Merry Christmas indeed!

I've left the slushy doom of London for Hampshire with Aunt Lily. She avoided the dangerous roads by saddling her prize pony, Emily Davison, and sending her to the station to meet me - such a clever pony. I can't ride, unfortunately, having had a series of equine dreams as an infant which my psychoanalyst attributed to penis envy - since then, horses have always struck me as inherently patriarchal, even when ridden side-saddle. Emily courageously led me on foot through the icy forests to Aunt Lil's, and we've been sharing bottle after bottle of mulled Martini Rossi since Sunday night.

A couple of Christmas treats for you then, a la Posie. Firstly, Laura Dekker, a 14 year old Dutch female has been found on a Caribbean island after running away from sexist bureaucrats who have been trying to stop her achieving the world record for the youngest individual to single-handedly sail around the world. The record is currently held by one Mike Perham, a 17 year old boy from Britain, and apparently the authorities intend to thwart Ms Dekker until she's old enough for it not to be a record, or until a younger boy comes along who's able to beat her. Well sod off, cried Ms Dekker, as she escaped from her captors and sassily sailed off to the Caribbean, proving herself to be both physically and mentally capable of the trip, as well as a feminist icon in the making. We've heard of the plight of Shakespeare's Sister - but what about Sir Francis Drake's? Or Columbus'? Let her sail - Elizabeth I would have and how cool was she?

Secondly, Rage Against the Machine are Christmas number one! I've never heard of them before, I think they're some kind of funk band, but isn't it great? Better than last year's Christian fundamentalist rip-off vom fest.

Finally, three cheers for Melody who is the first woman to walk the Channel Tunnel alone without informing the authorities. She's text to tell me that last night she became so bored of waiting in Folkstone that she parked her Merc in a privet hedge, slipped stealthily, like a fox, through the barriers, underneath a high speed train and into the Tunnel itself. She's just resurfaced in Calais and, having only stopped once for a quick pee beneath a signal, is resting in a refugee encampment and sharing her story with local would-be travellers. So not only has she beat the system, she's also helping to overhaul the Anglo-French fascist immigration policy. You go Melody! She's hoping to make it to Rouen by the evening clinging to the underside of a HGV.

So, hope you have a lovely time and all my festive kisses to you, wherever you may be, as long as you're not a Post-Feminist!
xx

Psycho(self)analyst

Well, the first few weeks (weeks? has it been longer? Massive delirium) of my self-analysis have been fraught with mishaps and misdiagnosis.

At first, it seemed my ego had formed a pathological identification of itself with a lost-loved object, later I seemed to have returned to a stage of anal-narcissism, for a little while I was concerned that I was cathecting purely onto imaginary unconscious objects (thus treating my own body as the object of the beloved) and most scarily of all I seemed to have ceased object-cathexis altogether and be floating in a state of schizophrenic bliss, converting latent thoughts to 'real objects'.

I ruled a father complex out at once because Daddy was such a dear, and besides he died when I was only three on the River Thames at Marlowe. Aunt Lily may of course have brought me up all wrong, but with Showalter I'm inclined to disregard Freud's thoughts on the narcissism and neurosis of homosexuality as just plain behind the times. Surely homosexual thoughts can't be evidence that I fancy myself? I nearly married Ann and she was nothing like me: much less attractive and rather stupid to boot.

I wish I could diagnose myself as an hysteric - feminists go crazy for the early divas of female hysteria, and Helene Cixous thought they were heroes, valiantly and quite reasonably responding to patriarchy's oppression. There's some wonderful stuff about Obsessional Neurotics in Freud and their strong reactions to the repression of ambivalent thoughts about loved ones (all the boyfriends I've secretly hated) but it doesn't fit - I'm too messy to have an OCD. It's a shame, as other hysterias are mostly caused by confused object-cathexis as a result of a faulty Oedipal repression (after the infant realises they're not going to have their wicked way with the mother/father, they quickly put it out of their mind at once and form an ideal image of the parents (Super-Ego) to act as a conscience against any other silly incestuous thoughts). Pathologies can apparently be caused by incomplete repression - Freud describes animal phobias in this way (eg. Wolf Man) as well as hysteric ticks or convulsions, which are the unconscious' way of expressing the chafing repression, which the conscious mind resists. I have been known sometimes to lash out at strangers or swear suddenly, but I'm not sure this qualifies as le grande hysterie. But, I'm disinclined to believe I got the Oedipal stuff wrong: it's so elementary. It would be embarrassing.

All that's left is psychosis, which is supposed to be brought about by the foreclosure of a primordial signifier, the Name-of-the-Father: a nice and complicated theoretical type condition, which also rejects universal patriarchal signifiers, a massive plus and very much up my street. Also, there's a withdrawal of libidinal energy from the outside world, which fits as my love life is dead at the moment. The delusional formulation (libido turned inward to ego and fantasy objects) makes an awful lot of sense as I can be a little self-involved, and Emmeline (my cat) tells me I live in a dream-world, which I always thought is absolutely essential for a great writer, like Tolstoy. I have cause to reflect on the period in which I wrote Me, Tim and my Quim (which was once to be made into a major Hollywood film, before the recession hit etc) and in all honesty I can say I must have been suffering from some pretty severe delusions: in the novel, I have a passionate and highly literary love affair with my psycho-sexual counsellor, while in reality I did not have any kind of affair with my psycho-sexual counsellor, though not for want of trying.

Unfortunately, psychosis is a rather indistinct condition, basically quite a lot like neurosis, and its existence has been contested. I don't want to be neurotic, as it reeks of desperation, and if it comes to that I'll just diagnose myself as perfectly sane and perhaps a little under-stretched intellectually in my current employment. That's the beauty of being a Lady Psychologist, readers!

xxx

Self-Medication, Dr Freud

SO I've been a little patchy recently in le blog as I've been having a psychotic episode. Or two. Or twenty seven. Probably since I've last web-logged there have been as many episodes of Hollyoaks as I've had psychic traumas, and that's including the Sunday round up and taking each portion of it as a stand alone episode, so probably about six in all I guess. And I don't even watch Hollyoaks.

Recently, you see, I've been writing my memoirs for publication on the divine Women's Parliamentary Radio, entitled A Year Off the Ward, which is an account of my admirable mental health in the last twelve months or so, and how through positive thinking, creative sublimation and vigorous self-medication I have managed to avoid a) suicide, b) self harm (sort of), c) stalking (again, sort of), d) violence, aggression towards the young, petty theft and arson (all except arson have been a little patchy I admit). Most importantly, I have avoided being sectioned since June 2007 and, like a repeat offender recently released from prison, the fact that I haven't been sent straight back within the month certainly calls for a celebration of the diazepam-and-white-wine-spritzer kind.

However, writing my memoirs seems to have plunged me into a relapse. Now I know what you're thinking lady readers, this should have sent me running to my blog, or encouraged me to compose a series of Mental Health Tweets, which would probably have me lambasted like the poor dear who wrote very sensibly about her miscarriage (did you see it? if not she said:

I'm in a board meeting. Having a miscarriage. Thank goodness, because
there's a fucked-up three-week hoop-jump to have an abortion in Wisconsin.

Wonderful says Posie! I couldn't have put it better myself.) God knows what the modern middle class neurotic would do were it not for the ready opportunities to monetise one's disturbances. However, I thought that, with the book coming out, I'd keep my material 'fresh' as it were, and try to sublimate furiously through a series of monoprints of female saints castrating dragons figured as menstrual hallucinations (coming soon).

That having failed, I turned to my trusty Freud, the beloathed Father, to do a little self-therapy. I have, you see, run a little slow on the trust fund this season and, with no Christmas shopping done to speak of, need to prioritise my outgoings in order to buy those Jo Malone candles for Emmeline, and Aunt Lily's yearly kilo of Laduree fig macaroons. A therapist, therefore is out of the question, and as feminist critic Sally R. Munt rightly termed such bourgeois femmes as myself 'consumers of therapy', who pay £40 a week so that someone can tell us our thoughts are valid, I am happy to sacrifice this luxury for the greater good.

