sally realise how lucky she was- Dominic would never cheat on her. No, Sally and Dominic would be the happiest, best, most amazing couple in the world, always! Sally was spinning round so much she fell over and wacked her head on the wardrobe. But just before that she thought: With a love that strong how could it not last forever?