So, having briskly skimmed through Mourning and Melancholia, Totem etc & Freud's entire case notes on Hysteria (supplemented by readings in Elaine Showalter, the darling, so that I don't get too carried away). I am now to proceed with psycho-analysing myself. Keep updated for next installment! Emmeline is going to hypnotise me now.

I've been Googling the hell out of women all this week and do you know that Tori Amos is a feminist?

The worst jobs in the world for Women? Posie Rider investigates...

Lady readers! I must apologise for my absence of late. I've been incredibly busy drafting A Year off the Ward, which looks set to be published but only on the condition that I first pen a serious exploration of the dumbest jobs for women in the UK. I know what you’re thinking

“This is Posie Rider- a middle to upper-middle class urban haute bourgeois lady writer with a trust fund large enough to purchase a small African country- why would she be writing an article on air-head jobs for women?”

Well readers, that’s kind of the point. The piece is designed to be incredibly shocking, namely because of my hostile reaction to employment opportunities miles beneath my superior intellect. For instance last week I spent a whole three days working in a ‘PR’ company in the ‘HR’ department, which mainly consisted of me ordering Marks and Spencer’s mince pies online and emptying packets of ready salted crisps into little bowls to go with the ‘dress-down Friday’ bar that opens each…Friday. God it was hell. My incredible brain hadn’t been so distressed since I got a B in my Art A-level. Those of you who have had the honour of seeing my incredible artistic offerings on this blog will know that such a claim is totally unfounded and the equivalent of stealing an ice-cream from a small child playing in the sunshine and possibly flashing your genitalia at her: perverted and wrong.

This week I’ve been working in an supposed ‘organic’ kitchen, which I thought would be a more pleasant pursuit, but how wrong I was (my toilet cleaner is more organic than the contents of their culinary offerings). When embarking upon a recipe for Sorrel, Leak and Venison soup I was rudely told to put down my chopping knife and start preparing some egg and cress sandwiches. Egg and cress sandwiches! This was a shop on the high street in Holborn (I sought a position in Borough Market but needless to say there were none available - sigh) but even in this run down cafe I was most shocked by the substandard eating habits of the masses. Next week I’m going to be a receptionist at a hair salon where, in order to fully embrace the role, I am required to peruse those awful publications that go by the name of Heat and Grazia.

However, once again (as with most of my literary purists) I do all this all in the name of great art. For upon completing this terrible article I have been guaranteed publication of my ground-breaking A Year off the Ward.

I (often) feel like a female Jesus! It really is too too much to bear the weight on womankind, and yet I go on... Toodles! x

Ah Dave Buss, I presume?

So, I've been researching David Buss and it turns out he's the professor of psychology at the University of Texas, which explains A LOT.

Sadly, this also means that I will be unable to attend any of his lectures and confront him over his very sexist (and probably uninformed) claims about women in the bedroom.

In the mean time I am going to start drafting a very rude email accompanied by an excerpt from my up and coming scientific pamphlet: Dorian Lay.

More insulting assumptions about women in the bedroom!

My nemesis, the so-called 'scientist' (science-tit more like) David Buss has decided to compile all his stupid ideas into one book for our reading pleasure. It's a work upon why women want sex, and Dave really knows what he's talking about. Tanya Gold reviewed it in The Guardian.

She writes:

"Then I learn why women marry accountants; it's a trade-off. "Clooneyish" men tend to be unfaithful, because men have a different genetic agenda from women – they want to impregnate lots of healthy women. Meston and Buss call them "risk-taking, womanising 'bad boys'". So, women might use sex to bag a less dazzling but more faithful mate. He will have fewer genetic benefits but more resource benefits that he will make available, because he will not run away. This explains why women marry accountants. Accountants stick around – and sometimes they have tiny little feet!"

As ridiculous as Dave's theory may seem - I can't help but think there's an element of truth behind it. My past experience with 'bad boys' aka Gerald (although actually just a whiny sack of congealed chauvinistic gunk) and 'bad girls' aka Ann (although actually just a chav) has shown that they were not faithful mates to me. Maybe it's time I skulked around the Men's shoe department in Harrods on the look out for a man with size six feet? Or stand dressed like a prostitute outside KPMG?

Basically the possibilities are endless- thanks Dave! Oh how I'd love to shove a vagina cake in your mouth and watch you choke. But that not being an option (because I don't know where you live YET) let's move on to explore Dave's other really insightful observations about the opposite sex:

"And so to the main reason women have sex. The idol of "women do it for love, and men for joy" lies broken on the rug like a mutilated sex toy: it's orgasm, orgasm, orgasm. "A lot of women in our studies said they just wanted sex for the pure physical pleasure," Meston says. Meston and Buss garnish this revelation with so much amazing detail that I am distracted. I can't concentrate. Did you know that the World Health Organisation has a Women's Orgasm Committee? That "the G-spot" is named after the German physician Ernst Gräfenberg? That there are 26 definitions of orgasm?"

OK the last part is quite interesting (Meston is Buss's 'female co-writer', although is probably non-existent- a construct designed to confound women and make them buy the book. If she is real she's probably an illegal immigrant!)

"And so, to the second most important reason why women have sex – love. "Romantic love," Meston and Buss write, "is the topic of more than 1,000 songs sold on iTunes." And, if people don't have love, terrible things can happen, in literature and life: "Cleopatra poisoned herself with a snake and Ophelia went mad and drowned." Women say they use sex to express love and to get it, and to try to keep it."

I'm sorry Dave but that ^ is definitely NOT true.

"Meston and Buss also explain why the girls in my class at school went down like dominoes in 1990. One week we were maidens, the following week, we were not. We were, apparently, having sex to see if we liked it, so we could tell other schoolgirls that we had done it and to practise sexual techniques: "As a woman I don't want to be a dead fish," says one female. Another interviewee wanted to practise for her wedding night."

This is not the 19th century, stupid women! Although they're probable friends with Dave which explains why they're incredibly stupid.

Yes, upon reflection, I remember that awful summer when every single girl at Our Burning Infant Hearts Primary School lost their virginity in the graveyard. I was the only one who didn't. Not because I was a feminist at the time you understand, but because I was writing my precocious historical work; 'Eleanor of Aquitaine: A Life in Haiku'. All my life history is revealed in my upcoming work 'Posie Rider: A Year Off the Ward' published by WPR Books, in which I cover my time and school and psychoanalyse myself to buggery in an attempt to stay sane.

Back to Dave and the part where he really excels himself:

"Women also mate to get the things they think they want – drugs, handbags, jobs, drugs. "The degree to which economics plays out in sexual motivations," Buss says, "surprised me. Not just prostitution. Sex economics plays out even in regular relationships. Women have sex so that the guy would mow the lawn or take out the garbage. You exchange sex for dinner." He quotes some students from the University of Michigan. It is an affluent university, but 9% of students said they had "initiated an attempt to trade sex for some tangible benefit"."

Would these kind of books ever be written about men? I know plenty of intellectual artistic types of males with lawyer girlfriends to keep them afloat. Indeed having a giant trust fund and a family heritage stretching back to the Norman Conquest, I too have had to bare the brunt of men only after me for my good looks and cash. I fight them off on a regular basis, if not with my copy of Simone de Beauvoir then with my sheer intelligence, which I can tell you now, most of them seem unable to handle.

Men sleep around for self-gain just as much as women, in fact I think they may do it more often. If you think about a successful ugly man wanting a pretty (dumb) girlfriend odds are its in order to improve his image. Now that's worse than just wanting economic independence like Virginia Woolf or Coco Chanel. That's buying someone's body and selling your own soul in exchange for improved self-image.

Be damned! Flees flea say I!

So inspired by Dave's miraculous study I have decided to write my own faux scientific pamphlet entitled:

"Dorian's Lay: How men sell their silly souls for sex"
by Posie Rider.

Plus I'm all over this Dave Buss character like a rash... I'm going to tell him exactly what I think...

And i wasn't alone in thinking Strictly Come Dancing attire is 'trashy'

Look what I've found:

One of the two professional costumiers that supplies dresses to Strictly is DanceSport International in Croydon. DSI hires the dresses to the BBC, and then sells them to anyone who could possibly want a half-dress made of fringing and feathers in some eye-burningly luminous shade. Twenty-five dresses worn on Strictly are being shown on the DSI website as I write, prices on application. Every dress is based on a leotard; some of the celebs choose to wear something under the leotard, others don't. Even the virtual nudity that features in so many of the Latin routines is fake, although the grotesque bump and grind is real enough.

I know. Anyone would have thought I had written that, but it was in fact Germaine Greer.

Read the rest of her article in which she whole heartedly agrees with moi here.
Great minds think alike.

He's Back...

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into your living rooms Chris bloody Hollins rears his ugly sexist head.

You may remember Hollins for the sexist remarks he made last year to innocent news present Sian Williams. I of course stepped up to the challenge and made my thoughts known to the BBC (aka the Basically for Boys Corporation), but they refused to meet my requests and Hollins is still allowed to run wild of licence fee payers televisions insulting the female race.

And now he's managed to worm his way into Strictly Come Dancing! I can't believe he's been allowed to set foot on the set for this 'family' show. Bruce Forsyth presents it for god's sake, although I'm sure even his hands are not clean from the putrid stains of chauvinism.

Look at this video of him yapping on about himself:
< SEXIST!
Quote: "I can't wait for the tight outfits..."

We all know ballroom dancing is pretty misogynistic anyway. Those gaudy dresses are terribly revealing and remind me of that awful debutant's ball I was forced to attend during my late teens. I of course spent most of the night alone in the toilets writing poetry, a pass time more worthy of my creative talents. Apologies, I digress. But what's more even shocking is my concurrence with the Daily Male when they criticised the skimpy 'dish cloth' dresses for 'cheapening the show'. I was of course one of the angry viewers who called in and made my thoughts KNOWN to the BBC. You just can't get away with skirts that short before the watershed. I refer you to said article. And then of course there was the sexist ageism evident in the dismissal of the lovely old biddy Arlene-what's-her-name.

And just when you thought it couldn't get anymore sexist... Chris Hollins is a contestant!

<"TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF HER!": sexual harrassment on live telly.

Lady readers, I would urge you not to vote at all, but if you must know that I am officially endorsing Natalie Cassidy (aka Sonia from Eastenders). I admire her courage for appearing to national television despite being extremely overweight. Her winning might set a positive example to other young fat girls.

We fight on and we fight to win! Toodles!

'A Virgin's Tale' after Bridget Bardot

Bridget Bardot, French existentialist sex kitten, has just turned 75. Retrospectives of this formidable blonde's life have caused me to reflect on, well, my own life. Like Bardot, I was at my prime in my youth. Before I discovered barbiturates, before booze, long before I discovered men, my first love was writing. I was a prolific writer even before my earliest memories, when Aunt Lily tells me I would scrawl nonsensical letters up the walls of the family house, convinced that I was a new prophet after having been given a Good News Bible by a well-meaning Popish cousin. Christianity would not hold my formidable imagination in thrall for long.

I finished my first opera Thebes, A Virgin’s Tale: Parts 1-9 by aged eight, then began to experiment with higher artistic forms including drama, mime and philosophic dialogues. One of my most precocious works from this period with which you may be familiar, Persephone: Pythagorean Musings of a Woman in Perpetual Despair, won Little Miss Brain Award, Hampshire in 1993 - past winners include Philippa Gregory, Marie Curie and Diana,Princess of Wales.

Having exhausted the genre of Socratic Discourse at the ripe old age of twelve I turned my talents to poetry, fiction and historical writing. You may be familiar the historical biography Eleanor of Aquitane: A Life in Haiku and my later work The Tears of the Wood Nymph which won the Marianne Keyes prize for Creative Writing. And now let me treat you to Greek Tragedy I composed on a holiday to the Lake District aged 11 in the style of Handel's Aces and Galatea.


Thebes: A Virgin’s Tale

ACT 1 Scene 1

The Temple of Apollo, Thebes. A CHORUS of Humming Birds stand centre right.

Chorus: The Oracle The Oracle The Oracle!

A Virgin steps down from the Temple of Apollo in Thebes. She is followed by a host of wild animals, including finches, mice and rabbits. She holds a basket of wild oats which she begins to symbolically sprinkle on the ground.

The Virgin: Hail! I hear a new morn dawn in Thebes
What can it mean? What can it be?

The Rabbit: This is a new context.

The Finch: I feel like I’ve been pecked.

The Mouse: Oh an Oedipal effect.

Chorus: The Oracle The Oracle The Oracle!

The Virgin: Philomena I am called and my tragic tale applaud
For now I share with thee how cruel the world can be!
I was born alone

Chorus: Alone Alone Alone!

The Virgin: The mother was a whore

Chorus: Whore Whore Whore!

The Virgin: To the temple I did come.

Chorus: Attention!

The Army of Zeus enters stage left. Step forward ZEUS disguised as an attractive athlete.

Zeus: I have come to Thebes to find a Vir-------gin!

Chorus: Hap Hap Happy!

Zeus: What’s this?
A little girl to pillage.
Best looking in the village!

Chorus: Run Run Philomena!

Zeus: To make her mine
Will be no crime
Cause she’s so fine!

Chorus: Rape Rape and Death!

Virgin: Nay I shall not relent
My will cannot be bent
Although a maid of humble offing
I shall not be pushed into boffing!

Chorus: Apollo Apollo save her save her

Virgin: I am scared as Laius
When screwed up and cursed us
Poor me like Antigone
To an underground home shall flee

Chorus: Zeus Zeus is in your house!

Virgin: Ay me so I see
But he shall not steal my chastity!

VIRGIN Exits.

Zeus: To pluck her virgin’s tooth
I’ll have to use a hoof
Disguised as a fine horse
My plan shall surely take its course.

ZEUS and THE ARMY OF ZEUS Exit.

Chorus: Yes we’ll make a killing for there’s no chance of Zeus wining!

The Rabbit: Poor Philomena!

Chorus: Zeus will surely woo her!

The Finch: She’d love to ride a pony!

The Chorus: And Zeus is just a phoney!

The Mouse: Nay she cannot fail!

The Chorus: For it is called a Virgin’s Tale, a Virgin’s Tale!
Oh Oh Oh it is!
The Oracle The Oracle The Oracle!

The curious case of the Bluestocking Pony and a warning to us all...

Can you believe it? ANOTHER one of my great ancestors has been written about AGAIN in terribly important historical work. This time it's about the bluestockings and my great great Auntie Polly Constance Rider.

She features in a wonderful book by the author Jane Robinson called Bluestockings - The Remarkable Story of the First Women to Fight for an Education. I read about it on the F-word. Although my great great auntie is not directly mentioned a dear anecdote pointed me in the right direction:

... the story of Constance Maynard, for example, appears across several chapters and eventually the mention of her name is like rediscovering an old friend. That Maynard’s father tried to bribe her out of accepting a university place by offering her a pony seems to tickle Robinson in particular, as she brings it up repeatedly. You can almost see her eyes rolling.

Well indeed, because my great great Auntie Polly Constance Rider, was indeed that very Constance! She later married a Maynard and dropped the Polly (she went on to work for Mi5 in Moscow and they thought it was a bit of a giveaway). But what Robinson doesn't know, and what history books won't tell you, is that she accepted that pony with eager joy: and do not roll your eyes Robinson! For she used that pony to become a highway robber, which gave her financial independence, the kind an education could never buy.

Indeed as feminists we must step outside of these pre conceived 'notions' of 'education'. It's very small minded. The whole of life is an erudite force cleaning the tunnels of our minds like a lavender-scented aromatherapy candle (divine!). In this respect one has to conclude that you are either born highly intelligent or just plain dumb, and I think we all know what category the Riders fall into.

Hugs and Pugs!

Posie Rider: My life as an Activist

Now as you'll all know I am descended from a long line of female activists dating back to William the Conquerer's consort Matilda de Ridier IV, so after reading said article in the Observer today, which considers why women are better campaigners than men, I feel that, as an obvious voice of authority in such matters, I am total liberty to extrapolate.



Lady readers, we all know that women make far superior campaigners because:



a) women have and still shoulder the burden of man's prejudice: "we are the Jews for all seasons" as my Aunt Lilly used to say. As a result we are forced to take to arms in order to defend our lot and thus demonstrate our skills.



b) women represent the future of humanity.



c) (the obvious) women are better than men.



d) the media trust women more than men, mainly (and this is scientific fact) because we have longer hair.



e) most women are too stupid to understand anything, rendering them incapable of activating against anything compesmentus. As a result any female initiative seems more impressive than in really is. In fact sustained female efforts to effectively act in unison in the name of politics is extremely rare when you consider the woman:political cause ratio. Of course many women have attempted to master the group dynamic but often land up lost in large out of town supermarkets, or in cat fights over what colour paint to use on thier activist posters. Some can't even open their own front doors.



I personally am dead set against violence - "the pen is zen, the sword is fraud,'' as my Aunt Lilly used to say. You'll be able to see from my letter writing campaigns against the very sexist Ricky Gervais and the bigot sports presenter Chris (I can't even remember your surname) something from the BBC, that these campaigns have indeed proved most effective and will no doubt go on to change the course of humanity itself.



In the mean time I have a lovely afternoon planned making a courgette tart. Melody is coming over later and we're going to play scrabble. Toodles xx

Why Women Are Really Afraid of Psychologists

Last week's news coverage of a would-be psychologist's proof that women are 'genetically predisposed to be socially conditioned in certain ways', aka to be afraid of spiders, while men are less likely to fear spiders, has to be the most depressing thing ever. EVER. Here are some highlights from the Sky News coverage.


Why Women are Really Afraid of Sexist Spiders

Psychologist Dr David Rakison from Pittsburgh's Carnegie Mellon University tested 10 girls and 10 boys, all aged 11-months, with pictures of spiders to see how they reacted. He showed them images of a spider next to a fearful cartoon face and a spider next to a happy face. Dr Rakison's report, published in the New Scientist, states that the girls looked at the picture containing a happy face for longer than the scared one. However, the boys looked at both images for an equal amount of time.

He concluded that the girls found the happy face puzzling as they were expecting to see the spider paired with a frightened face.The psychologist said these tests show that girls have a genetic predispostion to fear the arachnids in contrast with boys who do not ... He linked the difference in results to our hunter-gatherer ancestry when he says women had to be wary of dangerous animals to protect their children, whereas men used more risky behaviour in order to be successful hunters.

Let's ignore the obvious - that 20 individuals tested is not representative of ANYTHING - and have a little look that Dr. Rakison's conclusions.

Firstly, I must ask, why didn't they monitor the amount of time the girls looked at the image of the spider? I had to delete the tarantula image from the article just to write this blogpost! There's every chance that they just enjoyed looking at the happy face. People are cute like that.

Or perhaps the girls, by the age of four, have learnt that spiders are often frightening, and were intrigued by the mixed messages being sent by scientists. This would have nothing to do with their innate predisposition for fear, more to do with their enhanced sensitivity to social mores in the abstract, which the silly (or 'indifferent') boys lack.

Another technical problem with the research is that Rakison doesn't seem to have used a control. In this case, I imagine an image of something innocuous like a circle or triangle next to a happy then scared face would demonstrate whether the amount of time the children looked at the image had anything to do with their enjoyment of the expressions thereon, or sheer confusion of the object and expression being put together.

Rakison's 'social' conclusions don't make sense either. I'm sure any mother would willingly mash a spider or fling a snake out the cave door to save her precious little ones. Otherwise she'd have to stand on a boulder or something squealing until a Manny Man came home, by which time the kids would all be dead.

More convincingly, maybe women in this day and age are allowed to indulge their fears more in infancy, and are encouraged to take delight in the attention of others (a nasty tarantula on my pretty pink dress, eek!) whereas men are encouraged to overcome them in shows of bravado. Social construction of gender anyone? Oh nevermind.

Anyway, none of these musings on the sexism of spiders matter anyway because

TWENTY INDIVIDUALS TESTED IS NOT REPRESENTATIVE OF ANYTHING.

Back from the brink of marriage and alive - just!

Lady readers, I can only apologise for my absence. Yesterday was clearly the worst day of my life, but I awake renewed and refreshed for, thank god, I'm not married!

Things went from bad to slightly better to pretty bad again on Saturday, as Ann was placated by her pizza, but soon high and buzzing from the Cherry Coke I served her as an accompaniment. She came as close to being drunk on sugar and E numbers as any woman I have ever seen over the age of 12, reminiscent of a childhood summer I spent in Portugal trying to get drunk on Malibu ice cream, and then just Malibu. Attempts to entertain her were fruitless as she babbled half incomprehensible nonsense about her family and childhood and the difficulties she faced as a worshipper of Sappho (who she's never read, I ask you!) in the blustering North. It was all rather too moving for me, and I accidentally fell asleep picturesquely in my bio-form Habitat beanbag, to be unceremoniously awoken 7 hours later by Emmeline. Morning had come, and Ann was already in her dress.

Now, we'd kept our dresses a secret from one another so that it would be a lovely surprise. Just to clarify, mine was this one.

As a feminist bride, I'd thought long and hard about what to wear, critical as it is to uphold one's political principles while doing justice to one's admirable waist (cf. the Suffragettes with their great hats). Having decided that my virginity, soul, modesty and so forth were decidedly un-'white', in the bridal symbolic spectrum, I decided to opt for a revolutionary black. Obviously it had to be vast and puffy, and cinch the waist to the vanishing point. I mean I was bloody well getting married. You can't tell from this picture but I also wore an enormous boat shaped black hat based on a Elizabethan design after the defeat of the Spanish Armada. This represented feminism's defeat of patriarchy (and my love of QE1).

Anyway, knowing me just a little bit (enough to be my wife) I thought Ann would have picked up on my fierce, yet feminine, yet feminist, yet fashionable, tendencies, and swapped her frock for a frock coat, top-hat and little cane like the gorgeous Marlene Dietrich. How else would we achieve the desirable and chic gender-bending irono-androgene feminist-couplage I've always dreamed of? Sort of like...

The desire to flout gender conventions through revolutionary dress was clearly the last thing on Ann's mind. From nowhere, hundreds of bunches of white lilies had appeared and filled the house (symbolic of death, surely? Poor stupid Ann, she should've paid attention at the Waterhouse exhibition). White bows decked the staircase, sugared almonds in grotesque pink were boxed up and patterned with love hearts. LOVE HEARTS. There were love hearts everywhere, all over my potato stamped (U+26A2) symbol recycled crepe paper table cloths, filling up my mooncup shaped vases, and all the dead roses I'd put out in ironic reminiscence of the Miss Haversham bits from Great Expectation were destroyed. Ann thought they were depressing.

And her dress.

I don't know how to explain it, I don't have the words, or the stomach. I've looked all day for a picture that approximates its horror. This is the closest one I've found.

That really finished it off. I couldn't marry Ann. Ann was clearly a maniac. I mean, what's the point of marrying a feminist if you're going to wear a dress like that? Getting rid of Ann was harder than deciding not to marry her. At first she didn't understand, then she didn't believe me, then she wanted to kill me. As she came at me wielding the phallus shaped pinata I'd planned to destroy during our vows, I had little choice but to let Emmeline pounce. She's always very defensive of her mistress. There was blood everywhere, like in Carrie.

After the attack, I ordered Ann a cab. I was feeling generous and pretty guilty about everything, so I got it to take her to the National Express depot, not Megabus, which is pretty awful. I only hope she could afford the fare. She doesn't know London very well.

And what have I learnt? Perhaps that relationships, either with women, or men, are not my strong point. Perhaps, as Emmeline often advises me, I need to pursue the solitary course, concentrate on my writing, develop my many undeveloped talents. A woman's way is hard, but only alone can she enjoy the self-expanding freedoms of solitude.

And Ann, this is for you. Though you are uncultured, this may help you formulate your grief. I'm so so sorry!

I have not had one word from her
Frankly I wish I were dead

When she left, she wept
a great deal; she said to me,

"This parting must be

endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly."
I said, "Go, and be happy

but remember (you know well)

whom you leave shackled by love
"If you forget me, think

of our gifts to Aphrodite

and all the loveliness that we shared
"all the violet tiaras, braided rosebuds, dill and

crocus twined around your young neck
"myrrh poured on your head

and on soft mats girls with

all that they most wished for beside them
"while no voices chanted

choruses without ours,

no woodlot bloomed in spring without song..."

Really worried about Ann...

I've just managed to get away from Ann for a moment and readers, I must confess, I'm extremely uncomfortable. I had of course realised that Ann was something of a 'diamond in the rough' - I'm reminded of Moll Flanders, or the winkle-picker one from Tipping the Velvet - but her behaviour today has been less picaresque and more...dare I say...'pikey'.

Now that's a horrible term, I know, and I wouldn't dream of using it normally. The Riders, as I have mentioned, have a long socialist history - my Great Aunt Geraldine famously donated all but one of her five country estates to the National Trust (she kept Scotland, it was the biggest). I have read widely in Marx and really identified with Tess of the D'Urbevilles, poor duck. But Tess didn't have a Sony XBox. Or a Lacoste sleep suit. Or cold sores. And she probably knew what risotto was (Ann thought it was rice pudding).

I don't mean to complain, it's just the weekend's not going how I thought it was going to at all. Ann "wasn't hungry" this morning when I produced my celebrated Eggs Posie (Eggs Benedict but with garlic mayonnaise instead of Hollandaise - yum!). She wolfed down a Bloody Mary only to sick a little in her hand and scream at me for 'feeding her ketchup', and wasn't calmed until I made her a Nesquik from an old packet I once accidentally bought for Emmeline. And she was palpably uncomfortable at the J. W. Waterhouse exhibition I took her to this afternoon. She didn't even find all the little nymphs pretty - I'm worried we don't have anything in common!

What shall I do? She's busy playing Street Fighter now but she'll have finished this level soon (oh god, I can tell by the music, what's happening to me?) and will be coming out to see if her risotto-replacement pizza is ready. The wedding's tomorrow. Oh god...what if Melody was right?

Ann is here...

Ann is here and I must say I'd forgotten how 'boisterous' she is. Can you believe that she doesn't know what a artichoke is? She saw one in my organic vegetable box and thought it was a toy character from the film 'Alien'.

I've managed to steal away to my (non-pink, yet feminine) laptop to write this while Ann plays on her Sony X-box. She brought it with her, all the way down from the north on the Megabus via the M4. Not my chosen mode of transport, but the Riders have been noted for their socialist tendencies in the past so I shall not gripe.

4.48 Psychosis

Now as you know I've been feeling pretty down lately: finally I discover happiness as a lesbian and the world seems to turn against me! But at least homophobia has provided me with the kind of dour inspiration required to write 'A Year off the Ward' which looks set to be a tribute to gonzo journalism meets earl grey tea meets illustrated children's book.

However in spite of some irregular, whimsical journeys back into the 'ward of my mind', I have been experiencing withdrawal symptons: I'm missing those soft lined walls, the smell of surgical spirit, my slightly damp mauve pillows, and the lavender soap Aunt Lily used to send me. So cue my old dear friend Sarah Kane and her prolific work of the stage: 4.48 Psychosis. It transports me right back in the mental turmoil of insanity as fast as you can say 'sectioned'! Why it's a modern master(ess)piece.

Sarah was an inspiration to us all. RIP. We once met briefly at a Jackie Kay poetry reading in Waterstones in the mid 90s, but she was from Essex and failed to see things from my point of view. I was in the haberdashery department of Peter Jones when I found out she'd killed herself. I made a vow right there and then, in front of the fuchsia pink wool I had selected for Aunt Lilly's winter scarf, to never do to the same. It's the responsibility of lady writers, such as myself, to preserve our prolific talent to enlighten ignorant women across the world. Poor Sarah. (However, one has to remember that she was AWFULLY sad at the 'end')



This adaptation might be of particular interest to you readers. It's an incredibly profound adaption by those budding young TV film makers at Lincoln University. It really brings back all the pain and confusion I felt last summer.... but NO MORE! Ann in coming to stay this afternoon and I have laundered my cath kithson sheets and even bought us matching floral dresses!

Melody disapproves of my lesbian wedding

Melody has just left after a very long and very 'honest' tea party. I had prepared a delicious spread of cucumber sandwiches, lemon tarts and vagina cakes, alongside a pitcher of Irish coffee, to break the news about my civil partnership with Ann.

Melody reacted badly. She claims that I'm not taking my lesbianism seriously and that its just a 'phase' I'm going through. She obviously doesn't care about my feelings because actually, as it happens, Posie is very much in love and wounded to the core! Ann is coming down to stay with me this weekend and I'm insisting that Melody button up and be civil. I'm going to have a supper party to celebrate our engagement on Saturday, I'm going to make Raclette, and be happy and be a lesbian forever!

my REAL feminist wedding

Ann (my new lesbian lover) has come crawling back to me in remorse, begging to be taken back. Of course I always have my head firmly screwed in the love department of Store Posie, but when it comes to Ann I just don't know what to think. She's an artist you see, and tres passionate, which probably explains why she's asked me to marry her. At first I thought she was mad: sending an engagement ring by courier pigeon is a touch bizarre, even if the diamond is too small to be taken seriously. I was determined to say decline, but then I came across this article in The Times by that stupid Ellen Levenson (poo-head). It's called 'My Real Feminist Wedding' and it's about her maintaining her feminist tendencies during the nuptials. Let's take a look shall we?

"The first feminist thing about our wedding was the nature of the proposal. I do not believe that men have to propose to women, but neither did I feel comfortable proposing myself. If he had said yes, how would I ever have believed he wanted it as much as me, rather than saying yes to keep me quiet? After many conversations about whether we would get married, and, in fact, after we had provisionally booked our venue, I insisted on a proposal. He duly went away and planned my nonsurprise, popping the question on a hill overlooking our beloved London, followed by a fancy dinner."

So you basically bullied your man into marrying you? You need a 'fancy' dinner when there are people dying in the world, when there are people even dying in London??

"Asking my dad for my hand in marriage was not going to happen either. My dad, whom I get on with brilliantly, advises me on many aspects of my life, but I am a grown woman and he does not give me permission to do anything, just as I do not give him permission to do the things he wants to do."

Well my Dad's dead you silly bitch (both he and my mother were killed in an unfortunate punting accident when I was a wee sprite). How insensitive.

"Nor did my fiancé and I spend the night apart before the wedding. We already lived together, so, as we were about to make a big public statement, who would be more comforting to be around than each other? We went out for another fancy dinner, walked along the Thames and congratulated ourselves on being so clever. The next morning we got a cab to the register office; we walked into the marriage room along with all our guests and took our seats at the front."

Another 'fancy dinner' hey? Smug bitch. And what if one's a raving Catholic and doesn't want to use the registry office? I'm not a crate of bananas entering the country you know. And worst of all she remains convinced that she's not a Fumbie:

"Fumbies are those women who forget about their feminist ideals the minute they get a ring on their finger and become a simpering bride, given away, obedient and letting men speak for them. Of course, no wedding can be truly feminist. In our own feminist wedding, did my husband and I check that it wasn’t only women making the food, or cleaning up the venue? No, we didn’t. Symbolically, at least, we felt our wedding was as feminist as it could be."

Well of course it's not! You can't marry a man and call yourself a feminist! I was furious. And then I realised, marrying a woman, well THAT would be a real feminist wedding, wouldn't it? And if I went through with it well maybe I'd be published in the Times too?

I'm still pondering the dilemma over a cup of mint tea and a platter of home made flapjacks. The pigeon only arrived a few hours ago and Emmeline Pankhurst (my cat) soon had its eyes out. The little minx even hugged the ring, which I had to exchange with her for the latest copy of The Economist.

Esther Rantzen's Double Dealings - A Posie Rider Investigation

Ok so I'm now a journalist! Here's my first scoop - enjoy, be appalled, write a letter, torch a car! It's about CORRUPTION!!!


Esther Rantzen (TV star from such shows as, oh you know, Crime Watch or something, and general ageless gurner) has, as we all know, been campaigning to become MP for Luton South. Rantzen has sidestepped like a crab into the runnings following MP Margaret Moran's decision to resign after her embarrassing expense claims were revealed. Ignoring the blatant fact that it'll take more than a lute to save Luton (for lute read 'nuke'), Rantzen is planning a form of slash and burn in the wake of messy politicians, and has publicly called for greater transparency in parliament. Weirdly, however, Posie's prying has revealed that the clever minx is in fact the director of a series of complex secretive companies. Listed under her directorship is the eerily named, 'Jembex', which records show is a sinister Private Unlimited Company.

Now, not being an expert on banking, money, the law, or anything really (except feminism) I consulted Sharlene Spiteri (not real name) from Companies House, a sort of business museum on the river (next to a really nice pub). Huddled in the nice pub next door, and taking painful drags on her pastel blue Sobranie, Sharlene (this is a false name) was on edge as she told me the truth about Rantzen's dealings. Concealing her face with a russet pashmina, leaving only the barest crack through which to insert aforementioned Sobranie, she confessed that in the five years she had worked there she had only come across one other private unlimited company: "They are extremely rare," she said.

PUC's are unusual, she explained very slowly and a few times, because they don't have to file accounts. An obscure legal loophole, which, despite valiant attempts, Sharlene (real name Kate) couldn't quite enable me to understand, means that a PUC avoids any kind of public scrutiny by not filing records of how money passes in and out of it. It's like eating in the dark, she sighed, eventually. Now, this strikes me as very peculiar, seeing as Rantzen is attempting to rise to the dizzy heights of Luton supremacy on a platform of transparency (not a transparent platform, which would reveal altogether too much of Rantzen's private affairs (if she happened to be wearing a dress/skirt, which of course she might not be, even though she's a woman))

Interestingly, even though the company can obscure its monetary dealings from the worthy hack through legal skulduggery, it DOES still have to produce a register of shareholders. AND Jembex's shareholder list shows that other than herself, the only other shares in the company are all owned by Rantzen's three children: Jem, Bex and Will. Why Will? Because a second company - Wilcox productions - is also headed by Rantzen, but only has her children as shareholders. It allegedly is a production company, but my investigations prove that the only production it's invested in is the production of inherited wealth. What on earth is wrong with a nice simple trust fund? Aunt Lily never went through all this hassle and I'm doing just fine!

A Year in The Mind of Posie

Well readers, those of you who have worshipped at the temple of Posie since those heady days of mid-2008 (is it just you Lara, or are there others too?) will remember that it is nearly a year ago that I was released from hospital after an unfortunate self-harm episode with a Bic disposable razor (in hot summer pink). The past year as been full of trials and tribulations: failed relationships (yes, Anna and I aren't speaking, it turns out the orchid wasn't mine) psychotic episodes, restraining orders and endless literary rejections (Harper Collins, I'm talking to you). I've also gained 5 pounds in the last two days, which I didn't even know was possible.

BUT on a positive note, this is one year in which I haven't been sectioned! Hurrah! To celebrate this fabulous achievement, I'm planning on writing a book, entitled 'One Year Off The Ward', or something else, not yet decided. I was inspired by this BBC article on Annualism an exciting new form of publishing which sees self-obsessed bibbles (usually journalists) confessing that they did one particular thing for a year which, in publishing circles, is tantamount to saying: I'll provide the text, you sell 50,000 copies and we'll let the public provide the critique. In shorthand - this is some money making nonsense here!

Some examples include Neil Boorman's Bonfire of the Brands where an oaf pretended he didn't always have his shirts fitted in kooky West London boutiques, or Hephzibah Anderson's pointless Chastened: No More Sex in the City, where she manages the extraordinary feat of not getting laid for a year. There's even specialist titles like A Year Without 'Made in China', in which one woman recounts her rollercoaster experience of looking at labels in shops and not buying certain things like funny little plastic gonks and Kikoman Soy Sauce.

And it's not just my year of fraught sanity which I'm planning on turning into a compelling narrative: it turns out there are lots of things I've done for a year now which could be newsworthy. Being a feminist and living in North London are obvious places to start, but what about my year of celibacy? Ok, that'll have to be next year (Anne's bra is still folded meaningfully in the fridge next to the milk) but the way things are going that'll be no-problem-o. I've also downed the booze content in the last year, only been to Hampshire 3 times and not assaulted anyone! (apart from Martin's son Jake, which I don't think counts because he's a minor???)

These changes, I can tell you, are MASSIVE in my life. Who wouldn't want to read about them? Hampshire Exhile or Ex-Hamp: My Life out of the Shire, are working titles at the moment. Also, it was just over a year ago I had the trust fund settled ... perhaps call for a Tom Hodgkinson-esq biopic in the nature of How To Be Idle, where I recount my day to day experience of doing absolutely nothing except for watering my window box a little before it died (due to neglect) and trying on all my dresses, but not going out in them, safely buffeted by the wealth of my aunties.

Ps. if anyone has any stories to share for inclusion in prospective My Year Failing to Get an Arts Council Grant (because I live in London and didn't fill the form in properly) please email me!

Ahoy there!

Sorry for my absence for the last week gals. It's been no doubt lonely without Posie in your world and I haven't had an easy time either. Its been tough, but after much timely deliberation I have decided that I am in fact a lesbian.

I've been on this cruise you see:
http://news.varadinum.com/lesbians-save-the-world-one-cruise-at-a-time.html

"A lesbian eco-friendly cruise?" I hear you ask. Yes that's right. It all started when Melody (landscape gardener to the stars, who is at the moment tending to Gwyneth Paltrow's organic vegetable patch) who is EXTREMELY zen / eco-friendly / earth-mother, suggested we go on this amazing cruise which uses absolutely no carbon emissions whatsoever! So we did and on board soon realised the the ship was destined for Lesbos island!

On board I met Anne, an artist from Suffolk. She's by far my social inferior, but you know what they say readers: 'love knows no bounds'. We haven't done anything physical yet, and its quite difficult communicating by letter all day, but I think I might finally be happy.

Lesbianism- I can't believe I hadn't tried it sooner (except that time in 2002). It's brilliant! Anne and I would sit around plaiting each others hair and sharing period stories. Heaven...

Toodles x

PS Anne if you're reading - thank so much for my painting: I love orchids!

Oh Fuck Off.

Another 'latest bloody study about women' reels its ugly head once more...

Hi gals! Just when you thought science had unearthed every possible truth about women, another ugly American lab rat reels its ugly head to correct you. Now don't get me wrong, I don't mind rats and I actually love science (I got an A at GCSE!) however, one has to ask the timely question: do these people have a f**king clue what they're talking about?

Point in case: the latest research has shown that women who are optimistic have a 9% lower risk of developing heart disease and a 14% lower risk of dying from any cause after more than eight years of follow-up.

In comparison, cynical women who harbour hostile thoughts about others or are generally mistrusting of others were 16% more likely to die over the same time-scale.

First, what the hell does 'follow-up' mean? Is that a form of malnutrition? Second, I know exactly what category I fall into. Since my break up with Martin earlier this year I've been feeling so happy and content with myself that I think I might live until I'm 102! Ha ha ha hahaha. Yes. However, I also know how it feels to want to stab strangers, especially when walking down the street on a Tuesday morning in the rain with a stonking hang over, wearing no shoes having just woken up by a canal in the suburbs of Manchester next to a tramp with his trousers down. That certainly didn't do my life line any favours at all!

Also has science ever given any thought to what might happen to the lovely optimistic women when they're 'hostile' sisters run at them with nothing but a big grudge and a carving knife? They wouldn't live so long THEN would they smarty-pant science?

Everyone have fun! Love you gals!

Hugs and pugs x

Achtung! Action for Archives.

Just a quickie, but I hope you'll help in the Action for Archives campaign! Academics, historians, literary types and other like minded intelligentsia are forming a campaign to stop bloodthirsty bureaucrats from pillaging The National Archives under the leadership of uber-bureaucrat and current Chief Plunderer of the Scroll Natalie Ceeney, who famously referred to libraries and archives et al as 'The Knowledge Industry'. My brain just cracked a little, I hope yours did too.

Please keep abreast of the activities of these zesty guardians of knowledge at www.action4archives.com and look out for their upcoming petition. Examples of depressing monetisation tactics at the expense of public services and the pursuit of truth to sign your name against include laying off specialists while rewarding management with pay increases, introducing parking costs, stopping access to microfilm records and reducing opening times.

They will be stopped and given a talking to and will mend their ways.

Flaneusette technique

I've been reading a lot about psychogeography and, inspired by what I read in Peter Ackroyd about Islington's interesting past (did you know it used to be a diary farm? Fabulous!). So for the last couple of days I've been wandering the city in a PCP addled stupor (can't get opium, must make do) and keeping this journal of my voyages. More to follow!

Day one

I'm walking around feeling nothing. I trip and everyone helps me up. There's nothing to see here, I've learnt nothing. The city isn't melancholy today. I'm confronted with a chugger I recognise, we went to college together, we arrange to have coffee later. No one minds me today. The air is circulating up these aisles, I'm a heartbeat, I'm welcomed. I'm keeping the city alive, in its loop. Everything is in order, it's just as I remember. Everyone has been in these places before, they're filed, I want to make a sketch. Everything is forthcoming, the light touches everything, the grid is illuminated. When the clocks chime I chime with them and then we get to our knees and share as one this remarkable sensation of absolute purpose, absolute belonging, a composite beast who's extremities more in syncopation, we've eliminated the selfish gene and like a slime mould slug we relinquish precedence to those of us designated as a head and they direct us. We've given ourselves over to the city, each other, its past, we're hugging the kerbs familiar with each speck of grit we're pressed up against its canyons and our fat is rolling into them, what fat we have. There's a city in our minds as pure as stone that even we can't alter, it connects purely to itself, unapologetically presents, and we walk its streets as real as any others and the light touches it everywhere and it's everywhere and is like anything, palpable and recognisable in its stability. Each speck of grit belongs and all surfaces are touching. I didn't grow up in the city and find this all refreshing, it's a solid and I like to jostle with all its atoms there are no A roads here, there are no wet fields along the A40. I like its dead voices, they outnumber the living, they remind me of aunties. I like the flows and the ley lines and the impressions of heat left by strangers for whom I have an infinite regard. Someone has just followed me forty paces to return a sheet of paper that I dropped on purpose. They weren't even being sarcastic. I tell them it's a note and when they read it they find it's an incredibly personal letter directed to them, offering sensitive advice about some issues they're dealing with in their life at the moment. They say it's been an incredible help. They ask me to go to bed with them so I do.

Day two

The next day I am out walking the streets trying to collect things I find, I'll make a scrapbook. But tomorrow there'll be a parade, some nationalist thing, followed by speeches and music, so the streets have been decorated and swept, they've even moved on the homeless and the children who sometimes ask you for pens or try to sell you cigarettes. I'd brought an extra muffin to give to one of them but now I eat it myself. I consider leaving a record to somehow sully the streets. It would mean anyone coming along after me would be more successful in finding ephmera, but I don't have anything. All I have is a crumb of muffin which I drop and see fall into one of the big tarmac canyons which yesterday I think I might have been vigorously licking, where there now isn't anything not even those tiny rounded bits of broken glass. But before I leave I see an impossibly swollen ant appear and carry the crumb off. I follow him with my eyes for a while but he's going in the opposite direction so I leave.


to be continued....

Laptops for Girls

After my FWord featured article, Pity in Pink, hit the internet at the beginning of the year, you would have been forgiven for believing that the purveyors of PINK LAPTOPS might have rethought their strategy of tarring all of femininity with the same pinkish brush. You'd have been wrong, however, as this new PC World ad featuring the Dell Inspiron demonstrates.

I can't find a way to embed the video as it's on this slightly creepy Dell based blog (seriously, who cares?) but please follow this link to explore yourself, or if you're not sure, let me give you a run down. The advert begins with a slightly incredulous female voice, who tells us 'My world is fashion', what she means isn't exactly clear - is she a designer? Or a seamstress? Or just really into clothes like, you know, a woman. Either way, it is really quite important to her that everything she owns is colour coded. But how can this be achieved with something like a laptop, which you only generally have one of unlike clothes and shoes and dresses which come in lots of different colours and which you change frequently? Scream! Should she, for example, buy the pink Dell Inspiron to go with her pink shoes? Or the blue one to go with her blue jacket? Shit! Which one? Best go with the pink really. And why? Because MY WORLD IS PINK. And fashion. Her world is pink and fashion. Where does she live? Really, stop keeping us in suspense, what does this woman do??

They don't need to tell us what she does, or why her world is made of Pink and Fashion, because she is Everywoman, a competant and non-individualised figure with whom it is easy to identify. We can identify with her because she likes pink, and shoes, and laptops that are the same colour as our shoes, like us.

National Orgasm Day!

Anne Summers is trying to sell us more sex toys by drawing our attention to the fact that couples use dildos too. "But at what cost?" I hear you ask. I refer to the following:

"The results from a poll of Ann Summers' customers dispels the common myths that sexual exploration is a personal pursuit, and reflect a new togetherness about achieving satisfaction that celebrates the unparalleled enjoyment of sex in loving partnerships."

Well, Ann Summers (or is that MRS Ann Summers) discriminate against the sexually liberated single woman, why don't you?

In protest, I suggest that we all do NOT have orgasms today. This is as bad as racism! Put your clitori to work gals and keep your legs closed at all times.

Posie and out
x

Vagina Doughnut!

Great news culinary enthusiasts! My good friend and accomplice, Ms Chloe Mona Ivy Head, has produced for my, and your, delight, this sublime VAGINA DOUGHNUT EXTRAVAGANZA. As well as being an inventive chef and feminist, she's also an excellent artist, creating Giottoesque renditions of Bacchanal women in states of religious exaltation over those objects sacred to all womanhood: the bottle of Gin and pint of Cider. All hail!

Which brings me to make a little confession. You may note how this pastry-tastic pussy is extraordinarily life-like, and you'd be correct. It's modelled from life. Mine.


YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Women and Burgers: A Traumatic Account

I have been experimenting with female writing recently, and I have to say, I think I’m rather good. The following piece was inspired by a revelation I had the other day. For years now I’ve considered my low self-esteem to put me at a severe disadvantage, but actually I think it might have aided me in my sublime quest for female truth. Why on Friday night I had my brocade Cath Kithson wallet stolen / I dropped it on a bus after one too many bottles of Chablis with close friends in Primrose Hill. Of course I never think about these things; my head being like ‘a quick forest / filled with sleeping birds’, so only realised my fatal error when out buying myself a little treat from M&S on Saturday night. I was most alarmed; I had a mere £1.50 on my person and was forced to shop in the discount section of Sainsbury’s. I had to stand next to a man with a ponytail while surveying the rows of rotten burgers and then I had to buy the rotten burgers because it was all I could afford: awful!

So anyway the following is an exposition of that most traumatic experience written in the female economic style (i.e. disrupted syntax):

I skip, I, I, I, skip. I skip. Why does honey in the rain disappear? I loved you once. Oh red compile, I saw you making that pink sludge in your fingers. Oh how could, I forget those fingers you have. Their meat. Yes I know that, now, but at the time I was so lonely without you by my side and the burgers. I ate every one of them and you said I was greedy. Was I, greedy? Maybe. Who can tell? The long clod of myself, the wavering banded brackets of love that I would pour out all the same. The man with the snake like grey of silver ponytail: “Beauty,” he said. “Beautiful burger, I am yours.” Breathe.

L=A=N=G=U=I=S=H

There aren't enough spiked words to satisfy you
or unlikely couplings
Double fuck of double entrende there
is no tongue in the piano
When I try to excrete vacuole tempests I am only trying to please you
My faith is not on fire now
Punch the baby in my stomach into a phrase for you
There is no dictionary for dissonance
Virgin generator of spiteful prose
No formula for discordance
I am trying to stick a pin in a page for you
I am burning my damp folds to retrieve a language for you
Gestalt bullshit djinn wreck never happened
The only thing in my hand makes unfortunate sense
Is a well of black sand entirely unpoetical
The fridge has no answers I am composing
Millenarian prose from last week's crossword answers
(half of which I got wrong anyway)

It goes purse eppicecass spear romeo orcs
esau spear eliot, sabre pistol opart styx
intuition chaucerian, menecrates inge
from which you can judge that I read
a very pretentious magazine

Intelligent women have better orgasms

Boffins say...

Is the above true? I'm not sure. I'm often thinking of other more esoteric things while having sex, which can distract from the task at hand. Questions like 'Whatever ever happened to the Amber Room?' or 'Palestine: a two state solution?' The list is endless...

Miss England...oh dear I don't know what to think.

Ok, so Rachel Christie has become the first black Miss England, and I don't know WHAT to think.

On one hand, she's a formidable woman: an accomplished athlete (like her uncle, Linford Christie) who's struggled through a difficult childhood (father fell into crime etc) to burst through the white bastions of Miss England and "to show people, the younger generation especially, that you can do something positive with your life." She's also 5'10", which is awesome.

On the OTHER hand, Miss England, like all beauty pageants, is an outdated parade of female bodies which carelessly objectifies young women.

Should we really be inspired by these sorts of competitions? Prowess on the track is something to be proud of, and in this Male interview Christie says that it is this drive to support herself as an athlete that encouraged her to seek a legitimate modelling career on the side through Miss England. But I have to ask, isn't flaunting one's fortunate bone structure in order to be ranked above other women a high price to pay in order to support yourself, however much you care about your career?

I just don't KNOW. You see, I really am happy for her. I would like to draw something inspiring from this event. I mean, if Miss England must go on, it's surely better that the sorts of women who win it are competent in other aspects of their life, have careers and ambitions, and don't fit the godforsaken whiteblondebigboobedairhead stereotype.

And what's worse, the runner up, Lance Corporal Kat Hodge is, you guessed it, a soldier. Here's a picture of her holding a bloody great big gun like Tank Girl (with flawless eye make-up, may I add). I mean...I'm a pacifist and everything but...oh God she's a woman holding a gun how can I NOT like her? And did you know she received a commendation for bravery when a punched an Iraqi insurgent who'd just snatched two guns from her truck and was threatening to kill her. Scream!

I'm sorry, Object girls I'm with you, but I just can't help but like these women. If Miss England carries on bestowing grace on women of undue merit, I'm afraid I'm going to go over to the other side. I might even enter, I've definitely got the thighs for it.

I suppose the real test is whether they'll ever get round to giving the award to an outstanding woman who doesn't happen to be gorgeous...

Vagina Island

You can imagine my excitement upon discovering that only a few miles away from our resort in Italy lay Vagina Island (pictured). Vagina Island is one of southern Italy's best kept secrets and was home to the Vulvac tribe led by the famous Queen Ovarian.

Discovered by the Swiss in 1 BC, the ancient island was entirely populated by women , or so they thought, until the said men (obviously women weren't allowed to travel back then!) ventured down into the island's cave in search of gold only to find the Vulvac's treasure was of a male variety. Yes, that's right lady readers, the Vulvacs traded in men. Thoroughly ahead of her time Queen Ovarian overthrew her husband, seized control of the kingdom and ordered the island's tallest mountain to be crafted into the shape of a giant vagina. Women ruled supreme and men were sold to work the land whilst female kind turned her mind to higher pastimes, such as philosophy and art.


Herstorians know all this because of the cave drawings left by said explorers before they were mauled to death by the mythical sea creature known as 'The Blob', which scientists have recently identified as being a modern-day Walrus.

Vagina Island's ecosystem operated in total accordance with nature. There was peace on the land, sister loved sister, and soon enough they developed the technology needed to manufacture sperm so decided to do away with men altogether. Herein lay their fatal error. Never before has the expression 'empires fall from within' rang more true, for when the population's menstrual cycles became synchronised with no men around to dissipate the overwhelming barrage of oestrogen with pure prejudice, oppression and misogyny, the island imploded. The entire city, Phallopianinia, was buried underground, leaving only the famed Mount Vagina in tact.


I'm reading a fascinating study on it the moment by Camile von Vag, who's been desperately trying to raise funds to excavate the site.


Will let you know if I hear anything of note about their ancient culture and way of life, you know.



Been there got the t-shirt!


Toodles!

Jessica Smith - my new fave lady poet

I found this great poet/artist/gal about town through the web and I think she's great! She doesn't just write normal verbal poetry, but also visual poetry and tactile poetry, which even I hadn't heard of before. I think it involves printing poems on cushions or something - I once had a chopping board with some lines from Beckett * for example. I tried to find a bit on her website that wasn't part of her C.V. but I couldn't, so I'm not really sure what it's all about, but she provides some of the best answers to interview questions I have ever seen:

PK: Would people know it if they read your work?

JS: Oh, yes. My entire oeuvre, such as it stands, is one giant love poem. Not to only one person, but rather, an ode to Love. I'm a die-hard Romantic. You saw this silly quiz on my blog, right, "Which of the 9 muses are you?"
When I took the quiz I was Erato.

and

PK: Was that when writing began for you? When you were 14 and all these harsh realities were thrown your way?

JS: No, no. I was writing much earlier. I started writing poems as soon as I could write...I began writing songs, plays, and novels around age 10, and still have many of those things. Although I continued writing novels until I was 15 or so, and I still dabble in prose fiction, I decided at the ripe old age of 12 that I had conquered all forms of writing except poetry and that my major energies would focus on that genre.

Bloody marvellous! And poetry is really where she's at still. I can't show you most of them as they're a bit all-over-the-page-y. You should check out her blog, looktouch.com. I really like this one though, it's called Valentine. Here's some info:

This is a cumulative valentine. The note within indicates the recipient. The box contains: 1. a small red rhinestone heart that I found a few weeks ago; 2. a gold heart-shaped locket my dad gave me; 3. a transparent heart that my neighbor (Mrs. Cole) gave me; 4. a small gold heart that my friend Emily gave me (2-4 are childhood mementos); 5. a cut-out heart from my mom that says "to jessica love, mom"; 6. a heart-shaped red, white and blue pin with one star for a sweetheart to wear for her army-lover during WWII; 7. a pink rhinestone heart I found on the street in Berlin; 8-10. three paper cut-out hearts (I don't remember their significance).


She's almost as barmy as me!

Seriously though I love this and am going to order one and send her the money on Paypal and try to rekindle my love for my useless ex-boyfriend Martin by sending it on to him and pretending I made it. Guys love this sort of stuff, right? And I can cunningly change the name on the slip by simply ripping off the surname. It's like it was meant to be!


* If you're interested, the chopping board said:

Homonum: At that moment, I look out --- and there, before me, as far as the eye could see, were castles, filled with what they my country people call un pape sanguinaire.

Wagram: And what does that mean?

Homonum: The country-folk would translate it as a self-satisfied potato.